David Eddings - Tamuli 3 - The Hidden City

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The Hidden City

David Eddings

The Tamuli book 3

WAR TO THE DEATH

The Pandion Knight Sparhawk had bested the massed forces of the God

Cyrgon upon the field of battle. But victory turned to ashes when the

foul God's minions kidnapped Sparhawk's wife, the beautiful Queen

Ehlana. Sparhawk must surrender Bhelliom, the awesome jewel of

power--or Ehlana would die.

But Cyrgon's lackeys had misjudged their foe. Sparhawk fought on, and

none of his companions flinched from the awesome struggle, though each

must vanquish forces of evil from Tamuli's dark past, and from fetid

places beyond human ken.

Still, the full magnitude of their peril was yet to be

revealed...Cyrgon had dared the unthinkable: He had called forth

Klael, Bhelliom's opposite, to rend the very world asunder. Thus, as

it had ever been decreed, would Bhelliom and Klael contend for the

fate of this world--even as the man Sparhawk must finally face the God

Cyrgon, in mortal combat and alone...

prologue

This was not Going to go well, he concluded wryly, crumpling

up and discarding yet another sheet of notes. Word of his subject

had been broadcast across the campus, and academics from as

far away as Applied Mathematics and Contemporary Alchemy

packed the hall, their eyes bright with anticipation. The entire

faculty of the Contemporary History Department filled the front

rows, their black academic robes making them look like a flock

of crows. Contemporary History was here in force to ensure all

the fireworks anyone could hope for.

Itagne idly considered a feigned collapse. How in the name

of God - any God - was he going to get through the next hour

without making a total ass of himself? He had all the facts, of

course, but what rational man would believe the facts? A straight-

forward account of what had really happened during the recent

turmoil would sound like the ravings of a lunatic. If he stuck to

straight truth, the hacks from Contemporary History would not

have to say a word. He could destroy his own reputation with

no help from them at all.

Itagne took one more brief glance at his carefully prepared

notes. Then he folded them and thrust them back into

the voluminous sleeve of his academic robe. What was going to

happen here tonight would more closely resemble a tavern brawl

than reasoned discourse. Contemporary History had obviously

showed up to shout him down. Itagne squared his shoulders.

Well, if they wanted a fight, he'd give them one.

A breeze had come up. The curtains at the tall windows

rustled and billowed, and the golden tongues of Flame flickering

in the oil lamps wavered and danced. It was a beautiful spring

evening - everywhere but here inside this auditorium.

There was a polite spattering of applause, and old professor

Gintana, flustered and confused by this acknowledgement of

his existence, bowed awkwardly, clutched his notes in both

hands, and tottered back to his seat. Then the Dean of the College

of Political Science rose to announce the evening's main

event. 'Colleagues,' he began, 'before Professor Itagne favors us

with his remarks, I would like to take this opportunity to introduce

some visitors of note. I'm sure you will all join with me in

welcoming Patriarch Emban, First Secretary of the Church of

Chyrellos, Sir Bevier, the Cyrinic Knight from Arcium and Sir

Ulath of the Genidian Order located in Thalesia.'

There was more polite applause as Itagne hurried across the

platform to greet his Elene friends. 'Thank God you're here,' he

said fervently. 'The whole Contemporary History Department's

turned out - except for the few who are probably outside boiling

the tar and bringing up bags of feathers.'

'You didn't think your brother was going to hang You out to

dry, did you, Itagne?' Emban smiled. 'He thought you might

get lonesome here, so he sent us to keep you company.'

Itagne felt better as he returned to his seat. If nothing else,

Bevier and Ulath could head off any physical attacks.

'And now, colleagues and distinguished guests,' the Dean

continued, 'Professor Itagne of the Foreign Affairs Department

will respond to a recent paper published by the Department of

Contemporary History under the title, "The Cyrga Affair: An

Examination of the Recent Crisis". Professor Itagne.'

Itagne rose, strode purposefully to the lectern and assumed

his most offensively civilized expression. 'Dean Aldus, distinguished

colleagues, faculty wives, honored guests -' He

paused. 'Did I leave anybody out?'

