The History of Krynn

The Age of Dreams

Volume 4

All Stories ©1984 TSR, Inc.

©2012 Wizards of the Coast LLC

Hammer and Axe – First published July 1993

The Swordsheath Scroll – First published December 1993

The Qualinesti – First published November 1991

Vinas Solamnus – First published August 1997

The Dargonesti – First published October 1995

“Night of Falling Stars” – First published in The Dragons of Krynn March 1994

Cover design by Dead^Man

Cover and ebook design by Dead^Man

Cover pictures used for this collection are from various sources around the net. Sorry, most sites do not credit the original artists. Thank you for the wonderful art, whomever you all may be.

These ePub  and Mobi/K8  editions v1.0 by Dead^Man December 2012

First release December 2012

Table of Contents

Hammer and Axe (continued)

The Swordsheath Scroll

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

The Qualinesti

Time of Knights (ca. 2000 PC - 960 PC)

Vinas Solamnus

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

The Dargonesti

Night of Falling Stars

Hammer and Axe

(continued)

Chapter 10

THE GATHERING STORM

In a secluded cove west of the Thunder Peaks, as the moons of Krynn rose above the plains of Ergoth to the east, wizards gathered. The white moon appeared first, frosty and bright above an ebony horizon, and a long line of tall figures emerged from the shadows of a walled gorge. Single file, they came down the rocky slopes and gathered in the little cove, each in turn pausing to face east, toward the risen moon, and speak soft words of respect. They were all human and all men, though a motley and ill-assembled group. Some wore robes, some kilts and capes. Some wore boots and some sandals. Some had hats of various kinds, but many were bareheaded. Some were shaven and some bearded, some sturdy and some gaunt, some were men in their middle years and some seemed much older. Some carried staves, some simple sticks, but most carried no tools or weapons of any kind.

The only feature predominant among them was that many, if not most, had at least one article of clothing which was white in color. Though the Orders of High Sorcery were yet very new, it was already becoming the practice of many among them to dress symbolically, each in the color of the moon that ruled his particular school of sorcery.

Forty wizards came with the rising of the white moon, and one awaited them there. When all the newcomers had completed their gestures of respect for the risen moon, they turned toward the one who had summoned them. “Sigamon,” one said. “It was you who sent the call spell?”

“I sent it, Porcirin.” Sigamon nodded, his nose wrinkling in distaste. He had never cared for the officious, high-handed manner of the mage from the eastern city of Istar who called himself Porcirin the Pure. Given half a chance in any situation, Porcirin would try to take charge. And when he did take charge, in Sigamon’s opinion, he usually led in the wrong direction.

“I hope you had a good reason,” Porcirin snapped. “We have come many miles out of our way to respond.”

“Why aren’t you at the place of the tower?” someone else asked. “It was your task – you and those others – to complete the testing of stones and mirrors and await us there.”

“The tower is in jeopardy,” Sigamon said. “The Stone of Threes has been stolen.”

“Stolen?” Faces in the crowd turned to look at one another, incredulous. “How could it have been stolen?” someone demanded. “Who took it?”

“Wait for the rest,” Sigamon said. “I’ll tell the tale once, when all are here.”

They waited, some sitting on the cold ground, others pacing impatiently. In the east, the white moon Solinari crept up the dark sky. Then below it and northward, stars just at the horizon seemed to disappear – and others above them, a circle of darkness in the starfield. In the cove, a wizard pointed. “Nuitari,” he said.

Seeming smaller than Solinari, but rising more rapidly, the dark moon crept above the horizon, and across the cove night shadows moved as people emerged from a high valley. Again, the group consisted of forty men, as varied as the first group in appearance but similar in that most of them wore dark clothing, and each had some item – a hat, a robe, a corselet, or wrapped leggings – of solid black.

These approached the group already there, and one stepped forward. He was a tall, slender man with a dark hat, dark cape, and cruel, cynical eyes. “Brothers,” he said, bowing slightly.

Many of the white-wearers stared at him in surprise. “Kistilan,” some of them muttered. “What’s Kistilan doing here?”

“We have been summoned by a call,” the dark one said. “We are here, and there had better be a good reason. I do not care to have my time wasted.”

“Sigamon sent the call,” Porcirin the Pure explained, making a contemptuous gesture. “He says the Stone of Threes for the tower of the mountains is missing.”

“Missing?” the dark-hatted figure hissed. “Has he lost it, then?”

“He says it was stolen,” someone said.

The dark wizard Kistilan spun toward Sigamon. “How could such a thing be?” he demanded. “Who stole it?” He turned, then, looking around the cove. “Are you here alone, of the testers? Where is Tantas?”

“Dead,” Sigamon said coldly.

In the east, pale reddish light grew above the horizon, and the rim of red Lunitari appeared. Over a crest above the cove came another file of forty, many of them wearing bits of red in their clothing. When they approached the gathered mages one of them demanded, “Who here summoned us? We have walked many miles this day, and not in the proper direction.”

“You walked.” Sigamon stepped forward, glaring at the newcomers. “You should be pleased that you had the leisure to walk. I came by transport spell, and my stomach still aches and turns within me.”

The nearest red-cloaks peered at him, then one said, “Sigamon? What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at Sheercliff with Megistal and the hunchback? What has happened?”

“Megistal has gone off to study dwarves,” Sigamon sneered. “I neither know nor care where he is. The hunchback – Tantas – is dead, killed by a dwarf. And that dwarf has the Stone of Threes. Without it, our mission to these lands is useless.”

“A dwarf?” Voices arose in disbelief. “A dwarf killed Tantas? What magic did the creature use?”

“A hammer.” Sigamon shook his head. “He threw a hammer and killed Tantas. Then he mauled me brutally for no reason and left Megistal and me bound and gagged while he and his accomplices made off with the tower-stone.”

“A dwarf?” a dozen asked, in unison.

“What accomplices did this … this dwarf have?” the black-cloak, Kistilan, asked, sneering. “Were they dragons? Or possibly an army of rogue mages? Have you lost your powers as well as your reason, pale conjurer?”

Sigamon glared at his tormentor and raised a shaking hand. A spell was on his lips, but it went unsaid. He was no match for Kistilan, and he knew it.

“Enough!” a red-wearer shouted. “That’s enough of that! Both of you! Fight later if you like, but first let us hear what has happened.”

“Mind your tone,” another whispered. “That is Kistilan. Don’t you know him?”

“Kistilan?” the red-robe stared at the dark wizard, then lowered his eyes. “What is Kistilan doing here?” he whispered.

“Whatever he likes, as usual,” another muttered.

For long moments, the cove was silent, then an aged red-wearer raised his hands in sign of truce. “You, Sigamon. You said Megistal had gone to study dwarves. Why?”

“He thinks they may be immune to magic,” Sigamon said. “It’s pure nonsense, of course, but …”

“I am sorry Megistal has gone,” Kistilan hissed. “He once swore to kill me, and I was looking forward to seeing him die trying. His magic certainly is not the equal of mine. But even with the puniest of magic – such as yours, Sigamon – I don’t see how a common dwarf could have bested you.”

“The creature was extraordinarily stubborn. Besides, he tricked us. He betrayed our kindness to him.”

“I see. And who were the others with him?”

“Other dwarves,” Sigamon said, lowering his eyes in embarrassment. “Two other dwarves and a kender.”

“Unbelievable,” someone muttered. “Could you not control these dwarves with your spells, Sigamon?”

“Of course I could! My mistake was in trying to be gentle. The dwarf betrayed my kindness.”

“And Tantas?” Kistilan asked. “I can’t imagine Tantas ever being hampered by kindness.”

“The dwarf caught him off-guard.”

“Megistal, then? Megistal is a very powerful wizard, or so it is said … though I will one day show him what true power is.”

“Megistal tried to use illusion. The dwarf refused to believe the illusion. I told you, the creature was extraordinarily stubborn.”

Disbelieving but worried, a hundred and twenty-one wizards gathered secretly in the hidden cove high in the mountains to hear the whole story and discuss what to do about it. Kistilan stood aside, his face hidden by shadows. Whatever the truth here was, he knew it was what he had been waiting for. Dwarves had interfered with the Orders of High Sorcery. If the Stone of Threes was taken, they must retrieve it, by whatever means were necessary. Only seven of the artifacts existed in the whole world, one for each of the seven Towers of High Sorcery the Scions had decreed.

Among the wizards were some who suspected where dwarves would take such a thing. “It is a fortress,” one said. “North of here, where three crags cap a mighty peak.”

“The mountain is called Cloudseeker,” offered another. “People in Ergoth speak of a fortress the dwarves have built there. No one knows much about it, except its name: Thorbardin.”

In the shadows, Kistilan smiled a cruel smile, thinking rapidly. The fortress of the dwarves … It was what the High Overlord of Xak Tsaroth most coveted. “A fortress is nothing,” the dark mage said casually. “If that is where the Stone of Threes is, then someone must go and get it.”

“That’s reasonable,” the red-cloak Salanik agreed. “Sigamon, you and the other testers traveled through this land to reach Sheercliff. Have you seen the fortress of the dwarves?”

“I have not.” Sigamon shrugged. “The lands north of here are full of dwarves. We thought it best to go unseen, so we avoided contact.”

“Then we should have a look at the place, I think. I can image it if …”

“You can’t image a thing unseen,” Sigamon protested. “Not even a follower of Lunitari can cast a blind vision.”

“… if,” Salanik continued, “we have a pair of eyes to see it.”

Among the crowd of wizards, feet shuffled, and eyes turned away. No one wanted the discomfort of magical transport. Then Kistilan stood. “The one who lost the stone is the one who should go and look,” he proclaimed. With an evil smirk, the black-wearer half-turned, muttered a quick incantation, and spun back to point directly at Sigamon. “Chapak!” he snapped, completing the spell.

Sigamon’s eyes went wide, and his hands went up. “No!” he wailed. “No-o-o …!” The wail trailed off into silence as Sigamon disappeared.

“As good a choice as any.” Salanik shrugged. “Stand back, everyone.” The wizards moved back, clearing a span of ground. “Vit vistis, obis ot Sigamon,” the red chanted, spreading his arms as light grew in the open space, a bubble of pale brilliance that became brighter and more solid, then cleared to show a dim, shadowy view – a vision of stony, moonlit ground as though seen from just above. On the ground were two sandaled feet, with gaunt, awkward legs rising above them to the charred hem of what might once have been a white robe. The scene bobbed and danced, and mages all around frowned. “Is that all he can see?” someone asked. “What is he doing?”

“He is retching.” Kistilan grinned. “The transport spell has turned his stomach.”

Impatiently, the hundred and twenty waited while the view through Sigamon’s eyes bobbed and swayed. Then the view shifted, rising, and in the vision bubble distances grew – rising slopes of a mighty mountain, shadow-bathed in the moonlight, climbing up and away to great heights. Atop its crest, silhouetted against the night sky, were three great, natural spires of stone from which mists swirled upward.

“Cloudseeker Mountain,” an Ergothian wizard explained. “The place of the dwarven fortress called Thorbardin.”

“I see no fortress,” another said impatiently. “I see only a mountain.”

That was all any of them saw. Just a mountain. High on its face was a walled ledge, backed by an oval of metal, but nothing that suggested a fortress.

“Maybe it’s on the other side,” the bubble-maker suggested. “Kistilan, can you …?”

“Certainly.” Kistilan shrugged. “Though he won’t like it. The north side of that mountain must be fifty miles from where he is now.” The dark mage muttered a spell, and the scene in the bubble blurred, swam nauseatingly, then cleared.

Again they were looking at the ground, but this time closer, and Sigamon’s hands were in the view. The scene wobbled, then steadied as one of Sigamon’s fingers traced a message in the dust. I hate you for this, Kistilan, it said.

The view in the bubble changed as the nauseated wizard got to his feet and looked up at the north slopes of Cloudseeker. The scene swept this way and that, scanning the slopes, then stopped at a place high on the peak where torchlight had appeared on a ledge. The light revealed a large oval portal of some kind, with a wide, walled ledge before it. Tiny figures moved about, pausing here and there as though they were listening to something. And, distantly, the gathered wizards heard the sound of drums beating in the night.

“Drum-call,” an Ergothian said. “The dwarves signal with drums. Something has alarmed them.”

“Maybe they have seen Sigamon,” someone suggested. “The dwarves have lookouts everywhere around that mountain.”

“Not likely,” another said. “There is only moonlight, and Sigamon is in shadows, far below those ledges.”

“I have heard,” the Ergothian said, “that there is one tribe of dwarves – the Daergar – who are dark-seekers.”

The vision in the bubble shifted this way and that, as though it was turning rapidly, looking around.

“Ignore the dwarves, Sigamon!” someone snapped. “Look for the fortress!”

Obediently, the vision turned toward the mountain again. There were many lights there now, and files of torches elsewhere on the slopes. But nowhere was there anything that looked like a castle or battlement.

“Are you sure there is a fortress?” someone asked. “I see nothing.”

“Idiots!” Kistilan snapped. “We are looking at it. The mountain itself is the fortress. That opening up there is a gate like the one we saw on the south side, but this one is ajar. Dwarves are delvers. Thorbardin is beneath the peak, not on it!”

“That opening?” Someone else pointed. “If that, and the one on the other side, are gates, then this ‘fortress’ must be enormous.”

Enormous, Kistilan thought, and valuable. He wondered if the reward offered by the High Overlord of Xak Tsaroth would equal the treasure that the one who held that fortress could demand.

In the bubble, torchlight lined the ledges and trails of the slopes. It looked as though hundreds and hundreds of dwarves were emerging from the mountain, hurrying downward toward the valley below.

“Well, if that is where the Stone of Threes has gone,” Salanik suggested, “let us send Sigamon in to retrieve it. He is already there.”

But then the view in the bubble swam rapidly, shifting as the one whose eyes beheld it turned to look behind him. A company of short, stocky creatures stood there, all armed with shields and various hand weapons. The nearest one stepped forward, gesturing angrily, and in the bubble it seemed he had no face – only a featureless mask of metal with a slit for his eyes.

Sigamon’s hand appeared in the view-bubble, extended toward the dwarves, the index finger pointing.

“Well, he can certainly deal with that bunch,” someone said.

From the finger came brilliant light, and a thick mist of ice flecks swirled around the dwarves, obscuring them.

“A freeze,” a white-wearer noted. “Sigamon is very adept at freezes.”

The swirling ice cleared, and where there had been dwarves, now were only nodules of solid ice.

“So much for that,” a black-wearer said casually. “Now send him inside to get our …”

One of the ice nodules cracked and moved. Then another, and another. The ice cracked away, and from the chips crawled dwarves, writhing in agony, but beginning to get to their feet and retrieve weapons.

“They are still alive!” a wizard hissed in the crowd. “Has Sigamon lost his power?”

Again the finger pointed, and great stones seemed to rain from above, smashing down upon the crawling, writhing dwarves. In an instant, the entire group was buried beneath an avalanche of stone. Then, incredibly, the stones shifted, some of them beginning to fade from view, and the dwarves were still there. Many lay still on the hard ground, but some were moving, and as the wizards watched in fascination one of them got to his knees, then to his feet. He held an iron shield before him and a javelin in his free hand, and the dark slit of his mask seemed to blaze with hatred.

Sigamon’s pointing finger rose again, but this time the dwarf acted first. More quickly than seemed possible, he took a step forward, crouched, and flung the iron-tipped javelin. In the distant cove, wizards gasped and ducked as the missile hurtled – it seemed – directly toward each of them.

Then the bubble went dark and flickered out of existence. In the stunned silence of the cove, someone said, “They killed him! That dwarf killed Sigamon!”

“How can that be?” another quavered. “How could any of them still be alive? That ice-freeze was enough to kill anyone instantly. And then the rain of stones …”

“Remember what he said,” a red-wearer muttered. “He said Megistal believed a dwarf could … could resist magic, somehow. He said Megistal tried an illusion on a dwarf, and the dwarf refused to believe the illusion. Stubborn, he said.”

“Nonsense!” Salanik snapped. “No one can resist magic, except with magic.”

“To be on the safe side,” a wizard in the crowd suggested, “maybe we should all go to retrieve our talisman. I don’t understand what we have seen, but we should take no chances.”

Now Kistilan stepped forward to the center of the crowd. “I agree,” he said, “that what we have seen suggests caution. Besides, that mountain fortress will take great energies to bring down. Why should we so exert ourselves, if there is a better way?”

“And what better way is that?” Salanik asked.

“Plain force of arms,” the dark wizard said. “There is an army near Xak Tsaroth. Mercenaries, ready to fight. Let them deal with these dwarves for us.”

“Mercenaries fight for pay,” a white-kilted mage said. “What would you have us do about that?”

Kistilan glared at the man. “Stupid,” he muttered. He knelt, picked up a small stone, and held it before him. Suddenly the stone became a shiny coin. Kistilan swept a casual hand, and the ground all around him was littered with coins.

“I can handle mercenaries,” he said. “The rest of you, just follow me.”

*

The drums said the fog-killer had struck again, this time at the Neidar village of Highland, near the south end of the great valley called the Vale of Respite. The Neidar farmers had taken warning from the approaching fog, and most had fled their village ahead of the thing, but some had remained to fight. Those were now dead.

In Thorbardin, Cale Greeneye heard the report from Northgate and assembled the Neidar at his command. Willen Ironmaul conferred with Barek Stone, then assigned three garrison companies of the Roving Guard to accompany the Neidar. They would go north, around the west slopes of Cloudseeker, to track down and kill the beast of the mists.

The drums were speaking now to Mace Hammerstand, captain of the Roving Guard, who was out with two companies guarding the entrance to the old Daewar tunnel against the threat of wizards until it could be permanently obliterated.

If the creature had maintained its course, it was possible that Cale Greeneye’s forces and Mace Hammerstand’s companies could trap it between them, somewhere between the Vale of Respite and Sky’s End.

By moonlight the expedition assembled at Northgate, where crews worked rapidly to complete the mounting of the great gate. Armed and solemn, carrying torches, the dwarves streamed out from Northgate and headed down the series of slanted ledges leading toward the shadowed valley below, where Neidar horse-keepers waited with saddled mounts for those who would ride.

Cale Greeneye was halfway to the pens when he saw, on the low slopes beyond the pastures, a flare of white light that seemed to grow from nothing. Only for an instant did he see it, then it was gone. But a moment later there was another flare, dimmer than the first, and by its light it appeared that great stones were raining from the clear sky, piling up on the ground as they fell. The light faded, and mutters of surprise and concern swept along the dwarven column. They had all seen something, but none of them knew what it was.

“Could it be the beast?” someone asked. “Can it have turned … and come this far?”

“It is not the beast,” Cale assured those near him. “It does not move that fast. I have trailed it. Even if it turned, it is still north of Sky’s End.” Then, nearing the horse pens, the leaders of the column came upon a battered group of masked Daergar, carrying the body of a human. The foremost of the miners raised a hand, recognizing Cale Greeneye. He removed his dented mask; there was blood on his beard beneath it.

“Cale,” he said. “It is I, Jedden Two-vein.”

“I know you, Jedden,” Cale greeted him. “What has happened?”

“This man” — the Daergar pointed — “was a wizard. We found him on the slopes over there. I ordered him to go away, but he made spells against us. We lost seven of our company. Some were killed by ice, and some by falling stone … or what seemed like falling stone, except that stones do not fall from an empty sky. But perhaps those who died didn’t think of that.”

By torchlight, Cale looked at the body of the wizard, then turned away. “Take him to Northgate,” he said. “But not inside. Who knows what a wizard might do … even a dead one? Get word to Willen Ironmaul. Tell him what happened.”

The Daergar looked past him, at the dwarves mounting their steeds, and the foot companies assembling around them. “We heard the drums, Cale. What do they say?”

“They say the beast of the mist has struck again, this time much closer. It is somewhere north of Sky’s End.”

“Do we have troops there?”

“Mace Hammerstand is there with two mounted companies. Maybe we can trap the beast between us.”

“And if you trap it,” the Daergar said, frowning grimly, “can it be killed?”

“That’s what we may soon learn,” Cale told him.

Chapter 11

A TASTE OF RAGE

Mace Hammerstand beard the drums in the night and sent out spotters to observe a wide perimeter around the north slope of Sky’s End Mountain. The thing of the mists had struck again, this time in the Vale of Respite, far to the east of its earlier attacks on dwarven settlements. It seemed to be moving in a wide arc, from somewhere in the western wilderness into the very heart of the dwarven realm.

“Keep a careful watch,” he told his best spotters. “Especially watch the passes that come down from the Vale of Respite, just north of here. The thing may be making for the Road of Passage.”

“Aye,” a grim dwarf said. “But, Captain, what are we looking for? Has anyone ever seen the thing?”

“Not really. But we know it is large, walks on two feet – not like a person, but more like a turkey walks – and it has gliding wings and a long tail. But the thing to watch for is fog. If you see a mist that moves, report it. The thing cloaks itself in mist.”

Throughout the night and the following day, spotters stood on every crag and bluff within five miles of the old citadel on Sky’s End, their eyes roving the countryside. It was impossible to see everywhere – into each pass and crevice. Below the fanged peaks east of the Vale, the land was wild and rough – a terrain that stood on end with a hundred shadowed clefts and twisting canyons in every mile of it. But the dwarves surveyed all they could … and saw nothing.

Among the members of the Roving Guard there was speculation. If the thing was indeed moving eastward, some said, the best thing might be to stand aside and let it proceed. Eastward lay the human realms and the great, seething city of Xak Tsaroth. Xak Tsaroth, with its slave trade, its constant schemes and plots, its plundering, looting outriders, its wide-ranging tariff hoodlums, its gluttony for treasure, and the ambitions of its overlords, had been nothing but trouble to the dwarves of Kal-Thax as long as anyone could remember. If the fog beast was heading for Xak Tsaroth, some were inclined to cheer it on its way.

But between lay the Road of Passage, others pointed out. The great road was the result of a solemn treaty between Thorbardin and the knightly orders of southern Ergoth, and the dwarves were pledged to defend those who traveled it here, just as the knights defended those who traveled it in Ergoth.

With evening of the second day, scouts reported to Mace Hammerstand. Flashes had come from the west, double-mirror signals by last sunlight. Cale Greeneye and his Neidar, accompanied by Roving Guard troops, were in place beneath the crest of Valespine. The creature had passed there and was now somewhere between them. Mace Hammerstand was requested to move troops north to cut it off, while Cale Greeneye closed in from behind.

Then the sun was gone behind the western peaks, and the signals ended. But from the south, new drums sounded. They spoke of human wizards, and of threat to Thorbardin.

It was a dilemma for Mace Hammerstand. Cale Greeneye needed him to serve as anvil to Cale’s hammer, to attack the killing beast. Yet the reason he was here was to guard the old tunnel against wizards, and now wizards were assembling.

“I’ll have to divide forces,” he told Mica Silvershield, his second. “You take two-thirds of our force and move northward, then form a perimeter. With luck, Cale’s Neidar will drive the beast to you, and you can kill it.”

“With luck and the help of Reorx,” the golden-haired warrior added.

“Don’t attack it all-out,” Mace instructed. “When the thing comes to you, test it with thrusts and feints. Cale believes it cannot move rapidly. If you are in jeopardy, pull back slowly, and let the others come up behind it. Cale has seen the creature and knows more about it than anyone else. Follow his lead.”

“And you, Captain?”

“I will remain on sentry here, with a hundred. The old tunnel must be guarded until Willen Ironmaul and the craftsmen can find a way to seal it forever.”

By twilight, the beast-fighters moved out, northward. “Reorx go with you!” Mace Hammerstand called after them. Then he turned his attention to the hundred remaining and the guarding of the tunnel behind the old citadel.

*

The thing called Rage was furious. In a wide valley she had found another cluster of the warm-blooded creatures and had attacked. But there had been few there to kill. Most of them had escaped, running ahead of her, spreading and disappearing into the distance. Those who remained had tried, in their puny way, to fight her, and that had been amusing. But the diversion had lasted only a few minutes. When they were all dead and torn asunder, she had vented her anger on their residences, their scattered flocks, and their inanimate possessions, but still it had been only a small diversion.

Raging and seething, wrapped in the rolling cloud of mist that the cold emanating from her always generated, she went on. The sun of day came and went, came and went, and she clambered up long slopes that led to towering peaks. Through a narrow pass she went, in dark of night, and started down the other side. It was then she realized that there were creatures behind her, following her. Instinct told her to find a hole and wait, to ambush them as they came past. There were many of them there – many to die for her pleasure. But ahead there were others, moving to block her path. To attack either group, she knew, would alert the others, would give them a chance to escape from her, and she wanted them all.

On the slopes below the pass she turned, heading southward at right angles to her previous direction. Cold, instinctive judgment told her that when the two groups of warm-bloods – the pursuers and the blockers – met, they would join and all become pursuers. They would follow her, but they would all be together. Then she could ambush the entire party. Get them all behind her, then she could find a hole and lie in wait. She could kill them all if she could lead them into a lair.

Twilight deepened as she hurried along her way, following the slopes. Here she spread wide, stubby wings to glide over a chasm, there she paused to scatter piled boulders that blocked her way, and far behind her she sensed that the two groups of warm-bloods had joined and were coming after her. Through long hours of night she traveled as fast as she could, looking for a place to lie in wait – a place where standing obstructions might obscure the mists that were always with her until the warm creatures were close enough for her to attack.

In the dark hours before morning, she found the place. Where slopes curved away and a valley lay ahead, she raised her head high above the mists and looked around. And there, directly ahead on the slopes of a high peak that soared above the far side of the valley, were the old, crumbled walls of what had once been a structure. Instinct told her that she had found her trap-lair. She braced herself on gliding wings to plunge down the remaining slopes and far out into the valley, her mists trailing away behind her like a long, thin cloud in the starlight. When she touched down she was directly below the old walls on the slope. She headed for the structure, taloned feet thudding the ground as long, powerful legs drove her upward, swaying with a massive, birdlike rhythm that her long tail countered with its swing.

Closer and closer to the place she came, and suddenly stones rained down on her from above. There were more of the little warm-bloods up there, among the shadowed walls. She heard their shouts as stones – flung and rolled – bounced off her hard crust and clattered away down the slope behind her.

Lowering her great head she hesitated, letting thick fogs build around her, then she charged.

Breaking through the walls, she was met by a shower of slung stones, then by thrown implements of wood and metal. Most of them did her no harm, but a few struck her in the neck, and she felt dim, annoying pain. Ancient memories came back to her, of the time before her sleep when those she preyed upon had discovered that they could wound her if they struck at her neck. It had done them no good. It had only angered her more, but she remembered it and lowered her head, protecting the neck, which was her only vulnerable part.

The warm creatures swirled around her, lashing out with blades and hammers, dim in the deepening mists, and she lashed back at them. With talon and fang, wings, legs, and sweeping tail, she raged among them, tearing them apart, crushing and sundering their frail bodies, killing and feasting in an ecstasy of rage.

There were dozens of them. Many dozens. Some might have gotten away in the turmoil, but instead of fleeing they pressed their attack, and she killed, killed, and killed. When a sharp pain hit her, she realized that one of the creatures had somehow gotten beneath her head and struck upward, cutting her neck. It was only a tiny wound, but she roared and reared upright, then plunged downward, going for the one that had cut her.

The creature dodged and rolled, and her flashing claws closed on two others who had stepped in to defend the fallen one. With teeth and talons she tore them apart and was looking for the other one when something caught her eye. Deep in shadows, behind the old walls, was a recess in the mountain’s face. And at the back of the hollow was a blocked hole.

Turning from her carnage, Rage trotted into the recess and looked at the massive obstruction. With a few running steps she drove a shoulder into it and felt it sag. Again she hit it, and again, until it fell away. The hole behind it was a huge tunnel leading away into darkness. She roared, and the returning echoes told her that the tunnel ended some distance away … either ended or was blocked. But that didn’t matter. The pursuers were behind her, and they would come for her. She would be waiting. A hole like this was a perfect place for ambush. Let them follow her in here, and none would escape.

Back in the open, among the ruined walls, Rage roamed her killing field. Here and there she found a warm-blood still alive and crushed it. Then there were none left. A hundred sundered corpses littered the area, surrounded by the remains of their pitiful weapons and bits of smashed armor. Had any of them escaped? she wondered. Certainly not more than one or two. These creatures had not tried to flee; they had stood and fought. They had even tried to counterattack.

At the outer wall she reared above her mists and saw one of the creatures limping away, down the slope toward the valley. She would have gone after it, but in the same glance she saw movement across the valley.

With a deep growl, Rage turned and headed for the hole she had found. Let the one go. She would wait for the many. Wading through the gore of her killing field, the great creature paused here and there to batter and rend the silent bodies of her victims, keeping low so that her fogs would hide her, and the walls would hide the fog. When her fury was momentarily satisfied, she crept out and walked eastward, letting her mists be seen and leaving distinct tracks. Then, out of sight of the valley, she climbed to a height, set her wide, stubby wings, and glided swiftly back to where she had started.

Behind the ruined walls again, she crept into the hole in the mountain. Deep into the darkness of the tunnel, she came to a second barricade. A stone plug, blocking the shaft. Carefully this time, almost gently, she worked it loose, turned it, and passed beyond, then turned to set it back in place. Now she would wait. The creatures would come; a few would explore and find nothing. But eventually, they would all come in. Then she would have them. Crouching in the darkness, as patient as time, Rage waited.

*

Mace Hammerstand was dying. He knew he was dying. His left arm was gone, bitten off above the elbow, and all his attempts to tie off the wound were not enough. His life’s blood was seeping from him. Even worse, his chest had been crushed, and his lungs were filling with fluid.

Still, though, he kept going. The way was downhill, and he must go as far as he could, so that the thing at the citadel could not come and finish him off. Somewhere out there, in the valley or beyond, were the remains of his Roving Guard and Cale Greeneye with his Neidar rangers.

He was dying. The world swam before his eyes, and he found he could not move anymore. He didn’t remember falling, but he was down, lying across a stone on the hillside above the valley. Desperately, he clamped hard fingers over the stump of his left arm and squeezed until the pain cleared his vision. To keep from passing out, he pounded his heels against the rock, gritted his teeth, and tried to whistle. It wasn’t much of a whistle. Blood from his pierced lungs choked him and started him coughing, and that brought more blood. He felt as though he were strangling.

Weakness flowed over him like a cold stream, and he fought it valiantly. He tried to count the moons rising in the sky, but they spun and danced around, and he lost track. He heard a voice and didn’t know whether it was his own or someone else’s. “Reorx give me strength,” he whispered. “Reorx, don’t let me turn loose yet. Everbardin can wait … just a little longer.”

Someone was kneeling beside him. Several someones, and others around them, dark, sturdy, bearded forms in the moonlight. Someone was calling his name, and again he squeezed the stump of his arm until the pain cleared his eyes. Slowly, he recognized some of them. Mica Silvershield was there, and Brune Tamal, and … and many others, crowding around. And the one kneeling beside him, cradling his head on an arm that was like warm steel, was Cale Greeneye.

“Cale …” Mace tried to speak, then erupted with coughing spasms that soaked him with his own blood. When the convulsions had passed, he tried again. “Cale, it was the beast. It found us … at the citadel. We … the hundred … they are all dead.”

“Be quiet, Mace,” Cale soothed him. “We will find the thing. I promise you.”

“Cale, we couldn’t hurt it. Our blades bounced away. Until … Cale, it can be hurt. Its neck. I cut it on the neck. Just … a scratch, but it was a wound. Its neck, Cale. There, it can be hurt.”

“I hear you, Mace.” The Neidar’s voice shook, and in the moonlight there was a tear on his cheek. “I will remember.”

“Cale …”

“Yes, Mace.”

“Cale, my wife, and our children …”

“They will be seen to,” the Neidar promised.

“And Cale, tell Damon …”

“What, Mace?”

“Tell him … tell him I have been proud to be his friend.”

The last was a faint whisper, barely heard. Then the captain of Roving Guard let out a final, rasping breath, and his head rolled to the side. He was dead.

Cale let him down gently on the bloody rock and stood. “Let the drums speak,” he said. “Mace Hammerstand is dead. A hundred of the best have died, and the beast still lives.”

Around him a dozen signalers unslung their drums and began the song that was – in the way of the dwarves – both a message and a lament, a dirge for the respected dead.

“Everbardin,” Cale whispered, “take this one … and the others … home.”

*

First dawn lay on the peaks when the relayed drum-calls reached Damon Omenborn at the edge of the wilderness, a hundred miles southwest of the old citadel on Sky’s End.

Returning from Sheercliff toward Thorbardin had been a long, slow journey for the little party. Both Damon and Tag Salan knew that they were being followed, and Tag had seen their pursuer. It was the red-strap wizard from the cliffs, the one who called himself Megistal. He had a horse – one of their own lost animals, Tag thought – and was dogging their trail, pausing now and then to make shimmering rings appear in thin air – rings the wizard stared into as though searching.

Backtracking, Tag had seen him and watched him for a while, ducking out of sight each time the man made one of his spells. Somehow, he guessed with Theiwar intuition, the wizard would be able to see them and find them if he could once discover just where they were. So they made sure that he could not see them. They zigzagged, doubled back, and kept to cover. The Einar girl, Willow Summercloud, became exasperated with them, but found that it was no use to argue.

It was Damon’s intention to mislead the man enough so that when they came into settled lands he would know only their general direction of travel, not exactly where they were. Damon had felt the enormous power of the man’s magic and had no wish to be caught in the open by some sorcerous spell whose source he could not even see, much less fight.

Thus, as they broke night camp in a place of thickets, within sight of Einar fields, the wizard was some distance south of them, following a false trail that might take him all day to sort out. In the distance to the east, beyond the settled lands, rose the massive bulks of Sky’s End, Cloudseeker, and the Thunder Peaks. With luck, they could be safely within Thorbardin – with the color-shifting stone that the wizards had valued so much – before the mage could do anything about them.

And it was then, just at dawn, when the drum-calls came on the wind. Damon stood, cocking his head to listen, and his eyes narrowed.

“What is it?” Willow demanded, closing a pack. “Has something happened?”

“Hush!” Damon snapped, still listening. Tag Salan, a few yards away, was listening, too, but seemed puzzled. He understood a little of the drum-speak, as most Thorbardin dwarves had learned to, but only a little. There was far more in the songs of the drums, subtleties of tone and rhythm, things that only a Hylar could truly decipher.

After a moment, Damon turned and looked at the others. “The fog beast has been at Sky’s End,” he said. “There were guards there, and it attacked them.”

Tag felt a chill go up his spine. “Guards? Who?”

“The Roving Guard, Tag.” Damon lowered his eyes. “Mace Hammerstand, and a hundred. They are all dead. The thing killed them.”

Tag stared at him with stricken eyes. “Mace … my captain, dead?”

Damon nodded. “All dead,” he said. “The thing battered down the gate of the old tunnel, but they don’t know where it is now. Runners with torches went as far as the second barrier and found it still standing.”

“Damon, that thing …” Tag started, then took a deep breath to control the anger rising within him. “The wizards on the cliff. They did something. They woke it up, and now it is loose.”

“Yes. The wizards.” Damon raised his eyes, and Willow Summercloud gasped at the sight of his face. Even Tag Salan stared, startled. In the big Hylar’s narrowed eyes blazed an anger that was as hot as forge-fires and as cold as ice. In ninety years, no one had ever seen Damon Omenborn angry. It had seemed as though the big, affable Hylar simply did not have the cold steel of fury within him. But now a palpable force as strong as winter winds seemed to blaze from his eyes. Willow backed away, clutching her axe, her eyes wide. Tag Salan felt as though he were staring into pure wrath.

“Come on,” Damon said softly. “No more games with that red-strap. Let him just hope he does not find us before we get home.” He lifted the flap of his belt-pouch, took out the Stone of Threes, and gazed at it icily. “This is important to the mages, is it? Well, that’s just fine. Because this is something that they shall never have as long as I am alive.”

“There are other wizards, Damon,” Tag said. “If it’s that important, they will come searching for it. They will come to Thorbardin.”

“Then let them come,” Damon said. “Let them see our gates … once, before they die.”

Willow was still gaping at him. Along the way, she had entered a swampy thicket to gather berries, and now mud and stain was smeared across her face, adding to the soot and ash that had been there since the first time they had seen her. “You … you really hate the humans that much?”

“Humans?” He shook his head. “I have nothing against humans, girl. Not all of them, anyway. But I have a score to settle with those who are so … so corrupt that they practice magic.”

In a nearby thicket, something moved, and a strong voice said, “By that speech, dwarf, you have saved yourself an arrow through the heart.”

They spun around, weapons at hand, as a tall fierce-looking man stepped from cover. An arrow was notched in the bow he carried, but it was lowered. “My name is Quist Redfeather,” he said. “And I have a score to settle, too. Especially with that magic-user that you have been leading in circles.”

*

High overhead, a bird wheeled in the morning sunlight – a bird far larger than any who happened to see it from the ground might guess.

Cawe had seen the gathering of wizards in the cove among the southern peaks and wanted no part of them. They were nowhere near Sheercliff, nowhere near the raptor aviaries high in the Anviltops, and they were none of his business. Still, the little creature on his back insisted on a further look around, and now she had spotted the three dwarves from Sheercliff far below. In high-pitched birdsong, she begged and pleaded for Cawe to take her down to them so that she could tell them about the mages gathering in the mountains.

Finally, Cawe relented. No, he would not take her to them. There was too much settlement where they were, too much chance of being seen and challenged by creatures of their kind. Creatures of Cawe’s kind had learned, a long time ago, that the best way for raptors to deal with people of any kind was to simply avoid them. People did not understand giant birds, and most encounters led only to trouble.

Ahead, though, where a great mountain rose against the bright sky, were vast, high areas where no settlements were visible. Huge hawk-eyes roved the landscape there. High on the shoulder of the centermost of the great peaks, a deep, walled valley beckoned – a place where even a raptor might land unnoticed. Cawe set his wings and headed for a secluded landing. He would let the kender off there, and she could find her own way to the dwarves.

The raptor realized that he might never see the little creature again. It was the way of kender, to come and go as they pleased. In many ways, it would be a relief if this kender never returned to the Anviltops. She was often a nuisance.

And yet, the great creature – whose kind were called peak-masters by those who knew of them – admitted to himself that he would probably miss Shillitec Medina Quickfoot when she was gone. The sedate, reclusive life of the raptor – after having associated with a kender for a time – was likely to be a bit dull.

Chapter 12

TINKER’S BLAST

Shaft Redstone, delvemaster of all the Daewar, and Cambit Steelsheath, Thorbardin’s warden of ways, had burned many a candle in their search for a way to obliterate the old Daewar tunnel through Sky’s End but had been unable to come up with any plan that would require less than five years of labor. Surprisingly enough, it was the lorekeeper, Quill Runebrand, who suggested the idea that the regent, Willen Ironmaul, decided to try.

The keeper of scrolls had invited himself to supper at the regent’s quarters on the pretext of wanting to enscroll Willen Ironmaul’s proclamations so that they could be copied and posted in each city and marketplace. Actually, his visit was more because of Tera Sharn than because of Willen Ironmaul. The regent’s wife – Damon Omenborn’s mother – was a lovely, gracious, and wise person, always full of insight about subjects that sometimes puzzled Quill, and in addition she was the daughter of the almost legendary Colin Stonetooth, first chieftain of the Hylar. Much of the lore that Quill had compiled about the origins of his own ancestral people came from chats with Tera Sharn. And, even better than all that, Tera Sharn was an excellent cook.

Now, as Quill sat with Willen Ironmaul and Cable Graypath, First of the Ten, at the plank table in the new regent’s quarters in Hybardin, he gazed around the room thoughtfully. Among most of the other races of Krynn, Quill assumed, a great chieftain would live in lavish style. In the human city of Xak Tsaroth, it was said, the palace of the High Overlord contained a hundred separate rooms, most of them as big as assembly halls. Trading elves had spoken of the tall, beautiful towers of far-off Silvanesti. Even among goblins, he had heard, wherever a settlement of filthy hovels and noxious caves developed, the highest ranking goblin usually claimed a hovel or cave several times as large as any others around it.

But it had never been so with the dwarves, and the Hylar were no exception. Willen Ironmaul was the revered chieftain of the Hylar, and now he was also the regent of all of Thorbardin. But the living quarters that he and Tera Sharn occupied consisted of four simple rooms located in a high delving within the Life Tree stalactite. The partitions were of simple stone-block construction, and the crossed runes of Hylar and leader, carved into the wood of the outer door, was the only indication that anyone important lived here. In size and construction the home of the chieftain was much the same as any other home in Hybardin. Stone ceilings were whitewashed, as were most Hylar ceilings, though Theiwar ceilings tended to be gray or brown, and Daewar ceilings were rampant with bright colors and intricate designs. The walls were hung with subtle, elegant tapestries of Tera Sharn’s selection, and the furniture was simple, tasteful, and sturdy. In addition, each room had lens-and-mirror murals to carry light from the sun-tunnels.

In all, it was a typical Hylar dwelling and – except for varying tastes in ornamentation, coloration, and placement of things – typical of most dwarven quarters in most of the dwarven cities that Quill had seen.

What was not typical was the aroma that floated in from the next room, where Tera Sharn had supper cooking over a grate of glowing coals. Quill’s nostrils twitched with pleasure. The aroma was rich and subtle, laced lightly with a blend of the fine spices the Klar produced in the farm warrens and those traded from human gatherers in the realm of the orders of Ergoth.

“If ever I marry,” Quill commented, “I shall choose a wife who can cook as well as the lady Tera … if in fact there are any others who can.” He breathed the tantalizing aroma, and his nose wrinkled as he thought of other, far less pleasant things he had smelled recently.

Then Tera came through the archway, carrying a copper tray laden with her cuisine, and Quill’s eyes widened. “Eggs?” he gulped. “Are those eggs?”

“Of course they are eggs.” Tera smiled at the keeper of scrolls. “Freshly harvested from the pigeon-roosts above the Valley of the Thanes. Some of the women gather them there and trade them at the Daewar market.”

Willen glanced at the lorekeeper. “You seem surprised, Quill. Don’t you eat eggs?”

“Of course I do.” Quill nodded, feeling foolish. “I … forgive my absentmindedness, Lady Tera. I was thinking of eggs when you brought those in, but in quite another context.”

“What context is that?” Willen asked.

“I was thinking about that old tinker with his hideous mixtures. The one who keeps trying to find fuel for tin forges and instead belabors the ethers with the smell of rotten eggs.”

“Pack Lodestone,” Cable Graypath reminded him. “I won’t forget that smell soon either.”

“Or the noise.” Quill grinned. “Just a few little buckets of … of ‘stuff,’ and he shook the entire north face of Cloudseeker.”

“That’s it!” Willen Ironmaul rumbled. “By Reorx, I believe that is it!”

“What is, dear?” Tera asked.

“The old Daewar tunnel,” Willen said. “Rust! I should have thought of it myself!”

“Thought of what?” Quill stared at his leader.

“That’s the problem with being chief of chiefs,” Willen proclaimed. “When a person has too many things on his mind, he can’t think through any of them. Wizards running loose in our mountains. And some thing out there killing people for the sheer joy of killing. …” He glanced at Cable. “Have we heard anything yet from Cale or the Roving Guard?”

“Nothing yet.” The First of the Ten shook his head.

“And Damon’s out there somewhere, with no regard for how worried his mother is. …”

“I’m not really worried about Damon, dear,” Tera reassured him. “After all, he is his father’s son. He can take care of himself.”

“You’re worried half-sick!” Willen snapped.

“Well,” Tera said, “someone here is, certainly.”

“… and trying to get Northgate usable, and then there is Gem Bluesleeve’s idea about the left side of the Shaft of Reorx …”

“What idea?”

“Never mind. I’m still thinking about it. Anyway, with all this on my mind, I’ve also been worrying about the old Daewar tunnel. Gran Stonemill is right, you know. It is a weakness in our defenses. Magic might penetrate it. But I couldn’t come up with any idea what to do about it until just now when Quill suggested the answer.”

“What answer?” Quill asked, mystified.

“It just might work,” Willen muttered to himself. “Cable, get a message to Olim Goldbuckle. Tell him to round up his ancient tinker. … What’s his name?”

“Pack Lodestone?”

“Yes, him. Tell him to bring Pack Lodestone and a team of delvers and meet me at Northgate. Oh, and tell him to bring as many buckets of that’stuff the oldster plays with as can be had. We’ll need a lot of it. Tell him to meet me right away.”

“Aye.” The First of the Ten was on his feet, looking puzzled but ready to obey. Willen pushed back his stool and stood, glancing around for his helmet, shield, and hammer.

“Willen!” Tera snapped. “Whatever it is, you can at least finish your dinner!”

“Oh. Yes.” The chief of chiefs sat again. “I suppose you’re right. Quill, pass the eggs.” To Cable, he said, “And have horses ready below Northgate, with carts and supply packs. We have a long way to go.”

“Where?” Quill wondered,

“To Sky’s End!” Willen snapped. “To the old tunnel! What do you think I’ve been talking about?”

“I’m not sure I have any real idea,” Quill admitted.

“Willen, you can’t go!” Tera said sternly. “You’re regent of Thorbardin now. You can’t go off on missions outside. You’re needed here.”

“Oh, rust!” Willen subsided, realizing that she was right. “Life was much simpler when I was just a soldier,” he muttered, “even when I was an ordinary chief. And Olim can’t go, either, because he’s meeting with the wardens. Well …” He turned to gaze at Quill Runebrand. “Since it was your idea, Quill, I appoint you chief of the project. You’ll be in charge; I suggest you leave immediately. It’s more than fifty miles from Northgate to the old citadel, and there’s no time to lose.”

Quill stared at his leader, wide-eyed. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Just what you suggested! Go to the citadel and seal that tunnel so that not even mages can get in. Make it a tunnel that never was. Obliterate it.”

“But I don’t know …”

“I have a hunch your idea will work very well.” Willen nodded. “We’ll discuss it while you eat your eggs.”

Thus it was that, when the drums spoke of the massacre of Mace Hammerstand and his hundred at the old citadel in front of the Daewar tunnel, Quill Runebrand, keeper of scrolls, was well on his way toward that place, leading a strange procession. In addition to armed guards and flankers, his company included dozens of Daewar delvers with tool-carts piled high, three wagons loaded with pots and casks of such substances as leached ash, powdered brimstone, cave salts, free soot, and finely ground graphite, and an ancient white-haired Daewar putterer riding guard over an assemblage of mixing vats, dry-forges, and strange tools.

Through a moonlit night they traveled as fast as their Daergar night-guides could trot, and when the dawn brought the sound of drums they were high on the eastern slopes of Sky’s End, heading around the bulge of the great peak by precipitous trails, heading for the northeast crests.

First light brought a dizzying vista of enormous distances – the lesser promontories of the giant mountain rising beyond their shallow coves, and beyond them, miles away and thousands of feet lower, the winding ribbon of the Road of Passage coming up from human Ergoth toward the Great Gorge where old Kal-Thax began. In the far distance were the spreading, vast plains of southern Ergoth – the realm of humans.

But few among the hurrying travelers on this morning paused to marvel at the view. The drums had told them of the massacre – by some creature that seemed to be pure rage – of Mace Hammerstand and his hundred guards.

Quill had drummers come forward to respond, to learn who was at the scene and what was happening. Cale Greeneye and a force of Neidar rangers were there, the drum-call answered, along with the remaining companies of the Roving Guard from Thorbardin. Leaderless now, the Thorbardin companies had attached themselves to the Neidar and were awaiting orders.

And where was the thing, the killing beast?

They did not know, except that it seemed to have gone east. Tracks had been found, but not yet followed.

Quill hurried back to the wagons where old Pack Lodestone guarded his arcane barrels and casks. “You can start mixing your concoctions now, revered one,” he said. “We will soon be where they are needed.”

“Concoctions?” Pack fussed. “Failed concoctions, so far. What good is a forge fuel that refuses to burn in a civilized manner? Who wants stuff that does nothing but stink and blow up? Maybe I’ll try something a little different this time.”

“To tarnish with your forge fuel!” Quill snapped. “What we want is exactly what you did last time, outside of Northgate. Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember! What do you think I am? Senile?” The old dwarf cocked his head, raising one bushy eyebrow. “What do you want that stuff for?”

“Never mind what I want it for,” Quill said. “Using it is my job. Making it is yours. Just be sure you make a lot of it.”

By the time the caravan came in sight of the old citadel, downslope on the shoulder of the great mountain, old Pack Lodestone was busily stirring great vats of gray-black, dusty-looking substance atop the rolling wagon, complaining and muttering to himself. “This is no proper way to combine a mixture. Probably be a lot better if I could saturate all of this for blending, then set up drying tables. Better compound, that way. Far more control of consistency. Of course, it would all have to be reground after it dried. But he says do it like last time, so I’ll do it like last time. Quick and dirty and who cares? Rust and corruption! These youngsters! All push and prod, and not a single ounce of patience to the dozen of them. …”

While Quill went down to confer with Cale Greeneye, the Daewar delvers went to work high on the slope, half a mile above and behind the old abandoned citadel that guarded the opening of the Daewar tunnel. With chisels and mauls, picks and prybars, scoops and stone drills, they began a wide, narrow cut in the stone of the mountain – a cut that would wedge downward to a distance of at least forty feet. And as they worked, Pack Lodestone fumed and muttered and mixed vat after vat of dry, gray-black dust made of cave salt collected by roaming Klar foragers, yellow brimstone from Einar delvings north of Redrock, and a blend of ground graphite from Daergar mines and powdered soot harvested from the shields of Theiwar furnaces.

Quill Runebrand wandered among the carnage of the beast’s killing field, following Cale Greeneye. The bodies – and pieces of bodies – of the murdered guardsmen had been removed for burial, but the signs of slaughter were everywhere. Bits of armor, broken weapons and implements, shreds of clothing, and ruined field packs were strewn about like rubbish, and everywhere – on the ground, on the walls, even overhead where old timbers still jutted – was drying, congealing blood. The carcasses of several horses, not yet removed, were mute evidence of the awful fury of the thing that had killed them. They were literally torn to pieces.

“What … what sort of thing would do this?” Quill asked, stunned and ashen-faced.

“Rage,” the Neidar said. “Its name is Rage.”

“You know its name? How?”

“It could have no other name,” Cale said icily.

At the battered seal of the old tunnel, Quill stared at the broken stone plug and the dark shadows beyond it.

“It did this?”

“It is very strong,” Cale affirmed. “It broke the seal down and went inside, but then it came out again and went eastward. Don’t worry. I had runners with torches search inside. The second seal is still in place.”

“So much for an impregnable seal.” Quill shook his head. “By Reorx, I hope what we are doing here works.”

“Exactly what are you doing?” Cale looked uphill, where delving was in progress.

“We are going to … at least we hope to … look, I’d just as soon not try to explain. If it works, I’ll tell you about it afterward. Just accept that Willen Ironmaul ordered us to try, and we are trying. But in the meantime – just in case it does work – I’d suggest you and all your people back off until we are finished.”

“Back off? How far?”

“I don’t know.” Quill shrugged. “For safety’s sake, I’d say at least a mile.”

“A mile?” The Neidar gaped at him, then shrugged. “If you say so. But let me know when you’ve finished.”

Quill stroked his beard, gazing thoughtfully up the slope. “Oh, if it works, you’ll know.”

*

The finest delvers in the known world were the Daewar of Thorbardin. And the delvers with Quill Runebrand were the best of those. Before the sun stood above the Anviltops to the west, their trench was completed. It was a V-shaped trough, cut straight downward into the slope. It ran for a thousand feet straight across the mountainside and was forty-eight feet at its deepest part, in the center.

Along the upper side of the cut a hundred dwarves worked with barrows and spades, dumping layer after layer of the stuff Pack Lodestone had mixed. Like coarse black dust, the mixture cascaded down to bury the bottom of the trench. When all of it had been shoveled in, the entire bottom of the cut was a wide path of black, seven feet deep. By Pack’s estimation, they had deposited three tons of the mixture. Quill Runebrand guessed it was closer to five.

When all that was done, dwarven workers trundled stone cuttings to the trough and dumped them in, burying all but the center five feet of black material under fifteen feet of rubble. Then, carefully, Quill lit a lantern, hung it from a braced wooden frame above the exposed center of the cut, and looped a noose of light cable around the frame’s supporting brace. Like people walking on eggs, the dwarves hurried away uphill, playing out line behind them as they went. Three hundred yards uphill they ran out of line. “This will have to do,” Quill said.

The delvers and crew dwarves bellied down behind whatever cover they could find, crouching behind boulders and outcroppings, cringing in shallow holes, while the armed guardsmen ringed them, holding shields above themselves and the workers.

Quill glanced aside at Pack Lodestone. “You’re sure you mixed that stuff just like before?”

“Of course I’m sure,” the old dwarf snapped. “Do you think I don’t know my business?”

“If your business is making fuel for tinsmith forges, I’m not sure,” Quill admitted.

“So it went wrong,” Pack grumped. “At least give me credit for being consistent.”

“Well, I guess we’re about to find out,” the lorekeeper said. With a muttered reminder to Reorx about dwarves being his best and therefore favored people, Quill tugged at the cable. The long line scratched against the downslope, came taut, and Quill pulled harder. Far below, the bright lantern on its frame jiggled and swayed. Then, abruptly, the frame support pulled free, and the frame sagged. The lantern dropped into the hole.

For an instant, nothing happened. Then, with a roar like all the thunders ever heard, the cut in the mountainside erupted, spewing a sheer, hurtling wall of stone, dust, and smoke skyward, propelled by a blinding flash of light. Higher and higher the debris flew, rising toward the feathery clouds far above, driven upward by a giant wall of instant fire. The rising clouds caught the late sunlight and flared to brilliant life. The very mountain slope seemed to shiver, and little landslides of gravel and dust swept down in rivulets along a mile or more of mountainside. The thunderous roar was drowned by a deeper, rumbling thunder that grew in volume.

“Great Reorx’s red rivets!” someone shouted. “Quill, what have you done?”

The wall of debris blanked out the entire vista to the north and east, seeming to grow higher by the second. Then a pebble bounced off a guardsman’s shield, and a fist-sized rock thumped into the ground an inch from Quill’s knee. More stones fell, and more, a pelting shower of debris pummeling and battering the entire slope like stone rain. And below, lost in the dust and smoke, the ominous roar became a deafening, cascading drumbeat of sound, growing louder and louder.

Minutes passed, and still it rained stone on the slope of Sky’s End. Then the thunder of falling debris faded, and the roaring, cascading noise became more distant, rumbling away down the mountainside. Here and there, guardsmen tilted their shields, and workers peered out into the haze of dust that was just beginning to clear as winds from above swept down the slope. The near edge of the great, delved cut became visible, but beyond it, there seemed to be nothing. Quill Runebrand and Pack Lodestone crept from their shelter, peered around, then started down the slope, followed by others.

At the cut, they stopped and gawked. Where there had been a neat, delved cleft across the mountainside, now there was a cliff, forty feet high. Beyond the foot of it was altered terrain. The entire slope below was a sea of gravel and debris slanting downward toward the old citadel … or where the old citadel should have been. There was nothing visible there now. A massive avalanche had buried everything beneath millions of tons of stone rubble. And strong on the evening air was the stench of rotten eggs.

Carefully, they scaled down the new cliff and made their way to what they guessed was the level where the citadel had been. There was nothing there. The avalanche caused by Pack Lodestone’s mixed powders had carried away everything standing and buried the entire site – in fact, the entire mountainside – fifty to a hundred feet deep.

“It worked,” Quill breathed. Impulsively, he grabbed Pack Lodestone by the shoulders and danced the old dwarf around in enthusiastic circles. “It worked!” he crowed. “The old tunnel is gone. Gone as though it had never been here! Nothing, not magic nor beasts nor armies nor the passing of ages, will open it again! The tunnel is a tunnel no more! It is a tunnel that never was!”

“Let go of me!” Pack growled, breaking away to glare at the lorekeeper. “Of course it worked. I made that stuff myself.”

Chapter 13

A STRANGE ALLIANCE

Pack Lodestone’s blast – or, as the scrolls of Thorbardin would record it, Quill Runebrand’s blast – changed for all time the profile of the lower northeast slopes of Sky’s End Peak. Cascading stone was sheared away from the mountain’s face by the explosion, leaving a fresh smoke-blackened precipice along the farthest shoulder, a precipice that tapered downward as it curved around the mountainside. Below, a new feature was added. The great avalanche spread a deep slope of heavy rubble downward and outward, fanning out on the curvature of the mountainside to bury everything in its path. The old citadel, built by Daewar in times long gone, no longer existed. The tunnel which had begun there, leading through Sky’s End to what was now Thorbardin, was buried beneath masses of stone, capped by a huge shelf of granite that had sheared away and fallen with the lesser debris.

The entire fan of fallen stone extended for more than a mile, and a side quake to the southeast had dumped other stone-fall down a deep cove, almost to the bridge where the Road of Passage crossed the Great Gorge. The rockfall had stopped just short of destroying the bridge. Secondary avalanches above the main shear, high on the face of the peak, had opened deep rifts in the mountainside on each side of a natural prominence, and spilled stone-fall downward to create twin swales below.

Forever after, the northeast face of Sky’s End – as seen from the human lands across the Gorge, beyond the foothills, and on a clear day from as far away as Xak Tsaroth – would resemble the face of a giant, angry dwarf with deep-set, narrowed eyes, bushy brows, and a pug nose above a wide, downturned mouth beneath which spread a wide, full beard. The side-fall, south and east above the bridge, even resembled a thick, powerful fist raised in challenge. It was a sculpture that, even though accidental, would stand for centuries as the largest piece of statuary in the entire world.

Quill Runebrand was ecstatic at the success of his venture, and most of those with him were shocked and stunned at what had occurred. Those below, who had waited in the valley, had mixed emotions for a time. Guard units spent most of the night rounding up the horses that had bolted and scattered at the explosion, and a company of dour Neidar set off immediately around the slopes to see what damage might have been done to the road and the bridge. It was bright morning before everyone was reassembled.

“You’re just lucky that fall stopped short of the bridge,” Cale Greeneye pointed out to the lorekeeper. “I expect the Council of Thanes would have personally drawn and quartered you had the bridge gone down.”

“I guess we used more mix than was really required,” Quill conceded. “But you’ll have to admit, nothing is going into that tunnel again. It would take a cataclysm to open it.”

*

For many miles around, the explosion had various results. The flash was seen as far away as the border posts below the promontory, east of Southgate, where a dwarven trade caravan had just delivered a large supply of weapons to human traders. It was the biggest single order of crafted armaments ever traded outside Kal-Thax. Thousands of fine dwarven steel blades, shields, helms, and various weapons of force were on their way east, into Ergoth. Where they were going was a secret even to the dwarves. Still, the third Lord Charon, whom the dwarves had learned to trust, had given his word to Olim Goldbuckle that the weapons were not for use in any way against Thorbardin.

Olim had his own ideas, though, about who wanted the weapons and why. The wily Daewar and his merchant-spies kept close watch on the world outside. Even better than the wide-ranging Neidar, Olim Goldbuckle knew the ebbs and flows of the realms beyond the dwarven lands.

“I suspect they are going to Xak Tsaroth,” he had told Willen Ironmaul when the trade order was first received.

“To the overlords?” Willen frowned.

“No, but maybe to those who are tired of the overlords.” Olim replied, grinning.

*

At Northgate of Thorbardin, the blast was felt and its echoes heard, and guards were redoubled the length of Anvil’s Echo.

On the western slopes of Cloudseeker Mountain, a tiny creature, half the height and a fourth the weight of a male dwarf, had just completed the scaling of a great wall to get out of the hole where her bird had left her. It had taken her most of a day to climb from the bottom of what the dwarves called the Valley of the Thanes up to the face of the mountain, and when the shock waves from fifty miles away reached her, they tumbled her backward, flailing and grasping, halfway down the height she had just climbed. For a time she clung there, hanging on to precarious fingerholds, then she took a deep breath and blinked big, lustrous eyes. “Wow!” she breathed. “I wish I’d seen whatever that was!”

*

Surreptitious wizards, making their way toward Thorbardin from the southeast, dived for cover when the sky lit up from the explosion, and several of them whispered abrupt spells, not well thought out. The resulting havoc was intense. Shielding spells collided with shielding spells, and wizards flew in all directions. Fires blazed up here and there, rain fell in several places, a whirlwind danced among them, and a sprig of thorny adze-brush became a nest of hissing, writhing vipers.

Days would pass before the wizards got themselves all sorted out and despelled – and before those few who had inadvertently sent themselves on long journeys could be found and brought back.

*

In a clearing beyond the Einar fields below Cloudseeker, three pairs of eyes turned abruptly northward when the explosion occurred. One pair of eyes was dwarven, the other two human, and they glanced aside only momentarily before returning to the business at hand. All day the three had been here, in this clearing; the situation was a standoff. Damon Omenborn had contrived the circumstances, then gone off toward Thorbardin with Willow Summercloud tagging after him.

Those who remained were the dour Theiwar guardsman, Tag Salan, the human Cobar warrior, Quist Redfeather, and the red-strap wizard, Megistal.

Damon had told them to wait until he returned, and wait they did, because Tag Salan demanded it.

The wizard was protected from the Cobar only by the fact that Quist Redfeather had given his word to the dwarves that – as long as Megistal behaved himself – he would not put an arrow into him. The Cobar, in turn, was protected from the wizard’s spells by the fact that, at first hint of sorcery, Tag Salan had solemnly promised to bury a heavy axe in the wizard’s skull.

And the Theiwar was protected from the two humans by their intense dislike for each other, as well as by their curiosity. Damon Omenborn had hinted to each of the men that he had some ideas that might benefit them.

It was a strange alliance, but one that Damon Omenborn had decided might prove productive. First, though, he had a many-colored stone and an Einar girl to deliver safely to Thorbardin. They had taken the humans’ horses, which – Damon pointed out bluntly – were from the herds of Thorbardin and therefore had never belonged to either of the humans to begin with.

*

In the teeming human city of Xak Tsaroth, the flash on Sky’s End Peak was seen as far-off lightning, and the rumble of sound – when it arrived – was like distant thunder. From the grand palaces of the overlords to the filth and stench of the slave pens, from the teeming thieves’ markets to the wall-top barracks of the city’s custodians, from the shacks and hovels of commoners to the lavish lairs of court fops and tariff-takers, the city on that evening was alive with rumors and whispers. Armed companies of custodians were everywhere, roaming the streets and alleys with torches lit and swords in hand, and in every inn and garret people gathered to speculate in hushed tones.

Darr Bolden was alive, they said. Darr Bolden had escaped the overlords and had emptied the dungeons where many of his followers had been held. Darr Bolden, leader of the secret Society of Freemen, was somewhere in Xak Tsaroth, and his followers were gathering to him by the thousands. The Freemen were arming themselves, and Darr Bolden had promised more arms – a blade and shield for every man willing to follow him against the overlords.

Where he would get such weapons, no one knew. But the whispers went on and on. Darr Bolden had done the impossible before. Maybe he would do it again. Maybe – just possibly – the Freemen might rid Xak Tsaroth of the tyranny and corruption which for so long had weighed upon its citizens.

*

And there was another who heard – and felt – the explosion that changed the visage of Sky’s End. Patiently she had waited, sure that they would come to her – the warm-blooded creatures outside the tunnel. Hidden behind her reset stone gate, she waited, ready to rage and kill. But they did not come. Instead, the mountain shook and rumbled, and the tunnel filled with choking dust. And when she went to see what had happened, she could not get out. Even her great strength was nothing against the mass of solid, fallen stone that sealed the tunnel’s end.

For a time she raged and stormed, up and down the dark length of the hole in which she was caught. Once before, in ancient times, she had been trapped and buried by those who feared and hated her. Now it had happened again. But she was not frozen in ice this time. She was awake and angry and able to strike back. Cold with a fury that filled the tunnel with thick mists, she went deeper into the mountain. There had been two seals; maybe there were more that she could break. Maybe this tunnel had another end, somewhere. And, if it did, maybe they were there – the pathetic creatures who had trapped her. If so, they would all die horribly. She would see to that. She was Rage, and they could not stop her.

*

When the explosion on Sky’s End occurred, Damon Omenborn was already in Thorbardin making his way toward the Life Tree with a grim, determined Willow Summercloud following after him. Several times he had tried to get rid of her – to leave her in the care of dwarves who would look after her and see that she had quarters and food – but she had refused. With a stubbornness that even the most hardheaded Daergar would have admired, she stuck to the big Hylar, trudging along after him even as her eyes darted here and there, gaping at the wonders of this underground world which she had never seen.

She knew about Thorbardin, of course. Every Einar did, and many had visited the undermountain fortress. For years Willow had heard stories of the mighty undertaking of the bonded Thanes of Hylar, Daewar, Theiwar, Daergar, and Klar – the tribes that those outside had begun to refer to collectively as Holgar, or mountain dwarves – who were building whole cities beneath a great peak. But hearing the stories was one thing, and seeing the place quite another.

In all her life, in her little village of Windhollow, she had never seen as many people as she saw now at every glance. By the hundreds and thousands, they thronged the ways and concourses, busy dwarves of all ages and every description going here and there, doing this and that. Anvils rang and forges puffed, the ring of delving seemed to come from everywhere, and the buzz of hundreds of voices was a constant hum of sound. She marveled at mighty lifts, carrying stage after stage of dwarves up and down shafts. She gaped at a long string of cable-carts on rail tracks, disappearing into a side tunnel that was itself larger than the entire village of Windhollow had been. She stared in wonder at people pausing to drink from wall-mounted stone troughs where fresh water flowed, and her nostrils twitched at the delicious odors coming from a bakery where dozens of dwarves worked at ovens, turning out great loaves of dark-meal bread while people lined up to buy the loaves hot and fresh.

High above, in the soaring ceilings, she saw the sun-tunnels she had heard of and marveled at the massive glass artifacts, gathering and shedding the evening light from outside. She wondered how they would look in the daytime with sunlight coming through.

And when she caught her first glimpse of the Urkhan Sea, it so bedazzled her that she dropped her axe. It clattered on smooth stone paving, and she stooped to retrieve it, then gazed again at the marvel before her. She had heard that there was a lake in Thorbardin, but she had never imagined anything so marvelous as her eyes now beheld. The lake was large, its far shores dim and distant, the deep waters catching evening light from above and reflecting it upward from luminous green depths. It was a magnificent sight, but it seemed only a simple setting for what rose above its center. There, standing above the waters, spreading toward the cavern’s ceiling a half mile above, was the mighty stalactite called the Life Tree of the Hylar. Solid, living stone, it shone with dark lusters that reflected themselves in the waters beneath it. And spreading outward from its “base” were busy, bustling wharves and piers, fronting the entrances to the delvings of Hybardin.

Willow stopped and stared, then hurried to catch up to Damon. “Where are we going?” she panted.

He looked down at her and shook his head as though in defeat. “I’m going to the Life Tree,” he said. “I have things to do. Why don’t you just … well, relax and look around? Or get yourself a meal. There are all sorts of places to eat around here. You won’t need coin. Just say that you are my guest. Maybe you can find a nice place to sleep and get to know some of the people.”

“I said,” she repeated, “where are we going?”

He shook his head again and pointed toward the lake. “Out there,” he said. “That’s where I live.”

“Hybardin,” she said, testing the word. “How do we get there?”

“By cable-boat,” he said. “Just like anyone else.”

The boat was about thirty feet in length, operated by Theiwar boatmen. It had large, chain-driven winches at each end and a boarding plank joining it to the low wooden dock. Willow followed Damon aboard, stepping carefully to avoid the crowd of dwarves already aboard. They were mostly Hylar, all males with the dark, swept-back beards of their kind, though among them were a few golden-haired Daewar, broad-shouldered Theiwar, and two or three masked Daergar. Most of them wore armor, and all of them seemed to know Damon. Several waved at him, some greeted him, and most turned, then, to gaze at Willow.

As she passed a row of filled benches, she barely overheard a whisper between two of those there, “Where do you suppose Damon found her?” And the answer, “I don’t know, but if there are any more like her there, I’ll take the next patrol.”

She felt a flush rise in her cheeks, but kept her head down and followed until Damon found them a place to sit, almost in the bow of the boat. The Theiwar wincher there nodded at the big Hylar, smiled at Willow, and called, “Full!”

The call was echoed from the other end of the boat, someone pushed off the gangplank, and the winches rattled as the boat headed out across the faintly luminous waters of the Urkhan Sea. Above, a sun-tunnel caught the final light of dusk and magnified a star that appeared in its field. Waves lapped at the side of the boat, and combs of spray rose off its bows. Willow shifted slightly, moving closer to Damon, then glanced at his face and frowned. He seemed, momentarily, to be far off. And a great sadness glinted in his eyes.

“What’s the matter?” Willow asked. There was no answer; he seemed not to have heard. After a moment the Theiwar boatman leaned toward her, raised a hand to his lips, and whispered, “You don’t know, girl? Damon had a wife once, a long time ago. Our boats weren’t as good back then. It was on this very line that a boat capsized, and she was drowned.”

“A long time ago, you say? How long?”

“A very long time,” the Theiwar said. “Maybe forty years or more.”

“Yes,” she said, turning to look at Damon, who was heading for the nearest lift. “Yes, that is a long time.”

It was a quiet and subdued Willow Summercloud who followed Damon Omenborn ashore. She had never ridden a lift and almost fell when the stage she was on shot upward into the Life Tree. But someone caught her and steadied her. “Thank you,” she said, then turned to look into one of the most striking faces she had ever seen – a Hylar woman with streaks of silver in her long hair and wide-set, thoughtful eyes that seemed somehow familiar.

“These things take some getting used to,” the woman said. “My name is Tera Sharn.”

“Hello,” Willow said. “I’m Willow Summercloud. I … this is the first time I’ve been to Thorbardin. I’m with someone, but he went ahead on another of these stages. He lives here, you know. His name is Damon. Damon Omenborn.”

“Of course,” Tera Sharn said. “I was in Daebardin when I heard Damon had returned. And you” — she looked Willow up and down, nodding her approval — “you came with him.”

“It really wasn’t his idea,” Willow admitted. “I think he’s been trying to get rid of me, but I can be pretty stubborn.” She looked around in confusion as the lift stage stopped at a higher level and started to step off, but the woman caught her arm.

“Not here,” she said. “Damon will be in the high levels. I’ll show you.”

“Thank you,” Willow said again. “I don’t want to lose him.”

“Even if he wants to lose you?”

“Oh, I don’t think he wants to lose me. Not really. He just doesn’t realize yet that he doesn’t, you see. Want to lose me, I mean. I mean, he hasn’t noticed yet, so I have to stay with him until he does. Notice. I mean, notice me.”

“Damon hasn’t noticed you?” Tera’s level eyes became even more thoughtful.

“Oh, he knows who I am. After all, I’ve followed him all over the wilderness and helped him defeat wizards, too. But he hasn’t noticed me.” She glanced down, shaking her head. “That doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

“It makes perfectly good sense,” Tera Sharn assured her. “Damon can be a bit dense at times. He takes after his father in that respect.”

“You know him personally, then?”

“You might say so, dear. I’m his mother.”

“Oh!” Willow’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, rust! I’m sorry. I mean, I shouldn’t have said all that about … about him not noticing.”

“Why not? I expect it is very true.” The stage stopped again, and again, and finally reached a level where Tera Sharn stepped off, pulling Willow after her. “Come with me, dear,” she said. “Damon is probably just ahead there, with his father at our quarters. But we shall go in the other way and join them presently.”

Tera led the girl around a series of turns, into another corridor, and through a plain wood door which closed behind them. Beyond was an archway and the sound of male voices, but Tera pulled the girl through another door and began to rummage through trunks and drawers. One after another, she brought forth a beautiful, filigreed kilt, a blouse of elvenspin, stockings and soft boots, and a plaid weskit. Willow’s eyes widened at the rich textures, the subtle hues of the fabrics. She had never seen such beautiful clothing.

Tera Sharn pointed toward a wall-trough, with a basin and soft cloths below. “Wash up from your travels, dear,” she said. “These things are for you. You can change beyond that curtain.”

“For me?” Willow gaped at the woman. “Why?”

“Because underneath all that travel grime, you are a very pretty girl,” Tera said, “and it’s high time my son noticed you.”

Leaving the girl to change, Tera went into the main room and greeted her son, then stepped back, gazing up at him. “You’ve changed, Damon,” she said. “Something about you …”

“He has had a run-in with wizards,” Willen Ironmaul said coldly. “The change you see is anger, and well he might be angry. What they were trying to do …”

“They can’t do anything without this.” Damon held out a stone that seemed to be constantly changing colors – from clear to white to shades of black to shades of red. “They have come to our land to build a place of sorcery. But without this, they can’t build it.”

“They will come for it then,” Willen said. “They won’t give up easily.”

“We will have to stop them,” Damon agreed. “But I have an idea about that.”

“Our son is thinking about forging an agreement with a wizard,” Willen explained. “He has one, more or less captive, outside the fortress. He thinks he can strike a bargain.”

“I think this particular wizard would rather learn more about us than build a tower,” Damon said. “I think we can bargain.”

“You think he would help us, against his own kind?” Tera asked.

“Oh, not directly. But he can teach us things we need to know. About what magicians can do and how they think. I have learned more from him, just in a few moments of conversation, than he realizes. I will learn more. But this,” he said, handing the stone to Willen Ironmaul, “must remain here. In Thorbardin. They must never get it back.”

“I promise you they won’t,” Willen said, then his eyes widened as the portal behind Damon opened, and Willow stepped in. “Well, hello! And who is this?”

Damon turned and his mouth dropped open. For a moment all he could do was stare, then he managed, “W-Willow? Is that you?”

“It’s the first time he has really noticed her,” Tera Sharn told her husband, quietly.

“The first …” Willen looked at Tera, then resumed his gaping at Willow. “By thunder! Has he been blind?”

Crooking a dainty finger, Tera led the regent of Thorbardin from the room. Willen looked back over his shoulder, at the two still standing in the other room, gazing at each other. “You had a hand in this, I’d say,” he muttered to his wife.

“Of course I did. When a person meets his match, it’s best that he realize it.”

Chapter 14

SORCERY AND STUBBORNNESS

“Magic is as real as the moons of Krynn,” Megistal insisted, pointing at the spangled sky framed by the towering walls of the Valley of the Thanes. “Magic depends upon the moons, in fact. There are three orientations of power, just as there are three moons. You dwarves do believe there are three moons, don’t you?”

“Of course we do. We have seen them.”

Damon Omenborn added fuel to the little fire between them and glanced aside at the big Cobar warrior, Quist Redfeather, who was roasting a pigeon on a spit. Beyond and some distance away was another fire where a dozen dwarven volunteers kept a respectful distance as they cooked their suppers. Damon and Tag had brought their humans to this place – the only part of Thorbardin exposed to the open sky – for a very good reason. With the fortified guardian halls that led to the subterranean roadways of Thorbardin blocked off, and even the great ventilator shaft closed and blocked from within, there was no way out of the Valley of the Thanes except straight up. Tag Salan had lowered a cable-ladder from above, the humans had followed Damon down to the valley floor where Damon’s dozen volunteers were waiting, then Tag had lifted the ladder away. The wizard might be able to levitate himself out of this place, but no human could simply climb out.

And Damon was fairly sure that neither of the humans would try to escape. They had their own reasons for staying.

Megistal’s fascination with dwarves and their stubborn resistance to magic was very real and very strong. The Cobar, on the other hand, had no personal interest at all in dwarves but had given Damon his oath that he would help guard Megistal in exchange for a horse.

So now they sat at a fire on the floor of the Valley of the Thanes, and Quist Redfeather roasted pigeons while the wizard and the dwarf discussed magic.

“You have not seen three moons,” Megistal argued. “You have seen two. The third one is …”

“I know.” Damon waved a dismissing hand. “It is black and cannot be seen. But we have sky-gazers, human. And we have the logic to realize that when a black spot crosses the sky on a regular basis, just as the moons do, then it, too, must be a moon. Yes, the moons are real. But magic isn’t!”

The wizard’s face creased in an exasperated frown. “How can you argue that magic doesn’t exist, dwarf? You have seen it. You have felt it. Magic exists!”

“I didn’t say it doesn’t exist,” Damon pointed out blandly. “I just said it isn’t real. Have you ever looked into a mirror?”

“Of course I have!” Megistal snapped. “What of it?”

“What did you see there?”

“I saw myself.”

“No, you didn’t. You saw only an image. Do you think that was really you, on the other side of the mirror, looking back?”

“Of course not.” Megistal sighed. “But what I saw was real.”

“It was not. An image is not reality. It is only an image.”

“A real image!”

“Like real magic,” Damon mused, stifling a grin. “Just because one sees it, that doesn’t mean it is there.”

“Gods!” Megistal jumped to his feet, stamped around in a circle, then sat again. “You are so stubborn! What is it you’re driving at?”

“You said you wanted to test magic on dwarves.” Damon shrugged, helping himself to a bit of Quist’s pigeon while the Cobar put another on to cook.

“Yes, I want to know why – and how – you managed to resist some very powerful spells,” Megistal repeated. “But why all these questions?”

“A fair exchange,” Damon said. “I’ll help you learn about dwarves, and you tell me about magic. You can begin by telling me, what, exactly, is magic?”

Megistal scratched his head. “That’s difficult,” he said. “Like trying to describe red to someone who has always been blind.”

“Try,” Damon demanded.

“Well … for instance, your barbarian friend there,” he said, indicating Quist.

“Barbarian?” Quist growled. “I am Cobar!”

“Cobar, then. But for example, it is possible that he could be not a human at all, but some other sort of creature. There is a reality for every possibility, and it is possible that in some other reality he is something else. Perhaps a wolf?”

“No. It isn’t.” Damon shook his head. “He isn’t a wolf. He’s a man.”

“Of course he is … in this reality. But there are many realities, you see. Magic is the bridge that links them. In another reality, this man might be a wolf.” Casually, the wizard waved a finger and muttered an incantation. Suddenly, where Quist Redfeather squatted, plucking a pigeon, it seemed there was something else instead. A large canine form shimmered around him, feral eyes fixed on the wizard.

“Now, you see?” Megistal said. “Now he is a wolf.”

“No, he isn’t,” Damon said.

Megistal pointed at the vision by the fire. “Don’t you see him? Look! That is no man. That is a wolf!”

“I see a man,” Damon maintained. “There is an image of a wolf surrounding him, but he isn’t it.”

“How can you see a man there?” Megistal shouted. “I don’t see a man!”

“You see what you want to see,” Damon said. “I see what is there.”

With a fierce growl, the wolf-figure bunched its haunches to leap at the mage, and Megistal hissed, “Kapach!” It was no wolf that hit the wizard, but an angry Cobar warrior. The two rolled away from the fire, spitting and thrashing, and Damon dived between them, separating them with strong, determined arms.

“That’s enough of that!” he growled.

The humans got to their feet, glaring at each other, and the dwarf stayed between them. “Enough!” he repeated. He pointed at the fire. “Both of you! Sit!”

Grudgingly, Quist Redfeather returned to his place, and Megistal followed. “You see?” he said. “He was a wolf.”

Damon turned to the Cobar. “Were you a wolf just then?”

“Yes,” Quist snapped. “And if he does that to me again, I’ll kill him.”

“Like I said” — Megistal spread his hands — “he actually was a wolf. That is magic.”

“He wasn’t a wolf,” the dwarf said stubbornly. “You and he both thought he was, but he wasn’t.”

“Gods!” Megistal snapped. “Then watch this, dwarf!” With an angry incantation, he folded his arms and rose a yard off the ground, then another yard, and another. When he was twenty feet above the fire he called, “Look at me, dwarf. Can you see me?”

“Very clearly,” Damon said.

“Where am I?”

Damon pointed at him. “Right up there.”

“Good! You see me where I am. Now how do you suppose I got up here?”

“Magic?”

“Exactly. Now we’re getting somewhere. You agree that I am up here in midair.”

“No, you’re not, really. You just think you are.”

Gently, Megistal lowered himself to the ground. “Stubbornness!” he muttered. “Sheer stubbornness.”

“Do you want to try another spell on me?” Damon asked.

“Do I have your permission?”

“As I promised.” The Hylar nodded. “But if it hurts too much I might have to kill you.”

“You will not!” Quist Redfeather growled. “When it comes to killing, the mage is mine.”

“Something mild, then,” Megistal agreed. “I’ll make you itch. That’s easy; I can do it with my eyes closed.”

“All right.” The dwarf stood, unslung his shield, and held it loosely beside him. “Make me itch with your eyes closed.”

Megistal closed his eyes, raised his hand, and muttered. Quickly, Damon raised his shield and turned it. Hidden within its curve was a fine Hylar mirror. The mage muttered his spell, pointing at the mirror, and Damon reversed the shield again, dropping it to his side where it had been.

“There.” Megistal opened his eyes. “Now, do you … Ooooh!” His eyes widened, and he began scratching himself in a frenzy. “What … What did you do?”

“I was just checking on something,” Damon said, smiling. “Interesting.”

Megistal was scratching so hard and so fast that it took him a moment to negate his spell. When it was gone, he sighed. The Cobar by the fire was choking with laughter.

“Well, let’s get on with it,” Damon said. “I have the volunteers I promised. You may try your spells on them, just so no one gets hurt without permission. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” Megistal nodded, still wondering how the dwarf had managed to turn his spell against him.

As the moons climbed into the night sky, illuminating the Valley of the Thanes with a soft luster, Megistal studied dwarves, and Damon studied Megistal.

The volunteers were mostly young dwarves, rash and adventurous enough to willingly endure the mild punishments and general unpleasantness of being subjected to magic. Among them, though, unknown to Megistal, were two Thorbardin notables. Damon had seen no reason to confide in the wizard that one of his test subjects was Barek Stone, the captain general of forces of Thorbardin, and another was Gem Bluesleeve, warden of the watch.

Hours passed in the moonlit valley as Megistal tried spell after spell on dwarf after dwarf, while Quist Redfeather watched in fascination and Damon Omenborn made suggestions.

At Megistal’s utterance of the words, “Hippochus bes. Chapak!” Trip Sother, a long-armed Theiwar youth, was transformed – in the eyes of the two humans – into a gray horse. To the dwarves, it appeared as though the image of a horse had appeared, surrounding the Theiwar, but that Trip was still there. And when Trip turned and stepped away, the image faded. He was himself again.

“Fantastic!” Megistal muttered. “You, there! Tell me, were you a horse just then?”

Trip turned. “No, but I was inside one, and I didn’t like it.”

Clote Darkeye, a sturdy youth of dark Daergar descent, stepped forward and was levitated ten feet off the ground.

“Are you up in the air?” Megistal called.

“It seems like it,” Clote answered. “But I can’t be, so I’m probably not.”

Megistal’s pointing finger began to shake, and a sweat broke out on his brow. Despite the wizard’s best effort, the dwarf began to descend.

“Stay up there!” Megistal demanded.

“I’m not up here,” Clote called back, sinking lower and lower. “This isn’t real.”

“Can’t you hold him up?” Damon inquired.

“He’s getting very heavy,” Megistal puffed. “But that’s impossible. While under this spell, he shouldn’t weigh anything.”

Damon shrugged. “Clote Darkeye weighs a hundred and sixty pounds.”

Abruptly, the Daergar dropped the last three feet, landing nimbly.

Megistal panted, shaking his head. “I don’t understand,” he said, as though to himself. He whirled, pointed at another volunteer, and muttered. The selected dwarf suddenly was covered with feathers. He resembled an unhappy owl.

“Look at him!” Megistal demanded. “What do you see?”

“He looks like he has feathers,” Damon said.

“Do you have feathers?” the wizard demanded of the dwarf.

“No,” that one assured him. “I’ve never had feathers. Right now I look like I do, but I don’t.”

“Gods!” Megistal snorted, shaking his head.

The dwarf who stepped forward then was older than most of the rest. He wore bright armor, and there were hints of silver in the dark beard below seamed cheeks and cold, wide-set eyes.

Before Megistal could begin a chant, the newcomer said, “Enough play, wizard. Kill me, if you can.”

Megistal’s brows raised, and he turned to Damon. “I gave you my word …” he started.

“It’s all right,” the Hylar said. “Do as he says. Kill him, if you can.”

“Are you sure?”

Damon looked up at the wizard, challenging him. “Are you?”

Megistal took a deep breath. “All right,” he said. He muttered a spell, and a large, hurtling stone appeared above the armed dwarf, crashing down on him. He barely got his shield up in time to deflect it, and the impact knocked him to his knees. But the stone bounced away. The dwarf stood.

“No man could have stopped that,” Megistal gasped. “That stone is the size of a water keg!”

The armored dwarf looked at his shield, studied its surface, and turned to whisper to a golden-bearded dwarf beside him. The gold-beard stepped forward. He tossed aside his shield and removed his body armor. “Try me,” he demanded, glaring at the wizard. “Kill me, if you can.”

“Kill him,” Damon Omenborn said. “Kill him with a spell, if you can.”

Megistal took a deep breath, focusing his powers, putting all of his will into the spell. This time it was not a stone, but a heavy bolt, as though from a siege engine. The three-inch-wide shaft with its four-edged metal point appeared out of nothing, hurtled toward the dwarf, and impaled him. He fell, gasping.

“There!” Megistal snapped. “Magic!”

For a moment, the impaled dwarf lay inert. Then he twitched, groaned, and sat up, struggling to pull the shaft from his body. The shaft became transparent as he tugged at it. It paled, shrank, and diminished, then was gone. The dwarf stood, pale and trembling, but very much alive.

“Are you all right, Gem?” Damon called.

“That hurt like all blazes,” Gem Bluesleeve assured the Hylar. “You were right about that, Damon. But I’m all right. There was really nothing there.”

