A brief knock at the room's only door brought Jaltor around sharply. "Enter!" he thundered.
The door opened and four guards came in. With them was a trim figured man a few years short of middle-age, his strong regular features impassive. As his escort halted he continued on into the room, pausing only when he stood facing Ammad's monarch.
"Greetings, noble Jaltor," he said quietly. "You sent for me?"
Anger and bewildered sorrow seemed to be fighting for dominance in the ruler's expression. "I thought you my friend, Garlud!" he burst out suddenly. "How could a senseless ambition so drive you that you would turn against your king?"
The blood seemed to drain from Garlud's cheeks and his eyes went wide in shocked wonder. "Turn against you?" he repeated, aghast. "What madness is this?"
Jaltor's eyes narrowed and a sneer curled his upper lip. "Before you add lies upon lies, Garlud, give greetings to a friend of yours."
With these words the king stepped aside, for the first time permitting Garlud to see the man on the bed.
The nobleman's jaw dropped. "Why, it's old Heglar!" he exclaimed. "What in the God's name has happened to him?"
"What usually happens to enemies of Jaltor?"