There was a titter of nervous laughter. Tension was high in

the hall. 'i'm particularly pleased to see so many of our colleagues

from Contemporary History here with us this evening,'

Itagne continued, throwing the first punch.

'Since we're going To be discussing

something near and dear to their hearts, it's much better

that they're present to hear what I say with their own ears rather

than being forced to rely on garbled second-hand accounts.' He

smiled benignly down at the scowling hacks in the front row.

'Can you hear me, gentlemen?' he asked. 'Am I going too fast

for any of you?'

'This is outrageous!' a portly, sweating professor protested

loudly.

'it's going to get worse, Quinsal,' Itagne told him. 'if the truth

bothers you, you'd better leave now.' He looked out over the

assemblage. 'it's been said that the quest for truth is the noblest

occupation of man, but there be dragons lurking in the dark

forests of ignorance. And the names of these dragons are

"incompetence" and "Political Bias" and "Deliberate Distortion"

and "Sheer, Wrongheaded Stupidity". Our gallant friends here

in Contemporary History bravely sallied forth to do battle with

these dragons in their recently published "Cyrga Affair". It is

with the deepest regret that I must inform you that the dragons

won.'

There was more laughter, and dark scowls from the front row.

'it's never' been any secret at this institution that the Contemporary

History Department is a political entity rather than an

academic one,' Itagne continued. 'it has been sponsored from

its very inception by the Prime Minister, and its only reasons

for existence have been to gloss over his blunders and to conceal

as best they might his absolute incompetence. To be sure, Prime

Minister Subat and his accomplice, Interior Minister Kolata, have

never been interested in the truth, but please, gentlemen, this is

a university. Shouldn't we at least pretend to be telling the truth?'

'Rubbish!' a burly academic in the front row bellowed.

'Yes,' Itagne replied, holding up a yellow-bound copy of 'The

Cyrga Affair', 'I noticed that myself. But if you knew it was

rubbish, Professor Pessalt, why did you publish it?'

The laughter in the hall was even louder this time, and it

drowned out Pessalt's spluttered attempt to answer.

'Let us push on with this great work that we are in,' Itagne

suggested. 'We all know Pondia Subat for the scheming incompetent

he really is, but the only thing that most baffles me about

your "Cyrga Affair" is its consistent attempt to elevate the Styric

renegade Zalasta to near sainthood. How in the name of God

could anyone - even someone as severely limited as the Prime

Minister - revere this scoundrel?'

'How dare you speak so of the greatest man of this century?'

one of the hacks screamed at him.

'if Zalasta's the best this century can manage, colleague, I

think we're in deep trouble. But we digress. The crisis which

Contemporary History chooses to call "The Cyrga Affair" has

been brewing for several years.'

'Yes,' someone shouted with heavy sarcasm, 'we noticed that!'

'i'm so happy for you,' Itagne murmured, drawing another

loud laugh from the audience. 'To whom did our idiot Prime

Minister turn for aid? To Zalasta, of course. And what was

Zalasta's answer to the crisis? He urged us to send for the

Pandion Knight, Prince Sparhawk of Elenia. Why would the

name of an Elene nobleman leap to Zalasta's lips in answer to

the question - almost before it was asked - particularly in view

of the sorry record of the Elenes in their relations with the Styrics?

To be sure, Prince Sparhawk's exploits are legendary, but

what was it about the man that made Zalasta pine so for his

company? And why was it that Zalasta neglected to tell us that

Sparhawk is Anakha, the instrument of the Bhelliom? Did the

fact somehow slip his mind? Did he think that the spirit which

creates whole universes was somehow irrelevant? I find no mention

at all about Bhelliom in this recently published heap of

bird-droppings. Did you omit the most momentous event of the

past eon deliberately? Were you so caught up in trying to give

your adored Pondia Subat credit for policy decisions he had no

part in that you decided not to mention Bhelliom at all?'

'Balderdash!' a deep voice roared.

'i'm pleased to meet you, Professor Balderdash. My name's

Itagne. It was good of you to introduce yourself. Thanks awfully,

old boy.'

The laughter was tumultuous this time.

'Fast on his feet, isn't he?' Itagne heard Ulath murmur to

Bevier.

