Cold wind played against Skandranons nares-a wind as frigid as the hearts of the killers below. Their hearts pumped blood unlike any other creatures; thick black blood, warmed when their commanders willed it-only when they flew, only when they hunted, only when they killed.
Their blood was cold, and yet it ran warmer than their masters. This much Skandranon Rashkae knew; he had fought their masters since he was a fledgling himself. They were cruel and cunning, these makaar, and yet the worst aspects of these manufactured horrors paled before the cruelty of their creators.
Silence. Stay still. Quiet.
Skandranon remained motionless, crouched, feathers compressed tight to his body. He was silent to more than hearing; that silence was but one of the powers that had made his master and friend so powerful, although it was the power that had given him his name-Urtho, the Mage of Silence. Urthos champions had invisibility against magical sight-to mind-scanning, to detection spells, to magical scrying. The enemies of his monarchy had spent much of their resources on foiling that edge-to no avail, it seemed-and now concentrated on more direct methods of destroying Urthos hold on the verdant central-lands riches.