Megistal gawked, at first one dwarf and then another. Quist Redfeather was staring at the recently impaled dwarf in absolute disbelief.

“If I had believed that was a real bolt, I’d be dead now,” Gem Bluesleeve told Barek Stone quietly.

“And if I had believed that stone was the size it looked, I’d have been crushed,” the captain general agreed. “But the stone wasn’t real. It shook me, though.”

Damon Omenborn faced the wizard, a deep curiosity in his narrowed eyes. Somehow, it had seemed to the dwarf that, at least the last two times, the wizard had held back. The spells had been potent spells and were delivered with force, but Damon had a feeling that something beyond spells had been withheld – something against which the dwarves might have had no defense. “Have you played enough games for now?” Damon asked. “Have you learned what you wanted to learn?”

“I have learned that it isn’t just you who can resist spells,” Megistal said. “It seems to be dwarves in general. And I have confirmed that the method of resistance is plain, stubborn refusal to believe. You don’t like magic, so you just … just don’t allow for it in your concept of the universe. But I still don’t know how you do it. There must be some natural defense in your race. Magic is an absolute and is as certain as alternate realities.”

“There aren’t any alternate realities,” Damon said flatly.

“Gods,” Megistal muttered. “You’re about as open to suggestion as a chunk of basalt. Very well, I suppose I have learned as much as I can. Now, what do you want from me?”

“Oh, we already have what we want,” Damon told him. “Except for one thing. In magic, is the power in the person or in the spell itself?”

“I won’t tell you that,” Megistal said suspiciously. “I have probably revealed too much already.”

“I guess I must find out for myself, then.” Damon shrugged. Pointing at Megistal, he said, “Hippochus bes. Chapak!”

The wizard’s mouth dropped open … and closed as a horse’s mouth. Where Megistal had been, now there stood a red horse, shaking its head in confusion.

“The power is in the spell,” Damon mused. “I thought so.” To the horse, within which he still saw the mage, he said, “You’re not really a horse, you know. You’ve never been a horse and never will be.” He turned to Quist Redfeather. “I promised you a horse. Do you want this one?”

“How long will he remain a horse?” the Cobar asked, wide-eyed with wonder.

“I haven’t any idea,” Damon admitted. “Until the spell is reversed, I suppose. Or until he realizes that magic is no more than a bad habit. When he comes to that conclusion, he won’t be a horse anymore. But then, he won’t be a wizard anymore, either.”

Quist walked around the red horse, looking it over. It was a fine, big horse, as sturdy and well formed as any he had seen. “I’ll take this one,” he said, turning, and found that he and the horse were alone. Somewhere, a gate closed with a heavy, metallic sound. The dwarves were gone. He ran toward where he had heard the sound and found only a stack of bales and water kegs. He looked around at the wide, deep little valley with its sheer vertical walls and muttered every curse of Cobar custom and a few from other tribes.

The dwarf had kept his word about a horse. Quist had a horse, if it didn’t turn back into a wizard. But he was a prisoner here, in this valley, with no way out.

Intuition grew within him, and he ran back to the fireside where he had left his pack. He searched inside it. His credentials from the High Overlord and the missive to Daltigoth were gone. The dwarves had found them, then. They knew about his mission. And they had made him prisoner.

He turned over in his mind the odd thing Damon Omenborn had said to him: “If you help us with our problems, maybe we can help you with yours.”

But what could they know of his problems? Of his family held hostage in Xak Tsaroth to ensure his return, of the cruelty of the High Overlord …

Something nudged him from behind. The horse stood there, pressing its nose against his shoulder, wanting to be rubbed. He gazed at it thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, “I, for one, believe in your magic even if I hate you for it. I saw you turn into a horse, and I don’t care what that dwarf says, you are a real horse.” Casually, he ran a strong hand along the animal’s muzzle and rubbed a stiff ear. “That’s all you are now,” he said. “Just a horse.”

*

Inside Thorbardin, Damon Omenborn, Barek Stone, and Gem Bluesleeve compared notes as they hurried toward the Grand Hall where the regent and the chieftains were waiting.

“We have learned that magic can hurt us,” Gem Bluesleeve admitted. “It has great power.”

“But its power is not absolute,” Barek said. “I wonder if the wizards really understand magic themselves.”

“They may not,” Damon suggested. “I think that is why they want to build towers of sorcery. They have magic, but their skills are poor. They want to refine them.”

“We have also learned that they – the other wizards – will come for their stone. They’ll do everything they can to get it back.”

“From what I’ve seen of wizards, they aren’t very good at anything but magic.”

“When the attack comes, it won’t be by wizards alone,” Barek told Damon. “Neidar rangers reported today that several large companies of human raiders have crossed into Kal-Thax. We don’t know how they got past the border guards unchallenged, but I suspect the wizards had something to do with it. The Neidar say they are converging on a place southwest of here, where the wizards may be assembled.”

“Well, we’ve learned something important that may help,” Damon noted. “We learned that magic is in the words of the spells. It doesn’t take a magician to work a spell, if the spell is known.”

“You worked one,” Barek admitted. “I couldn’t believe you’d do that, but you did.”

“I hope I never need to again.” Damon wrinkled his nose. “It almost made me sick. What I’d like right now is a long hot bath.”

Chapter 15

FORTRESS THORBARDIN

There could be no further doubt, based on the Neidar reports, that Kal-Thax had been invaded and Thorbardin would be attacked. The fog-beast had not been seen since the day it murdered Mace Hammerstand and a hundred members of the Roving Guard on Sky’s End, and there were some who said that it had gone away. But the greater threat, the wizards who had released it, remained, and they were determined to get back the thing the dwarves had taken from them – the Stone of Threes upon which the Tower of High Sorcery of Kal-Thax must be built.

For nine decades, the bonded thanes of Thorbardin had labored to create the mightiest of fortresses, deep in the heart of a mountain under Cloudseeker Peak. And now the fortress would be tested, with the fate of the entire race of dwarves at stake. If Thorbardin should fall, all of Kal-Thax would fall.

Under command of the regent, Willen Ironmaul, Thorbardin made ready for siege. Stores and supplies were laid in, defenders drilled in every cavern and corridor, and the great smelters surrounding the Shaft of Reorx roared with activity as Daergar iron and Theiwar fire-stone went into the making of steel to be fashioned into weapons. The metal-smithies were already geared to weaponry, having only recently completed a huge order of armaments for some buyer in the human realm of Ergoth – arms which, rumor said, were for a man named Darr Bolden. But now the forges went on double duty as every guardsman, soldier, and reservist in Thorbardin – and every civilian capable of bearing arms – was called to service.

Drums sang through the mountains, and patrols of Neidar scoured the nearby countryside escorting whole communities of unaffiliated Einar dwarves to the safety of the great fortress. By the thousands they came, pouring in through the great portals of Southgate and Northgate, past the gateways where Southgate’s plug sat ready to close and where Northgate’s identical plug was being hurriedly installed upon its ram. Whole villages came up from the valleys and the fields, driving their herds and carrying their belongings, to disappear into the vast subterranean maze that was Thorbardin.

In Hybardin, Daebardin, Theibardin, Theibolden, and Daerbardin; in Northhole and Lakeshore; in the unnamed Klar city; and in every other established delving, hammers rang. Additional space was made for the refugees, and woodsmiths and weavers worked to erect large, temporary camps in the east and west farming warrens, which had been cleared of tractor worms. The worms, huge thirty-foot-long creatures with clusters of waving tentacles for faces, were in the back warrens, where Klar herdsmen used them to clear new fields for planting.

Cambit Steelsheath, warden of ways, at first tried to count and record each person coming in from outside in an attempt to guard against infiltration by anyone who didn’t belong. But the tide of refugees was so vast that his clerks found themselves overloaded, and surly crowds built up in the gateways. So he did it another way. At the entrance to each Anvil’s Echo chamber, he had cables strung across the way at a height of five feet, five inches. Guards were posted at each side, with orders to stop anyone who had to stoop or duck to walk under the cables. No mature human or elf would pass such inspection, and no ogre of any age.

Beyond the fields of the Einar, other villages – those of the settled Neidar, whom most people now called hill dwarves – began moving inward toward the fortress, some to take shelter within and others to join their cousins, the Neidar Rangers, as the first line of defense.

Cale Greeneye had made it clear to the chief of chiefs that the fighting Neidar would remain outside, no matter what. “Thorbardin may be impenetrable,” he said, “but what good is it if no one is left outside to defend?”

Willen Ironmaul was everywhere, it seemed, testing defenses, reviewing troops, and meeting with thane leaders and wardens. Followed by Cable Graypath and the Ten, the Hylar regent was constantly on the move throughout Thorbardin.

Barek Stone, captain general of forces, studied plans and strategies with his commanders, always keeping in mind that two defenses would be required if the wizards and their “allies” – increasing hordes of human mercenaries brought in from the outlands of Ergoth and the wild lands beyond – pressed an attack beyond the outer slopes. Thorbardin was constructed for defense but had never been tested in true conflict. And in addition to the threat of troops and armies, it must now face the barely understood forces of sorcery.

Gem Bluesleeve, warden of the watch, reviewed all of his forces and then put direct command in the hands of another Daewar, Lodar Yellowkilt, captain of court guards. Gem had another task for himself, and to accomplish it he commandeered a hundred of the best Daewar delvers, a hundred select Theiwar volunteers – all of whom had served as boatmen on the Urkhan Sea – and a troop of Vog Ironface’s best mine sappers, all draped from head to toe in heat-resistant spunstone fabric created by the weavers of Daebardin from fibers collected by the Klar. In addition, he put a dozen Hylar glaziers to work, blowing large glass globes with foot-wide openings at one end and sockets for shoulder straps.

Part of the task began in the Shaft of Reorx, just above the smelter vents, where the heat-exchange ducts fed outward to the various cities. Here the Daergar sappers, with masks and thick, protective spunstone wraps, were put to work setting a hinged iron cap over the abandoned duct that had been begun years ago to feed heat to Hybardin, before a better way was found.

The other part of the task was miles away, three hundred yards out from the south shore of the Urkhan Sea. A dozen boats congregated there on the bright water, tethered together like a little floating island. Beneath each boat were climb-lines, long cables with stone weights that rested on the bottom.

Daewar delvers, sullen and nervous, were gathered on the boats, outfitted with lead-soled boots and tool straps. A glass globe was placed over the head of each one, with straps beneath his armpits. A towline was attached to each belt, and the delvers were lowered over the side in groups of ten by grinning, joking Theiwar boatmen.

Each delver sank to the bottom of the sea, worked furiously there for eight minutes, then was raised from the water, given a chance to breathe fresh air, and lowered again. It was probably the worst experience of the delvers’ lives – trying to dig a hole underwater while living on the air contained in a fragile glass bowl, and, worst of all, being completely dependent upon a bunch of “tarnish-happy Theiwar” to bring them up before they drowned. It was doubtful that any of them would have even tried it, except for their respect for Gem Bluestone – not to mention the rich reward Olim Goldbuckle promised to each one who survived.

So, while mine-sappers capped the old heat-exchange tunnel in the Shaft of Reorx, delvers were at work at the other end, digging toward the same duct to flood it with water.

It was Willen Ironmaul, as regent, who had approved the project. Now, as he watched the diving delvers descending from their boats, the regent sighed and turned to Gem Bluestone. “Let us pray to all the gods who matter, Gem,” he said, “that this contrivance works properly … should we need it. Because if it doesn’t, I imagine the Council of Thanes will draw and quarter one ex-regent and one excellent soldier who have wild ideas.”

With all these intense preparations underway, Willow Summercloud was left with little to do but watch as Fortress Thorbardin came to life around her. Damon Omenborn had refused to let her accompany him on his wizard-study expedition, and since his return he was so busy, being involved in all sorts of preparations, that she hardly saw him at all.

At first, Willow tagged around after Tera Sharn, learning the ways of Thorbardin. Then, when Tera became involved in a “ladies’ home defense plan,” Willow wandered around by herself, exploring the huge subterranean realm that – she had decided – was going to be her home, if she could just capture Damon’s attention a few more times.

Dressed in the fine, practical garb Tera had shown her how to wear, but still carrying her woodsman’s axe wherever she went, the Einar girl wandered about, marveling at the wonders of Thorbardin. The controlled daylight of the sun-tunnels fascinated her, as did the nighttime splendor of the Temple of Stars above the Shaft of Reorx. She rode the lifts and cable-carts, wandered the public ways, and explored the galleries with their myriad shops and stalls. She watched the crafters at work, with their forges, looms, shuttles, and lathes. She saw the gloomy corridors of Daerbardin, the quiet, dim passages of Theibardin, and the bright, many-colored concourses of Daebardin. And more than once, she found herself fending off groups of young male dwarves vying for her attention.

She was fascinated by the great farming warrens – miles of subterranean fields and vine-covered ledges where the thanes had learned to grow a hundred kinds of useful crops. But the east and west warrens were packed by refugees camping at their entrances, so she headed for the old north warren beyond Theibardin. It was there, they said, that the first farming had been done. It had been called the first warren then, and most of the experiments with subterranean agriculture applied in the newer warrens had been done there. But the north warren itself had only recently been made ready for farms of its own.

She was on her way there, walking through the lake-front bazaar of Daebardin, when a high musical voice hailed her from behind.

“Hello, there!” Shillitec Medina Quickfoot trilled. “I’ve been hoping I’d find somebody I knew! Wow, isn’t this the strangest place you ever saw? I’ve been trying to see it all, but I’ve only seen a little of it so far.”

“What are you doing here?” Willow demanded, glaring at the tiny, slender being with the great mop of hair. “You aren’t supposed to be in Thorbardin. Thorbardin is for dwarves only.”

“Is that right?” The kender girl giggled. “Well, I guess it’s all right, though, because nobody told me to stay out when I got here.”

“How did you get in?”

“I just walked in, like everybody else was doing. There was this big gate, with dwarves everywhere looking very fierce and solemn, and just all sorts of dwarves going through it, so I went through it, too. They had a cable strung up, about this high.” She stretched on tiptoes and raised a hand as high as she could. “And after you walked under the cable you were in. Nothing to it. Did you have to walk under a cable?”

“But surely somebody has noticed you since then.” Willow frowned. “Surely somebody told you to leave?”

“Oh, sure,” Shill giggled. “They told me to leave at that nice bread-and-hot-meat place where I had lunch, and they told me to leave at some big, hot place where everybody was sweating and making an awful lot of noise with hammers. And, of course, there was that unfriendly dwarf with all the pretty things spread out on his table. He shouted at me. But then, I’ve never minded being shouted at. Have you?”

“What kind of pretty things?”

“Oh, things like this.” Shill reached into a belt-pouch and brought forth a dazzling necklace of bright jewels set in gold filigree. “All kinds of pretty things.”

“No wonder he shouted,” Willow muttered.

“Oh, I didn’t steal it. It was just lying on the floor. I guess somebody dropped it or something. Where are we going?”

“I’m going to look at a farming warren. I don’t know where you’re going.”

“That’s all right. I’ll just go with you.”

“And what makes you think I’d want to be seen here – in Thorbardin – in the company of a … a kender?”

“Don’t worry,” Shill assured her. “If anyone objects, I’ll vouch for you. I’ll just tell them you’re my dwarf.”

Seeming to have no choice in the matter, Willow resumed her journey with Shill chattering along after her. As it happened, though they passed crowds of busy dwarves at every bend and interval, the creature following her attracted no more than casual, curious glances. After a time she decided that no one expected to see a kender in Thorbardin, so no one actually recognized one. And the exuberant kender – with her layers of motley-colored clothing and her various, bulging pockets and pouches – might have seemed at a glance to be just a talkative and undernourished dwarven child with far too much hair.

For her part, Shill was taking it all in, thoroughly enjoying the excursion. Bright eyes that missed very little were constantly on the move, seeing everything there was to see. A group of Klar came toward them, carrying cudgels and day packs. Willow stepped aside to let them pass, but Shill scampered right through the group, gawking at their thick-muscled arms, their wild bushy hair, sparse beards, and close-set eyes. As the kender passed, ducking beneath an elbow here, dodging fur-booted feet there, a few of the Klar turned to look back.

“What was that?” one asked.

“Who knows?” another said. “Somebody’s cub.”

“Funny-lookin’ cub,” the first one noted, shrugging.

Willow had an impulse to ask the Klar if she was on the right road to the north warren, but she kept her silence. The Klar were strange people. Usually affable enough, and sometimes quite friendly, they were noted for their erratic nature. A friendly Klar, she had heard, could abruptly become angry and dangerous for no particular reason. Many among the other thanes avoided the Klar entirely.

Still, Tera Sharn had told her, the Klar were – as a group – intensely loyal to Thorbardin and its leaders. And they were the most skilled of all the thanes at the task of creating arable fields underground. They seemed to have an uncanny ability to herd and manipulate the huge tractor worms that pulled the graders and plows, turned the stonecrushers, and hauled the topsoil for the warrens. Big, strong, and stupid, the giant worms were a fine resource in the warrens. But very few of any thane but Klar could really control them. And a worm out of control could be deadly, as the dwarves had learned a long time ago.

Shill caught up with Willow, chatting now about Klar, and the dwarf girl glanced around as light reflected from something bright. The kender was holding a little silver vial, looking at it curiously.

“What is that?” Willow pointed.

“I don’t know,” Shill said. “I found it somewhere. Look, it has a lid.”

Without waiting for comment, the kender unscrewed the top of the vial and peered into it. “It’s silver inside, too,” she said. She tipped the container and a large drop of bright, metallic liquid fell from it. Where it spread, on the tunnel’s floor, it was as bright as a new mirror. “Pretty,” Shill said.

Crouching, Willow touched the liquid metal with a tentative finger and sniffed it. Her eyes narrowed, and she backed away, frowning. “Tamex!” she spat. “Tamex, the false metal. Get rid of that! It’s poison!”

“It is?” Shill shrugged. “I think it’s kind of pretty. Look, I’ll pour some in my hand and …”

A strong hand shot out, slapping the vial from the kender’s tiny fingers. It clattered against a wall, trailing bright mercury.

Shill stared at the thrown vial, then at her slapped hand, then up at Willow’s furious face, and a tear formed at the corner of her eye. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said thinly.

“No, I didn’t,” Willow snapped. “I could have just let you play with that stuff, and maybe get sick from it or go crazy or whatever tamex does to people. Where did you get that, anyway?”

“Back there,” the little kender pointed, stifling a sob. “Where those Klar people were. Maybe one of them lost it or something.”

Willow stared back the way they had come, remembering something she had heard about the Klar. Some of them, it was said, traded in quicksilver. A coating of the false metal could make a corroded tool seem bright and new, at least long enough to deceive an unwary buyer. Dealing in the false metal was a serious crime in Thorbardin. Many an unwary dwarf had been poisoned by contact with tamex.

Willow shuddered, suddenly very glad that she had not stopped to speak to those particular Klar.

Shill was sniffling, and Willow knelt before her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was frightened. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The north warren was huge, a natural cavern a mile wide in some places and nearly three miles in length. The light here was subdued, coming from a few scattered sun-tunnels and several wide, slanted strata of natural quartz leading upward to the high slopes of the mountain. Far off to the right, as the two entered, they could see herdsmen working with thirty-foot-long tractor worms, building topsoil on a newly leveled field. A distant wall separated the back warren from the main warren. The kender tried to scamper off in that direction, but Willow still had hold of her hand.

Dragging the reluctant kender after her, Willow headed northward. In the distance there were fields already completed and planted. Above them, on the walls of the cavern, great terraces stood, bearing fruit vines and climbing plants of many varieties. The closer they approached, it seemed to Willow, the sweeter the air smelled – almost like the breezes across the fields back home. She shook her head, trying not to think about Windhollow. Remembering her life there led to remembering what had happened there, and the memory was extremely painful.

With Shill tagging after her, she wandered among the fields, marveling. These were not Einar crops. Some things, like grains and fine fibers, would not grow underground. But those things that would, the bonded thanes had planted. Just in this one warren there were food sources for thousands of people. Combined with the grains, melons, fibers, timber, and sun-greens that Thorbardin received in trade from those outside, there was sustenance here for an entire race.

At a stone wall at the northern end of the cavern, where a dozen varieties of spices, herbs, and aromatics were growing, Willow stopped to breathe deeply of the rich smells and noticed suddenly that the air had turned colder.

At her side, the kender girl pointed. “Look!” she said. “Vapors.”

Almost hidden behind a screen of green vinery, there was some kind of stone seal. It looked as though a very large tunnel had been sealed off a long time ago. But here and there, around the edges of the placed stone, little mists floated outward through the vines.

Willow approached, stooped, and peered. The mists were only vague wisps of vapor seeping through ancient stone cracks, but they were cold. Cold as winter winds, she thought. As cold … as cold as the fogs in which the beast had swathed itself back at Windhollow.

Then there was the distant sound of drums, echoing through the cavern. In the fields around, people stopped to listen, then picked up their tools and hurried toward the main tunnel almost a mile away.

“What is it?” Willow asked a passing Theiwar farmer. “What do the drums say?”

“Call to arms,” the dwarf growled. “We’re under attack!”

Chapter 16

THE ENEMY

It was a group of Daergar miners, just leaving their digs in Late evening, who discovered the invasion rift. More than a hundred in number, they had been sampling ore in the maze of shafts beneath Thunder Peaks, south of the Promontory below Cloudseeker, for several weeks. Now they had their inventory and were on their way north to report to Vog Ironface in Thorbardin. They came out of the shafts late in the day, as dusk settled over the mountain lands, and most did not put on their slit-masks. The evening light was diffused and pleasant, and the breezes were those of greening spring.

Carrying their picks, hammers, and miners’ shields, some wearing their conical stone-fall helms and others slinging them on straps, they made their way northward as the long southern evening deepened toward nightfall. It was a three-day journey to Southgate, and, as Daergar, they preferred to travel at night and rest by day.

They had gone four miles when their leader, Sledge Veinseek, reached the long curving ledge where the mine trail wound toward the placer camps on Ice Creek, and stopped in confusion. From the ledge, a great panorama spread northward, a view that included everything for nearly a hundred miles. From here most of the upper Promontory was visible, and beyond it the slopes of giant Cloudseeker, rising away in the distance toward its crown of three crags – the Windweavers.

Every Daergar miner had seen the mighty view hundreds of times, coming and going between the dig-shafts above and the placer camps below. But now the view was somehow different, and the Daergar crowded around Sledge Veinseek in puzzlement.

“There!” One of them pointed northward. “That forested ridge, running east and west … I don’t remember a ridge there.”

“There isn’t any ridge there,” another agreed. “At least, there wasn’t the last time I passed here. There is a little canyon there, not a ridge.”

“You’re right,” Sledge said. “Down there is where the main trace crosses the canyon. At least, it used to. But the main trace just ends now. It runs to that ridge and stops.”

Pyrr Steelpick pushed forward, shouldering others aside. The boss of shafts was a grizzled, time-weathered dwarf with massive forearms and a stubborn streak just as large. Now he stepped up beside Sledge Veinseek and stared out across the near miles. “What’s a ridge doing there?” he rumbled. “There’s nothing like that there, where that is.”

“That’s what I thought, too,” Sledge agreed. “But there seems to be a ridge there now.”

Puzzled and wary, the miners trekked on down the winding trail to the placer camps, then turned northward on the main trail to Thorbardin. Here in the little valley of Ice Creek rising slopes blocked their view of the lands northward, but the trail climbed away – as it always had – toward the Promontory and the fortress mountain beyond.

They had gone several miles by the time they came out of Cutpass onto the downward slopes where the trail led – or should have led – across an interval of canyons and gullies where the wide, sloping meadow called the Promontory began. But now the trail led to no canyons or cuts. Instead it ran to the slope of a high forest-capped ridge and stopped.

More puzzled by the moment, the Daergar approached the strange formation, staring at it in bewilderment. Evening had turned to full night, but to Daergar eyes the light of the stars was enough.

At the beginning of the surprising slope, the trail simply ended.

“I don’t believe it,” Pyrr Steelpick growled. “Somebody is playing tricks. There is no ridge here. There never was.”

Sledge Veinseek walked to the end of the trail and took another step. The ground on the slope felt slightly resilient, but it supported him. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll climb it and see what the other side looks like.”

“I don’t intend to climb any ridge that isn’t there,” Pyrr announced. “There is a trail here, crossing a canyon. There has always been a trail and a canyon, and I have always walked the trail and crossed the canyon. I don’t intend to change my ways now.”

With a fierce frown, the shaft boss stepped off the end of the trail, and his foot sank to the knee in the stony slope. He took another step and was waist-deep in what seemed to be solid hillside. “I told you,” he said, glancing up at Sledge, who stood on the slope above him. “There isn’t any ridge here.” With grim determination, the stubborn shaft boss pushed on, disappearing into the hillside which seemed to close behind him as though no one had been there.

Watching him go, Sledge felt his own feet sinking into the yielding surface. Suddenly he was standing on solid ground, and the “hillside” engulfed him to the neck. “Pyrr is right!” he said. “This isn’t a real ridge.”

“Then what is it?” someone asked.

“I don’t know,” Sledge admitted. He stepped forward, and the hillside surrounded him. He felt as though he were immersed in jelly and could barely see his own raised hand. At each movement, the “hill” resisted him, then yielded. But he could breathe freely, and despite the resistance of whatever he was in, he could still move. He backed up until his head and shoulders were in the clear and looked at the exposed parts of himself. Nothing clung to him. Whatever it was, it was not sticky or fluid. He leaned to taste the surface before him. It had no taste. It was as though there were nothing there.

“Come on,” he told those behind him. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

Several of them hesitated. “That’s one way to put it,” someone commented. But others plunged forward, following their leader. Confusion followed. Some of them walked directly into the slope, as Pyrr and Sledge had, but others found themselves moving upward, climbing a hill.

Below them, Sledge snapped, “You, up there! Come down here!”

“How?” one asked. “This is a hillside.”

“Which are you going to believe, your eyes or me?” Sledge demanded. “This is not a hillside. Now come on!”

Most of those on the slope dropped out of sight, and the company disappeared into the ridge, all except six young Daergar who simply couldn’t seem to sink. They had their leader’s assurance that there was no hill, but the fact was, they were standing on it. With nothing else to do, the six kept climbing, heading for the top, hoping to meet the rest of their party on the other side.

Inside the strange ridge, Sledge groped blindly forward until he came up to Pyrr Steelpick, who had stopped. “What is it, Pyrr?” he asked. His voice sounded muted and soft in the thick gloom.

“Look,” Pyrr said. “Just ahead. Lights.”

Sledge squinted and saw what the shaft boss had first noticed. Ahead, seeming near, a line of yellowish glows swam by one after another, sometimes in groups of five or ten, and sometimes so closely packed that it might have been made up of many small glows or one big one. The glows were all moving from right to left, coming into view from what Sledge assumed was still the east, and fading toward the west.

Pushing past Pyrr, the Daergar mine commander crept closer to the line of passing lights and observed that they became more clearly defined as he approached. They looked like torches. He moved forward again and saw dim figures trotting past – or the heads and shoulders of figures. Like tall people moving along in a trench, only their upper parts were visible. He crept closer still, and gasped. The lights were torches, torches carried by armed humans, passing just ahead of him.

As he took another step, the last torch passed, and darkness descended. Sledge pushed on and suddenly found himself beyond the eerie, heavy murk. He was standing at the rim of a little gully, inside what seemed to be a wide tunnel of solid stone. He looked to his left and saw the last of a large party of armed men trotting away around a bend. Their torches cast eerie shadows on the tunnel’s walls.

Just behind him, Pyrr Steelpick stepped out of what seemed a solid stone wall, and others appeared, crowding around, gaping at the long tunnel that seemed to run through the bottom of a ridge that was not a ridge.

“What is this?” a sapper demanded. “Is this magic?”

“It might be,” Sledge said. “I’ve never seen magic, but this sure looks like it.”

From down the tunnel came the sounds of voices and trotting feet, and torchlight glinted on the stone. Another band of armed humans came around a bend and skidded to a halt as the light of torches fell on the mob of Daergar spreading across the way.

“Dwarves!” a human voice shouted.

An arrow hummed along the corridor and buried itself in the throat of a miner. The dwarf fell, thrashing in death, and two more pitched backward as they were hit, one by an arrow and one by a thrown hand-dart.

Sledge raised his miner’s shield and shouted, “Defend!” In an instant, every standing dwarf had dropped to his knees, with his shield before him. A barrage of arrows, darts, and bolts from the human band whisked over them or clanged against shields.

“Attack!” Sledge ordered. The dwarves came to their feet, closing ranks even as they charged into the ditch, becoming a short, solid wall of raised shields and running feet. The first line of Daergar hit the humans, and men went down, shrieking and tumbling as hammers, picks, and iron chisels smashed at them. Even as they fell, those still standing among them pitched forward as stone-drills flicked from between shields to shatter knees and pierce thighs. Thirty or more humans fell within seconds, and the first line of Daergar washed over them, then parted, swinging aside in disciplined lines as a second wave of dwarves flooded through to attack the humans beyond. Here and there a Daergar fell to a lucky blow, but far more humans went down than dwarves.

“The torches!” Sledge ordered.

Lines of dwarves swarmed past the melee, clambering up the sides of the little gully, and ran along the line of humans still pushing forward. Delving axes lashed out, and torches flew from human hands as dwarves scrambled in the confusion to extinguish them with their shields. Within seconds, the entire section of tunnel was dark.

In the darkness, the Daergar went to work with murderous efficiency. A vague glow here and there was all the light their miners’ eyes required.

It was a massacre. Those humans who tried to hold their position were cut down, and those who tried to run were caught and killed. When silence returned, Sledge called, “Regroup!” The Daergar gathered around him, blood-soaked and sweating from exertion. There had been more than a hundred of them. There were still more than eighty, and for each fallen dwarf there were at least ten slaughtered human invaders. With the torches gone, the humans had not stood a chance. What was darkness to human eyes – and to most dwarves – was fighting light to a Daergar.

“Who were they?” Pyrr rumbled, wiping gore from his heavy pick. “What are humans doing here, and why did they attack us?”

“Ask this one,” a miner said. Several grim Daergar led forward a battered human, the only survivor. Sledge recognized the appearance and attire of the marauders called Sackmen, nomads from the northern deserts who had sometimes tried to make their way into the dwarven lands. The man was bloody and disarmed, though the odd, curved basket with which the Sackmen threw their deadly hand-darts was still strapped to his right wrist.

“Only one left alive,” a miner growled, prodding the man forward with his pick handle.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” Sledge demanded of the man.

The man sneered, shaking his head. Without hesitation, Pyrr Steelpick stepped forward and crouched in front of the human, loosing his heavy hammer and digging a long rock-spike from his pouch. “I’ll nail his feet to the ground,” he told Sledge. “Humans talk better that way.”

Several dwarves seized the man’s legs, holding him motionless, and the burly shaft boss set the point of his spike atop a large foot and raised his hammer.

“Wait!” the man squealed. “Wait, I’ll tell you. We came … We were hired to fight for some wizards.”

“Fight against whom?” Sledge asked.

“Against …” — the man swallowed — “against dwarves.”

Pyrr raised his hammer again.

“Wait!” the man wailed. “It’s nothing personal! We … They’ve hired a lot of people. It’s just business.”

“Hired you with what?” Sledge asked.

“Coin,” the man said. “In … in my pouch.”

Dwarven hands removed the pouch from the man’s belt and dumped the contents out. A handful of bright coins fell on the ground. A miner picked one of them up, frowned at it, and tasted it. “Rock,” he muttered. “It sort of looks like a coin, but it’s only a little rock.”

“How many of you are there?” Sledge asked, then raised a hand. Human voices sounded somewhere in the tunnel. “Get him out of here,” Sledge ordered.

Without hesitating, Pyrr Steelpick grabbed the man’s arm in powerful fingers. Others grabbed his other arm, and the man was propelled up the bank and toward the wall. The dwarves, running at full speed, hit the stone and disappeared within it. The man screamed, smashed against the stone, and bounced off, flipping and rolling to the edge of the gully. Where he had rebounded, heads popped out of the blood-splattered “stone.”

“Whoops,” Pyrr said.

Sledge squatted beside the man. He was dead. Nearby, a dwarf stooped and picked up a small stone. “Rock,” he said. “Doesn’t even look like a coin now.”

“I think we had better tell Vog Ironface about this,” Sledge decided.

Down the tunnel, more glows indicated that more human invaders were approaching. Turning, Sledge climbed what he hoped was the north side of the little gully and walked directly into the stone wall of the tunnel. “There isn’t any tunnel here,” he reminded himself. He stepped into the stone and disappeared. Behind him, the others followed a few at a time. The last of them were still climbing from the gully when another band of mercenaries rounded the near bend and found themselves wading through, and stumbling over, the bodies of the dead. Those in the lead, holding torches high, spotted the last few Daergar still in the “tunnel” and sprinted toward them, blades drawn.

Chink Deepshaft, a young sapper, was the last Daergar to reach the gully bank, and several big humans were at his heels as he raced full-tilt into the wall. He dived for the apparently solid stone and rolled through it. Behind him, blades clanged against solid rock, and a pair of Sackmen warriors bounced off the stone.

Beyond the ridge, the group of Daergar emerged into normal night and gazed at the Promontory spreading ahead of them with Cloudseeker rising beyond it.

As they emerged, five shamefaced young miners scurried down the slope of the ridge that wasn’t a ridge and joined them, gawking at the blood-smeared apparel and gore-stained tools of those who had gone through and survived.

“That’s what you get for doubting your own logic,” Pyrr Steelpick snapped at them. “You knew there wasn’t a ridge here, but you believed there was, so you missed all the fun.”

“Let that be a lesson to you,” Sledge added. “If you know a thing is so, it’s so. If you know it’s not, it’s not. Otherwise you’re no better than humans.”

*

When the first wave of human mercenaries came down the long meadows from the west, making for the ways below Southgate, drums sang the warning and dwarves were ready to meet them. Twelve “hundreds” of fighting Holgar – four mounted companies and eight foot companies – emerged from the mountain fortress at Southgate and marched with parade precision down the twin, slanting ramparts of the gate approaches to take up positions at intervals above the north swales of the Promontory.

Some of the fighting units were tribal – three of the four mounted units were almost entirely Hylar, two foot units were Theiwar, and one, the legendary Golden Hammer assault force, was entirely Daewar. The rest, though, were mixed companies of Hylar, Daewar, Theiwar, Daergar, and even a few Klar.

With quick precision, the companies moved into assigned positions: along the exposed flank of Cloudseeker’s south face, in the rock formations near the Valley of the Thanes, in the broken-cliff canyons of the old Theiwar raiding grounds, behind the bastions at the foot of each gateway road, on the forested slope overlooking the Daergar ore pits, and out on the Promontory itself. The line of defense was a bowed, reinforced arc of foot troops, with fast-moving attack squadrons at each end, and armored cavalry at the wings and point.

Barek Stone, placing the units, made no attempt to conceal their strength. A veteran of many battles, the captain general knew that just the sight of armed dwarves, ready to fight in formation, was enough to awe most human warriors.

So Barek let the humans see what they were up against – or, at least, the first line of defense. What they didn’t see was the special equipment carried by some of the defenders and what lay behind the first line. Within many of the shields carried by defenders were mirrors. Hidden along most of the trails and paths leading from the Promontory to the slopes were companies of ambushers with nets and cables, deadfalls and pendulums, spring-spikes and brush-balls. In the rocks above each wing of the defense line were companies of slingers, with woven leather slings and supplies of iron balls.

And along each walled way leading up to Southgate, hidden by the guard towers which stood at intervals there, were the engines of defense from the crafteries within Thorbardin: huge, winch-drawn bows that could hurl a thick, ten-foot spear three hundred yards and batteries of drawn catapults armed with everything from stones and dagger blades to brass containers full of Pack Lodestone’s awful concoctions. And behind the highest outposts were two huge towering engines that humans had never seen because the dwarves had never shown or used them. They were a recent development of the crafteries – side-arm discobels that could sling saw-edged iron disks with enough force to knock down large trees.

These were the outer defenses of Thorbardin – those that were in plain view and those that were not.

The first sightings had been of a thousand or more human marauders coming across the Promontory from somewhere near its head to the southwest. But now, as the sun of Krynn rose high, the drums spoke of other thousands coming into view. The line of grim, marching warriors seemed to double and double again as it came into sight, spreading across the high meadow. The men had been bunched, but now as they spread and formed into separate groups, they seemed to fill half the Promontory. Atop the sentinel peaks, sharp eyes estimated counts and drums spoke. Seven thousand, they said. Ten companies, spreading and approaching, each company averaging seven hundred armed and battle-hardened human warriors.

On the walled ledge outside Southgate, Willen Ironmaul stood, backed by the Ten. He heard the count and frowned. The outside defenders, the field companies, numbered one thousand, two hundred dwarves. “Six to one,” the chief of chiefs muttered. “Well, we have some surprises to help offset that.”

But then, abruptly, the drums on the mountains sang a new song, and every dwarven eye turned to the meadowlands.

There was not one human army, but two! No, three! Coming onto the Promontory from the south and east were more masses of humans, marching hordes spreading and forming into fighting companies. And each army was the equal of the first.

Three assaults! The drums sang of it. Not seven thousand invaders, but three sevens of thousands!

And above Thorbardin, in the high outposts below Galefang, other drums joined the tattoo. Willen turned, shading his eyes. From due west, just coming around the steeps above the meadows, was still another army, a fourth army as large as the other three.

*

Hurrying along the catwalk through Anvil’s Echo, Damon Omenborn scanned its massive defenses: the precarious suspended bridge with nothing around it except thin air and murder holes, and at its outward end the gateway, with its massive plug ready to rumble into place. It seemed inconceivable that any attacking force could reach Southgate, much less get through it. But, should that ever happen, here was the last and best line of defense.

Past Anvil’s Echo, Damon heard the sentinel drums, and his jaws clenched. So many invaders? Four armies? How could there be so many? Why had the wizards brought so many troops?

He ran through Gateway, outpacing his fifty volunteers, and scurried around the plug-housing to emerge on the walled ledge where his father and the Ten surveyed the lands beyond. At the wall, Damon looked out at the Promontory and felt his breath go ragged. He had never seen so many humans. He had never seen so many of anybody!

The first army, from the southwest, was halfway across the Promontory now, a huge, marching rank of grim warriors, sweeping forward along a wide front.

And to right and left, the other armies were approaching. Identical armies. Identical in number, identical in formation … His eyes narrowed as he picked out a horseman in the fore of the assault from the east. A fur-cloaked, helmeted man on a spotted horse, just like …

Damon’s eyes swung to the right. There, at the fore of the first group, was an identical horseman, fur cloak, spotted horse, and all. Damon clapped his father’s steel-plated back and pointed. “Look!”

The army from the south was just crossing the staging areas, far out on the Promontory. The distance was greater, but there, too, was a fur-cloaked man on a spotted horse.

“They are images!” Damon growled. “Magic! One army has become many!”

“Magic?” Willen Ironmaul squinted, peering out across the distance. “They aren’t real, then? Do you mean they can’t hurt us?” At the staging area – a collection of low sheds and walled pits where trade caravans assembled in season – something was happening. A pair of dwarves had appeared there, gold-bearded Daewar goods-tenders popping out of a shed to flee toward Southgate. The humans saw them, and a dozen horsemen thundered through the foot-lines after them. In a moment, the dwarves were down, felled by slashing blades. Even at this distance, those on the walled ledge could see the crimson of their blood.

Drums muttered, and they looked westward. Just beyond the rock formations below the Valley of the Thanes, a small group of Einar had bolted from hiding, directly into the path of the fourth army of humans. Tall warriors rushed to attack, and the dwarves tried to defend. A human fell, and then another. But it was over in a moment. Methodically, the marauders cut down the little group of dwarves and came on.

“They seem real enough,” Willen growled. “They kill like real people.”

“There is only one army,” Damon said flatly. “But we don’t know which one it is. Until we do, they might as well all be real.”

Chapter 17

THE BLOODY FIELDS OF SOUTHGATE

By sheer cunning – with the help of a pair of spells that had sent the white-coat leader Valneb to a place where his spells would fail until he could learn to say them backward and had turned the red-tunic Gilmar into a copper pot – the dark wizard Kistilan had taken control of the representatives of magic in the Kharolis mountains … just as he had intended to do from the day he left Xak Tsaroth. The two rival leaders would return eventually, he knew. Valneb would manage to reverse a return spell, and Gilmar would contrive to boil over and quench the fire beneath him. But Kistilan knew he could deal with them. In all these lands, only two remained of the wizards who were “favored of the powers” – himself and Megistal. And Megistal had disappeared.

To the rest of them, Kistilan had spelled out his terms. “When the dwarves are defeated,” he proclaimed, “and the Stone of Threes is recovered, you may have both – the stone, for the Tower of High Sorcery, and all surviving dwarves as slaves, to build the tower and for any other purpose you wish. But whatever else we find within the mountain fortress, including the fortress itself, is mine. It will be mine alone, to do with as I wish.”

Kistilan knew well the price the High Overlord would be willing to pay for dominance over the dwarven lands. The overlord dreamed of an empire, just as Kistilan dreamed of ultimate power over all creatures.

Thus the assault on Thorbardin was directed primarily by one person, and that person was Kistilan. It was his intention to move swiftly, to conquer the dwarves of this place and establish himself as Lord Sorcerer before any who might contest his right came along. So, using the elemental powers he had taken upon himself and drawing upon the magics of all the rest, he doubled the army of mercenaries, then doubled it again. Where seven thousand hired warriors had marched, now twenty-eight thousand closed upon the defense cordon set up by the dwarves at the base of Cloudseeker.

Sending thirty wizards each to follow and direct the three replicate armies, Kistilan himself – with an escort of twenty-seven acolytes who were sworn to his cause – accompanied the original mercenary force advancing from the southwest.

Perched comfortably on an elaborate throne floating fifty feet above the rearmost of the attacking mercenaries, Kistilan had an excellent view of the entire field of battle. He nodded in satisfaction as he saw the two dwarves flushed from the deserted trade camp fall, and again as he watched the little group of dwarves cut down by his forces’ left flank. Both of the armies involved were replicates, created by sorcery.

“Resist magic?” he muttered. “Sigamon was a fool to believe such a thing of dwarves.” With a wave of his hand, the wizard signaled the distant wizards following the conjure-armies. His forces and the second mass, just to his right, would hold back from the first assault. The third and fourth groups, to the east and west of the dwarven line, would begin the attack.

Kistilan muttered a spell and gave his orders to the empty air. Immediately, two voices – other mages nearly a mile away on each side – responded, their voices sounding as near to him as though they had been at his sides.

On the wide sweep of meadow west of the stone formations, the fourth army spread and quartered, to present a long, facing line to the waiting dwarves. At the call of trumpets, the thousands of men there began to move inexorably forward, company after company of footmen with shields, pikes, and swords. The front wave was a solid line of men, shoulder to shoulder and shield to shield, stretching nearly four hundred yards from end to end. The attackers advanced to within a hundred yards of the dwarven defenders, then stopped, facing them. Trumpets sounded again, and the front line of humans dropped down behind their extended shields. Behind them, archers and Sackmen loosed their bolts. Arrows and hand-darts flew by the hundreds, whining and humming toward the nearest dwarves.

In the blink of an eye, the dwarves reformed, front ranks kneeling, second ranks raising their shields. The rattle of arrows and darts against dwarven steel was deafening. Here and there a dwarf staggered and fell, but the holes in the shield-wall were sealed instantly with other shields.

Again the archers and darters let fly, and again the dwarven line was barely touched. Men in the assault wave braced themselves on their shields, preparing to arise and advance.

It was what Willen Ironmaul had been waiting for. As the shield-bearers shifted their feet to straighten, there was an instant of vulnerability. Willen signaled, a drum sounded, and, from the rocks above the low slope, hundreds of iron balls shot out from hundreds of slings.

The timing was perfect. Everywhere, men fell, flopping over one another, bumping one another as they went down. The row of shields collapsed and slings hummed again, like nests of angry hornets. The second barrage of iron balls ripped through the unprotected ranks of archers and dartsmen. Without shields, and only lightly armored, these crumpled by the hundreds as heavy iron smashed against skulls, ribs, arms, and legs, into throats and abdomens, many balls caroming away to strike a second or third time in the massed ranks before losing their momentum.

A charge of mounted warriors, just assembling behind the archers, fell apart as iron balls found their marks among men and horses.

“Look at their fallen!” Damon Omenborn shouted, atop the Southgate ledge. “See what is happening!”

Everywhere, out on the field where men and horses had fallen, the air seemed to shimmer, a greenish glow that darted here and there. And the fallen bodies began to shimmer and fade.

“That army is not real!” Damon said. “It is just sorcery. Tell them!”

Drums sang, and the dwarven defense line hesitated, hearing the message. Then, as though by plan, a dozen or more wild-haired Klar warriors broke from one of the dwarven companies and ran toward the attackers, howling and brandishing cudgels. Arrows sang, and blades lashed out as they closed, and within a second every Klar was on the ground, mortally wounded … for a moment. Silence hung over the field as the twitching bodies sat upright, pulling disappearing shafts from themselves, picked up their cudgels, and charged again, right into the thick of the thousands of men. They charged and kept charging, leaving a widening trail of human bodies behind them, and slings hummed on the mountainside, reinforcing the attack.

“Crazy Klar,” Willen Ironmaul muttered.

“Crazy?” Damon said. “Maybe. Or maybe they’re just having fun. Give a Klar a good excuse to run amok, he’ll usually take it.”

On his floating throne behind the first army, Kistilan stared at the distant havoc ahead of him, then his eyes went cold. Somehow the dwarves, a few of them at least, had resisted his shock troops. Seven thousand perfectly good spell-built fighters out there, and a mere handful of dwarves were running loose among them, knocking down everything that stood. In anger, he pointed and muttered. Lightning flared from his finger, crackling over the heads of his warriors to dart bright bolts at the rampaging Klar. One by one, the dwarves staggered and fell, blackened and smoking.

The fourth army, though, was in total disarray, runaway horses and runaway men scampering everywhere. Many of them were heading blindly back toward the main force. Kistilan muttered, and the entire fourth army, in their thousands, shimmered and disappeared. On the field were only the bodies of the fallen, not yet faded away, and the smoking remains of the fallen dwarves.

Then, two of those moved, stirred, and sat upright.

Kral Baden shook himself, looked around, and grinned, bright teeth glinting in a soot-blackened face. To the other surviving Klar, he said, “Thought lightning hit us. But no lightning today. No clouds.”

*

The third army of humans had continued to advance and now faced the left flank of the little dwarven line, the lead units only a few hundred yards away.

Lodar Yellowkilt, leading the elite Daewar corps called the Golden Hammer, had heard the drums and had seen the human forces on the west collapse and disappear. The drums were right, then. Of the three human hordes remaining, two were only wizardry – not “real” in dwarven terms, and therefore not truly dangerous. But which ones were the illusions?

Out on the field, human troops were forming, horsemen coming to the fore for a charge against the dwarven footmen. Lodar signaled, and a Hylar drummer raced to him. “Request permission to test this force,” Lodar said.

The drummer beat a quick tattoo on his vibrar, the deep, haunting rhythm rolling upward along the slopes. There was a moment’s hesitation, then a response. “The chief of chiefs gives permission,” the Hylar drummer translated.

“Volunteers!” Lodar called. Instantly, the entire Golden Hammer stepped forward, volunteering.

“Very well.” Lodar nodded. “Full strength.” He pointed. “Those horsemen will charge us,” he said. “Wait for my signal, then form two companies. First company line countercharge, down and defend, then reverse. Second company hold fast. Hammer and anvil.”

“They have lances,” a squad leader pointed out.

“They have no lances,” Lodar said bluntly. “That is only wizardry. They are not there.”

“Aye.” The squad leader grinned. “Like that other bunch those crazy Klar routed.”

Trumpets blared, and a hundred horsemen separated from the human front, trotting as they spread into a long line, each six feet from the next. Lodar Yellowkilt traced the pattern of Reorx on his armored breast and hoped that what he had told the squadman was true. His troops were convinced now that the enemies ahead were nothing more than figments of sorcery.

Lodar hoped earnestly that they were.

The human cavalry line came at a trot, then a canter, and then full gallop as steel-tipped lances leveled out ahead of them. In a moment they had crossed half the field and were midway between their own forces and the dwarven line.

“By the plan!” Lodar shouted. “Charge!”

Shields high and hammers ready, half the Golden Hammer ran toward the charging horsemen, spreading into a spearhead formation, a tight, solid V of racing dwarves.

The human riders, caught off-guard by the unexpected countercharge, hesitated for an instant, and the line became ragged. But then they were galloping again, lances lowering toward the short, stocky targets of the dwarves. Hooves thundering, dwarven boots thumping an echo, the two formations clashed at midfield. Here a lance pierced dwarven armor, there a Daewar ducked beneath a thrust and broke the front legs of a horse with a single hammer blow. Then, abruptly, all the dwarves dropped to the ground, falling backward, their shields over them. Horses thundered over and around them, lances spearing downward, men falling as hammers lashed out from beneath shields, cutting their mounts from under them.

A long second passed, and the charge had swept by, thundering onward toward the second unit of the Golden Hammer, still holding the line. Where the forces had met was a jumble of bodies – men, horses, and dwarves everywhere. But among the dwarves, most raised their shields, jumped to their feet, and turned.

Lodar gritted his teeth in pain, looking at the broken lance head jutting from his breastplate. “It isn’t real,” he told himself fiercely. “It had better not be real.”

All around him, other maimed and pierced dwarves were telling themselves the same thing. And suddenly, lances faded, holes in armor closed, blood stopped flowing. And high on the mountainside beyond, drums sang of what sentinels saw. This army, like the one to the west, was only a figment.

But figment or not, the horsemen were still charging toward the second company of the Golden Hammer. “To the anvil!” Lodar ordered. “Crush formation!”

A solid phalanx of angry Daewar at his back, Lodar Yellowkilt headed after the human horsemen.

Still seventy strong, the horse charge hit the “anvil” of Daergar defense like a scythe hitting wheat … and bounced off like a scythe hitting stone.

With shields braced by stout bats of wood, heeled into solid stone, the Daewar met the horse charge in the way they had learned a century before. Real or not, lances or no, a horse charge cannot break steel shields set in stone. The humans hit the line, lances breaking, and many were thrown from their saddles by the impact. Some horses went over the shields, where their saddles were emptied by sling-balls and hammer blows. Others veered aside, bumping and jostling each other. “Fall back!” a human shouted. “Regroup!”

But it was too late. Like steel-swathed, gold-bearded wrath, the first company of the Golden Hammer hit the riders from behind, crushing them against the “anvil” of the braced line. Everywhere steel clanged on steel, men screamed, horses floundered, and the solid, deep-throated chant of the Golden Hammer echoed: “Re-orx! Re-orx! Re-orx!” Dwarves fell, then stood to fight again. Men fell and did not.

Far out on the field, wizards guiding the replicate army ran here and there in confusion and frustration. The army began to disperse, large groups heading off to find cover, wizards following, bickering among themselves.

In a place where spring thaws had eroded the land along a tiny stream into a maze of high-banked gulches, Slip Codel had been hiding, waiting for a chance to ambush someone. The young Theiwar had become separated from his assigned group, and then had been cut off by the advance of the mercenaries from the east.

Now he crouched low, behind a leaning slab of stone on a tall bank, as hundreds of humans raced past him, some riding and some on foot. Slip watched them pass, many of them within arm’s length of his hiding place, and itched to ambush them. But he was alone, and they were many. After a few minutes, they had all passed, and Slip started to rise. Then he crouched again as a strange-looking man raced around a shoulder of rock and stopped, out of breath and panting. The man was unarmed and wore nothing more than a long dirty robe of white material. With a hiss of anger, he peered at the clefts where the other humans had gone and raised a hand. “Dek seratis,” he said. “Dek manit —”

Whatever else he meant to say went unsaid. Slip Codel’s hammer rapped him on the skull, and the human slumped to the ground.

Slip dropped down beside him and walked around the inert form of the fallen man. The man was still breathing. Slip raised his hammer again, then changed his mind. Slinging his hammer, he crouched beside the man, lifted him across strong shoulders, and stood. With the unconscious human dragging the ground fore and aft, Slip headed for the slopes of Thorbardin. It might be, he felt, that somebody there would like to talk to this human about what was going on.

On the walled ledge outside Southgate, Willen Ironmaul and Damon Omenborn saw the destruction of the horse charge and knew that Lodar Yellowkilt had guessed correctly. They had identified the second conjured army.

Damon, peering through a far-seer devised by Hylar glaziers – magnifying lenses mounted within a brass tube – saw something now that he had not seen before. Far out on the Promontory, where two full identical armies yet remained, a speck hung in the air above one of the hordes. Twisting the ribbed bands of the device, he adjusted the lenses for greater magnification. The speck grew and became a man sitting in a chair … a chair suspended from nothing, simply floating above the humans massed below.

He handed the far-seer to his father, pointing out the speck. Willen gazed through the lenses, then handed the device to Barek.

“One wizard has put himself above the rest,” Damon said. “He is in charge, then.” He turned to his father and the captain general. “If you had four armies and only one was real, which army would you lead?”

“The real one,” Willen Ironmaul said.

“Let’s test your theory,” Barek said to Damon. “It’s time we bring out the discobels.”

Damon nodded.

“I agree,” Willen said. “Let’s find out if the real army has a real wizard in charge.”

At the captain general’s command, drums sounded, and, a short distance down each sloping ramp, dwarves went to work with cables and winches. Slowly, from behind each main guard tower, there appeared a huge contrivance of lashed and braced timbers as tall as the towers themselves. Lumbering on great iron wheels, the two discobels rolled into view, and dwarves clambered up their sides, carrying tools. Winches aloft sang, and high on each tower a long, outthrust arm as thick as the bole of a mountain cedar swung back and back, creaking as cable-springs took the strain of its inertia.

When each arm was drawn back, a quarter of the way around the timber tower, stone anchors were set at the bases of the structures. More dwarves scampered upward, carrying steel-edged iron disks, each three feet across and eight inches thick at its center, tapering outward to the edge, which was a narrow band of tempered steel with sharp teeth three inches long. The things looked like giant, circular saw blades.

Carefully, dwarven tenders set the disks into curved slots at the end of each long, drawn-back arm, then scampered down from the structure, leaving only the throwing crews aloft.

Barek Stone gazed out across the littered field, gauging distances. “Three-fourths of a mile,” he called. “Full elevation.”

“Do these things have that kind of range?” Damon asked his father.

“Not quite,” Willen admitted. “Only about a thousand yards. But Barek knows what he’s doing.”

Damon gazed across the distance and nodded. “Ah,” he said. “The stone and the water?”

“Exactly,” Willen replied.

“The army on the right,” Barek called to the dwarves high on the towers. “The one with the dark speck floating above!”

“We can’t hit that little speck!” someone shouted back. “Rust, Barek! We may be good, but we aren’t that good!”

“Not the speck!” the captain general shouted. “Just hit the army! Aim for the middle, where the humans are thickest.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” the operator above responded. Cables strained, and winches creaked as the lashed arms of the discobel towers were adjusted for maximum elevation, and stop-blocks were set for aim. “Ready!” the voice from above said.

“Then do it!” Barek roared.

With twin crashes like echoing thunder, the discobels came alive. Released arms screamed around in half-arcs, crashed against their stop-blocks, and entire towers of lashed timber shuddered and rumbled. Twin disks soared away, high into the pale sky, then curved downward in the distance.

“They’re falling short!” someone said.

“The stone and the water,” Damon repeated.

At maximum range, the big disks slashed downward. They hit the ground two-thirds of the way toward the army of humans, raising great clouds of dust, and soared again, twin ricochets like two flat stones thrown across the surface of a lake.

In a second, the two disks reached the front ranks of the human horde and smashed through them, spinning and cleaving, slicing through everything in their paths. Men and horses fell – and parts of men and horses. Like howling, spinning reapers, the saw-edged disks clove twin trails of carnage through a hundred yards of mercenaries, cutting off heads in the front ranks, shearing torsos farther back, slicing off legs and feet beyond … then hit the ground and skipped again, taking down more men as they went.

Above the army, the floating speck bobbled as the wizard stood upright on his throne, dancing and waving in fury.

“Nice shots,” Barek Stone rumbled. “Now train that seer on the dead ones. Watch them.”

The army seethed and swirled in panic, but where blood pooled around the hundreds of dead, nothing happened. The dead lay there, trampled by their comrades, and did not shimmer or fade.

“That’s it,” Damon announced. “That is the army we must face. All those other warriors are only illusions.” He raised his glass to watch the floating wizard and shouted, “Guards! Mirrors!”

All along the ramparts, guards reversed their shields, turning the backs of them outward as the air beyond Southgate crackled and flared.

Bolts of sorcerous energy directed at the discobel towers and the dwarves on the main ledge hit the bright mirrors and bounced away. Bolts of lightning shot from the mirrors outward, across the open plain, to dance among the mercenaries gathered there. Smoke erupted, and blazing men ran in all directions, searing and dropping as they ran. The remaining duplicate army, east of the main group, flashed and disappeared.

“That’s a trick I learned from my pet wizard,” Damon told his father.

Chapter 18

WIZARD’S WINGS

Days had passed since Quist Redfeather’s imprisonment in the walled place the dwarves called the Valley of the Thanes, and he had begun to wonder whether the dwarves had forgotten that he was there. The packs and kegs of supplies they had left for him beside a sealed gate were the only signs he had that anybody even knew about him. He had been alone since the night he had watched a burly, angry dwarf use a mage’s own magic to change the mage into a horse.

Through the days, the tall, dour Cobar had wandered the little valley, seeking a way out. Then, giving up on that – a dwarf might climb such walls, but no human ever would – he simply explored to pass the time. He found a place where neat, tended graves marked the burial grounds of the dwarves and wandered through it, wondering. Each short, carefully covered grave was placed in careful symmetry with all the others, and each was marked by a piece of cut stone inscribed with runes that Quist couldn’t read. Despite his anger at the dwarves who had tricked him and imprisoned him in this place, he had no desire to desecrate the graves he found there. Such an act might have occurred to a Sackman or Rik raider, or some other such savage, but not to the proud Cobar. Though the runes told him nothing of who was buried there, they still indicated that each small grave was the resting place of someone who had been cared about … someone who had mattered to those who buried him.

Strangely, it struck Quist as a Cobarlike thing to do, this marking of the graves of the cherished dead. His own people respected their dead, and so, it seemed, did the dwarves. In at least that way, he thought, the dwarves were far more human than many humans he had met – such as those from the northern deserts and those who ruled Xak Tsaroth – especially those who ruled Xak Tsaroth.

What would the High Overlord do to Quist’s family when he failed to return from his mission? The Cobar didn’t know, but it pained him to think about it. Whatever their fate, he would devote his life to getting even.

At times riding the big red horse he called Enchanter – appropriately, since until recently it had been a human wizard – and sometimes afoot, the Cobar roamed the lonely little valley and waited for someone to come, or something to happen. And now it had. With first light of morning he had awakened to see a small yellow banner fluttering on a stick near the wall where his first supplies had been left. The banner marked a fresh stack of supplies, and atop the stack lay all of his weapons – oiled, polished, and unharmed.

He wondered what it meant. Did the dwarves intend to release him soon? Had they already given him a way to freedom that he simply could not see? Or – the thought occurred to him – was something happening beyond the valley that might cause him jeopardy? Were they giving him the chance to defend himself?

The idea wasn’t surprising. In the time he had spent with Damon, Quist had noticed a strange sort of honor in the big dwarf.

Could dwarves have honor? He turned the question over in his mind. Dwarves were not human, but in many of their private ways they were like humans. Could not a people who thought and reasoned as well as humans – and who honored their dead – also understand chivalry?

Whatever the reason, Quist had his weapons back, and throughout the day he roamed the little valley, often looking upward toward the high ramparts of the sheer walls. The day did seem different from the days before. The drums – the dwarven drums, which seemed never still in this land – were extraordinarily busy. Obviously something of note was going on. And once, distantly, on an errant breeze, Quist thought he heard the sound of human trumpets. Twice at least during the day, the air above the valley shimmered and crackled with the taste of magics unleashed.

And he noticed, more and more through the day, that Enchanter followed him around closely, seeming always to be at his heels and often raising a handsome equine head to gaze aloft at the rim of the valley and the open sky above.

The horse seemed to sense things that Quist could not sense. The animal was skittish and nervous. Once, when it sidled against him, he pushed it away, growling, “Quit that! You don’t know anything! You’re just a horse!”

The horse turned its head to stare at him with big, thoughtful eyes, then shook its head violently and whinnied. It almost seemed to be trying to talk, and Quist grinned at it, stroking its neck. “Just can’t speak a spell, can you,” he said. “That’s probably the only thing that keeps you from transforming yourself back into a wizard, and if you did that I’d have to kill you, because if I didn’t, you’d probably try to kill me.”

Again the horse gazed at him thoughtfully. It turned then and ambled away as though forgetting about him. But for an hour afterward, as evening shadows drifted across the valley, he could see the animal stamping around, tossing its head, and he often heard the strange whinnying sound, as though it were trying to talk.

It was nearly dark, and Quist was just building a small fire, when Enchanter came back. In the gloom, the horse stood over him, then lowered its head and nudged him with its nose. He glanced up. “What do you want now? I’m busy!”

He went back to his fire, blowing his kindling alight, and the horse nudged him again, almost pushing him into the fire.

The Cobar stood, frowned, and started to scold the animal, then stopped. Somehow, in the near darkness, it looked different than it had before. He stepped aside, just as his fire caught and gave him light to see. Quist gasped, jumped back, and gripped the hilt of his blade. The horse had wings! Somehow, it had managed to grow a pair of wide, red-feathered wings that unfolded gracefully as he stared, then folded back along its sides.

“You’re still a wizard,” Quist snapped. “You managed a spell!”

The horse nodded, its big eyes studying him.

“You could grow wings, but you couldn’t turn yourself into a human again?”

The horse shook its head sorrowfully.

“Are you going to try to kill me?” The Cobar half drew his blade, crouching.

The horse shook its head determinedly and pawed at the ground.

“Then what do you want?” Quist demanded.

The horse half-turned and sidled toward him, lowering its near wing almost to the ground. When it was only a step away, it curtsied gracefully, extending one foreleg and bending the other, offering him its back. The motion was unmistakable to any horseman.

“You want me to ride you,” Quist muttered.

The horse nodded.

The Cobar hesitated for a second, then with a bound he leapt aboard the horse, his legs tightening around its girth beneath the wings. He drew his sword, raising it over the flowing mane before him. “All right,” he said. “But we aren’t going to hurt each other, are we?”

The horse looked around at him as though he had insulted it, then crouched, sprang, and extended great, beating wings. The ground fell away below, and they flew in a climbing spiral toward the rim of the valley above.

The towering mass of Cloudseeker Peak rose into view, then the Promontory beyond, and Quist whistled. Out there on the great meadow were hundreds of fires – an entire army encamped beneath the stars. And all along the south face of the peak – and on the lower slopes below – were torches and lamps.

The horse rose higher, circling as Quist realized what he was seeing. The dwarves were under siege. An army was at their doorstep, and there had been fighting. Enchanter set his wings and swooped above the south face of the mountain, diving to within fifty yards of the great portal there before climbing away. Quist saw a massive gateway, ranked by hundreds of dwarves in full armor. Some of them pointed upward and shouted, but Enchanter veered to the right and headed out over the broken lands toward the Promontory. The campfires of an army spread before and below, and Quist squinted, then hissed in revulsion as some of the figures around them became clear. “Sackmen!” he muttered. “Sackmen and Rik raiders! Mercenaries!”

Near the center of the great encampment Enchanter set his wings and dived toward a fire apart from all the rest. Around it, many figures stood and sat. A dark-hatted one was speaking, gesturing and waving angrily while the rest listened. Quist realized that none of them carried weapons. Wizards? he wondered.

Still high in the sky, the flying horse wheeled and raced away, back the way they had come. Before Quist realized it, they were over the Valley of the Thanes again, and descending. “No!” he shouted. “We just got out of there! Don’t go back!” But the horse continued to descend, and the valley walls closed around them. At the bottom, Enchanter touched down lightly, and Quist jumped off, waving his sword. “Why did you bring me back here?”

As though in response, the horse folded its wings and ambled toward the little fire the man had left. When it reached the fire, it turned, looked at him, then extended a big delicate hoof, pointing. Beside the fire lay Quist’s shield, dagger-belt, bow, and quiver, just where he had left them. “Oh,” the Cobar said. “Well, thank you for remembering my things.”

*

The day had gone well for the Holgar, all things considered. Blood had been shed, but most of it was human blood. Not counting the bogus “armies” which the dwarves stubbornly considered only mirages – once they had identified them – hundreds of mercenaries had fallen before the discobel disks, and quite a few more in a Daergar attack on the outskirts of their encampment after dark. By the best estimates of all the commanders, dwarven losses during the entire day were about fifty.

And in late evening, word had come to Willen Ironmaul that Northgate was complete, its immense plug installed and in operation. He immediately ordered Northgate closed. Setting the massive plug in place would free additional thousands of guards and workers to help meet the attack on Southgate. Even now, most of the population of Gatekeep, behind Northgate, was streaming southward through the subterranean realm, donning armor as they came.

One disturbing thing still bothered Willen. With word that Northgate was complete, Cale Greeneye came to him. “We have brought the country people to safety here,” the Neidar said. “But we will not stay. We do not belong here, Willen, beneath this weight of stone, any more than you and the other Holgar belong out in the open spaces.”

Willen gazed at his brother-in-law thoughtfully. They had both been Calnar in another time, and they had both been Hylar in the migration across Ansalon. But even then, Cale Greeneye had been different. A person of the mountains and the open skies, he had never been comfortable in the subterranean abodes of the Holgar, and over the years a great many others, of many tribes, had joined him. They had become a different people, the Neidar. Just as the Holgar thanes – Hylar, Daewar, Theiwar, Daergar, and many Klar – were people of the stone, the Neidar were people of the sun. As the Holgar were people of the hammer, so the Neidar were people of the axe.

“Some of us, those with families, will remain here,” Cale said. “But the rest are leaving. We have done what we can within Thorbardin. From this point, we would only be in the way.”

Willen nodded and extended a hand. “Take the horses, then, Cale,” he said. “Take them and make good use of them.”

Some time later, Willen heard that the Neidar had left Thorbardin, and Northgate had closed behind them.

There was still the concern about magical assault – that wizards might somehow circumvent the sealed plug at either gate – but spotters with far-seeing lens tubes had been at work all day, up near the crag, counting mages. It was a fair guess that at least for now the entire assault on Thorbardin – wizards and all – was concentrated on Southgate. So only a small company of guards and operators remained at Northgate.

In all, it had been a successful day in the defense of Thorbardin. But it was only the first day, and there was still an army out there on the Promontory, an army that numbered at least six thousand organized human raiders and more than a hundred wizards.

“We have won a day,” Willen Ironmaul told Barek Stone. “But we have not won a war. Today they played with illusions and had a look at some of our defenses. Tomorrow they will get serious.”

On the sloping rampart below the main ledge, there were shouts and a scuffle. Guards raised lanterns, and those on the ledge saw a struggling group coming toward them – a dozen or more burly Theiwar dragging a white-robed human among them, pushing and prodding him. The man was muttering things, and now and then several dwarves floated upward a foot or two, then descended angrily, swearing in true Theiwar fashion. For a moment, two or three Theiwar seemed to glow with an eerie light. Then another grew bat wings and sprouted fangs which curved down over his beard.

“Stop that!” a Theiwar snapped, delivering a well-placed kick at the man’s shin. The human howled, muttered something, and the kicker’s head became, momentarily, that of a rabbit. Another Theiwar reached up, grabbed the man’s beard, and bent him down to slap him across the cheek with a hard hand. “You heard us,” the dwarf said. “Stop that!”

The man glared around at the dwarves, muttered something else, and seemed to disappear. His captors clung stubbornly to empty air and continued their struggling journey. “It’s all right,” one called. “He isn’t gone. He just invisibled himself. He’s done that several times.”

Damon Omenborn hurried down the rampart to stop them before they reached the gate. “Where did you get this one?” he asked.

“Slip caught him out in the breaks,” a captor said, indicating a long-armed young Theiwar who was clinging grimly to some unseen part of the unseen captive.

“He’s still here,” Slip Codel assured the big Hylar. “Here, I’ll show you.” He reached up, groping in empty air, then with two fingers he pried open invisible eyelids. Between his fingers, a glaring eye appeared. “I don’t think magickers can invisible their eyes,” the young Theiwar explained. “If they’re open, you can always see them.”

“Interesting.” Damon noted that by squinting he could vaguely see the outline of the wizard. The invisibility was, after all, only magic, and Damon had learned that the more obstinately he refused to accept magic, the less effective it seemed to be.

“Who are you?” he asked the glaring eye between Slip Codel’s fingers.

“None of your business,” an angry voice growled. “Delatas sepit mikti …”

“Chapak!” Damon finished, pointing a strong finger at the eye.

The unseen mage squealed, thrashed, and became abruptly visible, standing in the midst of a swarm of bees.

“Hold him!” Damon said. “Ignore the bees; they aren’t real!”

The Theiwar kept their grips on the struggling, howling man. “Wow!” Slip said. “Did you do that, Damon?”

“No, he did. But he intended to do it to me.”

“Ka – kapach!” the wizard stuttered, flailing against the bees swarming around him. The bees continued to swarm, stinging him mercilessly. “H-h-help!” he cried. “P-plea-please … help!”

“Help how?” Damon asked casually.

“S-s-say ‘Ka-k-k-ah-k-kapach!’”

“Will you behave yourself?”

“I w-w-will! I-I s-sw-swear! Ow!”

“Kapach,” Damon said. Instantly, the bees were gone, though red welts were rising all over the man.

“You should take up another trade,” Damon noted. “You aren’t very good at magic.” He pointed out across the dark Promontory with its myriad distant fires. “Who’s in charge out there?”

“K-Kisti-Kistilan,” the wizard said. His stutter was becoming more pronounced.

“Is he the one in the floating chair?”

“Th-that’s-uh-that’s him.”

“What does he want?”

“He w-wants this p-puh-place,” the unhappy wizard said. His face was beginning to swell grotesquely from bee stings. “The r-r-rest of us w-uh-want the S-st-stone of Th-uh-thr-three-threes. Kis-Kistilan w-wants uh-Th-Thorbardin.”

“None of you can have either one,” Damon assured him.

“You c-can’t st-s-uh-s-stand against m-m-magic!” the man snapped. “You-y-you’re foo-f-fools to th-th-think you c-ca-c-uh-can.”

“Are we?” The Hylar pointed at the man again. “Delatas sepit mikti …”

“N-n-no!” the wizard shrieked.

Damon grinned at him, then lowered his hand.

“H-how … how did y-you, uh, l-l-learn that?” the man quavered, stammering uncontrollably.

“I learned it from you just a moment ago. I have an excellent memory.”

*

With the coming of dark, most of the forces on the outer line had withdrawn to the nearer perimeter to rest and have their supper. The humans, as night-blind as any Daewar or Hylar, were not likely to move until morning. But here the dwarven commanders had failed to reckon on the wizards. An hour before first moonrise, trumpets sounded on the near slopes, and attack forces of human mercenaries charged the outer dwarven camps, following patches of eerie light that lit the ground ahead of them as moonlight through openings in the clouds might light a stormy night.

Only intense discipline saved the Golden Hammer – farthest out on the main trail slope – from annihilation. Several hundred Sackmen warriors, guided by the skills of wizards, came out of darkness and fell upon the Daewar brigade with howls of triumph and the clashing of metal blades.

Had the surprised Daewar been any other non-Hylar unit, they would have been massacred. But at the first hint of attack, even before Lodar Yellowkilt could call orders, the Daewar footmen had leapt into circle formation, forming a solid, double ring of steel shields and steel blades. Some of the Sackmen got through the first ring as dwarves fell before hand-darts and singing long swords, but none got through the second ring. For long minutes, the fighting was furious, steel ringing on steel, the war cries of the mercenaries a wild counterpoint to the chanting of the fighting dwarves as their blades snaked out from behind their shields and came back dripping red.

The outer ring was breached once, and then again, and yet again, but each time, dwarves from the inner ring moved up to fill the gaps. Within the circle, dwarven slings hummed as slingers sailed round after round of iron shot into the press of humans. And at the center of his troops, Lodar Yellowkilt stood atop a water keg, deflecting arrows and darts with shield, helm, and bracelets as he squinted at the line of combat lit by magical glare. He saw an intense push by humans forming just beyond the south side of his ring and shouted, “Downtrail quadrant, break and charge!”

Just as the humans at that point rushed the circle of dwarves, the circle bulged outward toward them, ranked shields parted suddenly, and a chanting flood of dwarves charged out, shields high, directly into the face of the attack. The two charges met and bored into each other, then the humans withdrew. Slingers pelted them from behind as they ran.

In the broken gullies south of the main trail slope, the human surprise attack was not as successful. These were old hunting grounds of the wild Theiwar, and the Theiwar holding the sector now were well acquainted with them. It was here that a hundred or so invaders learned what some of their ancestors had learned in times past: the specialty of the Theiwar was ambush.

The humans, roughly a hundred mercenaries and two or three wizards, charged into the breaks, aiming at the peaceful cook-fires just ahead. By the time they saw that the fires were unattended, it was too late to turn back. Slim Theiwar blades and dark-iron Theiwar hammers ran red with blood on that night, and very few of the attackers escaped.

Daergar night-fighters, on their way back from harassing the human camps, were not as fortunate as the Theiwar. A blaze of eerie light caught most of them with their masks off and blinded them as two squadrons of invaders raced among them, slashing and cutting. The Daergar skirmishers left nearly forty dead on that bloody field – almost half their company.

It was mixed infantry that stood off the mobs of humans who made it almost to the ramparts. Under direct command of Barek Stone, four companies of Thorbardin guards formed ranks below the sloping roads, and the humans who made it there, past several other dwarven units, were no match for them. The fighting lasted no more than minutes, and then the invaders turned and disappeared into sudden darkness.

The surprise attacks had not reached Thorbardin, but, added to the fighting of the day before, they had taken their toll. Of twelve hundred dwarves who had formed the outer defense the previous morning, no more than a thousand remained. Willen Ironmaul heard the reports and called in the guard units to form an intense cordon on the main slopes, from the west rampart to the east one, and it was there, battered and bloodied, that the defenders waited for morning light.

Chapter 19

THE DAY OF DESTINY

Dawn’s first banners, rising above the plains of southern Ergoth, revealed a grim panorama below Southgate of Thorbardin. Hundreds of morning fires wove layers of smoke above the lower slopes of Cloudseeker Peak, where thousands of human warriors massed, making ready for all-out assault on the dwarven fortress. No longer concentrated on the distant Promontory, the human hordes had moved forward through the night, gaining ground in skirmish after skirmish, until the open meadows were behind them and just ahead were the massive slopes of the fortress mountain.

By first light, the human invaders prepared their attack, while barely a quarter mile ahead of them, and a thousand feet up, dwarves by the hundreds poured forth from the portal of Southgate to stream down the sloped ramparts and reinforce the defensive positions on the face of the mountain, desperately close to their final barricade – Southgate.

Willen Ironmaul and the Council of Thanes had determined that Thorbardin must be defended from without for as long as possible. “Only if we hold the slopes,” Willen advised the council, “can we avoid a state of closed siege. If we have to, we will retreat within and close the gate. But when that is done, we can no longer fight. We will be trapped within our own fortress, and the realm beyond will be undefended. Reorx forbid, but if it comes to barricading ourselves in Thorbardin, Kal-Thax will be lost.”

A closed siege, the thane leaders agreed, would be the end of the dwarven realm in the Kharolis mountains. The greatest strength of Thorbardin – its impenetrability – was at the same time its greatest weakness as a custodial fortress for the realm around it. There were only two practical entrances, Southgate and Northgate. If the gates were both closed, and no one could get in, then neither could anyone get out.

Once Thorbardin was closed, the humans could mount siege on both gates indefinitely – and in the meantime they could loot, plunder, and occupy all the lands Thorbardin was built to protect. And the dwarven forces, within their subterranean stronghold, could do nothing about it. Without the presence of Thorbardin and its fighting forces, the lands of the Einar and the burgeoning settlements of the Neidar would be lost. Thorbardin itself might survive – for a time – but Kal-Thax would not. Thus it was decided that, though Northgate was now closed, Southgate would remain open at all costs as long as there were dwarves enough to defend it. Closing the great gate would be the final retreat and the last resort.

By calling up all the reserves, Thorbardin’s outside forces could almost equal those massed out on the slope. But the talking drums said that more humans were crossing Ergoth now, drawn by news of war and dreams of plunder. Through border traders, the knights of Ergoth had sent warning. Something was happening within the human city of Xak Tsaroth. The overlords’ minions had withdrawn behind the walls, the city had been closed, and no news came from there. Now only the scattered outposts of the human knights stood between roving hordes and the road to the west, and the knights had their hands full defending their own lands.

Effectively, the warning was that the dwarves were on their own now, and may the gods protect them.

It was a grim and determined Damon Omenborn who stepped through the final gateway on this morning. He wore full field armor beneath a gray cloak, and in the crook of his arm he carried the red-crested helmet that had belonged to Mace Hammerstand. He carried both sword and hammer, and the shield slung behind his shoulder was emblazoned with the hammer-and-fist legend of the Roving Guard. Behind him, two hundred similarly armed and similarly grim young dwarves filed into view.

Cable Graypath, First of the Ten, recognized the chief’s son and bowed slightly in recognition of the proud symbol he wore, then stepped aside. Beyond him, Willen Ironmaul turned, and his eyes narrowed at the sight of his son. “What is this?” he growled. “Damon, who appointed you captain of the Roving Guard?”

“They did,” Damon said, returning his father’s frown with one just as strong and determined. “The survivors of Mace Hammerstand’s force. They came to me after nightfall and asked my pledge. I gave it. Mace was my friend.”

“I see,” the chief of chiefs said. “Well, as leader of the Roving Guard, it is your right to choose your duty. Have you a choice?”

“The wizards,” Damon replied without hesitation. “I have seen them, I have dealt with them, and I have taught the Roving Guard what I know. I seek leave to concentrate my forces on the magic-makers among our enemies.”

“The wizard Kistilan?” Barek Stone asked.

“He is my primary target,” Damon said.

“The wizards hide behind their hordes,” Willen said, scowling. “How can you get to them?”

“Let me try,” Damon urged. “No one else is better equipped to fight them. I have tasted their vile magic. I have even learned a little of it.”

Willen sighed. There could be no argument on that score. His son was right. “But I had counted on having you here,” he said. “If the wizards get past us … if any of them should get inside the gate …”

“Trust Gem Bluesleeve,” Damon said. “That wily Daewar has a plan for that.”

“I know of his plan.” Willen shuddered. “I hope I never have to see it put to practice.” He gazed at his big son, then shrugged and clapped him on his metal-clad shoulder. “The members of the Roving Guard were within their rights to select you, Damon. And you are within your rights to name your own assignment. Very well, you are so ordered. Just …”

When his father turned away without continuing, Damon asked, “Just what?”

“Nothing,” Willen growled, not looking around. “Nothing more than I would ask of any warrior of Thorbardin. Take care of yourself … Damon Omenborn.”

Damon saluted, the closed-fist salute of the Hylar, then turned and strapped Mace Hammerstand’s crested helm onto his head. With no further formalities, Damon marched away, down the eastern rampart, toward the old Theiwar trails. Grim and determined, his volunteers – for that was the nature of the Roving Guard, all were volunteers – marched at his back. To a dwarf, they were remembering Mace Hammerstand and the awful thing that had killed him – a thing brought forth upon Kal-Thax by the conniving and plotting of wizards.

*

Assisted by magic, human engineers had been at work in the forests flanking the eastern Promontory, and not siege engines rolled forward across the meadows – catapults, sling-rams, and caissons creeping along on wheels and runners in the shadows of tall, shielded towers which could each hold and protect a dozen ranks of archers and darters.

The first such tower to come within range was cut to rubble by disks from the great discobels on the dwarves ramparts, but stones from catapults showered the discobels in return, smashing the frame of one of them so that it yawed, tipped, and fell crashing from the high rampart, tearing itself to pieces on the rockfall slope below The second discobel was withdrawn for repair, and dwarven slingers flanking the main guard towers concentrated their fire on the humans’ near engines, driving back their crews and footmen.

One slung catapult was abandoned three hundred yards from the western rampart, and when human foot men from the near ranks ran out to retrieve it they were met by a company of the dwarven home guard fresh from the citadel of Gatekeep. Fierce, hand-to-hand fighting ensued, sweeping this way and that along the wide paved staging area. Human and dwarf warriors met and mingled, swords slashing, hammers flashing, shield ringing with the song of deadly conflict.

Hand to hand and eye to belt buckle, the tall, savage people of the plains threw themselves upon the short stocky people of the mountains and met a grim, determined resistance as fierce as their own attack. Shield high and weapons whining, the dwarves drove into the human ranks like wedges of short demons, and many a human learned the truth of the legends – that inch for inch a dwarf was both heavier and stronger than a human and that dwarven steel was the finest in the world.

In the thick of the melee, Theiwar workers made their way to the abandoned catapult, defended it with sledges swung by massive arms, and turned it.

Seeing what the Theiwar were doing, the home guard responded, gradually changing the pattern of the conflict from random melee to a purposeful herding of the humans. The guard spread into lines, swept forward along two fronts of the human assault, and, blow by blow, drove the tall people back, compacting them against their own kind. Wielding weapons and prybars furiously, the dozen Theiwar – they had numbered twenty when they first reached the catapult – lowered the engine’s elevating blocks and anchored its trailing runners, then shouted in unison, “Now!”

As the home guards turned and raced away, the catapult was released, point-blank, directly into the crowded human defense. Its missile, a two-hundred-pound stone, carved a yard-wide path of death through the crowd, and the home guards turned again, rushed upon the survivors, and renewed their attack.

Humans turned to flee, and the retreat became a rout until the pursuing dwarves were flanked by other units of the human army and cut down from both sides.

Lodar Yellowkilt’s Golden Hammer charged into the thick of this new fight, a murderous, solid rank of bright shields, bright cloaks, and bright blades, scattering humans as it went.

As though the widening conflict at the western staging flat were a signal, the human army launched an all-out attack all along the dwarven defensive front. For long minutes the dwarven lines held, meeting every thrust with good dwarven steel. But as each human fell, a dozen more swarmed in to take his place, and the dwarves began to retreat, step by step, crouching and shielding, slashing and pounding as they worked their way backward up the narrowing stage-ways toward the ramparts themselves.

One large group of barbarians, breaking away from the rest, launched a direct attack between the ramparts. Using picks, throw-hooks, and climbing lines they headed directly for the gateway ledge two hundred feet above. Barek Stone watched them come, swarming up the steep slope, and waited until most of them were committed, clinging to their lines, before responding. At his order, a hinged shelf atop the ledge wall tipped upward, dwarves with prybars behind it, and dozens of open casks filled with burning lamp oil cascaded down on the climbers. Walls of fire blazed up from the sedge and brush below, and the screaming humans disappeared into the fire.

Catapult stones and tumbling log rams arced above the furious combat at the lower ramparts to smash into the dwarven guard towers. One of the human archers’ towers rolled into place, and volleys of arrows streamed from it, seeking the dwarves above on the ledge and those along the climbing ramparts. Most of the bolts caromed off dwarven shields, but here and there, a few buried themselves in dwarven flesh.

Vicious hand-darts, the favored weapon of Sackmen raiders, hissed through the turmoil like striking vipers, deadly in their accuracy. All along the front, human raiders pushed forward, driving the dwarves ever back, up the staging areas and onto the ramparts themselves, relentless human hordes following and pushing.

The second discobel, hastily repaired, rolled forth from behind a guard tower, dwarves falling from its timbers as arrows and darts found them. But as they fell, others climbed, and the tower was aligned, armed, and discharged, its crackling thunder echoing above the turmoil below. The great, toothed iron disk flashed in high sunlight for an instant, then collided with the human archers’ tower, cutting cleanly through half its timbers. The tower tilted, timbers groaning and cables singing as they broke, then collapsed straight down upon itself, carrying its human occupants with it.

Fresh marauders, coming up from behind, veered around the wreckage and its screaming, bleeding victims as they ran to strengthen the attacking forces.

For an hour the fighting raged unchecked, and then another hour, and Willen Ironmaul saw, bleakly, that the dwarves had lost fully half the frontal space they had set out to defend. The massive human army pressed forward relentlessly. Clearly now, Willen could see the wizards behind them, driving them on.

The humans fought like maniacs. They were obviously only mercenaries, but the way they threw themselves into battle was awesome. It was as though they were driven by devils, and Willen realized that what he was seeing was the power of magic on the human mind. Somehow, the wizards had altered their warriors so that each seemed to see himself as invincible and invulnerable. Without the wizards, these human marauders would have faltered long since. But the spells that had been put upon them drove them on relentlessly.

Suddenly the chief of chiefs saw something else and pointed.

Sweeping in from the Promontory, behind the human ranks, was a thundering arc of mounted dwarves, nearly a thousand in number.

“The Neidar!” Willen shouted. “Cale Greeneye has brought the Neidar!”

Scattering surprised wizards and stunned laggards, the Neidar charge hit the rear of the human assault and collapsed it inward. Like legions of death, the grim open-sky dwarves drove into the enemy, broad axes flashing steel-bright and blood-red, their war horses white-eyed and back-eared as they kicked humans aside and trampled the fallen.