Itagne looked up. 'Colleagues,' he said, 'I submit that it was

not Prince Sparhawk that Zalasta so yearned for, but the

Bhelliom. Bhelliom is the source of ultimate power, and Zalasta

has been trying to get his hands on it for three centuries - for

reasons too disgusting to mention. He has been willing to go to

any lengths. He has betrayed his faith, his people, and his personal

integrity - such as it was - to gain what the Trolls call

"The Flower-Gem". '

'That tears it!' the corpulent Quinsal declared, rising to his

feet. 'This man is mad. Now he's talking about Trolls! This is an

academic affair, Itagne, not the children's hour. You've picked

the wrong forum for fairy-tales and ghost stories.'

'Why don't you let me do this, Itagne?' Ulath said rising to

his feet and coming to the podium. 'I can settle this question in

just a moment or two.'

'Feel free,' Itagne said gratefully.

Ulath set one huge hand on each side of the lectern. 'Professor

Itagne has requested me to brief you gentlemen on a few matters,'

he said. 'I take it that you're having some difficulties with

the notion of Trolls.'

'None at all, Sir Knight,' Quinsal retorted. 'Trolls are an Elene

myth and nothing else. There's no difficulty in that at all.'

'What an amazing thing. I spent five years compiling a Trollish

grammar. Are you saying that I was wasting my time?'

'I think you're as mad as Itagne is.'

'Then you probably shouldn't irritate me, should you? Particularly

in view of the fact that I'm so much bigger than you are.'

Ulath squinted at the ceiling. 'Logic tells us that no one can

prove a negative. Are you sure you wouldn't like to amend your

statement? '

'No, Sir Ulath. I'll stand by what I just said. There's no such

thing as a Troll.'

'Did you hear that, Bhlokw?' Ulath raised his voice slightly.

This fellow says that you don't exist.'

There was a hideous roar in the corridor outside the auditorium,

and the double doors at the rear splintered and crashed

inward.

'Stay calm!' Bevier hissed as Itagne jumped. 'it's an illusion.

Ulath's amusing himself.'

'Would you like to turn around and tell me what you see at

the back of the hall, ~Quinsal?' Ulath asked. 'Exactly what would

you call my friend Bhlokw there?'

The creature hulking in the doorway was huge, and its bestial

face was contorted with rage. It stretched its paws forth

hungrily. 'Who has said this, U-Lat?' it demanded in a hideous

voice. 'I will cause hurt to it! I will rip it to pieces and eat it!'

'Can that Troll actually speak Tamul?' Itagne whispered. '

'Of course not,' Bevier smiled. 'Ulath's getting carried away.'

The hideous apparition in the doorway continued to bellow

horribly graphic descriptions of its plans for the faculty of the

Contemporary History Department.

'Were there any other questions about Trolls?' Ulath asked

mildly, but none of the assembled academics heard him over all

the shouts, screams and the tipping over of chairs.

It took the better part of a quarter of an hour to restore order

once Ulath had dismissed his illusion, and when Itagne reapproached

the lectern, the entire audience was huddled closely

together near the front of the auditorium. 'i'm touched by your

eagerness to hear my every word, gentlemen,' Itagne smiled,

'but I can speak loudly enough to be heard at the back of the

hall, so you needn't draw so close. I trust that the visit of Sir

Ulath's friend has cleared up the little misunderstanding about

Trolls?' He looked at Quinsal, who was still cowering on the

floor, 'gibbering in terror. 'Splendid,' Itagne said. 'Briefly then,

Prince Sparhawk came to Tamuli. Elenes are sometimes a devious

people, so Sparhawk's wife, Queen Ehlana, proposed a state

visit to Matherion and concealed her husband and his friends

in her entourage. Upon their arrival, they almost immediately

uncovered some facts which we had somehow overlooked. First,

Emperor Sarabian actually has a mind, and second, the government

led by Pondia Subat was in league with our enemies.'

'Treason!' a thin, balding professor shrieked, leaping to his

feet.

'Really, Dalash?' Itagne asked, 'against whom?'

'Why - uh -' Dalash floundered.

