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She dodged, fox-quick, and struck home in the guardsman's
chest. Soren staggered back. Artavash circled, circled;
feinting an overhand cut, she changed direction in the wink
of an eye and thrust through Soren's weakened guard. The
point of her blade grew out his back.
Eye to eye, she said, "You should have stayed on your
oar." Artavash recovered, and Soren collapsed.
Sturm broke free from Radiz and ran to his fallen
friend. "Soren! Soren!"
His eyes were open. He said, "My lord . . . sound the
charge."
"Leave him, boy. He's dead." Radiz was standing over
Soren. Nearby, Artavash casually wiped the blood from her
blade.
Sturm was numb. With leaden feet, he walked between
Radiz and Artavash to the alchemist's killing table. His hope
was gone. Four steps to go. Below the neck of the table's
funnel was a large iron pot. Three steps. Mukhari was pale
and sweating in the heat. Two steps.
He had nothing left, nothing at all but Graff's wind
cord. Magic . . . forbidden . . . The last step . . .
Artavash swept Sturm off his feet and laid him on the
table. The metal was warm from the sun. "Lie still," she
warned. "Remember your mother."
She backed away. Mukhari Ras loomed above him
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