It was only a quick slash-and-run attack and ended before most of the humans realized what had hit them, but it was enough to break the momentum of the assault. Humans withdrew everywhere, backing away warily. The dwarves in front of the fortress regained their formations and mounted new defenses at the very aprons of the stronghold’s mighty ramparts.

Out on the verge of the Promontory, the Neidar strikers wheeled their mounts in salute, and drums spoke above the noise of battle and withdrawal. Ignoring a hasty volley of arrows from below, Willen Ironmaul climbed to the top of the gate-ledge wall and raised an arm in salute. In the distance, Cale Greeneye responded, then wheeled his forces and headed eastward, down the Promontory toward the distant border of Ergoth.

Like Willen, he had heard the sentinel drums in the night and was on his way to repel the wandering marauders crossing Ergoth toward Kal-Thax in hope of gaining spoils from the fighting there.

Casually blocking a final arrow with his shield, Willen Ironmaul, chief of chiefs of Thorbardin, jumped from the wall to the protected ledge and told Barek Stone, “Cale has given us a few minutes to regroup. Make good use of the time. The humans will attack again as soon as they catch their breaths.” He turned, then, shading his eyes to look out across the bloody fields of battle. In the distance, beyond the masses of human invaders, something new was happening. Grabbing a far-seer, he set it to his eye and saw the red crests and gray cloaks of the members of the Roving Guard, moving fast, spreading into an assault line.

“It’s Damon,” the chief of chiefs muttered. “Damon has found the wizards.”

*

By old Theiwar trails and Daewar traders’ routes, the volunteers of the Roving Guard had bypassed the masses of human warriors pressing upon Thorbardin and come to its rearmost lines just as the Neidar horsemen plunged into the assault there.

Seeing what Cale was doing, Damon had held his volunteers back, then moved in swiftly behind the Neidar, cutting down a few dozen scattered defenders to concentrate on the wizards running about in confusion.

Ignoring their “magics,” the Roving Guard cut out, separated, and began rounding up the practitioners of high sorcery, herding and driving them, pushing them out onto the Promontory, farther and farther from the human forces they had been directing. Not all of the wizards fell into their sweep. Some – perhaps many – were still with the barbarian army, protected by its ranks. But Damon had not expected to get all of them. His hope was only to find and separate enough of the magic-users that their absence would soon be noticed. By the time Damon looked back, to estimate a half mile of distance from the nearest marauders, his trotting wedge of determined dwarves had nearly fifty motley, raging humans running ahead of them, spitting spells and shouting curses.

All around, fires erupted on the landscape. Lightning flared, and illusions tangled with illusions. The day went from day to night and back to day again; monsters grew from clumps of brush; rain pelted down through bright sunlight; and dwarf after dwarf seemed to turn into something else, but stubbornly kept moving.

At one point, Damon seemed to be flanked by a seething gargoyle and a porcupine, and at another point it seemed that he, himself, was sprouting doors and shingles. But the single-minded rejection of spells that he had drilled into the survivors of Mace Hammerstand’s proud legion held strong, and the mages scampered ahead of the determined line, at the mercy of blades, shield edges, and heavy hammers if they lagged.

Caught completely off-guard, the wizards fled in confusion, their spells interfering with one another far more than with the purposes of the determined dwarves. Some of them didn’t survive. Hammers and swords put an end to some spells before they were completed, and the fallen wizards lay forgotten on the ground like crumbs dropped by a busy cartman having lunch as he worked.

A mile out onto the Promontory, Damon and the Roving Guard herded the wizards up a knoll, within clear view of the besieged and the besiegers on the mountain slopes, and halted them there.

“What do you think you’re doing, dwarf?” an angry magic-user demanded. “You can’t get away with this, you know!”

“We have so far,” Damon pointed out.

Quickly, with a wave of his hand, the mage muttered a spell and smiled in satisfaction. “Now, before you all die, just out of curiosity, why did you bring us out here? What did you think to gain from us?”

“What did you do, just then?” Damon asked.

“The spell? I summoned Kistilan. He is the favored of the Scions, with powers beyond most. He will deal with you. But I asked you, what did you want of us?”

“I have what I wanted,” Damon assured him. “You just gave it to me.” With a raised hand, he signaled his guards. Grinning savagely, the gray-cloaked dwarves moved in on their captives, some of them pulling the men down, others wielding their hammers. Some of the wizards might eventually recover from the taps their skulls received that day; others would not. The power of a hammer is in the arm that swings it, and the purpose of the swing is in the mind behind that arm.

Within seconds, Damon Omenborn and his Roving Guard stood alone on the knoll, surrounded by dead and unconscious wizards. As one, then, they turned to look northward. A dot had appeared there, in the air above the lower slopes, and was growing in size as it sped toward them.

Kistilan the Dark, Kistilan the Deadly, Kistilan the Would-be Conqueror, intended ruler of Thorbardin – Kistilan who was one of only a few given the favor of the Scions and the force of elemental magics – had heard the summons from the captured wizards. Kistilan was coming now, to strike down the arrogant dwarves who had dared to defy him.

Chapter 20

FAVORED OF THE POWERS

Within moments of the departure southward of the dark mage, Kistilan, the relentless, fanatical attack on the slopes below Southgate began to falter – at first only a little, but enough for the defending dwarves to notice a change in the intensity of the human marauders. It was as though, here and there, groups of them became confused and uncertain, pausing in their attacks, shifting to defense as they gaped at the strewn bodies of their own kind all around them.

It was Quill Runebrand, the lorekeeper, who suggested a reason. Quill had come to Southgate carrying an armload of scrolls in which he had recorded all that Damon Omenborn had earlier reported about the nature of magic. He was hoping to question the big Hylar about the strange “double vision” which illusionary sorcery seemed to create. Quill had missed Damon, though he arrived in time to see the Neidar attack on the humans’ rear forces and to get a glimpse through a lens tube of the Roving Guard rounding up wizards.

The little he saw, before a burly Daewar took the lens tube away from him, answered his questions. He saw one of the Roving Guard change abruptly into a tusked ogre and realized that he could see both the “ogre” illusion and the reality of the guard as he actually was, simultaneously. He scribbled furiously at a scroll, jotting down his observation, then looked up again in time to see the floating magician – or magician on the floating chair – soar off to the south.

Occupied with such thoughts, it seemed obvious to the scrollster what it meant when – as Willen Ironmaul noted – the human horde seemed to lose its momentum.

“Some of those companies are without their wizards,” Quill said. “They are seeing the field now as it really is, rather than as they have been made to believe, and they don’t like it. There are a lot of dead humans down there.”

Barek Stone turned to gaze curiously at him, then nodded. “He may have something there,” he told Willen. “There aren’t many wizards left among them, and they must have their hands full.”

“Worry about the reasons later,” the chief of chiefs rumbled. “Drummers! Sound general advance!”

The drums sang a fast tattoo, and all along the slope dwarven companies pushed forward, beating and slashing at the hordes of humans before them. With their short, sturdy statures, and the downhill slope in their favor, the dwarves pushed the human assault backward down the hill, and at several points the human defenders turned and ran in panic.

“Locate the wizards,” Willen told his spotters. “Damon didn’t get them all. Where are the rest?”

As though in answer to his question, human heads appeared suddenly, directly before him across the ledge wall, and a long arm drove a flashing blade toward his neck. Barely in time, the chief of chiefs got his shield up to deflect the killing cut. The sword clanged on steel, flashed above his head, and Willen continued the shield motion, hurling himself forward, half across the low wall of the ledge, to drive the corner of his shield into the man’s face. Blood spurted, the man screamed and toppled backward … and disappeared.

In a glance, Willen saw that the man had been standing on a flat stone, levitated upward by sorcery. And there were three others still on the stone. Willen rolled aside as a spiked cudgel smashed down upon the wall where he had been and saw Barek Stone’s sword flick past him to skewer the second attacker. The third was raising a sword when a heavy lens tube bounced off the side of his head, hurling him from the stone. Then Willen was face-to-face with the one man remaining on the floating stone, and his eyes narrowed. The man was unarmed, but by his stance and his look of concentration, the chief of chiefs knew him. A wizard. The man started to mutter a spell, and suddenly someone dashed past Willen, over the wall and onto the flying stone.

Quill Runebrand, babbling in his excitement, grabbed the wizard’s beard, pulled his head down, and thrust the small end of a lens tube roughly into his mouth. The spell was never completed, and the man’s levitation-hold was broken. The stone plunged downward, and Willen grabbed wildly. A hundred and fifty feet below, stone and wizard thudded onto the downward slope as Willen Ironmaul, belly-down on the ledge wall, clung to the wrist of a flailing, kicking lorekeeper.

With a heave, the big Hylar pulled Quill to safety and stared at him in disbelief. “Are you a complete fool?” he demanded. “Jumping out onto the floating stone was …”

“Stones don’t float.” Quill glared at his chief. “It’s just as Damon said. Magic exists, but it isn’t real.”

“And that stone wasn’t up here, floating in the air with people riding on it?”

“Of course not. Stones don’t do that.”

“Then what kind of imbecile jumps onto a stone that doesn’t float, a hundred and fifty feet up in the air?”

“That’s the point,” Quill started, then went pale above his whiskers. “Oh. Uh, well …” He stood on tiptoes to look over the wall at the slope below. There, straight down, were the fragments of the fallen stone and the crushed bodies of three human mercenaries and a wizard. “Gods!” Quill muttered.

All along the ramparts, guards were watching for more floating stones, but no others appeared.

“We count at least two dozen unarmed humans down there,” a spotter reported. “We assume they’re wizards. But they are scattered all over. The only group we see is down past the bluff. Six of them … no, seven now … have gotten together. They are arguing or something. They … Uh-oh!”

“What?” Willen turned.

“That group of wizards.” A dwarf with a lens tube pointed. “They were right down there. Then they all said something together, and they just disappeared.”

Above the heads of the dwarves, the air seemed to crackle for an instant, and a Theiwar guard turned toward the gate. “They’ve gotten inside,” he said. “Somehow, they’ve transported themselves past us. They are in Thorbardin.”

Behind the ledge, beyond the huge gate, there were shouts and the sounds of pounding feet, then the unmistakable rattle of missiles flying from murder holes within the great chamber of Anvil’s Echo. Moments passed, and dwarves ran from the open gate, waving excitedly. “There are humans in the main tunnel!” the first one reported. “We don’t know how they got there. They just … just suddenly appeared.”

“How many?” Barek Stone demanded.

“Ah …” The new arrivals glanced at one another, whispered together, and the first one said, “Seven, we think. At least there were. Three of them appeared on the catwalk. The other four were just beyond. The three on the catwalk are dead now, but the other four vanished again, and we don’t know where they are.”

“Inside,” Willen muttered.

More dwarves were pouring out from Southgate now – hundreds of them, as though fleeing for their lives.

“What are you people doing?” Barek Stone demanded. “Where are you going?”

“Out here,” a Daewar said. “Gem Bluesleeve’s orders. He said if any humans got in, past the gate and the catwalk, then everybody in the gatehouse was to get outside.”

From the great, gaping gateway came an ominous rumbling sound, like the turning of a gigantic screw within sockets. A last few dwarves scampered from the opening, and the massive gate-plug drove itself into place just behind them, sealing the gate with a solid wall of steel-clad stone. The chunk of its closing had a hollow, final sound.

“Well, that does it,” Willen muttered. “Damon said to trust Gem Bluesleeve. I guess now we have no choice.”

The sight of the great gate closing drew stares all along the upper and lower slopes, and the fighting there renewed itself as howling gangs of humans surged forward against the advancing dwarves. Within a minute, fierce hand-to-hand conflict raged all along the swale below the ramparts and out onto the slopes on either side.

On the eastern embankments, a battalion of masked Daergar massed a charge at a rank of human fighters, hitting them so fiercely that they went all the way through the line, then found themselves cut off from retreat as the humans closed in behind them. For long moments it was a standoff – the humans battered and bloody, hesitating to subject themselves again to such ferocity, while the steel-masked dwarves formed a tight ring and waited for the attack. Then from the ring a square, burly dwarf with massive wrists stepped forward, holding a bloody miner’s pick.

Pyrr Steelpick, boss of the shafts, was thoroughly exasperated with the entire situation. Pointing a blunt finger at the nearest humans, he shouted, “What do you people think you’re doing here? Why don’t you go home where you belong?”

The challenge was so unexpected that the humans just stared at him, and some started laughing.

“Well,” the irritated miner demanded, “why are you here?”

“For money, dink,” a tall warrior shouted back. “We fight for hire.”

“What kind of money?” Pyrr goaded the man. “Rocks?”

“Good coin, dink!” the man said. He pulled forth a shiny coin and held it high. “This kind of money!”

“That’s nothing but a pebble!” the Daergar jeered.

“Pebble?” The man looked at his coin, frowning. “This is no pebble! This is a bronze hundred-point coin!”

“Do you all have them?”

“Of course we all have them! We don’t fight for free!”

Scowling behind his mask, Pyrr pointed his pick toward a dead human lying almost at the man’s feet. “Does he have coins like that? Take a look at them!”

Curious, and glad for the chance to regain his breath before fighting dwarves again, the man crouched beside the fallen body and withdrew a pouch from the dead man’s tunic. “Here they are,” he said. “See, we all have …”

He had opened the pouch, and upended it. The men around him stared in disbelief. What fell from the pouch was nothing more than a few pebbles.

“You’ve been swindled,” the dwarf snapped. “Those wizards don’t have any coins. They make stones look like coins, but they’re still only stones. I’ve seen that before. You people have been fighting and dying for pebbles.”

*

Out on the Promontory, Damon Omenborn and the Roving Guard watched in fascination as the enthroned wizard, Kistilan, floated toward them. The chair in which he sat was an elaborate, ornate high-backed thing, encrusted with gems and bits of bright metal. The wizard was a large man, his features shadowed by a wide, dark hat. When he was a hundred feet away, the chair settled to a position a dozen feet above the ground, and Kistilan gazed at the armed dwarves and their sleeping captives. “Fools,” he muttered. “Overcome by simple dwarves!”

“Speak up, spell-crafter!” the nearest dwarf demanded. “I can’t hear you.”

Kistilan fixed his gaze on the speaker – a powerfully built, brightly armored creature slightly larger than most dwarves he had seen. But still only a dwarf. Casually, the wizard muttered a spell and pointed his finger at the insolent creature. But even as he did, the dwarf turned his wide shield, displaying its concave backside. The spell lashed out as a thunderbolt and reflected directly back at Kistilan. The mage stiffened, gasped, and glowed with a greenish light as little lightnings crackled around him. It was over in a second, but he found himself gasping for breath. He glared at the dwarf and snapped, “So that’s what you did earlier? Mirrors? How did you learn that?”

“I have been studying sorcerers,” the dwarf said with a scowl of disgust, as though admitting that he had been mired in manure.

Kistilan’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re the one! Sigamon said a dwarf killed Tantas. That was you.”

“Tantas?” Damon hesitated. “Oh, yes. That one. An evil man. I defended myself against him.”

Kistilan glared at the dwarf. “And now you are interfering with others of my company. How have you brought these … No, never mind how. Why have you brought these brothers of sorcery out here to this place?”

“It was the only way I could think of to lure you out here,” Damon told him honestly. “It worked. You’re here.”

“So I am.” The wizard glared at him. “So, what do you want with me?”

“To get rid of you, once and for all,” Damon said. “Will you leave these lands?”

“You …” Kistilan hesitated in disbelief. “You think you can threaten me?”

“I just did,” Damon pointed out. “Will you leave, or will you die?”

“You arrogant runt!” the wizard roared. “Des domenet bes! Cha …!”

“Kapach!” Damon shouted.

“… pak!” the wizard finished, then gasped as a winged thing with enormous teeth and claws plummeted toward him, coming out of nowhere. “Kapach deset!” he hissed. The winged thing faded into smoke, but blood ran from scratches on the wizard’s cheek where its claws had reached him.

“Another kind of mirror,” Damon explained.

“Pestilence!” Kistilan shrieked. “Dwarf, you will die for this!” Enraged, he raised a hand, opened his mouth, and tumbled a dozen feet to the hard ground. Damon had held his attention so thoroughly that several soldiers of the Roving Guard were able to get beneath the floating throne. With a climbing hook and line, they had snared the chair and jerked it out from under the wizard.

Kistilan was still recovering from his tumble when a heavy dwarf landed on top of him. With powerful hands, Damon rolled the man over onto his stomach, then straddled his shoulders, raising his hammer. For a second, he hesitated.

The instant’s hesitation was all Kistilan needed. Calling on powers that very few mages had been given, or even knew about, he summoned darkness and chaos, and hurled it outward from himself.

One instant, Damon was astraddle the fallen wizard. The next, he found himself tumbling through a murky, stifling nothingness, with unseen terrors tearing at him from every side. His hammer was flung away, and he felt his armor being ripped open. With every ounce of will, he rejected the spell, knowing with dogged determination that it was only magic. But he had never encountered magic like this. Nothing had prepared Damon for the sheer, brutal, evil power of dark forces unleashed. He felt his ribs beginning to break, his spine twisting, his eyes starting to burn … and somewhere in his mind a voice said, “Damon! Quickly! Release me!”

“Who —” he tried to ask, but his lungs were being crushed.

“You made me be a horse,” the voice urged. “Only you can undo what you have done. Hurry, before you die!”

Damon felt his mind growing dim. Nothing seemed to make any sense, and he realized that he had stopped breathing. But there was something he needed to do. Something, but what?

“Hurry!” the mind voice urged. “Reverse your spell, and I will try to help you! You know how!”

Faintly, Damon remembered a word. The mirror word. “K … Kapach,” he whispered, as the world went dim and his mind closed its gates. Thorbardin, he thought, feebly. Everbardin, receive this one. … And then there was nothing.

Kistilan got to his feet, backing away from the struggling, gasping dwarf who lay now where he had fallen. Above and around the twitching body, a darkness seemed to hover – a busy darkness full of shrieking, tearing things that were hard to see. Grimly, the wizard concentrated, increasing the power of his torment-death spell. A human would have been dead by now, he thought, yet still the dwarf struggled.

A thrown hammer whisked past the wizard’s face, and he glanced about. The other dwarves were all around him, rushing to attack. Quickly he shielded himself, then resumed his concentration. Hammers and blades drummed at his sorcerer’s screen, some of them nearly reaching him, but he ignored them and increased the intensity of his concentration. It seemed a shadow passed above him, and he heard hooves on the stony ground, but did not turn. There was nothing they could do to him. With fierce willpower, he pressed the spell.

Abruptly, his shield of power seemed to implode upon him, knocking him sprawling. A spinning hammer flashed just above his nose, and he tried desperately to recreate his shield. But it faltered and shredded around him, and he realized that there was another magic at work here.

He looked up. Nearby, just beyond the ring of angry dwarves around him, were two men … a powerful-looking Cobar nomad, and another one he recognized instantly. Megistal.

Even as Kistilan realized who it was, Megistal’s hands moved gracefully, and a tangle of thorny vines grew around Kistilan, twining around his legs, around his chest and down his arms, twisting tendrils mingling with his whiskers, clawing at his face.

With a curse, the dark mage tore himself free and hissed a chant. The waving, weaving vines shriveled and faded. A flung sword embedded itself in the ground between his feet, and he cursed, muttering. All around him, dwarves were thrown backward, tumbling and somersaulting. A dozen unconscious wizards were flung after them, as was the barbarian beside Megistal. In an instant, the knoll was almost clear. Only two wizards and a fallen dwarf remained. Damon lay facedown, not moving.

“Megistal,” Kistilan hissed. “So you have come.”

“You knew I would,” the red-strap said calmly, drawing up the sleeves of his coat. “We have unfinished business between us, Kistilan.”

“Your oath to kill me … if you could.” Kistilan nodded. “But you gave another oath, Megistal. To hold all else in abeyance until the mountain tower is complete.”

“There will be no tower.” Megistal shook his head. “The dwarves have seen to that. Now you must pay for what you did.”

“What I did?” Kistilan laughed harshly. “The Scions gave me my powers, Lunitarian, just as they gave you yours. I am favored of the Scions.”

“You were,” Megistal admitted. “And of all who learned at their feet, you were the first to betray them. You turned their gifts against them.”

“They refused to give me more!”

“They gave you all they could. Like the rest of us … the favored ones … it was up to you to go beyond, if you desired.”

“I did!” Kistilan snapped. “What they wouldn’t give, I took.”

“And the Scions are gone from Krynn now. And I have sworn, in the names of our mentors, that you will die.”

“You haven’t the power that I have!” Kistilan shouted, flinging a spell at the buckskin-and fur-clad man. Brilliant lightnings writhed like serpents around Megistal, twining and striking at him, then diminished. The red-moon sorcerer stood unscathed, smiling faintly. With a hiss of rage, Kistilan drew darknesses around himself like a second cloak, and unleashed them furiously, muttering spell after spell.

Megistal was swallowed up in seething, swirling darkness, where dull red, angry glows danced crazy patterns. Twin vortices of blackness seemed to descend from the skies above and swell from the earth below to envelope him. Then the swirling slowed, went mute, and faded. And only one thing was changed about Megistal. Where the look in his eyes had been a slight sadness, now it was anger.

“The Scions knew you, Kistilan. They predicted there would be corrupters, and they knew you would be the first. The elemental powers are not to be invoked; they are only to be studied. They threaten the very fabric of existence on this world.”

“I am favored of the Scions!” Kistilan raged. “I alone am favored of the powers!”

“You, alone?” Megistal asked sarcastically. “There were twenty-one of us so honored.”

“There were,” Kistilan sneered. “But I found the others. You are the last of the rest.”

“So I had feared.” Megistal nodded.

“You are the last of the rest!” Kistilan repeated. “Do you think I have not gone past the powers? Do you think I hesitate to use them?” Seething, he hurled flames and lightning bolts from his fingertips.

Megistal was forced backward by the sheer might of the evil magic pounding at his shields. He had expected elemental forces, but had not thought that Kistilan could have so corrupted them. They were now something new and implacable. Megistal tried to counterattack with spells of his own, but the intensity of the black-robe’s magic buffeted him. It was inconceivable that so much power could be unleashed by one man, and yet it was, and the dark wizard increased its concentration second by second.

Kistilan was at the limit of his strength, drawing upon the pure hatreds that lived within him to give force to his spells. He concentrated, amplified, and regenerated the powers striking from his fingers and saw the red-moon mage begin to crumple. Then, suddenly, the magic was broken, and Kistilan found himself lying facedown on the hard ground. Something had kicked his feet out from under him. He turned his head and looked up at the angriest face he had ever seen.

Damon Omenborn, still hurt and shaken from the torments of magic, stood over the fallen wizard, glaring at him.

“You dare …”

Damon kicked the wizard solidly in the ribs. “I dare,” he growled. “That man there” — he pointed at Megistal — “I have despised, because he is a wizard. Because he uses magic. But he is not an evil man. I see that now. He is a mage, but nothing like you. He isn’t evil. You are!” Stooping, the dwarf grasped the man’s lapels and lifted him as a child might lift an oversized rag doll. The mage spat, hissed, and started to mutter, and a hard dwarven hand slapped him so hard his teeth clicked together.

The wizard’s eyes went wild, and his hand pointed at the dwarf. A hard glare lashed out at Damon and ended abruptly as a human arrow – a Cobar arrow – pierced Kistilan’s hand. Then Megistal shouted something that was in no language at all.

Kistilan’s eyes opened wide, and he gasped. To Damon, it seemed that he abruptly became as light as a feather, and the dwarf clung more tightly to the fabric of the man’s cloak. But the fabric thinned, became like smoke, and parted in his hand. Kistilan whimpered, and Damon realized abruptly that he could see right through the man’s head.

For a moment, Kistilan hung there, gasping, fading away. Then he was gone, and Damon stood alone with an empty fist. A hand came from somewhere to rest on his shoulder.

Damon half-turned, looking up at the sad face of a disillusioned wizard. “You had such power all along?” he asked.

“I had it,” Megistal admitted.

“Then, all those times … out there, and in the valley … you could have killed me. You could have killed us all.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“You were right in what you told Kistilan,” the mage admitted. “I am – by your views – a vile thing, a magic-user. But I am not evil, Damon. Many of us are not.”

“Favored of the powers,” Damon muttered. “What does that mean?”

“It means that I have a burden to bear, that I hope no other man must ever have. My conscience must always be stronger than the powers I was given.”

Others of the Roving Guard had recovered now and were trudging toward them. Among them, surrounded, pushed, and in some cases dragged by grim dwarves, were the remaining captive wizards and the Cobar, Quist Redfeather.

Damon looked up at Megistal, frowning. “Will this conscience of yours permit you to leave Kal-Thax and not come back?”

“I don’t see why not.” The wizard shrugged, an ironic smile touching his cheeks. “I have no further business here.”

“Good!” Damon said. He pointed at the battered humans being brought forward by his guards. “And take these with you.”

“Goodbye, Damon Omenborn.” Megistal lifted a hand in farewell. “I have truly learned from you.” The big wizard muttered, and the air seemed to crackle. Then he was gone, as were the other captured wizards. Only the dour Cobar remained in the midst of the dwarven guards.

“Wait a minute!” Damon shouted into empty air. “Take the Cobar, too!”

From somewhere – from everywhere and nowhere – a chuckling voice responded. “He is your problem, Damon, not mine. You still owe him a horse.”

“My problem,” Damon growled. He glared at the human warrior, who glared right back at him fiercely. Then Damon looked northward, toward Thorbardin, and his heart went cold. On the slopes, armies still fought, but above them the massive face of Southgate was blank metal. The plug was closed. It could mean only one thing. Enemies had penetrated the defenses and were now inside.

“Bring him along,” Damon commanded, pointing at the human.

Chapter 21

THE BREATH OF REORX

It was Porcirin the Pure who led the penetration of Thorbardin. A native of faraway Istar, Porcirin was not well liked among the brothers of the Orders of High Sorcery. With his Istarian attitude of self-righteous single-mindedness, the self-proclaimed “Wearer of the Whitest Robe” was considered by many wizards to be a hypocrite, and by some to be a lunatic. He was not of the highest levels of sorcery, having failed two of the three tests of the Scions. He was not trustworthy, he rarely followed the orders of his superiors unless they just happened to suit him, and – in true Istarian fashion – he was something of a fanatic. Still, Porcirin had a talent for debate and a passion for purpose … and followers who would bend to his will.

With the departure of Kistilan the Dark from the assault on the dwarven stronghold, and the resultant confusion of the besieging forces, Porcirin had decided that the human-wave assault on the gate was a waste of time, and that there was a better way to recover the Stone of Threes, which was somewhere inside the undermountain fortress. It did not require an army to go and find it, despite Kistilan’s ambitions. Any three sorcerers, providing they were practitioners of the three orientations of magic, could locate the Stone of Threes if they could get close enough to sense its presence.

So, with half the company of wizards missing, and Kistilan the Dark gone off somewhere, Porcirin took matters into his own hands. Calling a number of others together, he pointed at the great, open gate on the mountainside above and said, “The time is at hand. Who will follow me into the lair of the dwarves to recover that which is ours?”

Some turned away, and some simply glared at him, but six among them were persuaded. The task would be simple, Porcirin assured them. The seven would transport themselves – a short distance only, just through the gate and far enough past it to be beyond any simple inner defenses the dwarves might have – then make themselves invisible and go in search of their tower stone. When they found it, they would take it by whatever means were necessary and return to the outside, to resume the task of creating a Tower of High Sorcery in the Kharolis Mountains.

All seven of them knew transport spells, so, gazing up at the big open gate in the mountain’s face, they said their incantations, more or less in unison.

As Porcirin materialized in a wide, high-ceilinged tunnel that was surprisingly well lighted, he heard screams behind him. He turned quickly, fighting down the brief nausea of transport. Three of his followers were with him, but the other three were some distance behind in the midst of a huge vaulted area traversed from end to end by a narrow catwalk. Two of the laggards were on the catwalk, clinging in terror. The third was dangling from its rail, screaming and flailing. Even as Porcirin and the three wizards with him glanced back, hundreds of missiles of various kinds flew from holes in the walls of the vaulted chamber, striking the other three with deadly accuracy.

It was over in a second. The clinging wizard fell screaming from sight, pierced through by a javelin. The other two stood for an instant, then were toppled by whistling balls of gray iron. They fell from the precarious walkway and disappeared into unseen depths below.

And all around Porcirin and the other survivors, armed dwarves were closing in. “Second spell,” Porcirin commanded, then muttered it, ducking as a thrown hammer flashed past his head.

In an instant, the three were shielded by invisibility and hurried forward, to escape before the advancing dwarves closed around them.

“There they go,” a dwarf shouted. “It’s true, you can still see their eyes. Look for their eyes!”

There seemed to be hundreds of dwarves on all sides, and one of them – a short, wide-shouldered creature – pointed directly at Porcirin. “Here’s one!” the dwarf shouted and lunged at the wizard, lashing out with a dark-steel sword. In panic, Porcirin shut his eyes, ducked, dived to the side, and rolled. He heard the dwarf’s sword ring against stone just behind him. He rolled again and opened his eyes for an instant as someone very short and very solid fell over him.

“I found one!” a voice called. “Oh, rust. Now where did he go?”

Not far away, drums sounded a complex tattoo, and several dwarves shouted. “That’s the signal. Everybody back. Hurry!” Running feet sounded, echoing through the big tunnel, and Porcirin opened his eyes just a crack to see what was going on. Dwarves were streaming past him on both sides, running along the tunnel, deeper into the mountain. A pair of them ran into him, flipped over him and rolled. One of them turned back, raising a hammer. But the second grabbed him and pulled him away. “No time for that!” he shouted. “You heard the orders as well as I did. Come on!”

They ran, and others swarmed after them. Within moments the corridor around the wizards was empty. Porcirin sat up, looked around, and said, “Saritius? Kryxan? Lonex?”

“Here,” three voices answered.

“What was that all about?” one continued.

“They could see our eyes,” another growled. “Why didn’t somebody tell me that an invisibility spell doesn’t hide a person’s eyes?”

“I meant, why did they all run away?” the first explained.

“I don’t like this,” a third voice grumbled. “I don’t like this at all.”

“Shut up!” Porcirin snapped. “It doesn’t matter why they ran. We’re inside their fortress now. Let’s look for our …”

A short distance away, steel clanged against stone as a heavy, barred portcullis dropped across the tunnel, blocking the route toward the catwalk and the gateway beyond. In the distance, the light from the gateway dimmed as creaking sounds erupted, like a great screw turning in steel collars. Dropping their invisibility spells, the wizards got to their feet and sprinted back the way they had come, as far as the barred portcullis. Just beyond was the huge, vaulted chamber with the catwalk through its center and the murder holes in the walls. Now those murder holes were disappearing with a staccato series of clangs and clicks as covers were sealed over them from beyond the walls. In the distance, past the outer end of the vaulted cavern, the glare of light from outside diminished and then vanished as a monstrous gate closed, sealing the exit of the fortress.

“What is this?” Kryxan snarled. “A trap?”

“Well, if it is, it has only one side,” Porcirin pointed out, turning. Northward, into the depths of the mountain, the wide tunnel ran with no sign of blockades. “Come on,” he said. “We were going in that direction, anyway.”

The four hurried along the tunnel, gaping around them at the sheer immensity of the undermountain excavation with its high ceilings and, at intervals, circles of bright light that flooded the area below. Beneath one of these, Saritius stopped for a moment, staring upward. “It’s the sky,” he said. “I can see the sky through that thing.”

They went a hundred yards, then another hundred, and ahead of them they saw a place where the tunnel widened, a sort of great hall with a low, circular wall of set stones in the middle of it. Beyond, in the distance, the tunnel resumed its usual size and continued onward. It looked as though it ran for miles.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Lonex marveled. “It’s unbelievable that simple dwarves could build something like this.”

“Shut up and pay attention,” Porcirin snapped. “We’re here to find the Stone of Threes. Do any of you sense its presence?”

They shook their heads. “Not a thing, yet,” Saritius said.

As they approached the wide cavern with its walled circle, the air seemed to grow warmer with each step. “They have some kind of stove in here,” Porcirin decided. Curiously, he approached the low, circular wall and peered over it, then froze, staring downward. Within the wall was a sheer-sided pit of immense proportions, a huge round hole that went straight down … and down, and down into dizzying depths as though it pierced right through the world itself. Far away, down there, was a tiny glow of intense brightness. And from the pit rose air so hot that it seemed to come from an oven.

“What … what is it?” Saritius wondered.

“This hole is deep!” Kryxan marveled.

Porcirin started to respond, then stopped as sounds brought his head up. Beyond the walled pit, beyond the wide cavern, there were dwarves in the northward tunnel – busy, bustling dwarves drawing great, fabric curtains across the opening.

*

Olim Goldbuckle had staked his reputation as Prince of the Daewar on the ability of his best delvers to complete a tunnel under water. Slide Tolec had, in turn, staked the honor of the thane of Theiwar on his boatmen overcoming their natural tendency to drown a few “gold-molders” if they had the chance, and instead to submerge and retrieve the Daewar delvers unharmed. Vog Ironface had promised the new regent of Thorbardin – the chief of chiefs – that his Daergar mine workers could install a hinged plug over the abandoned Hylar heat-exchange vent in the Shaft of Reorx, and have it done before it was needed. And Pakka Trune had given his word that his Klar craftsmen could produce and weave enough rock wool, or “spunstone,” in their fiber-lofts adjoining the worm warren, to seal the width and height of the Southgate tunnel with a thick curtain of heavy woven stone.

The chiefs had given their pledges, and Willen Ironmaul had given Gem Bluesleeve permission to proceed with his plan.

Now all the pledges had been fulfilled, except one. The Daewar diving delvers had done their job, and a new tunnel now connected the bottom of the Urkhan Sea to the abandoned shaft leading to the Shaft of Reorx. True, there were now new grudges to be resolved. Daewar delvers angrily accused Theiwar boatmen of trying to drown them and, even worse, of laughing at them when they were finally pulled up from the sea, coughing, spitting, and soaked. And Theiwar boatmen in turn accused the delvers of endangering their crafts by attacking their “saviors” as soon as they had their breath. Daergar lid-setters, scorched and blistered from their exposure to the Shaft of Reorx, accused the Klar of providing inadequate insulation in their spunstone garments, and a committee of Klar weavers was petitioning the Council of Thanes for new looms, to replace those crushed by tractor worms attracted to the spunstone fibers.

But the tasks were done, and now the entire responsibility for the enterprise rested on the sturdy but nervous shoulders of Gem Bluesleeve, whose idea the whole thing had been.

“If this doesn’t work,” the warden of the watch told himself when the first signal came that wizards had penetrated Southgate, “I’ll never be able to show my face again in Thorbardin.” Then, on second thought, he amended the statement. “If this doesn’t work, I’ll never get out of Thorbardin alive, face or not.”

As the last of the spunstone drapery was hung from its curved rod running along the ceiling of the Southgate Road, Gem told himself, “Even if it does work, every smelter-smith in Thorbardin is going to be after me if I damage the magma pit.

“I should have kept my mouth shut,” the Daewar warrior told himself. “I should have been content just to be a soldier, not an inventor.”

As the final lift-lines were laid, from the Shaft of Reorx to hewn shelters behind the curtain rods, Gem told himself, “It’s all Willen Ironmaul’s fault, really. He’s the one who insisted that every tool must double as a weapon. And if the Shaft of Reorx isn’t a tool, what is?”

Clamors echoed along the wide way, from the reaches beyond the Shaft toward Anvil’s Echo and Southgate, then the drums sounded and hundreds of dwarves came streaming past, vacating the outer roadway. They were acting as he had ordered, and he had his guards hurry them on, getting them well clear of the waiting spunstone curtain. He wasn’t at all sure what was going to happen when the curtain was closed and the lid-lines were pulled, but he knew the open tunnel would be no place for any dwarf to be.

“If I had this to do again,” Gem assured himself, “I wouldn’t think of it at all. This is entirely the fault of those Aghar. If they hadn’t decided to dump their chamber pots in the Shaft of Reorx …”

Then there was no time for further recriminations. The outer tunnel was clear and vacated, except for four tall figures coming toward him, approaching the great shaft with its “Temple of Stars” lens above it. Wizards. Human wizards, inside Thorbardin.

“Close the curtains,” Gem Bluesleeve commanded and lent a hand as dozens of his own guard labored to draw the heavy fabric along its curved ceiling rod, while others attached its trailing edges to stone rings below. Within moments, the entire tunnel was sealed off by heavy, dense fabric woven from the fibers of tractor worm nests – fibers that were drawn from stone by the worms and woven by the Klar who worked the worm warrens. It was the same fabric that the Daergar used for insulated garb in their brimstone pit-mines, and smelter-men wore from head to toe in their furnace coves. Better than anything else the dwarves had discovered, spunstone shielded against extreme heat.

Through a flap, Gem looked out into the great concourse. Three of the four wizards were coming toward the curtain. The fourth was still standing beside the ring-wall of the great shaft, staring upward in amazement at the convex lens called the Temple of the Stars.

The warden of the watch sighed. It was time to test his theory. “Reorx be with us,” he muttered and picked up one of the lid-lines. Around him, his guards picked up others.

“Pull!” Gem Bluesleeve shouted.

The lines came taut, and the dwarves leaned into them. A hundred yards away, beyond the spunstone screen, cable scraped and sang at the lip of the Shaft of Reorx, and far below in the shaft’s north wall hinges creaked and a heavy, metal cap slid open. From the wide hole behind it, water shot out, a great stream of water six feet wide and driven by the weight of three fathoms of Urkhan Sea.

The wizard beside the pit glanced downward and stared in disbelief. Far below him, thousands upon thousands of gallons of water were spewing from the shaft’s wall, plummeting downward toward the impossibly distant speck of glare below.

A great roar arose from the open shaft, and the other three wizards, who had almost reached the spunstone screen, turned to look back.

For a long moment there was nothing to see except the laggard Kryxan leaning over the wall of the deep shaft, staring downward. The roar grew, and other, deeper roars joined it.

“See what that is!” Porcirin demanded.

“It’s water!” Kryxan called. “A lot of water, falling into this hole. This thing has sprung a leak!”

The roars grew as the great tumult of water fell downward and downward, deeper and deeper into the shaft, falling toward the open pit of pure magma a half mile below.

Then the roars became a bellow as huge, dense clouds of hot vapor shot upward, filling the shaft, exploding above the walled rim and expanding. The wizards screamed, tore at their throats as hot mists scalded them, then sagged and fell as the vapors were pushed aside by a huge, thundering gout of pure, live steam shooting from the Shaft of Reorx. In an instant the entire concourse, from the Southgate plug to the whipping, drumming spunstone screen, was filled with superheated steam. Even the spunstone screen did not stop all the heat. Behind it, Gem and the others dived for their hewn shelters and pulled thick layers of stoneweave over themselves.

Half a mile away, in Anvil’s Echo, the great vaulted chamber filled with steam and vapors, and dwarves behind their sealed murder holes abandoned their posts and raced for cooler places.

“That’s enough!” Gem Bluesleeve hissed. “Reverse the lines!” Red-faced and gasping, scalded even behind their protective screen, dwarves dropped the lid-lines and pulled desperately on others to close the lid on the waterfall within the Shaft of Reorx. The roar diminished slowly, though the rumble of expanding steam continued for several minutes.

Gem waited nearly an hour before chancing a glance through the screen’s flap. Beyond, vapors rolled along the ceiling of the concourse, and the floor was awash in foot-deep water, slowly draining away into the lower levels of Anvil’s Echo.

“What a mess!” a dwarf beside the warden of the watch said. “Where are the wizards?”

At first, they saw no sign of the four intruding humans. But then, as the condensing vapors receded and the waters lowered, they saw four indistinct lumps on the floor. Opening the curtain at one end, Gem and a few others waded out into the concourse and paused to stare at what was left of the wizards. It was not dwarven nature to have weak stomachs, but some of them turned away quickly. None of them had ever before seen what live steam can do to living flesh.

“I expected to see steamed wizards,” a young guard muttered, pale and shaken. “This is just bones and slop.”

Gem Bluesleeve waded across to the Shaft of Reorx. No water had actually reached the magma, of course. The heat halfway down the shaft had been intense enough to vaporize any liquid. But a great deal of energy had been expended in converting water to steam, and now the “eye” of the magma pit far below glowed smoky red.

“Breath of Reorx,” Gem sighed. “There will be some who will want to draw and quarter me for this.”

*

On the slope below Southgate, the battle had continued, far more fiercely now that most of the human mercenaries were without wizards to give them illusions, and many were thoroughly disappointed as word spread that the coins they had received – and those promised – were not coins at all but simply spell-changed pebbles. As with most humans, the hired warriors were willing to accept magic as part of their world, but when it came to money they wanted true, hard coinage cast in honest foundries and stamped by real molds.

To make things worse for the marauders, it was plain to see that the great gate above them was closed, and even if they made it that far, getting through it would be impossible. In the meantime, the dwarves pressed the battle with renewed vigor, and more and more of their engines came into play as the field spread and scattered. The big discobel still thundered now and then, its great, whirring disks of death cutting through everything in their path. Also, the dwarves were using dozens of catapults and assorted flingers, now that the ramparts were clear. All sorts of mischief fell among the humans as these engines did their work. The most dangerous missiles were loads of iron rubble, and great baskets of discard from forges and foundries. These odds and ends of metal screamed and whined through ranks of marauders, cutting them down by the dozens. But the most disconcerting were little canisters of bronze that left a trail of smoke behind them as they arced through the air, then exploded with a bang, throwing bits of bronze in all directions. Everywhere one of these exploded, there were clouds of white smoke that smelled like rotten eggs.

Still, the humans continued their fight, until – abruptly – little fissures and crevices all along the lower slopes began spouting great clouds of hot steam. From every crack and pore in the mountain, it seemed, steam hissed forth directly into the faces of the humans in the lines.

It was more than reasonable mercenaries – no longer bound by magic – could be expected to tolerate. Within minutes, most of the attacking bands had turned and were in full flight, scattering toward the Promontory and points beyond. Cohorts and companies of dwarves raged after them, sweeping the field, but by the time the sun of Krynn sat upon the Anviltops to the west, there was no one left for the dwarves to fight. With their longer legs, the surviving humans had outrun their pursuers and had not turned back.

It would be estimated by human chroniclers that more than four thousand of the human horde survived the attack upon Thorbardin. In the scrolls of Quill Runebrand, the number would be set at two thousand, seven hundred … human losses of more than four thousand, against two thousand, one hundred and thirty-four dwarves who would not see tomorrow’s sun through the sun-tunnels. There would be great mourning in Thorbardin, and the grief would last a long, long time. But what mattered most was that fortress Thorbardin, almost ninety-one years after its inception, had endured its first full-scale test as a fortification and had stood firm. Old Kal-Thax remained intact, the realm of Thorbardin was tempered by blood and steel, and its people were – as they had always been – the bonded thanes and scattered Einar of the dwarven race.

When Southgate was reopened, and the bloodied but victorious hosts of Thorbardin returned to their homes, Willen Ironmaul immediately called a Council of Thanes and laid his hammer upon the table. “I am no longer chief of chiefs,” he said. “I have done what I had to do, but if you still want someone to be in charge of all of Thorbardin, get someone else. I will lead the Hylar. But I will never again try to lead all the thanes.”

Damon Omenborn turned his Cobar captive over to the Gateway guards and went with his father to the council. As soon as he could, though, he hurried away in search of Willow Summercloud. He expected to find her at Hybardin, where he had left her, but no one there had seen the Einar girl recently.

“She’s around somewhere,” Tera Sharn assured her son. “Did you know she has a kender girl tagging after her? A lot of people aren’t too happy about that, but no one knows exactly what to do about it. Personally, I think the little thing is kind of cute.”

Damon roamed the markets and the concourses, searching, but there was no sign of Willow anywhere. Then he came across Quill Runebrand. “Your village girl?” The lorekeeper blinked. “I don’t know, but I saw her yesterday. For several days she has been complaining about fog in the north warren, telling everyone she can find to tell. Of course, everybody has been busy, and no one paid much attention. But yesterday she was here again, her and that pesky little kender, complaining about the fog. …”

“Fog?” Damon frowned, feeling a cold intuition creep up his spine.

“Fog,” Quill repeated, shrugging.

“What kind of fog?” Damon asked.

“Cold fog.” The lorekeeper tipped his head. “She gave up on telling people about it though. At least, I guess she did. When I last saw her, she said she would take care of it by herself.”

Chapter 22

RAGE WITHIN

With the closing of Northgate and the calling of reserve companies to arms, the entire north sector of Thorbardin was nearly deserted. In Gatekeep, behind the north Anvil’s Echo, a few families remained – mostly stone-cutters and their wives and children, and a few shop keepers. Long before the Wizards’ War, Bell Brightluster, Thorbardin’s warden of trade, had devised a plan to convert the cold shaft called Shame of Reorx into wells and storage lofts for oils, grains, and other goods gained in trade with the outside. Those crafters who remained in Gatekeep now were at work on the pit, replacing its walls with a grid-work structure from which nets and lines could be suspended for construction of an auger lift. A dozen or so guards remained with them, and the gate crew from Northgate’s gatehouse.

Just to the east and a few levels down, the north farming warren was nearly empty. A few Theiwar came from Theibardin now and then to look at the crops, but the growing season was well along, and there was little to be done there until the harvests began. The temporary Einar camps, for the refugees from the assault, had been moved past Theibardin to the shore of the Urkhan Sea, where water was plentiful, and shops and bakeries were numerous.

Thus the north end of Thorbardin, usually as busy and bustling as any other sector of the dwarven citadel, was nearly vacant for the time being. Almost thirty square miles of caverns north of Theibardin and Theibolden were, for all intents and purposes, deserted.

But it was to these sectors that Willow Summercloud came, with Shill Quickfoot tagging happily after her. Willow was, for the moment, thoroughly exasperated with Holgar dwarves in general. A dozen times she had tried to sound the alarm that something was wrong in the north warren. A dozen times she had collared guards, craftsmen, and even an entire platoon of Theiwar reserves on their way to Southgate and tried to tell them about the fog seeping into the warren and what it might mean.

And no one had paid any attention. Everyone was busy, preoccupied with the War of the Wizards going on beyond Southgate. A few had listened politely, especially some of the younger males, and several had informed her – patronizingly in some cases – that Thorbardin was well secured and that an outsider could not be expected to realize just how thoroughly defended it was.

Two or three of the young males had offered to show her around … after the war was over. One had even offered to take her home with him … after the war was done.

Many people, here in this smug, snug hole beneath a mountain, seemed not even to have heard of the killing beast that had ravaged Einar villages in the outside world. And even those who had heard the tale saw no connection between that and the cold fog creeping into the north warren. The beast was gone, they assured her. It had been driven away, or something.

She wished that Damon were with her. He, at least, had been there, had seen what the creature did to her own village. He had helped in the search for the thing. But Damon was far away, occupied with the fighting beyond Southgate, as was everyone else who might know about the fog creature.

Willen Ironmaul, the chief of chiefs, was away dealing with the war. All of his senior officers were with him. All the other thane chieftains were away, as well, occupied with various things, and even the wardens could not be found.

“What this place needs is a king,” Willow fumed. “As it is now, there isn’t anybody in charge.”

It occurred to her to try one more time, to go to Hybardin and tell Tera Sharn what she feared. But by then she was already on her way through Theibardin, heading for the warren. Shillitec Medina Quickfoot skipped along behind her, lugging a fat pouch that had seemed to grow larger and larger each day since her arrival in Thorbardin. Carrying her axe, the Einar girl headed for the Fifth Road that led north toward the warren a mile away. As she rounded a bend, a voice called, “Well, hello there!” She turned. A few feet away, just stepping out of a side route, was a long-armed young Theiwar in battle armor and cloak. He wore a shield at his back, had a curved, dark-steel blade slung at his side, and the mesh faceplate of his helm almost covered his features. As she stared at him, he removed the helm and grinned. She remembered him then. It was Tag Salan, who had been with Damon at Sheercliff, and had accompanied them back to Thorbardin.

“I see you’ve found some nice clothes,” he said. “Wow! Does Damon know what a lucky guy he is? You’re really …” His admiring gaze shifted, and his eyes widened. “You still have that kender,” he said.

“Hello,” Shill chirped brightly. “I think I remember you. Of course, as my Aunt Pathtoe says, when you’ve seen one dwarf, you’ve seen them all. But that isn’t really right. You were out there when we met those wizards, weren’t you? I’m glad your beard has grown back.”

“How did she get into Thorbardin?” Tag asked Willow. “Kender don’t usually get past the gates.”

“I just walked in.” Shill giggled. “A lot of people were coming in, so I …”

“Maybe you will listen to me,” Willow Summercloud said. “So far, nobody has.”

“Listen about what?” Tag asked.

“About the fog-thing. The creature that destroyed Windhollow. You were there. You saw what it did.”

“I sure did,” the Theiwar assured her grimly. “And I saw where it came from, too. I found its lair. Damon is right, you know. I’m sure those wizards woke that thing up. But I heard it got away, that it’s gone.”

“It isn’t gone!” Willow said. “I think it’s here.”

“Here?” Tag’s hand went to his blade. “In Thorbardin?”

“Or trying to get in,” she said. “You see, I was looking around, and there was fog coming in, seeping through cracks in the stone behind a terrace. It was cold fog, like the fog that creature brought with it to Windhollow.”

“Cracks?” Tag shook his head. “In Thorbardin? There aren’t any cracks that I know of. Nothing could get in here, though. Not even wizards. They tried it and failed. And even if something did get in, everybody would know about it. There are only two entrances, and they’re always guarded.”

“There aren’t any guards where I was,” Willow pointed out. “There isn’t anybody there. Everybody is gone.”

“Oh.” He nodded. “I guess everyone has been off fighting wizards. That’s where I’ve been. But the war is over now. We beat the wizards and their troops. Didn’t Damon tell you?”

“I haven’t seen Damon,” she said.

“Well, he’s probably looking for you. He talks about you all the time. You should have seen him out there, dealing with those wizards! I swear, I don’t think anybody or anything can beat Damon Omenborn, once he gets mad.”

“I can imagine,” Willow breathed. Then she shook her head. “But what about the fog? What should we do?”

“It’s probably just fog.” Tag shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s go find Damon and …”

“You go find him,” she snapped. “I have things to do.”

Before he could reply, the girl was gone. There was no sign of her, or of the little kender either. He started toward the Fifth Road crossing and stopped as a commotion erupted just across the way.

“Get that creature out of here!” someone bellowed. “Thief! Thief!”

Loosing his sword, Tag ran to the row of stalls across the wide thoroughfare and skidded to a stop. Inside a delved shop, a burly Theiwar with a leather apron was running in circles, swinging a broom. And just ahead of him, ducking from bench to bench, table to table, and cabinet to shelf, Shillitec Medina Quickfoot was dodging, scampering, and shouting taunts back over her shoulder.

“Hold on!” Tag shouted at the shop keeper. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s a kender!” the Theiwar said. “A kender, in my shop! Probably stealing everything it can lay its hands on!”

“There’s nothing here worth stealing,” Shill shrilled at him. “Even if I were a thief, which I’m not, and you’ve no right calling me that! Besides that, you’re ugly!”

Again the shopkeeper gave chase, wielding his broom, and it was all Tag could do to stop him and calm him down. When again he had the merchant’s attention, he said, “I don’t know what you’re worrying about. This is a furniture shop. There isn’t anything in here that a kender could lift, much less steal. What is it you think she took?”

“I don’t know.” The shopkeeper glared at him. “But I know about kender.”

“Reorx have mercy,” Tag sighed. He looked around for Shill and couldn’t find her. Then he thought about starting after Willow again, but didn’t even know where she had been going when he hailed her. Confused and puzzled, he walked along several tunnels, searching, then shook his head. “What do I do now?” he asked himself.

*

At the entrance to the north warren, Willow felt a chill come over her. A great, hollow stillness lay across the immense cavern. By the light of sun-tunnels she could see the terraces and fields, the segment paths and the irrigation ditches, the granaries and equipment sheds scattered here and there. The north warren was not the largest of Thorbardin’s subterranean farming caverns, but it was the oldest. For more than eighty years, these fields had been worked and their crops harvested. Nearly four square miles of fertile fields, terraces, and vine ledges, the old “First Warren” had been the dwarves’ great experiment with underground farming, and what they had learned here was now practiced in two other main warrens, as well as in the new worm warren where some of the Klar were harvesting edible funguses and several varieties of spices for trade.

The warrens were usually bustling, busy places, but right now the north warren seemed entirely deserted. The silence was unbroken even by the sounds of wind and birdcall which Willow remembered from the Einar fields of Windhollow.

And, she realized, it was cold. In this place of fairly constant temperatures beneath the mountain, she had not felt chill since her arrival. But she felt it now and knew it was not imagination. In the nearest field, there was frost on the ripening melons.

She gazed at the frost, then looked up, startled. For frost to form, there must be mist. And now, looking across the wide warren, she realized that it was foggy. Looking northward, she could not see the far ledges. Though a mile away, they had been clearly visible when she had first entered. Now it was as though a deepening mist were rolling into the warren, obscuring everything in the north quadrants and moving south, toward her.

With a chill in her heart, she hurried on, deeper into the warren. The cold fog was like the fog that had swept down on her village just before the thing within the fog attacked. But the memory also brought a renewed determination, and, clutching her axe tightly, she hurried on.

She was within a hundred yards of the deepening, rolling fog when a low, rumbling hiss broke the eerie silence of the warren. Where the fog rolled beneath a sun-tunnel, filtered light sifted downward, and within the fog something moved – something very large, straightening itself upward, raising its head. With a gasp, Willow dived off the path into the edge of a field of gray-green foliage and crouched there, hidden. The fog seemed to rise before her, roiling upward, then a great, serpentine head rose above it. Fierce silver eyes beneath iron-gray carapace ridges scanned the warren, searching. A long beaklike snout breathed cold fumes, and huge silvery teeth glistened as the thing’s mouth opened in a growl.

“Rage,” Willow whispered to herself. That was what someone had called the fog-creature. Rage. The beast behind that serpentine visage was more than evil, more than cruel and cold. It was rage – killing, raving, icy rage. And it was here, in Thorbardin.

The head gazed around, then lowered again into the enveloping fog as the thing moved forward, coming toward her. Carefully, Willow got to her feet. The thing had raised its head to see what was around it. Therefore, it must be as blinded by the mists that clung to it as was anyone else. In that, it was vulnerable.

With a shiver of resolve, Willow raised her axe, darted directly into the fog, and swung a roundhouse cut at the first thing she saw move. The axe clanged, as though hitting solid stone, and rebounded, throwing her off-balance. She danced to the side, stooping to regain her equilibrium, and something huge – like a wide, half-seen web wing with claws – whisked over her head. Above her, somewhere, the creature snorted, and as she looked up the great evil head materialized in the mists directly over her. With a lunge, she swung her axe over her head, directly into the huge, fanged snout. It was like striking granite, but the thing roared and withdrew for an instant, and the dwarf girl turned and raced away a dozen steps. She was just turning back when she heard a sound to her right, like scythes swishing through ripe grain. By pure instinct, she jumped straight up, and a huge, swatting tail flattened the field plants beneath her.

Again she ran, trying to get past the reach of the thing’s tail, and dived and rolled as the tail swept past again, this time going over her, missing her by inches. Even as it passed, she got her feet under her, reversed her direction, and ran directly under the dark shadow that was the creature’s body. One more try, she told herself. I have carried this axe since Windhollow, just to cut this thing. I must try one more time.

She ran, dodged, reversed, and charged again, guessing by the movement of shadows within the mist where the various parts of the thing might be. She heard a deep, cold growl just ahead and dodged aside as the great, serpentlike head shot past her, its fangs clicking like stone on stone. As it passed, she turned and swung her axe with all her might. This time it didn’t rebound. It hit something very solid, seemed to embed itself there, and was torn from her grasp as the creature roared in pain and fury. Tumbling, dodging, and scampering, Willow ran as she had never run before, while just behind her the massive creature roared, hissed, and thrashed among ripening fields.

Willow ran until the fog around her had thinned a bit, then slowed to look back. Fifty yards away the deep fogs rolled, and above them was the face of Rage, its slanted silver eyes looking directly at her. It raised its head higher and roared, and for an instant she saw her axe, its blade embedded in the thing’s long neck.

Then the head lowered and lunged, the fogs rolled forward, and Willow Summercloud ran for her life as cold mists closed in behind her.

The nearest exit from the warren was the Third Road gate, and Willow headed for it. Like all the warren gates, it was actually two doors – a small door set within a great one. Built of massive timbers, the gates were of Theiwar design. Their purpose was to allow people to go in and out of the warrens without any stray tractor worms following them out. The small doors were adequate for dwarves on foot, or small carts and barrows, and the big doors were solid enough to turn away the nearly mindless, usually docile worms. But now, as Willow darted through the small gate into the wide tunnel of Third Road, she knew the big gate would not stop the thing raving after her.

The road-tunnel swung to the right, climbing toward higher levels. Willow’s small, booted feet pounded the stone as she ran. Behind her she heard a rending crash and an angry roar. Another crash, then she heard the gate’s great timbers splintering as the fog-beast smashed through it. Cold, dense mists flooded into the tunnel, ebbing around her feet as she darted around another turn and saw brighter light ahead in the distance.

Up a steep slope she dashed, and out into a cross-tunnel. Some distance to her left, an old dwarf with white whiskers turned to stare at her and at the rolling mists entering the corridor behind her.

“Run!” she shouted, waving at the old one. “Run for your life!”

Down the tunnel, to the south, the elder gaped at her, then turned and hobbled away on ancient, stubby legs. After a few steps he stumbled and fell, and Willow turned and ran the other way. Runes on the stone wall near the intersection of tunnels told her that she was now in the Second Road, heading north. In the distance, going the other way, the old dwarf had picked himself up and was hurrying off, but then cold fog surged outward from the intersecting tunnel and blocked her view. Kneeling, panting, Willow pried a flagstone from the floor of the tunnel and flung it into the blinding mist. “Here!” she shouted. “Here I am, you … you contemptible rust! I’m the one you’re after!”

Fog rolled toward her, and she turned and ran again. Behind her came the beast of ages, raging and cold.

Along the tunnel, Willow gained a little distance by darting into a parallel vent-shaft barely large enough to admit her. Crouching, she ran along the shaft for a hundred yards, then scurried through another vent and was in the roadway again. Behind her, tearing at the wall where she had gone, the creature roared and lashed, then raised its head and saw her again. With renewed ferocity, it pursued.

The Second Road tunnel came out into a large, hewn cavern with a single sun-tunnel above. Tools and blocks of cut stone scattered around indicated that the dwarves of Thorbardin intended to build something here, but had not yet started construction. Willow darted across the wide opening and into the road-tunnel beyond, now going almost straight north. Not far ahead she saw people – dwarves, most of them unarmed, milling about in another wide concourse.

“Run!” Willow shouted at them. “Get away! The fog-beast is here! Run!”

Dwarves scurried around ahead of her, and, by threes and fives, disappeared. Scampering into the opening just ahead of the pursuing fogs, Willow blinked and glanced around. There wasn’t a sign of anyone, anywhere. Then suddenly, only a step ahead, a great open pit yawned before her, its wide opening partially screened over by a lattice of rods and bars. It was too late for her to stop. Leaping frantically, she reached the nearest crossbeam and scampered along it to another, her arms spread wide for balance. She teetered over a bottomless void, leapt to another crossbeam, and still another, then was past the pit and racing into the next roadway opening.

Behind her, the fogs reached the great pit, and the creature within the mist spread wide, stubby wings and soared across, huge talons barely missing the latticework of crossbeams over its top. And, just below, clinging to perches and drop-lines, dozens of “Shame of Reorx” crafters stared at the huge, misty shape going past above them.

Hardly slowing her pace, Willow Summercloud dashed out into the great, vaulted emptiness of Anvil’s Echo and ran along the precarious, suspended catwalk through its center. Here and there, in the walls of the great chamber, a murder hole opened, and Willow shouted, “Alarm! Signal the gatehouse! Danger!”

She danced off the outer end of the catwalk on to solid stone and looked around. Fog was filling Anvil’s Echo as the creature came through, gliding just above the catwalk on set, web-taloned wings. Here and there, missiles flew from murder holes, but they simply entered the thick fog and bounced off what was within it. Willow turned and fled toward the dead end of the road, the gatehouse of Northgate.

*

Rage focused all her attention now on the puny little warm-blood fleeing ahead of her. She knew there were others here, but the rage within her – the rage that was all of her – was concentrated now on that one individual creature. It had challenged her and escaped. It had attacked her and escaped her fury. It had actually caused her pain, piercing the skin of her only soft part – her neck – with its edged implement.

She would get around to all the rest of the creatures in this place in her own time. They would all die. There was nothing they could do. She would hunt them down relentlessly and kill them all. But first, this one must die. This one had challenged her, and it must die as horribly as she could manage.

Through various tunnels, some wide and spacious, some barely large enough to let her spread her wings, she pursued the little creature. Often, with the mists swirling around her, she could not see her prey, but she could sense where it was. Its very warmth was a beacon to her, almost a second sight, and she longed to feel that warmth burst and flow from her fangs, to hear the screams as the warmth struggled, then turned cold.

Now the tunnel became narrower, and ahead were echoes that said the way was blocked beyond. Other warm things were there, scurrying around, and she sensed their fear. But they could wait. She wanted this one – the one fleeing her – first.

*

Willow was panting and shaking as she entered the gatehouse tunnel, with its water lofts and mechanisms, and the great, glistening screw running along its length. Desperately she looked around and saw others, cringing here and there in the shadows.

“Open the gate!” she shouted.

The gate crew cringed and stared at her, then gaped at the thick mist rolling into the corridor just behind her.

“Quickly!” Willow demanded. “If you want to live, open the gate!”

“By whose orders?” a dwarf queried, glancing nervously at the thickening mist.

Willow started to say something and was drowned out by the roar of the creature as its head emerged into the narrow corridor, rising to glare over the great screw. Its roar was like echoing thunder in the enclosed space.

“By those orders!” Willow snapped. “Stop staring and open the tarnishing gate!”

Dwarves scurried toward a long, vertical lever set in sockets at the center of a great, up-and-down column of gray iron. With only a moment’s pause, one of them pulled the lever until it was horizontal. Opposite it on the column of iron, a second lever raised from horizontal to vertical, and the unmistakable roar of flowing water echoed in the gatehouse.

Grudgingly, the huge metal screw began to turn, and the massive plug at the end of it inched back on its tracks. A rim of outside daylight appeared around its edges.

The fogs rolled, and a huge fanged head lunged forward, missing Willow by inches as she scooted under the screw and ran along its far side. The creature towered above the screw, seeking her, its prehensile neck curving upward and down, and she ducked beneath the screw again and reversed her direction. As the great head followed her, it seemed as though the creature were winding itself around the turning screw.

Dodging the crunching fangs, Willow leapt upward and grabbed the handle of her axe, still flopping beside the long neck. With a heave, she pulled it loose and struck again, making a second shallow cut.

The creature roared in fury, drummed great wings, and lashed its tail, filling the gatehouse with thunder. Beyond it, dwarven gatekeepers disappeared into little tunnels. The screw continued to turn, and the opening around the great plug widened. Abandoning her axe, which was stuck again, Willow dodged past the forward braces of the screw and dived for the opening. For a second, she stuck there, caught between plug and frame. Then the opening was enough, and she squeezed through just as a formidable, fanged muzzle lodged itself in the widening crack just behind her.

Willow crouched, picked up a fist-sized stone, and flung it at the nearest silver eye, shouting insults. The crack widened and more of the slavering, icy head emerged, straining after her. Just as the carapace above the eyes cleared the opening, the dwarf girl turned and ran.

It was sixty feet from one side of the gate to the other, and Willow covered the distance on flying feet. She reached the far side, ducked through the opening there, and ran back along the screw’s length. All of the gatekeepers had disappeared, but she had seen how the gate worked. Reaching the iron column with its double levers, she dodged a flailing tail, threw her weight onto the vertical lever, and hauled it down. Valves shifted, waters flowed, and the screw reversed its rotation. The great plug began to close again.

Instantly, fogs rolled backward as the fog-creature realized the trap and began to withdraw. “Hurry, you be-rusted contraption!” Willow shouted at the screw. “Can’t you turn any faster?” With all her might, she hauled the lever down to full horizontal position. The sound of waters increased, the screw turned faster, and the creature hissed and roared in frenzied fury.

It threw itself this way and that, battering gatehouse walls, sockets, and turning screw. Great talons scrabbled against stone, digging deep gouges in the floor of the tunnel. Stubby, webbed wings beat the air, stirring the increasing cold mists into little storms. Willow Summercloud crawled behind the iron water column and huddled there, wide-eyed and pale.

The dwarves of Thorbardin had built their gates to be impenetrable. And with this as the goal, dwarven craft had done its best. The great beast’s struggles neither stopped nor slowed the irrevocable turning of the huge screw in its sockets. Inch by inch, second by second, the massive gate-plug closed into its frame, closing on the neck of the trapped beast.

Rage raved. Rage roared, reared, and thundered, flailing mighty appendages. But the gate closed tighter and tighter as geared waterwheels took the flow from high tanks and transferred their energy to the screw.

To Willow, it seemed an hour before the great, steel-sheathed stone plug pushed itself as far as it could go into its sockets and came to a stop. Hardly an inch of daylight showed around it, and in that inch was pinched the long neck of the fog-beast. Its wings still beat, its talons still scrabbled, and its tail still lashed from side to side, but now the motions slowed and became erratic. It was almost impossible to see in the gatehouse because of the dense fog, but as the beast’s flailing became feeble, it seemed to Willow that the fog became less dense.

There were shouts from somewhere, and the sounds of running feet, then armed dwarves swarmed into the narrow corridor, gaping at the sight ahead of them. The one leading was Damon Omenborn, his face a fierce scowl, his eyes dark with worry. Right behind him was Tag Salan.

Willow crawled out from behind the flow column, and Damon saw her. Leaping over the creature’s twitching tail, the big Hylar dodged under the screw and pulled the girl to her feet. He stared at her for a moment, then dropped his hammer and shield, caught her up in strong arms, and lifted her entirely off the floor, pressing her against him.

“Damon!” she managed, almost breathless. “Damon, quit that! Put me down!”

Reluctantly, he set her back on her feet. “You’re alive,” he said, almost in a whisper.

“I told you I’d get that thing,” she reminded him. “I got it.”

“You certainly did.” He glanced again toward the almost closed gate, throttling the beast’s neck. “Do you suppose it’s dead?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t know what it takes to kill a … one of those.”

“Well, it sure isn’t going anywhere.” Tag Salan chuckled, ducking under the screw to get a better look at the fog-creature, which was still twitching. “I guess it can just stay where it is until we’re sure it’s finished. Do you think this is a dragon of some kind?”

“I don’t think so,” Damon said. “But it may be the kind of thing that dragons came from.” He turned back to Willow, still holding her arms with both hands. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” She gazed up at him. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well,” he said, “there is an old legend here in Thorbardin. It’s about me. I don’t know what to make of it, but … well, I wonder if you would be interested, possibly, in being the mother of kings?”

Epilogue

THE PROPER THING TO DO

Thousand of dwarves jammed the ramparts of Southgate as Cale Greeneye and the Council of Thanes met there to supervise the removal of fallen weapons from the battlefields below. The Einar, who had waited out the siege within Thorbardin, were going home now, back to their herds and their fields. But few of those leaving would ever again think of themselves as Einar. During their stay in Thorbardin, most had decided between the hammer and the axe.

Some were remaining behind, to join the thanes within the underground nation. But most were returning to the outside, and most of those, having chosen the sun over the stone, would henceforth be Neidar.

“We have learned a great lesson here,” old Olim Goldbuckle stated to those around him. “Willen was right. Thorbardin is invulnerable to siege, but without the Neidar outside, to complement the Holgar within, it cannot stand as the fortress of Kal-Thax.”

“We are becoming, more and more, two separate peoples,” Slide Tolec agreed. “The Holgar thanes have fought outside Thorbardin and yearned to withdraw within. The Neidar have dwelt within Thorbardin, and have yearned for the open skies. I wonder if we can ever truly be one again.”

“Or if we ever were,” Vog Ironface rumbled. “It may be that an age is coming to its end.”

“Ages begin and end only in the fettered minds of scrollsters,” Olim pronounced, then turned a wry grin toward Quill Runebrand. “No offense intended, Keeper of Lore. Without your peculiar reasonings, how would the rest of us ever know when yesterday ends and tomorrow begins?”

Willen shook his head, uncomfortable as always with the bantering of his peers. The old leaders seemed to become more philosophical with every passing year. Especially the jovial, flint-hearted old Daewar, Olim Goldbuckle, and the intuitive Theiwar, Slide Tolec. And yet, to Willen it often seemed that the less sense his chieftain-peers made, the more wisdom might be found in what they said. To his soldier’s mentality, it was a riddle beyond solution.

“Will you be coming back soon?” he asked Cale Greeneye.

“To visit, of course.” The Neidar nodded. “But maybe never again to live. Olim is right about the lesson we have learned. A fortress that nobody can get out of is as pointless as one that nobody can get into. The gates of Thorbardin must be able to open, as well as to close, and for that, there must be Neidar outside to protect the fortress, just as the fortress protects the lands around it.”

“We will only become more separate as the ages pass,” Willen said, then glanced around sheepishly. He realized that he was beginning to sound just as vague and wise as the other chieftains.

“Different, yes,” Cale Greeneye said. “We were always different, the people of the stone and the people of the sun. But not necessarily separate. We out here need the security of your presence, just as you need ours. Besides, differences can strengthen bonds if they are good bonds to start with. We’ve seen an example of that, too.”

“We have?”

“Your son … my nephew, and his Einar girl. Those two have only one thing in common, but it is their differences that will make their bond succeed.”

“I suppose so.” Willen shrugged. “You’re probably right, because Tera said the very same thing to me just yesterday. She isn’t often wrong in such matters. By the way, good luck with your kender.”

“What kender?”

“That little nuisance that has been roaming Thorbardin lately. You didn’t know? Well, she showed up at Hybardin and proclaimed that she has finished her tour of Thorbardin and intends to go see the outlands now. With you.”

“Like blazes she will!”

“As I said,” Willen said, “good luck with your kender.”

*

Quist Redfeather was playing bones with his jailers when Willen Ironmaul came for him. For a long time – for weeks, it seemed, though in this underground place the Cobar had lost track of time – he had been held captive in what he had learned was the ward chamber behind the Southgate keep. It had not been cruel captivity. They had fed him well, had given him ale now and then, and had not tormented him. But it was still captivity, without question. The grim armed dwarves who guarded his quarters left no doubt that he was not going anywhere unless and until someone in authority ordered it.

The Cobar had made two vows to himself. The first was that if he ever got out he would never again get mixed up in dwarf business. The second was that, after this, he would never again play games with dwarves. The game of bones had always been a favorite pastime for Quist, and he took pride in being good at it. But, somehow, he was now down to his last arrowhead. He had already lost all of his weapons. Although he had been relieved of them upon entry, now they no longer belonged to him, but to various dwarven jailers. He had lost his boots, his cloak, his favorite feathered headgear, and he had lost his copper bracelet. A jovial, gold-bearded guard named Plaid Silvernail was wearing it now.

For all of his watchfulness, he had found no evidence that any of the dwarves cheated at bones. Still, they usually won. So, by the time a band of dwarves showed up from the interior with orders for his release into their custody, Quist Redfeather was ready for a change.

The new guards were thoroughly armored and efficient. All had the same dark, back-swept beards that he had noticed on Damon Omenborn. He suspected they were of the tribe called Hylar.

Briskly, they escorted him along a corridor where a huge auger-banded metal screw sat in great sockets, and past the massive gate-plug that had awed him the first time he saw it, and still did. Beyond, on the walled ledge outside Thorbardin, others waited. The one who stepped forward, peering up at him with hard, wise eyes, bore a striking resemblance to Damon Omenborn, though this dwarf was older and had a stance that suggested high position.

“I am Willen Ironmaul,” the dwarf said in a voice that was like smooth, deep riversong. “My son told me how you helped him, and how you behaved with honor when you might have done otherwise.” Without waiting for an answer, the dwarf turned and started down the rampart. “Come with me, human,” he said.

Quist followed along. He would have followed, even if he hadn’t wanted to, because of the ten efficient-looking armed dwarves who ringed him and herded him forward. At the bottom of the rampart, Willen Ironmaul clapped his hands, and other dwarves came from beyond new, fresh-hewn battlements. They led twelve horses, eleven of them wearing the saddles and gear of dwarven mounts, the twelfth magnificently attired in human-proportioned trappings.

As Quist gaped at the horse, pursing his lips in appreciation of its fine lines and handsome appearance, Willen Ironmaul said, “This animal is Damon Omenborn’s best horse. Its name is Shamath. It is yours now, by my son’s wish.”

The man stepped toward the animal, hardly believing his ears, then paused. He glanced aside at the Hylar chieftain. “It’s a real horse, isn’t it? I mean, it isn’t a wizard or something? It won’t sprout wings?”

For a second, the grim lines of the dwarf’s visage softened. He almost smiled, then straightened his face. “Shamath is a horse,” he assured the human. “He has never been anything but a horse.” He clapped his hands again, and one of the ten escorts produced a bundle, which he handed to Quist. Within it were an exquisite light shield of dwarven craft; a strong, recurved bow of fine lemonwood; a beautiful dagger; a thick, bound sheaf of arrows with dwarven steel points; and various straps and wraps for the implements. Another of the escort stepped forward with a parcel which contained Quist’s own lost boots, cloak, copper bracelet, and feather headgear.

“I had to buy those things back from your, ah, hosts of the gate,” Willen Ironmaul said severely. “They cost me a nice price, too. Even a human should know better than to play bones with a Daewar.”

Without further explanation, the dwarves mounted their horses, clambering up the short boarding ladders slung from their saddles, and at a gesture from the Hylar chieftain, Quist swung aboard Shamath. He knew the instant his legs cradled the animal’s big barrel that he had never ridden a finer horse.

Still surrounded by armed dwarves, the man was led away, riding out from the dwarven fortress toward the Promontory, angling eastward toward the border roads.

It was a three-day trip from Southgate to the secluded cove above the Road of Passage, where the dwarves took their guest, and not once in those three days did any of them, Willen Ironmaul or the Ten, give him a word of explanation as to where they were going, or why. Dwarves, Quist Redfeather decided for the hundredth time, could be the most exasperating people in the world.

Still, he had no choice, and, except for being kept in the dark, he was treated courteously.

Then, on the third evening, they topped out on a low crest directly above the cove where the Road of Passage crossed from dwarven to human lands. Below them were tents, fires, and people – human people, doing human things.

Willen Ironmaul rode up beside the man then and pointed. “That tent there, the one with the awning. Tell me who you see there.”

Quist squinted in the dusk, then his eyes widened in disbelief. “Seena,” he said hoarsely. “My wife! And those are my children! But they were captives! The overlords …”

“There has been a change in the city of Xak Tsaroth,” Willen Ironmaul told him. “The overlords have been overthrown, and others are in power there now. We may be able to work out some trade agreements with the new proprietors, our trade warden tells us. He says Darr Bolden and his followers seem like reasonable people … for humans.”

Quist stared down at the evening fires, his eyes round as he gazed at the familiar figures and dear faces of his family. He raised his reins, then hesitated, turning. “Your son, Damon … He arranged this for me?”

“It seemed the proper thing to do,” Willen Ironmaul said gruffly.

“Where is he? Where is Damon?”

“My son,” the Hylar said, “was married a few days ago to a very stubborn little Einar girl with auburn hair and iron opinions. Following the wedding, they took up new quarters in Hybardin and … well, they haven’t been seen since.”

Quist nodded. “Then let me thank you,” he said, extending his hand.

With a growl, the Hylar chief reined his mount and turned away. “I’ll never understand humans,” he rumbled, glancing back. “If that were my family down there, I wouldn’t be wasting time up here chatting.” The Hylar snapped his reins and headed back the way he had come, his ten escorts falling in behind him.

“Dwarves,” Quist Redfeather muttered, shaking his head. “Of all the … all the …” At a loss for words, even to himself, he drummed Shamath with his heels and headed for the cove where his family awaited him.

Behind him, high on a mountain shoulder, Willen Ironmaul glanced back, then turned to the First of the Ten. “When we return, Cable,” he said, “go and find the trade warden. Tell him those fields of grain he has been coveting – in the Cobar lands north of Ergoth – may yield profitable trade for us now that we have a grateful Cobar to speak for us there.”

He flicked his reins, heading for home, and muttering to himself. “The gratitude of a former enemy should be worth a dozen tokens in striking a trade agreement.” Then the chief of the Hylar shook his head, sighing. More and more, he thought, he was beginning to think like Olim Goldbuckle.

*

In a furniture shop in Theibardin, a burly shopkeeper discovered that a trade had been made. A good pair of calipers was missing from his shop, and in the tool’s place had been left a polished oval gemstone that tasted terrible and had a disconcerting habit of changing colors. With an oath, the shopkeeper flung the thing out of his shop. “I knew it,” he rumbled. “I knew that kender got away with something.”

In the concourse off Fifth Road, a passing Klar farmer noticed the stone, picked it up, and dropped it into his belt-pouch. Later, in the worm warren, he studied it, holding it this way and that in the light, watching it turn from red to white to black, with myriad shades between.

Had he been Daewar, he might have kept it as an oddity for display. But as a Klar, he found no use for it. After looking it over, he cast it aside.

For a time, the gem lay half buried in a pile of crushed stone and slops, then was carted, rubble, slops, and all to the worm troughs, where the tractor worms were fed.

The Stone of Threes of Kal-Thax, which was to have been the foundation of the Seventh Tower of High Sorcery, was never seen again. It was noted, though, that one particular lot of worm-web consigned to the weavers of spunstone had a tendency to change color at odd intervals.

The Swordsheath Scroll

(2128 PC)

Prologue

THE SLAVE

In the centuries following the “Wizards War,” the mighty achievement of the dwarven nation of Thorbardin was to establish a golden age in which the embattled thanes of Kal-Thax came together under a council of chiefs to construct the subterranean fortress of Thorbardin. This was a time of relative peace and prosperity. It was, though, a short-lived age. Without serious threat from beyond the dwarven realm, old jealousies and unresolved rivalries once again began to surface among the thanes.

It had been resolved long since that there would be no king of Thorbardin. Thus all of the thanes within the fortress nation went their own way, held together in common cause only by the inspired wisdom of an aging group of chieftains serving as the Council of Thanes. But by the fiftieth year after Thorbadin’s completion, the Council of Thanes had begun to lose its force. Some said the old order ended the day Willen Ironmaul of the Hylar, who had once served as Chief of Chiefs, quit. He resigned his seat in disgust when, following the death of the old Theiwar chieftain, the Theiwar proved unable to agree upon a new chief and instead divided themselves into two warring camps.

Olim Goldbuckle, the Prince of the Daewar, had died years earlier, and his successor was far more interested in enhancing the grandeur of Daebardin – the huge Daewar city on the northeast shore of the Urkhan Sea – than in the workings of the overall realm.

The Daergar, no longer led by the wisdom of old Vog Ironface, had withdrawn to their mines and their smelters and rarely bothered even to send a representative to council. Within three years of the death of the old Theiwar chief, Slide Tolec, Thorbardin had become a dismal, dangerous place where steel rang on steel almost daily as rival bands of Theiwar stalked one another along the subterranean roads. Daewar and Daergar tribal leaders withheld their tariffs from the council coffers to maintain their own separate guard units for their own holdings, and even the wild, unpredictable Klar – who had surprisingly maintained their loyalty to the Hylar concept of a united nation longer than some other clans – were drawn from central concerns by the necessity of defending the farming warrens from becoming battlegrounds.

Thus when the Hylar, Willen Ironmaul, resigned, the Council of Thanes all but ceased to exist, and the managing of Thorbardin’s mighty systems – its defenses, its waterways, its roads and ventilation systems, its stores and even its trade with the outside world – fell to the wardens, whose only authority consisted of continuing to do exactly what had been done before.

The fortress nation, sprawling in dissolution beneath its mountain peak, became hardly more than a collection of squabbling cities and rivalrous tribes, bound together only by proximity.

The dark ages of Thorbardin began then, and little would ever be known of those next centuries except for the occasional scribings of Hylar and Daewar scrollsters who kept sporadic records of the times.

All through the turmoil of the Theiwar conflicts, the dark-sighted Daergar stubbornly continued their mining and smelting of ores, and the jovial, wily Daewar maintained a semblance of trade with the Neidar settlements beyond Thorbardin and with some of the human and elven traders who came to their borders. The Klar kept the farms going, and the wardens somehow kept the roads clear, the water flowing, and the lifts operating.

But only among the Hylar, in their growing city of Hybardin, delved into a gigantic stalactite rising above the Urkhan Sea, were records of lineage kept which would survive the “warring times” of those centuries. And as time passed, even the Hylar records became sparse and less reliable.

Of the four children of Colin Stonetooth, the visionary first chieftain of the Hylar who initially brought the mountain thanes together, only one had remained in Thorbardin after the Wizards War. Cale Greeneye was gone, preferring the Neidar life outside to the Holgar life within the fortress. His brother Handil had long since died and was buried beneath the rubble of the ancient city of the Calnar in the far-off Khalkist range, while the second son, Tolon Farsight, had remained there as leader of the Calnar. Only the old chieftain’s daughter, Tera Sharn, lived out her life in Thorbardin as wife of Willen Ironmaul.

Their only child, Damon, married a Neidar girl soon after the Wizards War. Damon’s first son, Dalam Fireblend, became chief warden of Tharkas, far to the north of Thorbardin. Dalam’s younger brother Cort succeeded Willen Ironmaul as chieftain of the Hylar, then passed the role to his own son, Harl Thrustweight.

Harl Thrustweight became known in Thorbardin as “The Iron Fist.” It was his stubborn intervention – backed by grim companies of armed Hylar streaming out of Hybardin – that finally put an end to the anarchy of the Theiwar battles and once again restored a semblance of order to the undermountain realm. With angry efficiency, Harl Thrustweight reestablished the Council of Thanes and the Halls of Justice.

Beyond Thorbardin, among humans and elves, this dwarven leader – whom none outside of Thorbardin had ever seen – was known as Hal-Thwait. Many humans, and others, in surrounding lands came to believe – from comments passed by traders – that Thorbardin was a kingdom and “Hal-Thwait” was the name of the king of the dwarves. Even among the outside-dwelling Neidar, scattered throughout the protectorate of Kal-Thax, there were many dwarves who accepted that Thorbardin now had a king. Those who knew otherwise made no effort to correct the human and elven traders who referred to King Hal-Thwait. The humans and the elves were outsiders, and as far as the dwarves were concerned, outsiders could believe anything they wanted about Thorbardin. It was none of their business, anyway.

The “Hylar Peace” in Thorbardin and the mountain realm it protected, enforced by Harl Thrustweight, lasted more than a hundred years, which was forty years longer than the reign of Harl Thrustweight as chieftain of the Hylar and senior member of the Council of Thanes. In the Year of Iron, of the Decade of Willow, Century of Rain, the great chieftain and seven of the ten members of his elite guard were crushed in a rockfall near the entrance to the city of Theibardin.

A Daewar leader, Jeron Redleather, and a Hylar soldier, Dunbarth Ironthumb, took over the coordination of events in Thorbardin following Harl Thrustweight’s death. Through sheer determination, the two of them kept the Council of Thanes going and maintained a troubled peace in Thorbardin.

Unfortunately, Harl Thrustweight’s only child, a grown son named Derkin Winterseed, disappeared on an expedition to Tharkas Pass.

*

The iron shackles they had placed on his ankles, hammered into place and secured with hot rivets in the manner of bonds intended never to be removed, had been an agony to him for a long time. First there had been the deep burns from the riveting, then the open, bleeding sores caused by the constant rubbing of the rough iron against his skin. But what had lasted longest were the aches in his back and his legs, from hobbling around each long day, dragging the loose, eight-foot length of heavy chain which connected the shackles. That, and the deep, patient anger within him.

He had borne the pains in stubborn silence, just as he bore the welts on his back from the overseers’ whips, and eventually the wounds had healed over and the pains had subsided. Now his ankles were toughened by bands of heavy callus that had formed over the scars there, and his legs and back had grown accustomed to the awkward weight of the chain clanking behind him as he labored up and down the dim reaches of rough-delved mine shafts, his hod filled with raw ore from the digs below, or with tools and torches on each return trip.

Most knew him by his deep anger and stubborn silence. Neither the slave masters in these mines nor the other slaves knew more about him than that he was a sturdy, level-eyed young dwarf with a dark, backswept beard, that his name was Derkin, and that he would make trouble if he could.

Three times in two years, his back had been striped until it bled, twice for trying to escape from his bondage, and once – the most recent time – after one of the human guards fell to his death in a refuse pit near the mine’s entrance. He had not been the only one whipped that time. The human slavers had whipped every slave within sound of the refuse pit, just on general principle. There was the suspicion that the dead man’s fall might not have been an accident, and the slave masters knew that a smartly applied whip sometimes loosens tongues. But they had learned nothing. Most of the slaves were dwarves, and bore their punishment stoically. The few human slaves in the area had nothing to tell their tormentors, because none of them had been nearby when the fall occurred.

Like the other dwarves, all of whom he had ignored since his arrival as a captive of slave hunters, Derkin bore the torment in stony silence. The angry shouts of the humans, the crack and sting of their whips, he simply endured, and never made a sound.

