He gasped and fought for breath as the group turned, ascended a stone staircase, and stepped into the great mouth that was a hall opening. They carried on into it, Dariel stumbling even more in the dim interior. When they finally stopped, the prince nearly collapsed. He sucked breaths in through his nose, but seemed to lose the air’s effect each time he exhaled. His eyes slowly adjusted to the light, bringing the dimensions of the chamber into perspective. It was a grand rectangular space, high ceilinged, with squares cut into the roof through which shafts of light fell, making a geometric confusion of light and dark. Standing on his toes to peer over the rows of Ishtat around him, Dariel could see a great host in the shadowed areas, hundreds of hulking shapes, all the more menacing because he could not see them clearly. Dark forms, they waited silent and menacing. He blinked furiously to keep the sweat from blurring his vision.

Sire Neen and the other leaguemen stepped forward, following the tall figures toward an illumed square between the two groups. Opposite them, several figures came from the shade into the bright light. They were similar to the Numrek in their size and musculature. They were garbed differently, though, in knee-length leather skirts and sandals with straps that laced up their calves. Most of them wore loose, open-necked shirts that had a look of careful disarray, an effect Dariel had managed in his brigand days.

One of them stepped before the others. He carried a curved long sword, a horror of a blade that Dariel doubted he would even be able to swing properly. A gasp flew through the league contingent. The Ishtat archers behind Sire Neen snapped their free hands back and pinched their arrows, ready to pluck them from their quivers. The Auldek registered them with a flick of his eyes. He took a few more steps. Beyond his loose-limbed strength and size, there was nothing martial in his demeanor. He paused, studied the group a little longer, and then stabbed the sword down into the stone. It was a whip-fast motion, and he had stepped back from it before the archers could even decide if the gesture was a threat. The sword swayed but stayed upright.

Bare chested and powerfully muscled, he planted his hands on his hips, cocked his head, and sniffed the air as he studied the leaguemen. He had long wavy hair like the Numreks’, but his was an auburn, gold-flecked shade that Dariel had never seen on them. He seemed in no rush to speak to the newcomers. He turned and said something over his shoulder to the man there. They both laughed, as did several others who heard the comment. The lead man looked back at Sire Neen and said something, a quick barrage of guttural words. To Dariel’s surprise—and the Auldek’s—Sire Neen responded in kind. He began a steady discourse, punctuated with bows and gestures.