'You still don't understand, do you gentlemen?' Itagne asked

the faculty of Contemporary History. 'The previous government

has been overthrown - by Emperor Sarabian himself. Tamuli is

now an Elene-style monarchy, and Emperor Sarabian rules by

decree. The previous government - and its Prime Minister - are

no longer relevant.'

'The Prime Minister cannot be removed from office!' Dalash

screamed. 'He holds his position for life!'

'Even if that were true, it suggests a rather simple solution to

the problem, doesn't it?'

'You wouldn't dare!'

'Not me, old boy. That's the Emperor's decision. Don't cross

him, gentlemen. If you do, he'll decorate the city gates with

your heads. Let's press on here. I'd like to cover a bit more

ground before our customary recess. It was the aborted coupattempt

that finally brought things to a head. Pondia Subat was

a party to the entire conspiracy and he fully intended to stand

around wringing his hands while the drunken mob murdered

all of his political enemies, evidently including the Emperor himself.

If Professor Dalash wants to scream "treason" he might

take a look at that. We discovered much in the aftermath of

that failed coup, not only concerning the treason of the Prime

Minister, but of the Minister of the Interior as well. Most important,

however, was the discovery that it had been Zalasta who

had engineered the entire plot, and that he was secretly allied

with Ekatas, High Priest of Cyrgon, the God of the supposedly

extinct Cyrgai.

'At this point Prince Sparhawk had no choice but to retrieve

Bhelliom from its hiding place and to send to Chyrellos for

reinforcements. He enlisted other allies as well, not the least of

which were the Delphae - who do in fact exist in all their glowing

horror '

'This is absurd!' Contemporary History's reigning bully-boy,

the crude and muscular Professor Pessalt sneered. 'Are we supposed

to believe this nonsense?'

'You've already seen a Troll this evening, Pessalt,' Itagne

reminded him. 'Would you like a personal visitation by a Shining

One as well? I can arrange it, if you'd like - but outside, please.

We'd never get rid of the stink if you were dissolved into a

puddle of slime right here in front of the platform.'

Dean Altus cleared his throat meaningfully.

'Yes sir,' Itagne assured him. 'I'll just be a few more minutes.'

He turned back to the audience. 'Now then,' he continued

quickly, 'since the subject of the Trolls has come up again, we

might as well go into that and clear it away once and for all. As

you've noticed, the Trolls are real. They were lured to Tamuli

from their home range in northern Thalesia by Cyrgon, who

posed as one of their Gods. The real Troll-Gods have been

imprisoned for eons, and Prince Sparhawk offered them an

exchange - their freedom in return for their aid. He then led

a sizeable force to northern Atan, where the misguided Trolls had

been stirring up turmoil in hopes of forcing the Atans to return

to defend their homeland - which would have left us effectively

defenseless, since the Atans comprise the bulk of our army.

Sparhawk's move seemed to play right into the hands of our

enemies, but when Cyrgon and Zalasta unleashed the Trolls,

Sparhawk called forth their Gods to reclaim them. In desperation,

Cyrgon reached back in time and produced a huge army

of his Cyrgai. Then the Trolls, true to their nature, ate them.'

'You don't really expect us to swallow this, do you, Itagne?'

Professor Sarafawn, Chairman of the Department of Contemporary

History and brother-in-law of the Prime Minister, demanded

scornfully.

'You might as well, Sarafawn,' Itagne told him. 'Your wife's

brother isn't dictating official history any more. From now on,

the Emperor wants us to give our students the plain, unvarnished

truth. I'll be publishing a factual account in the next

month or so. You'd better reserve a copy, Sarafawn, because

you're going to be required to teach it to all your students in

the future - assuming that you have a future at this institution.

Next year's budget's going to be a little tight, I understand, so

a number of departments will probably have to be dropped.' He

paused. 'Are you any good with tools, Sarafawn? There's a very

nice little vocational school at Jura, I hear. You'd just love

Daconia. '

The Dean cleared his throat again, a bit more urgently this

time.

'Sorry, Dean Altus,' Itagne apologized. 'i'm running past

time, gentlemen, so I'll just briefly sum up one more development.