But later, when the mine slaves on that shift had been secured in their dungeon for a few hours’ rest, there was cautious movement in the shadows, and another dwarf crept close, to hunker down beside him. In the murky cell, Derkin could barely see the newcomer, but he recognized him. It was the one they called Tap, a young Neidar from one of the hill settlements. Tap had the broad shoulders and long arms of Theiwar ancestry, and his back, like Derkin’s own, was striped with bleeding cuts.

For a moment, the hill dwarf simply sat beside him, gazing around furtively. Then he whispered, “I saw what you did.”

Derkin ignored the whisper, pretending he had not heard.

“I understand,” Tap whispered. “I’m not asking you about it. I just wanted you to know that I saw you kill that guard. You used your chain on him. I only wish I’d had the chance to kill one, too.”

Still he made no response, ignoring the other dwarf.

After a moment, Tap shrugged. “You’re Hylar, aren’t you,” he whispered, “from Thorbardin?”

“I am,” Derkin admitted, still not looking around.

“I thought so. You look like a Hylar. And I’ve heard you called Derkin. That sounds like a Hylar name. What’s the rest of it?”

The Hylar sat in stony silence, ignoring him.

“No other name?” Tap prodded. “Just Derkin?”

“I’m called Derkin,” the silent one muttered. “It’s name enough.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Derkin.” The other nodded. “I’m Tap. I’ve heard them talk about you. They say you’ve tried twice to escape.”

“Obviously, I didn’t make it,” Derkin growled.

“You never will, alone. You’ll need friends.”

“I need no friends, and I have no friends.”

“You could, though,” the Neidar said. “I wasn’t the only one who saw what happened to that human guard. Think about it.”

When the Neidar had gone, back into a far corner of the big, low cell, Derkin sat motionless for a time. It disturbed him that anyone had seen how the human guard died. He had thought the incident went unobserved. He had waited and planned for a long time before the right moment came along – a time when the shift was late and the guards were sleepy, and more importantly, when one guard stood alone on the ledge above the pit as a line of hod-carriers plodded past, carrying tools to the lower shafts. It seemed that ages had passed while he waited, but finally the moment came. One guard, alone on the ledge, and a line of hod-carriers.

In the shadows, Derkin had stepped aside and dropped back to the end of the line. Ahead of him were a half-dozen laden dwarves, their shoulder packs and hods filled with tools.

As always on the ledges, the guard stepped back, away from the edge, forcing the slaves to pass precariously around him. Derkin stooped carefully, picked up a large rock, and went on, toward the guard.

With little interest, the man watched the dwarves passing him. Derkin was almost to him when he saw the human’s face turn away, distracted momentarily. And in that instant, the Hylar heaved his stone – not at the guard, but in a high arc toward one of the hods ahead. The stone hit the laden hod, and tools rattled from it as it tipped. The guard stepped away from the wall, peering ahead to see what had happened, and Derkin set his own hod aside, flung his ankle chain against the man’s ankles, and jerked.

It was very sudden. The man toppled over the ledge, screamed, and disappeared. Derkin retrieved his hod, skipped past several dwarves who had turned toward the scream, and eased past the spilled hod where a dwarf was crouched, trying to retrieve his load.

Only seconds had passed. By the time other humans reacted to the guard’s fall, Derkin was far along the line, just one of many dwarven slaves looking back at the commotion behind.

Still, he had been seen by Tap. The Neidar had witnessed everything, and so, apparently, had others. Would they tell? So far, it seemed, they had not.

“Friends?” he muttered to himself now, shaking his head. “I need no friends.”

When all was quiet in the big cell, he retrieved the chisel hidden in a fold of his kilt and went to work on his shackles. It was the reason for it all – for the death of the human guard, for the fresh welts on his back and the backs of others. And it was worth it. Once before he had tried to steal a chisel, but it had been tricky. All tools were counted and accounted for.

But not this time. It was unlikely that anyone would ever know that a chisel had disappeared, among all the commotion of a spilled hod and a dead guard.

Far back in the shadows of the cell, other slaves squinted in the murk, and one – a young dwarf with the large, contemplative eyes and foxlike features of Daergar ancestry – grinned. “So that’s what it was all about,” he muttered.

Beside him, Tap squinted. “What is?” he whispered. “What do you see, Vin?”

“A chisel,” Vin said. “The Hylar has a chisel. He’s working on his shackles.”

“Ah,” Tap mused. “From the spilled hod. He’s a lucky one, isn’t he?”

“You think that was luck?” The Daergar face creased in a sly, sideways glance of reproach. “Luck had nothing to do with that. He planned that out and executed the maneuver as skillfully as a captain in the field. I think we should get to know this Hylar, Tap. I like the way he thinks.”

Tap glanced around as a shadow moved nearby. “Hush,” he whispered, then squinted and shrugged. It was only the old one-arm who carried the slops.

Tap returned his attention to the Daergar. “It won’t be easy, getting close to that Hylar,” he said. “He’s a cold one. No one has ever gotten close to him that I know of. Just now, I as much as invited him to join us. I’d have gotten as much response from a wall.”

“Join us? In what? We have no plan.”

“But maybe he has one. He’s Hylar. From Thorbardin. As I hear it, those people have no shortage of plans.”

Vin scratched his whiskers thoughtfully. “Then maybe we should join him, whether he likes it or not. He has a chisel, but he has no hammer.”

“Neither do we,” Tap reminded him.

The Daergar gazed at him with ironic eyes. “No, but if that Hylar can get a chisel, I can get a hammer. Or a prybar or maul. Let’s spread the word, Tap. Tell those with us that we wait for a signal from the Hylar. He is readying an escape.”

“How do we know he’s planning an escape?” Tap frowned. “Maybe he’s just easing his cuffs.”

The Daergar gazed at him thoughtfully, his large eyes seeming – as Daergar eyes usually did – to see right through him. “Call it a hunch,” he muttered. “I know, half the dwarves here have tried to escape at one time or another. But that Hylar is the only one of us who may yet succeed. It’s why he wears that heavy chain.”

If Derkin was aware of their watchful eyes upon him, across the great, crowded cell, he gave no evidence of it. The chisel in his hand made almost no sound as he began the tedious cutting of rivets, driving the cutting edge of the tool methodically against the softer metal of the binds, using his free fist as a hammer.

It would take time, but he was in no hurry. In his two previous escape attempts, he had learned much of the pattern of the shafts and the terrain beyond the mines. And he had listened to the talk in the shafts. In a few weeks, they said, the next grand tour of inspection would begin.

Through the rest period he worked, pausing only to swill down a wooden bowl of slops when the old, one-armed pail tender came by. When the horns sounded, he buried his chisel in a chink in the stone floor, rubbed soot on the spots of bright metal where he had worn down the rivets, and lined up with others on his shift to file out of the cell for another day’s grueling labor under the eyes of armed human guards. Each step of the way, as always, his loop of heavy chain dragged and clinked behind him. The chain was nearly eight feet long, with heavy iron links an inch and a half in diameter. It weighed almost forty pounds. Most of the slaves in the mines – certainly all of those young enough or strong enough to ever pose a threat to the human taskmasters – wore ankle cuffs and chains. But most of the bonds were smaller and lighter than Derkin’s. The big, heavy chain dragging behind him was his “reward” for his second attempt to escape.

Most slaves in the mines dreamed of escape. Some, particularly among the stubborn, surly dwarves, had even tried to escape at one time or another. But rarely, if ever, did anyone try it more than once. The punishment was more severe and painful each time. Derkin’s second lashing had been with a special flail, its thongs tipped with balls of lead. Such a beating would have broken the ribs of a human or an elf. It was after that beating that he had been fitted with the heavy chain.

At the end of the day’s labors, after another bowl of slops, he retrieved his chisel and went back to work. Today, and tomorrow, and for as many tomorrows as it took, he would prepare for his departure from bondage.

He knew the way now, and he knew the time. He had seen the fortifications at the north end of Tharkas Pass. The time to make an escape, and possibly succeed, would be when the human delegation from Daltigoth arrived, when the masters and guards of the mine complex were preoccupied with welcoming their visiting dignitaries.

Part I

MASTER OF THE PITS

Klanath

Century of Rain

Decade of Cherry

Summer, Year of Copper

Chapter 1

THE MINES OF ERGOTH

The mines of Klanath, under the direction of three successive emperors of western Ergoth, had become a huge, sprawling complex of pits, shafts, and digs extending for miles along the vertiginous slopes of the peaks that rose like a wall of ranked monoliths above the deep forests to the north and west. Named for the first true emperor of the human realm of Ergoth, Klanath the Conqueror, the mines – and the entire region they commanded – had become a sizable outpost of the empire’s center in far-off Daltigoth. Even before the recent discovery of rich new lodes of metallic ore in the wild mountains south of Tharkas Pass, the Klanath mines had supplied more than half of Ergoth’s treasured iron, nickel, and coke, as well as copper and tin in smaller quantities. But since the discovery of the Tharkas lodes, the complex of mines had nearly doubled in size.

Sakar Kane himself had led the human forces that thronged through the pass to attack and defeat the dwarven miners at their village of Tharkas. He had claimed all of the lands south of the pass for the empire. Now the dwarves who had survived, along with thousands of others captured by slavers raiding through the mountain lands, were Lord Kane’s slaves. They worked in the shafts and tunnels, the caverns and sumps, the pits and the slag heaps, the slopes and the scours.

Among the slaves were other races as well – humans, goblins, mightily bound ogres, and even a few elves. But the most numerous of the slaves, and the most prized by their masters, were dwarves. Stubborn and unrelentingly hostile, often as ready to fight among themselves as against others, the thousands of dwarves imprisoned here were a constant nuisance to the overseers. But when it came to working in mines, every dwarf was worth five of any other race. Adept at tunneling, climbing, delving, and the shaping or breaking of stone, the dwarves were natural miners.

The mountains south of Tharkas Pass were full of dwarves. Legend held that there had once been a mighty nation of dwarves there, protected by the huge, subterranean fortress called Thorbardin. But Thorbardin no longer exercised power over the mountain lands. Village after village, mine after mine, and valley after valley, the raiders had swept down in massive attacks until most of the dwarves north of the wilderness ranges were now dead or enslaved, or had simply vanished into the wilderness.

With the growth of the mines of Klanath, so had grown the population of humans there. What had been a scattering of overseers’ villages and headquarters shacks had become a fair-sized city, sprawling across the flats at the north end of Tharkas Pass, and it was here that much of the empire’s wealth was assembled.

Thus it was not unusual for various high personages from the emperor’s court to accompany the annual visits of inspection by the Grand Master of Mines. Many of the great court had visited Klanath in the past, though usually only once. Rich they might be, but the sprawling warrens of Klanath were unsightly and reeking, lacking any of the civilities and trappings of Daltigoth, the opulent city they served.

In recent years, though, there had been changes. The changes had come with the repeated visits of Sakar Kane, the tall, brooding man who was better known as Lord Kane. Three times in as many years, Kane – a cousin of the emperor, some said – had passed through Klanath on his way to and from the conquered mining regions south of Tharkas Pass.

Since his second visit, hordes of craftsmen and slaves had worked to construct a new fortification in the midst of the spreading encampments. Now the compound of Lord Kane, dominating the north approach to Tharkas Pass, was the most formidable structure in the region. The rumors had circulated through Klanath – and even among the slaves – that Lord Kane’s next visit would be permanent. It was said that he had been given command of the region – even to include authority over the Grand Master of Mines – and that Klanath would be his base.

It was whispered that the emperor intended to extend his realm eastward, maybe even as far as the elven lands of the Silvanesti. It was said that Lord Kane’s authority was part of a grander plan, and that Lord Kane’s fortress would serve as more than just headquarters for the empire’s mines.

It was suspected that Klanath would be a stronghold for the assaults to the east, a link in a chain of conquest that would take in all of southern Ansalon.

Shalit Mileen had heard all of the rumors and had savored them. As chief of pits, Shalit Mileen was one of a dozen deputies of old Renus Sabad, the Master of Mines. One of a dozen, but in his own mind not like the others who were his peers. Most of them seemed perfectly content with their lot, each having a bit of authority in one area of Klanath, and each ready to clean the boots of old Renus, to sing his praises or fetch his tankard, to secure their positions in his favor.

Most of the operation of the mines rested with these deputies. Just as Shalit Mileen ran the soft-ore pits, giving commands and keeping records, driving his overseers to drive their slaves to increase production each year, so did each of the other deputies run an operation. Yet each season, when the high-borns came from Daltigoth, arriving in splendid entourage to inspect the emperor’s resources, it was not the deputies who received them and had the honor of reporting the latest successes. No, when the inspectors came, the deputy mine masters were sent deep into their respective works. It was the Master of Mines, old Renus, who each year met with the dignitaries and humbly took full credit for all of the fine works that had been done.

Only when things went poorly did any deputy stand before the dignitaries. That was because, as Shalit Mileen had noted, when things went well it was the Master of Mines who received the credit, while if something went wrong, it was always one of the deputies who took the blame. Shalit Mileen had seen four of his peers so used in past years. Three of them now were slaves, though not in the same mines they had once ruled – a master become slave would last no time at all among the slaves who knew him. The fourth had been blamed for a cave-in that so displeased the high-borns that the man had been executed where he stood.

Rarely did the various deputies ever meet in a group, but Shalit Mileen had heard their individual comments from time to time and shaken his head in disbelief. Each deputy was, like himself, a strong, brutal man. But unlike him, the others were no better than sheep. They lacked the ambition to scheme for better positions for themselves, or the courage to make such schemes work.

All of which suited Shalit Mileen very well. He had no such lack. He had heard that there would be a new ruler in Klanath, and he intended that new ruler’s favor to fall on him. One way or another, he intended to make himself look good to Lord Kane, and to make old Renus look like a fool.

If he had his way, Shalit Mileen would soon be Master of Mines and have deputies of his own.

He kept his plans to himself, trusting no one, but as the season of inspection approached he governed his pits carefully, preparing. The best ores he withheld, hoarding them in unworked shafts, waiting for the time when he could “discover” rich new lodes. He guarded the energies of his slaves, plied his overseers with the best of food and drink, bribed the captain of the guard company assigned to his pits, and stockpiled the best tools. When the inspection came, the inspectors would hear from Renus a report of hardly better than average production in the soft-ore pits. They would hear that the pits were producing, but only at quota. Then they would see a far different thing. They would see riches rising from Shalit’s mines, far beyond what Renus had reported.

Renus would be shamed, maybe even suspected of stealing metals for his private use. And Shalit would make his move then. He would make his own report to the new ruler, Lord Kane.

Days passed, and Shalit busied himself at the ore pits. In this area there were four deep, wide pits, a rectangle of great scars on the slopes below Tharkas. They had begun as scour mines, where armies of slaves had worked with sledges and skids to haul away the soil overburden from the stone below, exposing veins of ore that were then mined with spike and drill. But the pits had expanded in recent months. As the veins were followed, deep tunnels had been delved downward and outward from the bottoms of the pits. Now there was a vast network of shafts deep in the mountain’s underbelly, and the “pits” were only the staging areas for deeper mine operations.

The layout was well suited to slave mines. The four pits were interconnected by large tunnels, where guards and overseers went to and fro. Each pit had its own slave contingent of about two thousand, and each had a single, delved “cell” large enough to contain all of that pit’s slaves. But there was only one access to the entire complex – a steep, narrow ramp that was always heavily guarded. For the slaves brought to the pits, the world lay beneath the surface. They spent their lives there and escaped only in death, when their bodies were hoisted out for disposal.

Now Shalit Mileen stalked the floors of the pits, reading his charts, checking his calculations, readying his plans. He spoke only to his overseers, but their words carried to the throngs of slaves coming and going among the shafts and were passed along in whispers.

“The pit boss is misdirecting his digs,” a broad-shouldered dwarf laden with ore buckets told another. “In that seventh shaft, and in the ninth, he’s hoarding the best ores from all the shafts. The sappers say there’s a fortune in fine, rich ore just waiting there.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know what’s there,” the second dwarf surmised. “Or maybe the sappers lie. Maybe they’re just making trouble.”

“Not them,” the ore carrier frowned. “Those deep-delvers are all Daergar. They might lie about what day it is, or who got what bowl at slops, but they don’t lie about ore. Where mining is concerned, the Daergar are all fanatics.”

“Then the pit boss is up to something,” another dwarf whispered. “Maybe he wants to save the good stuff for himself.”

The ore carrier shrugged and went his way, but the rumors spread, as rumors do, and at the midday break for feeding, Vin edged close to Tap. “You heard?” he whispered. “The pit boss is hoarding the best ores.”

“I heard.” Tap nodded. “What does it mean?”

“I think it means the inspection is coming soon.” The large-eyed dark-seer squinted as he spoke. “I think the humans are plotting against one another.”

“Means nothing to us,” Tap said. “I’m more interested in what that Hylar is doing. I’ve been watching him. He’s been busy with his chisel, but for the past two days he hasn’t touched it. I think those rivets are gone, and he’s ready to make his move.”

“Ah.” The dark-seer nodded. “Good timing. He’s planning to break when the inspectors are here. In the confusion, he just might make it. The humans will be diverted then.”

“He might succeed,” Tap agreed. “One dwarf alone might slip away. But what of the rest of us?”

Vin stood silent for a moment, thinking. “With enough of a diversion, we might escape, too. Of course, such a thing could spoil all of the Hylar’s plans, if he is planning a break as we believe.”

“To rust with his plans.” Tap frowned. “I tried to get him to include us. He refused. It would serve him right if we let him be our diversion.”

To one side, an old, gray-bearded dwarf paused, set down the slops pail he was carrying, and wiped sweat from his brow with his only hand. Old, crippled, and slow, Calan Silvertoe no longer wore chains. He had been a mine slave as long as most there could remember, and had become as much a part of the pits as the stones themselves. He went about doing trivial jobs such as dishing the slops for the mine slaves’ meals, and hardly anyone ever noticed him. Where his left arm had once been, now was only a short stump, and the weathered features of his face, where not hidden by his whiskers, were as dark and creased as old leather.

Only the clear blue eyes squinting from what might once have seemed a shrewd, jovial face, and the traces of gold in his silver hair and beard, marked him as what he had once been – a full-blooded Daewar dwarf, a person of note. And only the sharpest of ears might have noticed the slight traces of accent in his speech that said that this was no hill dwarf, but one who had once been of the undermountain realm of Thorbardin.

In fact, few in Klanath had ever noticed any of that, and it had been a very long time since anyone – master or slave – had really noticed Calan Silvertoe at all. He went his own way, he spoke little and stayed out of the way of others. In many years as a slave, he had learned much. He managed always to be busy and never to be conspicuous, and he attracted no attention to himself. And always, he watched and listened. And he waited.

Now, though, he suspected that his waiting was at an end.

Inconspicuously, he made his way to one of the shadowed walls of the pit, where he hung his basket from a peg and glanced around. No one was watching him, so with a quick motion, he stooped, stepped into shadows, and ducked behind an out-thrust shoulder of rough-hewn stone. The opening there was virtually invisible. Had anyone been watching, the old dwarf would have seemed to disappear into the stone wall.

Beyond was a shallow, dark niche, no more than a wind-scoured hole in the porous stone, but as he hurried into the opening, it seemed to extend ahead of him, becoming a narrow tunnel. A few yards into the stone, the tunnel widened, and there was faint light from a high crevice above. A person sat cross-legged on the floor there, staring into a shallow, dark stone vessel where cloudy liquid reflected the faint light. In the dimness, it was impossible to see more of the person than the outline of the loose-fitting garment that covered him from head to toe. He could have been human, or elf, or any of a dozen other races of Ansalon. It was obvious only – in the length of his back and his shrouded arms – that he was not a dwarf.

“You have seen and heard?” Calan asked the shadowy figure.

“I have been watching,” the quiet answer came.

“Do you think he is the one, then? The Hylar, I mean? Is he the destined one?”

The bowl-watcher did not look up. “He is the one,” the soft voice said. “Zephyr has observed him, as I asked. The Hylar has the soul of a leader. I believe he is Harl Thrustweight’s son.”

“So is the time at hand, then?”

“He intends to wait for the inspection,” the hooded figure murmured. “But if he does, the others will be ready to go with him … or to try.”

“Will they mess things up?”

“They might, but the Hylar must act now. You must help him, old one.”

“Should I tell him of the others?”

“Tell him what you must,” the hooded one said. “Let him know of his situation. Then get him free of these mines. As we have discussed.”

“Should I tell him his destiny, Despaxas?”

The hood moved then, and the shadowed face within its folds turned toward Calan. “No person really accepts another’s words regarding destiny,” the low voice said. “No, he must see it for himself as time passes. But let him understand about the other slaves, that they know of his plan, and that they may endanger him.”

Calan looked away, thinking he had heard sounds in the tunnel. The dim light from beyond the tunnel seemed to flutter, as if shadows were dancing in it, and there was a faint, eerie sighing. His hackles rising, the old dwarf scurried aside as something appeared in the tunnel’s mouth – something that could not be seen clearly. It was a large thing, but insubstantial. It neither walked nor flew, but seemed to undulate in the air, as though swimming. It came to rest at the entrance to the cavern, settled soundlessly, and shrank as it wrapped itself in wide, transparent flaps that were more like bat-fish fins than wings.

Calan had never gotten used to the “pet shadow” that Despaxas called Zephyr. The creature appeared to have no substance at all, only a random texture of shadows that fooled the eye. It was nearly invisible, and Calan had often suspected that if he were to touch it – which he never had – he would find that there was nothing there at all. Yet, at the same time, Zephyr emanated a sense of great strength, and Calan often had the impression of long, narrow, needle-sharp teeth beneath slitted, slanted eyes.

“I wish you’d leave that thing outside when we meet,” the dwarf growled. “I have nightmares for a week every time it shows up.” He shook his head, grimacing, and turned toward Despaxas. But there was no one there. He turned back, and found that he was alone. Both Despaxas and his weird creature had disappeared.

“Despaxas?” the dwarf whispered, then shuddered. Few dwarves ever became comfortable with the presence of magic, and the old Daewar was no exception. “Rust,” he muttered, “I wish he’d quit doing that. I don’t know which is worse, his pet shadow or his vanishings.”

Back at the pit, old Calan paused for a moment in the shadows, in what was once again only a shallow hole behind an outcrop, then slipped out and retrieved his slops pail. Filling his pail at the steaming caldron where sullen human slaves worked to make food from whatever scraps and leavings the guards allotted, he returned to the cells below the ore shafts and wandered among the slaves there, pausing here and there to ladle slops into bowls for those just returning from the pits. He saved the last bit of stew for the young Hylar squatting in his shadowy corner, and when he arrived there he set down his pail and made a pretense of filling the wooden bowl.

But he whispered as he lifted the ladle, “Are your shackles weakened, young Derkin? If you intend to escape, the time is now.”

The Hylar glanced up, startled. “What?”

“Unless you make your escape now, tonight, many others will try to go with you. They know you intend to escape. They have decided to make you their leader and follow you. But a plan for one will fail for many.”

“You speak in riddles, old one,” Derkin growled. “What do you want of me?”

“I want to go with you when you leave here,” the old dwarf whispered. “Just me, and no one else.”

“Were I planning to leave here, I’d take no one with me.”

“Oh, but you will, or never leave at all. You need me, Derkin. I can help you.”

“Help me? What can you do for me?”

The old dwarf squatted beside him, tilting his pail as though to scrape out the last bit of contents. “I can help you escape. Have you seen what is beyond these pits? The defenses there? I expect you to try to slip up the ramp and escape, but you’ll never make it that way.”

“I don’t need your help,” the Hylar hissed.

“Stubborn.” Calan smiled faintly. “Would you rather succeed in escaping from this place, with my help, or find yourself the leader of a failed mass escape by all the rest of these slaves? You will be followed, Derkin, whether you intend to be followed or not. There is little choice in such matters.”

“Riddles,” Derkin growled.

“I’ve heard it said that wisdom is in letting those help you who want to help you,” the oldster said. “Accept friends, and they will serve you. Reject them, and they will use you.”

Derkin glanced around, his eyes bright with sudden curiosity. “I’ve heard those words before. Who are you, old one?”

“I’m just an old dwarf.” Calan shrugged. “But you’re right. The words are not mine. I heard your father use those words, many times. So did you, I warrant.”

“You knew my father?”

“I knew him, and I know you. Will you hear what I have to say, Derkin Winterseed?”

“How do you know my name?” Derkin hissed.

“I know much more than that. Will you listen?”

“I’m listening,” Derkin said grudgingly.

“Then believe what I say,” the old dwarf urged. “Tonight, when you are returned here, I will come to you. Be ready to leave then. I know the way past the pits.”

“If you know a way out, why are you still here?”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” the old slave said.

“Why? What do you want from me?”

“You ask too many questions for someone with no choice in the matter, Derkin Winterseed. Be ready tonight. I know a way out.”

Chapter 2

ESCAPE FROM KLANATH

In the near darkness of a nighttime cell, where the only light was dim reflection from the low wick of the guard’s lamp beyond the grate, Derkin raised himself carefully from the stone floor and turned his head this way and that, listening. For more than an hour now, there had been no sounds of movement in the wide cavern. Only the breathing and occasional snores of hundreds of sleeping dwarves broke the silence.

There had been no sign of the crazy old one-arm, and Derkin half suspected that the old dwarf had either been having a joke at his expense or, more likely, had forgotten all about his promise to help him escape. Probably, he thought, the oldster was as addled as he seemed. Long years in service to humans as a mine slave might well have robbed him of his senses. And just because the old dwarf knew his name, and the identity of his father, it did not mean that he knew some secret way out of these pits.

Still, some of what the old slave had said troubled Derkin. He had sensed for some time that others among the slaves were watching him carefully. He had seen their glances in his direction as they huddled among themselves.

The old dwarf had said that other slaves knew he planned to escape, and that they intended to try to go with him. He sensed the truth of that, and it troubled him. His “plan” was hardly a plan at all. He had sabotaged the shackles on his legs – had cut the heads from their rivets so that only the curve of their iron held them in place – and now he was simply waiting for an opportunity, a moment of confusion such as the arrival of mine inspectors, to slip away from his work gang and either steal away unnoticed or, at worst, make a dash for the ramp and take his chances.

Not much of a plan, he admitted, but it was the only plan he had. One dwarf, alone, just might make it to freedom in such a way. But if others tried to follow him, they would certainly be pursued, caught, and thrown back into the pits. And he would be branded as their leader.

In the near darkness he grimaced, seeing the shadows of all the other slaves who shared the cell. He wished them no harm, but neither did they mean anything to him. They were as capable of escape as he was. If they wanted to try it, let them try it alone, as he intended. But he didn’t want them messing up his chances.

The old dwarf had convinced him of one thing. He could no longer wait for an opportune time. He had to try it now, before he found himself encumbered by throngs of “followers.”

For long moments, he listened to the sleeping sounds around him. Then with a sigh of aggravation he sat upright, grasped one of his ankle cuffs with strong hands, and pried at it, his wide shoulders bulging at the effort, short, thick forearms rippling like heavy cable. For a long second, the cuff did not respond. Then, with a tiny pop, the beheaded rivet gave way, and the seam spread an inch, then another and another.

When the gap was wide enough he slipped the shackle from his ankle, moving carefully so that the attached chain would make no sound. Then he went to work on the other cuff. Vaguely, it occurred to him that he was lucky these bonds had been fashioned by humans. It would never occur to a human that a circlet of half-inch iron could be pried apart with bare hands. Few humans were strong enough to do that, and it was the nature of humans to see dwarves as inferior to themselves.

The second cuff popped quietly, then slowly opened as stubby hands nearly as hard as the iron they grasped pried its ends apart.

Breathing carefully, making no sound, Derkin got to his knees, lifted his tunic around his shoulders, and slowly, carefully wrapped the eight-foot length of chain around his waist. Its length encircled him three times, forming a cold, heavy belt of links, with enough spare to loop the shackle ends in a clumsy half-knot. With his tunic lowered, the chain was hidden.

The heavy chain and his worn chisel were the only things he had that might serve as weapons or tools, and he did not intend to leave them behind.

Standing then, he took a deep, slow breath and turned toward the closed grate at the entrance to the cell. The crossed bars of the wooden portal were silhouetted by the dim glow of a guard’s light beyond. There were no guards in sight, but he knew there were at least two just beyond the grate – burly humans armed with clubs and whips, and with swords that were never out of reach. Beyond was the narrow corridor out to the open pits. There would be other guards there, but he must think of the nearest ones first. With any luck, there would be no more than two humans beyond the grate, and they might be dozing at this hour.

With his chisel in his hand, he started for the portal, moving as quietly as he could. His only idea was to somehow slip the bar that held the grated gates, get past the opening, and then, somehow, with only his hands and a worn-down chisel, silence the guards there before they could raise an alarm.

With a grunt of anger, he glanced back into the sleeping cell. Rust take you people, he thought. Why couldn’t you all just leave me alone? Because of you, I must do this the hard way.

As though the air had read his mind, a quiet whisper sounded at his shoulder. “It isn’t their fault,” the voice murmured. “They want out just as much as you do.”

At the slight sound, Derkin started, peering about.

“I’m right here beside you,” the voice continued. “I told you I’d come.”

It was the voice of the old, one-armed dwarf who called himself Calan. Derkin squinted in the gloom, straining to see.

“Don’t worry,” the voice said. “You can’t see me, but I’m here. Look.”

The empty air seemed to shift slightly, and a shadowy face came into view.

“How do you do that?” Derkin hissed.

“I don’t exactly know,” Calan admitted. “It’s magic, of course. It’s a sort of robe that fools the eye. I have one for you, too. How do you intend to get us out of here?”

“I thought you said you knew the way,” Derkin growled.

“Oh, I do, once we’re past that gate.”

“Where’s my … my magic robe?” He held out his free hand.

There was a faint rustling, and the old dwarf’s shadowy features seemed to come and go. “Right here,” the specter said, and Derkin felt something in his hand. He couldn’t see it, but it felt like very soft fabric. Feeling foolish, he unfolded the invisible thing and draped it around himself.

“Pretty good,” the voice said. “Be sure to cover your head, too. It only hides the parts it covers.”

He pulled the fabric over his head, forming a cowl, and found a two-button catch with his fumbling fingers. When it was in place, he raised his arms beneath it and looked down. Indeed, it was as though he had disappeared. He could see nothing of himself.

“Your face will show, of course,” the old voice whispered, “so keep your head turned away from anybody you don’t want to see you. Now, let’s get going.”

At the grated portal, Derkin peered out. The guards were not in view, but he suspected where they were. A few yards to the left of the portal was a plank table with benches, where warders worked in the daylight hours, keeping enscrolled logs for the master of the pits. The guards would be there now, probably asleep. At least, he hoped they were asleep.

Bracing himself against the heavy grating of the door, Derkin reached through and grasped the hardwood bolt with both hands. The bolt was a length of sturdy, hewn post that ran through iron hasps on each side of the double grating. Slowly, flexing his shoulders, the dwarf eased the lock aside a few inches, then took new holds and eased it again. The wood made a slight, shuffling sound as it moved through its hasps, and the unseen dwarf beside Derkin whispered, “Shhh!”

Beyond the portal, someone snorted, coughed, and stirred. Derkin pulled back his hands, which were plainly visible beyond the edge of the unseen cloak. There was silence for a moment, then a chorus of snores came through the grating.

Derkin returned to the task of sliding the bar aside. As the heavy timber cleared its first hasp, it tilted, its free end falling toward the floor. But Derkin had expected that. As the bar moved he thrust his chisel through an opening, wedging the timber against the door. Beside him, Calan expelled a nervous breath and a spectral hand appeared, to wipe sweat from a ghostly face that seemed to float, unattached, in the shadows.

Derkin eased the free half of the gate open and stepped through, sensing the movement as old Calan slipped through after him. At the warders’ table, a single candle guttered low in a rough holder, dimly lighting the forms of two large men asleep on the benches.

Carefully, and as soundlessly as possible, Derkin closed the gate, retrieved his chisel, and eased the bar back into its hasps. Then he turned as a snore turned to a rattling gasp. Beside the table, old Calan’s head and hand seemed to float in midair. In the hand was a dagger, dripping blood. One guard lay dead, blood flowing from beneath his beard. Before Derkin could object, the old dwarf hurried around the table and cut the second guard’s throat. The hand and dagger disappeared, and the old head turned, grinning. “Why did you lock the gate?” he whispered.

For a moment, Derkin merely stared at him. Then, slowly, he said, “I thought maybe nobody would notice that there’s been an escape. I guess they’ll notice now, though.”

“What difference does it make, once we’re gone?” Calan rasped.

Shaking his head, Derkin pointed toward the enclosed cell. Then, realizing that Calan couldn’t see his hand, he lifted the robe and pointed again. “Because of them,” he said. “They’ll all be punished for this, you know. For the dead guards.”

“I thought you didn’t care about the rest,” Calan muttered, relieving one of the dead guards of his club. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” He raised the cowl of his robe and disappeared from sight. “Follow me.”

“How can I follow you if I can’t see you?” Derkin hissed.

“Oh, rust! Here.” Derkin felt a strong, cloaked hand grasp his wrist. “Here, put your hand on my shoulder, and don’t lose me.”

As the old dwarf led the way, Derkin pulled up his own cowl and followed. “There will be more guards up ahead,” he whispered. “Do you plan to kill all of them, too?”

“Not unless I get the chance,” Calan said casually.

“Reorx,” Derkin muttered, still hot with anger. He couldn’t think of any reason why the old dwarf should have killed those sleeping guards. The act was worse than unnecessary, it was stupid. Still, he had the impression that, whatever else Calan Silvertoe might be, he was not stupid.

The corridor turned, and ahead was its end, with the floor of the mine pit beyond. Several armed humans were at the entrance, three of them kneeling on a tattered blanket, playing bones, while others dozed or slept nearby.

“Keep your face covered,” Calan whispered, slowing. On silent feet, they crept past the guards and out into the torchlit pit. The big hole was quieter than its normal daytime bedlam, but still there was activity. Ore carts still rolled from the various shafts, and small groups of slaves, watched over by human guards, worked at sorting heaps. Derkin gazed across at the steep ramp that was the only exit from the place and cursed quietly. Halfway up the ramp, a small fire had been built, and a dozen or more humans sat around it. The ramp was blocked.

“We’ll never slip past that bunch,” the Hylar whispered, pulling Calan to a halt. “There isn’t enough room to pass.”

“We’re not going there,” the old dwarf’s voice came back. “I told you, I know a way out. A better way.”

Clinging to Calan’s invisible shoulder, Derkin found himself being led diagonally across the pit, toward a stone wall marked only by a hanging scrap basket beside an outcropping of rock. As they approached, though, a human guard sauntered past them, paused beside the basket, turned, and looked around, then yawned and leaned back against the outcrop.

Calan halted. “Rust!” he muttered.

“What?” Derkin asked.

“That man is in our way,” the unseen voice said. “That’s where we’re going. There’s a hole behind that thrust of stone.” He paused, then said, “You wait here, Derkin. I’ll draw the man away. As soon as he moves, you go to that hole and wait. I’ll be right behind you.” He pulled loose from Derkin’s grip and was gone.

With nothing else to do, Derkin stood still, waiting. A minute passed, then another, and suddenly a howl of pain echoed around the pit. He turned in time to see a human pitch forward onto the ground, screaming. Then another fell a few feet away, and another, their screams joining the first as if in chorus. Other humans hurried toward them, and Derkin saw a wooden club materialize beside one man and lash out at him. The man fell, as the others had.

By the stone outcrop, the lounging guard stood erect, gawking at the melee out in the pit, then drew his club and hurried toward it. Keeping his invisible cloak tight around him, Derkin raced to the wall, found the shadowed hole behind the stone, and stepped into it, then stopped. “Hole?” he muttered. “There is no hole here. It’s a dead end.” He turned, started out of the shallow trap, and collided with something solid and invisible. Thrashing legs appeared as Calan fell backward, then disappeared again. “Watch where you’re going!” his angry voice demanded. “I told you to wait here, didn’t I?” A callused hand appeared and pushed Derkin back into the shadows.

“You said there was a hole here, a way to escape,” Derkin rasped.

“There is!” Calan spat. “Just be quiet and hold on to my shoulder.”

It was only two steps from the opening to the back of the concavity, but as they approached it, the rough stone receded, and the opening became a lengthening tunnel. “Magic!” Derkin rumbled.

“Of course it’s magic,” Calan said, ahead of him. “Shut up and come on. I don’t like magic any more than you do.”

“Then why are you using it?”

“Stop complaining. It’s the only way. Come on.”

The tunnel lengthened ahead of them, dim and curving, seeming totally dark, yet somehow lighted faintly by a slight, greenish glow that came from nowhere.

“I thought you weren’t going to kill any more guards back there,” Derkin snapped, still peeved at the seemingly senseless killings of the sleeping guards outside the cell.

“I didn’t kill these,” Calan snapped. “I just broke some kneecaps to make them yell. It worked. They yelled.”

“How did you find this tunnel?”

“A friend showed it to me. Will you stop yammering and hurry? All this magic makes me nervous.”

A few steps farther on, the tunnel widened, ending in a small cave deep within the mountain stone. The same slight, greenish glow provided just enough light to see. Calan stopped, shook free of Derkin’s hand, and became visible from the feet up as he pulled off his unseen cloak. “We won’t need these now,” he said. “From here on there will be no one to see us.”

Derkin pulled off his concealing garb and breathed deeply. As with most dwarves, the very presence of magic was offensive to him. He tossed the cloak aside, then immediately wished he had not. It might take an hour of crawling around to find the thing by touch, and, magic or not, such a thing might prove useful again.

As though reading his mind, the old Daewar rasped, “Forget about the cloaks. I told you, we won’t need them anymore.”

The only feature of the place was a shallow, dark bowl resting on the stone floor, and Calan approached it. Derkin followed Calan, stooping once to pick up the unseen cloak he had dropped. He could not see it, but his fingers found it. Quickly, he rolled it, thrust it under his tunic, and secured it beneath the chain wound around his waist.

The darkwood bowl contained an inch of milky liquid. Calan squatted beside it, staring into its silent, mysterious depths. Derkin glanced at the bowl, then went on past, to the back wall of the cave. With spread hands, he started exploring its surface, wondering where the next tunnel would appear.

Behind him, he heard Calan say, “Despaxas? We are here.”

Derkin turned, but there was no one there except the old dwarf squatting beside the dark bowl. With a shrug, he turned back to the wall. “Where is the next tunnel?” he asked. “I can’t find any …”

Abruptly, the stone seemed to swim before him. He felt dizzy, lightheaded, and disoriented. He closed his eyes, opened them again, blinked, and fell on his back. Overhead, stars glittered in a vast sky, and the light of a rising red moon silhouetted the branches of a tree. Not far away, precipitous slopes rose on both sides, great walls of stone climbing away toward the sky. He struggled upright, feeling slightly sick to his stomach. A few feet away, old Calan squatted on stony ground, bracing himself with his one arm and shaking his head. “Rust, but I hate that,” he growled.

“What … what happened?” Derkin gasped. “Where are we?”

“Away from the mines,” Calan said. “I told you I knew a way out.” Still shaking his head, the old dwarf got to shaky feet and rubbed his belly with a gnarled hand. “What happened was a transport spell. Magicians use them sometimes.”

“You’re a magician?” Derkin glared at him.

“You mind your mouth,” Calan snapped. “I certainly am not a magician! But Despaxas is.”

“Who is Despaxas?”

Calan turned, pointing. “He is,” he said.

From the shadows of a grove of conifers, a lean, cowled figure appeared. Derkin could see nothing of him but his stature and form as he strode forward. But one thing was clear: he was no dwarf.

The figure approached, lithe and graceful even in the muffling of his full robe, and Derkin squinted, trying to discern his features. Then the newcomer spoke, and his voice was rich and clear, musical as few human voices and no dwarven voices were. “Welcome to freedom, Derkin Winterseed,” he said. “I am Despaxas.”

“Where are we?” the Hylar demanded.

“About four miles from where you were,” the hooded one said quietly. “This is Tharkas Pass. The mines of Klanath are back that way, to the north. And south of here, through the pass, lie the dwarven lands … or what used to be dwarven lands.”

Derkin looked where the figure had pointed, then swung back. “What do you mean, ‘used to be’?” he demanded.

“You think you were the only one captured by slavers in these past years?” Calan rasped. “Well, you weren’t. The human emperor’s soldiers hold the dwarven mines now, and the lands all the way to Sky’s End. And all the miners who worked those mines are now slaves in them, just as you have been a slave in Klanath.”

“I never made it that far,” Derkin said grimly. “We were attacked on the road south of the Tharkas mines by human raiders. My escorts were all killed. Only one survived with me, and he died of his wounds before they got us to Klanath.”

“Those were no raiders,” the hooded one said. “Those were scouts for the assault force that invaded Kal-Thax and took over the Tharkas mines. Only a very few dwarves survived that assault, got away, and made it to Thorbardin.”

“Then the alarm was spread?”

“It was,” the cowled one said sadly. “But no one came. The tribes were at war again within Thorbardin, and no one thought it important to defend the mines outside the undermountain realm.”

“Gods,” Derkin whispered, realizing the enormity of what he had just heard. Since his capture, Kal-Thax had been invaded by humans. And now the humans ruled the northern ranges. “And what of Thorbardin now?” he asked.

“It stands,” the figure assured him. “There are reports that some order has been restored, at least temporarily. But still there is no help for these northern realms.”

Again Derkin squinted, peering into the shadows of the cowl. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want of me, and how do you know all this?”

With an eloquent shrug, Despaxas reached up and pulled back his cowl, dropping it to his shoulders. Rising moonlight revealed a chiseled, serious face with long, lustrous hair and no beard. It was a faintly ironic face, but the smile on it was as innocent as a child’s. It was a face almost – but not exactly – human.

“You’re an elf!” Derkin said.

“Of course I am,” Despaxas admitted. “My mother was a good friend of an ancestor of yours. She admired him, in a way. Look here.” The elf knelt and brushed back gravel and dust with a graceful hand. Beneath was a glint of iron. “This is a claim spike, Derkin. A long time ago, it was driven here to mark the boundary of the dwarven lands. My mother was here when that was done. The person who set the spike was named Cale Greeneye. His sister was your great-great … well, several greats, grandmother.”

“And your mother was alive then?”

“Yes. She still is. Her name is Eloeth. It was her idea, frankly, that I should come and find you.”

“Why?” Derkin frowned up at the innocent, ironic face. His frown became a startled stare as his eyes shifted. Behind the elf, only a few feet away, something was watching … something he could barely see. As he stared, the creature seemed to unwrap itself, unfurling wide, shadowy appendages that seemed to ripple in the shadows. Undulating gracefully, it rose silently, then turned and glided away, disappearing from sight.

Derkin stared after it. “What in the name of corrosion was that?” he hissed.

“I call him Zephyr,” Despaxas said. “He’s a verger.”

“A what?”

“Verger,” the elf repeated. “It means he doesn’t exactly exist in this world, but he isn’t exactly out of it, either.”

“It’s Despaxas’s pet shadow,” Calan Silvertoe rumbled. “It follows him around. Ugly, isn’t it? I mean, what you can see of it.”

“Zephyr doesn’t see you any better than you see him, Calan,” the elf said softly. “He probably doesn’t see your body at all. What he does see, though, is your soul.”

Derkin stared at the elf, then at the empty night where the almost-creature had gone. “That thing looks at souls?” he growled. “Why?”

“So he can tell me what he sees there,” the elf said. “Zephyr is my friend.”

Derkin shook his head in amazement. There was something he had meant to ask these odd people – something about his escape from the mines – but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what it was.

Chapter 3

THE RELUCTANT LEADER

From a high, cold pinnacle of stone, two dwarves and an elf looked down upon a scene of desolation, and Derkin Winterseed felt a hard, stubborn anger begin to grow within him. They were south of Tharkas Pass, and the steep ranges below – just now touched by morning sun – were the region of the Tharkas mines. Once a rich, productive cluster of hard-ore shafts, the mines had been carefully developed over a span of more than two centuries by the dwarves of Kal-Thax. Originally delved by Daergar experts from Thorbardin, the mines had proven immensely productive, yielding the highest grade of precious iron ore any of them had ever seen.

Once before, when he was very young, Derkin had seen the Tharkas mines, and he well recalled the busy, bustling slopes where hundreds of Neidar worked the shafts and the mills, the scours and the seines, preparing top-grade ore for transport to Thorbardin for processing in the great smelters deep within the mountain fortress. It had been a happy scene, as the Hylar remembered it. Everywhere he had looked there were hundreds of bustling dwarves laboring in relative harmony, doing what dwarves most enjoyed – working for their own purposes.

But the scene now was different. Where there had once been neat, orderly ore dumps and the methodical ring of hammers and drills, a sound as musical as dwarven drums echoing among the mountains, now there was an ugliness about the entire area. Everything seemed discordant. Slag flows ran here and there at random, the ore heaps were messy hills of ill-sorted stone, and the ring of hammers and drills had no rhythm to it, only the heedless clatter of slaves at labor. Even without the companies of armed humans that roved the area, it would have been obvious to any dwarf that these were no longer dwarven works. Everywhere, the thoughtless sloppiness of human mining methods was obvious.

Here was proof of what every dwarf knew – humans were poor miners at best, and even the skills of dwarven slaves could not improve their methods. Unlike dwarves, humans found no harmony with their enterprises. They didn’t work their mines as dwarves did, cooperating with the stone to ease its riches from it. Instead, humans fought the mines, as one would fight an enemy. They fought the mines, fought the ores, and fought the very mountains that provided their riches. The human concept of mining, to most dwarves, was like the human concept of most things: take what you want any way you can, usually by brute force. The scene below the pinnacle seemed proof of that. The few cabins and sheds below the mines – three of the buildings were the remains of what had once been a pleasant Neidar village – now looked run-down and unused. It was obvious that the shelters now served only as sleeping quarters for the human conquerors. Even from the pinnacle, one could see the dejected weariness of the few dwarven women working around what had once been a handsome longhouse. Like the dwarves in the mines, the females too were slaves, kept by the humans to cook and clean for them.

The only other habitation visible, as far as they could see, was a small, distant campsite farther along the mountainside, beside a pretty lake that Derkin remembered from his childhood. The lake was a reservoir, built ages ago by dwarven craftsmen. A long, curving stone dam contained the flow of several mountain streams, channeling it slowly into a series of walled canals that wound along the slopes.

This system had once provided reliable water for the entire Tharkas region. But that had been in the golden times of Thorbardin, the days of the great Road of Passage, when people of all races and nations traveled between southern Ergoth and the northern lands, along a route maintained jointly by the dwarves of Kal-Thax and the knightly orders of human Ergoth.

Those times were gone now. The old road had fallen into disuse, and parts of it had been obliterated. And while the mountainside reservoir remained, its channels were choked with clutter and debris. The lake remained, but it no longer served dwarven villages and farms.

Squinting, Derkin tried to make out who was camping there now, and Calan said, “Those are humans over there. Nomads from the plains. See how they avoid the empire soldiers at the mines? They come and go, passing through, but most plains people have no use for the emperor.”

Scowling, Derkin stared down again at the sad scene below and cursed beneath his breath. Then he turned to the hooded elf who had led him here. “Two years?” he demanded. “They have made this much ruin in just two years?”

“They would have done the same to Thorbardin itself,” the elf replied, “but they couldn’t get in. Lord Kane sent an assault force south to test Northgate. Zephyr observed them for me. The humans finally gave up and came back. They never got past Thorbardin’s outer defenses. But they do hold the mines, and have been stockpiling ore for nearly a year to send through the pass to Klanath.”

“But why hasn’t Thorbardin sent troops to drive them out?”

“What troops?” old Calan Silvertoe rasped. “You have been in Thorbardin since I have, young Hylar. How long has it been since the thanes within stopped their feuding long enough to send a force outside?”

“My father restored order in Thorbardin!” Derkin snapped.

“Yes, of course,” the old one sneered. “And the Hylar Peace lasted slightly longer than your father did. Then, as you know better than I, they started at it again, Theiwar against Daewar, Daergar fending off Klar, the Hylar holed up and pouting in their Life Tree. …”

“I know,” Derkin rumbled. “That was why I left Thorbardin. But I didn’t know they had turned their backs on the outside lands.”

“Well, they did.” Calan’s frown was as fierce as Derkin’s. “And without Thorbardin’s troops, the world outside fell into the hands of … humans!” Disdainfully, the old dwarf pointed downward, his single hand a rigid arrow of accusation, pointing out shame.

“Rust and corruption,” Derkin muttered.

Behind him, Calan whispered to the elf, “He reminds me of his father when he looks like that.”

“He will need to be as strong as his father,” Despaxas replied.

Derkin whirled on them, turning his back on the sad scene below. “It’s high time somebody put a stop to that atrocity,” he said. “Humans don’t belong in Kal-Thax. This land is for dwarves.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” the elf said sympathetically.

“One would need an army to reclaim this territory,” Calan pointed out.

“Then I’ll go to Thorbardin myself and bring back an army,” Derkin snapped.

“What army?” Calan shook his head. “We’ve kept abreast of what’s going on in Thorbardin. There is no army. Just a bunch of bickering clans barely kept in check by Jeron Redleather and Dunbarth Ironthumb, with every reliable follower they have working to police the undermountain. Nobody is coming from there to help. Not until the time comes when Thorbardin has a real leader again, like in the old days.”

“There is an army,” Despaxas said softly. “At least, there could be. But you won’t find it in Thorbardin.”

Derkin frowned at the elf, hard Hylar eyes seeming to pierce him. “Where, then?”

“Back there.” The elf gestured northward. “Back where you just came from. The humans have a few hundred dwarves working these mines south of the pass, but there are nearly eight thousand dwarven slaves in all laboring in Klanath. They would make quite an army if they had the right leader.”

“You’re crazy,” Derkin snapped. “I’m free of there. I’m not going back.”

“That’s too bad,” Calan said. “You know, those pit slaves back there are going to pay dearly for the two guards who died so unfortunately when we …”

“You murdered those men yourself!” Derkin spat. “You cut their throats gleefully, and now you’re worrying about who will be blamed?”

The elf pulled his cowl forward, hiding the slight smile that pulled at his cheeks. “It was your escape, Derkin. Do you want to be responsible for the misery that will befall all those innocent dwarves?”

Derkin stood silent for a moment, looking from one to the other of his odd companions. Then his eyes narrowed. Glaring at Calan Silvertoe, he said, “I wondered why you killed those guards. It seemed a needless, senseless thing to do. But you had a reason, didn’t you, Daewar? I should have known. A Daewar always has a reason.”

“You’re Hylar,” Calan said, “and whatever else they might be, the Hylar do have strong notions of chivalry and honor.”

“And a strong distaste for manipulation,” Derkin snapped. “I see it now. You planned it all out, the two of you. You want something from me. What is it?”

“We want the same thing you want,” Despaxas said softly. “We want to drive Lord Kane’s human invaders out of Kal-Thax and reestablish the boundary in the pass. To do that will require an army. An army of dwarves. We want you to mold that army and lead it.”

“Why me?”

“Because you can,” the elf said. “Zephyr has read your soul, and we know your lineage. We know quite a lot about you, Derkin Winterseed. We have studied you for nearly a year.”

Derkin glared at him. “Why?”

“Have you ever heard of an elf named Kith-Kanan?”

“Not that I remember. Why?”

“Kith-Kanan is a friend of my mother, Eloeth,” Despaxas said. “Kith-Kanan has been concerned about the human emperor, Quivalin Soth, whose soul is the darkest Zephyr has ever seen. Kith-Kanan asked Eloeth for advice about Kal-Thax, because Klanath is so near to Kal-Thax and because Eloeth has dealt with dwarves. She, in turn, asked me to help, and I asked Calan, because he is my friend. He lost that arm saving my life nearly two hundred years ago.”

“That’s fine.” Derkin glared at the elf. “But it doesn’t answer my question. Why all the interest in me?”

“Because of what we have learned about you.” Despaxas shrugged. “You are the direct descendant of Colin Stonetooth, who brought the dwarven thanes together when no one else could. You are also descended from Damon Omenborn, who was foretold to be the father of kings. You are kin of Cale Greeneye, and descendant of Willen Ironmaul, who led armies. You are the son of King Hal-Thwait of Thorbardin. …”

“His name was Harl Thrustweight, and he was never king!” Derkin said angrily. “Thorbardin has no king!”

“Oh, we know that,” the elf assured him. “But it is a useful fiction for the outside world to believe. But you, Derkin Winterseed, you have the blood and the soul of mighty leaders, and those around you recognize that, whether they realize it or not. The slaves of Klanath will follow you. Some of them had decided to follow you already, even if you didn’t want them to.”

“This whole thing is preposterous!” Derkin growled. He glared at Calan Silvertoe. “You yourself told me that the slaves could not escape from the pits en masse. You said such a thing would never work.”

“Not an escape from inside.” The old dwarf shrugged. “But an assault from outside, that’s another thing.”

“An assault? By the three of us, I suppose? It would take hundreds of fighters just to get in, not to mention getting out again.”

Calan shrugged again, stepped to the south ledge of the pinnacle, and pointed downward. “There are hundreds of dwarves down there, Derkin. And not nearly so many humans to contend with as across the pass at Klanath.”

Again Derkin stared at the two of them, first one and then the other, the one-armed old Daewar and the lithe, hooded elf.

“First mold an army, then lead it,” Despaxas coaxed. “There is a great deal of difference between a mob of unruly dwarves – escaped slaves or whatever – and a dwarven army. Your Hylar ancestors proved that very well, in a time my mother remembers.”

Derkin stepped directly in front of the elf and reached up – the elf was nearly a foot taller than he was – to fling back the shadowing cowl. “What’s in this for you?” he demanded. “Skip the part about Kith-Kanan and Eloeth. You’re no dwarf, and neither are they. Why do elves care about the dwarven lands?”

Despaxas gazed at him with level eyes. “A fair question,” he said. “Lord Kane and his mine claimers are your problem, not ours. But the emperor, whom Lord Kane serves, has vast ambitions. Already he is moving forces onto the plains east of here, and beyond those plains lie elven lands. There will be war between the humans of Ergoth and the elves of Silvanesti, Derkin. It cannot be avoided. It will come, very soon. And it will be a long, hard war.”

“It isn’t our war,” Derkin pointed out.

“In a way, it is,” the elf told him. “The emperor will use Klanath as a base to equip and reinforce his human hordes against the elves, and we may be conquered because of it. Then Lord Kane’s reward from the human emperor will be the dwarven lands.”

“I see,” Derkin breathed. “So to disrupt the humans’ supply lines, you plan a backfire here, using a dwarven army for your purposes.”

“For your purposes,” Despaxas said. “Which will serve ours as well.”

“Devious,” Derkin sneered. “Devious, but … well, maybe it makes sense, after a fashion.”

“Thank you,” the elf said. “My mother will be pleased that you approve.”

“Approving is one thing,” old Calan snorted. “Agreeing is something else. Do you agree to go along with this, Derkin?”

“I don’t know,” the Hylar said slowly. “What would I have to do first?”

“Get into the dwarven mines down there, organize the dwarves, get rid of the humans – there is only one foot company and a dozen or so slave tenders – then train the dwarves as an assault force and march on Klanath.”

“Oh, is that all?” Derkin’s chuckle was cold and ironic. “And exactly how do I do all that?”

“That’s up to you,” the old dwarf said. “You’re the leader.”

“And while all this is going on, what’s happening at Klanath?”

Despaxas pulled up his cowl again, covering his head. “A diversion has been arranged there,” he said emphatically. “It should keep everyone occupied for a time.”

*

Dawn’s light had not yet touched the soft-ore pits of Klanath when the husky, broad-shouldered slave named Tap Tolec came awake to the tug of a hand at his shoulder. It was nearly pitch-dark in the great, reeking cell, but he knew the whisper at his ear. It was the Daergar, Vin the Shadow. Tap groaned and turned his head, trying to see. “Vin?” he muttered. “Is that you? Let go. I’m awake. What’s the matter?”

“Look at this,” Vin whispered. He sounded urgent, excited.

“Look at what?” Tap grumped. “My eyes aren’t like yours. I have to have a little light to see.”

Impatiently, Vin grabbed the Theiwar’s hand and thrust something into it. Even in the dark, Tap recognized the heft of a stout hammer. He sat up, exploring the tool with his fingers. “You got it!” he whispered. “How did you manage that?”

“I didn’t manage,” Vin said. “I just woke up and … well, see for yourself!”

Vin scuttled away from him, and Tap heard sounds like someone rummaging through a tool trove. Around them, other dwarves stirred and began to awaken. Nearby, someone – obviously another Daergar miner – muttered, “Wow! Look at that!”

“What?” someone else whispered. “What do you see?”

Then there was a quick series of rasping noises, accompanied by tiny flashes of dim light. Tinder glowed in a leathery palm, was breathed aflame, and those nearby saw Vin the Shadow raising a freshly lit candle. “There,” he said. “Now you can see. Look!”

Tap stared, his eyes going wide. All around him, other dwarven slaves rubbed sleepy eyes and gawked at what Vin indicated. On the floor of the cell, in a random cluster as though someone had just dumped it there, was a large pile of implements, and more and more gasps sounded as more and more slaves realized what they were seeing. Hammers and axes were there, steel-tipped javelins and gleaming swords, maces and daggers, goblin-fashioned crossbows with bales of deadly bolts, even a few elven-style bows of lacquered lemonwood and sheaths of fletched arrows. The candle’s light danced on myriad deadly shapes and surfaces.

Behind the piled weapons, shadowed by the stack, were bits of armor of numerous kinds and designs, shields and chest-plates, various kinds of helmets, leather-slung caplets and braces – it looked as though someone had foraged hurriedly through a used-armor bazaar and picked up a little of everything. And farther back in the shadowed recess were bales and kegs. Vin gazed at these, and his large eyes went narrow. “See the markings there,” he said. “Those come from the mine master’s stores.”

Vin’s attention was on something else, though. Just in front of the pile of weapons, a small, shallow bowl of dark wood rested on the stone floor. He crept closer and looked into it. In the bowl was a bit of milky liquid that seemed to glow as he stared at it, a dim, greenish light. “What’s …” he began, then flinched as a voice came from the bowl – a quiet, musical voice.

“Arm yourselves,” the milky liquid said. “Barricade the grating and fortify the cell. Break your chains and defend your gate at all costs. Arm yourselves and hold the cell … hold the cell. …”

A thick-bearded dwarf peered into the bowl skeptically. He stirred the liquid, to no apparent effect. “That’s crazy,” he growled. “We can’t hold out here, in this cell.”

Nearby, a gnarled dwarf with deep scars on his back and only one eye hoisted a sword and picked up a shield. “To blazes with talking bowls,” he rasped. “Let’s get these chains off and go kill some slavers.”

A low thunder of approval began, then subsided quickly as they realized that their voices could carry to the guards outside.

“First things first,” a burly slave rasped quietly. “Some of us can watch the gate, while the rest get free of their chains. Then when we’re ready, we can …”

“Hold the cell,” the musical voice coming from the bowl repeated urgently. “Beyond the cell lies death. Hold the cell.”

“Tarnish that,” someone snorted, a bit surprised to be talking to a bowl of what seemed to be milk. “How long can we hole up in a cell with no way out? The humans wouldn’t have to come in after us. They could just wait until we starve. Or bury us alive in here.”

“Hold the cell,” the voice repeated, flowing over them like music. “Help is on the way. One comes who will lead you out. Arm yourselves, barricade the gate, and hold the cell. …”

The greenish light dimmed, and the voice was gone. In the cavern cell now was only momentary silence and the flickering light of Vin’s candle outlining the faces of hundreds of dwarves, some of them suspicious, all of them grim.

Suddenly there was other light – dim, dancing beams from lanterns beyond the cell grating – and the unmistakable sounds of human guards in the corridor beyond. Within, hundreds of dwarves listened in breathless silence.

The silence lasted only a moment. In the corridor a human voice said, “Here, you two! Wake up! It’s time for the … What’s this?”

“They’re dead,” another human voice said. “Both of them. Their throats have been cut! Sound the alarm!”

Weapons rattled, a trumpet blared, and there was the sound of hurrying feet, distant but approaching.

As one, the dwarves in the cell crowded toward the gate. “What nitwit killed the night guards?” Vin the Shadow rasped. “Now they’ll all be on us before we can gather our wits.”

“Maybe it was whoever brought all this stuff in here,” Tap Tolec suggested.

“Nobody ‘brought’ it here,” Vin said. “It came by magic. That bowl proves that.”

“I never saw magic,” someone else said.

“I don’t trust magic,” another said.

Beyond the grated gate, a lamp was raised. Its light danced through the bars, a moving pattern on the solid mass of dwarves crowding forward. A human voice shouted, “Here, you dinks! Get back there. Get away from this gate!”

“Nobody in here killed the guards,” Tap Tolec told Vin the Shadow. “See, the bar is in place. The gate is still locked.”

Those in the fore continued to crowd toward the grating, curious and pressed by those behind them. Beyond the grate, the human shouted again, and a spear flicked through the bars, threatening the mob inside. But before its tip could reach anyone, a muscular hand grasped the shaft, and a short, stout arm lifted and pulled. The human beyond was jerked up against the grating, and froze there as a sword flashed through the bars, skewering him from belly to brisket. The man screamed, hung for a moment where he was, then dropped to the stone floor as the sword was withdrawn.

Within the cell, a dwarf – the one-eyed slave with the deep scars on his back – wiped his sword blade on his tunic and rasped, “That’s one.”

Then the corridor was full of armed humans and bright lamps, and the dwarves in the cell backed away from the gate.

“Quick!” Vin the Shadow barked. “Don’t let them free that bar!”

Spears and narrow pikes licked through the grating of the portal, and human hands grasped the gate bar, starting to slide it aside. It moved only an inch before a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts from within the cell tore into the humans beyond. Men screamed, men fell, and men fled. Crazy shadows danced in the suddenly deserted corridor, where fallen lamps flickered on the floor.

“Well, that’s that,” Tap Tolec breathed. “But they’ll be back. What do we do now?”

“Barricade the gate!” a dozen voices chimed.

“Break it down and attack the pits!” other voices shouted.

“Kill humans!” several suggested.

“Hold it!” someone roared. “Whatever we do, we’d better all do it together. Who’s in charge here?”

“Not me,” a dozen voices answered together.

“Well,” a querulous voice came from the crowd, “somebody’s got to take the lead. Who’s it going to be?”

“Don’t look at me,” the one-eyed dwarf snapped at several others around him. “I can fight, but I’m no leader.”

“The Hylar!” Tap Tolec said, with sudden inspiration, “Where’s that Hylar? He can lead us!”

It took several minutes for all of them to realize that the Hylar, the one they knew only as Derkin, was no longer among them, and when that became clear, the cell was quieter than it had been. For a moment, every dwarf there had envisioned a grand victory – fighting dwarves cutting a path through masses of humans, winning their way to freedom. The way it might have been in the old, great days that the lore spoke of. Dwarven fury overwhelming, overcoming desperate odds … led by a Hylar chief.

But only for a moment had the vision lasted. Now there was only reality. They had – from where or what infernal magic no one knew – arms and some supplies. But they still were only a gang of slaves, trapped in a stone cell, and outside were the slave masters, backed by hundreds, or maybe thousands, of human warriors. They were trapped here like rats in a barrel, and the humans could come for them at their pleasure.

“I guess we’d better do what that bowl said,” Vin the Shadow said bleakly. “Barricade the cell, hold the gate, and wait for reinforcements.”

Chapter 4

ASSAULT IN SMALL FORCE

Despaxas had gone off someplace. One minute he was there, the next he was gone, and when Derkin asked Calan Silvertoe where the elf was, the one-armed Daewar simply shrugged and waved a careless hand. “He comes and goes as he pleases,” he said. “I don’t try to keep up with him.”

“That shadow thing is gone, too,” Derkin noted.

“Zephyr?” Calan shuddered. “That thing is hardly ever around, but even now and then is too much.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Despaxas says it isn’t,” Calan said. “But I don’t like it, anyway. I was with him the day he … called it up. He was fooling with little spells, just sort of practicing his magic, and all of a sudden there was that thing, right there with us. Despaxas says it wasn’t really there. He says its actual body is in some other plane – whatever that means. He thinks one of his spells got tangled up with somebody else’s spell in that other place, and Zephyr wound up stuck halfway between. So the elf made a pet of it … or of the part of it that’s here. I guess it’s harmless. I just don’t like magic, and I don’t like things that look like bat-fish shadows.”

The two dwarves passed the hours of daylight in a small, deep cove high on a mountainside. There was a little, crystal-cold spring there, and game trails all around, but Derkin lay in wait beside the spring for more than an hour, festooned in shrubbery and pretending to be a bush, before anything edible showed up. Had he been armed with a sling, or even a throwing-axe or javelin, he would have hunted the trails for a deer, wild hog, or even a small bear. But all he had at hand was a stout stick, so he waited in ambush and settled for a brace of rabbits.

Calan had a little fire going in a deep glade, and while they cooked their dinner, the old Daewar told Derkin – in exquisite detail – of the habits and routines of the humans who ruled the Tharkas mines. The foot company of soldiers numbered eighteen, the slave masters and warders an even dozen, and only one shaft was being worked. It was worked through the daylight hours, by several hundred dwarves divided into small groups. The shaft entrance was guarded, and only a few dwarves were allowed out at any one time. These carried the best ores outside, for stocking.

Each night, the shaft was sealed with all the slaves inside, while the soldiers stood guard in three six-man shifts.

Derkin was astounded that the old dwarf, who had been a slave himself in a distant pit mine until the night before, could know so much detail about this place. But as with all subjects, Calan Silvertoe said just what he intended to say, explained what he intended to explain, and refused to comment on how he knew.

The longhouse was just what it seemed, Calan said. Once the central hall of a thriving dwarven community, now it served as kitchen and washhouse, and as quarters for the female dwarves who worked in it as slaves.

By the time the sun was sinking behind the western peaks, Derkin had a clear, detailed picture of the movements and habits of the humans below, and only one remaining question.

“How do they control the slaves inside the shaft?” he asked. “If only the mine masters enter there, and never the guards, what’s to keep the dwarves below from simply ganging up on the slavers and killing them?”

“I’m not sure,” Calan admitted. “Maybe it’s the goblins.”

“What goblins?”

“Well, when Lord Kane’s troops first came here to take control, there was a company of goblins with them. When the area was secured, and the attack force left, the goblins weren’t with them. And they haven’t been seen since. So maybe they’re in the mine shaft. Goblins are right at home underground. Maybe the humans hired them, and left them there as enforcers.”

“Wonderful,” Derkin rumbled, suppressing a shiver. If there was one thing most dwarves detested more than magic, it was goblins. “Goblins in the mine,” he muttered. “As if things weren’t complicated enough.”

By last light of evening, Derkin lay concealed just above the mine camp, watching the closing of the shaft and the positioning of the guards. It was just as Calan had said. Food was brought from the longhouse, then six armed humans remained outside, taking up positions in a wide arc around the mine yards, while the rest retired to a pair of the old dwarven cabins to sleep.

Those on guard made no fires, and Derkin realized that they would have light enough to see soon. Within an hour, at least one of Krynn’s moons would be in the clear sky, and the humans felt no need of firelight.

The positioning of the guards indicated that the men did not expect trouble, and certainly not from beyond their perimeter. They had placed themselves to watch the mine and the buildings, not to watch the surrounding wilderness. A slight, cold smile tugged at the Hylar’s whiskered cheeks.

“How you do this is up to you,” the old Daewar had told him, shrugging as though he hadn’t the slightest interest in what came next.

“Then how I do it is my way, and mine alone,” he had snapped. He had left Calan dozing beside the little spring, and was glad that he had. He had no need of anyone as unpredictable as Calan Silvertoe.

His plan was a simple one – take out as many guards as he could, as quietly as he could, then open the mine shaft and somehow free the dwarves within. If there were also goblins in there … well, he didn’t know where they were or what they might do, so there was nothing to be gained by worrying about them.

He carried one weapon at hand – a stout, hardwood stick four feet long, sharpened at both ends. It was as near to a delver’s javelin as he could improvise. In Thorbardin, Derkin had once prided himself on his skill with the working javelin.

In deep dusk, he crept to the first of the guard positions and peered around. By last good light, he had seen a human guard seat himself beside a fallen tree, leaning back against the trunk. At that moment, he had selected this one as his first target.

Derkin came up behind the man, soundless feet sure on the mountain slope. He was almost within arm’s reach when the human heard or sensed something. The man started to turn, started to rise, but it was too late. With a lunge, Derkin flung himself across the tree trunk, thrust his javelin over the man’s head, and snapped it back, under his chin. Gripping the shaft with both hands, Derkin heaved back. The man gurgled; his feet drummed the ground. Then his neck snapped, and he lay limp.

Derkin relieved the man of a dagger, leaving his other weapons where they lay. The bow and arrows and the awkward, light-bladed human sword weren’t worth carrying around.

The second guard was harder to get to. This man was in a narrow, upright cleft of rock, hidden from both sides. The dwarf could have charged in on him, and finished him with a thrust of his javelin, but the chance of a silent kill in that manner was nil. The man would have time to shout or scream before he died.

For a moment, Derkin puzzled over it, then he crept up beside the cleft, remaining just out of sight. When he was near enough to hear the human breathing, he drew his dagger and tossed it onto the sloping ground just outside the cleft. It landed with a little thud, and lay glinting in the starlight.

In the cleft, the human stirred, muttered something to himself, and stepped forward, squinting. Another step, and he was out of the cleft, bending over, reaching for the dagger. He never heard the quick whir of Derkin’s javelin as it lashed downward, its stout staff colliding with the exposed base of his skull. The man staggered, pitched forward, and Derkin thrust one of the sharpened ends of the staff into his throat, cutting off a strangled scream before it began.

He retrieved his dagger, relieved the guard of what he had already decided he wanted – a bronze-headed belt mace – and went on. The third guard, he knew, wore no helmet.

Five of the guards lay dead, and Derkin was stalking number six, when he froze in his tracks. Nearby, someone or something had moved, a slight rustling of brush. Motionless, he waited, and again heard the slightest of sounds. Just off to his left, someone else was creeping stealthily toward the position of the dozing guard.

A deep scowl lowered Derkin’s brows as he mouthed silent curses. “Calan,” he whispered to himself, “if you mess this up for me, I swear I’ll brain you.”

*

In the dark of evening, when the ore slopes were quiet and cool breezes drifted through the mountains, Helta Graywood slipped out of the dusty, suffocating grain loft, down the narrow ladder to the floor of the longhouse, and padded across on small, bare feet to the rear door, staying in shadows in case any human outside might happen to glance through the broken shutters of a window. Around the dimly lit main room, several dwarf women sat on benches or lay on makeshift cots, resting from the day’s labors. Some of them glanced at Helta as she passed, and the nearest one – a gray-haired matron with deep creases around her eyes – said, “Stay close, Helta. There will be bright moonlight tonight.”

The girl paused. “I’ll be careful, Nadeen,” she said. “But I do need some fresh air.”

Nadeen nodded, understanding. The grain loft was never a pleasant place to work, even under the best of circumstances. Close and stifling, the little chamber above the kitchen was always dusty, always hot, and always reeked of the acrid odor of decaying grain. And now, with the redoubled supplies the human invaders had brought in, the place was nearly unbearable.

Helta Graywood was the youngest of the female slaves kept at the mining compound. She was hardly more than a girl, and strikingly featured, with a face that combined the soft, delicate lines of Daewar ancestry with the wide-set, slightly slanted eyes and dark, lustrous hair of a Hylar grandfather. Generally speaking, human males had little interest in dwarven women, finding them sometimes amusing but rarely attractive. It was the judgment of the women of the longhouse, though, that Helta Graywood might be an exception. And that being the case, it was best to keep her out of sight of the humans in the compound.

Thus it had become Helta’s lot to be permanent warder of the grain loft, ever since the human invaders had come. It was the one place available to them that no human was likely to go.

Helta spent her days in the loft without complaint. But sometimes, after a day when the sun on the loft roof had made the space inside seem like an oven, it became just too much. Some evenings, she simply had to go outside for a time, just to feel the breezes and breathe the clean, scented mountain air.

Now the mine shaft had been sealed, the night guards were out on the perimeter, and all of the other humans had gone to their bunks. Helta peered out the back door, looked this way and that, listened carefully, then slipped out and closed the door behind her.

There would be an early moonrise, but right now it was dark outside, the only light a faint, frosty glow from the stars in the ebony sky. For a time, Helta simply stood and breathed, enjoying the cool, clean air. Then, as was her habit on these forays, she walked. The exercise felt good, and she had long since figured out the limits of the area hidden from the night guards’ positions by the longhouse. Captive dwarves were not allowed outside after sundown, but as long as she remained hidden from view, she felt fairly safe.

As she walked, pacing back and forth the length of the building, she thought melancholy thoughts of the family she would never see again – her father dead at the hands of human invaders, her mother and sisters led away for sale at some slave market in the human lands. The humans had come through the pass in force, a surprise attack that was cruel and bloody.

For a time, armies of humans had swept the lands all around. All the able male dwarves had been taken into the main shaft or herded north toward the human mines at Klanath. The old and disabled among the captives had simply disappeared, and most of the women and children had been taken away. Then the armies had gone, but still there were the guards and the overseers.

Helta dreamed lonely fantasies about sneaking away, breaking free, and getting even. Every day and night for the past two years, she had dreamed such dreams. She dreamed of escape, but more often she dreamed of bashing human skulls, of poisoning human beverages, of somehow – through some elaborate combination of craft and luck – stampeding every human in the region over a cliff, or something equally satisfying.

The thoughts were only silly fancies, but they gave her something to think about besides the never-ending drudgery and fear of life in bondage.

And sometimes she dreamed of a hero, of someone who would come marching in and lay waste to the entire human population. She envisioned a sturdy young dwarf brandishing a sword or an axe or something equally lethal, who would challenge the humans, then take them all on at once and kill every last one of them in battle, without ever ruffling his beard. She even imagined how he would look. He would wear exquisite polished armor, his helmet would be studded with gems, and his eyes would glow with strength and courage.

He would look like those old paintings she had once seen at a Neidar fair, of the magnificent Hylar warriors of the old days – back when the dwarves ruled all of Kal-Thax, and legendary Thorbardin was in its golden era. She had never seen Thorbardin. Nobody she knew ever had. But still there were the legends, of a time when the Hylar came from the east to unite the warring tribes into a great nation and to build a mighty fortress beneath a mountain summit.

Helta paced, waving her arms back and forth, getting the kinks out of her small, sturdy frame, and letting the cool breeze cleanse her lungs and caress her face. Near the longhouse was the shed where the human masters kept their equipment, and she was tempted to slip in there again – as she had in the past – to look for weapons. But moonrise was near, and she would risk being seen. Besides, she had never found anything useful in the shed, just big coils of rope and cable, racks of heavy planking, and a row of winches and braces.

A hint of moonrise was touching the sky above the eastern peaks when she decided it was time to go back inside. She turned toward the longhouse door, then paused, listening. It seemed to her that she had heard voices, somewhere near. She listened, then decided it must be some of the humans snoring in the two cabins they used as barracks. She reached for the latch and heard something else – very clearly. A gasp, scuffling sounds, and a thud. Then, again, low masculine voices as though in fierce but quiet argument.

Curious, she crept to the corner of the longhouse and looked beyond. There in the starlight, in plain sight of the guard posts, stood two shadowy figures – a dwarf and a tall man. And they were obviously arguing.

Though their voices were only hushed whispers and angry mutterings, their gestures were plain. The dwarf pointed an angry finger at the man and muttered something, and the man threw out his hands in a gesture of exasperation. Then the man pointed his finger at the dwarf, wagging it directly in his face – and abruptly flew off balance as the dwarf grabbed his hand, pivoted, and flung the man sprawling over his shoulder to land on his back with a thud. Before the man could move, the dwarf was on top of him, covering his mouth with one hand, thumping the side of his head with the other. The man stopped struggling, and the dwarf rose to stand over him, still muttering angrily.

At that moment the rim of the white moon appeared above the eastern peaks, and there was light. The dwarf was out in the open, in plain sight of the guard perimeter.

“Oh, mercy!” Helta breathed, and ran. On flying bare feet she sprinted the dozen yards to where the dwarf stood over the fallen human. The dwarf was just turning toward her when she dodged around him, grabbed his arm and pulled him as fast as she could, back into the shadows behind the longhouse. There he gaped at her, opened his mouth to speak, and she clamped a hand over it. “Sh!” she whispered urgently. “The guards will catch you.” With sudden decision, she gripped his arm, braced her feet, and propelled him toward the door, opening it and pushing him through into the longhouse.

Most of the women were asleep, but Nadeen raised her head, glanced up, then sat bolt upright. “Helta!” she whispered, “What …?”

“Sh!” Helta closed the door quietly, then half-dragged the bearded dwarf toward the ladder, again holding a hand over his mouth. “Here,” she said. “Climb. I’ll hide you in the loft.”

Here in the candlelight, she could see him better. He wasn’t anyone she knew, but he obviously needed help. His beard and hair were unkempt and filthy, his only garment was a stained, ill-fitting smock of some kind, and there was blood on his hands, on the dagger at his waist, and on the odd, sharpened stick he carried.

With eyes like saucers, Nadeen stared at him, then at Helta. “Who is this?” she whispered. “What in the name of …”

Abruptly the back door opened, and they turned toward it. The person who entered was a human, stooping to clear the low frame. He was carrying an armload of weapons of various kinds. He slipped through, closed the door behind him, and stared accusingly at the strange dwarf.

“You didn’t need to give me a knot on the head,” he growled. “A word of thanks would have sufficed.” For a second he and the dwarf glared at each other, then the man laid his accumulated weapons on the plank table beside the ladder and turned, taking in the big room at a sweeping glance. Satisfied, he looked at Nadeen, then at Helta, and his harsh, cruel-looking human face lighted with a sincere smile. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Tuft Broadland. I’ve been helping your friend here kill empiremen … though he has a strange way of showing his gratitude.”

*

High on a mountainside in a moonlit glade, an elf and a one-armed dwarf knelt beside a shallow bowl, staring into the milky liquid it held.

“He’s doing well,” the elf said. “All of the night guards are disposed of, and not a trace of any alarm. The other guards and mine masters are sound asleep. But there are others with him, now. The females in the longhouse, and a man.”

“A man?” Calan Silvertoe’s eyes widened. “A human?”

“Don’t be alarmed,” Despaxas said softly. “The man isn’t of the empire. I would guess he is one of those nomads from the lakeshore camp.”

“Well, what’s he doing there, with Derkin?”

“Arguing, apparently,” the elf said.

Calan snorted. “Two cabins full of sleeping enemies and a mine shaft full of goblins to take care of, and he dawdles with women and takes time out for debate with a passing nomad? What does he think he’s doing?”

“I don’t know,” Despaxas said. “But remember, you’re the one who told our chosen ‘leader of dwarven forces’ to do things his own way.”

Chapter 5

THE LEADER

“No, I won’t tell you about our mission,” Tuft Broadland said for the third time, ignoring Derkin’s ferocious frown. “Pass the bread, please.”

Derkin broke a piece from the dark loaf on the table and handed the rest across. “You won’t tell me what you and your friends are doing in these mountains, but still you expect me to let you wander around loose? You expect me to trust you?”

“After all,” the man said, “I did save your life out there a while ago. That last guard would have killed you.”

“He wouldn’t have known I was there if it hadn’t been for you crashing through the brush behind me,” Derkin rumbled. “You’re about as stealthy as a blind buffalo.”

“I tripped,” Tuft protested. “I’m not used to tilted places. Where I’m from the ground is flat, as the gods intended ground to be. But be that as it may, that last guard would have skewered you like a sausage on a stick if I hadn’t put an arrow through his gullet.” He glanced around, and said, “Leave the bow and arrows alone, ladies. They’re mine. Help yourselves to the rest, though.”

All around them dwarven women were tying up their skirts, braiding their hair, choosing weapons from the pile the man had brought in, and generally getting ready to do battle. A clatter erupted as someone dropped a sword on the hard floor, and Tuft Broadland jumped to his feet, narrowly missing banging his still sore head on a low rafter.

“Quiet, please!” he ordered. “Remember, there are still a lot of empiremen out there. If they wake up too soon, we’ll have a problem.” Tuft picked up the dropped sword, reversed it, and handed it to a scowling female. “Here, let me show you how to hold this,” he offered.

At the table, Derkin finished his bread and washed it down with tepid water. Then he noticed that the pretty one, Helta somebody, was staring at him thoughtfully. As he met her eyes, she shook her head and shrugged. “You certainly don’t look much like I expected,” she explained.

“You expected me?”

“Well, not exactly,” she admitted. “But I’ve been hoping that someone would come along and rescue us. Only, I had a somewhat different picture of who it would be. I expected someone handsome and charming and elegant, all dressed in shining armor and … and … well, what I mean is, you’re kind of a mess. And if you have a charming side, I haven’t noticed it yet.”

With a growl, Derkin shoved himself away from the table and strode across to peer out through the broken shutters of a window. “Those two cabins out there,” he said. “I saw men go into them. Are they all in there?”

“All but the six night guards,” Helta said, crowding against him to point. “Those are the only two cabins with wood floors. I guess humans like wooden floors. The guardsmen sleep in that farther one – the largest – and the mine overseers sleep in the nearer one. What are we going to do about them?”

“Kill them,” he said distractedly. “Be quiet. I’m trying to think.” He rubbed his bearded chin, his brow wrinkling. “Be a lot easier if they were all in the same cabin.”

“Well, they’re not,” Helta said. “They always use those two. …”

“I said, be quiet,” he growled. Then, to himself, he said, “Twelve more armed guards, and a dozen slavers. And not a thing to work with but a handful of women.”

“And a Cobar warrior,” Tuft Broadland proudly reminded him, wandering past. The man was busily instructing dwarf women in the use of swords, spears, and daggers.

“And a blasted human,” Derkin corrected himself. “We could charge the door, I guess, at one cabin. But two?”

A hand tapped his shoulder, and he looked around. It was the gray-haired woman, Nadeen. “She said to tell you to look in the shed,” she told him. “She says you might find something useful there.”

“She? Who?”

“Helta,” Nadeen said. “She asked me to tell you that.”

“The shed,” he muttered. “All right, I’ll look. What’s in it?”

“She knows,” Nadeen said. “She’s been in there.”

He glanced past her. A few feet away, Helta stood, pointedly looking in another direction. “Why didn’t she tell me herself?” Derkin asked.

“You told her to shut up,” Nadeen explained. “I think you hurt her feelings.”

Derkin stepped past the woman. “Show me the shed,” he said. Helta ignored him. “Oh, rust!” he muttered, then, “I’m sorry I snapped at you. Please?”

“All right.” She turned. “In the future, I’ll just ignore your bad manners. Come on.”

*

As the second moon added its light to the first, brightening the glade high on the slopes, Calan Silvertoe asked Despaxas, “What’s he doing now? Can you see?”

“I can see,” the elf said. “He has all the females out in the compound, unrolling metal cable. They’re winding it around one of the buildings.”

“What?” Calan snapped, leaning to peer into the milky bowl before he recalled that only the elf could see things in it. “Why are they doing that?”

“I haven’t the vaguest idea,” Despaxas said.

*

Both moons were high when the women of Tharkas Camp finished wrapping the guards’ cabin. Silently and grimly, with Derkin directing the work by whisper and gesture, they had carried rolls of steel cable from the shed, straightened and spliced them, and wound the resulting length around and around the cabin. Planking covered the single door and the two windows, and the entire building now was wrapped with cable. Derkin completed the task, tightening and securing the lashing with a hand-winch. Then he stepped back, surveyed the result, and nodded. “Well, nobody is coming out of there,” he muttered. He glanced at the smaller cabin nearby, wishing he could treat it the same way. But there was no more cable.

“All right,” he told the women quietly. “Go get those jugs now, and bring torches.”

They were back in moments, carrying a half dozen large clay vessels, a bundle of wrapped torches, and a shielded fire pot from the kitchen. Derkin pulled the cork from one jug and sniffed it. It was good dwarven lamp oil, probably looted by the humans from some Neidar village. With the women following him, he worked his way around the sealed cabin, emptying jug after jug of the oil, soaking the walls. The dry timbers absorbed the oil thirstily. With one jug left, Derkin backed away and turned. “Light the torches,” he said. “It’s wake-up time.”

As torches flared alight, he raised the last jug of lamp oil and threw it high. The vessel landed on the cabin’s sturdy roof and shattered, oil streaming from it. From inside the cabin, they heard the sounds of voices, then thumps and shouts as the awakening guards began to realize that they were trapped.

Derkin picked up a torch, but Helta was ahead of him. “Let me,” she said. “I’ve dreamed about this.” With fire-glow radiating her pretty face and glinting in fierce, happy eyes, the dwarf girl trotted around the secured building, igniting the soaked walls.

Derkin snapped his fingers, and Nadeen handed him an axe. He turned toward the human, Tuft Broadland, who had been standing back, watching. Tuft’s craggy face was somber, his eyes wide with awe. “Gods,” he whispered as the flames along the cabin walls spread, becoming a single, rising blaze.

“Well?” Derkin approached him. “If you haven’t the stomach for this …”

“Gods,” the man said again. “You people are thorough, aren’t you?”

“Are you going to try to stop us? Those are humans in there, like you.”

“Not like me,” Tuft spat. “Those are empire soldiers. I’m a Cobar.”

