The Complete Elenium Trilogy: The Diamond Throne, The Ruby Knight, The Sapphire Rose. David Eddings

at its tip.

      ‘What kind of an animal has horns like that?’ Kalten asked him.

      ‘Ogre,’ Ulath replied. Then he set the mouthpiece to his lips and blew a shattering blast.

      ‘For the glory of God and the honour of the Church!’ Bevier exclaimed, rising in his stirrups and flourishing his Lochaber.

      Sparhawk drew his sword and drove his spurs into Faran’s flanks. The big horse plunged eagerly ahead, his ears laid back and his teeth bared.

      There were shouts of chagrin from the elm grove as the Church Knights plunged down the hill at a gallop with the grass whipping at the legs of their chargers. Then perhaps eighteen armoured men on horseback broke out of their concealment and rode out into the open to meet the charge.

      ‘They want a fight!’ Tynian shouted jubilantly.

      ‘Watch yourselves when we mix with them!’ Sparhawk warned. ‘There may be more hiding in the grove!’

      Ulath continued to sound his horn until the last moment. Then he quickly stuffed it back into his saddlebag and began to whirl his great war axe about his head.

      Three of the ambushers had held back; just before the two parties crashed together, they turned tail and rode off at a dead run, flogging their horses in sheer panic.

      The initial impact might easily have been heard a mile away. Sparhawk and Faran were slightly in the lead, with the others fanned out and back in a kind of wedge formation. Sparhawk stood up in his stirrups to deliver broad overhand strokes to the right and the left as he crashed into the strangers. He split open a helmet and saw blood and brains come gushing out as the man fell stiffly out of his saddle. On his next stroke his sword sheared through an upraised shield, and he heard a scream as his blade bit into the arm to which the shield was strapped. Behind him he could hear the sounds of other blows and shrieks as his friends followed him through the mêlée.

      Their rush through the centre of the ambushers left ten down, killed or maimed, but, as they whirled to attack again, a half-dozen more came crashing out of the grove to attack them from the rear.

      ‘Go ahead!’ Bevier shouted as he wheeled his horse. ‘I’ll hold these off while you finish the rest!’ He raised his Lochaber and charged.

      ‘Help him, Kalten!’ Sparhawk called to his friend, then led Tynian, Ulath, and the two strangers against the dazed survivors of their first attack. Tynian’s broadsword had a much wider blade than those of the Pandions and thus a great deal more weight. That weight made the weapon savagely efficient, and Tynian cut through flesh or armour with equal ease. Ulath’s axe, of course, had no finesse or subtlety. He hewed at men as a woodsman might hew at trees.

      Sparhawk briefly saw one of the two strange Pandions rise in his stirrups to deliver a vast overhand blow. What the knight held in its gauntleted fist, however, was not a sword, but rather that same kind of glowing nimbus that had been given to Sephrenia in the shabby upstairs apartment in Chyrellos by the insubstantial ghost of Sir Lakus. The nimbus appeared to pass completely through the body of the awkward mercenary the Pandion faced. The man’s face went absolutely white, and he stared down at his chest in horror, but there was no blood, and his rust-splotched armour remained intact. With a shriek of terror, he threw his sword away and fled. Then Sparhawk’s attention was diverted by another enemy.

      When the last of the ambushers had fallen, Sparhawk wheeled Faran to go to the aid of Bevier and Kalten, but saw that it was largely unnecessary. Three of the men who had come charging out of the elm grove were already down. Another was doubled over in his saddle with both hands pressed to his belly. The other two were trying desperately to parry the blows of Kalten’s sword and Bevier’s Lochaber axe. Kalten feinted with his sword then smoothly slapped his opponent’s weapon out of his hand, even as Bevier lopped the head off his man with an almost casual backhand swipe.

      ‘Don’t kill him!’ Sparhawk shouted to Kalten as the blond man raised his sword.

      ‘But –’ Kalten protested.

      ‘I want to question him.’

      Kalten’s face grew bleak with disappointment as Sparhawk rode back across the littered turf towards him and Bevier.

      Sparhawk reined Faran in. ‘Get off your horse,’ he told the frightened and exhausted captive.

      The man slid down. Like that worn by his fallen companions, his armour was a mish-mash of unmatched pieces. It was rusty and dented in places, but the sword Kalten had knocked from his hand was polished and sharp.

      ‘You’re a mercenary, I take it,’ Sparhawk said to him.

      ‘Yes, my Lord,’ the fellow faltered in a Pelosian accent.

      ‘This didn’t turn out too well, did it?’ Sparhawk asked in an almost comradely fashion.

      The fellow laughed nervously, looking at the carnage around him. ‘No, my Lord, not at all the way we expected.’

      ‘You did your best,’ Sparhawk said to him. ‘Now, we’ll need the name of the man who hired you.’

      ‘I didn’t ask his name, my Lord.’

      ‘Describe him then.’

      ‘I-I cannot, my Lord.’

      ‘This interview is going to get a lot less pleasant, I think,’ Kalten said.

      ‘Stand him in a fire,’ Ulath suggested.

      ‘I’ve always liked pouring boiling pitch inside their armour – slowly,’ Tynian said.

      ‘Thumbscrews,’ Bevier said firmly.

      ‘You see how it is, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said to the now ashen-faced prisoner. ‘You are going to talk. We’re here, and the man who hired you isn’t. He might have threatened you with unpleasant things, but we’re going to do them to you. Save yourself a great deal of discomfort and answer my questions.’

      ‘My Lord,’ the man blubbered, ‘I can’t – even if you torture me to death.’

      Ulath slid down from his saddle and approached the cringing captive. ‘Oh, stop that,’ the Genidian said. He raised a hand, palm outstretched, over the prisoner’s head and spoke in a harsh, grating language Sparhawk did not understand but uneasily suspected was not a human tongue. The captured mercenary’s eyes went blank, and he fell to his knees. Falteringly and with absolutely no expression in his voice, he began to speak in the same language as Ulath had.

      ‘He’s been bound in a spell,’ the Genidian Knight reported. ‘Nothing we could have done to him would have made him talk.’

      The mercenary went on in that dreadful language, speaking more rapidly now.

      ‘There were two who hired him,’ Ulath translated, ‘a hooded Styric and a man with white hair.’

      ‘Martel!’ Kalten exclaimed.

      ‘Very likely,’ Sparhawk agreed.

      The prisoner spoke again.

      ‘It was the Styric who put the spell on him,’ Ulath said. ‘It’s one ‘I’m not familiar with.’

      ‘I don’t think I am either,’ Sparhawk admitted. ‘We’ll see if Sephrenia knows it.’

      ‘Oh,’ Ulath added, ‘that’s one other thing. This attack was directed at her.’

       ‘What?’

      ‘The orders these men had were to kill the Styric woman.’

      ‘Kalten!’ Sparhawk barked, but the blond man was already spurring his horse.

      ‘What about him?’ Tynian pointed at the prisoner.

      ‘Let him go,’ Sparhawk shouted as he galloped off after Kalten. ‘Come on!’

      As they rode over the hilltop, Sparhawk looked back. The two strange