Despite their crushing defeat, Cyrgon and Zalasta were

by no means powerless. In a bold stroke, Zalasta's natural son,

one Scarpa, crept into the imperial compound and abducted

Queen Ehlana, leaving behind a demand that Sparhawk give up

the Bhelliom in exchange for the safe return of his wife.

'Following the recess Dean Aldus has been so patiently awaiting,

I will take up Prince Sparhawk's reaction to this new development.'

PART ONE

Berit

CHAPTER 1

A chill haze was rising from the meadow, and thin clouds had

drifted in from the west to obscure the cold, brittle sky. There

were no shadows, and the frozen ground was iron-hard and

unyielding. Winter was inexorably tightening its grip on the

North Cape. Sparhawk's army, girt in steel and leather and thousands

strong, was lined up along a broad front in the frost-covered

grass of the meadow near the ruins of Tzada. Sir Berit sat his

horse in the center of the bulky, armored Church Knights watching

the ghastly feast taking place a few hundred yards to the

front. Berit was a young and idealistic knight, and he was having

some difficulty with the behavior of their new allies.

The screams were remote, mere rumors of agony, and those

who were screaming were not actually people - not really. They

were no more than shades, the scarce-remembered reflections

of long-dead men. Besides, they were enemies - members of a

cruel and savage race that worshipped an unspeakable God.

But they steamed. That was the part of the horror Sir Berit

could not shrug off. Though he told himself that these Cyrgai

were dead - phantoms raised by Cyrgon's magic - the fact that

steam rose from their eviscerated bodies as the ravening Trolls

fed on them brought all of Berit's defenses crashing down

around his ears.

'Trouble?' Sparhawk asked sympathetically. Sparhawk's black

armor was frost-touched, and his battered face was bleak.

Berit felt a sudden embarrassment. 'it's nothing, Sir Sparhawk,'

he lied quickly. 'It's just -' He groped for a word.

"I know. I'm stumbling over that part myself. The Trolls aren't

being deliberately cruel, you know. To them we're just food.

They're only following their nature.'

'That's part of the problem, Sparhawk. The notion of being

eaten makes my blood run cold.'

'Would it help if I said, "better them than us"?'

'Not very much.' Berit laughed weakly. 'Maybe I'm not cut

out for this kind of work. Everybody else seems to be taking it

in stride.'

'Nobody's taking it in stride, Berit. We all feel the same way

about what's happening. Try to hold on. We've met these armies

out of the past before. As soon as the Trolls kill the Cyrgai

generals, the rest should vanish, and that'll put an end to it.'

Sparhawk frowned. 'Let's go find Ulath,' he suggested. 'I just

thought of something, and I want to ask him about it.'

'All right,' Berit agreed quickly. The two black-armored Pandions

turned their horses and rode through the frosty grass

along the front of the massed army.

They found Ulath, Tynian and Bevier a hundred yards or so

down the line. 'I've got a question for you, Ulath,' Sparhawk

said as he reined Faran in.

'For me? Oh, Sparhawk, you shouldn't have!' Ulath removed

his conical helmet and absently polished the glossy black Ogre-horns

on the sleeve of his green surcoat. 'What's the problem?'

'Every time we've come up against these antiques before, the

dead all shriveled up after we killed the leaders. How are the

Trolls going to react to that?'

'How should I know?'

'You're supposed to be the expert on Trolls.'

'Be reasonable, Sparhawk. It's never happened before.

Nobody can predict what's going to happen in a totally new

situation. '

'Make a guess,' Sparhawk snapped irritably.

The two of them glared at each other.

'Why badger Ulath about it, Sparhawk?' Bevier suggested

gently. 'Why not just warn the Troll-Gods that it's going to

happen and let them deal with the problem?'

Sparhawk rubbed reflectively at the side of his face, his hand

making a kind of sandy sound on his unshaven cheek. 'Sorry,

Ulath,' he apologized. 'The noise from the banquet hall out

there's distracting me.'

'I know just how you feel,' Ulath replied wryly. 'i'm glad you

brought it up, though. The Trolls won't be satisfied with dried

rations when there's all this fresh meat no more than a quartermile

away.' He put his Ogre-horned helmet back on. 'The TrollGods

will honor their commitment to Aphrael, but I think we'd

better warn them about this. I definitely want them to have a

firm grip on their Trolls when supper turns stale. I'd hate to end

up being the dessert course.'