The cabin blazed, and the shouts inside turned to screams. At the second cabin a door crashed open, and men came rushing out, gaping at the blaze, shouting in confusion. The first two or three never saw the dwarven women waiting in the shadows, until the swords, axes, and clubs hit them. Others tried to fight, and some in the rear had picked up weapons. But it was over with in a minute. Taken completely by surprise, groggy with sleep and half-blinded by the glare of the burning cabin, the slavers had no chance against a dozen angry dwarven women swarming among them, cutting them down without mercy.

Thrown torches routed the last two slavers out of their shelter. One of them ducked aside, started to run, then saw Helta Graywood standing alone, gazing raptly at the blazing cabin. With a roar, the man charged toward her, raising a sword, then toppled as Derkin’s axe buried itself in his chest. The last slaver was running for the wilderness when an arrow from Tuft Broadland’s bow brought him down.

Derkin wrenched his axe from the dead slaver and snapped at Helta, “Pay attention! You could have been killed.” Then he stalked around the grounds, counting dead humans. When he was satisfied that none had gotten away, he looked around for Tuft Broadland. At first there was no sign of him, then he appeared from the shadow of the longhouse. And behind him were other humans, following him in single file.

Just as Derkin saw them, some of the women spotted them as well. “There are some more!” Nadeen shouted. “Come on! Get them!”

“Wait!” Derkin roared.

All around him, women hesitated, then lowered their bloody weapons. Followed by his motley, blood-spattered female volunteers, Derkin approached the humans. Besides Tuft Broadland, there were six more, all wearing the soft buckskins and bright weaves of nomads.

“These are my companions from the lake,” Tuft said. “They came when they saw the fire.”

A tall, gray-bearded man nodded at the dwarves, then asked Tuft, “The empiremen … are they all dead?”

“Every last one,” Tuft assured him.

“Good,” the gray-bearded man said. “Then there will be no alarm across the pass at Klanath.”

“No, but you had better go now if you want to slip through before morning.” Tuft turned to Derkin. “This is Wing,” he said. “He is chief of our mission.”

Derkin glared at the gray-bearded man named Wing. “What do you people want?” he demanded.

Wing gazed at the dwarf. “You’re Hylar,” he said. “Do you come from King Hal-Thwait?”

“There is no such …” Derkin started, then changed his mind. “I’ve been sent by no one,” he said. “Who or what do you seek?”

Wing nodded. “Tell him whatever he wants to know,” he told Tuft. “He may be useful to us.” With that the man turned, waved, and trotted away. The other five strangers followed him, running as silently as elves.

“Aren’t you going with them?” Derkin asked Tuft.

“No, I’m staying with you for now,” the man said. “Think of me as an observer. We’re on the same side, you know.”

“I don’t know anything. You haven’t told me anything. What same side are we on?”

“We’re against the emperor of Daltigoth.” Tuft shrugged. “Those were his people you roasted, you know.”

“I don’t know anything about human emperors,” Derkin said. “I’m here to get an army. What do you have against the emperor?”

“I’m a Cobar,” Tuft said. “The emperor’s troops have invaded Cobar lands east of here. We’re at war. So I’m sticking around. You might find me useful. By the way, where is this army of yours?”

“Up there,” Derkin pointed. “They’re locked in that mine shaft. I’m here to free them.”

“That sounds simple enough. Let’s go get them.”

“I think there’s a company of goblins in there with them,” Derkin added.

“Oh.” The man gazed up the slope thoughtfully. “That complicates things, doesn’t it? Have any ideas?”

“I do now,” the dwarf said. “You said you could be useful. Now you can prove it.”

At dawn, a grim-faced man wearing the garments and armament of a guardsman appeared at the closed entrance of the main Tharkas mine shaft. He lifted the heavy bolt from its hasps, then banged on the plank gate. From inside came the sounds of another bolt being withdrawn, then the gate opened slightly, and a sallow, bloated face peered out at him. “Time open mine?” the face asked.

For an instant, the man hesitated, his nose wrinkling. In all his life, Tuft Broadland had never seen a goblin. He had heard they were ugly things, but had never realized just how ugly they were. Large, dull-looking eyes stared at him from a face that was wider than it was long. A wide, lipless mouth revealed glimpses of dark, pointed teeth as it spoke. Below the mouth was almost no chin, just a fleshy wattle that tapered down to its bronze chest-plate. It wore a flat-looking iron helmet and held a crossbow in one greenish hand.

And the draft that wafted through the gate it had just opened stank. For a second, Tuft felt as if he was going to be sick. But he tightened his shoulders, stood tall, and frowned fiercely at the creature. “Come on, open up!” he demanded. “The slaves are wanted down in the camp.”

The goblin blinked at him. “All of’em?”

“All of them,” Tuft said. “Bring them out, now!”

The goblin opened the gate a few inches more and stepped out. It was about as tall as a dwarf, but there the resemblance ended. Tuft felt as though he were looking at a pale, erect frog.

With a suspicious glance at the man, the goblin looked past him, shading its eyes against the morning light. It scrutinized the compound below, then pointed at the smoking ashes that were all that was left of the guard cabin. “Wha’ happen?” it asked. “Have fire?”

“It isn’t your concern,” Tuft snapped. “Just do as you’re told. Bring out the slaves. They’re wanted in the compound.”

The goblin gazed at him again, then stepped back through the door. He heard its guttural voice rasp, “Men want all th’ dwarves brought out.”

Another, similar voice asked, “Why?”

“Dunno,” the first said. “Looks like there been trouble. Maybe they gonna kill some dwarves.”

“’Kay,” the second voice said. “They say bring’em out, we bring’em out. Open th’ gate.”

Suppressing a sigh of relief, Tuft Broadland stepped back, putting a little distance between himself and the stench coming from the opening. He had heard about goblin-stink, but realized now that one had to actually smell it to really appreciate the foulness of it.

A chorus of shouts, curses, and commands echoed from the darkness of the mine shaft, then a squad of goblins filed out and formed a double line before the gate. All of them wore body armor, and each had a crossbow at its shoulder and a bronze sword in its hand.

More commands were shouted, and dwarves started coming out of the shaft. Tuft shook his head in sympathy as they appeared. Many of them had minor wounds, some of them had open sores, and all of them looked as though they had been systematically beaten and abused.

More and more dwarves appeared, prodded along by grinning goblins, until the entire staging area before the shaft was crowded with tattered, sullen dwarves, surrounded by armored goblins brandishing weapons.

Steeling himself, Tuft stepped forward, pointing as he singled out individual dwarves from the crowd. “You,” he said pointing. “And you, and you. Step out here.” As the selected dwarves moved forward, he picked out others. “You,” he said. “You, and you, and you.”

The twenty dwarves he singled out were those who looked the strongest and fittest. They were all young males, and all in fairly good shape, compared to their peers.

“I’ll take these twenty first,” he told the goblin who seemed to be in charge. “Hold the rest of them here until I come back.”

“Better take some guards,” the goblin said. “They might try to run.”

“If they do, they’ll meet arrows,” Tuft said. Imperiously, he beckoned his selected group of dwarves. “Follow me,” he commanded. After a few steps, one of the dwarves behind him said, “I haven’t done anything. … Who —”

“Hush!” he rasped. “Just be quiet and follow me. I’m a friend.”

Nearing the compound, first one and then others of the dwarves gasped, some of them breaking step as they gaped at the “slavers” coming and going in the open area. “Those are women,” someone said. “Our women, wearing guard clothes.”

“That’s my mother over there,” another exclaimed.

“Hush up and keep walking,” Tuft commanded. “Those goblins up there are watching.”

He led them to the longhouse, and, after ushering them inside, slumped on a bench. “Whew!” he breathed. “I never thought that would be so easy.”

The mine slaves looked around in bewilderment at the few dwarven women sorting armor and weapons, and at the man who had led them from the mines. “Who are you?” one of them demanded. “What’s going on here?”

“He’s with me,” Derkin Winterseed said, coming through the back door. “I came to free you.”

The slaves stared at him, and one of them asked, “Why?”

“Because I need you,” Derkin said. He picked up an axe and tossed it to the questioner, who caught it neatly. “Do you know how to use that?”

“Of course I do,” the miner said. “Who am I to use it on?”

“Goblins,” Derkin explained.

Within moments, all of the ex-slaves were armed and ready, and Derkin sent Tuft back up the hill.

When the man returned, followed by nearly two hundred dwarves and thirty armed goblins – the entire company – the compound was empty. The man strode to the front door of the longhouse, opened it, and jerked a thumb at the dwarves. “Inside,” he said.

Sullen and silent, the prisoners filed through the door while grinning goblins prodded them from behind.

Thoroughly occupied with tormenting their charges, none of the goblins saw that both doors of the building were open, and as fast as the dwarves entered the front, they were hustled out the back, handed something that would serve as a weapon – prybars, hammers, table legs, saw blades, anything available – and led around to the far side of the equipment shed. Only when the last dwarf had entered the building did a few goblins look inside and notice there were only a dozen or so dwarves, and they were turning to attack.

One goblin actually got into the longhouse, impaling a dwarf on his bronze sword before another dwarf brained it with a stool. The rest were stopped at the door and pressed back, dwarves flailing away at them with anything that came to hand.

His sword singing like winter wind, Tuft Broadland beheaded one goblin and cut the legs out from under another before the rest realized that he was attacking them. Then when they turned toward him, a howling, surging tide of armed dwarves came around the corner of the building, flooding through and over them. Dark, rancid goblin blood flowed like water.

Most of the goblins fell within moments, overwhelmed and outnumbered. A few broke and ran, but were quickly overtaken and killed. Derkin had made it clear that no enemy was to be allowed to escape, and the dwarves were thorough in their slaughter.

When it was over, four dwarves were counted dead and three others injured. At Derkin’s direction, the victors collected every goblin corpse in the vicinity, as well as those of the dead slavers hidden in the other cabin, and threw all the bodies into an abandoned pit, which they then filled in. They kept all the fallen weapons and bits of human armor. The goblins’ armor was buried with them. As Derkin explained to Tuft, no dwarf would ever wear anything that had been worn by a goblin. It was impossible to wash out the stench.

When all that was done, Derkin gathered his new army in the compound. “We’ll rest here a few days,” he told them. “You’ll eat well, tend your wounds, and clean yourselves. Those fit to work can set up a forge and start making weapons. We’ll need hammers, axes, swords, pikes … anything any of you know how to use. And I am going to drill you in orderly combat. I —”

A hand went up, and a dwarf said, “Excuse me …”

Derkin turned to him. “Yes?”

“That all sounds fine,” the miner said. “But just who the blazes are you, anyway?”

“My name is Derkin,” he said. “I’m your leader.”

“Who says?”

“I do,” he said flatly.

Nobody dared disagree.

Behind the longhouse, the dwarven women had fires going and great tubs of water heating, and were cutting soap into small bars. They had decided that the first thing to do was to get the “soldiers” fit to be around. Dwarves, clothes, tools, and weapons all were to be thoroughly scrubbed.

When they were ready, Helta went to Derkin and handed him a piece of soap, a comb, and a pair of shears. “You, too,” she said. “If you’re going to be a leader, then look like one.”

Chapter 6

THE CHOSEN ONES

“I have to admit, I’m impressed,” Calan Silvertoe told Derkin as they strolled across what had been – only days before – the central compound of a slave-run mine camp. All around them, dwarves in all sorts of dress and oddments of armor toiled, two by two, flailing away at each other with wooden swords, defending with shields made of everything from hardwood to stretched leather. Nearby, hammers rang on anvils, and a makeshift forge made the air above it dance with heat-shimmers. Dozens of crafters worked there, turning smelted iron into weapons. In the nearby shed, stacks of weapons of all sorts grew by the hour.

Among the combatants on the field, seeming to tower over them, Tuft Broadland stalked, shouting instructions and criticisms – mostly the latter. As Neidar dwarves, the miners – even the women – were naturally skilled with axes, hammers, slings, javelins, and spears. They had used such tools all their lives. And as miners, most of them were expert shield users. But few of them had ever held a sword, and Derkin had set the human to teach them how.

“We have no steel here,” he had explained to them. “The weapons we can make readily will be rough iron. In battle, they will dull quickly, and some will break. We may have to outfit ourselves from what the enemy drops. The enemy will be mostly humans, and most humans prefer swords.”

“Where are we going, Derkin?” some of them asked.

“Beyond Tharkas Pass, to Klanath,” he said.

“Why?”

“To get the rest of our army.”

It was answer enough for the freed slaves. They had accepted him as their leader, and in the manner of most dwarves, they were satisfied to let the leader worry about the details. So, for now, the kitchen turned out substantial meals morning and night, poultices and liniments did their work on sores and wounds, and every dwarf able to stand erect practiced swordplay and battle tactics every waking hour.

In a span of three days, Derkin converted a wretched gaggle of freed slaves into a formidable fighting force. The Chosen Ones, they called themselves. How the name originated was unclear, but every member of Derkin’s little tribe seemed to have adopted it. It was a source of pride, and it gave them strength. But still, the passing of time chafed the Hylar. He was troubled and tense now as he walked with Calan Silvertoe, watching the sword drills.

For the first time in more than two years, Derkin Winterseed felt – and looked – like the Hylar he was. Soap and hot water had sloughed away the accumulated filth of the slave pens. Good food and sunlight had brought rich color to his cheeks, and a determined shearing by Helta and Nadeen had tamed his long hair and tangled beard. Now in leather kilt and soft-weave blouse, sturdy boots, studded gauntlets and flowing cloak, and wearing a lacquered steel breastplate and a horned helmet – where the women had found such things remained a mystery, except that the armor was very old indeed – Derkin looked every inch the Hylar warrior. His dark, backswept beard was trimmed short, his hair curled at his collar, and his cloak was of heavy red cloth, fresh from a newly rebuilt loom in the longhouse. He carried a small forearm shield, and a heavy hammer was slung at his shoulder.

He had been embarrassed at the elegant attire when the women first brought it. But he discovered quickly that his “army” followed him far more happily when he wore it. It was as Helta had said: to be a leader, look like one.

Helta had surveyed the results and given him a dazzling smile. “Now you look like him,” she had said.

“Like who?” he wondered. But she had only smiled again, a secretive, satisfied smile, and ignored the question.

Now old Calan Silvertoe glanced at him and frowned. “You look worried,” he said. “What’s the matter?”

“The pit slaves, back at Klanath,” he admitted. “Too much time is passing. They may all be dead or mutilated by now. If so, then this whole effort is wasted.”

“They’re all right,” Calan assured him. “Despaxas and his pet shadow are keeping an eye on them.”

“How can they be all right?” Derkin demanded. “The humans have had all these days to punish them.”

“But they haven’t,” Calan said. “Your cell mates are holed up in their cell, with food and weapons, and no human has touched them.”

“Where did they get food and weapons?”

“The elf has his ways.” The old dwarf frowned. “As I understand it, he … uh … transported some things from the guards’ quarters and the central larder. So they’re barricaded in the pit cell, and for the time, nobody is bothering them.”

“Why not?”

The old Daewar grinned wolfishly. “Do you remember the pit boss, a man called Shalit Mileen?”

“I remember him,” Derkin growled. “He ordered the beatings I took … and the heavy chain.”

“Well, it seems Shalit Mileen is keeping it a secret that his slaves have revolted. He was plotting against the Master of Mines, and Renus Sabad will blame him for everything. Now Shalit Mileen is plotting to try to keep his head, thanks to you. And to me, of course, and Despaxas.”

“How does Despaxas know what’s going on in the pit?”

“Don’t ask me.” Calan shrugged. “I don’t understand his magics.”

“But you trust him,” Derkin said, stepping in front of the old dwarf to look into his eyes.

“As much as I’ve ever trusted anybody,” Calan assured him. “He says I saved his life once, and I suppose that’s true. It was a long time ago, when I was still a trader out of Thorbardin, and before Despaxas learned his spells. A wild ogre had him cornered, without his weapons, and I happened along. I killed the ogre, but not before it bit off my arm.”

“But how do you know an elf can be trusted?”

“He could have left me there to die,” Calan said. “But he didn’t. He nursed me back to health.” The old dwarf squinted, then turned and pointed across the training field. “How do you know you can trust that human?”

“I believe his interests are the same as mine,” Derkin said.

“And so are the elf’s.”

“I don’t like magicians.”

“Nobody likes magicians,” Calan agreed. “But you’ll have to admit, a decent one can be useful now and then.”

Directly behind Calan, the air shimmered, and suddenly Despaxas stood there, his smooth cheeks drawn in an ironic smile. “Thank you,” he purred.

Calan spun around, almost tripping on his own feet. “I wish you’d stop doing that!” he snapped.

“Sorry,” the elf said. “But I have disturbing news. Lord Kane has arrived at Klanath to prepare for the inspections. He has ordered a brigade through the pass to fortify this compound. He intends to open all the shafts over here and build a citadel. With a presence at both ends of Tharkas Pass, Lord Kane can claim all the lands from here to Thorbardin’s north gate.”

“Like blazes he can!” Derkin hissed. “This is dwarven land.”

“A brigade!” Calan frowned. “When are the soldiers coming?”

“They are on the march now,” Despaxas said. “Both cavalry and foot. By nightfall, they will be in the pass.”

Tuft Broadland had arrived in time to hear the report. He swore, shook his head, and glared at the elf, then sighed. “Then you’ve lost before you begin,” he told Derkin sadly. “We’ll never get to Klanath now.”

“We’ll get there,” Derkin growled. His cloak swirling, he turned and beckoned. Instantly, the burly dwarves who made up his personal guard, the Ten, hurried to him. “Let everyone prepare to travel,” he told them. “We are going to Klanath.”

“Aye,” the First of the Ten said, saluting crisply. Followed by the others, he hurried away.

Tuft stared at Derkin and shook his head. “It’s impossible,” he said. “We’ll never get past an entire brigade in that pass with barely two hundred fighters.”

“We aren’t going through the pass,” Derkin snapped. “We’re going over it.”

The man blinked, then looked at the high, sheer walls of mountain climbing toward the sky. “No man could climb that,” he muttered.

Beside him, Calan Silvertoe grinned. “We aren’t men,” he reminded the human. “We’re dwarves.”

*

First light of a new morning touched the mountaintops and reflected downward to light the lower slopes. Where Tharkas Camp had once stood, now there was nothing but the riven slopes, desolate ground, and feathers of smoke that rose from a place not only abandoned, but razed and leveled. Leaving Tharkas with his Chosen Ones, Derkin Winterseed left no one behind, and nothing that could benefit human intruders. Where once there had been mine shafts, now there were only tumbled slopes. The mines had been caved in and sealed. Where there had been a few buildings, now there were piles of ash. Everything that might be useful and could be carried, the Chosen Ones had taken with them. Everything that was left, they had methodically destroyed, scattered, hidden, or buried. Except for the diminishing smoke from the ashes and the scars left on the land by two years of human-directed mining, there might never have been a place called Tharkas Mines. A stranger viewing the scene on this morning would have seen no trace of life anywhere about – unless he looked upward.

There, a pair of miles away and half a mile above, a winding string of tiny dots moved on the sheer face of Tharkas Heights. In a place where no human could have gone, on a sheer, nearly vertical granite slope that no human could have scaled, Derkin Winterseed and the Chosen Ones crept upward, climbing toward the crest above the west side of Tharkas Pass. By rope and hammer, by spike and sling, by javelin and throw-line, by hand-and toehold, hoist, and piton, and by sheer, stubborn determination, the dwarves worked their way upward, doing the thing that was as much second nature to dwarves as was delving or metalcraft – climbing.

And those who could not climb – a few of the mine dwarves who were sick or injured, old Calan Silvertoe because he had only one arm, and Tuft Broadland because he was human – were hoisted, lifted, and carried in slings as baggage. For Tuft, it was an experience he would never forget. As they neared the top, he found himself swinging in space over a ledge, the nearest horizontal surface thousands of feet below him as he clung to a flimsy rope rising slowly to the tugs of a pair of burly dwarves perched precariously on an impossible slope above.

“If I ever get out of this,” he swore over and over, “I hope I never see another mountain.”

Just above and to his right, Calan Silvertoe lounged happily in a net sling, also being hoisted aloft. His voice rich with suppressed laughter, he said, “We’ve been trying for centuries to explain to you people, this land just isn’t for humans. I guess now at least one of you agrees.”

The journey to the crest above Tharkas Pass took most of a day. From the stony peak, the dwarves looked down into the shadowed depths of Tharkas Pass. More than half a mile below, seeming almost straight down, columns of soldiers moved, heading south. Lord Kane’s expeditionary brigade was on its way into old Kal-Thax to take command of the dwarven realm.

“I’d like to drop rocks on the whole army down there,” Calan Silvertoe growled.

“Leave them alone,” Derkin ordered. “With them gone, we’ll have fewer to contend with at Klanath.” Turning away from the chasm, he got his shield and hammer from one of the baggage slings, donned his horned helmet and red cloak, and headed northwest, angling away from the deep pass. The slope on this side of the mountain wall was less precipitous, a long, rolling decline where wind-shaped trees dotted the rugged landscape, foretelling the forests that would begin lower down. It was easier travel than the long climb had been, but it was still twenty miles to Klanath, and he was anxious to be on his way. The Hylar had no illusions about how he had gotten into this venture. He had been manipulated by a magic-using elf and an old one-armed Daewar schemer. But with true dwarven stubbornness, Derkin Winterseed – once committed to a task – would pursue it with as much grim determination as if it had been his own idea all along.

Behind him, the Chosen Ones gathered up their packs, their supplies, and their weapons, and hurried to follow. Most of them had only the vaguest notion of what lay ahead, but the Hylar called Derkin had freed them from slavery, from imprisonment, and from goblins. He was their leader. He was their chieftain, and where he went they would go.

*

When Sakar Kane arrived at Klanath, with three brigades of the emperor’s troops in addition to his usual retinue, the first thing he did was send one brigade south through Tharkas Pass. Rumors had come to his ears in Daltigoth that there were those among the secondary nobility who had designs on the former dwarven realm, now that the dwarves of Thorbardin seemed no longer to be a threat. Lord Kane had heard that at least two of his peers at court had plans of their own for the mountain lands and were gathering supporters.

By placing his own troops south of the pass, Lord Kane intended to stop any such venture before it began. The one who held Tharkas, he reasoned, would control access to the land the dwarves called – or had once called – Kal-Thax. Lord Kane had been assured that, in return for his services at Klanath, the emperor would grant the mountain lands to him to govern. He intended to have those lands thoroughly within his control when that occurred.

With the brigade on its way south, Lord Kane assigned the rest of his army to garrison and retired to the citadel that was being completed for him. He entered, followed by his servants, porters, personal guard, and attendants, and had the great gates closed. The dozen or so other nobles who had arrived with him, he left to find their own accommodations.

When he had dined and been entertained by musicians and dancers, he sent runners to find the Master of Klanath Mines, the chief of guards, and other local functionaries to command them to attend him. Then he retired to his private quarters.

Within the hour, every local notable in Klanath would be gathered in Lord Kane’s great hall, awaiting his pleasure. He would let them all cool their heels for at least a day, pacing and fretting. It would remind them of who he was. Then, when he was ready, they would report to him individually. After that he would personally conduct the usual formal inspection of the mines. It was a tiresome routine, but the emperor commanded that it be done.

Lord Kane did not look forward to the inspection. The mines were dirty, stinking holes and did not interest him. But they were the public reason for Lord Kane’s being here. The private – and primary – reason was to establish a base for a general invasion of the central plains to the east.

The assault had already begun, of course. It had been under way for nearly three years, but it had been a covert, scattered incursion so far. Small units of the armies had escorted hordes of “settlers” into various parts of the plains, driving out those already settled there and replacing them with people committed to the emperor’s purposes. It was preparation for a full-scale invasion in force, that would carry the banner of the empire as far as the Khalkist realms and the elven forests.

The “quiet” invasion had gone very well, indeed. Vast areas east of the Kharolis mountains now were populated by the faithful. Only in two areas had there been real trouble. Those “settlers” entering the lands of the Cobar nomads had met fierce opposition. The Cobar tribes – barbarian horsemen mostly – had united against the intruders, and had literally driven them away, again and again. What should have been a simple taking of lands had turned into an all-out war, and it was still going on.

And far to the southeast, the emperor’s subjects had come up against another kind of force. Elves from Silvanesti had come out of their beloved forests, and were scattered throughout the rolling lands of eastern Ergoth. And the elves neither welcomed nor honored the empire’s presence. Led by an elf called Kith-Kanan, the western – or “Wildrunner” – elves had stopped the emperor’s “settlers” far short of their goal.

Privately, Lord Kane doubted the empire’s ability to win a war against the elves, if it came to that. But that would be someone else’s problem, not his. He had his own assignments and his own plans.

He would conduct his inspection of the emperor’s mines and prepare supply lines for the armies that would soon be coming through, heading east. Then he would set about securing his hold on Tharkas Pass and the mountain lands beyond.

*

For days, nothing much had happened in the vicinity of the big underground cell behind the first soft-ore pit. Within the cell, some two thousand dwarves ate, slept, stood guard on their fortified gate, and waited. There had been some fighting right at first – companies of guards slipping into the outer corridor to try to direct attacks on the cell – but the dwarves had turned the attacks with swarms of missiles hurled or fired through the grating. And then, the soldiers had withdrawn. Now there was a strong guard on the corridor itself, but no assaults on the cell. The dwarves could tell by the sounds echoing in from the great pit that work was proceeding there. Other slaves had been transferred from other pits, and the mining went on.

It was Tap Tolec who first realized what was going on. “The inspections,” he said, with good Theiwar intuition. “Those trumpets we heard before, they meant the inspectors have arrived from Daltigoth. I think the deputy is trying to keep us secret until the nobles leave.”

Vin the Shadow crouched beside him. “Why would he do that?” he asked.

“He has been plotting against the Master of Mines,” Tap surmised. “That’s why the rich ore was hoarded in the seventh and ninth shafts. Shalit Mileen planned to bring it out at inspection and disgrace the old man. But then we barricaded the cell, and the guards couldn’t reach us. For that, the disgrace would fall on Shalit Mileen. I think he’s hiding us and using the hoarded ore to make it seem that the pits are in full operation so no one will know that a fourth of his slaves are in revolt and barricaded in their cell.”

“It could be.” Vin nodded. “Such a thing would truly disgrace him if it were known.”

“Probably cost him his head.” Tap grinned. “Maybe we should get the word out that we’re here. I’d like to see the pit boss beheaded.”

“They’d behead us first,” Vin pointed out.

“Well, yes, there is that,” Tap agreed. “Of course, after the inspection, Shalit Mileen will have plenty of time to do with us as he will. My guess is, if we don’t surrender then, he’ll set delvers above and bury us alive.”

“That bowl said help was on the way,” the Daergar reminded.

“I know what the bowl said,” Vin grumbled gloomily. “And I find myself wondering if we’re all crazy, believing something a bowl told us.”

Distantly, then, a trumpet sounded, followed by others. Around the dark cell, dwarves listened and glanced at one another. They had all heard that particular call before. It was evening call, but much more. It was inspection call, telling everyone in Klanath to prepare.

“Whatever that bowl has in mind,” Tap said darkly, “it had better hurry. The inspection begins at first light tomorrow.”

Vin the Shadow jumped to his feet. “Hush!” he said. “Listen!”

The distant blaring of trumpets had become a mighty chorus, with every caller in the city joining in. The blast of sound almost drowned out other, lesser noises … but not quite. Good dwarven ears heard something else, as well. Somewhere very near, weapons rang, and deep war cries – dwarven war cries – echoed the cries of frightened, surprised men.

Chapter 7

BATTLE OF THE PIT

Arriving on the heights above the Klanath mines, Derkin Winterseed waved his followers into cover and crept forward to survey the scene below. For a moment, the sight staggered him. He had never seen Klanath from above, and the sheer sprawl of the settlement shocked him. It was a fair-sized city, spread out on the flatlands and low hills below the mines. On a central knoll stood a grand stronghold – a palace rising among scaffolds, surrounded by walled courtyards. All around the central compound were clusters and rows of all kinds of buildings, many hundreds of them stretching downward and away toward the distant forests beyond.

At first glance, Derkin’s impulse was to call the whole thing off. There were humans down there by the thousands, and among them armed patrols carrying the pennant of the empire. Even in evening shadow, as the sun of Krynn went to its rest beyond the western ranges, the task looked impossible. How were two hundred dwarves – more or less – ever going to slip unnoticed through such a place, to even reach the pit mines, much less free the dwarven slaves there?

Frowning and worried, he scanned the terrain below, memorizing it. And in memorizing it, he analyzed the patterns of it, and felt a bit more hopeful. City or not, the place was like any slave camp. Its defenses were designed to keep people in, not to keep people out.

Directly below him, and spreading out on both sides, were the ledges and ramps behind which were the shaft mines. Farther down the steep slope was a sprawl of ramshackle buildings, most of them no more than pole sheds. And just beyond those were the soft-ore pits – four deep, wide holes where lamps and torches moved. The nearest of the pits he recognized by its wide entry ramp. It was the first pit. And within it was the cell he had so recently occupied.

Everywhere in the city were patrols and guards, and on the distant northward road was a large encampment of empire soldiers. But the mining section had only perimeter guards, and those were mostly on the downward side. The various mines themselves had guards, of course, but mostly inside. There was no need for the Chosen Ones to make their way through the teeming sprawl of human Klanath. The city lay beyond the mines, below them. With a slight smile from a god or two, they could be in and out of the mines before forces from the city could react.

“Reorx,” he muttered, making quick plans, “favor us now.”

He signaled with his hand, and others crept forward to crouch beside him. “There,” he pointed, indicating a brushy draw that led down the slope, separating the ledges of the shaft mines into two sections. “There is our path in, and with some luck, our path out as well.”

At dark of evening, Derkin began his assault. Leaving the women and the injured hidden on the high slope, he led the rest into the wide, brushy cut and downward. Passing between shaft mines where lanterns were being lighted, they crept silently down the slope. A hundred yards, and they paused, listening. Another hundred, and they gathered in brush shadows above the cluster of barns and sheds. In a hushed voice, Derkin selected two squads of a dozen dwarves each, and gave them their orders. The selected ones were all young, strong, and agile, and all had at least some Daergar blood. When they understood what they were to do, he signaled the rest and stepped out of cover, heading straight toward the ramp of pit one. From here to the pit there was no cover, but Derkin was counting on the dusk and surprise, and counting even more on human nature. The guards at the ramp, he assumed, were interested in two things – the pit below them, and the stone-paved road that wound its way upward from the city.

“Humans are creatures of habit,” his father had told him once, a long time ago. “They are quick to see what they expect to see, but slow to notice what they do not expect.”

Beyond the sheds were fifty yards of open ground, with nothing to hide their approach. Therefore, Derkin discarded stealth in favor of speed and silence.

One hundred seventy pairs of strong, short legs raced toward the top of the ramp, where four cloaked guardsmen leaned on their spears. Sand scuffed beneath one hundred seventy pairs of running feet, and one of the guards raised his head curiously. Then another, and another.

“Reorx,” Derkin muttered, taking a good grip on his hammer. And as he had barely dared to hope they would, all four guards became alert at the approaching sound … and all four turned their backs on the charging dwarves, turning instead toward the Klanath road.

Without warning or challenge, the dwarves hit them. One fell sprawling as Derkin’s hammer thudded between his shoulders, smashing his spine. From the corners of his eyes, Derkin saw other guards fall, and he raced on, down the ramp. It seemed to him that their encounter had been noisy and clattering, but he realized instantly that the four guards at the foot of the ramp had not noticed it. It was always noisy in the pits, and the four were kneeling in a tight circle, playing bones. It was doubtful that any of them ever knew what hit them.

On the floor of the pit, slaves just completing their day’s tasks gawked in astonishment as the armed dwarves streamed among them, heading for the cell corridor. One surprised slave dropped a loaded hod, and suddenly the mouth of the corridor was crowded with humans, gaping at the approaching attack, stumbling over one another as they grabbed up weapons.

Again without hesitation, Derkin led his Chosen Ones directly into the thick of the humans, slashing and battering with his hammer, his forearm shield dancing as blades rang against it.

There was no more silence now, nor any need for it. Derkin bellowed the only battle cry he had ever learned – an old Hylar war cry from distant times – and all around him other dwarves took it up, and the din of battle echoed with the chants that once had accompanied the beating of war drums.

The guard force at the corridor was a full company – fifty tall human males, armed with swords and maces, spears and daggers. The sheer force of the dwarven attack carried Derkin well into the cell corridor and halfway through the clot of men. Then he found himself in the midst of all-out fighting on all sides. Nearby, a hastily crafted axe splintered its edge against a human shield, and a dwarf went down, writhing, with a spearhead through his chest. Dwarves were falling, but men were falling, too, and every good steel weapon that was dropped was grabbed by a dwarven hand before it stopped ringing.

The former slaves fought with a ferocious energy, making up in zeal what they lacked in practice. In a glance, Derkin saw two howling dwarves leap onto a human guard, wrench his sword from his hand as they bowled him over, then slash him to death with it.

For what seemed like hours, the fighting raged. Then the fury of it diminished suddenly. More than half the guard company was down, their blood mixing with that of a dozen or more dwarves who had seen their last sunrise. The rest of the humans were in panic, trying to escape the fury of the dwarves. A few scampered away, past attackers and out into the open pit. Most, though, turned and ran along the corridor, toward the slave cell. Shouting, Derkin pursued them, his Chosen Ones following. The corridor veered, then straightened, and the barricaded grating of the cell gate lay just ahead. Beyond it, the corridor ended.

It was then that the panicked humans realized they had fled into a trap. They spun about in desperation. But even as they turned, raising bloody weapons, a hail of bronze bolts, sling-stones, and various other flung objects erupted through the grating to smash among them. Everywhere, men fell, but they were not alone. A heavy dart sang between two of the men, missed Derkin’s face by an inch, and buried itself in the skull of a dwarf behind him. And as men pitched forward, dying, more missiles thudded among the dwarves.

“Hold!” Derkin roared. “You in the cell! We’re on your side!”

The hail of missiles stopped abruptly, and a voice beyond the grating shouted, “Well, rust th’ buckets! It’s that Hylar! Come on, let’s get out there and help!”

Barricades were tumbled aside, and the big gates lurched open, dwarves by the hundreds streaming through. Some had weapons and some did not. All were ragged, filthy, and disreputable-looking, but the fervor with which they fell upon the few remaining humans bordered on sheer, savage joy. Within seconds, the only living souls in the corridor were dwarves.

Pushing and cursing, Derkin shouldered his way through a thickening crowd. “Follow me!” he shouted, trying to be heard above their babble. “Let’s get out of this place!”

Gradually, with a lot of help from his lieutenants and others, he got the crowd silenced and headed for the open pit. He found himself caught up in a stampede of dwarves. Strong hands on both sides of him clutched his shoulders and hurried him forward as a wedge of dwarves plowed through the moving crowd, clearing a path with fists and curses.

“Make way!” someone roared. “Make way for the leader! He can’t lead from back here, for rust’s sake!”

Abruptly, Derkin was at the head of the exodus, and the hands at his shoulders set him down. In dim torchlight, he recognized the Neidar slave called Tap, and the Daergar miner called Vin the Shadow.

“Glad you made it.” Tap smiled at the Hylar, admiring his bright garb and glistening armor. “Though I’d never have recognized you if you hadn’t opened your mouth back there.”

“I’m here to get you people out,” Derkin said.

“We know,” Vin the Shadow rasped, a grin splitting his matted beard. “That bowl told us.”

Derkin didn’t have a chance to ask what bowl he was talking about. They were moving along the corridor at double time, and at that moment more dwarves met them, just inside the entrance. The first one stopped, gawked at the resplendent Hylar with the horde of fighters and slaves behind him, then turned and backed away. Behind them, a double file of ragged slaves had entered the tunnel, dragging the bleeding, mutilated corpses of several human guards.

“These tried to get away,” one of the new dwarves explained, squinting. “We, ah … sort of guessed that you didn’t want them to.”

“They’re pretty messed up,” another said, as though apologizing. “Chains and hod-poles do that, you know.”

“Thanks,” Derkin said. “Now stand aside. We have to get out of here before —”

“Out?” a dwarf interrupted, frowning at him. “You don’t have everybody yet. There are three more cells, in the other three pits.”

“I didn’t plan on …”

“We sent word through the tunnels,” a slave assured him. “It shouldn’t take long. Everyone will be ready to leave as soon as you free them. What are you going to do about our chains, though?”

Tap Tolec stepped past Derkin. “Get your friends out of their cells,” he said. “We’ll get their chains off of them.”

Derkin glared at the slaves around him, and realized that – leader or not – he didn’t have the deciding vote on this. He had come for two thousand slaves. He would leave with eight thousand, or not leave at all. “All right!” he snapped. “Chosen Ones, follow me! The rest of you, keep to cover and be ready to break chains. Reorx!” he added to himself. “By now every human in Klanath will have heard the fighting.”

“Probably not,” a slave said. “Couldn’t hear much at all, out in the pit. I. doubt if anybody above heard a thing.”

*

Derkin had planned for not more than a quarter-hour in the pits. Strike hard, move fast, and get out quickly had been his strategy. But the campaign took on a life of its own, as campaigns do, and an hour had passed by the time the Chosen reached the fourth pit. There had been only a few sleepy guards in pits two and three, and the releases there had been quick and fairly silent.

There was a surprise, though, at pit four. Moving fast and silently, seasoned now by practice, the Chosen Ones stormed that pit’s cell corridor, killed the entrance guards cleanly, and were on their way to the cell beyond when dozens of robed and armored humans appeared, coming around a turn in the tunnel. The man in the lead was the pit boss himself, Shalit Mileen.

The men stopped, gawked at the bloody weapons and hands and the fierce eyes of the advancing dwarves. Mileen’s mouth dropped open, then he drew a broadsword from his shoulder sling, shouted “Kill them!” and charged. Derkin Winterseed, in the lead, deflected the burly man’s first slash with his shield, but the impact of it bowled him over. He rolled to the side, broke the knee of a man going over him, and knocked the feet out from under another, then struggled upright. Furious combat filled the ringing tunnel, and more than a few dwarves fell as they bore down on the humans.

Abruptly, though, the clatter diminished, and only one man remained on his feet. It was Shalit Mileen. The man stormed and flailed about him, keeping dozens of dwarves at bay with his flashing broadsword.

Quickly, Derkin laid down his arms, removed his chest armor, and tugged his blouse from beneath the waist of his kilt. With hard hands, he unwrapped the length of heavy chain from around his waist, doubled it, and swung it in a circle over his head. “Back away!” he ordered the dwarves. “This one is mine.”

Shalit Mileen whirled at the sound of his voice, and cruel eyes brightened. “Ah,” he said. “The red-cloak. What do you have there, dink? A chain?”

“You should know,” Derkin rasped, his voice as deep and cold as mountain snow. “You gave it to me.”

The man’s eyes widened. “I gave it … Yes! I know you! Troublemaker!” With a roar of rage, he sprang at Derkin, his big sword flashing downward. The Hylar dodged aside, and the blade clanged on stone. Derkin lashed out with his doubled chain. The heavy links struck like a snake, coiling around the human’s ankle, and Derkin set his feet and pulled. With a crash, Shalit Mileen went over backward. He rolled, trying to get to his knees, but Derkin was astride his back, pummeling his ribs with drumming heels. The chain slipped around the bull neck of the pit boss, and the dwarf’s shoulders bulged as he looped it and pulled, tightening it like a garrotte.

Shalit Mileen thrashed and tumbled, rolled and struggled, but the dwarf clung to him like a shackle, never for an instant releasing the brutal pressure on the chain. The man’s face went dark, his eyes bulged, and his tongue protruded. Flailing, he rolled onto his back, with the dwarf beneath him, still increasing the strangling pressure of the heavy chain.

For a moment more, the man struggled, his thrashings diminishing to twitches. Then he was still. Derkin clambered from beneath him, tossing aside the ends of the chain. He looked around, found his hammer, picked it up, and pointed it at the slave cell. “Open that gate,” he said. “Let those people out.”

“Look at this,” a dwarf said nearby. Someone raised a lantern. Beyond the cell, where the gate was being opened, the light revealed another cavern – a large, newly delved place, half-filled with heaps of bright, rich metallic ores.

“He was hoarding the ore,” a dwarf said, delivering a kick to the body of Shalit Mileen. “He thought he could become Master of Mines.”

“He isn’t master of anything, now,” another freed slave said. “That hammerhand over there” — he pointed toward Derkin — “if anyone is master of the pits now, I’d say it’s him.”

Tap Tolec glanced around at the words, thoughtfully. “Hammerhand,” he said, to no one in particular. “A good name, Hammerhand. Aye, Derkin Hammerhand is the true master of these pits. And I for one will help him become master of anywhere else he decides to go.”

*

They would say in future times that Derkin Hammerhand was favored by the gods. They would say that when he called upon Reorx, that mightiest of all gods chose to assist him. The story would be told, and any who doubted would be reminded of the Night of Klanath, when Derkin Hammerhand – whose name up to then was Derkin Winterseed – had invaded the Klanath Mines with two hundred Chosen Ones and freed nearly eight thousand dwarves from slavery in the pits. The gods – at least Reorx and maybe others as well – must have favored Derkin, they would say, for not once in the entire invasion was the city of Klanath ever alerted. Not a human guard in the pits remained alive when the army of slaves made its way up the ramp and the mountainside beyond, and none among the emperor’s subjects north of Tharkas were aware that anything was happening.

Only on the following morning, when Lord Kane and his contingent arrived to inspect the mines, did the humans discover that all their miners were gone – eight thousand dwarves vanished up a steep mountainside with the aid of rope slings stolen from the sheds, and all the other slaves of various races gone off in their own directions.

And not only among the dwarves would that story be told. The Night of Klanath would become a legend also among the humans known as Cobar. In his later years, Tuft Broadland would never tire of telling the tale … and the tales of what came after.

“I can see them to this day,” he would say. “We were up on the slopes, above the shafts, waiting. They took a lot longer than we had expected, and we were worried. That pretty little creature, Helta, had lost patience and was ready to go down there herself and do … whatever she had in mind to do. Then, suddenly, there they were, coming from past the sheds, starting up the slope. And so many of them! Can you picture eight thousand dwarves all coming up a mountainside at once? It looked like the entire mountain was alive.

“Maybe the gods favored Derkin, as they say, or maybe that elf, Despaxas, had something to do with it. In those days he often had that shadow thing with him – Zephyr – and maybe the creature helped somehow. But not an alarm was sounded. Even when those slaves climbed past the shaft mines, no guard saw or heard them.

“I asked Derkin where we were going next, and he just said, ‘Past Tharkas, into the wilderness. I have an army to build. But you aren’t going on this journey, human. It will be no place for your kind. Here is where we part.’

“Then he stopped suddenly and turned, and right behind him that Zephyr thing appeared in the air, just sort of floating, like a fish in water. It seemed to stare at Derkin, and he stared back. Then it was gone, and Derkin swore it had spoken to him. He said it told him to pay attention to his dreams, for in sleep he would learn the ways of the Calnar. I asked him who the Calnar were, and he said they were the people before the Hylar.

“The dwarves and I parted there … for a time. I made it out of those mountains, then found a horse and got back to my people. We were in an all-out war with the emperor’s invaders by then. Within a year I was chief of my tribe, though it was no happy ascension. I became chief because our old chief, Plume Plainswind, died with a Caergothian spear through his heart.

“The war stretched from months into years. We kept thinking it must end soon, and some of the Wildrunner elves we shared fires with thought so, too. But there were others whose predictions proved better than ours. Among the elves, they spoke of a leader called Kith-Kanan. And they spoke of Despaxas sometimes. They said Despaxas had sent Zephyr to look into the heart of the emperor’s general, Giarna, across battle lines. They said the soul reader found neither weariness nor any regard for the cost in lives and suffering. And Despaxas had gone farther than that, they said. Somehow the elven mage had reached across half a continent to look into the heart of the emperor himself. He said it was like looking into a black pit that reeked of ambition and the need for power.

“And there was another story, among the elves. They said Despaxas believed that the emperor, Quivalin Soth, had the power to be two people – though the second of the two had no soul at all.

“The elves prophesied that Ullves’s War would never end until the emperor controlled all of Ansalon … or until the emperor was dead.

“And the war did go on … and on and on. For a time, we heard strange tales of wild dwarves coming down from the mountains to make lightning raids along the empire’s supply lines. They said the dwarves would strike caravans, take what they wanted, and disappear to the south. They took weapons, horses, food supplies … all kinds of things.

“There were rumors everywhere, that Thorbardin would open its gates and the dwarves would march into battle. But then the tales of dwarven raiders died down, and seasons passed without any word of them. It was as though all the dwarves in the Kharolis mountains had simply disappeared. Most who thought about them at all assumed that the wild dwarves had joined their mountain brothers in that fabled fortress of theirs, and simply shut themselves off from the world.

“I never really believed that, myself. I thought often of Derkin, and what he had said when we parted. He had an army to build, he said. And there was something in the way he said it. … I always had a hunch that I’d see him again one day. There was something about Derkin, something in his eyes, in the way he stood and the way he spoke. I had a feeling even then that the emperor’s warlords had not heard the last of Derkin.”

Part II

MASTER OF THE CHOSEN

Century of Rain

Decade of Cherry,

Spring, Year of Tin

Chapter 8

OUT OF THE WILDERNESS

Guards at a winter outpost high on the west face of Sky’s End Mountain were the first to spot the approach of the strangers. Up there, where the cold season’s snowpack still gave teeth to the freshening winds, frost-bearded young volunteers kept watch in relays. For more than a century, the wardens of the great undermountain fortress had maintained these sentinel lairs on the icy crowns of the highest peaks around the mountain called Cloudseeker, beneath which lay the stronghold of the mountain dwarves.

In good times and bad, through years of dissolution and strife, even in the days when the feuding among thanes in Thorbardin had erupted into full-scale war, the Council of Chiefs and the Council of Wardens had maintained sentinel outposts to guard against intrusion. Thorbardin was impregnable, but not immune, and those within knew it. Even in the midst of fighting among themselves, the thanes paid common tariff to pay for outposts and sentinels, and volunteers were drawn from every tribe.

The volunteers served for one season at a time, and were paid according to the season. The hardiest among them sought the winter duties. A young dwarf tough enough to last out a winter in one of the Sky’s End posts, or one of those atop the Thunder Peaks to the south, could earn a full year’s easy living in Thorbardin, with coin left over for carousing among the dens and back ways of any of its several cities.

The west sentinel post on Sky’s End was at an altitude of nearly twelve thousand feet, and its six lookouts – a Hylar, a Daewar, two Daergar, and two Theiwar – could see what seemed half the world on a clear day … or in the case of the Daergar, a clear night. Now, as the icy winds began to soften just a bit, and the valleys far below grew coats of green, they were all more than ready to go home. They had seen no one all winter – no little groups of migrating Neidar, no far-ranging elven patrols, no smoke of human campfires such as had been common in recent years since the fighting broke out on the eastern plains, not even so much as the occasional wandering ogre. All through the winter, an odd quiet had reigned in the mountain fastness, and the spotters were more than just tired of the ceaseless cold and the singing, mourning winds. They were thoroughly bored as well.

In recent weeks, their off-duty conversations had turned often to the comforts and pleasures of Thorbardin – mugs of heady ale before roaring fires in the countless ale shops of the cities, challenge matches in the pits, the smell of dark bread emanating from the bakeries, the pleasure of lifting fine metal from a cherry-red forge bed to craft upon an anvil, the joy of a leisurely game of bones, the excitement of wagering on worm-pulls … and the girls. Each of them had wonderful memories and exciting anticipations regarding some special female awaiting his return – or of two or three females or, in the case of the gold-bearded young Daewar, at least a dozen.

A camaraderie had grown among them during the long, cold season, and they shared their thoughts and their dreams as they would among close friends, ignoring the fact that, once returned to Thorbardin, they would likely be caught up in the clan feuds there as before, and soon be at one another’s throats. Such harsh realities could fade from the mind in the course of a winter season on Sky’s End.

Morning, evening, and night, by twos, they stood their watch on the cold mountainside and anticipated the bright coins they would receive beyond Northgate.

And then, one bright morning, their boredom ended.

The Daewar and one of the broad-shouldered Theiwar, on morning watch on the concealed ledge outside the sentinel cave, were the first to see the strangers, and they woke the others. Far in the distance, at least thirty miles to the west, there was movement on a ridgetop, the tiny, methodical “flowing” motion of a great many people – or some kind of creatures – on the move. For a time the six all stood on the ledge, bundled in the heavy bearskin robes that made them look like bearded badgers with bright helmets, as the distant movement continued. “There are a lot of them,” a Theiwar observed. “Thousands, it looks like.”

“And they are coming this way,” the Hylar decided.

For an hour or more, the flow of distant movement continued, rank after rank of tiny specks appearing atop the faraway ridge, and moving down its visible slope, disappearing into some valley below.

“A herd of bison?” one of the Daergar suggested.

“Not likely.” The Hylar shook his head. “They’re moving in the wrong direction for bison in this season. I think those are people. Maybe a trade caravan?”

“From where?” the Daewar protested. “They’re coming from the west. There’s nothing out there but wilderness.”

“There are Neidar settlements.”

A Theiwar shook his head, frowning with intuition. “Those are people, all right, but they’re not Neidar.”

“The only dwarves outside Thorbardin in this season are Neidar.” The Daewar frowned. “Do you suppose those are humans or something?”

“What would that many humans be doing out in the wilderness?” a Daergar puzzled. “And why would they be coming here?”

“Why do humans ever come here? To attack Thorbardin.”

“They’ve been trying and failing for centuries. That last time – what was it, four or five years ago? Lord Kane or some such name? He brought a whole army all the way from Daltigoth. But they didn’t get in. They just banged on Northgate for a while, then gave up and went away.”

“But they came from the north. These people are coming from the west. Maybe they don’t know that they can’t get in. Or maybe they’ve forgotten. I hear humans are very forgetful.”

The Hylar had brought out a far-seeing tube – a brass cylinder with glass lenses mounted in it – and they took turns peering through it. But the distant specks were too far away even for magnified vision. Then, after a time, there was nothing to look at. All of the moving specks had disappeared from view, hidden by intervening rises.

“I think we had better signal,” the Hylar decided, turning toward the enclosed cave.

“Signal what?” a Daergar scoffed cynically. “Do we say something moved, and we saw it but we don’t know what it was? I say we wait and get a better look.”

The Hylar went on into the cave, and returned with a large vibrar and a pair of wooden mallets. But he set the drum aside and crouched on the ledge, waiting. “We’ll take a better look when they’re closer,” he said. “But then, whatever or whoever is out there, we signal. Any time several thousand of anything approach Thorbardin, the gatekeepers ought to know about it.”

“I agree.” The Daergar who had spoken crouched beside the Hylar, his face hidden by the slitted iron mask his dark-sighted people favored in daylight. “But there’s plenty of time. There are still a lot of miles out there, between us and whoever is coming to call.”

The sun stood directly overhead when the strangers appeared again, topping another rise in the mountain terrain. Though still far away, they were closer now by several miles. And the direction of their line now was obvious. They were moving south of east, directly toward Thorbardin. The Hylar sentinel put the seeing-tube to his eye, peered through it, and grunted, “By Reorx! Those are dwarves!”

Beside him, the Daewar blinked in surprise. “Dwarves? What dwarves? Who are they?”

“I can’t tell,” the Hylar said, squinting into the seeing-tube. “Neidar, I suppose. All the other thanes are in Thorbardin. But so many? There are thousands of them! I’ve never seen more than a few dozen Neidar traveling together. Here, see for yourself.”

The Daewar took the device and peered through it. Magnified, the distant horde was still tiny, barely identifiable, but there was no doubt: they were dwarves. He tried to estimate their number and gave up. It was as the Hylar had said. There were thousands of them. Several thousands. And they marched as an army marches – distinct companies in orderly ranks, maintaining their formations despite the rugged terrain.

In the lead and on both flanks rode mounted companies, brightly clad dwarven figures mounted on big horses, and among those afoot were hundreds of other large beasts, some pulling carts, some laden with packs.

Here and there among the strangers, the high sun glinted on bright armor – the familiar flash of metal helmets, shields, and body plating – but what was more striking were the bright colors of fine garments. Each group and company seemed to have its own combination of colors. In one unit, yellow and brown were prominent. In another, green and black dominated, and in still another, blue and tan. Only among those in the middle of the array – those walking with the carts and pack animals – did there seem no pattern of colors, though even there bright hues were plentiful.

“They dress colorfully,” the Daewar noted, his gaze dropping to the very head of the moving band. At the point of the first mounted unit, whose preferred colors seemed to be red and gray, rode a figure whose helm and breastplate reflected the sunlight like a mirror. He wore a cloak of bright red, and the same red was used in the trappings of his horse. The sentinel peered, trying to see more detail, then handed the tube to another volunteer, one of the Theiwar. “What do you make of that one in the lead?” he asked. “I don’t think he’s a Neidar. For that matter, none of them look like Neidar to me.”

The Theiwar gazed through the tube’s lenses, then handed the device back to the Hylar. “You look,” he said. “See if that’s somebody you know.”

The Hylar squinted, then shook his head. “I can’t make out any features at this distance. Why did you think I might know him?”

“I don’t know.” The Theiwar shrugged. “There’s just something about him that reminds me of Hylar.”

“When you’ve seen one Hylar, you’ve seen them all,” the Daewar chuckled. “Of course, that applies to Theiwar, too. You people have arms as long as your legs.”

“You can keep your opinions to yourself, gold-molder,” the Theiwar growled good-naturedly.

The Hylar sentinel took another look, then passed the seeing-tube along and picked up his vibrar, hitching its leather sling over his shoulder. “We’ve seen enough to signal the gate,” he said, gripping his mallets.

A masked Daergar turned toward him. “What are you going to say is coming, a caravan or an army?”

“That mob could be either one,” another sentinel said, squinting through the tube. “Or it could be a little of both. Reorx! Look at all that armor!”

Ignoring them, the Hylar stepped to the edge of the sentinel ledge, raised his mallets, and began a deep, thunderous tattoo on the big vibrar’s taut head, using the elaborate drum-talk his ancestors had brought to these mountains centuries before. The mountainside resounded with the voice of the drum. About a minute later, another drum – around on the south face of Sky’s End – took up the song, echoing and relaying it. Moments later another drum joined in, farther away, and then another, a growing chorus of deep, thrusting rhythms, a string of receding thunders relaying the message toward the north gate of Thorbardin, many miles away on the lower slopes of Cloudseeker Peak. Some minutes passed as the drums sang, then the Theiwar who was still watching the strangers through the seeing-tube said, “Those people out there have stopped. They must have heard the drums.”

“What are they doing?” the Daewar asked.

“I can’t tell. Something is going on in that lead unit, but I can’t see what.”

The Hylar sentinel continued his tattoo for a time, then lowered the drum and listened. From the south came a brief response, and he nodded. “Message received,” he said. “Northgate is alerted.”

He was heading into the shelter cave to put up his vibrar when the air rang again with distant thunder. He turned abruptly, listening. The sound was coming not from the south, not from Thorbardin, but from the west, and the message of it made his mouth drop open. “It’s them!” he shouted, pointing. “The strangers – they are signaling with drums!”

For a moment, all six sentinels stared in wonder at the distant assemblage. It was incredible that strangers, coming from the western wilderness, should have such drums. It was even more incredible that they would know how to use them. Even among the thanes of Thorbardin, few dwarves other than the Hylar ever mastered the vibrar signal-song.

The sentinels stared across the miles, listening, then the Daewar turned to the Hylar. “Well, what do they say?”

“They speak to Thorbardin,” the Hylar said slowly. “They say greetings from Hammerhand, to the chieftains and the Council of Thanes. They say Hammerhand comes to trade. They say Hammerhand will make camp below Northgate, and invites the trade wardens out to inspect his goods. He also says that he will meet with the Council of Thanes.”

“Who is Hammerhand?” the Daewar puzzled. “I’ve never heard the name. Have you?”

None of them had. “Whoever he is, he’s arrogant,” a Theiwar said. “An outsider, requesting audience with the Council of Thanes!”

“He isn’t requesting,” the Hylar said, still listening to the drums, interpreting their song. “He doesn’t ask for a meeting. He demands it.”

Throughout that day, and all of the next, sentinels on Sky’s End and sentries on Cloudseeker watched as the throng of strangers approached, moving at the leisurely pace of the pack beasts among them. By the end of the second day, they had cleared the final ridges, with Cloudseeker’s north slopes directly ahead of them. The encampment they made there, along an icy little stream, was no more than three miles from the stepped slopes where the big mountain began.

By then, hundreds of seeing-tubes were trained on them, from the sentinel posts and from the walled ledge at the top of the great ramps that led to Northgate. The great oval gate was open, its impregnable plug retracted into the shadows behind its steel sheath, and a growing crowd of dwarves was gathered on the ledge, watching the intruders.

The strange drums were silent now. The strangers went about their chores, making camp for the night, and seemed to pointedly ignore all those on the mountain ahead who were gaping at them. Several times, drummers had come out of Thorbardin to signal, asking the strangers to identify themselves, asking where they were from and what they had that they wanted to trade, asking who was this Hammerhand who demanded access to the Council of Thanes. But there had been no response. It was as though the strangers had said all they had to say and were not interested in answering questions.

About sundown, Hylar guards appeared on the ledge, using their shields to clear a path through the crowd there. Behind them, two dwarves stepped from the great open portal, and walked to the wall to look down. If anyone could be said to be “in charge” of Thorbardin in these troubled times, it was these two. Both were mature dwarves, in their middle years, and both were hardened by the burden they carried. Of all the various chieftains, wardens, bosses, and gang leaders who came and went throughout the vast, subterranean realm of the mountain dwarves, it had fallen to Dunbarth Ironthumb and Jeron Redleather to keep Thorbardin functioning despite the explosive feuds and myriad hostilities within.

Jeron Redleather, chieftain of Thane Daewar and senior member of the Council of Thanes, was a burly, bright-eyed dwarf. The elaborate gold inlays of his helmet and breastplate reflected the gold of his flowing hair and full beard, and both the exquisite faceted stone set in his helm, just above his bushy brows, and the rich blue of his flowing cloak reflected the color of his eyes. Ruddy cheeks and a round pug nose gave him the appearance of constant, secret laughter, and the rich gaudiness of his attire might have seemed to indicate a strutting vanity. Like most Daewar, Jeron Redleather enjoyed bright color and rich attire to the point of seeming – to dwarves of other thanes – pompous and a bit preposterous, but was actually nothing of the sort. Jeron Redleather could be jovial on occasion, and might strut a bit now and then, but those who knew him – friend and foe alike – were well aware he could be as tough and rigid as the very stone of Thorbardin.

His companion, Dunbarth Ironthumb, was every inch the Hylar chieftain, though he had refused for years to be chieftain of his thane. To be chieftain, he felt, would oblige him to take part in the various feuds that kept erupting in Thorbardin, and he had no interest in feuds. Of all the tribes, or thanes, only the Hylar had managed over the years to avoid the constant conflicts under the mountain, though even Harl Thrustweight, the last Hylar chieftain, had been hard pressed to remain aloof when all about him were at one another’s throats.

Harl Thrustweight was a legendary name among the Hylar. He had maintained and enforced the “Hylar Peace” among the thanes until his untimely death in a mysterious rockfall near the Theiwar city of Theibardin. Although nothing was ever proven, it was suspected that the rockfall was no accident, and a band of Theiwar led by the schemer Than-Kar had left Thorbardin soon after, never to return.

Harl Thrustweight had been the last chieftain of the Hylar, because Dunbarth Ironthumb refused to take the job, and his stubborn people refused to choose someone else. Thus the Hylar now had no chieftain. Dunbarth Ironthumb did, though, represent Thane Hylar on the Council of Thanes. And with the passing of time he had become its strongest member in many ways.

Between them, with or without the support of the rest of the council, the Daewar and the Hylar exercised enough wisdom and influence to keep Thorbardin functioning as a realm, and to keep the still simmering grudges and feuds among the thanes from erupting into any further outright civil wars.

Dour and thoughtful, the Hylar’s dark eyes, dark hair, and short, backswept beard gave him an air of aloofness which was as misleading as the Daewar’s appearance of careless joviality. Attired in his usual muted colors – leather kilt, dark leather boots, gray-brown jerkin, and gray cloak, his body armor, shield, and helm almost devoid of ornamentation – Dunbarth Ironthumb might have appeared cold and remote, uncaring of the tumults and turmoils of the dwarven realm he so influenced. Those who knew him, though, knew better. Not in all of Thorbardin, most agreed, was there anyone more dedicated to the welfare and perpetuity of the undermountain realm than Dunbarth Ironthumb.

Now the two leaders, the Daewar and the Hylar, looked out across the valley below the slopes, puzzled and worried. They had never heard of a dwarf called Hammerhand, nor of any such formidable array of dwarves as was now spread along the little stream.

The leader had been described to them by sentinels who said he looked to be of Hylar origin, but no one recognized him or knew his name. And now, with the horde encamped a few hours’ march from the ramps of Northgate, he was nowhere in sight. None of the hundreds of watchers had seen him since the night before, when the strangers were still fifteen or more miles away.

“Any ideas?” Dunbarth asked now, shielding his eyes against the last rays of sunset.

“They say they come to trade,” Jeron Redleather said. “And those carts and pack beasts seem to carry goods. I think we should —” He stopped abruptly, turning half around, then shrugged. “Odd,” he muttered. “I thought someone brushed against me just then.”

“You were saying?” Dunbarth reminded.

“Oh, yes.” The Daewar turned again to the low wall. “I think we should send traders to meet them tomorrow. If they have goods to trade, why not welcome them?”

“But the rest of it? That demand for a meeting with the council?”

“Oh, we won’t do that, of course,” Jeron said. “And we certainly won’t let any of them inside Thorbardin. Not until we know a good deal more about them at any rate.”

“Then after the traders go out tomorrow, we’ll close the gate and keep it closed,” Dunbarth concluded.

They gave orders to the guards nearby, then walked back through Northgate, through the gatehouse with its huge screw and driving mechanisms, through the old delves of Gatekeep and out along the catwalk that led from one end of Anvil’s Echo to the other. All around them, alert eyes watched from murder holes, but they had no concern. The eyes were those of Dunbarth’s elite home guard. Across Anvil’s Echo and a few steps into the great tunnel that was the northern road to the central cities of Thorbardin, Dunbarth Ironthumb stopped suddenly and turned. A dozen yards back, his guard company halted, weapons at the ready.

For a moment, the Hylar leader looked around, then resumed his walk, striding alongside Jeron Redleather,

“What’s the matter?” the Daewar asked. “Why did you stop just then?”

“I don’t know,” Dunbarth said. “I had the feeling, for just a moment, that someone was following us. It seemed as though there was somebody walking right behind us.”

Chapter 9

BALLADINE

At break of dawn, the fresh west wind whispering in the valleys and up the slopes of Cloudseeker had a smell of spring about it. Northgate of Thorbardin had been closed through the night, but now its great screw turned again and the huge, steel-clad stone plug that was the gate receded slowly into the gatehouse, letting the breeze and the morning light enter. Guards stepped out through the great portal, took up positions on the ledge and the ramps, and gazed curiously out across the valley below.

Cookfire smoke rose above the big encampment there, and there was movement everywhere as the strangers from the west had their breakfasts, tended their livestock, and began taking down their travel tents. They were preparing for a march, and the dwarves above, at Northgate, watched curiously as the pace of activity increased its tempo.

From such a distance, the tiny figures by the stream seemed to all be moving in unison, going about their various morning chores, but with a visible rhythm, as though there were music there, and they were all listening to it.

Then the wind shifted a bit, wafting up the slope, and the guards on the ledge heard it, too. The faint sound was that of a single drum, beating softly and steadily, a deep, throbbing rhythm that seemed to touch the dwarven soul. In fascination, the guards on the mountain watched and listened, then snapped to quick attention as a platoon of the elite guard stepped through the open gate into the dawn light.

The new arrivals spread out, looking up the slope above Northgate, down the slope below the wall, and down both climbing ramps. When their surveillance was complete, they spread apart and saluted. Jeron Redleather stepped out into the morning, followed by Dunbarth Ironthumb and old Swing Basto, chieftain of the Theiwar.

Like the guards, the three leaders gazed curiously out across the westward valley, where the strangers were packing their animals and rolling their tents. The smoke that had floated above the encampment was gone, the cookfires extinguished. Obviously, the strangers were ready to move out.

“Is there any sign yet of their leader?” Jeron asked one of the guards, who held a seeing-tube.

“Haven’t seen him,” the dwarf answered. “At least we haven’t seen that red cloak and bright armor. Maybe he changed his clothes.”

“If he did, he could be anywhere over there, and we wouldn’t spot him,” another guard said. “Nobody has had a good look at him yet.”

Dunbarth Ironthumb had wandered to the wall, and stood there now, listening intently. “That drum,” he muttered. “There is something about that drum. …”

“What is it?” Jeron asked. “Is the drum talking?”

“No, it’s just singing. But there is something about that rhythm. It’s like something I should remember, something I should understand. But I’m sure I’ve never heard it before.”

“Maybe your ancestors heard something like it,” Jeron suggested. “You Hylar have always been drum people.”

“Yes, possibly,” the Hylar agreed. Still, though, he listened, feeling as if the faint, haunting beat were talking to him personally. Among the guards, some of the other Hylar had similar expressions of puzzlement.

Even without the seeing-tubes, they could see the people out in the valley scurrying into formation, bright cloaks swirling, bright armor flashing as they made ready to cross the stream. The long line of carts and pack animals was brought forward, and on the flanks, dwarves in bright costume climbed aboard their saddled mounts and wheeled into position. The red-and-gray company assembled, mounted, and rode across the stream, bright water splashing under the hooves of their horses. There was, though, no sign of the red-cloaked figure who had led them when they were first seen.

When they were across, all the rest began to move, crossing rank by rank and group by group to take up their march positions. It looked as though a whole city were on the march.

“There certainly are a lot of them,” Jeron noted as the strangers spread and advanced, heading toward Thorbardin. “Thousands of them.”

“My guards estimate at least nine thousand,” Dunbarth told him. “Maybe more than that. I can’t imagine where they came from. I don’t recall there being anything west of here larger than an occasional Neidar village. But by Reorx, there are as many people down there as there are in all of Hybardin.”

“Speaking of Hybardin,” Jeron said, “do you know whether any of your people might have been prowling my shore last night? The guards didn’t see anyone, but there was a Hylar boat at the dock this morning, and nobody around to account for it.”

“You, too?” Swing Basto asked. “I’ve had a dozen reports of prowlers wandering around Theibardin during the night. And one of my water-pipers swears he turned around and saw the face of Harl Thrustweight looking at him.”

“Too much ale.” Jeron grinned. “Or too much imagination. Harl Thrustweight, you say?”

“No, not Harl Thrustweight. Just his face. There wasn’t any body attached to it.”

“Definitely ale,” Jeron repeated. “Ale, and possibly a troubled conscience. That would account for seeing ghosts.”

“That water-piper had nothing to do with the Hylar chief’s accident,” the old Theiwar blustered. “And even if anybody in my thane did, they’re all long gone now.”

“Hush!” Dunbarth raised a commanding hand. “Listen!”

Out in the valley, the entire caravan of strangers was now across the little stream and approaching at a stately, steady pace. The soft drum still throbbed its haunting rhythm, but it was louder now, as though mufflings had been removed. And another drum had joined its voice, adding a stirring counterpoint to the beat. As they listened, another drum joined in, and another, each adding a new tone and dimension to the growing sound.

“What is that?” Jeron rasped. “Are they saying something? Is it a signal?”

Before Dunbarth could answer, a gray-haired old Hylar hurried onto the ledge, glanced about, then pulled a sheet of rough paper and a graphite stick from his robe. Those around him were a bit surprised to see old Chane Lowen out and about at such an early hour, though as lore-keeper of Thorbardin, he generally came and went as he pleased. Listening intently, the old dwarf began making quick, strange marks on his paper, in time with the drumbeats. Jeron Redleather glanced over the newcomer’s shoulder and scowled. He had never been able to decipher either the signals that the Hylar vibrars sent, or the odd, curled runes by which they were recorded.

“If they’re talking,” Dunbarth answered Jeron’s question, “it’s no drum language I recognize.” He turned to the signal-master. “Chane, do you …?”

“Hush!” Chane rasped, frowning and scribbling.

For long minutes, the chant of the drums grew on the wind, while Chane Lowen scribbled its tones, rhythms, and nuances. Then he pulled an old, yellowed scroll from his robe and unrolled it. For a moment he held both papers before him, comparing them. Then he looked up, his old eyes bright with awe and excitement. “It is!” he said. “It truly is!”

“It is what?” Dunbarth prodded.

“Here, look at this!” Chane thrust the ancient scroll at him. “This has been handed down for centuries. It was among the scrolls of Mistral Thrax. It is from the old times, from the first Hylar. Or before. It is …” He cocked his head, listening. “I’ve studied this, but never heard it before. It has never been played in these mountains. But this scroll is what those drums are singing. Listen! It is truly beautiful.”

“I agree.” Dunbarth nodded. “It’s pretty. But what is it?”

“A drum-song from long ago, from a place very far away. It was the song of summer solstice, there.”

“Summer solstice?” Jeron Redleather cocked a bushy, golden brow. “But it is barely spring.”

“The song was used to call assembly,” the old Hylar continued. “It was the song of festivals and trading time. It was the Call to Balladine.”

“Legends of ancient Thorin,” Dunbarth mused. “Maybe there really was such a place.”

“A trading call,” Jeron studied the throng in the valley suspiciously. “Maybe they truly are here to trade. We’ll see.”

“Traders who march like an army?” Swing Basto growled. “And why would traders demand to meet with the Council of Thanes? It’s obvious, those people intend to invade Thorbardin.”

“In that case,” Jeron assured him, “we’ll do what we always do. We’ll close the gates until they go away.”

“Do what we always do,” Dunbarth muttered. “Sometimes I wonder …” He didn’t complete the thought, and Jeron Redleather only glanced at him and shrugged. Dunbarth could be moody sometimes, like all Hylar, and Jeron had heard him complain many times that the people of Thorbardin had lived within a shell so long that they were no better than turtles. In a way, Jeron agreed with him, but there wasn’t much that could be done about it. The entire purpose of Thorbardin was its impregnability. The undermountain fortress was created to give the dwarven thanes a secure, unassailable place where they could live safe from intrusion. In Thorbardin, the dwarves were safe from the outside world. Many of them had come, over the centuries, to feel that Thorbardin was the world, and that nothing outside mattered.

Like the Hylar leader, Jeron Redleather often regretted that it was so. People less secure and less secluded, he thought, might find other interests beyond simply eating, sleeping, squabbling, and holding grudges against one another.

Jeron felt a slight touch, as though someone’s cloak had brushed him, and turned, but there was no one there. A moment later one of the guards on the west ramp hissed, started to draw his sword, then looked around in confusion. Dunbarth Ironthumb turned at the sound and called, “What’s the matter over there?”

“Nothing, I guess,” the guard said sheepishly. “I thought I saw something, but I guess I didn’t.”

“Well, what did you think you saw?”

“A face. Right in front of me, looking at me. But then it was gone.”

“Ghosts,” Jeron Redleather muttered.

Within an hour, the approaching throng of strangers was less than a mile away, and well into the meadowed valley between the slopes of Cloudseeker and Sky’s End peaks. A growing crowd had gathered on the Northgate ledge, watching the strangers curiously and listening to the haunting music of the drums. The sun was high now, intensifying the bright colors of the panoply below, and the watchers could see things they had not seen before. Among the mounted units, only one dwarf in three or four wore metal armor, and the armor – though bright and well kept – was a motley assortment of types and designs, as though gathered from bazaars or collected on battlefields.

All of the strange dwarves, even the women and children among them, carried weapons. But some of their weapons were crudely crafted, as though made in haste, and many looked to be of human or elven design. “They have rough iron, but not much good steel,” Jeron Redleather noted. “Wherever they come from, their weavers and tanners have had materials to work with, but their metalworkers have had to settle for what they could find.” He turned to the warden of trade. “Take note, Agate. Many of those pack animals carry bales of fine furs, and I’d wager those carts have some excellent fabrics in them.”

“They’ve been scavenging, by the look of some of their metals,” Dunbarth Ironthumb added. “A lot of them carry human blades.”

Still, with their fine horses and bright cloaks, the strange dwarves had a formidable look about them, purposeful and determined.

As the assembly came even nearer, one of the riders in the first unit – the red-and-grays – spurred his mount and galloped ahead, leading a spare saddled horse. The second animal was finely outfitted, with a fine dwarven saddle, silver-accented leathers and headstall, and a skirt of fine steel chain, all embellished by patterns of bright red fabric.

“That’s the horse their leader was riding when we first saw them,” a guard said.

“But where is their leader?” Dunbarth muttered.

Then, at the ledge wall, someone said, “Look!” and eyes turned downward and to the left. At the foot of the west ramp was a scarlet-cloaked dwarf whose dark hair glinted in the sunlight as he strode down the slope.

The lone rider sped toward him, but reined in when he raised his hand. Without looking back, the red-cloak stepped to the riderless horse, took its reins, and climbed up on its back, rolling up the sling-ladder behind him and snugging it to his saddle. Loosing thongs on the pommel, he released a slung shield, helmet, and hammer, and donned them. With the other rider following, he rode out into the meadow, turned his mount full around, and raised his arm again. Instantly, in the approaching throng, the drums ceased their song, and a single drum beat a brief, complex tattoo.

“They say they will be ready to receive our traders by noon,” Chane Lowen translated so all those on the ledge could hear. “They also say the Council of Thanes is to be assembled tomorrow.”

“Like rust!” Swing Basto spat. “Dunbarth, let your drummers tell them that the Council of Thanes meets only in the Great Hall of Thorbardin, not outside.”

At a nod from Dunbarth, two drummers stepped forward and sent the message. A moment later, the strange drums responded. “Hammerhand would have it no other way,” they said.

“Arrogance!” the Theiwar chieftain snapped when the signal was translated. “I say we close the gate, and to corruption with these intruders!”

Before anyone could answer, one of the guards on the ramp shouted, “That’s him! That’s the face I saw before me!” The guard had found a seeing-tube and was peering through it at the scarlet-cloaked rider down in the meadow.

Dunbarth Ironthumb took a tube from his nearest guard and looked through it. The face of the newcomer below turned toward him, and he squinted. Strong, blunt features framed a pair of dark, brooding eyes that seemed to be looking directly at him. Dark, wavy hair fell below a finely crafted helmet, and a trimmed, backswept beard parted to reveal strong, white teeth in a wide, resolute mouth.

Dunbarth swore aloud, and pressed the tube to his eye. In some ways, the face below resembled the long-dead chieftain of the Hylar, Harl Thrustweight. The set of the high cheekbones, the level gaze of those commanding eyes. “I feel I should know him!” Dunbarth rasped, handing the seeing-tube to Jeron Redleather. “Look! Who do you see?”

The Daewar peered, then turned, frowning. “Who else but a son could so resemble a father?” he said thoughtfully.

“Are you suggesting that is Harl’s son, Derkin?” Dunbarth demanded.

The Daewar peered again, muttering. “I don’t know,” he conceded. “There is a resemblance. And yet … that is surely not the Derkin I remember.”

Without ceremony, old Chane Lowen pushed forward, elbowing chieftains aside, and wrested the seeing-tube from Jeron’s hand. Leaning against the ledge wall, he sighted through the tube, then turned to the rest of them. “I have seen that face,” he said slowly. “There is an old painting in the deepest archives in Hybardin. The painting is as old as Thorbardin itself. And the face in the painting is that face down there.”

“Are you saying that isn’t Harl Thrustweight’s lost son?” Dunbarth demanded.

“I vaguely recall Derkin Winterseed,” the old lore-keeper said. “He was a reclusive youth, quiet and given to moods.”

“Moods?” Jeron Redleather rasped. “As I heard it, Derkin had only two ways of associating with people – either ignore them, or insult them. It was a wonder somebody didn’t brain him. I don’t think even his father liked him very much. Personally, though, I don’t think I ever met him.”

“He wasn’t around much,” Chane Lowen said, searching his memory. “Derkin was an odd one. He never seemed a Neidar, but he was always going off to outside places. He didn’t like Thorbardin and made that clear. Then, the last time he left – many years ago – he just never came back.” Chane half-turned, pointing toward the meadow. “If that person down there was ever Derkin Winterseed, he isn’t anymore. See his movements. That person commands and leads. Derkin would never have led anyone.”

“The old painting in the archives,” Dunbarth pressed. “Whose face is in it?”

“Colin Stonetooth,” Chane said. “The first chieftain of the Hylar. The dwarf who united the thanes to build Thorbardin. In the painting, he is much older, but I swear, that is his face down there.”

On the meadow below Northgate, a vast encampment grew. Banners fluttered above brightly colored pavilions, surrounded by stalls and displays of wares. Wagons and carts disgorged bolts of bright fabric, big coils of hemp rope, and oiled leather weaves; intricately patterned carpets, arrays of fine, hand-carved furniture and wooden fixtures; bits of sculpture, tapestries, and paintings done in many styles and fashions; bundles of herbs, spices, and pots of exotic oils; dyes and essences; casks of prized white salt, dried fruits, and wild grains; myriad bits of elvenware; bales of cured pelts and tanned hides – a wealth of goods such as Jeron Redleather’s Daewar traders had not seen since the wars in Ergoth had disrupted so many of the trade routes.

“He certainly knows his goods,” a trader commented, watching from above as the red-cloaked figure called Hammerhand directed the placement of wares and displays on the valley floor.

“He knows what is prized in Thorbardin,” another agreed. “He knows what is hard to get here. Look at those western timbers! And the furs! Half of Thorbardin will be trying to outbid the other half for those.”

“When we get them,” the first trader pointed out.

“Oh, we’ll get them, all right. The only question is, what will we have to give in trade?”

At midday, the drums sang again, and dozens of Daewar traders, followed by several hundred merchants from the various cities within Thorbardin, made their way down the ramps, accompanied by a squad of armed guards.

The guards were for display only, of course, and everyone knew it. With thousands of armed strangers awaiting the contingent below, the traders and their followers would have no chance at all if hostilities broke out. But such was always the life of traders and merchants. To acquire goods, they must go to where the goods were, barter for them, and take the risk. Further, there was something in the song of the drums, muted now but still beating, that was reassuring. This is an occasion to trade, they seemed to say, a time to haggle, but not to quarrel … a time to do business, not to do violence.

Throughout the afternoon, hundreds of dwarves from Thorbardin wandered about the valley camp, inspecting goods and setting prices, making lists and copious notes. At evening, as the sun of Krynn sat upon the western ranges, they gathered with their guards and returned up the ramps to Northgate to disappear inside. Guards saw them safely in, then wheeled to follow them, and the great plug of Northgate closed as the last rays of sunlight crept up the high peaks.

Inside, the merchants wandered off toward their cities and their shops, each accompanied by his band of hired armsmen. No street, way, or tunnel in Thorbardin could be considered entirely safe. Ambushers often lurked in shadows, waiting for a chance to attack some feud-enemy or anyone else of that enemy’s clan.

The appointed traders hurried to where Jeron Redleather awaited their reports. A delved chamber near Northgate that usually served as a storage barn had been hastily refurnished the night before as a situational headquarters.

The Daewar leader generally was in charge of all matters involving commerce, just as the Hylar leader was conceded to be the person in charge of policing and defense. Surprisingly, though, the traders found almost the entire Council of Thanes awaiting them. Dunbarth Ironthumb of the Hylar was there, as were Swing Basto of the Theiwar, Trom Thule of the Klar, and even Crag Shade-eye of the Daergar. The only missing member of the Council was Grimble I, Highbulp of Clan Aghar, but that was no surprise. Not for a long time had anyone seen the gully dwarf leader or, for that matter, any of his tribe. During unsettled times, the Aghar tended to disappear.

The traders presented their lists and reports to the assembled leaders. The wares brought by the strangers were indeed valuable and would greatly benefit Thorbardin. And what the strangers demanded in trade was steel.

“Steel?” Swing Basto rasped. “Just … steel?”

“Forged steel,” the warden of trade noted, poring over notes and enscrollments. “They cite some types of tools and utensils that they will accept, but mostly they ask for armor and weapons. Hammers, axes, swords, knives, darts, javelin-points, shields, helms, a wide assortment of armor —”

“As we suspected,” Jeron Redleather interrupted. “Those people have not had access to smelters or to the fine forges and metalshops we have here.”

“But they certainly know about us,” Dunbarth pointed out. “They seem to know exactly what goods we most need and exactly what we can best produce for trade. They are very familiar with Thorbardin.”

“Their leader is.” Jeron nodded. “That must be your old chieftain’s son, the one who disappeared. Derkin. Who else could it be?”

“One of our people heard the name Derkin mentioned,” a trader offered. “But the name that is most commonly used for their leader is Hammerhand.”

“Tell us the rest,” Jeron said, leaning forward, bright-eyed. In addition to being crafty merchants, his corps of traders were among the best spies in the dwarven realm, or maybe in the world.

The answer disappointed him though. “That’s about all there is.” The chief trader shrugged. “They showed us what they offer, told us what they want, and named their leader. Hammerhand. By observation, we learned that there are at least nine thousand in their party, and many carry healed battle wounds. They have seen combat. Also, some carry brands – the way humans sometimes mark slaves – and the marks of whips. Most of them speak with a Neidar accent, though the accents vary. They seem to be from all over.”

“Nomadic dwarves?” Trom Thule muttered.

“They aren’t nomads.” The trader corrected him. “They carry no looms, anvils, or hearth-irons. That – and the grain, leathers, and woodcrafts they bring – indicates that they have a permanent base somewhere. There are women among them, as well, but we saw very few children.

“They have choice leathers, fine fabrics, and excellent wooden instruments, but the metal goods of their own crafting are of crude iron, copper, bronze, and brass. Everything we saw made of steel was obviously of human crafting, modified to suit dwarves.

“With one exception,” another trader reminded him.

“Oh, yes. One exception. Their leader’s armor – Hammerhand’s – is of dwarven craft, and of the finest quality … though its design is very old.” The chief trader paused, then shrugged. “We weren’t able to get much information beyond that. I’ve never seen such closemouthed people in my life.”

A runner from the gatehouse appeared at the door of the chamber, looked inside, then entered. “The drums,” he said, “those drums in the valley, they said bring the message here.”

“Here?” Dunbarth frowned. “To this chamber?”

“Aye.” The runner nodded. “Those drums said to come to this chamber, and tell the Council of Thanes to assemble tomorrow in the Great Hall, to meet with Hammerhand.”

“Rust!” Jeron Redleather scowled. “Now how would those people out there know exactly where we would be, right now?”

“The drums said to say,” the runner said, “that Hammerhand will speak with you tomorrow.”

The assembled chiefs exchanged glances. “Let a signal be returned then,” Dunbarth said. “Say that Hammerhand may enter Thorbardin at dawn.”

“But only with ceremonial escort,” Swing Basto grumped. “We don’t want a lot of strangers running loose in Thorbardin.”

“I shall assign the best guards to them,” Dunbarth agreed, annoyed as usual by the Theiwar’s sullen manner. “Jeron, your son’s company is available. I’ll assign them.”

Chapter 10

THORBARDIN

Drums thundered at first dawn, and the dwarf called Hammerhand strode up the west ramp of Northgate with his “ceremonial” escort – ten burly, battle-hardened veterans in red-and-gray draped armor, all carrying sturdy shields and good swords that bore the nicks and scratches of enthusiastic use, and all with axes slung at their shoulders. The twelfth member of the group was an old, one-armed dwarf in leathers and linens. A reed basket slung from his shoulder bulged with rolled scrolls, and dagger hilts were visible at his belted kilt, the tops of both his boots, and the collar of his gray cape.

With the others following closely, the scarlet-cloaked Hammerhand strode along the gateway’s wide, walled ledge to the very center of the massive, steel-clad gate. The great plug, a solid wall of stone sheathed in time-darkened steel, was patterned all over its surface with the small dents, scratches, and tool marks of those who, over the centuries, had tried in vain to get through it. Like its twin on the south face of the mountain, many miles away, Northgate was a monument to the stubborn refusal of the mountain dwarves to be troubled by outsiders.

The one-armed old dwarf peered closely at the mute steel of the gate and pursed his lips, an expression that made his beard stand out before his face. “I haven’t seen this gate in eighty years,” he noted, “but it hasn’t changed. Its face reads like a testament to the futility of invasion.”

“More like a monument to the stone-headed stubbornness of those within,” Hammerhand growled. Loosing his hammer-loop from a powerful shoulder, he paused, glancing at the eastern sky. “Has that dratted girl been found yet, Calan?”

“Not yet.” The graybeard shook his head. “Nobody’s seen her since yesterday, right after you came back from your scouting.” He lowered his voice, stepping close. “You realize she saw you put away that invisibility cloak, don’t you? She watches you every minute, it seems. It’s a wonder you have any secrets from her at all.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Hammerhand growled. “Well, she’s probably hiding somewhere, pouting. Maybe I should have been a bit gentler yesterday when I told her she couldn’t come with us this morning.”

“She certainly has a mind of her own,” Calan agreed. As the younger dwarf had done before, he glanced at the eastern sky. Patterns of dawn light painted the distant clouds. The sun would be up soon. “It’s full dawn,” he noted. “Time to go calling.”

Hammerhand nodded. Raising his hammer, he delivered a single, imperious blow to the time-darkened surface of the huge gate, then stepped back. Several seconds passed, then the gate grated in its frame and slid slowly inward, backing away from those waiting on the ledge. It cleared several feet of steel framing, then receded a few inches farther and stopped. From both sides, eyes peered through the crack. A suspicious voice called, “Identify yourself!”

Without looking aside, the red-cloak stepped forward and struck the stopped gate another ringing blow. “I’m Hammerhand!” he stated, his voice deep, commanding, and loud enough to be heard by anyone in the gatehouse beyond. “I come to meet with the Council of Thanes. Open up!”

“How do we know you’re him?” the same voice queried, sounding argumentative.

The old, one-armed dwarf stepped up beside Hammerhand to growl, “Open this gate or we’ll make a new gate of our own! We’re coming in.”

From the crack at the other side of the gate, another voice – a voice of authority – commanded, “Open the berusted gate, you imbeciles! We’ve got our orders, and that’s the one we’re supposed to let in.”

“The rest of’em, too?” the first voice asked suspiciously.

“Stop arguing and open the gate! It’s all right!”

There was muttering from the cracks, then the huge gate began moving again, receding into its shadowed gatehouse. The dwarves on the ledge waited in stony silence until it was fully open, withdrawn twenty feet into its housing. Then the one with the scarlet cloak put away his hammer, growled an ironic “Thank you,” and stepped forward, followed by his escorts.

Within the gatehouse, they filed around the massive gate, some of them pausing momentarily to gape at the sheer size of the steel-sheathed stone plug and the huge, milled auger behind it. But the one called Hammerhand and the old one-arm barely glanced at the huge mechanics of the gatehouse and strode on, while the rest hurried to follow. Gatekeepers and surly-looking guards stepped back as they passed, and a gold-bearded young Daewar with the insignia of a Home Guards officer fell into step beside Hammerhand. “I’m Luster,” he said amiably. “Luster Redleather. I’ll show you the way to the Great Hall.”

“I know the way,” Hammerhand rasped, then eased his tone slightly as he glanced at the Daewar. “Luster Redleather? Are you Jeron Redleather’s son?”

“You know my father?” The Daewar brightened.

“They call me Hammerhand,” the red-cloak said, ignoring the question. Indicating the old dwarf with the reed basket, he added, “This is Calan Silvertoe.”

Luster nodded at Calan and glanced around at the ten heavily armed warriors flanking and following them. “And these?”

“The Ten,” Hammerhand said. “The one with the crested helm is Tap Tolec. He’s First of the Ten. Are you the only escort they sent? One alone, to keep all of us out of mischief?”

“Hardly.” Luster chuckled. “I have a full hundred waiting just beyond Anvil’s Echo. For your protection, of course. We have a long walk ahead, and the ways can be, ah … hazardous at times. My father wouldn’t want anything to happen to you … at least until he satisfies his curiosity about you.”

“What’s he curious about?”

“Just about everything,” the Daewar said. “Who you are, where you came from, what your purposes are.”

“He knows that,” Hammerhand rasped. “We came to trade goods for steel.”

“Of course.” The young Daewar nodded. “Steel armor, steel weapons …”

“The best smelters and forges in the world are in Thorbardin,” the red-cloak said. “Where else would we go?”

“But after you have your, ah … steel goods,” Luster pressed, “what then? You must have a specific use in mind for all those weapons.”

“And curiosity must run in your family,” Hammerhand noted.

They passed between long rows of closed passages, lining both sides of the big, sky-lighted tunnel. Broad delvings beyond had once been a construction camp for Northgate and were now used as warehouses. Abruptly the tunnel opened out in all directions, and the path became a suspended bridge – a catwalk leading from end to end of a great cavern lined above and on both sides with small, dark openings.

Neither Hammerhand nor Calan Silvertoe more than glanced at the murderous ports and the vertiginous path as they strode out into the opening, but Luster heard whispers among the ten who followed: “So this is Anvil’s Echo. I’ve heard about it.” “I guess you have to see this to really believe it.” “Look at those murder-holes! Do you suppose we’re being watched from those things?”

On impulse, Luster said, over his shoulder, “There are probably a hundred watchers at those ports right now, maybe more. But don’t worry. They’re all Dunbarth Ironthumb’s people. Nobody gets into the defense lairs without his approval.”

“It’s a shame the rest of Thorbardin doesn’t have the discipline of its defenses,” Hammerhand muttered.

“The Hylar would agree with you on that score.” Luster grinned. “You look like a Hylar, yourself. Are you?”

“I’m Hammerhand,” the red-cloak rumbled. “That’s all I am, at least for now.”

Unabashed, the young Daewar said, “Chane Lowen says you look like Colin Stonetooth.”

“He probably does,” Calan Silvertoe rasped, then went silent at a glance from his leader.

The catwalk ended, the sun-tunnel-lighted way began again, and the party marched between the waiting ranks of a hundred dwarven soldiers, standing at attention. As they passed, the guards fell in around and behind them, ringing them closely. With a suspicious glare at the soldiers, Tap Tolec muttered orders, and the Ten closed ranks around their leader and the two walking with him. Their frowns made it clear to the guards that they were to keep their distance from Hammerhand. Responding to their glares, some of the Thorbardin guards pressed closer, tauntingly. Then one of them yelped and backed off, stooping to rub his ankle.

“What happened?” one of his companions asked.

“One of these outsiders kicked me on the shin,” the injured one snapped.

Hammerhand swung around, stopping the procession. He glanced at Tap Tolec, then from face to face of his other nine bodyguards. All of them shook their heads. “Nobody kicked your soldier,” Hammerhand told Luster. “If any of them had, he’d be more than just bruised.” Imperiously, he turned again and strode on, the double ring of escorts reforming around him.

Luster Redleather’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Your people look after you,” he noted.

Hammerhand didn’t respond, but Calan Silvertoe said, “The Ten are the chosen of the Chosen Ones. Your soldiers would be well advised to treat them with respect.”

“My soldiers – a hundred of Thorbardin’s best?” Luster asked, grinning.

“If they’re your best, then you don’t want to lose them,” Hammerhand said quietly. “If they crowd my people, what happens to them is their fault. The Ten don’t like being crowded.”

With a wave of his hand, Luster Redleather signaled his hundred, who eased away from the compact group of warriors, giving them respect and a bit more room. From somewhere on the left flank came an angry whisper: “One of them did kick me! I don’t know who, but somebody did.”

After a half-hour’s walk, the big tunnel they were following – called the Second Road – bent sharply to the left, and carved runes in the stone wall said that Theibardin – first of the Theiwar cities – lay ahead. The Thorbardin guards had now formed a complete circle around the visitors, and marched with eyes alert and shields high. A hundred yards past the turn, several dozen shadowy figures suddenly darted from a side-delve, shouting a babble of taunts and insults. Several of them hurled stones at the approaching company. The leading Thorbardin guards deflected the stones casually with their shields and drew hand weapons. With more taunts and insults, the mob of attackers turned and ran, disappearing around a bend in the distance.

“Somebody doesn’t like us here,” Calan Silvertoe drawled.

“It isn’t you,” Luster Redleather assured his guests. “It’s us. A lot of people here don’t like the Home Guards. We’ve doubled the patrols since the last riots and spoiled a lot of people’s fun.”

“This is a riot zone?” Calan asked.

“Sometimes I think all of Thorbardin is a riot zone,” Luster told him sadly. “Every city in the cavern has had trouble of one kind or another during the past few decades … except maybe the Hylar city. The Hylar don’t usually get involved in the feuds. But everywhere else, there’s always somebody ready to lead a gang against somebody else.”

“What do they fight about?” one of the Ten asked.

“Anything and everything.” Luster shrugged. “Who knows? My father says the darkest quality of dwarven nature is that we never forget a slight or forgive a grudge. And, of course, in Thorbardin we’ve had a lot of generations to accumulate grudges.”

“And nothing better to do than feud?” Calan asked.

“For some among us, no. There isn’t enough real work to keep everybody busy.”

“There should be,” Hammerhand muttered. “There would be, if Thorbardin hadn’t forgotten why it’s here.”

Luster glanced at him, curious about the smoldering anger in the stranger’s voice, an anger that seemed to deepen with every step into the cavern realm. “What does that mean?”

“That’s what I came to talk to the council about,” the red-cloak said, his brow furrowed and stormy beneath his polished helm.

The delves of Theibardin spread around them then, and they turned at a wide road that led to the central cavern of Thorbardin. Everywhere, dwarves by the hundreds turned out to watch them pass. Most of the dwarves here were Theiwar, identifiable by their smoke-brown hair and beards, and the wide shoulders and long arms that were characteristic of their clan. But many among them were obviously of mixed blood, with features that came from Daewar, Daergar, Hylar, or Klar lineage.

Generations of intermarriage among the thanes had in many ways strengthened the dwarves of Thorbardin. But it also had started its share of feuds.

Most of the people they passed seemed to harbor no hostility, only curiosity. But here and there they heard taunts and catcalls, and a few stones clanged off the shields of the Home Guards. Then a fist-sized stone from aside and above flew over the raised shield of a guard, straight at Hammerhand.

As casually as the Thorbardin guards had, he deflected the stone with his shield. But even as the missile clattered away, he sensed furious movement directly behind him and heard the unmistakable hum of a sling. He spun around in time to see a small hand dart out of the group, expertly unleashing a woven sling. Its stone whistled through the air, entered a shadowed, open second-level doorway, and a distinct thud was heard. A second later a dwarf staggered into sight there, clung to the doorway for an instant, blood flowing down his face, then toppled forward and fell to the pavement below.

With an oath, Hammerhand lunged and grabbed the small hand with the sling. The hand seemed to be connected to nothing, but as he grabbed it a pretty face appeared, turning toward him.

Swearing beneath his breath, Hammerhand gripped empty-seeming air beside the face and pulled away the emptiness. All around, Thorbardin guards gasped as a complete person was revealed – a startlingly pretty dwarf girl, who returned the red-cloak’s angry glare with stubborn eyes and a set, determined chin. “You see?” she snapped at him. “It’s a good thing I came along. That person tried to stone you.”

Nearby, one of the guards knelt beside the fallen dwarf, then stood and shrugged. “He’s dead,” he called. “His head’s cracked open.”

“Well, well, well,” Luster Redleather declared with open admiration, staring at the girl who was still glaring at Hammerhand. “And who have we here?”

“Her name is Helta Graywood,” Hammerhand growled. “Among other things, she is a nuisance.”

Tearing his fascinated eyes from the girl, Luster peered at the red-cloak’s dangling hand. It seemed to contain nothing, but some of the fingers had disappeared. “Magic!” the Daewar muttered. “What is it? A cloak of some kind?”

“An elf made it,” Calan Silvertoe admitted.

“I see,” Luster said, his blue eyes alight. “Ah, yes. That accounts for the rumors from the other night. We were reconnoitered, it seems. And by Hammerhand himself.”

“I’ve been away from Thorbardin for years,” Hammerhand replied. “I decided to have a look around, privately.”

“You’ve been away —” Luster started, then grinned and planted his fists on his hips. “My father is right, then. You are Derkin Winterseed!”

“I was,” Hammerhand admitted. “But my people gave me a new name.”

“Derkin Hammerhand,” Luster said. “It’s a good name. But why all the mystery? As Harl Thrustweight’s son, you could just have walked in openly. You’re a citizen.”

“I don’t care to be a citizen of Thorbardin,” Derkin rasped.

“Why not?”

“That’s what I will speak to the council about. If we can proceed to the council hall without further interruption.”

“The dead Theiwar is one of the local troublemakers,” one of the Home Guards reported. “If she hadn’t brained him, someone else would have, sooner or later.”

“Then there are no claims or challenges?” Luster asked.

The guard shook his head. “None stated.”

“In that case, let’s get going.” Luster swept his arm in a courtly gesture, bowing slightly to Helta Graywood. “The rest of the walk will be far more pleasant, with such attractive – such visibly attractive – company.”

A bright smile lit the girl’s face. “Thank you,” she said, curtsying. Then the smile was replaced by a frown as Derkin Hammerhand strode away.

Chapter 11

THE KAL-THAX MANDATE

The Great Hall of Audience of Thorbardin, located in the southern reaches of the fortress complex, was packed to capacity when Derkin Hammerhand arrived there. Word had spread quickly of the impending meeting of the Council of Thanes – a meeting demanded by the strangers from the wilderness – and it looked as though half the dwarves in Thorbardin had decided to attend. Tens of thousands of people packed the rising tiers of cut stone seats that ringed the big, circular cavern, and it sounded as though they were all talking at once. The echoes of their voices could be heard a quarter-mile away in the wide concourse of the Ninth Road tunnel.

But when Luster Redleather and his Home Guards escorted their charges into the great chamber, the place went almost silent.

Only a few in Thorbardin had actually gone to Northgate to see the army of strangers now camped in the meadows beyond, but everybody had heard about them – about the music of their drums, the goods they brought to trade, and about the mysterious leader of the outsiders who resembled an ancient Hylar chieftain and wore the armor of a long-ago time. Speculation was rampant as to whether the strangers beyond Northgate were here just to trade, or also to invade.

Now the one called Hammerhand was here, in Thorbardin, and most of the dwarves in the undermountain realm waited curiously to hear what he had to say.

Runners had preceded them into the Great Hall, and Derkin Hammerhand assumed that those waiting – at least the thane leaders and officials gathered on the raised dais in the center of the cavern – now knew everything that Luster Redleather knew about him, including his full name. The suspicion was confirmed by whispers that reached his ears as he led his group down a sloping aisle, between packed rows of waiting dwarves. “Derkin,” someone whispered. “He is Derkin, the son of Harl Thrustweight.”

Followed by Helta Graywood and Calan Silvertoe, and flanked by the Ten, Derkin strode to the dais and stepped up on it, then scanned the crowd waiting there with thoughtful eyes. Vaguely, he recalled Dunbarth Ironthumb of the Hylar, who had once been Captain of Guards under old Harl. The rest he had never seen, but he knew who they were. The shrewd-eyed, middle-aged Daewar with the trade wardens behind him obviously was Jeron Redleather. The suspicious-looking old Theiwar scowling at him from his council seat would be Swing Basto. Crag Shade-eye of the Daergar removed his face mask as a courtesy, letting the stranger see his features, then donned it again, squinting in the light of the chamber’s overhead sun-tunnel and reflectors.

The bushy, unruly hair and beard of the next chief identified him as Klar, the chieftain Trom Thule. The sixth and seventh seats were vacant. Nobody knew where to find the bumbling little Grimble I, Highbulp of Thane Aghar, and many years had passed since any Neidar had met with the council.

Derkin studied them one by one, then nodded and stepped to the center of the dais. “I am called Hammerhand,” he told them. “My people call themselves the Chosen Ones.”

Jeron Redleather bowed slightly, welcoming the newcomer, then glanced at those with him. He had already heard – from his son’s guards – of the beauty of the dwarf girl with Hammerhand, but his eyes widened when he looked at the old one-arm with the reed basket. “I know you,” he said. “You are Calan. You left Thorbardin long ago, some said to live among elves.”

“Your memory is excellent, Sire.” Calan Silvertoe grinned. “That was at least eighty years ago.”

“And now you return, with another who preferred outside ways to our own.” Jeron shifted his gaze back to the red-cloaked warrior. “My son tells me that you are indeed Derkin Winterseed, the son of a Hylar chieftain.”

“I am called Derkin Hammerhand now,” Derkin said. “The name pleases me. My people chose it.”

“And who are your people?” Dunbarth Ironthumb asked. “Where do they come from?”

“They call themselves the Chosen Ones,” Derkin repeated.

Frowning, Swing Basto rumbled, “Chosen ones? Who chose them?”

“I did,” Derkin said. “And as to where we are from, we are from Kal-Thax.”

“Kal-Thax is here,” the Klar chieftain pointed out. “Kal-Thax is our land.”

“It used to be,” Derkin said. “Until Thorbardin abandoned it. Most of my people have been Neidar. Many of them come now from the same cells and slave pens as I come from – slave quarters owned by the human invaders that you people have not troubled yourselves to drive away.”

Angry voices were raised in the vast audience, and others joined them. The babble became a roar that died slowly as Jeron Redleather raised a commanding hand. All over the great chamber, companies of Home Guards spread and positioned themselves, ready to enforce order if necessary.

“This person is our guest!” the Daewar chieftain announced, his voice carrying through the Great Hall. “As he is our guest at this assembly of the thanes, it is our right to question him, but it is also his right to speak freely and be heard.”

“So question him!” a voice called from somewhere in the crowd. “Why is he here? What does he want?”

“Those are fair questions,” Jeron conceded, nodding at Derkin.

“We are here for two reasons,” Derkin continued. “The first is to trade. Your traders,” he indicated the trade wardens standing behind Jeron, “have inspected our goods and heard what we want in exchange.”

“Mostly steel implements,” Jeron said.

“Implements?” Derkin raised an eyebrow, his eyes piercing the Daewar chieftain. “Call them what they are. We want weapons. Good weapons crafted from good dwarven steel.”

“Weapons, then,” Jeron conceded.

“Provided you have the steel to make them,” Derkin added. “I saw no smelter glows at the Shaft of Reorx.”

“We have steel,” Dunbarth Ironthumb growled. “We have excellent stockpiles of steel.”

“Good for you,” Derkin drawled ironically. “Then we will make trade?”

“What do you want the weapons for?” Swing Basto demanded.

“To wage war against the human legions who have invaded our land.”

A murmur spread through the crowd.

“You said you came for two reasons,” Dunbarth said. “What is the second?”

Derkin planted his fists on his hips. “I also want Thorbardin troops to help me in my war.”

The murmuring doubled in volume. There were scattered shouts and cheers.

“Why should we help you?” Swing Basto growled. “Your war is not our concern.”

“The land I intend to retake is the land of the dwarves.” Derkin glared at the Theiwar. “It is the land of Kal-Thax.”

“It is outside!” Swing snapped. “Our concern is Thorbardin. Let those outside do their own fighting.”

“Klar don’t have time to go off to war,” Trom Thule said. “Plenty to do right here.”

“If we were to send troops,” Dunbarth Ironthumb asked, “who would lead them?”

“I will lead,” Derkin told him. “My people and I. We know the land, and we know the enemy. We will conduct the war against the human Lord Kane. I ask you to join us in this cause.”

Jeron Redleather stood. “Those are your requests, then? That we trade you weapons, and that we send an army to join you?”

Derkin nodded. “Those are my requests.”

The voices in the crowd had died down. All were silent, waiting for the council’s answer.

“Then the council will deliberate the matter. Do you intend to stay and listen? Derkin Winterseed and Calan Silvertoe have the right, as citizens, to observe council action.”

“But not the rest of these who are with me.” Derkin shook his head. “No, I will wait with them in the concourse. We will return to hear your decisions.” Turning, he strode from the dais, followed closely by Helta Graywood and the Ten. Calan Silvertoe walked to the nearest audience row and sat down, bustling several dwarves aside to make room for himself. “I’ll stay,” he muttered. “It’s been eighty years since I last heard thane leaders bicker.”

Derkin and his party left the hall through wide plank doors. Luster Redleather and about half of his company followed them out, and the doors closed behind them.

“I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight,” the young Daewar told Derkin.

“How do you think it will go?” Derkin asked.

Luster shrugged. “Who knows? My father might favor your proposal, and maybe Dunbarth Ironthumb. They both regret the way Thorbardin has gone. But the others? Who knows?”

*

Hours had passed, and the sun-tunnels were dimming when the Great Hall’s doors opened again and a guard signaled. Followed by Helta and the Ten, Derkin walked again to the dais. As he passed Calan Silvertoe, the old dwarf frowned and shook his head. “These idiots haven’t changed a bit,” he whispered.

The conclusions of the Council of Thanes, read to Derkin by Jeron Redleather in a level voice that told few details of what had occurred in the privacy of the packed hall, confirmed Calan’s whisper. Thorbardin would produce the weapons and armaments demanded by Hammerhand and would trade them for the goods offered by the Chosen Ones. But Thorbardin would raise no army and would not join in Hammerhand’s war.

Aside, Dunbarth Ironthumb whispered, “I’m sorry, Derkin. The vote was three to two.”

From beyond the dais, Calan Silvertoe’s old voice rasped, “Can you guess what argument carried the decision, Derkin? It was that, if Thorbardin sent an army outside, there wouldn’t be enough reliable guards left inside to keep the peace.”

“To keep the peace?” Derkin muttered. Then, to the chieftains, “You have made your decisions. We of Kal-Thax are on our own. You will trade us weapons, but you will not help us fight. You, Jeron Redleather, said earlier that I have the right to speak. Have I that right still?”

“This council is still in session.” The Daewar nodded.

“Very well.” Derkin turned, addressing the entire assembly, his voice cold and clear.

“Your ancestors once put aside their grudges and their feuds,” he said slowly, “to form a nation in these mountains. Now there is no nation here. Even within this fortress, where you all breathe the same air, drink the same water, eat from the same fields and stores, and hide behind the same gates, there is no real nation. You tell yourselves that Thorbardin lives! Because the vents still bring you fresh winds, and the water troughs still flow, and the warrens still yield food, you tell yourselves that all is well.

“I say Thorbardin does not live! I say Thorbardin is asleep, and if it does not awaken soon, it will truly die!”

A rumble of voices erupted in the crowd, and Derkin turned to glare at the rows of dwarves, his eyes as dark as storm clouds. Gradually, the clamor subsided.

“Once the gates of Thorbardin were funnels of life,” Derkin growled, his deep voice filling the great chamber. “Once Southgate thronged with the traffic of the mines – ores coming in from the Daergar mines around the Thunder Peaks and from Theiwar digs all over the Promontory. Once there were Thorbardin patrols and scouts roaming as far as Sheercliff and the Anviltops, seeking rich new areas to mine. Once Northgate stood open every day, and Neidar from all of Kal-Thax came there to trade the produce of the forests and the fields for the produce of Thorbardin’s mighty forges. Now the gates stand closed except by decree, and Thorbardin is an elaborate prison.

“Once the Shaft of Reorx fed smelters that operated night and day, fed by the ores from Daergar shafts and Theiwar veins. Now the smelters are silent, and the forges are still.

“Once the people of all the thanes labored side by side to give themselves a home like no other home on this world and to forge a mighty destiny for themselves. Now Thorbardin is not a home, but just an arena for petty bickering and useless feuds. And that great destiny forged by your ancestors is as forgotten as the reason it was forged.”

“What great destiny?” a dwarf in the audience shouted sarcastically, then went silent as Derkin’s eyes fixed on him.

“The Covenant of the Thanes,” Hammerhand said. “That great covenant made long ago to preserve the dwarven lands. That is what has been forgotten! The Covenant has not been repealed. It has simply been ignored! Your ancestors fought to defend Kal-Thax against human invasion and built Thorbardin for that purpose. But you have turned your backs on Kal-Thax! Where were Thorbardin’s mighty armies when humans marched across Kal-Thax and looted Neidar villages? Where was Thorbardin when the Emperor of Ergoth sent his slavers through Tharkas to capture dwarven slaves for his mines? And where is Thorbardin now, when Lord Sakar Kane and his regiments occupy the passes south of Tharkas and develop more mines there – mines stolen from dwarven people – to feed the human emperor’s wars in the east?

“Thorbardin was created for one purpose – so that Kal-Thax would always be protected against invasion. Thorbardin was to be the sinew and the beating heart of a nation! The dwarven nation of Kal-Thax!

“But Thorbardin has withdrawn into itself, and Kal-Thax lies invaded, conquered, and occupied! And when I come here seeking Thorbardin’s assistance – so that I can do the task that is Thorbardin’s task – what do I find? Do I find armies ready to march, to defend the land of the dwarves? No, I find only Home Guard companies, marching between closed gates to keep down riots and hold troublemakers at bay. Do I find the hard-working, stubborn people who built this great fortress and made it powerful and rich? No, I find sullen, sniveling crowds with nothing better to do than vandalize their neighbors and throw rocks at one another in the streets.”

Here and there in the Great Hall, clamors of outrage erupted, but were quickly stilled by the guards.

When he could be heard again, Derkin continued, “When I left Thorbardin years ago, when I chose the life outside over the life within, it was not because I preferred Neidar ways. I was a person of the hammer, not of the axe. But I was sick of watching my home – the home of my father and of his father and their fathers before them – turn from steel to rust. I was ashamed. I was sick with shame!

“And now I return, and I am still ashamed! Jeron Redleather has called me a citizen. By right of birth, I am a citizen. Hybardin, the Life Tree of the Hylar, was my cradle, and Thorbardin was my home.

“But no more! When I leave Thorbardin this time, I leave my citizenship behind. I renounce it. Prepare the weapons you have agreed to trade and submit them to Calan Silvertoe. He will remain here until the weapons are ready to his satisfaction. When they are, you will send them – and him – to my camp below Northgate. We will trade, and when the trading is done my people and I will leave. We will go from here to Tharkas, and we will make war on behalf of Kal-Thax. Reorx willing, we will find a way to drive Lord Kane from Kal-Thax once and for all.”

Again voices rang in the Great Hall, shouts and questions mingling with comments of grudging agreement, and again the guards restored order while Derkin waited.

“We will win, or we will die,” the red-cloak said when the hall was quiet again. “But if we succeed, then Kal-Thax is ours! It hasn’t been yours for a long time. Thorbardin abandoned it, so you will have no claim to it.”

He paused thoughtfully for a moment, then continued, “It may be that, when the goods we brought have been used up, you of Thorbardin will want to trade again. But next time, the Chosen Ones will not come to you. You will have to come to us. Somewhere west of here, in the wilderness, we will build a new town – a place of trade. Its name will be Barter, and your traders – anyone’s traders – will be welcome there, far away from Thorbardin. This is Hammerhand’s gift to you. It will do some of you people good, to have to go outside to get what you want.”

Softly, behind him, he heard hands clapping. He turned. Jeron Redleather and Dunbarth Ironthumb both were standing, applauding his words and ignoring the glares of the other thane leaders.

With a curt nod, Derkin Hammerhand stepped down and headed for the door. Beside him, Helta Graywood’s lovely eyes glowed with a fierce fire.

In the concourse, Luster Redleather halted them, waiting for his company to reform. “You certainly make your opinions known.” He chuckled, grinning at Derkin. “I think I’ll miss you when you’ve gone. But I guess you won’t be coming back, huh?”

“I don’t know,” Derkin said thoughtfully. “I might.”

“But you said you were renouncing your citizenship in Thorbardin!”

“If I come back to Thorbardin,” Hammerhand said slowly, “it won’t be as a citizen.”

Beaming with fierce pride, Helta Graywood stepped up beside Derkin and took his hand in hers. “Me, too,” she said.

*

Far to the north of Thorbardin, long lines of human soldiers moved eastward along a winding mountain road. Above them, on the right, stood the impassable, snowcapped heights of the Skywall Range. Below and distant on the left were the vast, misty forests, and ahead lay the stronghold of Klanath, at the mouth of Tharkas Pass.

The snows of winter were gone now on the lower slopes, and the emperor’s forces were on the move. The eastern expansion campaign, which many had begun to call Ullves’s War, would soon be entering its fourth year, and the emperor’s “boy general,” Giarna, had been in the field for three years. In that time, the war of conquest had grown and spread. Strong elven forces from Silvanesti, led by the elf prince Kith-Kanan and the Wildrunners, had moved out onto the plains of eastern Ergoth to counter the humans’ assaults. And increasingly strong units of elves – often reinforced by human nomads from the plains – ranged as far as the forests northwest of Kal-Thax, to harass the humans moving eastward from Daltigoth and Caergoth.

What had once been foreseen as a quick, simple campaign to extend the empire of Quivalin Soth V – or Ullves – entirely across southern Ansalon, now had become protracted war as the human invaders met stubborn resistance far beyond their anticipation. Not only had the elves proved to be masters of strategy and tactic, and truly formidable fighters, but they were increasingly reinforced by the free tribes of humans on the central plains. Under the leadership of the fierce, implacable Cobar tribes, hordes of nomadic Sackmen and Baruk warriors, stealthy Phaerots, and men of a dozen other tribes had joined forces to counter the empire’s aims.

Often, in recent seasons, empire units had found themselves fighting desperately against consolidated armies of humans and elves, all with one common goal: to keep their people and their lands free of the yoke of the empire.

But still the armies came, marching out of Daltigoth, reinforced at Caergoth, and provisioned at Klanath as they streamed eastward, season after season, to fight and die at the pleasure of the Emperor Quivalin Soth V.

And though the emperor’s commanding general, Giarna, led each campaign, there was often another with him – the dark, enigmatic man known only as Dreyus. It was whispered that where Dreyus went, no enemies survived the battles.

Each winter brought a lessening of hostilities, simply because travel was difficult in the cold season. But now it was spring again, and the armies of the empire were again on the march. By regiment and brigade, by company and platoon, the empire’s units advanceed eastward, toward the lesser ranges and the plains beyond, to press again for conquest.

A key to the assault strategy was the fortress of Lord Kane at Klanath. Located at the mouth of Tharkas Pass, the fortress not only stockpiled supplies and provisions for the final marches into the plains, it also provided a safe zone, a midway place where travel-weary soldiers could rest and regain their strength for the assaults ahead. Lord Kane’s forces held a wide perimeter here, with regular patrols along the fringes of the enchanted forest where elven rangers and guerrilla units lurked, and into the mountains south of Tharkas, to guard against any attack from that side.

For a time, after the slave revolt at Klanath Mines, dwarven raiding parties had harassed and tormented the empire’s armies and supply trains. In a span of months, there had been hundreds of scattered attacks, always sudden, always unexpected, and almost always successful. Small, deadly parties of armed dwarves had seemed to come out of nowhere, slashing and killing, looting and pillaging, then vanished as quickly as they had come.

The horses, weapons, supplies, and equipment they had taken in these raids would have outfitted and fed a sizable army.

But then the raids had stopped. For almost two years now, Lord Kane’s scouts and patrols had not seen so much as a single dwarf. It seemed as though the dwarves had tired of their raids and withdrawn completely from this part of Ansalon. Many of Lord Kane’s advisors assumed that the wild dwarves had retreated into the vast mountain wilderness of the distant Anviltop Range, far south and west of Tharkas. Others suspected that they had withdrawn southward, to that mysterious and impregnable subterranean fortress that they called Thorbardin. A few even suggested that the dwarven raiders had migrated into the frozen lands.

But wherever they had gone, they had disappeared. And though the human patrols still had to range far into the mountains of old Kal-Thax, the lord’s task of holding Klanath was easier now that they no longer had to deal with the short, fierce people whose mountains these had once been.

Part III

MASTER OF THARKAS

Chapter 12

A COBAR OUTING

Had Sakar Kane been a lesser man, the disgrace he had suffered some years earlier – when thousands of dwarven mine slaves had revolted, murdered their overseers, and escaped into the mountains beyond Tharkas – would have ruined him. The Emperor of Ergoth was not a forgiving man, nor one who tolerated failure. The Wall of Skulls in Daltigoth was evidence of that.

The Wall was seven feet thick and higher than a tall man could reach. It surrounded three sides of the formal garden abutting the east wing of the emperor’s palace. And it was built entirely of the bleached skulls of those who had displeased Quivalin Soth V and his imperial ancestors.

Another man in Lord Kane’s situation – having lost most of his best slaves, thus compromising the production of the emperor’s mines – would have suffered recall to Daltigoth, inquisition by the emperor himself, subsequent prolonged tortures, and death. And his skull would have become part of the Wall of Skulls.

But Sakar Kane was no ordinary subject of the empire. Without waiting for recall to court, Lord Kane had acted. He immediately sent armed patrols to find and arrest all of his subordinates and bring them to the inner hall of his Klanath fortress. When they were all gathered there – everyone from old Renus Sabad, the Master of Mines, down to his deputies, chief warders, and even his accounting clerks, most of them still in their sleeping gowns – Sakar Kane gave orders to fifty of his most trusted field troops. On that morning, the only people who left the inner hall alive were those fifty blood-soaked men.

Then, with the brigades at his command, Sakar Kane swept eastward through Redrock Cleft, the final mountain portal to the vast plains, and launched a lightning sweep northward, striking camp after camp, village after village of the barbarians who roamed the arid plains beyond the Cobar steppes. With the several thousand slaves taken in this raid, Lord Kane had the mines in operation again long before the emperor’s spies reached Daltigoth. And with the additional slaves he was able to purchase at Xak Tsaroth – nearly depleting his personal coffers – he had actually expanded production by the time the emperor’s wardens reached Klanath.

He had a stroke of luck, as well. In one of the pit mines, his guards found a large stockpile of fine, already mined ores, obviously hoarded by some overseer for his own purposes.

Lord Kane was recalled to Daltigoth, escorted by the emperor’s wardens. He went not in chains, but riding proudly at the head of the procession, followed by the empire inspectors who had just seen the bustling mines and rich ores. And he returned some months later, not in disgrace, but as Prince of Klanath. Quivalin Soth V was a cruel man, and a ruthless one, but he was not stupid. He understood both what had happened at Klanath – the successful revolt of dwarven slaves – and what Sakar Kane had done so expeditiously to regain favor.

Such a man would serve him well, the emperor knew, as long as he could serve himself in the process. In making Lord Kane Prince of Klanath, the emperor gave him a free hand as concerned the old dwarven lands south of there … and an excellent reason to do all in his power to build and sustain a mighty empire presence at the mouth of Tharkas Pass.

In the years since, Klanath had become a powerful seat of the empire. Not only was the fortress strengthened, but wide perimeter walls had been erected around it, and the sprawling, ungainly mining camp of before had become a walled city – a city that served and defended the southern road of the empire, where marched the armies, reinforcements, and supplies required by General Giarna in his eastern campaigns.

For a time, both the outlying areas of Klanath and the road approaching it were plagued by those wild dwarven raiders, striking swiftly and fiercely from the dizzy heights south of the road. Many hundreds of horses had been stolen by raiders from herds being driven eastward. Supply trains had been attacked – often in the dark of night – and large quantities of supplies, consigned to Klanath’s stores, had disappeared. Countless weapons had been taken, and the number of drovers, drivers, handlers, and guards killed by rampaging dwarves had risen into the hundreds over a few seasons.

Lord Kane issued orders to all of his units to take prisoners when possible. It proved difficult. Even when a trap was sprung, and a party of raiders surrounded, the dwarves refused to lay down their weapons, preferring to fight to the death. Finally, though, a mounted guard company did bring in five dwarf captives. The guard captain reported that they were all that remained of a group of fourteen, decoyed and trapped on the supply road, and that it had cost him eighteen men to collect them.

Two of the prisoners were females, and all five of them bore the marks of slaves. One of the males had worked in the Klanath mines. The other two, and the females, had been slaves at Tharkas.

Lord Kane had the five taken through the pass, deep into the mountains to the south, and tortured to death on a ridgetop where their bodies would be found, to serve as a warning to the wild dwarves. Through it all, even in dying, only one of the dwarves made a sound. That one, a female, spat at the men who broke her legs and said, “Hammerhand will deal with you, when he is ready.”

There was only one more raid following that incident. Early one morning, five of Lord Kane’s household guards were found dead on the very doorstep of his Klanath fortress. They had been bound and gagged, then tortured to death. After that, the dwarven raids had ceased, and the dwarves simply disappeared.

Lord Kane kept one of his brigades in residence south of the great pass as a permanent outpost and center for roving patrols. But the dwarven threat was only part of the reason for that. In Klanath, Lord Kane kept a staff of mapmakers and planners who received regular reports from the roving patrols. It was Lord Kane’s plan – once General Giarna’s campaigns were concluded – to populate the once dwarven lands with people of his own choosing. The dwarves’ revolt had emptied Kane’s coffers. One day the lands taken from dwarves would amply refill them.

*

Tuft Broadland came out of sleep in the manner of a Cobar warrior. In one instant he was asleep, in the next he was awake, crouching beside his sleeping mat with his naked sword in hand, his eyes searching the gloom around him, his ears aware of every minute sound.

For a moment, he sensed no presence but his own. A summer breeze fluttered the fabric of his small tent, and from beyond came the muted night sounds of a guarded camp – the reassuring night-bird calls of sentries, the faint stampings and shufflings of horses’ hooves in the nearby rope corral, and the quiet voices of people talking at some fireside.

He knew it was not these sounds that had awakened him. It was something else. As chief of the Tekar, one of the seven Cobar tribes, he had his own tent and on this night had not shared it. But now he sensed that he was not alone. Then, in the shadows a few feet away, something moved, and a quiet voice said, “Hold your sword, human. I mean you no harm.”

Tuft squinted, still tensed to strike, and the voice said, “Don’t you remember me, Tuft? It has not been so long.”

Now he recognized the voice and let the point of his sword angle downward. “You!” he muttered. Without turning, he reached to the edge of his mat and drew out a little soft leather pouch. Opening it with one hand, still holding the sword in the other, he withdrew a small metallic object, a palm-sized container with a hinged lid which opened at the press of his thumb. Within the lid, under his thumb, was a small serrated wheel of tempered steel resting against a shard of flint. He flicked the wheel, and sparks flared, igniting a cotton wick soaked with distilled mineral spirits.

The flame was small, but it was enough to see by. In the far corner of the little tent, a hooded figure squatted comfortably on soft-booted heels. “I see you still carry the toy I gave you,” the intruder said, his voice low, musical, and not quite human. “Flint, steel, and kindling all in one small package. One of my mother’s more practical ideas, I think. Eloeth has no taste for magic, but she does enjoy conveniences.”

“Despaxas,” Tuft said, laying his sword aside. “You could have made a less dramatic entrance, elf. You almost made my heart stop.”

“There is nothing wrong with your heart,” the newcomer said, throwing back his hood to reveal a tapered, ageless face with wide-set, amused eyes and no beard. The delicate tips of pointed ears were almost hidden by his long, flowing hair. “There’s nothing wrong with your reflexes, either, I might add. One slight whisper, and you were awake and ready to fight.”

The Cobar drew a candle from his pouch, lit its wick from his flame, then closed the flint-and-steel tool and put it away. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you had gone back to your forests years ago.”

“I did.” The elf nodded. “But now I’ve returned. A seed you helped plant back then has grown well and is ready to bear fruit. I thought you might enjoy participating in the harvest.”

“A seed …” Tuft paused, his eyes brightening. “The dwarves? Has Derkin molded his army?”

“He has prepared himself,” Despaxas said. “A season ago, he encamped below the dwarven fortress with his ‘chosen’ people, all of them willing to fight at his command, even without proper arms. Now the season has turned, and they are on the march toward the pass at Tharkas. They carry the finest weapons dwarven skills can produce.”

“He plans to attack the soldiers at the pass? With a mob of dwarves?”

“With an army,” the elf corrected. “Maybe a fine army. Would you like to observe the campaign?”

“Of course I would,” Tuft snorted. “But I know you, Despaxas. You have something more in mind than just to allow me to watch while Derkin tests his forces against Lord Kane’s stronghold.”

“Naturally.” The elf smiled. “Nothing is ever quite that simple.” He waved an eloquent hand toward the tent’s closed flap. “You have a strong tribe here, Tuft. I estimate at least three hundred warriors in this camp.”

“Three hundred and eighty-one,” the man admitted. “And that many more women and children.”

“A hundred will be enough for what I have in mind,” Despaxas said. “A hundred of your best cavalry.”

“They’re all my best!” the man snapped. “They’re Cobar warriors. They’re the finest cavalry in the world.”

“Fine. Then any hundred will do. We’ll leave at first light. We should be able to reach Redrock Cleft in two days, shouldn’t we?”

“If the weather holds fair,” Tuft replied. “But my men and I aren’t going any where without a reason.”

“Of course not.” Despaxas shrugged. “Is a chance to ambush a column of empire footmen reason enough?”

“It might be.” Tuft’s eyes narrowed. “Are they on their way to Cobar territory?”

“I could tell you that they are,” the elf said. “But, no, they aren’t. They’re on their way to the southern plains, to reinforce General Giarna’s forces there. The path they follow will miss your steppes by many miles.”

“Then they’re the elves’ problem,” Tuft observed. “Why have you come to me about this? Why aren’t you talking to Kith-Kanan? His Wildrunners are as adept at ambush as we are.”

“As you suggested,” the elf said, “there is more to it than meets the eye. If the empire’s reinforcements are hit by elves, Lord Kane is unlikely to come out of Klanath to retaliate. He knows the elves, and would know that his chance of pursuing and overtaking Wildrunners isn’t very good. He might have to follow them all the way to General Giarna’s cordon. Lord Kane has his own interests in mind and wouldn’t expend that kind of resources.”

“But he might if Cobar attacked. Is that it? He might send his horse companies, because he knows we don’t have that far to retreat.” Tuft frowned. “What are you suggesting, elf? That we go out and sting the bear, then lead it back to our house?”

“Not lead them home,” Despaxas said. “Just let your warriors draw out Lord Kane’s horsemen and keep them amused for a time. Lead them in circles or something for a few days. How difficult can that be … for the world’s finest cavalry?”

“I don’t mind putting arrows into some empire soldiers,” the man admitted. “Nor do I mind leading Lord Kane’s clanking churls on a merry chase. But I don’t commit my warriors without knowing why. You were talking about dwarves a few minutes ago. Does this have to do with them?”

“Of course it does.” Despaxas’s level-eyed smile was as innocent as a baby’s, but Tuft had long since learned that the elf’s look of smooth-faced innocence was most pronounced when he was at his most devious and calculating. “Derkin’s Chosen Ones are tough and well armed, but they are still dwarves. They’ve done well harassing humans in the past, but only as small raiding parties. To launch and sustain a major assault, dwarves must have a secure base. Let Derkin’s dwarves entrench themselves in Tharkas Pass, and you know what will happen next.”

“Sure.” The Cobar nodded. “All blazes will break loose there. Tharkas Pass is right in Klanath’s lap. Lord Kane can’t tolerate a hostile base so near his headquarters. He’ll have to drive them out.”

“He’ll have to try,” Despaxas said. “And when he tries, Derkin will counterattack.”

“You don’t really believe a bunch of dwarves can take Klanath, do you?”

“I don’t know.” Despaxas shrugged. “Our Derkin has changed since you saw him last, and you haven’t seen his army. The point is that Giarna isn’t likely to run his troops and supply lines through a battlefield. He isn’t interested in those dwarven mountains, or in Sakar Kane’s ambitions.”

“But if they don’t cross the mountains there …”

“Exactly. The only other supply route from Caergoth to the southern plains is nearly a hundred miles north. They will have to go all the way around our forests. Even Giarna’s best don’t care to face the Wildrunners on their own ground. If the dwarves break General Giarna’s supply lines at Tharkas, it will add weeks – maybe even months – to the time it takes supplies and reinforcements to reach the invasion forces.”

“And give us that much more open country to – as you say – amuse them in,” the Cobar noted, a fierce grin ruffling his beard.

“Is that reason enough?” the elf asked quietly.

Tuft rose to his feet, crouching slightly to avoid the low braces of his tent. He turned, opened the flap, stepped outside, and stopped, his eyes narrowing. Directly in front of him, something floated in midair – something that might have resembled a lazily swimming bat-fish if it had not been so hard to see. The Cobar whirled and stepped back into his tent, glaring at the elf. “Why did you bring that thing here?” he demanded. “You know my people don’t like it.”

“Zephyr won’t hurt your people.” Despaxas shrugged. “And I needed him. It has been a long time since we last met, Tuft. Humans sometimes change.”

“So you had your pet shadow read me?” The Cobar’s frown deepened. “And what does he say now?”

“He says that your soul is as strong as your heart,” the elf said. “Just like before.”

When Tuft stepped out again, Zephyr was nowhere to be seen. With a shudder, the Cobar took a deep breath. He knew that the verge-swimmer meant him no harm. He had accepted Despaxas’s assurance of that long ago. Still, there was something about the idea of a magical creature that could be seen only in shadow, and that had the body of a manta ray and teeth like scorpion stingers – a thing that appeared and disappeared at will, and that could read a man’s soul as easily as a man might read a scroll – that revolted him.

Tuft whistled – a call that any but a Cobar might have mistaken for a night bird’s shrill. Immediately, all around him, the quiet camp began to teem with activity.

Tuft stepped back into the tent and picked up his boots. “We’ll leave at first light,” he told the waiting elf.

*

Less than five miles to the east of Klanath, the wall of soaring peaks that framed Tharkas Pass turned and divided, ranges of peaks extending north and south, separating the mountain fastness of old Kal-Thax from the foothills and plains that rolled away to the east. And it was here, where the giant range turned, that the road from Caergoth entered a narrow, winding valley called Redrock Cleft. The valley was a natural pass leading to the eastern slopes beyond. From it, the empire road wound downward in a series of serpentine arcs and switchbacks, to become many roads on the plains below.

It was through this cleft that the original armies of conquest had gone, heading for the southern plains and the elven forests beyond. And it was through this cleft that supply trains and reinforcements now moved, refreshed by a midway rest at Klanath.

Three days after the visit of Despaxas to Tuft Broadland’s camp, a long line of men issued from the cleft. Nearly eight hundred in all, with pack animals among them, they bore the banners of the empire and marched at the steady pace of men who have come a long way and still have a long way to go. There were three companies, assigned to join General Giarna’s forces in southern Ergoth.

An hour after clearing Redrock Cleft, the rank was snaking down the slopes with the gentler foothills ahead. Another hour passed, and the road became gentler and straighten In the rough lands above, many of the soldiers had marched with shields on their arms and swords in their hands in case of ambush. But now, as the land grew flatter, most of them slung their shields and put away their blades. They could see for miles out here, and there wasn’t anyone in sight except themselves.

Then, abruptly, there was. With shrill battle cries and thundering hooves, a hundred mounted barbarians charged over the rim of a little draw that hadn’t seemed deep enough to hide a rabbit. Like messengers of death, the riders came, bows drawn full and the slanting sunlight brilliant on beaded buckskins and featherwork headgear.

Within a heart’s beat of the first battle cry, the galloping attackers were thundering down upon the panicked line of soldiers. Arrows pinged and thudded among the footmen, aimed with deadly accuracy and driven by stout bows. Dozens of soldiers fell, and more dozens broke and ran in blind panic. Behind the barrage of arrows came the howling riders, bows slung now, and gleaming swords flashing as they charged through the ranks of soldiers, wheeled around, and charged again, laying about them with swift blades that ran red in the sunlight.

Then, as quickly as they had come, the riders were gone. Disappearing through their own dust, into that same eye-fooling draw they had come from, they reappeared on the far side, loping away casually toward the north. Behind them, the ground was littered with dead and injured empire soldiers. Officers ran here and there, calling back their troops, trying to restore order.

“Cobar,” a senior officer muttered, looking after the retreating horsemen. “What are Cobar doing this close to Klanath?” Turning, he raised an arm, signaling others to him. “Send runners with signal mirrors back up to the cleft, on the double,” he commanded. “There is still good light. From there, signal Klanath what has occurred. Tell Lord Kane that if his men move at once, they can catch those Cobar and make an example of them.”

“Catch Cobar?” a junior officer questioned. “Sir, those people are …”

“Are you blind?” his senior snapped. He pointed. “You see where the barbarians are going? Look beyond them. That smoke in the distance must be their camp. They think we won’t follow them, because we are not mounted. They are as stupid as they are arrogant. Do they honestly believe that a mounted battalion can’t find them?”

Chapter 13

FIRST BLOOD

From the tower of his fortress, Sakar Kane watched his Third Horse Battalion fan out along the road toward Redrock Cleft, as dawn flagged the sky ahead of them. It had taken all night to reach the battalion and recall them from their outpost stronghold south of Tharkas Pass, and Lord Kane was not pleased that he had to do so. Still, the signal from Redrock had been clear and authoritative. Wild tribesmen had ambushed the emperor’s reinforcement column in the foothills beyond the cleft, then had withdrawn to their camp.

Only a few miles north, the signals said. Mounted troops could overtake them there, surely within a day or two. The Prince of Klanath had hesitated only a moment. The Third Battalion was growing restive and sullen after long seasons of fruitless patrol in the brutal mountains south of Tharkas. A bit of action now would be good for them. Besides, if he caught and punished the wild tribesmen, General Giarna would owe him a favor. Sakar Kane had no love for the so-called “boy general,” but it was well known that Giarna was a favorite of the emperor. Even the sinister Dreyus, the man they said was Quivalin Soth’s closest advisor, seemed to find no fault with Giarna. It would be a good thing, Sakar Kane knew, to have Giarna indebted to him.

The eastern sky was bright by the time the trailing elements of the Third Battalion disappeared into the cleft, tiny in the distance. Lord Kane turned away to enter his chambers, then stopped and tipped his head. What was that noise he had heard? Something faint and far away, just a touch of sound on the morning breeze coming down from the mountains.

He listened, and it came again, vague and fitful, as erratic as the cool breeze that carried it. He stepped to the parapet and looked downward. Below was the inner court of the fortress, and beyond it the walled battlements that faced the bustling little city. On the battlements – and on the more distant city wall – guards patrolled in pairs. He could tell by their casual pacing that, unlike him, they had heard nothing unusual.

Then he heard the distant sound again and shook his head in irritation. Thunder, he thought. Echoes of distant thunder, far away in the mountains. Somewhere beyond Tharkas Pass.

Oddly, though, there were no storm clouds in the clear morning sky – at least none that he could see from his tower.

*

The old mining camp of Tharkas lay shadowed and almost silent as dawn light appeared above the tall peaks around it. Once destroyed by dwarves, at the time of the slaves’ revolt, the camp had been rebuilt as an outpost of Klanath. Though austere, it was amply equipped and fortified to serve as the headquarters of Lord Kane’s mounted battalion, the Third. But now most of the battalion was gone, recalled through the great pass for maneuvers of some kind. Only cooks, servants, orderlies, and two companies of footmen remained, and most of them were asleep. They had been awake most of the night, helping the mounted forces saddle their beasts, don their armor, prepare their weapons, and pack their gear. It had been past midnight when the battalion trotted away, entering the pass by the light of twin moons.

A single cookfire was beginning to blaze in the compound, and sleepy perimeter guards were making their dawn rounds, stifling yawns, when thunder erupted around them – an intricate, rhythmic, pulsing thunder that seemed to come from everywhere and sent chills into the bones of those who heard it.

At the cookfire, men jumped to their feet, turning this way and that, trying to see where the sound came from. Then one of them shouted, “Look!” and pointed. On the nearest slope, where the old mine shafts stood boarded and blind, hundreds of short, armored figures were on the move. Quick and surefooted on the steep slope, which would have been almost impassable for humans, the horde of figures raced downward, shields and weapons flashing in the dawn.

The men at the fire gawked, then scrambled for their shields as a perimeter guard shouted, “Dwarves! Those are dwarves! We’re under attack! To arms!”

As the men spotted them, the dwarves shouted war cries, deep voices rising in bloodcurdling chants, blending with the rhythm of the drums above.

The sleepy camp came abruptly awake as humans struggled into armor and officers dashed about, trying to assemble a defense. The attack was aimed at the northwest wall of the compound, and armed units headed in that direction, then hesitated as their officers shouted contradictory orders. With unbelievable speed, the dwarves had descended the vertiginous slope and raced across the outer clearing. Now they were at the wall and coming over it – a flowing tide of short, burly figures in bright armor. There were hundreds of them, and more coming behind.

A perimeter guard flung his pike at them in terror, then turned and tried to run, but the dwarves were already all around him. One dodged beneath the guard’s sword and lashed out with his own, a whirling, roundhouse swing. The guard screamed and fell, his feet cut out from under him. Another dwarf paused to raise a warhammer and strike downward with it, then ran on.

“Spread and retreat!” a human officer shouted. “Back to the far wall!”

As one, the packed human troops spread out, swordarm’s reach apart, in defense mode. In the field, the tactic was sound. It gave each man room to use his blade and shield, and presented a broader front against the enemy. Within seconds, the human soldiers were spread in a thin double line across the camp compound, retreating slowly as the tide of dwarves bore down on them.

Fighters clashed all along the line. Steel rang against steel. For a few seconds the charge of the dwarves was slowed, but then their deep-voiced chanting rose again, and they pressed forward, shields high, heavy weapons lashing out like snakes’ tongues. Blood gushed and flowed in the growing dawn light, and the nearest men could hear the syllables of the roaring chant. “Hammer-hand!” they were saying. “Hammer-hand! Hammer-hand! Hammer-hand!”

Overpowered by the ferocity of the charge, the human line swayed, then broke. “Retreat!” an officer wailed. “Retreat to the wall!”

The human rush to the far wall was barely a retreat. It was more like a scramble, and everywhere around and behind them, fighting dwarves struck and struck again.

“Over the wall!” an officer barked. “This is a trap in here! Get outside! We’ll fight them there!”

Of the more than three hundred men in Tharkas Camp that dawning, less than two hundred made it to the south wall of the compound, and still fewer made it to the top of the wall. And those who did stopped there in terror and confusion, some toppling the eight feet to the hard ground as those coming up behind shoved them aside.

There was no refuge outside the wall. At its foot, several guards lay dead. And beyond them were dwarves – long ranks of stubby fighters waiting with raised blades. And beyond these were mounted companies, dwarves perched on short-stirruped saddles atop armored warhorses. For every dwarf within the compound, there looked to be ten or twenty more outside the wall. It was as though the entire dwarven race had come to Tharkas – and come to kill.

As the bleeding, terrified human mob packed the narrow walkway on top of the wall, a dwarven rider stepped his horse ahead of his company. His armor gleamed mirror-bright in the morning light, and a bright, blood-red cloak flowed from his burly shoulders.

Without hesitation, he unslung a great hammer from his shoulder and raised it high over his head. The drums began to sing again, as though speaking the language of that hammer. With a fierce frown, the dwarf swept his arm downward, pointing his hammer at the humans on the wall. Along the front rank of the dwarven army, dozens of dwarves paced forward by twos. Three steps, then they stopped in unison. In each pair, one dwarf knelt and aimed a crossbow. The second set a stone in a webbed sling and began its spin. The drums crescendoed, then went silent. Slings hummed and spat. Crossbows twanged. Fist-sized stones and bronze bolts with steel tips whistled through the air, slammed into flesh, and where there had been many human soldiers jostling one another atop a stone wall, now there were only a few.

With a roar that echoed from the peaks all around, the dwarven ranks surged forward.

*

As the sun of Krynn rose above the eastern peaks, Derkin Hammerhand and the Ten walked their horses along a line of bright-eyed dwarves and human captives. Fifty-four men of the empire had lived through the assault on Tharkas, fifty-four out of more than three hundred who had been there when it began. None had escaped. Those who tried had been run down and killed by dwarven horsemen.

At the middle of the inspection rank, where the huddled humans stood stripped of their gear and surrounded by armed Daergar warriors in steel masks, Derkin reined in as Calan Silvertoe strode forward to meet him. “Prisoners,” the old one-arm growled, indicating the little crowd of humans. “What do you want to do with them?”

“I don’t want any prisoners,” Derkin said. “Why are they still alive?”

“This bunch wouldn’t fight it out,” Calan said. “They all threw down their weapons and refused to pick them up again.”

“So?”

“Well, when Vin’s Daergar moved in on them, they all fell to the ground and started babbling and bawling. They refused to defend themselves.”

“So?” Derkin repeated impatiently.

From the dwarves guarding the humans, a sturdy masked figure strode forward. He didn’t raise his mask, but Derkin recognized Vin the Shadow. “We didn’t know what to do about them,” the Daergar said. “I just … well, it isn’t much fun to kill people who are groveling at your feet. Even humans. So we waited for you to decide.”

“I didn’t want any prisoners,” Derkin growled.

“No problem.” Old Calan Silvertoe grinned. With his one remaining hand he drew a razor-sharp dagger from his boot. “We’ll just cut their throats.” He turned, happily, and headed for the humans.

“Hold!” Derkin barked. “As long as we have them, let’s make some use of them. They can clean up the mess in this compound and bury the dead.”

“Oh, all right,” Calan agreed. He put away his dagger and turned to face Derkin. “Then can we cut their throats?”

“When everything is cleaned up here, take them up to the main shaft and lock them in,” Derkin commanded. “I may think of another use for them later.”

“That old shaft?” one of the Ten snorted. “It’ll still stink of goblins. Goblin-stench never goes away.”

With Tharkas Camp secured, Derkin prowled around for a time, making assignments, detailing guard and patrol plans, and generally putting people to work. And thinking. During his visit to Thorbardin, and in the months afterward while the Chosen Ones camped outside Northgate, trading wares and arming themselves, he had done a lot of thinking … about the ways of the world, and mostly about the ways of his people. Aside from their families and their comforts, he realized now, there were two things that every dwarf loved more than anything else: working and fighting, in that order.

It was their nature … his own and every other dwarf’s. Given the chance, a dwarf would work. He would delve caverns, build roads, erect mighty structures, or dig tunnels. He would construct beautiful furniture, forge tools, carve toys, string beads, paint pictures, or carry things to the tops of mountains. He would raise crops, tend herds, and harvest forests. He would hammer and saw, pound and temper, shape and reshape objects. He would taste a stone, then carve it into a pillar, a statue, or a trinket. He would taste metal, then make something useful out of it. He would build monuments or fortresses, or make whistles from reeds. Whatever the work, any typical dwarf would dive into it with energy and enthusiasm … as long as he was doing it because he wanted to.

But dwarves without work turned quickly to their second love. They bickered and argued, and when the arguments became feuds they fought. Thorbardin was evidence of that. The mightiest fortress in the world had become a hotbed of petty bickering and useless feuds, because it had closed itself off from the outside world and gradually diminished its resources to the point that there was not enough ore coming in to keep the smelters running, not enough timber coming in to keep the woodshops busy, not enough trade with the outside world to have any reason to produce much of anything.

And as the work diminished, the fighting grew.

It had been a revelation to some of those in the undermountain fortress, he suspected, that as the forges were fired up to produce the goods the Chosen Ones requested, the feuding and street fighting in Thorbardin’s cities had diminished by half. Those months of summer, he thought, with his people camped outside and the forges going inside, were probably the best months Thorbardin had seen in a century or more.

But now he put Thorbardin out of his mind and thought of his own people, the Chosen Ones. They called themselves that, they said, because Hammerhand had chosen them. Actually, Derkin knew as well as they did that it was the other way around. He had not chosen them, he had merely freed them. They had followed him, and others along the way had joined. It was they who had chosen him, as their leader.

Just as Tap Tolec and Vin the Shadow had chosen him so long ago, in the slave cell at Klanath Mines, so these thousands of others had chosen him. They chose to follow him, to do his bidding, because – like working and fighting – it was their nature to follow a leader, as long as he was a leader they had chosen, and as long as they were following because they wanted to.

Working and fighting. It was the nature of these people … of his people. Working or fighting, choosing and following, living and deserving to live in their own land, by their own design, free of intrusion and invasion by the Lord Kanes and the Emperor Quivalin Soths – by all the alien forces that made war, it seemed, throughout every land they touched.

“These are my people, and they deserve to live as they choose!” he muttered, then turned, slightly embarrassed, as a small hand closed on his own. Lost in his thoughts, he had wandered away from the old mine camp with its human-ordered wall. Now he found himself standing on a crested ridge on the mountainside, looking out over the pretty lake that had once served dwarven miners on dwarven soil, but now served no one at all.

Tap Tolec and the rest of the Ten were nearby, of course. They always followed him closely wherever he went. And standing beside him, looking up at him with concerned eyes, was Helta Graywood. Derkin had no idea how long she had been standing there with him, or following along after him.

Still holding his hand, she reached up and brushed his cheek with gentle fingers. “You’re worrying about your people, aren’t you?” she asked. “You’re thinking that none of us might survive tomorrow, or next week, or next year. That we might go back to being slaves, or maybe just all die.”

“I wasn’t thinking any such thing,” he growled, shaking his head stubbornly. “I was thinking that I’d better see that everybody has a job to do. Otherwise we’ll never get that pass barricaded.”

The girl’s eyes held his, unwavering. “If you were just thinking about jobs and barricades,” she asked quietly, “then why was there a tear on your cheek just now?”

“There was no tear!” he snapped. From the corner of his eye, he saw Tap Tolec and some others of the Ten look away quickly, as though embarrassed.

Helta nodded. “They saw it, too,” she said.

With a sniff and an angry cough, Derkin drew himself up harshly. “Well, you won’t see another one there,” he promised. “Kal-Thax requires sweat, and sometimes it demands blood. But it has no use for tears.”

Back at the compound, Derkin found Calan Silvertoe waiting for him. “We’ll have at least a week,” the old Daewar said. “But not more than two. Those horse soldiers who left here last night are out chasing barbarians. Despaxas promises that they’ll be …”

“Despaxas?” Derkin stared at him. “Your elf? Is he here?”

“He’s not my elf!” Calan snapped. “And he’s not here. But sometimes he … ah, sort of talks to me inside my head. I don’t know how he does that, but he does.”

“I believe it.” Derkin nodded. “And what does he say?”

“He says the Cobar will keep the human soldiers occupied for at least a week, and maybe more than that. But he says we’d better hurry, because even if they keep those troops out there longer, Lord Kane’s post patrols still use the pass, and the next one will be coming through in about two weeks.”

“Then let’s get work parties organized,” Derkin said. “Break out trowels and prybars, splitting mauls and winches. I’ll take the red-and-grays and scout the pass. You get some foresters up on those slopes for timber. Tomorrow we build stone-boats.”

“Aye,” Calan agreed. “And where do we go for good stone, then? There isn’t time to quarry and cut it.”

“We have enough to start with right here.” Derkin turned, pointing at the big eight-foot wall encircling Lord Kane’s outpost compound. He extended the gesture, pointing at one and then another of the big stone barracks within the area. “We’ll begin with these stones,” he said. “The humans won’t have need of them anymore.”

At one end of the compound, human prisoners sweated in the sun, digging a pit to bury the hundreds of dead soldiers stacked there like cordwood. All around them were armed dwarves, watching and guarding. No human from Tharkas Camp had gotten away to carry an alarm to Klanath, and none was going to. At the far end, outside the compound, some dwarves also were digging, burying their own. They would not permit the humans to even touch, much less bury, a fallen comrade. In the background, drummers maintained a soft, mournful tattoo on muffled vibrars.

Derkin gave orders for the red-and-grays to assemble, then strolled to where the dwarven graves were being dug. For a moment he stood watching, his helmet in his hand. First blood, he thought. We have sworn to retake Kal-Thax, with or without anybody’s help, and now we have made a beginning.

There weren’t many dead dwarves to bury, but there would be more.

Kal-Thax, he thought. Land of the dwarves. Land of my people. Kal-Thax needs sweat … and sometimes it demands blood.

Chapter 14

THE RECLAMATION

It was after sundown when Lord Kane’s Third Horse Battalion came within sight of the barbarians’ camp. The wide plains here, below the Kharolis foothills, could fool the eye. What had appeared to be campfire smoke four or five miles away had proven to be campfire smoke nearly fifteen miles away. But now they were within a mile, and in the mountain-shadowed light of evening, the soldiers could see the fires beneath the smoke.

“About a hundred savages,” a lieutenant remarked, riding beside the battalion’s leader, Commander Tulien Gart. “That’s what the footmen back there estimated. I see nine or ten separate fires, and that’s about right for a camp of that size. What do we do with them when we have them?”

“We shall have to kill some of them, I suppose,” the commander said, his austere features showing his distaste. As a proud soldier and descendant of knights, Gart found no honor in harassing simple barbarians. “They’ll fight when we fall upon them, but we shall take as many prisoners as possible.” Privately, he wondered if sparing any of their lives was a kindness. As prisoners, they would become the property of Lord Sakar Kane. The prince would likely use them as examples – a message to any other savages who might think of attacking an empire march.

“These plainsmen have fast horses,” the lieutenant noted. “If they see us coming, they’ll run.”

“We’ll wait until just dark, to attack,” Gart decided. “I want no talking, no clattering armor, no sound at all from this point. We proceed in silence, by hand signal only. Pass the word to all units. Silent approach, then at my signal spread, form, and charge.”

The lieutenant grinned and saluted, reining his mount around. “The savages will never know what hit them,” he said.

As darkness fell across the rolling plains, the members of the Third Battalion walked their mounts up a grassy swell. They paused there, spreading and wheeling into a long line, facing the peaceful camp three hundred yards away. Signals were relayed from the center by platoon officers, and each soldier carefully removed the mufflings and strappings from his armor and the armor of his horse. Such muffling was necessary for a silent approach by an armored unit, but would only get in the way in a charge.

With shields and lances at the ready, the line of horsemen waited, squinting, peering at the little camp. It looked as though no alarm had been given. The fires were burning low, and a few recumbent figures sprawled near some of the fires or sat in the entrances of the three or four little shelters that were visible in the firelight. No sentries were visible, and no one seemed to be doing anything beyond just sitting around, enjoying the evening breeze.

“Poor, ignorant savages,” Commander Gart muttered, raising his arm. “This won’t take any effort at all.” All along the line, lieutenants raised their arms, ready to relay his signal.

“And to think we get paid for this,” a soldier whispered somewhere.

The evening had darkened, and the time was as good as any. With a sigh of anticipation, Tulien Gart brought his arm down and forward, and put spurs to his startled mount. The big horse gathered its haunches and surged forward in a fast trot that became a belly-down run. To the right and left, the entire line moved in unison with the commander, and the quiet of evening erupted into a thunder of hooves and a rattling of mail.

In nine seconds, the thundering line had gone a hundred yards. In seven more seconds it covered the second hundred, and six seconds later it smashed into the little camp, a wide, sweeping juggernaut of armored men and armored horses, bristling with leveled lances. Fires were scattered by flailing hooves and smothered by rising clouds of dust. Tents and lean-tos collapsed and were trampled into the soil. Lances pierced the reclining figures, vaguely seen in the turmoil, and voices were raised in surprise. “What is this, anyway?” a soldier shouted. “This isn’t a man! It’s nothing but a straw dummy!”

“Same over here!” another responded. “Where are they?”

“Dismount and search!” Tulien Gart ordered. “Find them! Find their tracks!”

“They can’t have gone very far,” a lieutenant noted. “These fires have been tended within the past hour.”

For a time, the entire Third Battalion was afoot, torches held high and swords in gauntleted hands, searching. Tulien Gart stood in the center of the ruined dummy camp, shouting commands as the search widened, then widened again. But when an hour passed with nothing found, he sighed and called them all back in. “We’ll camp here tonight,” he decided. “It’s too dark to move. In the morning, we’ll find their trail.”

The battalion was just building its fires when an ashen-faced brace of lieutenants hurried up to Tulien Gart and saluted. “We’re missing some horses, sir,” one of them said.

“And we know where the savages have gone,” the other added.

Gart stared at them. “Missing … horses? How many horses, and what became of them?”

“About twenty, it looks like.” A lieutenant shrugged. “We’re still counting.”

“Why are we missing twenty horses?” Gart snapped.

“They were stolen, sir,” a lieutenant said, scuffling his steel-shod feet. “While we were searching around the camp, it looks as though some of the plainsmen just walked in and led them away. There was a lot of confusion and …”

“Gods!” Gart stormed. “I’ll want the name of every horse handler on duty during that search.” He cursed for several seconds, a stream of carefully chosen invectives that was an education to some of his younger personnel. Then he turned again to the pair of lieutenants. “You said you know where the savages are?”

“Yes, sir,” one of them replied.

“Well, where?”

The soldier turned and pointed eastward. “Over there, sir,” he said.

Gart looked, and began swearing again. There, out on the prairie, were the lights of fresh fires, a night camp being prepared. In the prairie distance, the little camp might have been only a mile or so away. Or it might have been fifteen or twenty miles.

*

“Well, that was entertaining,” Tuft Broadland said to Despaxas as they sipped hot ale beside a fresh fire. “And we picked up twenty-three horses in the bargain.”

“Will they follow?” the elf asked.

“Of course they will. They can see us as well as we can see them, and those Ergothians have no eye for distance. They’ll wait for morning, then they’ll come clanking and crashing after us. I think tomorrow it might be nice if a few of them happen to fall into a pit or something, just to keep them interested. And maybe we’ll put a few more of them afoot. Gods, it must be uncomfortable, walking in cavalry armor, carrying those horseback shields and heavy lances! But of course they won’t discard as much as a gauntlet or brace. That would be disgraceful!” He grinned wolfishly.

“Can your people take it from here?” the elf asked. “I mean, without your presence, can your warriors keep those soldiers occupied for a week or so?”

“Of course,” Tuft assured him. “One thing about empire troops, you can count on them. In a close chase, it will be several days before they’ll admit to themselves that they’re being dawdled. And by that time, they’ll be at least a week’s travel from where they came from. But why do you ask?”

“I promised you a chance to observe Derkin’s army,” Despaxas said. “If you’d like, we can go now.”

“To Tharkas?” Tuft inquired. “Yes, I’d like to see what that sourpuss dwarf is up to. We can be there in a couple of days.”

“No, I said ‘now,’” the elf corrected. “Zephyr is close by. In his own plane, he is a great wizard. As a verger, he can lift us from one place to another in a moment by wrapping us in his wings.”

“Absolutely not!” the Cobar snapped. “I’ll be hanged if I’ll let myself be wrapped in fish wings.”

“Then I’ll transport us myself.” Despaxas shrugged. “Transport is a simple enough spell.”

The man glared at him across the fire. “I know about your transport spells,” he reminded the elf. “They make people dizzy.”

“It only lasts a moment,” Despaxas said.

“I’m not going anywhere without a horse under me!” the Cobar growled. “Being afoot is for Sackmen and Ergothians.”

Despaxas smiled – an innocent, disarming smile. “Then get your horse,” he said.

*

In the span of a single day, the floor of Tharkas Pass had become a beehive of activity. Thousands of bustling, busy dwarves worked in the shadows of the great, precipitous walls of the pass, barely four miles from Lord Kane’s stronghold at Klanath.

At the place where a dwarf named Cale Greeneye had driven a metal spike centuries earlier, marking the boundary of the dwarven land of Kal-Thax, the Chosen Ones worked at building a massive stone wall. By the hundreds, dwarven workmen disassembled the stone walls three miles south at Tharkas Camp, while hundreds of others loaded the great stones onto stone-boats. With teams of oxen, bison, and even a few elk, dwarven teamsters hauled the stones into Tharkas Pass.

Within the pass, at the site Derkin Hammerhand had selected, stonemasons recut, sized, and drilled the great blocks of solid rock, hoisted them with winches and slings, and set them in place while hundreds more scurried about, fitting each joint with “pegs” of iron bar to secure them. Every stone weighed at least a thousand pounds, and some weighed a ton. With blocks of such size, human builders would have settled for mortared joints and relied on the weight of the materials to make the wall secure. But these were not humans. These were dwarves, and they held to the dwarven philosophy of construction: if you can’t build it right, don’t build it at all.

Nothing short of an earthquake would ever move this wall so much as an inch, once it was completed.

The pass at this point was only sixty feet wide at the bottom, and the growing wall extended from one side to the other, completely closing it off except for a reinforced gap in the center where a narrow gate would be hung. Within the space of a day, the wall was two tiers high – shoulder-high to its builders – and Derkin’s masons estimated that it would be at least twenty feet high before they ran out of prequarried stone. Twenty feet was not as high as Derkin envisioned the great wall, but it would be a start. Within a week or a little more, Tharkas Pass would be closed to casual travel. The single gate, made of steel-reinforced timbers, would be four feet wide and nine feet tall. Once the wall was up, and the gate closed and guarded, nothing less than an all-out siege would open northern Kal-Thax to outsiders again. The wall would not be impenetrable – not as Thorbardin was – but it would be a formidable obstacle to any who tried to enter uninvited.

Throughout the day, the dwarves had worked. Now as evening shadows darkened the pass, they changed shifts. Those of Daewar, Theiwar, and Klar ancestry were replaced by dwarves of Daergar ancestry, whose eyes were sensitive in daylight but excellent at night. In this way, the work would continue without stop until the task was finished. Torches were lighted for the day’s last caravan of stone-boats, and these were being hauled into place for unloading when, abruptly, chaos broke out in the pass just a few paces south of the rising wall.

Where there had been only empty ground just moments ago, between groves of mountain spruce, suddenly there was a bucking, pitching horse with a man clinging to its light saddle. Dwarves by the hundreds turned to stare at the unexpected sight as the horse spun and danced, rearing and bucking enthusiastically. The man on its back clung grimly, shouting curses and threats as he tried to bring it under control. Dozens of dwarves had grabbed weapons and begun closing in on the spectacle when a second figure appeared out of nowhere – a cloaked, hooded figure that was obviously not a dwarf. The second apparition gazed at the bucking horse and its clinging, swearing rider for a moment, then turned and raised a hand toward the surrounding dwarves.

In the crowd, blades flashed and slings began to hum. Then Derkin Hammerhand strode forward, turned full around, and commanded, “Hold your weapons! These are not enemies!”

“Hello, Derkin,” the cloaked figure said. “It has been a long time.”

“Despaxas.” Derkin nodded. “Calan said he thought you might come.” He pointed at the still-pitching horse and its angry rider. “What’s going on here?”

“Horses don’t like transport spells.” The elf shrugged. “They usually act up a bit upon arrival.”

It took more than a minute for the man to bring his horse under control, and when he was once again in charge he swung down from his saddle and pointed an angry finger at Despaxas. “You knew that would happen,” he snarled. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

Despaxas shrugged eloquently. “You said you wouldn’t go anywhere without a horse under you,” he purred. “And far be it from me to try to tell a Cobar anything about horses.”

For a moment, the man glared as though he were contemplating murder. Then he shook his head. “Crazy elf,” he muttered. He turned, his eyes roving the crowds of dwarves all around, then turning upward toward the shadowy stone that climbed skyward on both sides. “Where are we?” he asked.

“In Tharkas Pass,” Despaxas said. “At the place where a dwarf once marked the border of his homeland.”

“And where is …” His eyes lit on the sturdy, red-cloaked figure of the dwarven leader and blinked. “Derkin? Is that you?”

“Hello, Tuft Broadland,” the dwarf said.

“Well! You certainly have changed, these past years. I hardly knew you.”

“We all change,” Derkin said, then glanced at the elf. “Well, most of us do anyway. Come with me. Our main camp is just at the south end of the pass, where there’s water. You two can tell me all the latest news. I understand the war on the plains is still going on?”

“And on, and on,” Tuft said bleakly.

“Well, we’ll eat, and you can tell me about it. Tomorrow I’ll show you what we’re doing here.”

In the busy, crowded dwarven camp, people stared at the human and the elf with surly suspicion until Derkin made it clear to everyone that they were his guests. Then it seemed the dwarves couldn’t do enough for them. They crowded around with platters of roast meat, freshly baked dark bread, and tankards of ale. Tuft marveled at the sumptuous feast that seemed to be ordinary fare for these people. “How do you do it?” he asked Derkin. “I mean, I see an army here, but where does the food come from?”

“You only see about a third of us here,” Derkin told him. “We have farms and granaries all over southwest of here and herds in every valley. Armies must have food and provisions, so the Chosen Ones are more than an army. They have become an entire people. The first year after we freed ourselves from the empire’s mines – the last time you saw us – we devoted our efforts and time mostly to gathering those Neidar who wanted to go with us and to scouting new trails and territories. The Neidar have been a scattered people, which is why so many of them wound up as slaves in the human mines … that, and the fact that Thorbardin didn’t protect them as it was supposed to. But they aren’t scattered now. And they aren’t slaves, either.”

Helta Graywood came from a shelter, carrying blankets for them to sit on while they ate. Tuft grinned at the girl and bowed slightly. “I remember you,” he said.

“Everybody always remembers Helta,” Derkin said softly.

“But she wears no token,” the Cobar noted. “Haven’t you married her yet?”

“No, he hasn’t,” Helta said. “I’ve told him a dozen times to marry me, but he puts me off. He says he won’t commit to anything except reclaiming Kal-Thax. He’s stubborn, among other things.”

And stupid, too, Tuft thought, but kept the notion to himself. Most of the dwarven women he had seen were far from beautiful, at least to his human eyes. But Helta Graywood was a striking exception.

Old Calan Silvertoe joined them, then, and they spread their blankets beside a fresh fire. Finishing off a roasted haunch of some delicious meat, Tuft said to Derkin, “I’d like to see your settlement in the wilderness. You people must be doing wonders there.”

“No human has seen what we are doing out there,” the dwarf said levelly, “and none will. But if you people ever get through with your stupid war, you’ll see the results. We intend to open trade routes and trading centers – east, west, and north.”

“That’s after you reclaim Kal-Thax, of course,” the Cobar said bluntly.

“Of course. That’s what we’re doing now. That’s why we’re building a wall.”

“The land you’re claiming – or reclaiming – is territory that Lord Kane considers his own,” Despaxas said. “The Emperor Ullves granted it to him.”

“Then the Emperor Ullves lied to him,” Derkin said. “This land is ours. It was never his to grant, and never will be.”

“You think a wall is going to stop Lord Kane from trying to take back what he considers his?” Tuft asked.

“Maybe not.” Derkin shrugged. “Walls are like fences. They are built primarily to keep neighbors out. But they don’t mean much to enemies.”

“Then what’s the purpose of it?”

“It will slow him down, at least,” the dwarf said.

“You’ll have to fight him,” the elf said quietly.

Derkin studied them both with shrewd, dark eyes that were far more experienced than the same eyes had been just a few seasons before. His scrutiny also fell on Calan Silvertoe. “I expect to,” he said. “And I’m beginning to understand why each of you was so anxious to help me before … and why you want to encourage me now.”

“What you are doing here will help us in our war against the invaders,” Despaxas said. “There’s no secret about that.”

“But I wonder if you – any of you – understand that I want no part of your war,” Derkin growled.

“You didn’t want to be anybody’s leader either,” Calan Silvertoe reminded him. “Sometimes there isn’t much choice about things like that.”

Derkin turned away, yawning, ignoring him. But he caught the glance that passed between Despaxas and Calan Silvertoe and felt a sudden coldness in his bones. They knew. The old, one-armed dwarf and the ageless elf, they knew what Derkin knew but didn’t want to admit, even to himself. The human lord of Klanath would see Derkin’s wall not as a boundary, but as a challenge. He almost certainly would not choose to turn away and leave Kal-Thax alone.

In the deepening night, muffled drums sang their songs through the mountains. Drums that Hylar crafters had taught Derkin to build and use as a boy – as his Hylar ancestors had always built and used them – and that Despaxas the elf had taught him a new song for, somewhere in the wilderness. The song of Balladine.

Now the drums were signaling, as they always signaled. Derkin’s people – and the far-ranging Neidar who had joined them – now numbered some twenty thousand. The nine thousand here at Tharkas were the Chosen Ones, the fighting core of what had become a new and widespread clan. Most of the rest were in the wilderness, near a place called Sheercliff, though some were still farther west, staking out territory for a future trade center to be called Barter.

They were far separated in miles, but not in mind, and the drums carried their messages back and forth through the mountains.

Chapter 15

MASTER OF THE PASS

For eleven days the dwarves worked on their wall, laboring night and day while the sole human among them, Tuft Broadland, watched with amazement. Except for his brief adventure in this place, years before, when he had helped the former Derkin Winterseed free dwarven slaves from the goblins in the Tharkas mine shaft, then watched as those slaves freed thousands more from the mines of Klanath, Tuft had never associated with dwarves.

He was amazed now at their energy, their stubborn intensity in the face of a task, and at their sheer physical strength. He knew, of course, that a mature dwarf a foot shorter than himself would weigh as much as he did, and he had heard that the massive little people were stronger, pound for pound, than humans. But as he watched their craftsmen handle and set huge stones day after day, the Cobar was awed. Time after time he watched a half-dozen dwarves – or sometimes as few as four – roll a ton of square-cut stone from side to side, working its surface with ringing tools, punching reinforcement holes in it with hammer drills, then wrestle the stone onto a sling board for other dwarves to lift from above.

They used winches and wedges, levers and slings, and all manner of other tools, in ways he had never seen such things used. And while some among them were more skilled than others at the cutting or drilling or setting of stone, he had the impression that any one of them at random could have done the job of any other.

“They work as though they were born with tools in their hands,” he remarked to Despaxas as the Tharkas Wall towered overhead, growing tier by tier.

“They almost were,” the elf said casually. “It is the manner of dwarves. It is said that a dwarf can climb before he can walk, hew stone before he can talk, and delve before he’s out of his swaddling.”

“They’re an amazing people,” Tuft allowed. “But can they use their weapons?”

“You will see soon enough,” the elf answered. “To a dwarf, a weapon is just another tool. The only difference is in its application.”

Now, on the eleventh day of the project, as the last of the stones salvaged from Lord Kane’s outpost were hauled upward to be set into place, Tuft stood back to look at the huge construct. The wall was butted into solid stone on each side of the pass, completely filling it from side to side. Stout battlements of carved stone lined its top, protecting a bastion that could be reached by ramps on the south face. The north face of the wall, facing toward Klanath, was solid, almost seamless stone. And low in its center was a single, small opening, tall and narrow, sealed by a gate that looked as solid and massive as the wall itself.

Not an impassable obstacle, the Cobar decided as he studied the wall. Determined men equipped with grapples and lines could scale its north face and get across. But with a good defense on that bastion top, the price of such an attack would be fearsome.

And it had been built in eleven days! Such a project would have taken human craftsmen half a year to complete.

With the wall in place, most of the Chosen Ones moved their camp into the pass, just behind their barricade. And now Tuft saw the builders of the wall become soldiers of Kal-Thax. Putting away their stoneworking tools, the dwarves donned exquisite steel armor and clothing of a variety of bright colors. Fine, dwarven steel weapons were unwrapped, brought out, and buckled or strapped into place. Within a day after the completion of the stone wall, the Cobar found himself surrounded by thousands of stubby, helmed warriors, most of whom looked as fierce and formidable as Derkin Hammerhand himself.

Another thing he noted then, about the dwarves. A hundred pounds or so of steel plate, helmet, slung shield, and weaponry was no burden to a sturdy dwarf. In full battle attire, each dwarf appeared as comfortable and as nimble as though he were clothed only in kilt and smock. Afoot or on horseback, the short, sturdy warriors seemed as at home in armor as though it were part of them.

Tuft was admiring the throngs around him when a cold, deep voice asked, “What are you grinning at, human? Do you find my people funny?”

Derkin was beside him, hands on his hips, and there was no humor in his wide-set, thoughtful eyes.

“Not at all,” Tuft hastened to reply. “Quite the opposite. I was thinking how fierce your people seem, and how colorful.”

“Then what were you grinning about?”

The Cobar paused, then pointed at a group of two or three dozen armored dwarves strolling past. “Even fully armored, your dwarves make no racket. My people have fought the emperor’s armies for years now, and our ears are an advantage. When those churls put on armor, they clank so that one can hear them a quarter mile away.”

“If you find that amusing, you’ll have plenty of entertainment soon,” Derkin said, turning away. “The drums spoke this morning. That human battalion that left Tharkas to chase your raiders has returned to Klanath. They’ll be on their way here shortly.” As though in afterthought, he glanced back at the man, and now he was grinning, too. “They’re short a few men, by my sentinels’ count. And they’re short a lot of horses.”

It was the following morning when soldiers of the empire appeared in Tharkas Pass. Remounted and reprovisioned – and thoroughly chastened by Lord Kane himself – Commander Tulien Gart led his Third Battalion out of Klanath, heading for the outpost they had left nearly two weeks before. Above them on the peaks, muted thunders rolled, then died away, and soldiers in the ranks craned their necks, looking upward. But there was nothing there to see.

Entering the pass, the battalion strung itself out, riding at an easy pace, expecting no surprises. Two miles into the gap, though, an outrider swung his mount around and galloped back to salute his commander. “There’s something in the pass, sir. I can’t tell what it is,” he reported.

Within a quarter-mile they could all see the something, and they paused, peering. “What is that?” Tulien Gart demanded. “First platoon, go forward and see what that thing is!”

About thirty riders spurred their mounts and trotted away up the pass. For long minutes the rest of the battalion waited, then a rider came toward them, moving fast. Almost losing his seat as he skidded his horse to a haunch-down halt, he snapped a quick, wide-eyed salute and said, “That thing is a wall, sir! A great big stone wall. It blocks the whole pass, and someone on top of it told us to go away and never come back.”

“Who told you that?” the commander rasped. “Who was it on that wall?”

“I don’t know, sir.” The soldier shook his head. “The rest of the platoon went ahead for a better look, but the lieutenant sent me to report.”

“A wall!” Tulien Gart muttered. “Now what?” Impatiently, he signaled and spurred his mount, and the entire battalion trotted forward behind him.

It was indeed a wall – a high, wide wall of solid stone, with battlements at its crest and a single, narrow door that was firmly closed. Just below the wall, the first platoon was spread out, still mounted, with shields and swords at hand. As he neared the wall, Gart could hear his lieutenant shouting, “… can’t put a blasted wall in this pass without Lord Kane’s orders! Who do you people think you are?”

“We know exactly who we are!” a deep, resonant voice answered from above. “And we know who you are, too! Now go away!”

With an oath, Tulien Gart reined his mount in beside the lieutenant’s and demanded, “Who is that up there?” When the lieutenant shrugged, Gart straightened himself in his saddle and cupped his hands. “You on the wall!” he demanded. “Identify yourselves at once! Who are you?”

A silhouette moved above, a polished helmet glinted in the light, and a deep voice called back, “Who’s asking?”

“I am Tulien Gart!” Gart shouted. “In command of this battalion, in service to the Lord Sakar Kane, Prince of Klanath by order of Our Illustrious Emperor Quivalin Soth the Fifth! Now, who are you, and why are you here?”

“I’m called Hammerhand!” the deep voice responded, sounding unimpressed. “I’m here because I choose to be! This is the border of Kal-Thax, and as of now the border is closed! So go away!”

“Border of what?” Gart shouted. “This land is the fief of Lord Kane! He owns it!”

“No, he doesn’t,” the deep voice assured him casually. “It’s ours.”