'Ehlana?' Sephrenia gasped.

'Keep' your voice down!' Aphrael muttered. She looked

around. They were some distance to the rear of the army, but

they were not alone. She reached out and touched Chiel's bowed

white neck, and Sephrenia's palfrey obediently ambled off a

little way from Kalten and Xanetia to crop at the frozen grass.

'I can't get too many details,' the Child Goddess said. 'Melidere's

been badly hurt, and Mirtai's so enraged that they've had to

chain her up.'

'Who did it?'

'I don't know, Sephrenia! Nobody's talking to Danae. All I can

get is the word "hostage". Somebody's managed to get into the

castle, seize Ehlana and Alcan and spirit them out. Sarabian's

beside himself. He's flooded the halls with guards, so Danae

can't get out of her room to find out what's really happening.'

'We must tell Sparhawk!'

'Absolutely not. Sparhawk bursts into flames when Ehlana's

in danger. He's got to get this army safely back to Matherion

before we can let him catch on fire.'

'But -'

'No, Sephrenia. He'll find out soon enough, but let's get

everyone to safety before he does. We've only got a week or so

left until the sun goes down permanently and everything - and

everyone - up here turns to solid ice.'

'You're probably right,' Sephrenia conceded. She thought

a moment, staring off at the frost-silvered forest beyond

the meadow. 'That word "hostage" explains everything, I

think. Is there any way you can pinpoint your mother's exact

location?'

Aphrael shook her head. 'Not without putting her in danger.

If I start moving around and poking my nose into things, Cyrgon

will feel me nudging at the edges of his scheme, and he might

do something to Mother before he stops to think. Our main

concern right now is keeping Sparhawk from going crazy when

he finds out what's happened.' She suddenly gasped and her

dark eyes went very wide.

'What is it?' Sephrenia asked in alarm. 'What's happening?'

'I don't know!' ~APhrael cried. 'it's something monstrous!' She

cast her eyes about wildly for a moment and then steadied herself,

her pale brow furrowing in concentration. Then her eyes

narrowed in anger. 'Somebody's using one of the forbidden

spells, Sephrenia,' she said in a voice that was as hard as the

frozen ground.

'Are you sure?'

'Absolutely. The very air stinks of it.

Djarian the necromancer was a cadaverous-looking Styric with

sunken eyes, a thin, almost skeletal frame, and a stale, mildewed

odor about him. Like the other Styric captives, he was in chains

and under the close watch of Church Knights well-versed in

countering Styric spells.

A cold, oppressive twilight was settling over the encampment

near the ruins of Tzada when Sparhawk and the others finally

got around to questioning the prisoners. The Troll-Gods had

taken their creatures firmly in hand when the feeding orgy had

come suddenly to an end, and the Trolls were now gathered

around a huge bonfire several miles out in the meadow holding

what appeared to be religious observances of some sort.

,Just go through the motions, Bevier,' Sparhawk quietly

advised the olive-skinned Cyrinic Knight as Djarian was dragged

before them. 'Keep asking him irrelevant questions until Xanetia

signals that she's picked him clean.'

Bevier nodded. 'I can drag it out for as long as you want,

Sparhawk. Let's get started.'

Sir Bevier's gleaming white surcoat, made ruddy by the flickering

firelight, gave him a decidedly ecclesiastical appearance,

and he heightened that impression by prefacing his interrogation

with a lengthy prayer. Then he got down to business.

Djarian replied to the questions tersely in a hollow voice that

seemed almost to come echoing up out of a vault. Bevier

appeared to take no note of the prisoner's sullen behavior. His

whole manner seemed excessively correct, even fussy, and he

heightened that impression by wearing fingerless wool gloves

such as scribes and scholars wear in cold weather. He doubled

back frequently, rephrasing questions he had previously asked

and then triumphantly pointing out inconsistencies in the priSoner's

replies.

The one exception to Djarian's terse brevity was a sudden

outburst of vituperation, a lengthy denunciation of Zalasta - and

Cyrgon - for abandoning him here on this inhospitable field.