From the rear of the battalion column came a muttering that traveled forward. A lieutenant turned, listened, and wheeled toward his commander. “Sir,” he said, “the men farther back can see better. They say those are dwarves up there.”

“That’s right,” the voice from above called. “We’re dwarves. This wall marks the boundary of Kal-Thax. Kal-thax is dwarven land. It has always been ours, and it always will be. It begins right here, at this wall. Now, for the last time, turn around and go away!”

Muttering a curse, Tulien Gart shaded his eyes against the bright sky. Now there were many helmed heads visible between the stone battlements above, and he could see the bristle of weapons. Turning in his saddle, he called, “Archers forward!”

Immediately, a company of mounted bowmen advanced at his bidding. Above, the deep voice rang out, cold and deadly. “Be careful, Commander Gart! You are about to make a serious mistake!”

Ignoring the dwarf above, Gart commanded, “Archers! Clear that wall!”

In unison, a hundred bows were raised, drawn, and released, and a hundred deadly arrows hurtled upward. But where the silhouettes of heads had been, there were now bright shields. Arrows clattered, shattered, and caromed away. Then the shields dropped from sight, and in their place were pairs of dwarves, drawing aim on those below. Slings whirred and spat, crossbows thudded, and panic erupted among the archers. Dozens fell from their saddles, pierced or brained, and the rest became a melee of stamping, wheeling, bucking horses and men, shouldering one another in their haste to back away. More men and several horses went down under trampling hooves.

Through it all, Tulien Gart held his reins and his ground, his angry eyes locked on the figure above, the one who called himself Hammerhand. That one, he noticed, had not moved either. But now the deep, cold voice came again, and Gart felt the impact of shadowed eyes beneath a glistening helm – eyes that he knew were locked on his own. “Hear the words of Hammerhand, human!” the voice thundered. “Hear me well, and tell your master what I have said! At this point, Kal-Thax begins! From this day, Kal-Thax is closed to you and your kind! Kal-Thax belongs to dwarves, not humans!

“If you leave us alone, we will leave you alone! But if you attack – as you have just learned – we will respond! Now go away! Go, and don’t come back!”

Reluctantly, Tulien Gart turned his mount and led a retreat, but only for a few hundred yards. Once beyond the range of slings and crossbows, he halted the battalion and dismounted. A few minutes passed, then two squads of humans approached the wall again, this time on foot and carrying no bows. Instead, they carried stretchers. Almost timidly, expecting death at any minute, the men neared the wall and began collecting their wounded and dead. But the dwarves above launched no volleys. They only watched.

On the ramp behind the wall, Tuft Broadland also watched, then turned to Derkin Hammerhand. “You’d better tell them to take their fallen mounts, too. They’re just leaving them.”

“We’ll keep the dead horses,” Derkin declared. “There’s enough meat there for two or three days.”

The blood drained from the Cobar’s face as he stared at the dwarf, shocked and astonished. “You … you people eat horses?”

“Meat’s meat,” Derkin said, casually. “We can eat anything that doesn’t eat us first. We’ve learned that in the slave mines and in the wilderness.”

The humans collected their dead and wounded, and returned down the pass to where the battalion waited. But instead of mounting up and moving away, the soldiers seemed to be settling in.

“They aren’t leaving,” Calan Silvertoe noted.

“I didn’t think they would, yet,” Hammerhand said. “That commander can’t just take my word for it that they aren’t welcome here. He has to try a few more tricks.”

Throughout the morning and early afternoon, the dwarves on the wall could see furious activity down the pass, men hurrying here and there, doing things. At first, it was hard to tell what they were doing, then sharp eyes aloft spotted a heavy, freshly hewn log being dragged up the pass from a grove beyond.

“They’re making a ram!” old Calan snorted. “They intend to test our gate.”

“Can the gate withstand a ram?” worried Tuft Broadland.

“Making a ram is one thing,” Derkin responded. “Getting it here is another.”

Several hundred yards away, men lined up beside the heavy log, two men on a side. Squatting, they slipped harnesses over their shoulders, then stood, lifting the ram with them. At the wave of Tulien Gart’s hand, they started toward the wall at a trot.

The dwarves let them approach to within fifty yards, then all along the battlements, dwarves with slings and crossbows appeared. The ram bearers saw them there and faltered, slowing to a stop. Tulien Gart saw them, too, and shook his head. “Call them back,” he told a trumpeter. “They’ll never make it.”

At the sound of the trumpet, the relieved rammers turned, sighing visibly, and trotted back the way they had come, carrying their log.

“Next he’ll try a shielded ram,” Derkin said.

An hour passed before the rammers tried it again, and this time they came under a cover of shields – dozens of shields laced together to form a solid roof over the men and their ram. From above, the men could not even be seen as they trotted forward toward the gate.

“Now what do you do?” Tuft asked Derkin.

“Just watch,” the dwarf said.

As the ram bearers gathered speed, aiming their juggernaut at the gate, a foot-high hinged panel opened in the bottom of the portal, with crossbows massed behind it. The men under the shields, seeing sudden death only yards away, pointing up at them, faltered. One stumbled, three fell, then they all went down, dragged to the ground by their log ram while lashed shields clattered down atop them. From the deadly portal, a voice called, “Just get up and back away if you want to live. Leave the log where it is. You won’t need it anymore.”

With no choice at all, the men under the fallen shields slipped out of their shoulder straps and struggled to their feet. On the wall above them, a voice said, “Leave the shields, too. They’re fair trade for the bolts we’ve expended.”

The men hobbled away, bruised and shaken, one being supported by two of the others, apparently the victim of a broken leg. Behind them, Derkin called, “Tell your commander that the reason you’re still alive is that no one here has been hurt!”

The gate opened then, and hordes of dwarves spilled through under cover of the weapons on the wall. By the time the rammers had returned to their commander, all of the shields and dead horses had been dragged to the south side of the wall, and the log ram was disappearing through the portal, which slammed shut when it was clear.

In the evening, as shadows deepened in the pass, arrows began to reach the top of the wall. Soldiers had crept along the brushy sides of the pass and taken shelter in a grove of conifers in bow range of the wall.

Crouching behind battlements, Derkin and his defenders studied the grove and waited. Darkness came quickly in the deep pass, and the archers’ light was failing. Their arrows had done no damage.

At full dark, the dwarves heard scurrying sounds as the attackers withdrew for the night, and Derkin went down the ramp to find Vin the Shadow. “You know what to do,” he told the Daergar.

“We could do more than that,” Vin suggested, but Derkin shook his head. “No,” he said, “you heard what I told the commander. Those arrows haven’t hurt anybody yet.”

With a curt nod, Vin rounded up a dozen more Daergar. They removed their iron masks, revealing the large eyes and foxlike features of their clan. Quickly they gathered torches, tinder, and vials of oil, and filed out through the gate. They were back within minutes, and behind them fires blazed. By morning, the grove of trees that could hide archers would be nothing but smoldering ashes.

For two more days, the standoff in Tharkas Pass continued. Tulien Gart tried everything he could think of to get past the dwarves’ wall, but nothing succeeded. Climbers sent in the dark of night, with grapples and rope, were easy targets for dark-seeing Daergar on the wall. An unmanned ram consisting of two whip-stung horses with a log slung between them went afoul when dwarves above dropped flaming straw in their path. The damage the ram horses did to Gart’s camp as they fled through it was truly awful.

On the morning when Lord Kane’s post patrol showed up in the pass, Gart decided it was time to return to Klanath and report to Lord Kane. Maybe the prince could root out dwarves from Tharkas Pass, but Gart accepted that the Third Battalion, alone, could not.

Before leaving, though, Gart mounted his horse and rode alone to the dwarves’ wall. Sitting his saddle straight-backed and haughty, he looked upward. “Hammerhand!” he called.

Above, the same bright-helmed silhouette appeared. “I’m here, Commander,” the deep, resonant voice responded.

“I’m leaving to return to Klanath,” Gart said. “I will give your message to Lord Kane, though they may be the last words I ever utter. But just for my own curiosity, who the blazes are you, anyway?”

“That’s pretty obvious,” the voice above said. “I am Master of Tharkas.”

As the commander rode away, the wall’s gate opened and a small crowd of dirty, disheveled humans scurried through it. They were the survivors of the Tharkas outpost who had been held in the mine shaft. Derkin had no further use for them, so he was sending them home. On the wall, dozens of dwarves burst into laughter when the ragged crowd caught up with their commander, who promptly turned his head and backed his horse away from them. Those poor wretches would smell like goblins for weeks, no matter how they scrubbed themselves.

Derkin Hammerhand turned to the Cobar standing beside him. “That commander is a fair soldier,” he said. “He’s more than just a ‘clanking churl.’”

“I agree.” Tuft Broadland nodded. “Tulien Gart is a true soldier. I could admire a man like that, if it weren’t for the colors he carries. He’s in the right line of work, but he’s in the wrong employ.”

Part IV

MASTER OF KAL-THAX

Chapter 16

THE TURNING OF WAR

Sakar Kane stormed and raged at the incredible tale brought to him by the commander of his Third Battalion. A stone wall across Tharkas Pass, the man reported. And dwarves! Dwarves forbidding entry into his lands, by his own troops.

“You’re telling me that you – with a full battalion – could not overcome a bunch of stupid, cowering dwarves hiding behind a simple wall?” the Prince of Klanath hissed, his eyes burning into those of his commander.

Tulien Gart accepted the tone and the angry glare. Standing parade-erect, holding his plumed helm in the crook of his arm, the commander seemed resigned to the consequences of his words. Streaks of gray at his temples and the dark lines beneath his eyes made him look tired. Tired, but not defeated. He held his lord’s gaze and neither blinked nor looked away. “Yes, Sire,” he confirmed. “I tried everything I knew to try, short of a suicide rush which would have cost Your Highness most of the battalion. With all respect, Sire, the wall they have built is more than a ‘simple wall.’ It is a bastion. And in my opinion, the people defending it are neither cowering nor stupid. They are well armed, quite disciplined, and – from what I could make out – more than willing to do whatever they must to hold their ground.”

“It is not their ground!” Kane snapped. “It is mine!” With a snort of disgust he paced half the width of the pillared chamber which was his seat of power, for the moment ignoring the veteran soldier still standing at stiff attention. Then he whirled and pointed an accusing finger at the man. “Tell me again what that … that dwarf said,” he ordered.

“Yes, Sire. He said he is called Hammerhand. He said Kal-Thax begins at the point where the wall stands, and …”

“What is Kal-Thax?”

“According to my clerk, Sire, it is a dwarven term, taken from some ancient language of theirs. Literally, it means ‘cold forge,’ but its meaning in practice is ‘land of the dwarves.’”

“Continue,” Lord Kane commanded.

“Hammerhand said the wall is the border of Kal-Thax, and that from this time on, Kal-Thax is closed except to dwarves. He said if the dwarves are left alone, they will leave us alone, but if they are attacked, they will respond.”

“And you tested the dwarf’s words?”

“I lost forty-nine men in the process, Sire. Thirty-five dead, fourteen wounded. To the best of my knowledge, though, Hammerhand lost none.”

“Who does that dwarf think he is?” the prince thundered.

“I asked him that, Sire. He said only that he is the master of Tharkas.”

Still pacing, Lord Kane stopped abruptly before his commander, leaning close to glare directly into his eyes. “You speak almost as though you admire that dwarf,” he hissed. “Are you a traitor, Tulien Gart?”

Gart’s sun-dark face blanched at the insult, but he held his expression tightly in check as he said, “No, Sire, I am not. I have done all in my power to serve Your Highness honorably and well.”

“Honorably be hanged!” the prince snapped. “I want those dwarves cleared from that pass. I want them run down and killed or put in chains. I want that blasted wall torn down, my outpost restored … and I want this Hammerhand’s head brought to me on the point of a lance. This is my desire. Will you obey such an order, if I command it, Tulien Gart?”

“I will attempt to do as my liege orders,” Gart said. “But with only a battalion at my command, it cannot be done.”

“And why not?”

“It will require a legion, Sire, with provisions for an all-out siege.”

There was a rap at the closed door of the chamber, and Lord Kane turned as the portal opened and a liveried messenger stepped inside. “If this interruption is less than an emergency, I’ll have you gutted on the spot!” the prince roared at the newcomer, who was hardly more than a boy.

The messenger’s eyes went wide with fear, and his knees began to shake. “I …” he gulped and tried again. “I … ah …”

“Out with it!” Kane ordered.

“Y-Your Highness, there is a – an emissary at the gate, demanding immediate audience. He is f-from …”

The door opened wider and a burly, dark-cloaked figure strode in, pushing past the boy. “I’ll deliver my own demand,” he announced, throwing back his riding cowl.

Lord Kane stared at the man. “Dreyus!” he whispered.

“Aye, Your Highness.” The big man’s curt bow was arrogant and ironic, almost a challenge. His presence seemed to fill the room, as though the air within suddenly held an aura of power and cruelty. “I have ridden twelve days to reach this place, and have killed four horses. I do not care to wait on an audience.”

Lord Kane stared at the emperor’s emissary for a moment, then sighed. Like almost everyone else in Ergoth, Sakar Kane was a bit afraid of the man who stood before him now. Even the emperor, it was whispered, might well be careful not to offend the man called Dreyus – although it was rumored that no one in Daltigoth had ever actually seen the two together. Though not proclaimed as a wizard, Dreyus had certain strange powers. He was seldom present in the imperial halls in Daltigoth, but seemed always to know of each intrigue and whisper there. And though he had no official title or discernible status in Ergoth, he often represented the emperor in matters of import.

No one seemed to know where he had come from. Neither the clerical orders nor even the Orders of High Sorcery seemed to have any control over him, any more than did the marshals of the empire’s armies, or even – it seemed – the emperor himself.

With a nod that became a slight bow, the Prince of Klanath waved Dreyus toward a secluded niche at one side of the Great Hall, where stood an amber-topped table and chairs of carved ivory. “Of course the eminent Dreyus is welcome here,” Kane said. “You surprise me, though. I had heard that you were with General Giarna, in his elven campaign in the east.”

Dreyus shook his head. “The general’s elven campaign is failed, and Giarna is …” He paused, glancing aside at Tulien Gart, who still stood nearby at rigid attention. “Who is this?”

“No one, Eminence,” Lord Kane said, as though he had completely forgotten the commander’s presence. “One of my officers.” To Gart he said, “You are dismissed for now, Commander. You are to confine yourself to quarters and await my pleasure.”

“Yes, Sire.” Gart saluted smartly, turning away. As he approached the door, it opened for him. There were palace guards there, and he knew without seeing Lord Kane’s signal that the guards were for him. Lord Kane had not finished with him, and until he did, Gart was a prisoner. Undoubtedly his entire battalion had already been isolated and put under guard. Looking straight ahead, the commander stepped through, and the guards pulled the portal closed behind him. But just as it closed, he heard the voice of the man called Dreyus, saying, “Giarna has lost his campaign. Our legions were routed at Sithelbec, and I am …” The door closed, and he heard no more.

Was the war over? The words he had overheard amazed Gart. If the “boy general” was, indeed, defeated, and his campaign routed, did it mean an end to the emperor’s dream of expansion into the eastern plains and Silvanesti?

For a moment, the commander felt a sense of relief. But only for a moment. No, his intuition said, Quivalin Soth V would not abandon his ambitions because one effort had failed. Things would change, but they would remain the same. In some form or other, the war of expansion would continue.

Outside the palace, Gart looked upward in surprise. When he had entered, the day had been clear and sunny. Now, though, the skies were dark with heavy, sullen clouds.

*

“Giarna waged a fierce campaign,” Dreyus told Lord Kane. “But in the end he was stupid. He failed to reckon on the tenacity of the elves, or to realize that not all of the elves are forest recluses. The western elves – the Wildrunners – fight as plainsmen when they must. They can be full of surprises. They even control griffons, it seems. And the general allowed himself to be betrayed by a woman. His own doxy, Suzine.”

“Suzine des Quivalin?” Lord Kane’s eyes widened. “A relative of His Majesty …?”

“Enough!” Dreyus’s voice went low and cold. “The woman is never to be referred to by family name, or by lineage. She is not related to anyone in Ergoth, not even the lowest tradesman or serf. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.” Kane nodded. “But the campaign in the east, is it …?”

“It continues,” Dreyus said. “Giarna failed, but the empire has not. The war will continue. Even now, the scattered forces of Giarna’s army are being gathered on the plains to await my return from Daltigoth. And that brings me to my reason for stopping here in Klanath on my way to Ullves’s palace. We shall require certain, ah, augmented services from you, Prince Kane. Klanath was important to the previous campaign, as you know. It will be far more important to the coming campaign.”

“I shall do my best to serve,” Kane said smoothly. “As you doubtless know, I have managed to keep the road open and the mines in full production, despite some small problems.”

“Some small problems,” Dreyus drawled with heavy irony. “Yes, I know about those. First you lost several thousand slaves, then for two years or more you allowed empire caravans to be plagued by raiders and thieves.”

“I have accounted for all of that,” Kane snapped. “The empire’s coffers suffered no loss from the slave revolt. And as to those isolated raids …”

Dreyus raised a hand. “Enough,” he said. “I know all about it, and am not here to take you to task. You have proven to be a capable subject of the empire, Lord Kane. Or perhaps only an incredibly lucky one, but that doesn’t matter. What matters now is how well you serve my conquest of the eastern territories.”

“Your conquest?”

“When I return from Daltigoth, I shall lead the forces that will finally put an end to the resistance of barbarian tribes and frontier elves,” Dreyus said bluntly. “I … we shall no longer entrust such matters to mere generals.”

“I see.” Kane clapped his hands, and a servant slipped through a sliding wall panel to fill two goblets, then hastened away. “And my duties, Eminence?”

“Klanath will be my base for the duration of the campaign,” Dreyus said. “You shall be privileged to serve as host to my headquarters, my supply stores, and certain of my troops. Another of Giarna’s several mistakes, you see, was to use Klanath only as a depot and rest stop for reinforcements. He should have realized from the outset that the sheer distance between Daltigoth – or even Caergoth – and the barbarian plains gave an undue advantage to his enemies. I shall give them no such advantage.”

Dreyus picked up his goblet and downed its contents. Although the vessel held the most precious of spiced wines, cooled by chips of clear ice from the lofty peaks above Klanath, the big man drank it as though it were no more than vulgar ale. Then he tossed the goblet aside and continued, “Starting shortly after my arrival in Daltigoth, my lord, you may expect caravans carrying all the things that I shall need for my campaign. These goods will be delivered into your care, to hold for me until I return here. I will expect to find them intact and undamaged when I arrive.”

Lord Kane simply nodded, saying nothing.

“Also,” Dreyus said imperiously, “you will close your mines for the present.”

“Close the mines?” Kane rasped, frowning.

“Close the mines,” Dreyus repeated. “For the present, you will have other work for your slaves. They shall be set to quarrying stone, immediately. Upon my return, I shall require suitable quarters for myself, my staff, and my servants. You will have these quarters built to specifications that will arrive with the first supply caravan.” He gazed at Kane with eyes that shone with power and determination. “I trust you have no objection.”

“It will be as you command, Eminence.” Kane nodded. “And when will you return?”

“In the spring, possibly. Or in the summer. I shall return when I am ready to return. And you, Prince of Klanath, will be ready to welcome me when I do.”

“As you say,” Kane conceded.

“For the duration of my campaign in the east,” Dreyus went on, “my command will be in residence at Klanath. You shall govern Klanath, of course, but until Ullves’s empire extends to Silvanost itself, you shall govern for my convenience. Is that clear?”

Lord Kane’s jaws were tight with anger, but he kept his voice steady. All he had heard about Dreyus, he realized, was true. Being face-to-face with the big man was like being face-to-face with Quivalin himself. The two bore no resemblance in physical features, but in force of presence, they might have been the same person. “Quite clear,” Kane said.

“I – we, His Imperial Majesty and myself – will hold you personally responsible,” Dreyus said. His business attended to, the big man leaned back, relaxing slightly. “We will not make the mistakes that Giarna made,” he added casually. “We will not be plagued by delayed supplies, traitors in our own beds, unexpected storms, unexpected griffons, unexpected dwarves. …”

“Dwarves?” Lord Kane’s ears twitched.

“A legion of dwarves took part in the battle at Sithelbec,” Dreyus noted. “On the side of the elves and their allies. It was just one more of the things Giarna failed to anticipate.”

When Dreyus had gone, Lord Kane paced alone in his great hall, shaken and angry. Close the mines, the man ordered! Without the mines, much of Kane’s wealth would be gone. Still, there was no choice in the matter. A man who has once survived the emperor’s displeasure could not hope for forgiveness a second time. What the emperor demanded, the emperor must receive, fully and immediately. And he had no doubt that, when Dreyus spoke, it was with the emperor’s voice. The feeling of presence was uncanny. In some way, it was as though Dreyus was Quivalin Soth V.

But what had shaken him most was Dreyus’s demand that Klanath and the Klanath region – the granted fief of Lord Kane – be guaranteed under control and trouble-free.

Dwarves had fought at Sithelbec. And now, if Tulien Gart could be believed, an army of dwarves was encamped behind a stone wall just four miles from Klanath. Such a thing was aggravating, at the least. But now – in light of Dreyus’s plans – it was intolerable. Something would have to be done, and quickly.

He was very glad that he had confined the Third Battalion to quarters. It would not do for Dreyus to learn about the problem in Tharkas Pass. That was something that Lord Kane would have to deal with himself.

*

In a quiet glade on the perimeter of the Chosen Ones’ encampment, Despaxas and Calan Silvertoe sat together, the old dwarf watching the elf while the elf gazed into a shallow bowl partly filled with milky liquid.

Long minutes had passed this way, and Calan was growing impatient. “Come on,” he rasped. “What does it say?”

Despaxas looked up innocently. “It doesn’t ‘say’ anything, my friend. That isn’t how it works.”

“I don’t care how it works,” Calan said. “I just want to know what you’ve learned.”

“Well, I’ve learned that Kith-Kanan and his allies were victorious at Sithelbec.”

“I already know that,” Calan grunted. “You told me that a week ago. What’s the news this time?”

“General Giarna is disgraced,” the elf said.

Calan grinned. “Good,” he said. “Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving person. Does that mean the war is over?”

“No.” Despaxas shrugged. “The human emperor will start again, with new command. That’s what puzzles me. The command has already been decided, but I don’t know who it will be. There is someone … a presence … but I’m not sure there’s really anyone there. It’s as though he – the presence – is somewhere else entirely.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Calan snapped.

“It might.” Despaxas frowned. “Three years ago I was with Kith-Kanan on the Singing Plains, where the Wildrunners were fortifying a village. Giarna was only forty miles away, with his army, and I went to have a look at him. Zephyr was with me. We reconnoitered the human army, but there was something puzzling about it. There was a man there, with Giarna … an emissary of the emperor’s, named Dreyus. I saw him, but Zephyr couldn’t. To Zephyr, there was no one there.”

“Magic,” Calan growled.

“Magic, yes,” Despaxas said. “But not a magic I have been able to understand. I’m wondering now if the new commander of forces might be that same Dreyus.” The elf gazed into his bowl thoughtfully. Then, with a quick twist of his hand, he turned the bowl over, spilling its contents onto the stony ground. The wet spot lasted only seconds, then was gone. The elf stood, slipping the bowl into his robe. “I’ll be needed now, where Kith-Kanan is.” With a quick nod, he strode away from Calan, who sprinted after him.

With his one hand, the old dwarf grabbed the elf’s cloak and halted him. “Here, now!” he demanded. “You mean you’re leaving again, just like that?”

“Of course.” Despaxas smiled. “I’m not needed here now. This situation is in good hands.” He glanced at the stump of Calan’s arm and corrected himself. “Well, in good hand.” He reached out, clasped the old dwarf’s burly shoulder for a moment, and just for an instant Calan thought he saw a deep sadness in the elf’s eyes. It was as though Despaxas were saying a final farewell to his old friend. But then the look was gone, and the elf turned again and walked away.

Halfway across the encampment, Despaxas found Tuft Broadland. “Get your horse, human,” he said. “It’s time for me to leave, and your people will be missing your leadership by now … if they’ve noticed yet that you’re gone.”

“Crazy elf,” Tuft said sourly. “Shouldn’t we say goodbye to Derkin before we go?”

“Why? He’ll know we’ve gone.”

“I’d like to bid him well,” Tuft said. “And you should, too. He has done a remarkable thing here.”

“Derkin’s task – or his ordeal – has only begun,” Despaxas said quietly. “We leave now, human. I have seen a glimpse of what is to come. But I cannot help Derkin Hammerhand. Destiny is upon him.”

“If you know something of use to him, he deserves to be told,” the Cobar said with a scowl.

Again, there was a flicker of sadness in Despaxas’s expression, quickly replaced by a cold determination. “Trust me, Tuft Broadland. We must leave here now.”

Confused, as he often was by Despaxas, the Cobar hesitated. Still, he had trusted this strange elf in the past, and had never regretted it. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll get my horse, and you can say your spell. But I’ll be hanged if I’ll be in the saddle when you do.”

Chapter 17

LORD KANE’S REVENGE

Weeks had passed since the defense of Derkin’s Wall against the attacks of the Third Battalion. And during those weeks, not a single soldier had been seen in Tharkas Pass.

Derkin’s lookouts, hidden in shallow, camouflaged delves high on the peaks above Klanath, reported strange, unexplained activities in and around Lord Kane’s stronghold. The great mines outside the city lay silent now, and it appeared that all of their slaves had been relocated. Some of them had been taken to bustling new stone quarries nearby, others into the city itself. And now, building stones by the hundreds were being hauled into the city, and there was construction going on in a large enclave just east of the palace. Timber crews moved back and forth between Klanath and the forests to the north, bringing back hundreds of logs.

It looked, the drums said, as though the humans were building a new fortress within the city.

Derkin Hammerhand admitted to those close to him that he was puzzled. What the humans were doing in Klanath was their own business, but he was surprised that there had been no further attempts to clear Tharkas Pass. He had been sure that Lord Kane would launch at least one attack in full force. It was not like the man to simply accept an ultimatum such as the dwarves had sent. Kane was not a passive person, nor one to accept a loss. He considered the lands south of the pass as his own. Would he lose them without a fight?

The Chosen Ones were becoming restless, too, and that added to Derkin’s worries. With the wall in place, and no plans for permanent delves at the pass, they had little to do. Quarrels, brawls, and fistfights had become common in recent days, and Derkin knew it was the result of sheer boredom. Without work to do, his people turned to fighting, and there was no one here to fight except themselves.

He longed to leave the wall, to somehow know that Tharkas Pass was safe from invasion so that he could take his people back into the mountains. There, they could join their ten thousand peers in the work of hunting and herding, of planting and harvesting, of building and delving and living their lives.

The wall, like the little metal stake on which it was built, was really nothing more than a symbol. It was a signal to those beyond that the lands south of it were not theirs for the taking. It had needed to be built, and they had built it. It had been a certainty that the humans would test it, and the dwarves welcomed the test.

But Derkin had not intended to spend months or years here in Tharkas Pass. There were other places to be, and other things to do. Just as a great nation of dwarves had been carved out of the mountain wilderness so many centuries ago, now that nation must be renewed, and securing Tharkas Pass was only the first step.

In his dreams, Derkin saw a time when the Neidar of Kal-Thax could live securely, where and how they chose, knowing that they had champions to come to their aid if they were threatened. The Chosen Ones would be those champions. They would be the army of Kal-Thax. They would serve the dwarven nation as the Holgar – the people of Thorbardin – had once promised to.

He had little hope that Thorbardin would ever reverse itself, ever again become the vital, central fortress of Kal-Thax. Not enough of the people now living in the subterranean fortress had the spirit their ancestors had once had. There were a few Dunbarth Ironthumbs and people like the Daewar leader Jeron Redleather and his son Luster, but only a few, it seemed.

If Kal-Thax was to be restored as a realm, it would be up to the Chosen Ones to do it.

But this silence was unnerving. Not only had Lord Kane not come with his armies to test the walled border in force … he hadn’t done anything at all.

Each evening’s breezes, coming through the great pass, were cooler than those the evening before. Each morning now, there was frost. Winter came quickly in these mountains, and it would come soon. Derkin Hammerhand chafed at the silence, and at the waiting.

And then, four weeks to the day after the defense of the wall, the drums told of people coming. A small party, riding toward the border.

When they came into sight, Derkin went to the battlements. The people coming were human soldiers, wearing the colors of the empire and carrying the banners of Klanath. But there were only a dozen of them. As they neared, Derkin recognized the one in the lead. It was the officer he had given his message to, the one named Tulien Gart. With sudden decision, Derkin hurried down the ramp, opened the gate, and went out to meet him. The Ten, as always, went with him, but he ordered everyone else to stay.

Tulien Gart saw the dwarves come out from the gate and halted his escort. Then, holding a hand up, palm out, he rode forward alone. Six paces from the group of dwarves, he drew rein. “I am Tulien Gart,” he said. “I have words for Hammerhand.”

The dwarf in the lead stepped forward a single pace. Gart recognized the polished helm and the scarlet cape, and now he could see the face that went with them – a wide, stern dwarven face with dark, backswept beard and eyes that seemed to look right through him.

“I know you, Tulien Gart,” the dwarf said, in the deep voice the man remembered. “I am Hammerhand.”

“I carried your words to my prince, Lord Kane,” Gart said. “He has sent me with his response. Lord Kane directs me to say that he does not recognize your claim to the lands bestowed upon him by His Imperial Majesty, but neither does he wish to expend his forces and his energies in needless combat. He therefore suggests a truce.”

“A truce?” Hammerhand scowled, and Gart noticed that the Ten behind him raised their shields slightly, as though preparing to draw their weapons. But Hammerhand eased them with a gesture. “What sort of truce does Lord Kane suggest?”

“Lord Kane asks your word of honor that you and all your people will remain south of your … ah … border, and make no move against Klanath, until such time as Lord Kane and Hammerhand can negotiate their respective claims and possibly arrive at a peaceful solution.”

“I will gladly speak with Lord Kane,” Hammerhand said. “The ownership of Kal-Thax is not open to negotiation, but there may be agreements by which Lord Kane can be compensated – through trade, for instance, or an alliance.”

“May I tell Lord Kane that he has your word of honor that you and your people will not come beyond your border, pending negotiations?”

“What does Lord Kane offer in return for such a pledge?”

“He makes the same promise,” Gart said. “His Highness offers you his pledge, upon his honor, that no force will be brought against you, pending negotiations.”

“And when will such negotiations take place?”

“Unfortunately,” Gart replied with a shrug, “not until spring. Lord Kane has received orders from His Imperial Majesty that will keep him occupied through the winter.”

“Orders to build a new fortress in Klanath?”

Gart blinked, then smiled slightly. “Ah, you know about that, do you? Yes, that is part of his task. I can tell you no more.”

“It’s none of our concern,” Hammerhand noted.

“But for you to know of it, you must have spies watching the city. And to see the city, they must be north of here. Lord Kane’s request is that your people no longer come north of the border … which you yourself have designated.”

“I will stand by my pledge,” Hammerhand said, “as long as he stands by his.” Hammerhand waved the Ten back and strode toward the mounted man. When he was only a few feet from him, he looked up into his face, studying him carefully. “Can I trust your Lord Kane in this, Commander Gart? Do you trust him?”

Gart hesitated. He felt as though the dwarf were seeing right into his head. For an instant, he suspected magic. But he had never heard of a dwarf using magic.

“I’ll ask my question another way, Commander,” Hammerhand said. “Do you believe that Lord Kane means to stand by his pledge to me?”

“Yes,” the man answered. “I believe he does. He said he would.”

Hammerhand nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “I think you do not truly trust the man you work for. But I believe that you expect him to keep his pledge, for whatever reason. It is enough. Tell Lord Kane that he has the pledge of Hammerhand, and that I have his. We will negotiate in the spring. Oh, and I will withdraw my observers from the peaks. It really is none of our concern what you people do over there, as long as you don’t bother us.”

The dwarf turned and walked away, not looking back. For a moment, Tulien Gart watched him, wondering what sort of mind could seem so perceptive, yet so readily trust one who hated him, as he must know Lord Kane did. Would Hammerhand really pull his spies back, away from Klanath? If I were him, Gart wondered, would I?

The commander sincerely hoped that Lord Kane would keep his promise. Yet the dwarf was right. Sakar Kane was not a man he himself would trust. As Hammerhand approached his waiting guards, Gart turned his mount and rode away, back to his escort. By the time the dwarves had disappeared behind their wall, the emissaries were filing northward, down the pass.

Calan Silvertoe was aghast when he heard of the pledge Derkin had given. “You aren’t really going to call in the sentinels,” he demanded. “You’ll leave us blind.”

“It was a fair request,” Derkin said. “By our own declaration, our watchers are four miles beyond our boundary. They are trespassing.” He turned to his nearest drummer. “Recall the sentinels,” he ordered.

The drums began to speak, but still Calan ranted. “You’re making a mistake!” he shouted, his nose inches from Derkin’s. “You can’t trust humans!”

“If I expect Lord Kane to keep his pledge, then I must keep mine,” the Hylar said flatly. “Besides, there’s no reason for him to betray us. Winter is coming. This pass would be of no use to him until spring, even if he held it.”

With the old one-arm and the Ten trailing after him, the Master of Tharkas Pass strode through his encampment. Everywhere were sullen, irritable dwarves. Thousands of them, and everywhere Derkin looked he saw the signs of their discontent. There were broken noses, blackened eyes, bandaged knuckles, and various, assorted bruises. For a few weeks they had been idle, and they looked as though they had been in a pitched battle.

“Boredom,” Derkin muttered. “Our worst enemy is simple boredom. It is our nature.” Turning to his escorts, he ordered, “Get the Chosen Ones packed and ready to travel. I want this pass cleared as soon as all the sentinels are in.”

“Where are we going?” Calan asked, bewildered.

“Home,” Derkin rasped. “Home to Stoneforge, where there is work to do. If we remain here much longer, we’ll be killing one another.”

“And leave the pass unguarded?” Calan Silvertoe and Tap Tolec asked in unison.

“I’ll remain here, with the Red-and-Grays,” Derkin decided. “We’ll stay until first snow. After that, the pass will guard itself until spring. Send for Vin the Shadow. He can take command for the trek to Stoneforge. I’ll catch up along the way.”

“You’re being foolish, Derkin,” Calan told him.

“I’m doing what I must,” Derkin growled, gazing around at his people, with their accumulated boredom scars. “A few more days of doing nothing, and the Chosen Ones will be no better than those idiots in Thorbardin!”

*

Even before Tulien Gart had returned from Tharkas Pass, watchers on Lord Kane’s battlements spotted movement high on the peaks above Klanath. With dwarven-crafted far-seeing tubes, they saw dwarves in the heights emerging from hiding, clambering away along impossible slopes.

“My message has done its work,” Sakar Kane gloated when he heard the report. “The dwarves have had spies watching us, but now they are being pulled away.” He strode across his great room and slammed the door open. “Captain of the guard!” he shouted.

When the captain of his household guard appeared, Kane said, “Ready the engines, Morden. We move on Tharkas Pass.”

“It worked then?” Morden’s scarred face split in a toothy grin. “The dwarves believed in the truce?”

“I knew they would,” Kane said with a sneer. “I knew it when that fool Gart described their leader to me. A Hylar dwarf, he said. It is well known that many of the Hylar are inflicted with those idiotic principles of chivalry and honor that our own Orders of Knighthood hold so dear. That is why I chose Tulien Gart to carry my message. He himself is something of a fool where chivalry is concerned … and he truly believes that I mean to keep my pledge to those dinks.”

“Commander Gart is going to have a fit when he sees our siege engines rolling into the pass.” Morden grinned.

“I seem to recall that the scar on your cheek came from Gart’s blade,” Kane said. “Does it ever pain you?”

“Its memory does,” Morden answered. “One day I may repay the favor.”

“As you please,” Kane said. “Tulien Gart is of no further use to me.”

*

Only six hundred dwarves remained in Tharkas Pass when great, lashed-timber siege engines rolled out of morning mist and were hauled into line a hundred yards from Derkin’s Wall. Hammerhand had sent the Chosen Ones southward, toward Stoneforge. All that remained were Derkin himself, the Ten, the Red and Gray Company, and roughly fifty others who had volunteered to stay.

Now three full battalions of human soldiers and a thousand footmen drafted from the streets of Klanath emerged from the mists, towing tall engines of death, and methodically arranged themselves in siege-and-attack formation as dwarves crowded onto the wall in fury and disbelief.

“I told you so!” Calan Silvertoe shouted at Derkin Hammerhand. “I told you not to trust the humans!”

“I believed that man spoke the truth,” Derkin said bleakly.

“He may have, but his prince didn’t,” Tap Tolec observed.

The sound of sledges rang in the pass as a dozen tall catapults were anchored into the stone, while ox-drawn carts came carrying the stones to feed them. Atop the dwarven wall, slings began to hum, and crossbows thudded. Here and there among the humans, men fell, but only a few. The range was too great for either sling-balls or bolts.

Without preamble, the first catapult was loaded, aligned, and released. Two hundred pounds of stone whistled through the air and crashed into the wall’s battlements. Where it hit, stone shards flew and a dozen dwarves fell.

“Clear the wall!” Derkin roared. “Everyone down! Use the wall for shelter!”

Dwarves scurried past Derkin and the Ten, streaming down the ramps as those in the pass behind closed in, massing themselves behind the wall. Another catapult stone smashed into the wall, just below the battlements, and broke into a dozen pieces. Where it had struck was only a shallow dent, and Derkin thanked the gods for his people’s habit of building sturdy structures. The catapults could punish the reinforced wall, but they would not tear it down.

Archers had positioned themselves between the siege engines, and now arrows flew around the few dwarves remaining atop the wall. Most flew past harmlessly, and some shattered against the stone, but several had to be deflected with shields. “Get down!” Tap Tolec begged Derkin. “It’s you they’re aiming at!”

“To rust with them,” Derkin snapped. “Look, there beyond that second engine. It’s Lord Kane himself!” Grabbing a crossbow from one of the Ten, he drew it, fitted a metal bolt into its slot, aimed carefully, and fired. A horseman directly behind the Prince of Klanath fell, pierced through the throat.

“I missed,” Derkin rasped. “Give me another …”

“Hammerhand!” Tap Tolec roared. “Look out!” But it was too late. A huge stone, propelled by a catapult, whined over the wall, directly into the little cluster of dwarves there. The last thing Derkin Hammerhand saw was a flash of hurtling stone, and then only darkness.

Among the attackers, Sakar Kane raised his fist. “There,” he shouted. “Their leader is dead! Now kill the rest!”

Captain Morden squinted at the wall, then turned. “They are protected, Sire,” he said. “Our stones bounce off that structure.”

“Then raise your line of fire!” Kane snapped. “Aim for the sky, above the wall. Let the stones fly high and fall on those behind.”

“Aye, Sire,” Morden grinned. “That should do it.”

“When we’ve dropped enough rocks on them,” the Prince of Klanath added, “send footmen with grapples. I don’t want a living dwarf left when we’re finished here.”

*

Cold winds sang through the valleys, low clouds hid the rising peaks, and spitting snow had begun to dust the marchers on the Stoneforge trail when those in the rear of the great caravan heard running hoofbeats overtaking them. A single rider came into sight around a precipitous bend, and those who had turned to look saw the colors of Hammerhand’s personal guard, the Ten.

Within a moment Tap Tolec was among them, almost falling as he dropped from the saddle of an exhausted horse. A crude sling held his right arm close against his armored breast, and the right side of his face was crusted with dried blood.

“Where’s Vin?” he demanded. “Send word ahead to Vin the Shadow!” As drums spoke and runners hurried forward, the First of the Ten staggered and sat down on the hard ground.

A few minutes later Vin was beside him, mask pushed up and large eyes bright with concern. “Tap,” he said. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“The truce was a trick,” Tap told him, his voice thin with anger. “You hadn’t been gone half a day when Lord Kane attacked with his entire garrison. They used siege engines … catapults. We didn’t have a chance.”

“And Derkin? Is Derkin …?”

“Turn your column,” Tap rasped. “We’re going back.”

Chapter 18

A TIME FOR REPRISAL

In a snow-dusted mountain glade nine miles south of Tharkas, fourteen dwarves huddled around a little fire, sharing blankets from the day packs of three horses that stood head-low and exhausted a few yards away. Some of the dwarves had wounds, which others worked to bind the wounds with bits of torn fabric, snippets of leather, and tree bark.

Helta Gray wood, her left cheek covered with a plaster of moss and mud, sat on a stone beside the fire, bathing Derkin Hammerhand’s brow and right temple with a moist rag. His head rested on her lap. Nearby lay his polished helm, its right template scarred and dented. Grazed by a two-hundred-pound stone from a catapult, the old helmet – of long-ago Hylar craftsmanship – had saved his life, though he had only recently regained consciousness after several hours of nothingness. Now, as Helta bathed the crusted blood from his head, Talon Oakbeard – Third of the Ten – knelt beside him, talking in a low, tired voice.

“It was Helta who saved you,” Talon said. “Most of us were knocked off the wall by that stone. We were all stunned, I guess. I think I was crawling around trying to see who else was alive and trying to remember what had happened. And there were people everywhere, all packed together, close behind the wall. Then I heard somebody say that you were dead, and all of a sudden Helta was there, with another woman. They were pushing people aside, and I saw your red cloak. Tap Tolec came and helped them. I started toward you, too, but just then a catapult stone fell from the sky. It brushed Tap, knocked him aside, and fell right on top of the woman with Helta.”

Pain slitting his eyes, Derkin looked up at the girl’s face. A huge tear welled from her eye, disappearing into the mud poultice on her cheek. “Nadeen,” she said. “The stone fell and crushed her.”

“Then more stones fell,” Talon muttered. “The humans must have lofted their shots nearly straight up. Those stones began falling like rain, and there was no protection from them. I remember …” He sniffed, his voice breaking, then cleared his throat and went on. “Everybody was trying to hug the wall, climbing over one another. I was helping Tap get to his feet when I looked around, and there you were, fifty yards up the pass. Helta had you by one arm. She was dragging you, pulling you away from the raining stones. It was …” His voice broke again. “We went after you, Tap and I, and Brass Darkwood. Brass didn’t make it. A few others followed, and some of us got saddles onto a few horses. We all climbed on … we could hear the stones still falling behind us. All those people … but there was nothing we could do. Nothing but try to get away.”

“How many got away?” Derkin asked, his voice a harsh rasp.

“Those you see here,” Talon said, stifling a sob of anger. “Just us, and Tap. We bound his arm, then he took one of the horses and went to catch up with Vin and the rest. He’s probably found them by now.”

“Just these?” Derkin whispered, looking around. “Only these escaped?”

“No one else.” Talon shook his head miserably. “We were just beyond the cedars when I heard the stoning let up. I hung back for a minute to see. Those … those men came over that wall like a flood. Then they drew swords and began killing everyone who was still moving.”

Derkin looked around the little camp again, his eyes stricken with grief. “Only these,” he whispered. “All the Red-and-Grays … and Nadeen and … and Calan Silvertoe? What of Calan?”

“A stone,” Helta said. “I saw it hit him.”

“And you …?” Derkin looked up at her, then reached up and eased back the mud poultice with gentle fingers. He winced and eased it back into place. Something, maybe a shard of stone – had left its mark on Helta Graywood. The prettiest girl Derkin had ever seen would never again be beautiful. The hideous, torn wound across her little cheek would leave an ugly scar for the rest of her life.

“Lord Kane,” Derkin whispered. “Lord Kane betrayed his pledge.”

Sounds came on the wind then – the sounds of thousands of marching dwarves. A few minutes later Vin the Shadow and Tap Tolec were kneeling beside Derkin, deep concern in their eyes.

“Hammerhand will be all right,” Helta Graywood said. “His helmet saved him.”

“His helmet and his woman,” Talon Oakbeard murmured.

Wincing at the ache in his head, Derkin sat upright, then struggled to his feet. For a moment he staggered drunkenly. But then he steadied himself and planted his hands on his hips.

“Lord Kane pledged a truce,” he rasped. “Lord Kane has broken his pledge.” For long moments, Derkin stood, deep in thought, as more and more of his people gathered around him. Then he raised his head, and his voice. “Let there be these laws among the Chosen Ones,” he said. “Three laws for ourselves, and one for our enemies. Let no dwarf of the Chosen speak falsely to any other of the Chosen. Let no dwarf of the Chosen act unjustly toward any other of the Chosen. Let no dwarf of the Chosen take from any other of the Chosen anything that is not willingly given.”

“Let it be so,” dozens of voices around him responded, while others farther away echoed them.

“Those are our three laws then,” Tap Tolec asserted. “Good laws. Don’t lie, don’t cheat, don’t steal. And the fourth law, Hammerhand? The one for our enemies?

“Let our enemies know, from this time forward,” Derkin proclaimed, “that we will retaliate. For betrayal, for murder, for trespass … When the people of Kal-Thax are wronged, we shall always retaliate.”

“And how are our enemies to know that?” someone asked.

“By example,” Derkin said. “We will give them an example.”

Hammerhand left two thousand people in the mountain glade – the injured, the frail and infirm, all of the women and children, and enough warriors to guard and care for them. With the rest of his army, he headed north under leaden skies that veiled the mountain terrain with winter’s first flurries. Gone now were the brilliant colors of the regiments, the bright fabrics, the burnished armor. With resins and ash, with mineral spirits and crushed firestone, they had concocted dyes and paints. Now the entire army was garbed in blacks, browns, and grays – the colors of anger, of determination, and of mourning.

At Tharkas Pass they found no one living – only the mutilated, frozen bodies of the dwarves who had fallen there. Working in stone-faced silence, the dwarves buried their dead. Under a sheer stone cliff a short distance south of the still-standing wall, they laid the corpses out in dignified rows and ranks and removed their helms while Derkin called upon Reorx – and any other gods worthy of the name – to accept these honored dead with the respect they deserved.

When the brief ceremony was done, expert stonecutters and delvers clambered up the cliff’s face. Fifty feet above the floor of the pass, they broke and shattered the stone so that it fell in a rain of rubble, covering and burying the bodies below.

Then Derkin replaced his helm, straightened his armor, and mounted his horse. It took three hours for the entire army to pass through the narrow gate in the wall. Daylight was beginning to fade, the clouds were dark and low, and each gust of wind whining in the pass carried fitful flurries of snow. When they were all through the gate, they closed it and headed north.

Derkin was not surprised that the humans had left the pass, and left the wall standing. Winter was coming on, and humans feared the mountain winters. Undoubtedly Lord Kane felt he had rid himself of dwarves and could wait for spring to open the pass.

All along the way, Derkin conferred with his unit leaders and with those who had served as sentinels above Klanath. Just at full dusk, they came out of the pass on a wide, sloping shelf overlooking the city directly ahead. Usually, this shelf below the pass was a busy place. Here stood Klanath’s slaughtering pens, butcher stalls and tanneries, and the mills that ground the grain of those in the city. But now, as the dwarves had anticipated, the slope was deserted. It was nightfall, of a blustery winter day, and all who could would be behind closed doors, staying close to their hearths.

The usual perimeter guards would be in place, of course, and the strong guard forces of Lord Kane’s compound. But out here on Slaughterhouse Shelf, there was nothing worth guarding on such a night.

Looking down on the snow-misted city, lying like a soiled crazy quilt beneath the low clouds and its own smoke, many of Derkin’s army felt a twinge of doubt. Wedge Stonecut, a young dwarf who found himself now a member of the Ten, muttered, “It’s so big … and all spread out. How does one attack a thing like that?”

“The way one attacks anything too big to wrestle,” Talon Oakbeard said ironically. “Ignore its body and go straight for the head.”

Hushed commands rippled through the massed units, and a company of nearly a thousand Daergar moved forward, led by Vin the Shadow. Most of these Daergar had been slaves in Klanath’s mines years earlier, and none of them had forgotten the treatment given them by their human overlords. Now, grim and determined, they ranked themselves before Derkin Hammerhand and raised dark-steel blades in salute. All of them had their boots bound in fabric to still their footfalls, and all of them had removed their metal masks. Large, wide-set eyes glittered in shadowy, feral faces as they looked toward the waiting city.

Derkin returned their salute and nodded to his right, where several dwarves were pouring sand into a tin funnel set on a little platform of withes. “One hour’s sand,” he said to Vin the Shadow. “Then we will follow.”

“An hour is enough,” the Daergar said. “With Reorx’s aid, or even without it, we can clear a fine passage in an hour.”

“For Kal-Thax,” Derkin said.

“For Kal-Thax.”

Like silent shadows in the gloom, the Daergar slipped away toward the outskirts of Klanath.

“I wouldn’t like to be a human guard in a dark place on this night,” Wedge Stonecut breathed. “They say a Daergar can see when there is no light at all.”

“Did you notice the blades they carried?” Talon asked. “Those curved, dark-steel swords … where did they get them?”

A few feet away, Derkin Hammerhand turned. “They’ve always had them, wrapped and hidden away. They’ve taken them out now, in honor of Lord Kane.”

“They honor the human?” Talon asked, puzzled.

“In their way. It was the custom of Daergar long ago to carry such blades. They are as light as daggers, very swift and very sharp. And once drawn, they were never sheathed again until they had tasted blood.”

“I wouldn’t want to be a guard in that city tonight,” Wedge Stonecut muttered, repeating himself.

As the sands flowed through the little funnel, Klanath dozed below Slaughterhouse Shelf. No outcries came from there, no trumpets or bells sounded, no slightest alarm. Except for having seen them go, the waiting army would have had no hint that a thousand dark-seeing Daergar now roamed those ways, doing their bloody work.

The funnel emptied itself, and Derkin climbed aboard his horse, looking around judiciously as other dark forms mounted behind him. Then he waved his footmen forward. No battle cries came from the thousands streaming down the slope now. Hammerhand had ordered silence, and the Chosen Ones complied.

Derkin waited until his foot legions were at the outskirts of the city, entering the dozen dingy streets that led toward Lord Kane’s compound, then he and his horse companies moved out. For the first two hundred yards, they walked their mounts. Then at the bottom of the slope Derkin urged his horse to a trot, and all around him rose the muted thunder of hundreds of horses stepping up their pace. At the outskirts of the sprawling city, a few doors and shutters opened as the sound carried to them. Human faces peered out, then shutters were slammed and bolts were dropped into place. Most of the residents of Klanath probably had no idea what they had seen, but they wanted no part of it.

Along three narrow streets the mounted dwarves trotted, as long minutes passed. At a torchlit intersection Derkin saw a pair of Klanath guards lying in their own blood, and just beyond them at least a dozen more. No steam rose from the gaping, slitted throats of the men. The bodies were already beginning to cool. The Daergar had wasted no time opening a path for Hammerhand.

Sooty snow flurried and gusted along the streets, and the shacks and sheds became more densely clustered. Here they found more bodies – some in guard uniform and some not. And just ahead, there was the ring of steel on steel. The first footmen had reached the compound gates. But the sounds of combat were brief. A few clashes of steel, then a few more, and a series of muffled shrieks. Then the riders heard the distinct creaking sounds of great weighted gates being opened.

“At the gallop!” Hammerhand roared, and spurred his mount. The great horse, and all those behind it, bunched powerful haunches and leapt forward at a run. For a hundred feet, the three horse companies charged along parallel streets, then the streets converged, and the compound’s wall lay just ahead. A pair of wide gates stood open, with thousands of armed dwarves pouring through. As the reunited horse battalion thundered toward them, the footmen spread to each side. Hundreds of charging horses thundered through, each rider shifting to one side of his saddle as a running footman swung aboard and clambered up the other side.

Within the compound, human soldiers were pouring from every barracks and redoubt, many of them only partially dressed, but all wielding shields and swords. But their resistance was puny against the overwhelming might of the dwarven forces. Faster than sleepy human companies could get themselves organized, solid ranks of dwarves swept through them, hacking and slicing. Somewhere a trumpet blared, then another and another, and torches came alive on the battlements of Lord Kane’s palace fortress in the middle of the compound.

Leaving the panicked soldiers to the mercies of his footmen, Derkin led his horse company at full charge directly toward the open gateway of the main palace, where torches flared and chains began to rattle as surprised gatekeepers bent to their winches – far too late. The entire horse battalion thundered past the portcullis and into the inner courtyard, sending human guards and gate tenders flying in all directions.

The household guard, the most elite of all Lord Kane’s forces, was just issuing from its halls when the courtyard abruptly filled with horses and dwarves. Better trained than the outside companies, these soldiers – led by a man with a scarred face – mounted a fierce defense. For long minutes, the battle swept this way and that through the courtyard, guards grouping and regrouping, fighting desperately while the dwarves thundered about, ranks and disciplined lines of hoofed fury, armored horses with death clinging to each side of their saddles.

Derkin had ridden halfway around the courtyard, shouting commands and wielding shield and hammer, when a human guard appeared from a niche, thrusting a deadly pike. Derkin heard the weapon strike the footman opposite him and felt the saddle shift as the dwarf fell away. With a kick, Derkin swung himself up into the saddle and struck downward. The pikeman didn’t even have time to blink before a heavy hammer crushed his helmet and the skull beneath it.

Wheeling his horse, Derkin swung this way and that, searching. Then he saw what he was looking for. Below the tallest corner tower, a clot of humans was retreating slowly toward a stone gate, while dwarven riders hacked away at them. With a shout, Derkin reined toward that place, dropping from his saddle as he neared it. Behind him, the Ten did likewise, landing catlike on sturdy legs as their tall mounts clattered away. “The door!” Derkin shouted. “Secure that door!”

Afoot, Hammerhand and his newly reformed guard, the Ten, raced toward the archway. The soldiers there, concentrating on the pressing riders, weren’t aware of the eleven afoot until they were among them, cutting a gory path through their formation. With shield and sword, hammer and axe, propelled by their own momentum, Hammerhand and the Ten plowed completely through the rank of defenders as the oaken door within the archway closed in their faces … but not quite. From somewhere just behind Derkin, a short, sturdy form hurtled forward, throwing itself into the narrowing gap. Stone and oak timbers closed on armor plate and stopped. Through the gap, Derkin saw a blade lash out and downward, and blood spurted.

He had no chance to see who had stopped the door. At full speed, he and the others with him hit the portal, massive shoulders flinging it back. The dwarves burst through into a large, brightly lit hall where men were scurrying about. Most of the men were unarmed, dressed as clerks or servants, and several of them shrieked and dived for cover as the door slammed open. Among them were soldiers, though, and these drew their weapons.

Derkin glanced from face to face, searching. He had seen Sakar Kane only a few times, and always from a distance, but he would know the face of the tyrant if he saw him. But all the faces he saw were strange to him. Backing away a step, Hammerhand knelt quickly at the doorway and looked down at the dead dwarf lying there, still in the portal. It was Wedge Stonecut, the young volunteer who had been so proud to become one of the Ten. Standing, Derkin pulled the body in through the doorway, then turned and closed the door. It muffled the clamor of battle in the courtyard beyond. Its heavy bar, as he dropped it into place, had a hollow, ominous sound.

Holding his shield and hammer, Derkin Hammerhand strode forward. Fourteen household guards, unnerved at his calm, grim appearance, hesitated and backed away a step. He took another long look around the Great Hall, then demanded, “Where is Sakar Kane?”

No one answered him. The guards were edging forward now, raising their weapons. “Which of you killed Wedge Stonecut?” Derkin demanded.

Again there was no answer, but he needed none. Among the guards was one whose blade still dripped with dwarven blood. For only an instant Derkin gazed at the man, then he spun full around, and his arm lashed out. The hammer flew from his hand, made one quick flip in the air, and smashed into the man’s face. As the guard sprawled backward, dead, Derkin drew his sword. Flanked by the Nine, he charged the remaining guards.

Chapter 19

THE SMOKE OF KLANATH

Sakar Kane was nowhere to be found.

By morning, the palace and its walled compound were secure. The attack had been a complete surprise to the humans of Klanath, catching the soldiers off guard, unprepared, and without their leader to rally them. On top of that, the prince’s forces were outnumbered by nearly ten to one. Within hours of the first sortie by night-eyed Daergar, Derkin and his forces were all within the fortress and had barred its gates. Many of the soldiers were dead, many more disarmed and locked away in the palace dungeons. The rest of Kane’s household – forty or fifty women, clerks, porters, cooks, and warders – were locked into secure quarters high in one of the towers.

With the dawn, Derkin ordered a complete search of the facility. Hundreds of dwarves swarmed everywhere in the fortress, searching every room, every hall, and every stairwell. It was fruitless. The man Hammerhand had come to find was not in Klanath.

A quivering human clerk, brought before Derkin by blood-spattered dwarven warriors, told him that His Highness had returned from his expedition into Tharkas Pass to find a messenger awaiting him with a sealed scroll from the man called Dreyus. Kane had stayed only long enough to promote the captain of the home guards and put him in command of the Third Battalion. Then the prince rode out again, the clerk said.

Derkin perched in Kane’s chair of state, his feet dangling six inches above the floor, his dark cloak and dark-painted armor encrusted with the blood of humans. He listened quietly to the clerk, then pierced the man with that cold-eyed gaze which people so often found disconcerting. “Where did he go?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” the clerk said, his chin quivering. “As far as I know, he didn’t tell any of the staff of his plans.”

“He must have told someone!” Derkin snapped.

The clerk looked as though he might faint. “He … he might have told Captain … er, Commander Morden,” he suggested. “His Highness left the commander in charge. I suppose he might have mentioned to him, ah … where he was going.”

“Morden?” Derkin frowned. “Who is Morden?”

“He is the officer His Highness promoted just before he left,” the clerk explained. “He was captain of the household guard and master of catapults. Now he is commander of internal forces and commander of the Third Battalion, as well.”

“Why?”

“His Highness honored him.” The clerk shrugged. “He said Capt … er, Commander Morden did fine service in the … ah … campaign in Tharkas … against the … the dwarves.” When Derkin made no response, the man added, lamely, “Besides, the Third Battalion was leaderless since Commander Gart’s disappearance.”

“Gart?” Derkin prodded. “Commander Tulien Gart?”

“Yes,” the clerk said. “He just … disappeared. He never returned from Tharkas.”

“Describe Commander Morden,” Derkin said.

“The … the commander is a slim man,” the clerk said. “Not as tall as some, but very strong. And he has a stitched scar across his face” — with a trembling finger, he traced a line from his own left cheekbone downward, across his mouth to the right side of his chin — “like that.”

“The man who directed the catapults,” Derkin muttered. “The one who lofted the stones.”

“I saw a man like that,” Talon Oakbeard said. “An officer. He was in the compound when we attacked.”

“Is he dead?”

“Either dead or in the dungeons.”

With a wave of his hand, Derkin said, “Take the clerk away, then find this Morden. If he isn’t dead, bring him to me.” He got down from Sakar Kane’s throne and strode to a barred window at one side of the Great Hall. Beyond, little flurries of snow still fell, carried on gusting winds below a gloomy sky. Outside in the compound, companies and platoons of dark-garbed dwarves were everywhere.

“I want Sakar Kane,” Derkin Hammerhand muttered to no one in particular. “I want to teach him the law of Kal-Thax.”

After a time, a company of dwarves filed into the hall and saluted. “Sire, there is no Morden here,” their leader said. “Some of us who saw him have searched. He isn’t among the dead, and he isn’t in the dungeons.”

“And all of the living fighters are in the dungeons?”

“All of them,” the searcher said. “We went to each of our units who were assigned to the perimeters last night, and to Vin’s Daergar, who were stationed outside. From the moment we attacked this place last night, no one left.”

Beyond the compound portal, voices were raised, and a young dwarven soldier poked his head in. “There’s a man at the compound gate, Hammerhand,” he announced. “He’s been wounded, but he approached on his own two feet. He demands to see you.”

“What man?” Derkin growled.

“A soldier, Sire. Calls himself Gart.”

“Bring him in,” Derkin ordered.

The man who came into the room, surrounded by surly dwarves, wore only partial armor and had no weapons. Linen bandages and plasters covered his upper torso. He was pale, and looked severely weakened, but Derkin knew him. He was Tulien Gart.

Without preamble, Gart saluted the dwarven leader and said, “I surrender myself to you, Hammerhand. Do with me as you will, but I ask a boon of you.”

“First things first,” Derkin said. “Do you know where Sakar Kane has gone?”

“Isn’t he here?”

“His clerk says he left right after his return from the betrayal of his pledge … the pledge you brought to me.”

“Betrayal,” Gart murmured then strengthened his voice. “Yes, it was a betrayal. A thing without honor. Had I known what he intended, I would have resigned my commission rather than be party to it.”

“So when you found out, you just disappeared?”

“It might have seemed so. I have been in a house in the town, a place where they dressed the knife wounds in my back … for a price. Wounds delivered by an assassin just this side of Tharkas Pass. The man thought me dead and left me. Then I crawled to where I could find help.”

“And who was it who tried to murder you?”

“Another officer,” Gart said. “The captain of His Highness’s household guard.”

“Morden?” Derkin asked.

“You know him, then? Is he still alive?”

“We haven’t found him yet.”

“The boon I ask is the opportunity to settle my score with Morden.”

“You don’t look like you could settle with anyone right now,” Derkin pointed out. “You can hardly stand on your feet.”

“I can deal with Morden,” Gart assured him. “The man is a coward. It would take a weakness greater than my loss of blood from dagger cuts for him to defeat me.”

Derkin turned again to the dwarven search party. “You’ve looked everywhere?”

“Everywhere a soldier might be.”

“But not everywhere a coward might be,” Derkin muttered. He turned to Talon Oakbeard and walked across the hall with him while he gave orders in a low voice. While Talon relayed the orders to several others, Derkin returned to the throne and parted its drapings. From beneath the throne he pulled a large stone and dragged it around behind. The wide wings of Sakar Kane’s ostentatious chair of state hid the stone from view.

“You can rest here in safety,” he told Tulien Gart. “Just stay out of sight.”

A half-hour passed before one of the tower doors opened and armed dwarves entered the hall escorting several dozen humans – women, clerks, porters, and servants. At sight of them, Derkin Hammerhand climbed onto Lord Kane’s throne and called, “Bring the civilians to me.”

The dwarves herded their human charges forward, and Hammerhand’s eyes scanned them, then fixed on the clerk he had questioned before. “You people are of no use to me,” he said. “You are civilians, and noncombatants. Therefore, you are free to leave this place. You will be escorted to the outer gate and set free. All I ask of each of you is your pledge that you will leave Klanath and never return, and that you will never take up arms against any dwarf. Do you so pledge?”

The clerk nodded ecstatically. “I most certainly do,” he assured the dwarf. “On my father’s name. Can I go now?”

“I want the same pledge from each of you,” Hammerhand said to all of them. “Line up and address me, one by one.”

Reluctantly, the humans formed a line and stepped toward the throne. A porter at the head of the line knelt when he was near and bowed his head. “I give my pledge,” he said.

“Stand up,” Hammerhand growled. “I’m no gut-bound human prince.”

The porter stood and repeated the pledge. Derkin waved him aside. The next human was a woman, veiled as all the women were. “I so —” she started.

“Remove your veil,” Hammerhand interrupted.

“Y-Yes, your … ah … your …” She released her veil and let it fall from her face.

“Don’t worry about titles,” Derkin said. “Just speak your pledge.”

“I so pledge,” she said.

Derkin waved her away and raised his voice. “No veils,” he said, so all could hear. “I want to see your faces when I hear your promises.”

The next human, a male in hostler’s livery, was just stepping forward when there was a commotion in the line. A veiled woman near the middle suddenly caught up her skirts and sprinted for the open door to the compound. But Talon Oakbeard had been waiting. With a rush, he caught her around the knees and tackled her neatly, throwing her facedown on the stone floor. Then, with efficient unconcern, he twisted her arms behind her and sat on her.

“Next,” Hammerhand said, as though nothing had happened.

One by one, the remaining humans made their vows and were waved aside. When the last one was done, Hammerhand stood upright on the resplendent throne and planted his fists on his hips.

“You have each given your word to Hammerhand,” he announced. “I suggest that all of you be more honorable in such matters than Lord Sakar Kane. Also, as you go through that town out there, tell the people to pack what they can carry and leave. Now, get out.”

Escorted by armed dwarves, the humans filed out of the hall toward the outer gate. Only when they were gone, and the door closed, did Hammerhand signal to Talon Oakbeard, who got off the back of the sprawled, kicking woman and backed away. “Stand up,” he said. “And quit grumbling. You aren’t hurt.”

When the human was upright, several dwarves led her to the foot of the dais and pulled away her veil. “Well, well,” Hammerhand said quietly. “Not a woman at all. I understand your name is Morden.”

The dark, stitched scar across the man’s face seemed even darker as the color blanched from his cheeks. “Let me leave,” he gasped. “Let me just … go with those other people. I won’t bother you, I promise. You’ll never see me again.”

Hammerhand ignored the plea. “You commanded the catapults in Tharkas Pass,” he said. “You sent the stones that killed my people.”

“Please!” Morden dropped to his knees. “Please, I was only following my prince’s orders. He told me to loft the stones. He told me to!”

“I brought one of your stones back to Klanath,” Hammerhand said. “I brought it for you, to drop on you from a high place.”

“Please!” Morden sobbed. “Please, I …”

“But before I do that, I want an answer from you. Where is Sakar Kane? Where did he go?”

“H-His Highness only told me that he was summoned by Dreyus. He was to …” Morden’s voice trailed away, his mouth hanging open, his eyes bulging as he stared past the dwarf.

“I told you he was a coward,” Tulien Gart said, standing beside the throne.

“You’re dead!” Morden shrieked. Abruptly he rose to his feet, whirled, and grabbed a javelin from the hand of a nearby dwarf. With a shrill cry, he raised the weapon, aiming it toward the dais … then faltered and seemed to dance as a dozen dwarven blades slashed into him from every side. More blades hit him as he fell to the floor.

Gazing at the butchered assassin, Tulien Gart said, “I wonder whether he meant that for you or for me.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Hammerhand growled. “I just wish you’d stayed out of sight until he answered my question.”

“I’m sorry,” the soldier said. “As to Lord Kane, though, if he was summoned by Dreyus, then he probably has gone to Daltigoth. Dreyus speaks for the emperor.” With curious eyes, he studied the fierce dwarf still standing on the throne. “Did you really bring back a catapult stone to drop on him?”

“You’ve been sitting on it,” Hammerhand said.

*

In the days following the taking of Klanath, squadrons of dwarves fanned out from the compound. Street by street and house by house, they went through the surrounding town. Most of the people had already fled, but wherever the dwarves found humans they cleared them out – sometimes courteously, sometimes not, but always firmly. And behind the evictors came teams of incendiaries with lamp oil and torches. Every structure built of stone, they tore down. And everything that would burn, they burned. For long days, thick smoke rose above Klanath to darken the threatening clouds overhead. Through long nights, the flames spread, outward and outward, until there was nothing more to burn.

As the fires died, Derkin had the human prisoners led up from the dungeons and herded out of the compound. Disarmed and cowed, without shelter, without employment, and without a cause, the men would wander away, most of them never to return. Some of them, perhaps many, might even join the emperor’s enemies in the war on the central plains – a war that should have ended with the defeat of the emperor’s general, Giarna, but which seemed destined just to go on and on.

When the sloping plain around Lord Kane’s fortress was nothing but a wasteland of ash and rubble, Hammerhand gathered his lieutenants and issued new orders. “Bury that mess out there,” he said. “I want it all plowed under, all the rubble and all the ash, before the ground freezes. Then, when that’s done, we’ll go to work on the Klanath mines.”

“You want us to work those mines?” Vin the Shadow protested. “I still remember too clearly being a slave there.”

“We won’t mine them,” Hammerhand said. “We are going to close them off, fill them in, and bury them. This place is too close to Kal-Thax for humans to have mines here.”

“That will take all winter,” Talon Oakbeard mused. “It might be fun, though.” He turned, gazing around at the sumptuous, ornate fortress that Sakar Kane had built for himself. “What about this place?” he asked. “And those new fortifications the humans were building? Are we going to leave them standing?”

“We will leave nothing standing,” Derkin decided. “When we leave, there will be no Klanath. It will be as though Sakar Kane had never come here at all … as though no human ever had.”

“This will be fun!” Talon Oakbeard exclaimed.

“And keep us all busy for a while,” Vin the Shadow muttered. Then the large eyes behind his iron mask crinkled in a hidden smile. Hammerhand was right, he decided. We’re at our best when we have work to do … and choose to do it.”

“I’d like to see Sakar Kane’s face if ever the Prince of Klanath comes back here and finds he has nothing to be prince of,” Talon chuckled. Then, more seriously, he asked Derkin, “Do you think Lord Kane will come back here?”

“I don’t know.” Derkin shrugged. “If not, maybe one day I’ll go and find him, wherever he is.” He strode across the compound, the others following him. From the wall, he looked across scorched ruins to the rising slope where Tharkas Pass began. “We will leave one thing standing here,” he said. “A single stone … a monument, right out there where the city ended. Four miles from that point, Kal-Thax begins. We will inscribe that stone with the fourth law of Kal-Thax: ‘If we are wronged, we will retaliate. We will always retaliate.’”

“I have a new name for our Derkin,” Vin the Shadow told Talon Oakbeard. “He gives the law – our law – to our enemies, in ways they will understand. I have followed Derkin Winterseed, and I have followed Derkin Hammerhand. Now I follow Derkin Lawgiver, and proudly.”

Chapter 20

THE WINTER OF DEMOLITION

By the time the heavy snows began on the slopes north of Tharkas, there was almost no trace of the sprawling city that once had stood there. Every useable stone and timber had been carried away, and the remaining ashes and rubble were plowed into the ground. In the spring, new grass and seedlings would sprout there. Within a few seasons, no trace would be left of the human settlement that had dominated the northern Kharolis Mountains.

Among the thousands of dwarves involved in the project, the work became known simply as “The Tidying,” because Derkin the Lawgiver had referred to it so.

The task of burying the Klanath mines was a larger project, but the dwarves tackled it with enthusiasm. Many of them, like their leader, had once been slaves in these mines, and found great satisfaction in obliterating them. The shaft mines, high on the slopes, were caved in and sealed with stone. Then hundreds of delvers with climbing-slings and stone-drills went aloft above the pits. Working in conditions that would have been unthinkable for humans, the hardy mountain people began a series of “punches” in the stone face of the great peak. Master delvers went first, to “reckon” the stone – testing it, tasting it, marking its contours and slants, its seams and cracks, and noting the natural flaws in the granite. They patterned a half-mile’s length of mountain with their scratches and marks, their chips and gouges, all the directional runes of delving.

Drillers followed, in teams of two, working on precarious platforms all along the length of the reckoning. From below, the platforms with their two dwarves each looked like a hundred tiny dots, high on the sheer stone. But when they began to punch – heavy sledges ringing on steel drills – the echoes of their efforts were a chorus that could be heard for miles around.

And joining the chorus was the ring of axes, as Neidar foresters worked in the nearby forests to the north. Day after day, they selected, cut, and hauled the timbers from which dwarven woodsmiths and binders were fashioning a fleet of sturdy sleds to be used as stone-boats. The dismantling of the palace compound, and of the partially constructed new fortress which Lord Kane’s slaves had been building when the dwarves attacked, had taken only three weeks. Now, with several inches of good snow on the ground, the building stones were being hauled away into Tharkas Pass. As full winter closed on the lands north of Tharkas, the only structure still erect there was Lord Kane’s palace. The tall structure served now as headquarters for Derkin’s army and for the dismantling of Klanath.

With hundreds of horses, oxen, bison, and elk harnessed to the new sleds, dwarven teamsters were now busily transferring everything except the palace itself to the border of Kal-Thax, four miles away.

The work of hauling the stone was enhanced, the teamsters were forced to admit, by a bargain that Derkin had made – a bargain that most of the dwarves still could hardly believe. Among the countless hundreds of slaves they had found in Klanath there were no dwarves, but there were some of just about every other race the dwarves had ever heard of. Most of the slaves were humans, some were goblins, a few were elves, and two were ogres. On Derkin’s orders, all of the slaves – even the goblins and ogres – had been freed and told to go away. But at the last moment, Derkin had called the ogres back. Then, while the Ten hovered near with drawn weapons and hundreds of other dwarves looked on with awe and disbelief, the Lawgiver had calmly invited the hulking pair into his chambers in the palace for a talk.

Their names were Goath and Ganat. Now they worked happily alongside the dwarven teamsters, hauling building stones into Tharkas Pass.

Only Derkin, the ogres, and the Ten knew exactly what had been discussed in that private meeting of the Master of Kal-Thax and two of his people’s oldest ancestral enemies. But it was widely rumored among the Chosen that Derkin had made them a deal – fifty milk cows and a good bull from Lord Kane’s herds in return for a winter’s work.

It was known that the Lawgiver had given the ogres one law by which to govern themselves during their service. Derkin had told Goath and Ganat that if they so much as laid hands on any dwarf, other than to assist him, Derkin would personally tear their hearts out.

The ogres themselves verified that last condition of their employment, and there was no doubt that they truly believed that Derkin would do exactly what he said. The fact that each of them was more than twice as tall as Derkin seemed to matter not at all to them. From the time they came out of Derkin’s chambers, it was clear that Goath and Ganat respected – and were somewhat afraid of – their employer.

At first, many of the dwarves were horrified at the idea of working alongside ogres. Dwarves and ogres had always been enemies. Ogres were dangerous, and never to be trusted. But as the weeks passed, the Chosen Ones realized that Derkin had made a good bargain. Each of the huge creatures could move as much stone in a day as two or three of the sled teams driven by dwarves.

The Lawgiver’s only comment about the matter – a comment repeated throughout the encampment – was, “Ogres aren’t necessarily bad. Dull, of course, but not bad. And they don’t stink like goblins.”

Goath and Ganat were still shunned by most of the dwarves. At night, the ogres made their own little fire at some distance from the dwarven shelters and ate and slept in isolation. Only Derkin approached them freely, though two or three times, when the ovens had been fired, Helta Graywood had led a party of women out to the ogres’ fire, delivering fresh bread to go with their meat.

Now as midwinter approached, Derkin Lawgiver – he had accepted the name, since everyone suddenly seemed determined to call him that – climbed to the top of the highest tower of the palace and took a long look around at the work that had been done here and the work that remained. His gaze lingered on a distant group of dwarves working with picks and levers on the wide, stone slope just below the entrance to Tharkas Pass. The monument stone was complete – a ten-foot-high, rectangular obelisk of black quartz with the “fourth law of Kal-Thax” etched deeply into each of its faces. The workers out there had dug a hole in the stone of the slope, a socket into which the base of the law stone would be set.

“We will finish here in the spring,” Derkin said. “Then we return to Kal-Thax.”

“Back to Stoneforge?” Tap Tolec asked. With his broken arm healed, the broad-shouldered warrior had returned to his position as First of the Ten.

Derkin shook his head. “Some of us, but not to stay. Not for a while. We still have work to do at the border.”

Tap glanced at the Hylar, wondering what Derkin Lawgiver had in mind now. But he didn’t ask. Instead, he listened to the distant chorus of stone-drills high on the peak, to the sounds of axes in the nearby forest, the sounds of hooves and sled runners on the hard-packed snow below, and to the constant, never-ending chorus of voices – the voices of thousands of dwarves – boisterous, cheerful, and thoroughly at work. “You’re right about our people,” he said. “We don’t idle well.”

“It’s our nature.” Derkin nodded.

“I remember how Thorbardin sounded when we went there to try to get their help,” Tap said, frowning. “The voices there – most of them, anyway – sounded sullen. The whole place reeked of anger and suspicion. It was an unhappy place. I didn’t like it much, though I’ve thought that I might like to live there someday.”

Derkin turned, gazing at his friend with unreadable, curious eyes. “Why?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Tap confessed. “I’ve never lived beneath stone. I know some of my ancestors were Theiwar, but my people have always been Neidar, never Holgar. We have lived under the sun, not the stone. And yet, sometimes I feel a need to be … enclosed. As though maybe I really am Holgar at heart.”

“I often have the same feeling,” Derkin confided. “Some of my ancestors have been Neidar, but most were Holgar. I was born in Thorbardin. I left because I didn’t like what Thorbardin had become, but there are times when I feel I would go back … if I could change things there.”

“Change things?” Tap growled. “Those people are so set in their ways, you couldn’t budge them with a prybar. How many angry fights did we see, just in the time we were there?”

“Dozens.” Derkin shrugged. “They have nothing better to do. They have made it that way. But our people were contentious, too, when there was nothing to do except watch that wall in Tharkas. That’s why I tried to send most of them home.”

“They’re not contentious now.” Tap gestured, indicating the thousands of busy dwarves, everywhere one might look. “They’re happy. I’m happy, too, except that sometimes I dream of having good stone over my head. Maybe I am Holgar, at heart … like you, Derkin.”

Derkin dismissed the conversation with a shrug and headed down the spiral stairs of the tower. He had his own work to do – a thousand details of command, a thousand things to think about, to decide. Ever since his days of slavery in the Klanath pits, people had thrust leadership at him, forced it upon him, conspired to make him be their leader. At first, the idea had been repugnant. But now, he found that he enjoyed the challenges of leadership: to command an army, to plan a settlement like Stoneforge, to negotiate a treaty, to orchestrate the building of a wall – or the demolition of a human city – to think a thing through, to decide a course of action and then lead his people in doing what he had decided. In many ways, it was the hardest work imaginable, to lead. The responsibility he carried was heavier than any stone his workers were wrestling onto sleds. But somehow it had become a comfortable weight.

He recalled a thing he had found in some old scroll, a bit of advice from some forgotten Hylar scribe of long ago: “To live is to find the thing that one does best, and then to do it thoroughly, and always. To do less than this is to never live at all.”

Tap’s comments about Thorbardin had brought back old memories and old feelings. For a moment, it had seemed as though the Theiwar-Neidar was speaking his own thoughts. He didn’t like Thorbardin. He was disgusted with the ways of Thorbardin life. He had left Thorbardin, never to return. And yet, in his heart, Derkin Winterseed … Derkin Hammerhand … Derkin Lawgiver was as much a part of Thorbardin as the undermountain fortress was of him.

More often than he would admit, Derkin knew the feelings Tap had described. Tap Tolec had always been Neidar, but at heart he was Holgar. Derkin had tried to be Neidar, but at heart he remained Holgar. Sometimes he longed to return to Thorbardin, to live again within the living stone.

If only the people there would live as dwarves should live. If only they would live!

At the foot of the tower stairs Helta Graywood waited for him, bringing his midday meal. She fell into step beside him as he walked toward the Great Hall. On impulse, Derkin said, “You’ve been inside Thorbardin, Helta. Could you live there?”

“I can live anywhere you live,” she said matter-of-factly. “When are you going to marry me?”

“But Thorbardin is a sullen, idle place,” he pointed out, ignoring her question.

“It wouldn’t be,” she said, “if you were in command there.”

With a snort, Derkin crossed to Lord Kane’s throne and sat down. The chair of state was the only item of human furniture that remained in the palace now, and even it was changed. Derkin had taken a saw to the thing, cutting its base down to a height more comfortable for a dwarf. Helta handed him his platter of meat and bread, then perched on a bench beside him with her own.

Derkin ate some of his food, then looked at her. The bandage was gone from her cheek now, and the scar there was as evident as he had known it would be. But, oddly, it did not make her ugly. If anything, it distinguished her. She was still the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Tearing his eyes from her, he went back to his dinner. “That’s enough talk about Thorbardin,” he said gruffly. “Thorbardin doesn’t have a single commander. It never has had a single leader.”

“Maybe that’s what’s wrong with it,” the girl said. “Maybe it needs a king.”

“Well, I’m not a king,” Derkin snapped. “And I don’t want to talk about Thorbardin anymore.”

“You brought it up, not me,” she reminded him. She said no more about Thorbardin, but a sly smile played at her lips when he looked away, a smile that seemed to say, “You aren’t my husband, Derkin Whatever, but one day you will be. And who’s to say what else you might one day be?”

When all of the stone from the two compounds had been removed to the border of Kal-Thax – huge, neat stacks of cut stone now stood in Tharkas Pass, completely hiding Derkin’s Wall – the Lawgiver set his demolishers to work on the palace itself. Through the final weeks of winter, the towers came down. The entire palace seemed to shrink day by day. As sleeping quarters disappeared, temporary shelters were erected outside. And through all the activity, the distant ring of stone-drilling continued to echo from the peak above.

Then, abruptly and oddly, the weather changed. On a day that had begun clear and sunny, with a northerly breeze carrying promise of spring, it changed. Dark, heavy-looking clouds appeared in the west, and the wind changed to the same direction. By midday, the dark clouds were overhead, blocking the sunlight, turning the day to twilight. Then the wind died to stillness. The dense cover of clouds seemed to settle atop the high peaks, creeping lower and lower as the hours passed. After a time, the ring of stone-drills was stilled, and the delvers came down from above.

“The fog is dense up there,” the chief of delvers told Derkin. “We can’t see to work.”

By the last murky light of evening, the dark clouds floated just overhead, low enough that a sling-stone, flung by a curious dwarf, could reach them. The stone disappeared into murk, then reappeared as it fell. The air was still, and heavy with chill vapors.

Hour by hour, the strange clouds lowered. Beyond the flickering illumination of the dwarves’ fires, the night was as dark as any night anyone could remember.

By midnight, the cloud cover had settled to the ground, and dense mist was all around. Even the Daergar were blind in such conditions.

Derkin was awakened from brief sleep by Tap Tolec and the rest of the Ten. They carried hooded candles, but the mists outside had crept inside, and the candlelight was muted and eerie.

“We don’t like this weather,” Tap said when Derkin was awake. “There’s something wrong about it.”

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Derkin glared at his friend. “You woke me up to talk about the weather? I can’t do anything about the weather. What do you want?”

“It isn’t right,” Tap insisted. “We’ve all seen spring storms in these climes, but this isn’t one of them.”

“Then maybe it’s a late winter storm.”

“It isn’t that, either,” Tap insisted. “Put your boots on and come outside. Something’s wrong.”

“You and your Theiwar intuition,” Derkin growled. But he pulled on his boots, wrapped his cloak around him, picked up his hammer, and followed Tap along one of the last hallways in the shrinking palace. Like his sleeping cubicle, the hall was murky with chill vapors. Tap pushed a door open and stepped outside, Derkin and the others following. It was very dark, and very still. The fitful light of the hooded candles carried no more than a few feet.

“It’s dark and foggy.” Derkin shrugged. “So what?”

“Just wait a minute,” Tap said. “Wait and watch.”

A minute passed, and then another, and suddenly there was flickering light around them. It was gone in an instant. Tap said, “There. That’s what’s worrying us.”

“Lightning?” Derkin puzzled. “Since when are you afraid of —”

“Sh!” Tap hushed him. “Listen.”

Patiently, Derkin stood and listened. The others did likewise.

After a full minute, Tap Tolec said, “That’s what I mean.”

“What?” Derkin demanded. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“Neither did we,” the First explained. “It’s been like this for an hour now. Lightning, but no thunder.”

Again there was brief, flaring light in the fog, and again it was followed by only silence. Derkin had a sudden intuition of his own and shuddered. “Magic,” he muttered. “It’s some kind of magic.”

“That’s what we think, too,” Talon Oakbeard said. “But who’s doing it? And what’s it for?”

“Find a drummer,” Derkin ordered. “Alert everyone. It will be morning soon. Maybe this fog will lift then. When it does, I want everyone ready … for whatever is going on out there. Armor, gear, and weapons. And perimeter defense positions, as soon as we can see well enough to move around. If magic is being worked, there’s usually a reason.” Taking one of the candles, he strode back to his quarters and got dressed.

The candle’s muted glow gleamed on the polished breastplate he strapped on, and glistened on his mirror-like horned helm. The kilt he wore was of studded leather, and his cloak was once again bright scarlet. For the taking of Klanath, dark tones had seemed appropriate to the Chosen Ones. But after the city had been taken, they soon reverted to their bright colors. The somber shades then had become depressing.

“It’s our nature,” Derkin mused to himself, slinging his shield and hammer at his shoulders. “Dwarven nature. We express ourselves with color, the way elves do with their songs.”

The fog did not lift with the coming of morning. It simply rolled back as though it had never been there. One moment, the world was a gray, closed-in place. The next moment there was a final, flickering flash of that strange lightning, and the mist began to recede, rolling away on all sides, opening an ever-wider field of vision. Under cold, high clouds in a leaden sky, dwarves scurried everywhere, hurrying from their sleeping shelters and night posts to their assigned places on the perimeters of what had been Klanath.

And as the fogs rolled into the distance all around, Derkin Lawgiver and everyone else could see what the mist had been sent to cover. All around the dwarven encampment were ranks and legions of human soldiers. There were thousands of them, horse battalions and footmen, pikemen and lancers, companies of archers and boltmen – a full, mighty army in position to attack from all sides. And above each unit were the banners of Daltigoth, of the Empire of Ergoth, of the troops of the Emperor Quivalin Soth V.

Derkin turned full around, trying to count an enemy beyond counting, looking for escape routes that were not there. “Rust!” he muttered. “We’re outnumbered. And we’re surrounded!”

Part V

MASTER OF THE MOUNTAINS

Chapter 21

THE EMPEROR’S ROAD

For long moments the two forces – the Chosen Ones and the emperor’s army – simply stared at one another. Then trumpets sounded, and a small group of human horsemen separated from the massed line below the peak. Carrying a banner on a tall staff, they rode forward at a walk until they were halfway across the space between their regiment and the nearest company of dwarves. There they stopped and sat waiting.

Derkin Lawgiver studied them for a moment, then turned to Tap Tolec. “My horse,” he said.