'Bevier sounds exactly like a lawyer,' Kalten muttered quietly

to Sparhawk. 'I hate lawyers.'

'He's doing it on purpose,' Sparhawk replied. 'Lawyers like to

spring trick questions on people, and Djarian knows it. Bevier's

forcing him to think very hard about the things he's supposed

to conceal, and that's all Xanetia really needs. We always seem

to underestimate Bevier.'

'it's all that praying,' Kalten said sagely. 'it's hard to take a

man seriously when he's praying all the time.'

'We're Knights of the Church, Kalten - members of religious

orders. '

'What's that got to do with it?'

'In his own mind is he more dead than alive,' Xanetia reported

later when they had gathered around one of the large fires the

Atans had built to hold back the bitter chill. The Anarae's face

reflected the glow of the fire, as did her unbleached wool robe.

'Were we right?' Tynian asked her. 'is Cyrgon augmenting

Djarian's spells so that he can raise whole armies?'

'He is,' she replied.

'Was that outburst against Zalasta genuine?' Vanion asked

her.

'indeed, my Lord. Djarian and his fellows are increasingly

discontent with the leadership of Zalasta. They have all come

to expect no true comradeship from their leader. There is no

longer common cause among them, and each doth seek to wring

best advantage to himself from their dubious alliance. Overlaying

all is the secret desire of each to gain sole possession of

Bhelliom. '

'Dissension among your enemies is always good,' Vanion

noted, 'but I don't think we should discount the possibility that

they'll all fall in line again after what happened here today.

Could you get anything specific about what they might try next,

Anarae?'

'Nay, Lord Vanion. They were in no wise prepared for what

hath come to pass. One thing did stand out in the mind of this

Djarian, however, and it doth perhaps pose some danger. The

outcasts who surround Zalasta do all fear Cyzada of Esos, for

he alone is versed in Zemoch magic, and he alone doth plunge

his hand through that door to the nether world which Azash

opened. Horrors beyond imagining lie within his reach. It is

Djarian's thought that since all their plans have thus far gone

awry, Cyrgon in desperation might command Cyzada to use his

unspeakable art to raise creatures of darkness to confront and

confound us.'

Vanion nodded gravely.

'How did Stragen's plan affect them?' Talen asked curiously.

'They are discomfited out of all measure,' Xanetia replied.

'They did rely heavily on those who now are dead.'

'Stragen will be happy to hear that. What were they going to

do with all those spies and informers?'

'Since they had no force capable of facing the Atans, Zalasta

and his cohorts thought to use the hidden employees of the

Ministry of the Interior to assassinate diverse Tamul officials in

the subject kingdoms of the empire, hoping thereby to disrupt

the governments.'

'You might want to make a note of that, Sparhawk,' Kalten

said.

'Oh?'

'Emperor Sarabian had some qualms when he approved Stragen's

plan. He'll probably feel much better when he finds out

that all Stragen really did was beat our enemies to the well.

They'd have killed our people if Stragen hadn't killed theirs

first.'

'That's very shaky moral ground, Kalten,' Bevier said disapprovingly.

know,' Kalten admitted. 'That's why you have to run across

the top of it so fast.'

The sky was cloudy the following morning, thick roiling cloud

that streamed in from the west, all seethe and confusion.

Because it was late autumn and they were far to the north, it

seemed almost that the sun was rising in the south, turning the

sky above Bhelliom's escarpment a fiery orange and reaching

feebly out with ruddy, low-lying light to paint the surging

underbellies of the swift-scudding cloud with a brush of flame.

The campfires seemed wan and weak and very tiny against

the overpowering chill here on the roof of the world, and the

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摘要：

TheHiddenCityDavidEddingsTheTamulibook3WARTOTHEDEATHThePandionKnightSparhawkhadbestedthemassedforcesoftheGodCyrgonuponthefieldofbattle.ButvictoryturnedtoasheswhenthefoulGod'sminionskidnappedSparhawk'swife,thebeautifulQueenEhlana.SparhawkmustsurrenderBhelliom,theawesomejewelofpower--orEhlanawoulddie....

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David Eddings - Tamuli 3 - The Hidden City

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