Mounted, and flanked by the Ten on their own mounts, Derkin pranced his horse through his line, and rode out to where the humans waited. When he came near, the man in the lead raised his visor and held up one hand. “Are you the leader of these dwarves?” he demanded.

“So they tell me,” Derkin responded. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“My name is Coffell,” the man intoned. “Sergeant-Major in the service of His Imperial Majesty’s mounted lancers. On behalf of His Imperial Majesty, I offer you the clemency of the empire, provided all your people lay down their arms and surrender immediately.”

“What does this clemency amount to?” Derkin asked.

The man raised his head slightly, sneering. “If you surrender without a fight, you will not be killed,” he said. “Instead, it shall be your privilege to serve His Imperial Majesty in appropriate labors.”

“You mean as slaves.” Derkin returned the sneer. “Most of us have already tried that. We didn’t like it. Did Sakar Kane send you people? Is he with you?”

For a moment the man hesitated, then he leaned aside to whisper to the man beside him. This second rider wheeled his horse and trotted back to his own line. Watching carefully, Derkin saw him approach a large, dark-cloaked man on a powerful-looking black horse. A moment later, the messenger raced back, to whisper something to Coffell.

The sergeant-major turned to Derkin again. “I am empowered to tell you that the man called Sakar Kane is no longer in either the service or the good graces of His Imperial Majesty,” he said. “He has disappeared.”

“Then who is in charge here?” Derkin demanded.

“You may deliver your decision to me,” Coffell said. “Will you lay down your arms?”

“I don’t want to talk to you.” The dwarf glared at him. Then he pointed. “I want to talk to him.”

Coffell turned, saw where Derkin was pointing, and frowned. “You are in no position to be arrogant,” he chided.

Derkin signaled casually, and the Ten pulled crossbows from their saddle hooks. Efficiently and in unison, they drew the bows, set bolts in them, and raised them. “And you, human, are in no position to return alive to your friends,” Derkin rumbled. “Now quit arguing. I want to talk to the man in charge.”

Pale and angry, the sergeant-major whispered again, and again the messenger headed back to his own lines, this time at a gallop. After a moment, the dark-cloaked man stepped his horse forward and followed the messenger out to the conference. Ignoring the drawn crossbows, the newcomer gazed at Derkin with eyes that held a palpable force – eyes that resembled small, dark mirrors in a strong, brutal face. “I am Dreyus,” he said. “And you must be the dwarf they call Derkin. All through the winter, wanderers have arrived in Daltigoth to tell of your attack on Klanath. They said you burned the city. Now I see that you’ve done much more than that. You’ve been busy little people, haven’t you?”

“What do you want here?” Derkin asked.

“I am on the emperor’s business, and this is the emperor’s road,” Dreyus purred. “What I want is for everything to be put in order, as I will direct. You can begin as soon as you have surrendered. You may do that now.”

“I’ll see you roast on coals first,” Derkin explained.

“Ah,” Dreyus hissed. “You are as they have said. Very well, you won’t see me at all. Or anything else.” He pointed a finger at the dwarf and muttered something in a language that was no language.

Remembering something he had found in an old Hylar scroll, Damon ducked his head and closed his eyes. The blinding light that leapt from the man’s finger was like silent lightning. But instead of striking Derkin’s eyes, it struck his mirror-bright helmet and rebounded. Coffell screeched and clapped his hands to his eyes, then fell over backward as his horse reared, neighing wildly. In an instant, blinded men and blinded horses were bouncing, pitching, falling, and staggering off in various directions. Of all the humans in the little group, only Dreyus still sat his saddle, ignoring the pandemonium.

“Don’t do that again,” Derkin suggested. “Next time, these people with me will make a porcupine of you.”

“I assume you do not surrender?” Dreyus growled.

“Of course not,” Derkin said. “We are free dwarves, and we will remain free or die. Furthermore, Klanath will not be put back, as you put it. It is too near Kal-Thax. We don’t want human settlements this close. Also, this is not the ‘emperor’s road,’ because there is no road here. If you and your emperor want to keep pestering those people east of here, you’ll have to find another path. This one is closed.”

“Closed?” Dreyus sneered. “You dwarves can’t keep us from using Redrock Cleft.”

“We don’t have to.” Derkin grinned. “There is no Redrock Cleft. My delvers caved it in a month ago. You might climb through it afoot, but you’ll never get a horse across it.”

The big man’s eyes seemed to blaze, and his face went dark with fury. “You’ve lost your chance to live,” he hissed.

“By the way,” Derkin asked casually, “can you tell me where Sakar Kane is? I still have business with him. If there is one thing we won’t stand for, it’s a liar.”

Dreyus glared at the dwarf. “You’re insane,” he said. Without a further word, he reined the black horse around and trotted away.

“Why don’t we put a few bolts in him?” Tap asked. “He’s still in range.”

Derkin shook his head. “He hasn’t attacked us, yet,” the Lawgiver said. Unmoving, he watched as the big man returned to his troops. A moment later, a pair of riders withdrew from the line there and headed eastward at a gallop. “He doesn’t believe me about Redrock Cleft,” Derkin said. He turned his horse and headed back to his own lines. “Maybe when he finds out that it really is closed, he’ll just turn around and go away.”

“If he doesn’t, we’re likely all going to die here,” Talon Oakbeard pointed out. “Those soldiers are all around us. We have no fortifications, and we’re outnumbered two to one.”

“Maybe we will die, then,” Derkin agreed. With sad, angry eyes he scanned his encampment. Two hundred yards across in all directions, the barren center of what had once been Klanath was a tapestry of dwarven ranks, deployed for defense. All around the encampment was a solid ring of sturdy, armored forms. A pair of javelins stood above each dwarf, and a shield at each shoulder. On every second back was a slung crossbow, and those without crossbows had webbed slings. And each dwarf had a sword, axe, or hammer.

Within the circle, grim assault companies waited – hundreds of mounted, armed dwarves and many more hundreds of footmen. Even here, surrounded on a barren, open plain, without fortification except for the shrunken skeleton of the old palace where some of the women tended the infirm, Derkin’s army was formidable. “They may kill us,” the Lawgiver agreed, “but it will cost them dearly if they do.”

*

It was midday when spotters on the palace ruins saw Dreyus’s scouts returning from the east. Drums sang, and Derkin gathered his group commanders around him for a final time. “The human knows now,” he said. “He has confirmed that Redrock Cleft is no longer passable. Now he will either leave or attack.” He turned to the only human in his camp, Tulien Gart. “Which do you think he will do?”

Tulien Gart shook his head. “Any ordinary officer would leave,” he said. “Oh, he might bluster around a bit, maybe curse you and send a few arrows your way, but he would see the futility of an all-out battle here, even a victorious one. He would withdraw and go in search of another route eastward. But that is no ordinary officer out there, Derkin. That is Dreyus. Dreyus does not like to be thwarted.”

“You are free to leave,” Derkin told the human. “They would pass you through their lines.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” Gart said bleakly. “Dreyus would know that I have been here by my own choice. And he would know where you learned the field tactics of empire soldiers. If I must die, I’d rather it be here, quickly and with honor, than at the mercy of the emperor’s torturers.”

Derkin shrugged. “Arm yourself, then. And find a horse that suits you.” He turned to his unit commanders. “Are we ready?”

Each commander nodded, and one said, “As ready as we’ll ever be.” They turned and headed for their units.

Tap Tolec nudged the Lawgiver and pointed. A short distance away, Helta Graywood had appeared outside the ruined palace. She was wearing oddments of armor and a helmet, all too big for her, and carrying a sword and shield. She was heading for the perimeter line.

“Do you want us to put her back in the shelter?” Tap asked.

“It wouldn’t do any good,” Derkin said. “She’s decided to fight. Just bring her here, so I can keep her with me.”

Trumpets sounded all around, and the human cordon began to close in on the dwarves. Dreyus had made his decision. Foot companies led the approach, with archers among them. When they were within seventy yards, the footmen halted and the archers paced ahead of them and spread, standing and kneeling in double ranks.

“First come the arrows,” Derkin muttered, as though reciting from a manual of arms. “Drums!”

The drums sang, and shields were raised throughout the encampment. From the perimeter inward, the dwarven ranks became a wall of steel.

In unison, the human archers released their bows, and the sky came alive with arrows. But even as the arrows left their strings, small groups of dwarves charged through their perimeter at a dozen points, racing forward as fast as stubby legs could drive them. The arrows went over their heads to fall in the ranks behind them, and before the archers could recover or retreat, there were dwarves among them, slashing furiously this way and that.

Wide-eyed, bewildered bowmen, armed only with their bows and their daggers, fell by the dozens before the foot companies behind them could react. And when the better-armed soldiers did charge forward, hampered by retreating archers and the bodies of the fallen, they saw only the backs of the dwarven assault groups, scampering toward the safety of their shielded lines.

Among the dwarves, few had been hit by arrows. Most of the shafts had found only shields in their path. Others had hit nothing but the hard ground. Here and there, though, a few dwarves lay fallen, some dead and others injured.

“Bolts and slings,” Derkin ordered. Drums beat a tattoo, and on the perimeter line every second dwarf knelt and raised his crossbow. Those between the boltmen whirled their slings, filling the field for an instant with a sound like big, angry bees. Then the crossbows twanged, the stones flew, and all around the dwarves, human soldiers screamed and fell.

“First assault, first reprisal,” Derkin muttered. Clambering onto his war-horse, he pulled Helta Graywood up behind him. Around them, the Ten mounted and formed close guard. Drums tattooed, and all around the encampment, companies of dwarven riders climbed into their saddles. “He’ll put his footmen forward one more time now,” Derkin told himself. “Javelins!”

As though responding to Derkin’s thoughts, trumpets echoed his drums, and human pikemen and macemen advanced at a trot from all sides. The dwarves on the perimeters knelt behind their shields, motionless, as the trot became a headlong charge. The humans closed to forty yards, then thirty, then twenty.

“Throw and rush!” Derkin ordered, the drums taking his message.

As one, the entire dwarven perimeter stood, aimed, flung their javelins, then followed instantly with a second throw. While the first wave of needle-sharp missiles was hitting the humans, and the second was on the way, every second dwarf in the outer ring raised shield and blade and charged forward, roaring their battle cries.

It was not a human strategy. It was a tactic the Chosen Ones had invented, and its effect was murderous. Still moving forward, confronted by javelins that tore through their ranks, stumbling over their impaled companions, the human pikemen and macers were taken completely off guard as a thousand or more dwarves hit their advance, cutting them down right and left. Edged pikes thrust and slashed, and usually went over the heads of the dwarves. Dwarven blades ran with human blood. Dwarven hammers and dwarven shields smashed human knees and jaws.

Then, as before, the dwarves wheeled and withdrew, hurrying back to their own lines. As they returned, those lines backed away, tightening and withdrawing toward the center, compacting their defense. Not all of the dwarves who had countercharged came back. Many lay now where they had fallen – their blood flowing, mingling with the blood of their enemies. But most returned, and the perimeter tightened inward to compensate for the losses.

All around the compact dwarven force, stunned confusion ran through the human ranks. At Dreyus’s command, his officers had launched a standard field assault against a surrounded enemy. First an archery barrage, then pikes and maces to overrun the perimeter, with horse companies in reserve to mop up afterward.

It was a classical tactic, and it should have worked. But the dwarves had not played their part. Instead of cowering and fleeing from the arrows, they had come out under the barrage and decimated the archers. Instead of regrouping for defense against footmen, they had unleashed a deadly barrage of their own. And instead of falling before the pikes and maces, they had countercharged, and now the forward foot companies were in turmoil.

Trumpets sounded, and all around, human soldiers turned and retreated toward their original lines, some running as fast as they could.

Derkin walked his horse across to where Tulien Gart stood beside a human-saddled mount. “Thank you,” the dwarf said. “You taught me well, about human strategy.”

Gart looked up at him bleakly. “It isn’t over,” he said. “That was only the first assault. They’ll come again.”

“Why?” Derkin asked. “They’ve lost hundreds of men. Isn’t it enough?”

“It might be, for a regular officer,” the man said. “But you’ve humiliated Dreyus now. He can’t let you get away with that.”

Behind Derkin, Helta Graywood leaned to look around him. “Who is this Dreyus, anyway?” she asked.

“I don’t really know.” Gart shrugged. “No one knows much about him, except that what he does is the emperor’s doing, and when he speaks it is the emperor speaking. Some suspect that he may actually be Quivalin Soth, in some other form … in a second body, somehow. Two separate men, but with one mind. But even the wizards I’ve met don’t know how that could be done.”

“What will the soldiers do next?” Derkin asked the man.

“Probably try the horse-charge approach,” Gart said. “With their lancers leading, and footmen behind them. It is a time-honored tactic in circumstances like this, when a first assault has been repelled. Quivalin Soth has never been a soldier, and Dreyus probably isn’t either. So he’ll let his officers advise him one more time.”

“The horse-charge,” Derkin said thoughtfully. “Yes, we’ve planned for such. And if that tactic fails, then what?”

“Beyond that I can’t predict,” Gart told him. “Were his officers to fail again, I think Dreyus would take full command. There’s no telling what he would try.”

With the humans withdrawn, dwarves scampered through their lines to retrieve their dead – those they could reach without an arrow finding them. Dragging them back into the besieged encampment, they laid them out honorably and stood over them for a moment, willing their spirits to the mercy of Reorx. There was no time for burial now. That would have to wait until they, under Derkin Lawgiver’s leadership, had chased the humans away.

Spotters atop the ruined palace signaled, and the drums spoke. All around the beleaguered dwarves, the mighty human army was regrouping. Horse companies were moving into the fore now, mounted lancers followed by great tides of foot soldiers.

Chapter 22

THE LAST DAY

By last light of evening, the lancers came, a unified attack aimed at three separate points in the dwarven defense. From the south, northwest, and northeast they charged – armored men on armored horses, lowering their lances as they closed on the stolid ranks of dwarven shields. As the gap narrowed between lancers and dwarves, trumpets blared, and long lines of foot soldiers poured across the frozen ground, following where the horses went.

The dwarves at the assault points stood as though rooted in the rocky soil as the lancers bore down on them. Steel tips with the momentum of charging steeds behind them aligned on steel shields held only by dwarves. Then, at the last possible instant, the shields fell away. Each dwarven defender at those points fell backward, flat on the ground with his shield on top of him.

The lance tips met only cold air in passing, and thundering hooves clattered and faltered as wild-eyed horses tried to avoid the strange footing of horizontal shields. Here and there a shield was battered downward by hooves, but far more horses pivoted and spun, or launched themselves into ill-timed jumps to clear the frightening footing. A few lancers were thrown from their saddles, and some found themselves charging back the way they had come, directly into their own footmen. Most, though, passed over the fallen dwarves and into the encampment itself. Behind them, dwarves rolled and rose, got their feet beneath them and their shields up, and drew their blades.

Several hundred human lancers now milled and wheeled inside the dwarven line, as the line closed behind them. A few found targets for their lances, but the sport lasted only seconds. With a thunder of hooves, the lancers were hit – from all sides, it seemed, by charging dwarven cavalry. Each horse carried a dwarf on each side. Each dwarf wielded a weapon and a fighting shield. With deadly efficiency, the dwarven war-horses tore through the disarrayed lancers, wheeling to charge again and again.

Armored by plate and chain of dwarven steel and protected by the same shields that protected their riders, each horse was a thundering juggernaut among the lightly armored lancers. Men and their mounts fell right and left as dwarven blades and hammers lashed out from both sides of each war-horse, slashing and crushing whatever they could reach.

None of the lancers who had breached the dwarven perimeter returned to his ranks. Some, in their final moments, might have thrown down their weapons and surrendered, given the chance. But dwarves had died in the lancers’ charge, and Derkin’s signal when the trap was sprung was a down-turned thumb. No mercy, and no quarter. It was Derkin’s fourth law, pure and simple: if dwarves were attacked, dwarves would retaliate. If dwarves died, their attackers would also die.

Throughout the slaughter of the lancers, Derkin had held back, simply sitting his mount with Helta behind him, watching the combat and hearing the singing of the drums. Now, as the last lancer fell, he looked at the dark sky and tasted the raw, cold wind that came with evening. He knew what he must do next. Hundreds of his people were dead and more were wounded. Through sheer, stubborn courage and wily tactics, they had accounted for three humans for every fallen dwarf, but were still surrounded and badly outnumbered. If the humans pressed their attack again tomorrow, the Chosen Ones would perish. It was inevitable.

“The enemy is withdrawing for the night,” Derkin told Tap Tolec. “All this day we have defended. Now we must attack. Bring me our master delvers, and ask Vin the Shadow to attend me.”

Tulien Gart drew near, leading a tired horse. The man was battered and bloody, his thigh gouged by a lance tip, but he stood with dignity before the dwarven leader. “I didn’t think you could turn that charge,” he admitted. “Humans could never have done it. Humans wouldn’t have had the courage to fall under those horses, as your people did.”

“They might have,” Derkin said, “if they had ever been slaves.” He climbed down from his horse and helped Helta down. “Take Commander Gart to shelter,” he told her. “Bind his wounds and make a place for him at the fire. There is a cold wind tonight.”

When the delvers were assembled along with Vin the Shadow and several of his Daergar companions, Derkin gathered them around him. “Is the stone-drilling complete up on the peak?” he asked the chief of delvers.

“It is ready, Lawgiver.” The dwarf nodded, his blond beard bobbing in the firelight. “It needs only to be pried.”

Derkin turned to Vin. “We have prepared the face of that peak above the Klanath Pits,” he said, “to fill the pits with an avalanche. That was to have completed our work here, after the last cut stones were hauled away. But now I need that avalanche to occur tonight. Most of the delvers are of Daewar descent. They cannot climb such slopes at night. Do you have people who can?”

Vin had removed his mask, and his large eyes glowed in the firelight as his foxlike face twisted into a tight grin. “There’s plenty of light for us,” he said. “Just explain what has to be done.”

“The delvers have drilled pry-holes all along a fault high on that peak.” Derkin pointed. “They can tell you what to look for, and how to break out the stone. And they can give you their climbing slings and prybars.”

“Will an avalanche help us get back to Kal-Thax?” Vin asked.

“It might.” Derkin shrugged. “The wind is cold tonight. Our spotters say that some of the humans have made their fires down in the pits, out of the wind. It is possible that their leader, Dreyus, is there. Without him, the rest might decide to turn around and go away, rather than lose more men tomorrow for no reason.”

“Then let’s hope Dreyus is warming himself out of the wind,” Vin replied, still grinning. “If he is, we’ll bury him there.”

“Reorx protect you, Vin the Shadow,” Derkin said. “When you have done your task, take your climbers on up, over the peak. If we survive tomorrow, we will see you at Stoneforge. If we don’t come, tell our people there of the four laws.” He clapped the Daergar roughly on the shoulder, then turned and strode away, the Ten following.

“Do you really think Dreyus will be in the pits?” Tap Tolec asked doubtfully as they toured the perimeter, gazing at the hundreds of human fires encircling them.

“Who knows?” Derkin shrugged. “If Tulien Gart is right, Dreyus may not even feel the wind’s chill. But we did set out to bury the Klanath pits, and I wouldn’t want to leave that task undone. Besides, it is a matter of law. All this day we have been attacked. Whatever happens tomorrow, we must retaliate tonight. And I know of no better way.”

As evening dragged into the middle hours of night, Derkin’s scouts and foragers roamed the field between the dwarven encampment and the surrounding army, searching for weak points, for possible avenues of escape. They found none, and their reports only verified what Derkin already knew. If the humans continued their attack tomorrow, his entire army was doomed. They could not escape, and they could not hold out through another day on this barren, defenseless flat.

Near midnight, the Lawgiver entered the ruined palace one last time. He found Helta Graywood and sat with her for a few moments beside a dwindling fire.

“We would have been married when we returned to Kal-Thax,” he said. “It is what I was waiting for. I wanted to marry you on dwarven ground, in a land secured for dwarves.”

“Are we going to die tomorrow, Derkin?” she asked quietly.

“There is a chance – just a slight chance – that the humans might withdraw,” he said. “But if they don’t …”

He let his voice trail off, not wanting to finish the statement.

Helta took his hand in both of hers. “As of this moment, you are my husband,” she said. “I wish us long life, if that can be. But if it cannot, at least we will end life as one.”

Suddenly the ground seemed to shake, and a rolling thunder sounded through the walls. Still hand in hand, they hurried outside. The cold night wind had shredded the clouds overhead, and there was starlight. Beyond the human encampments to the south, and high above them, an entire mountain slope was in gigantic motion. Down and down, gathering momentum with each foot, millions of tons of shattered stone poured down the steep slope, flattening and burying everything in a half-mile-wide path of utter destruction. Within seconds, the avalanche rolled onto the lower slope, a huge wall of moving, churning stone racing toward the firelit pits of Klanath. Even above the thunder, the dwarves could hear humans screaming.

The bounding stones hit the mine pits, filled and covered them, and rolled on for another hundred yards, tearing through rank after rank of human encampments. And as the thunder died, great clouds of dust arose, riding on the wind.

Vin the Shadow had done his work. He and another fifty or sixty Daergar miners had completed the task the delvers had begun. The pits of Klanath were no more.

But even as he watched the dust clouds rise, Derkin Lawgiver knew that Dreyus had survived. Somehow he sensed that the strange, evil man – who might be another embodiment of the emperor Quivalin Soth V – had not been in the path of the avalanche. Dreyus was still alive, and tomorrow his army would finish what it had begun today.

With eyes as bleak and cold as the night wind, Derkin turned to Tap Tolec. “Awaken the camp,” he said. “We move at once.”

“But there’s no way out,” Talon Oakbeard muttered. “We’re still surrounded.”

“We go there.” Derkin pointed at the still-billowing dust. “There, with our backs to the mountain, we can make them pay more dearly for each of us they kill.”

*

Darkness and speed now were the dwarves’ final allies. Before the soldiers east and west of the landslide’s fan could close in, Derkin’s entire camp had been moved. Leaving the barren clearing around the ruined palace behind them, they transferred themselves and everything they could ride, herd, or carry into the field of tumblestone beneath the steep, sheared peak.

But as his people dug in there, in the final hour of darkness, Derkin remembered a debt of honor. At the edge of the avalanche fan, Tulien Gart was struggling with a balky horse, trying to follow the dwarves into the maze of scattered stone. Ordering the Ten to stay and organize their defenses, Derkin hurried down the slope toward the man. As he approached, he held out his hand. “You have done all you can for us, human,” he said. “Dreyus lives, and if you stay here you will die. Get on that horse and follow the dust cloud. In the darkness and confusion, one rider might get through.”

For an instant, Gart hesitated. Then he nodded. He could do no more here. The dwarf was repaying a debt of gratitude. Derkin was offering him his life. Pulling his horse away from the rocks, Tulien Gart bowed, a bow of true respect. “Farewell, Derkin Lawgiver,” he said. “May whatever gods you choose protect you.” He mounted then and rode away in the starlit darkness, heading east, following the drifting cloud of dust.

Derkin turned and hesitated. He sensed that he was not alone, but saw no one. Then a starlit face appeared from nothingness, and he sighed. Helta had followed him. “You still have that elf’s invisible cloak,” he rasped. “I thought I told you to …”

Running feet scuffed the ground, and excited whispers reached his ears. “It’s the leader! Get him!”

“Derkin!” Helta shouted. “Watch out!”

But it was too late. Something heavy crashed against the temple of his helm, and the world went dark as the ground rose to meet him.

Stunned, unable to move or even gasp, Derkin saw torchlight flare, and there were humans all around. A patrol of soldiers, searching the field. A sling hummed and spat, a soldier screeched, and the torch fell and went out. In the darkness, Derkin felt something being spread over him. Then the voices came again – guttural, human voices. “Why, it’s only a dwarf girl!” one said. “This is no ‘leader,’ Cooby.”

“I swear he was here,” another said. “At least, I thought I saw him.”

“Well, there’s no one here now except her. Whoop! Catch her! Don’t let her get away!”

“It’s all right. I have her. Ow! Give me a hand here! She’s as strong as an ox!”

His mind screaming silently, Derkin could only listen as the humans carried Helta away. Seconds passed, and he felt himself beginning to recover, but already the sounds were fading into distance, and there was nothing he could do.

But then the fading footsteps halted, and a man’s voice shouted, “Oh, gods, no!”

Other voices drowned his, shouting and screaming. There were several distinct thuds, and various crashing, clattering noises. With a thrust of iron will, Derkin forced his fingers to move, then his hands, arms, and legs. He rolled over, staggered upright, and the invisible cloak fell away from him. The world seemed to pitch and sway around him, but he forced his vision to steady itself as he saw movement. He squinted in the starlight, then gaped.

Helta Graywood came to him out of the starlit darkness, chattering and caressing. “You’re alive!” she said. “Oh, I was so afraid.”

He stared past her at the two towering, lurching creatures behind her.

Helta glanced around. “Goath and Ganat were watching,” she said. “They saved me.”

“Pretty one Derkin’s mate,” one of the ogres rumbled, sounding almost apologetic. “Nice little dwarf. Humans act bad to her.”

“Won’t bother her anymore, though,” the other added. “We bashed’em.”

*

First light of dawn brought moments of confusion to Dreyus’s forces. The dwarven encampment out on the flats was gone, but it didn’t take long to find where they had gone. In the night, a huge avalanche had crashed down on the central section of the army’s southern cordon. Where there had been great mine pits, now there was only a sloping field of rubble. And at least one battalion of soldiers camped there was gone as though it had never existed. But the dwarves were found. They had taken shelter among the fallen stones.

Just out of range of crossbows, javelins, and slings, Dreyus and his commanders assembled on the flats, looking up at the remaining dwarves.

“Sire, we have lost nearly two thousand men in a day and a night in this place,” one of the senior commanders noted. “These dwarves cannot win, of course. They are trapped where they are, with that cliff at their backs and our units all around. But there are still thousands of dwarves here, and they fight fiercely. We will lose more men today. With the road closed beyond repair, is this place worth such a price to His Imperial Majesty?”

“My voice is the emperor’s voice,” Dreyus rasped. “Those dwarves have tampered with the destiny of the empire. They must die. No quarter, and no prisoners. We will put an end to them here.”

Up on the rockfall slope, several dwarves appeared atop a wedge of stone, barely sixty yards from Dreyus and his officers. Dreyus recognized Derkin and snarled. The dwarf stood in plain view, fists on his hips, looking this way and that as though counting the human army … as though gloating at the obvious losses they had sustained.

“I want them all to die, here and now,” Dreyus hissed. “And I want that one’s head, to send back to Daltigoth.”

“Yes, Sire.” The senior commander saluted. “We will regroup, then. Their new position requires some changes in tactic.”

“A delay?” Dreyus glared at the man. “How long?”

“Not past noon, Sire,” the officer said. “A few hours to realign our troops. Then we can move on the dwarves.”

“I want an end to this today!” Dreyus declared.

The officer conferred with his lieutenants for a moment, then saluted Dreyus again. “It shall be as you order, Sire.”

Off to the humans’ left, just beyond the east slope of the rockfall, a clamor broke out. For long minutes, the peak’s sheared face echoed the sounds of furious combat, then a company of lancers and several hundred footmen came racing around the fan, shouting and pointing back. “Dwarves!” a leader shouted. “A thousand or more of them! They hit us from behind!”

The Chosen Ones, up in the rocks, had heard the clamor, too, and tried to see what was happening. A hundred or more of them crept to observation points looking eastward, just as a large party of dwarves piled into the rocks from that point. They were strangers, but where they had been, the rocky ground was littered with fallen humans.

Without ceremony, the newcomers scurried into the stonefall, and one of them, a stocky, gold-bearded young dwarf, shouted, “Where is Hammerhand?”

Derkin and the Ten hurried around a pile of stone. “I’m here,” he answered. “Who are you?” He stopped, and blinked. “Luster? By Reorx’s rosy red rear! It’s Luster Redleather!”

“Of course it is.” The Daewar grinned. “And these are friends of mine.” He indicated a burly, dark-bearded young Hylar beside him. “This is Culom Vand. He’s Dunbarth Ironthumb’s son. He and I sort of take turns leading this crowd. We’ve been looking for you since last fall. Then, a week ago, Culom had an odd dream.”

“I dreamed of drumcall,” the young Hylar said. “And there was a voice that said we should go to Tharkas Pass.”

“So we did,” Luster said. “Do you know that whole pass is full of cut stone? There’s enough to build a city. Anyway, we came through the pass, and here you are.”

“Why were you looking for me?” Derkin frowned. “Has the Council of Thorbardin changed its mind? If so, they’re a little late.”

“Well, not exactly. But the chieftains have had some second thoughts, after that business at Sithelbec.”

“Sithelbec?”

“Oh, I guess you don’t know about that. There was a great battle there, between the empire’s forces and the elves. We went there, with Dunbarth, to help the elves. Afterward, Dunbarth and my father had some tough conversation with old Swing Basto.”

Derkin glance curiously at the Daewar. “Basto? The Theiwar chieftain at Thorbardin?”

“The same,” Luster confirmed. “It turns out those renegade Theiwar he was always defending had been up to their ears in that war over there, aiding the empire. Basto claims he knew nothing about it, but my father doesn’t believe him. And speaking of war, you have a nice one going on here. May we join you?”

“You already have,” Derkin pointed out. “But you may wish you hadn’t. We don’t have much chance of surviving the day.”

Culom Vand had climbed to a high place. He was shading his eyes, surveying the massive human army spread out before the stonefall. “I see what you mean,” he said. “Who are those people?”

“The emperor’s army,” Derkin said.

“The whole army?” Luster Redleather muttered, then pursed his lips in a low whistle. “Wow! We did barge into something, didn’t we?” He raised his sword, looking critically at its wide blade. “Well, Hammerhand, since we’re here, I guess we’ve just joined your army.”

“Lawgiver,” Tap Tolec growled. “His name is Derkin Lawgiver. Hammerhand was before, in Kal-Thax.”

Throughout a bleak morning, the Chosen Ones and their unexpected reinforcements dug in among the fresh-fallen rubble and watched the movements of the emperor’s legions out on the flat. Every dwarf in Derkin’s army knew that this place would be their last stand, and that there was no hope for them. Even with the arrival of eight hundred warriors from Thorbardin, they could not win. But still they watched in fascination as the panorama of one of the world’s greatest armies, positioning itself for a final, deadly assault, was played out before them.

“There will be no more horse charges,” Derkin told those around him. “You see, the horse companies are being moved to the rear and the sides. They can’t use horses in a field of boulders, any more than we can. But they’ve closed any possible retreat for us.”

“I wish now we’d kept Lord Kane’s catapults,” Tap said. “We could use them here.”

When the sun was high, the vast shifting of legions and battalions was at an end. Great combined companies of footmen in heavy armor now formed the front ranks of the human formation. There were thousands of them, row upon row and rank upon rank. Derkin didn’t need Tulien Gart to tell him what the humans intended. They would come afoot, protected somewhat by their armor. Some would fall, but for each one down there would be ten more behind. Wave after wave of them would come up into the rocks, and they would keep coming. Nothing the dwarves could do would stop them now.

Trumpets sounded, and the first wave of the attack began. The thousands of armored footmen started for the avalanche fan. Marching shoulder to armored shoulder, they seemed to be in no great hurry. There was no charge, no rush. The footmen simply began walking, heading into the tumblestone field. Above them, dwarves waited, their weapons at the ready.

“Make them pay for this day,” Derkin Lawgiver ordered his people. “Make them remember the dwarves of Kal-Thax … and of Thorbardin.”

Chapter 23

DAY OF RECKONING

The first armored footmen entering the tumblestone wilderness met javelins, hurled with deadly accuracy. Derkin’s best delvers and some of the Thorbardin dwarves had gathered all of the remaining javelins and placed themselves in forward positions, where they could spring from cover, throw their weapons, then fall back.

The final lesson that many of the humans learned that day, about dwarves or anything else, was that pinpoint accuracy with a javelin was second nature to the short people – and especially to the delvers. For ages, the javelin had been a basic tool of most dwarven cultures. It had been used in climbing, in delving, in mining, and in the traversing of chasms long before it was ever used as a weapon. A capable climber or delver could virtually thread a needle with a javelin. At fifty feet, a delver could sink a javelin into a crevice an inch wide, with enough force that it would hold climbing lines securely.

Now, as the first ranks of men entered the rockfall, the dwarves found targets among them. Visor slits, unprotected throats, gaps between breastplates and shoulder mail, loosely fitted knee plates – any chink in the humans’ armor large enough to admit a slim, steel-pointed shaft – all felt the sting of dwarven javelins. Nearly eighty soldiers fell, pierced by the slim spears, before the forward dwarves ran out of javelins to throw. And another fifty fell to bronze crossbow bolts and whining sling-stones, before any of them got far enough into the stones to use their blades.

But the tide of the assault was overwhelming. Dwarves fought the clanking humans on the lower slope of the fan, then fell back and turned to fight again, higher up in the rubble. Slowly, inexorably, the dwarves were sought out, pushed back, and compacted by the sheer weight of numbers.

Men died and dwarves died as the uncaring cliffs above echoed the clatter and clash of furious combat.

Derkin and the Ten were everywhere, reinforcing a defense here, defending a withdrawal there, setting up impromptu ambushes and counterattacks. Once into the maze of fallen rock, the humans were sometimes out of contact with their officers, and dozens of small, scattered bands of them wandered here and there, sometimes going the wrong way … and paying for their confusion with their lives. But the dwarven drums were singing constantly, orchestrating the strategies and movements of Derkin’s disciplined dwarves. For an hour, and then another, it seemed the dwarves might hold their position among the rocks. Yet even as Derkin realized that they were holding, his drums told him of another wave of attackers entering the landslide fan.

As the sun of Krynn quartered in the western sky, the stonefall beneath the peaks was a bedlam of frantic, hand-to-hand fighting. Everywhere the dwarves turned, there were armored soldiers, pressing them, pushing them, cutting them down by the dozens. Derkin found himself in a narrow cleft between boulders, fighting for his life against three humans. Beyond the cleft, the Ten – or what was left of them – were standing off a dozen more. But five wandering soldiers had entered from somewhere else, and Derkin found himself and one other, fighting back to back against impossible odds. Hammer and shield against shields, armor, and slashing swords, Derkin Lawgiver admitted to himself that it was only moments before he would die. “For the Chosen Ones,” he chanted. “For Kal-Thax.”

Directly behind him a deep voice responded, “For Thorbardin. Everbardin, be open to this one.” Hearing the voice, Derkin knew who was fighting behind him. It was the Hylar, Culom Vand, the son of Dunbarth Ironthumb.

Derkin deflected a vicious, two-handed slash with his shield and returned the blow. His hammer left a deep dent in the breastplate of a human and staggered him backward, but his foes kept up their attack. Behind him, the Lawgiver heard a gasp and the sound of pierced lungs. But then steel rang on steel again, and he knew that Culom Vand was still there, and that it was an attacker who had fallen.

Two blades came at him together, one high and one low. He ducked, caught the lower one on his shield, and braced himself for the overhead blow. But it didn’t fall, and he saw the shadow of Culom’s shield above him.

He recovered, thrust, and said hoarsely, “Thanks.”

Behind him, Culom said, “My father really does want to talk to you … preferably alive.”

Then, abruptly, above the din, the drums echoed a new call. A soldier glanced away for an instant, and Derkin’s hammer crushed the man’s helmet into his skull.

Behind him, Culom said, “That’s the song I heard in my dream, before we came to the pass. What does it mean?”

Derkin ducked under a sword slash, braced his feet, and butted his nearest foe with his shield. The man doubled over the shield, and Derkin straightened, lifted the soldier, and flung him backward against the second one. Both of them fell, and Derkin raised his head, listening. Then his eyes widened. “It means reinforcements!” he shouted. “Let’s get out of this place!”

“I’m with you,” Culom rasped, pushing his own adversary back a step. Then, as armored men rushed the pair from both sides, the dwarves dropped to the ground, slashing at human ankles. With a resounding clatter, three soldiers collided above them, and sprawled against the stones. “Climb,” Derkin ordered. Making a stirrup of his hands, he hoisted Culom to the top of the nearest standing stone, and the Hylar pulled him up an instant later. Beneath them, dazed soldiers were just getting to their hands and knees as Tap Tolec and Talon Oakbeard rushed into the crevice to methodically brain them.

The drums were beating a wild tattoo, and trumpets blared in the distance. Atop the standing stone, Derkin Lawgiver stared, openmouthed. Out on the barrens, beyond the landslide, there was melee everywhere. Human horse units wheeled and circled frantically, footmen scrambled in all directions, and a half-hundred pitched battles were underway.

And beyond, coming up from the forest, were elves. By the hundreds and thousands, they streamed onto the wasteland slopes, leaping and bounding, their deadly arrows flying ahead of them like swarms of angry wasps. Moon-blond hair flowing in the wind, beardless faces serene and intent, the elves had fallen on Dreyus’s army from behind, and were methodically cutting it to pieces. And among them, riding and slashing like lithe, feral beasts with bright feathers in their hair, were hundreds of mounted Cobar warriors.

Scampering to the highest place he could find, Derkin raised his hammer high above his head, then swept it downward toward the open slopes. “Attack!” he roared.

Before the scattered, surprised soldiers of the emperor could reform to respond to the elves’ attack, they found themselves hit from behind by thousands of howling, chanting dwarves pouring out of the landslide fan. Some of the soldiers responded bravely; some heard a confusion of orders and ran in circles. Some simply ran.

There were no strategies now, no planned assaults and defenses. This was open combat, with many pitched battles going on while horsemen wheeled and clashed among them. Derkin and the Ten – who were only the Six now – waded in, chopping and slashing at anything wearing the colors of Daltigoth. Behind them came the Chosen Ones, a solid wall of stubby, deadly rage, chanting to the rhythm of the drums. And on their flanks ran several hundred Hylar and Daewar, joining the chants. A milling legion of empiremen melted away before them, and Derkin found himself face-to-face with a hooded elf. “Hail, Lawgiver,” Despaxas said, tossing back his cowl. “The Wildrunners and the rangers are here.”

“I already noticed,” Derkin growled. “You might have come a little earlier, though.”

“We’d have been here two days ago if Redrock Cleft had still been open for our Cobar friends.” The elf smiled, a smile that was childlike in its slyness. “But they had to go around.”

“That’s what you always wanted, wasn’t it?” Derkin glared at him. “From the very first, you’ve used me – and my people – to block the emperor’s path to the east.”

“We all use one another.” Despaxas shrugged. “To use and be used, by choice, is the way of friendship. It’s the stuff of alliances. The alternative is domination by emperors, and slavery.”

A random arrow, with the markings of Daltigoth, whisked toward Derkin. Without seeming to take his eyes off Despaxas, the dwarf deflected the quarrel with his shield. Just beyond Despaxas, a buckskin-clad Wildrunner drew his bow and shot, returning the human fire.

All around them, the pitched battle raged.

Talon Oakbeard came then, mounted on his favorite horse and leading other mounts. Derkin’s was there, its saddle already occupied. Helta Graywood eased back to make space for Derkin in the saddle, and he climbed aboard.

Derkin looked down, but Despaxas was gone. The elf had said all he had to say, apparently.

Other dwarven horse companies were mounted now, and sweeping here and there through human ranks, dwarves slashing fiercely from both sides of each saddle. Derkin picked out a promising fight and joined in.

Within an hour, the fighting had thinned and scattered. The sun was low, sinking behind distant peaks, and Derkin noticed an odd, dark cloud forming above the place where the old human compounds had stood. He worked his mount in that direction, swerving here and there to get in a hammer-blow at a scurrying soldier, then reined in abruptly. Just ahead, a big man sat silently on a black horse, staring at the dwarf with eyes that burned with hatred.

“Dreyus,” Derkin muttered. With Helta clinging behind him, and the survivors of the Ten following, he spurred his mount toward the man. But the strange, dark cloud above swirled and lowered, a dipping funnel of darkness that reached downward to engulf Dreyus. It paused only an instant, then lifted, and Dreyus was gone. It was as though he had never been there.

Yet, just at the instant of the cloud’s lifting, a shadow seemed to join it – a wide-winged bat-fish shadow that seemed more to swim in the air than to fly.

“Magic,” Derkin muttered, turning away.

Then Despaxas was there again, beside him. With wide, wise eyes, the elf was staring at the place where the cloud had been. “Yes, magic,” he said. “Of a strange kind, but Zephyr understood it.”

“Zephyr?” Derkin cocked his head. “Your pet shadow? Did he help do that?”

“No, Dreyus did it, but Zephyr used it to escape the verge. He has gone back to his plane.”

“I’m sorry,” Derkin said, realizing that it was true.

“Be glad for him,” Despaxas said. “For a long time, Zephyr has sought the path back to his world. I couldn’t help him, but he found one who could. It’s odd, the one who freed him from the verge was the only person I’ve ever known of that Zephyr couldn’t even see.”

Derkin was ready to fight some more, but it seemed there was no one to fight. All around, soldiers were throwing aside their banners and their heavy armor to flee in panic, while elves, dwarves and Cobar harried them on their way. Among the Cobar, Derkin thought he recognized Tuft Broadland, but the tall warrior was far off, and he couldn’t tell for sure. He did see another human he recognized, though. Riding with the Cobar was the former officer of the empire, Tulien Gart.

Tap Tolec reined in beside Derkin. “We’ve run out of soldiers,” he said. “What do we do now?”

“Have the drums sound assembly,” Derkin said. “We’re going home. There’s still enough daylight left to see us back to the border of Kal-Thax.”

By last light, the Chosen Ones and the Thorbardin volunteers made their way among great stacks of building blocks, to file through the almost hidden gate of Derkin’s Wall. The war north of Tharkas Pass was at an end, and Derkin Lawgiver left the elves and their allies to clean up the field. It was their land, not his.

The dwarves had gathered up all of their dead and carried them the four miles to the ancient place that a long-ago dwarf named Cale Greeneye had marked as the boundary of the dwarven lands. Tomorrow, the honored dead would be buried in their own land. For now, though, it was enough to simply build a few fires, tend wounds, and rest.

Derkin looked around him at the proud, battered people who had made him their leader and felt humble. For nearly a mile southward from their wall, they filled Tharkas Pass with their little fires, their clusters of bedding, their low, tired voices, and their snores. But they were far fewer than the bold army that had marched from this pass seasons earlier to depose Sakar Kane. For every three dwarves who had gone to war, only two had returned. Derkin found himself wondering if anything – even the fierce pride of a nation – was worth such a price.

As though reading his mood and his thoughts, Helta Graywood appeared beside him and gripped his hand with strong, warm little fingers. “If you decide to turn around this minute and do it all again,” she said, “they will follow you. These people are your people, Derkin Lawgiver. They love you.”

“I’ve never understood why,” he rumbled.

“And I suppose you never will,” she said. “But I understand.”

Near midnight, guards came from the wall to awaken the Lawgiver. “There are people at the gate,” they said. “They ask to speak with you.”

“What people?” Derkin hissed, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. It was the first time in nearly a week that he had slept, and now his nap had been interrupted.

“Not dwarves,” a guard said. “One of them is that elf, the one who was with us before. There are others with him.”

By the light of a single rising moon, Derkin made his way to the narrow gate, yawning and surly, more asleep than awake. The timber door stood open, but several dwarves were blocking it, denying entrance to those beyond. They stepped aside as Derkin approached, and two of them kindled torches. Despaxas stood just beyond the portal, with other lithe, silent figures behind him. They were all elves.

Peeved and grumpy from being awakened, Derkin glared at the elven mage. “What do you want?” he demanded.

“We have what we wanted,” Despaxas said. “The mountain road between the human empire and the central plains is closed. It is likely that Quivalin Soth will continue his insane attempts at conquest, but he can no longer strike swiftly or sustain a siege. For that we thank you, Derkin Lawgiver.”

“Fine,” Derkin growled. “Then you won’t mind going away and letting me sleep.”

“When your great-uncle established this boundary,” Despaxas continued, ignoring the surly dismissal, “the agreement was between him and my mother, Eloeth. Between a dwarf and an elf.”

“So?”

“So, know that from this day forward, the land north of here is elven land. It will be called Qualinesti.”

“Fine,” Derkin growled. “So you want me to get my building blocks off of your property, is that it?”

“I suggest you use them as building blocks should be used,” Despaxas said. “Build a city. Here, where you have your boundary wall, in Tharkas Pass. My leader, Kith-Kanan, suggests that your people and mine consider a treaty to formalize the boundary between our lands. And if the boundary were to be a city, perhaps we could build it together.”

“Together?” Derkin gaped at him. “You mean … dwarves and elves, together? Such a thing has never been done.” He yawned. “Look, could we talk about this tomorrow? I’m tired.”

“There is nothing more to talk about,” Despaxas said. “I have presented thanks, and a suggestion. You have heard it.”

“Fine,” Derkin said. “I’ll sleep on it.”

With an innocent smile, Despaxas raised his hand and muttered something that Derkin could not understand. But suddenly the dwarf felt restored and content … and, somehow, very wise. “What have you done?” he asked.

“I have given you two gifts,” the elf said. “One is from my mother. The second is on behalf of the people of Qualinesti. It is long life – if you don’t get yourself killed first – and a touch more of that special talent which you have been acquiring over the past few years. You have the gift or the curse of leadership, Derkin. You will find now that you have it even more.”

“Magic.” The dwarf shrugged. “I don’t like … Oh, well, thank you, I suppose.”

With a nod – and another twitch of that innocent, catlike smile – Despaxas turned away, the other elves following him. Derkin watched them go for a moment, then called. “Wait a minute! You said there were two gifts! What’s the first one?”

“If ever you need to know, you will,” Despaxas called back. “Farewell, Derkin Winterseed-Hammerhand-Lawgiver. You have been interesting to know.”

“Aren’t you coming back?”

“Who knows the future?” the elf called, and turned away again.

“Who knows the future?” Derkin muttered, irritated. “If anyone does, it’s you, elf.” Closing the gate between Kal-Thax and Qualinesti, the dwarf suddenly felt an odd loneliness – a sense of loss, as though a true friend had just gone away.

Helta was waiting for him beside his fire, but as he approached she backed away a step, her eyes widening. “Derkin,” she said, pointing over his head, “what is that?”

“What’s what?” He glanced up, saw nothing, and peered at her.

“Uh … nothing, now,” she said. “But just for a moment, there was something above your head.”

“There’s nothing there,” he insisted, looking again. “What did you think it was?”

“It looked like a crown,” Helta replied in awe. “Like a crown of gold, with stones in settings.”

Chapter 24

A PLACE OF TWO NATIONS

What had taken the Chosen Ones a winter’s work to collect – every usable timber and building stone in the now-vanished human city of Klanath – would take years to recut, bore, and reuse. In ordering the dismantling of Klanath, the Lawgiver had thought little about what to do with the architectural materials which now filled half of Tharkas Pass. His immediate concerns had been to make certain that the human city could not be rebuilt, and to give his people a season or two of enjoyable labor. Privately, he had hoped that Lord Sakar Kane might show up if they waited for a time on the slopes north of Tharkas. But Kane had disappeared. No one – not even the far-ranging elves – seemed to know what had become of him.

As a new season greened the pastures south of Tharkas, Derkin sent a crew of dwarves north one last time to complete “The Tidying” there. But they found nothing left to do. What the dwarves had begun, the elves who now claimed that land beyond the pass had completed. Except for the black quartz monument to dwarven law, there was not a trace or a hint that there had ever been a settlement of any kind there. The last vestiges of the old palace were gone, all traces of the mines were gone, all sign of the great battle that had been fought there had been removed, and the stony flats were green with grasses and clover.

The dwarves, reporting back, said that the forest seemed closer now, as though it were already advancing toward the mountains to hide the barren slopes in deep foliage. Only an enchanted forest could reclaim its grounds so quickly, they told their peers. They reported seeing a small band of elves, who waved at them from a distance. And two among them swore that they had seen a unicorn, just within the edge of the advancing forest.

But the elves had not touched Derkin’s law stone. It stood where it had been, dark and austere among the wildflowers around it, with its stern warning: “… We will always retaliate.”

Derkin had intended to take his people back to Stoneforge – their sprawling, bustling Neidar settlement in the western mountains near Sheercliff – but as the weeks became months, he delayed. The dwarves were hard at work here, building and hauling, climbing and hoisting, adding tier after tier to the wall they had built across the pass. And as the work progressed, the wall became two walls, with compartments and chambers between … then three walls.

“Give a dwarf work that satisfies him,” Derkin mused to Helta Graywood one day, “and he’ll work at it as long as there’s breath in his lungs and life in his heart. It’s the nature of our people.”

“They’ll leave here when you decide to go,” Helta said. “If you tell them to return to Stoneforge, they’ll go. They are your people, Derkin Lawgiver.”

“They don’t want to go back, though,” he pointed out. “Most of them would rather stay right here and build walls than go to Stoneforge. You know that as well as I do.”

“But whatever you want …” she started.

“Stoneforge is complete,” Derkin said. “It has its fields to farm, its foundries and its shops, its herds to tend. It is a Neidar settlement, no different from any other Neidar settlement except that it is bigger. The people we left there are mostly Neidar and are content with Stoneforge. But these people – my Chosen Ones – they’re different, Helta. Most of them have been slaves, and all of them have been warriors. Now they’ve found something to do that they enjoy doing, and that joy can last them through many generations.”

“Building walls?” she asked, frowning.

“More than walls,” he corrected. “Those walls, if they continue, will become the foundations of a great city as proud and fine as anything in this world. And more than a city. If I don’t interrupt them, these people of ours might just construct a new way for dwarves to live.”

“The city the elf called Pax Tharkas,” she said.

“Pax Tharkas,” he confirmed, nodding. “Right now, only dwarves are building here. Which is for the best, because what elves know about stonemasonry and the rodding of joints could be set down in three runes, with two of them used only for emphasis. But later, when our people have made the underpinnings of this place solid and sturdy, the elves will come. Then there will have to be a treaty between us, of course. A thousand understandings will have to be reached, and accords agreed to. When it is done, the Treaty of Pax Tharkas must signify once and for all the sheathing of swords between two races. It won’t be easy, and I can’t imagine it, truly – dwarves and elves sharing the same city – but most of our people believe in their hearts that such a thing can be done. Somehow, I believe it, too.”

As he said it, Derkin seemed so sure, so confident, that Helta could almost share the vision with him. Still, there was something that troubled her. Despite Derkin’s seeming enthusiasm for the idea of expanding his border wall into a great city, Helta sensed that his heart was elsewhere.

Often, she had noted, it was Talon Oakbeard who presided at planning sessions for new parts of the construction. The idea of Pax Tharkas, which Derkin had come to espouse so openly, had found its true roots in the former Neidar’s heart. For Talon, the great undertaking had become an obsession – a work of true love.

As the months passed, and the great cleft of Tharkas rang with the pleasant pandemonium of thousands of dwarves cheerfully building the first solid layers of a great city, stone by stone, Derkin and Talon were everywhere among them. They counseled with stonecutters, they drew diagrams and argued about them with the masons, they suggested a tower base here and demanded a shoring brace there.

In the concept of building a citadel, Talon Oakbeard had discovered his true talent. Derkin, on the other hand, had a different talent – the ability to lead. Yet now, the people he led had chosen their own path, and it was not the path he might have chosen for himself.

A dozen times, Helta found herself wishing that Derkin would delegate the whole project to Talon and stop worrying about it. But spring became summer, and summer became fall, and still Derkin lingered at Tharkas.

Most of the dwarves from Thorbardin were still with them. With typical Hylar directness, Culom Vand had told Derkin that he would not return to Thorbardin until Derkin agreed to go back with him. “Thorbardin needs your skill,” he had confided. “I promised my father and Jeron Redleather that I would find you and bring you back, so that’s what I intend to do. If you won’t go now, then I’ll stay until you do.”

Having stated that, Culom Vand said no more about it. With typical Hylar dignity, he simply waited. In the meantime, he and most of the Hylar with him had found something to do. The beautiful old lake beyond Tharkas Camp, which had once served a great dwarven mining settlement but had been allowed to deteriorate during human habitation, was a challenge to the efficient-minded Hylar. They had taken it upon themselves to clear and reshape its channels and to build pump stages. “Thorbardin’s glaziers could fit these lifts with lenses to make steam,” Culom told Derkin. “And our foundries could produce steam-driven wheels to lift the water to your new citadel of Pax Tharkas.”

Derkin’s response had been only, “It isn’t my citadel. It’s theirs … the Chosen Ones.”

Unlike the reserved, patient Hylar, Luster Redleather and the hundred other gold-bearded Daewar in the group had become enthusiastically involved in the construction of walls and foundations, and the dream of a great citadel that one day would rise to the very summits of Tharkas Pass to serve two nations.

“Think of the trade possibilities!” Luster exulted one autumn evening after a feast of roast boar, dark bread, and ale. His blue eyes alight with the Daewar love of commerce, Luster paced this way and that, his hands sometimes clasped behind him and sometimes waving happily over his head. “Elvencraft, here at the very gateways of Thorbardin! Elven wines and spices, elven fabrics and flosses … There are fortunes to be made here! We’ll provide steel and glass for the elves, and we’ll stockpile elvenwares at Thorbardin for trade with the world!”

“How are you going to trade through closed gates?” Derkin asked him morosely.

“Just the way you said.” Luster grinned. “We’ll build commerce towns at all of our borders. Places open to anybody who has something to trade.”

“Did I say that?” Derkin frowned.

“You said you would build a place called Barter,” the Daewar reminded him. “I’m just expanding on the idea.”

“That idea is for Kal-Thax,” Derkin snapped. “Not for Thorbardin.”

“Kal-Thax is Thorbardin,” Luster countered.

“Not while those gates are closed,” Derkin said. “I told your Council of Thanes that.”

Throughout the exchange, Culom Vand sat quietly to one side, simply listening. But now he said, “If you come back to Thorbardin, Derkin, maybe you can open the gates.”

Derkin gazed at him with level, cynical eyes. “By a vote of three to two?”

“By decree,” Culom said, “if you were king.”

“There are no kings in …”

“Maybe it’s time to change that.” Luster interrupted him. “The Covenant of the Forge is only a document, after all. It can be amended.”

Helta Graywood set down a tray and stood beside Derkin, ruffling his hair with her fingers. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell this stubborn oaf,” she told the Daewar, “for ages.”

Shaking his head, Derkin growled, stood, and strode away into the dusk. When Tap Tolec and some of the Ten rose to follow him, Helta waved them down. “Leave him alone this time,” she said. “He needs to think.”

Late that night, Derkin stood alone atop a craggy summit, gazing up at the living sky where autumn clouds rode the high winds, forming shifting, flowing patterns in the light of two moons.

“I want to go home,” he muttered to himself. “Helta knows that, and Tap knows it, too. Maybe they all know it. But if I take my people away from here, they will lose their finest dream. Most of them now are neither Neidar nor Holgar. It is as Tap said, these people have become a new breed of dwarf. Maybe Pax Tharkas is their destiny. But is it mine?”

Troubled and confused, Derkin the Lawgiver raised his hands toward the flowing sky. “Gods!” he whispered. “Reorx … and any others who care … give me a sign!”

The clouds swirled slowly in the high winds above, shifting from pattern to pattern. Then, for a moment, one bit of cloud broke away from the rest and stood alone. And just for an instant, as the winds molded it, it seemed to take the shape of a wedge – or an arrowhead – pointing south.

Derkin lowered his arms and sighed. “Maybe it is a sign,” he told himself. In the distance, dappled moonlight played on the massive construct that now filled the lower one-third of Tharkas Pass. Where “Derkin’s Wall” had once stood, twenty feet of stone defending a mountain pass, now rose the beginnings of a city – a city that would one day bridge the gap between two alien worlds, the ancient land of the dwarves and the new land of the western elves.

Above the pass, flowing clouds shifted in the wind, and it seemed that there was a face there – a wide, bearded dwarven face that molded and remolded itself in its features as the breeze in the pass whispered long-forgotten names, a litany of generations of Hylar leaders. “Colin Stonetooth …” the breezes murmured. “Willen Ironmaul … Damon Omenborn … Cort Fireblend …” Fascinated, Derkin stood gazing upward as the breezes whispered names to him – the names of his own ancestors. And with each name, the flowing cloud-face became another face. “Harl Thrustweight …” the breezes whispered, and the face Derkin saw was that of his own father. And now the breeze shifted and the whispering was a voice like his father’s voice. “Thorbardin,” it murmured. “Thorbardin has never been ruled … but it must be governed. That is your destiny, my son.”

The breeze died away, and the clouds above were again only clouds, but in Derkin’s mind was the echo of a whisper. He knew now what his course must be, and he felt oddly at peace with it. “Destiny,” he muttered.

Only one regret remained in his mind. He had failed to keep his pledge – to himself and his people – to bring Sakar Kane to the justice the man deserved. Sakar Kane had simply disappeared. “If only I knew,” Derkin said aloud. “If only I could be sure that he is gone.”

As though in answer, a voice spoke. He knew he was alone. There was no one else within half a mile of where he stood, yet the voice spoke clearly, as though at his side. It was a low, musical voice, the voice of Despaxas, and it said one word: “Chapak.”

Instantly, Derkin found himself deep within a dark, reeking place, a place where mildew grew on ancient stone walls, moist and glistening in the light of a single candle. On one wall hung the skeletal remains of a man – a man who had been dead for a long time – and Derkin knew exactly where he was and what he was seeing. With absolute certainty, he realized that he was looking at a deep cell in a dungeon beneath the palace of the human emperor of Daltigoth. And he knew that the shackled body hanging there was that of Lord Sakar Kane, the Prince of Klanath.

The single candle lighting the scene was held by a man who seemed to be two men. Each time the flame flickered, the man’s appearance changed. At one moment he seemed a squat, bulky human with a braided beard and elegant robes, at the next a tall, burly man in dark robe and dusty boots.

Derkin knew one of the faces. It was the man called Dreyus. And he knew the other as well, though he had never seen him. The man with the braided beard was Quivalin Soth V, Emperor of Daltigoth and Ergoth.

Again the candle flickered, and Derkin found himself where he had been, standing on a craggy knoll in a mountain pass, half a mile south of the place that would be Pax Tharkas. Beside him, where no one stood, Despaxas’s musical voice whispered, “This is the gift my mother wished for you, Derkin. To know that you did not fail.”

His eyes wide with wonder, Derkin the Lawgiver turned full around, then shook his head. “Magic,” he muttered. “A latent spell.”

With one last glance at the sky above – which was once again only an autumn sky – Derkin headed back toward his quarters. On the way he stopped at the fire of Culom Vand, then at several other places in the camp. By the time he opened the door of his own quarters and stepped in, a crowd was following him.

Helta Graywood and the Ten were waiting for him, alert and concerned as he had known they would be. It was rare that any of them ever let Derkin out of their sight. Derkin stood before them, his fists on his hips, firelight gleaming on the polished luster of his armor, as other dwarves entered behind him. He looked from one to another of those gathered around his hearth, then let his somber gaze linger on Helta. “Do you still say you can live anywhere with me?” he asked.

“Anywhere,” she asserted.

“Then live with me in Thorbardin,” he said. His gaze turned to Tap Tolec. “Do you still dream of being a Holgar?”

Tap raised one eyebrow. The ironic expression, combined with his broad shoulders and long arms, made him look more Theiwar than most who were full-blood. “As always,” he said. “Maybe as much as you do.”

“Could you be the leader of a thane?”

Tap blinked, surprised at the question. “There is a legend among my family,” he said, “that an ancestor of mine was a chieftain, a very long time ago. His name was Slide Tolec. They say he led the Theiwar when Thorbardin was in its glory.”

Derkin nodded and turned. “And you, Talon Oakbeard? Could you be a leader of people?”

“I have no thane.” Talon shrugged. “My people were always Einar or Neidar. What people would I lead?”

“The Chosen Ones,” Derkin said. “They are your thane. If I pronounce you their chieftain tomorrow, do you pledge to lead them well?”

Talon stared at the Lawgiver for a full minute, hardly believing what he had heard. “I’d do my best,” he said finally.

*

It would be spring before the one called Lawgiver could undertake the journey southward to Thorbardin. There were conferences to be held and plans to be made. There were messages to be sent and pledges to be given and received.

Some of the Chosen Ones would choose to go with Derkin, and some, like Tap Tolec who would replace Swing Basto as chieftain of Thane Theiwar of Thorbardin, would need time to adjust to what Derkin had in mind for them.

There was a great deal to be done and much to be decided before Derkin Winterseed-Hammerhand – Derkin the Lawgiver – could return to Thorbardin to find the rest of his destiny.

Epilogue

THE FIRST AND ALWAYS KING

In the spring of the Year of Nickel, the final year of both the Decade of Cherry and the Century of Rain, frost-bearded guards at a hidden outpost high on Sky’s End Mountain looked up from a winter-long game of bones to see movement in the distance – a large caravan approaching from the north. Drums relayed the news to Northgate of Thorbardin, and runners carried the message from there to all of the thanes. It was the day those in the undermountain fortress had been waiting for ever since the message came from Culom Vand months earlier. Derkin the Lawgiver, Master of the Mountains, was coming home to Thorbardin. And this time he was coming to stay – not as a citizen but as regent of all thanes.

Five years had passed since the first visit of Derkin’s army, when thousands of dwarves had set up trade pavilions below Northgate, and Thorbardin had rediscovered the value of trade.

This time, there were fewer in the caravan. Only those who chose to live as Holgar – about twelve hundred – had followed Derkin from Tharkas. And this time, they made no camp on the slopes below Northgate. Instead, their drums conveyed their greetings, and the great plug of Northgate opened to receive them.

Escorted by respectful Home Guards, the Lawgiver’s party stopped first in Theibardin. They spent two days there, at the end of which time old Swing Basto dourly announced his retirement as chieftain of Thane Theiwar, and Tap Tolec was resoundingly accepted by the Theiwar as their new leader. His first act as chieftain was to grant amnesty to Swing Basto and his followers, forgiving them their past intrigues and pardoning them for their ill-considered involvement in the Wilderness Wars. His second act was a solemn pledge that if any Theiwar ever again embarrassed the dwarven nation by getting privately involved with human emperors and generals, Tap would personally feed the culprit to tractor worms.

From Theibardin, Derkin’s party went to Daebardin, where Jeron Redleather pledged the support of the Daewar to Derkin’s regency. Another two days were passed there, with Jeron and his councilors, working out details for trade agreements with the elves of Qualinesti.

From Daebardin, the new arrivals went to the unnamed Klar cities, where Derkin received the pledge of Trom Thule, then to Daerbardin, where Vin the Shadow spent hours with the chieftain of Thane Daergar, Crag Shade-eye, relating the nature of the stone and the richness of the ores to be mined at Tharkas, and where Crag Shade-eye pledged his allegiance to Derkin Lawgiver, then promptly began organizing a mining expedition.

As a matter of protocol, Derkin also paused for a few minutes at the rubble pits below Daerbardin, where the little tribe known as Thane Aghar lived – when they could find the place. There Derkin introduced himself to the gully dwarf leader, Grimble I, who wasn’t quite sure why he was being accosted until Vin the Shadow took him by the shoulder and pointed at Derkin. “This is the new boss around here,” the Daergar explained.

Grimble thought it over, then shrugged. “Fine by me,” he said. With the matter concluded, the great leader of all Aghar in Thorbardin turned and wandered away.

Grinning and shaking his head, Vin told Derkin, “That’s as near to a pledge as you’ll get here.”

At Hybardin, the Hylar city delved within the living stone of the stalactite called Life Tree, Derkin met with Dunbarth Ironthumb. “As your son told you,” he said, “I have set conditions for accepting regency here. One of them is that you let the Hylar name you as their chief.”

“I’ve never wanted to be chief,” Dunbarth said.

“And I never wanted to be regent,” Derkin responded, frowning. “But I will, providing that I have a Hylar leader I can trust. I trust you, Dunbarth Ironthumb.”

Ironthumb spread his hands in acceptance. “It has already been done,” he said. “I have accepted the title of chieftain because you demanded it.”

“And I have your oath of allegiance?”

“You have it.” The Hylar nodded. “I welcome you home to your kingdom, Derkin Lawgiver.”

“I have not accepted a crown,” Derkin snapped. “Only a regency … or, as an ancestor of mine once put it, I’ve agreed to be chief of chiefs.”

“Why not be king?” Dunbarth gazed at him, puzzled. “All of Thorbardin is ready to bend the knee to you.”

“I will not be king of a divided nation,” Derkin said. “I will govern, but not rule, until I know that Thorbardin and Kal-Thax are truly united … and know in my own heart that I can rule wisely.”

“Then be chief of chiefs until you’re sure,” Dunbarth urged. “I can accept that.”

For the first time in five years, the Great Hall of Audience was packed to capacity when the Council of Thanes assembled there. And for the first time in a century, the great chamber rang with cheers and applause as each order of business was done. Tap Tolec was named to the Council of Thanes, representing Thane Theiwar, and Dunbarth Ironthumb’s title was amended on the scrolls, from representative to chieftain of Thane Hylar.

Solemnly, then, the ancient scroll embodying the Covenant of the Forge was produced and read aloud. Following the reading, a single amendment was proposed by Jeron Redleather. The amendment was to delete the passage allowing government by decree only in times of emergency. Such an amendment was necessary to allow for appointment of a regent … or for the coronation of a king.

The old treaty was amended by unanimous vote, and Derkin Lawgiver was appointed Regent of Thorbardin to the cheers of tens of thousands of dwarves. As the applause echoed through the great chamber, Helta Graywood entered and walked down the ramp toward the dais, followed by several brilliantly cloaked dwarves carrying an ornate chair. It had once been the chair of state of a human prince, Lord Sakar Kane of Klanath.

Helta directed the dwarves as they set the chair in the center of the dais. Then she turned, suddenly embarrassed by the tens of thousands of pairs of eyes watching her every move.

“It’s … ah, this is Derkin’s chair,” she explained. “He has grown fond of it, so I had it brought along.”

Derkin chuckled in surprise, and some of the chieftains smiled. In the gathered throng, a moment of puzzled silence passed, and Helta glared around at the huge crowd. Then, placing her fists on her hips, as her husband so often did, she snapped, “Well, a regent can’t do everything standing up, you know!”

*

The regency of Derkin Lawgiver in Thorbardin lasted for thirty-six years. During that time the war of conquest waged by the Daltigothian Empire against the elves and humans of eastern Ergoth finally dragged to a close, with no real victors. The war never again spilled into the dwarven lands, but dwarves were involved in it. Because of the scheming of a Theiwar named Than-Kar, Thorbardin had been demeaned, and the Hylar Chieftain Dunbarth Ironthumb returned to the field several times with Hylar warriors to assist the elves in their battles.

By the time the war finally ended, the western elves were well along on the development of a new elven culture – in truth a new nation – in the land of Qualinesti. Thousands of them also had joined with dwarves in the continued building of a city in Tharkas Pass – Pax Tharkas.

In the thirty-first year of his regency, Derkin Lawgiver left Thorbardin for a time to travel to Pax Tharkas. There he met with the elf leader Kith-Kanan, to formally adopt a permanent treaty between the dwarves and the elves. Joining in the solemn ceremony were the two chief magistrates of Pax Tharkas, the elf Selanas Prill and the dwarf Talon Oakbeard.

The treaty formalized the alliance between dwarves and elves, and dedicated Pax Tharkas as a living monument to that alliance – and to all those who had died in the cause of it.

The treaty was called the Swordsheath Scroll.

It was the last time Derkin Lawgiver would ever leave. Five years later, he became the first king of Thorbardin – a Thorbardin that was no longer confined to subterranean caverns sealed from the world by impregnable gates, but was now a mighty nation, spanning the mountain lands of old Kal-Thax, from Pax Tharkas to the Thunder Peaks, from Sky’s End to the Anviltops – a nation full of dwarven places like Stoneforge and Barter, Herdlinger and Firestone, Redbluff and Split Crag – a kingdom where those who chose the open sky lived as Neidar and those who preferred the comfort of stone lived as Holgar, with the great fortress of Thorbardin as capital of it all.

Derkin the Lawgiver reigned as king in Thorbardin for one hundred and twenty-three years. He was succeeded by his grandson, Damon Stonetooth, who decreed that he and all future kings would be known both by their own names and by a “throne” name, honoring the first of the dwarven kings.

The name was Derkin.

The Qualinesti

(2072 PC)

Prologue

THE CORNERSTONE

Ten thousand footsteps rattled in the quiet mountain valley. It was early morning, just before sunrise, and mist still clung to the low places between the slopes. Five thousand elves, dwarves, and humans were assembling in this remote mountain pass. Many were warriors, resplendent in burnished armor and flowing capes, who had battled in the long years of the Kinslayer Wars, elf against man, man against dwarf, and elf against elf. So protracted had been the time of bloodshed that sons and daughters of warriors had grown up to bear arms alongside their parents.

This was an army of peace, gathered in the Kharolis Mountains. They had come from the kingdom of Thorbardin and the realm of Qualinesti to seal a bargain and to erect a fortress. Pax Tharkas, it was to be called; the name had already been agreed upon. In the elven tongue, it meant “Citadel of Peace.”

From the southern end of the pass came the delegation of dwarves, led by their new king, Glenforth Sparkstriker. It was he who had led the doughty dwarven armies against the humans of Ergoth, checking their advance in the high mountain passes around Thorbardin. The Battle of Raven’s Hook had cost Prince Glenforth an eye, but it had also put an end to the Emperor of Ergoth’s plan to subjugate the dwarves. Now, with his eye patch of beaten gold and his magnificent coal-black beard rippling across his mailed chest, King Glenforth led his people in an even greater endeavor.

Behind the king came the most powerful thanes, those of Glenforth’s own Clan Hylar. Richly dressed in crimson velvet and glittering with all the jewels they could possibly wear, the Hylar each bore a ceremonial hammer on his shoulder. Close behind the Hylar came the Daewar, for this great occasion wearing midnight blue tunics, yellow sashes, and great wide-brimmed hats of brown leather. The Daewar carried gilded rock chisels, as long as each dwarf was tall.

The thanes of the other clans, the Klar and the Neidar, less richly dressed but still proud, followed in the wake of their more powerful cousins. The Klar carried ceremonial trowels, and the Neidar picks.

Where the valley floor began to slope upward, King Glenforth raised a hand. The councilors and thanes halted and waited in respectful silence.

The delegation from Qualinesti approached the dwarves from the north end of the valley. Most of the delegation were formerly of Silvanesti, and had the chiseled features and light coloring of that ancient elven race. But sharp eyes could see the mingled characteristics of the Kagonesti, the elves of the forest, and even the broad features of humans. The new elven kingdom of Qualinesti had existed for just eighty years, and so far had proven the truth of its founder’s dream: that elves and men and dwarves could live together in harmony, peace, and justice.

The founder himself led his nobles and notables to meet the Thorbardin thanes. In middle age now, as elves reckon time, the Speaker of the Sun was by far the most commanding figure in the valley. Age and toil had sent a few streaks of silver through his white-blond hair, but the clear, noble features of the House of Silvanos were unaltered by all the years of strife.

Kith-Kanan, the Speaker of the Sun, the founder of the nation of Qualinesti, stopped his entourage twenty paces or so from the dwarves. Alone, he went forward to meet King Glenforth of Thorbardin.

The elf met the dwarf near a large boulder that rose up in the center of the path. Glenforth extended his thick, powerful arms.

“Royal brother!” he said heartily. “I rejoice to see you!”

“And I you, Thane of Thanes!”

Tall elf and squat dwarf clasped hands about each other’s forearms. “This is a great day for our nations,” Kith-Kanan said, stepping back. “For all of Krynn.”

“There were many times I didn’t think I would live to see this day,” Glenforth said frankly.

“I, too, have wondered if this new kingdom of ours could have been born without the blood and suffering of the war. My late wife used to say that all things are born that way – with blood and pain.” Kith-Kanan nodded slowly, thinking of days gone by. “But we’re here now, that’s the important thing,” he added, smiling.

“Praise the gods,” said the dwarf sincerely.

Kith-Kanan turned back the folds of his emerald green cape to free his left hand. Looking to his waiting entourage, he smiled and lifted his arm, gesturing two figures forward. Glenforth squinted his good eye and saw that the two were children, a golden-haired boy and a brown-haired girl.

“King Glenforth, may I present my son, Prince Ulvian, and my daughter, Princess Verhanna,” Kith-Kanan said, pushing the children forward. Ulvian dragged his feet and hung back from the unfamiliar dwarf. Verhanna, however, approached the king and bowed deeply to him.

“You do me honor,” Glenforth said, a smile flashing amidst his black beard.

“No, sire. I am the honored one,” Verhanna replied, her high voice ringing clear in the mountain air. Her large, dark brown eyes appraised the dwarf frankly, with no sign of fear. “I’ve heard the bards sing of your greatness in battle. Now that I’ve met you, I see the truth of their songs.”

“Memories of battle are a poor comfort when one grows old and tired. I would trade all of mine for a child like you,” he said gallantly. Verhanna flushed at this praise, stammered a thank-you, and withdrew to her father’s side.

“Go on.” Kith-Kanan said to his son. “Make your greetings to King Glenforth.”

Prince Ulvian took a small step forward and bowed with a quick, bobbing motion. “Greetings, Great King,” he said, running his words together in his haste to get them out. “I’m honored to meet you.”

His duty done, Ulvian stepped back and hovered just behind his father.

With a fond pat on Verhanna’s cheek, Kith-Kanan sent his children back to the ranks of nobles. Turning once more to the dwarf, he said softly, “Excuse my son. He hasn’t been the same since his mother died. My daughter never really knew her mother; it’s been easier for her.”

Glenforth nodded politely. Practically everyone from Hylo to Silvanost knew the tale of Kith-Kanan and his human wife, Suzine. She had died many years before, in one of the last battles of the Kinslayer War. Her children matured at a much slower rate than human children, but not as slowly as full-blooded elven offspring. In human terms, both were still quite young.

The two monarchs exchanged more polite trivialities before returning to the reason for their meeting this morning. At a sign from Glenforth, an elderly dwarf came forward carrying an object covered by a red velvet cloth. It was obviously very heavy, and he held it firmly in both hands. Glenforth took the parcel, holding it easily. The elderly dwarf bowed to his king and was introduced as Chancellor Gendrin Dunbarth, senior thane of the Hylar clan.

“My lord,” Kith-Kanan said, scrutinizing the chancellor, “I once knew a wise dwarf called Dunbarth of Dunbarth. Are you by chance related to him?”

Gendrin mopped his brow with a coarse-looking handkerchief. “Yes, Highness. Dunbarth of Dunbarth, ambassador to the court of Silvanesti, was my father,” replied the dwarf, puffing from exertion.

Kith-Kanan smiled. “I met him in Silvanost many years ago and remember him with esteem. He was an honorable fellow.”

Glenforth cleared his throat. Kith-Kanan returned his attention to the king. In loud, ringing tones, audible to the assembled thanes and Qualinesti, the dwarf king declared, “Great Speaker, on behalf of all the dwarves of Thorbardin, I present you with this special tool. I know you will wield it justly, for the benefit of your people and mine.”

He passed the velvet-wrapped burden to Kith-Kanan. The Speaker of the Sun whisked the cover away, revealing a large iron hammer, wrought in traditional dwarven style but made larger to fit the hands of an elf. The octagonal iron handle was banded with silver, and the sides of the massive flat hammerhead were gilded.

“It is called Sunderer,” Glenforth explained. “Our priests of Reorx forged it in a slow fire, and quenched it in dragon’s blood to give it a worthy temper.”

“It is magnificent,” Kith-Kanan said in awed tones. He turned the great hammer in his hands. “This is the tool of a demigod, not a mortal such as I.”

“Well, as long as it’s good enough,” the dwarf king said with a wry smile. He waved a beringed hand, and another Hylar thane came to him. This dwarf bore one of the long iron chisels banded with silver. He gave it to his king, then he and Gendrin Dunbarth withdrew.

Kith-Kanan and Glenforth walked in matched step to the boulder that lay in the center of the pass. As they proceeded with appropriate dignity, Kith-Kanan said softly, “Will you make the announcement, or shall I?”

“This was your idea.” Glenforth replied in a low voice. “You do it.”

“It’s a joint project, Your Highness.”

“Yes, but I’m no speechifier,” said the dwarf. They stood by the boulder. “Besides, everyone knows elves are better talkers than dwarves.”

“First I’ve heard of it,” Kith-Kanan muttered.

The Speaker of the Sun turned to face the delegations. King Glenforth stood resolutely beside him, his hands resting on the long chisel as a warrior rests on his sword pommel.

Kith-Kanan listened for a moment to the stillness of the valley. The mist was vanishing, burned off by the rising sun. A flock of swifts darted and wheeled overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a dove made its mournful call.

“We have come here today,” he began, “to erect a fortress. Not a stronghold for war, for we have too long followed that path. This fortress, which we of Qualinesti and our friends of Thorbardin shall build and occupy together, shall be a place of peace, a place where people of all races can seek haven and find protection and rest.”

The Speaker paused as the first direct rays of the sun lanced over the mountain peaks into the valley. He was facing east, and the sunbeams warmed his face. A surge of resolution, of the rightness of what they were beginning here today, passed through Kith-Kanan.

“This boulder will be the cornerstone of Pax Tharkas, the Citadel of Peace. King Glenforth and I will carve it out ourselves, as a symbol of the cooperation and friendship between our countries.”

He turned to the rock and set the great hammer Sunderer on his shoulder. Glenforth butted the chisel against the rock and steadied it with both of his thick, powerful hands.

“Swing true, Speaker,” he said, half-jesting.

Kith-Kanan raised the hammer. Ulvian and Verhanna, standing with the Qualinesti nobles, stepped forward to get a better view of their father’s work.

Sunderer came down on the chisel. A torrent of sparks fell across the boulder, spraying the dwarf king with fire. Glenforth laughed and urged Kith-Kanan to strike again. The third blow Kith-Kanan delivered was a mighty stroke indeed. It echoed through the valley like a roll of thunder and was quickly followed by the dry crack of cleaving rock. An entire side of the boulder fell away, leaving the rock with a face clean and straight. Cheers erupted from the onlookers.

Sweating in the cool mountain air, Kith-Kanan said to Glenforth, “Your hammer strikes nothing but true blows, Thane of Thanes.”

“Your hammer, Great Speaker, like all tools, strikes only as its wielder aims,” replied the dwarf thoughtfully. He blew on his hands and rubbed them together.

“What do you think of that, Ullie?” Kith-Kanan called, looking to his son. The boy had his head down, a hand pressed to his right cheek. The Speaker frowned. “What’s wrong, son?”

Ulvian looked up slowly to meet his father’s eyes. The boy’s face showed pain. When he took his hands away, a small cut could be seen on his cheek. Gazing at the blood staining his fingers, Ulvian said softly, “I bleed.”

“A rock chip hit you,” Verhanna said matter-of-factly. “Some landed on me, too.” She shook the folds of her boyish clothes and bits of stone and grit fell out.

Prince Ulvian’s face twisted in anger. “I bleed!” he cried. He backed away from his father and bumped into a wall of courtiers and nobles. They parted for him, and the panicked prince fled into the crowd.

“Ulvian, come back!” Kith-Kanan shouted. The boy did not heed him.

“Want me to catch him?” Verhanna offered, sure in the knowledge that she was swifter than her brother.

“No, child. Stay here.”

Kith-Kanan summoned his castellan, the elf in charge of his household, Tamanier Ambrodel. The elderly, gray-haired elf, dressed in a gray doublet and mauve cape, stepped out of the crowd.

“Find my son, Tam, and take him to a healer if he needs one,” said the Speaker.

Tamanier bowed. “Yes, Highness.”

Kith-Kanan watched his castellan disappear into the crowd. Hefting the great hammer, he said, “Ullie will be all right.” Glenforth cleared his throat and pretended to be studying the boulder before him.

Verhanna and the rest of the crowd stood back as the Speaker of the Sun and the King of Thorbardin resumed their places at the stone. The valley rang with the sound of iron on rock.

In short order, the stone became a cube, square on four sides and rough on top. King Glenforth wasn’t tall enough to bring the chisel to bear on the top of the boulder, so his thanes formed themselves into a living stair, that he might climb onto the rock. It was quite a sight, all the richly bedecked dwarves of Clans Hylar and Daewar, their thick arms locked together, bent over and braced against the cornerstone. Glenforth set aside the chisel and climbed up their backs. Once he was atop the stone, the thanes passed the chisel to him.

“Well, Great Speaker,” said the dwarf from his lofty perch, “now I am higher than you! Will your councilors elevate you as mine did me?”

Kith-Kanan tossed the hammer to the top of the boulder, then faced his people. “You heard the Thane of Thanes! Will the nobles of Qualinesti stoop so that their Speaker can rise to the occasion?”

Half a hundred elves and men surged to the rock, ready to aid Kith-Kanan. Laughing, the Speaker ordered them back, then chose three elves and three humans. They looped their arms around each others’ waists and bent to the rock. As the others cheered, Kith-Kanan climbed nimbly atop the boulder. He and Glenforth stood side by side, and the cheering continued. Finally Kith-Kanan raised his hands and waved for silence.

“My good and loyal friends!” he cried. “Many times in the recent past I have wondered if our coming to this new land was wise. Many times I have asked myself, should I have stayed in Silvanost? Should I have fought to establish in our old homeland the ideals we now share?”

There were shouts of “No! No!” from the crowd.

“And now —” Kith-Kanan again waved for quiet. “And now, I see us here today – men, elves, and dwarves – working together where once we fought, and I know I could have done nothing less than lead you to this new land, to make this new nation. You have all suffered and struggled and bled for Qualinesti. So have I. We did not fight to make a country like my father’s, where tradition and age count for more than truth and justice. I do not want to rule for centuries and see all my ideals grow hoary with time. Therefore, on this rock, with this great hammer, Sunderer, in my hand, I will make you this pledge: The day this fortress is finished, I shall abdicate in favor of my successor.”

A loud murmur of surprise spread through the assembly. The dwarves stroked their beards and looked concerned. Some of the Qualinesti elves cried out that Kith-Kanan should rule for life.

“No! Listen to me!” Kith-Kanan shouted. “This is what we fought for! The ruler and the ruled must be bound by a solemn pact that neither shall suffer the other unwanted. Once this fortress of peace is complete, let a younger, fresher mind lead Qualinesti forward to greater happiness and glory.”

He nodded to King Glenforth. The dwarf placed the chisel against the surface of the rock. The gilded head of Sunderer flashed in the sun. Sparks flew as it smote Glenforth’s chisel, and the blow Kith-Kanan struck reverberated down through the boulder into the stony ground of Krynn. Every elf, every dwarf, every human present felt the mighty stroke.

Chapter 1

SHADOW TALK

When Kith-Kanan led his followers west to found a new elven nation in the ancient woodland known first as Mithranhana, he had no goal, no plan in mind except that the mistakes of Silvanesti would not be repeated. By this he meant not only the autocratic, inflexible government of the first elven nation, but also the baroque, ornamental layout of the city of Silvanost itself.

The site of the first city in the new nation was chosen not by conscious thought, but by a lost deer. Kith-Kanan and his closest lieutenants were riding ahead of their column of settlers one afternoon when they spied a magnificent hart with ice-blue antlers and gray hide. Thinking the beast would make a fine trophy, as well as provide much needed meat, Kith-Kanan and his lieutenants gave chase. The hart bounded away with great leaps, and the elves on horseback were hard pressed to keep up. The deer led them farther and farther from their line of march, down a steep ravine. An arrow nocked, Kith-Kanan was about to try a desperate on-the-fly shot when the ravine ended at the precipitous edge of a river gorge. Kith-Kanan pulled his horse up sharply and gave a yell of surprise. The deer leapt straight off the cliff!

Astonished, the elves dismounted, hurried to the rim of the gorge, and looked down. There was no sign of the hart; no carcass lay smashed on the riverbank below. Kith-Kanan then knew the animal had been a magical one, but why had it deliberately crossed their path? Why had it brought them here?

The answer soon became obvious as the elves surveyed their surroundings. Across the wide gorge was a beautiful plateau, lightly wooded with hardwoods and conifers.

After only a moment’s reflection, Kith-Kanan knew this was to be the site of their new city, the capital of their new nation.

The plateau was bounded on the north, east, and west by two rivers, which converged at the north end of the plateau and became a tributary of the White Rage River. These two streams ran through deep, wide gorges. The south side of the roughly triangular escarpment was a labyrinth of steep, rocky ravines, and the land rose eventually to form the mountains of Thorbardin. From a natural point of view, the place was ideal, offering beauty and natural defenses. And as for the gray hartwell, the Bard King, Astarin, the god most revered by elves, is sometimes known as the Wandering Hart.

So the city of Qualinost was born. For a time, there was much sentiment to name the town after Kith-Kanan, as Silvanost had been named after the great Silvanos, august founder of the first elven nation. The Speaker of the Sun would not hear of it.

“This city is not to be a monument to me,” he told his well-intentioned followers, “but a place for all people of good heart.”

In the end, it was Kith-Kanan’s friend and war companion, Anakardain, who named the city. That middle-aged warrior, who had fought beside Kith at the Battle of Sithelbec, remarked one night over dinner that the noblest person he’d ever heard of was Quinara, wife of Silvanos. The palace in Silvanost was called the Quinari, after her.

“You’re right,” Kith-Kanan declared. Though Quinara had died before he was born, Kith-Kanan knew well the stories of his grandmother’s virtuous life. Thereafter, the budding city in the trees was known as Qualinost, which in Old Elven means “In Memory of Quinara.”

The ranks of the immigrants were swelled daily by arrivals from Silvanesti. A vast camp grew up along the bank of the east river as more permanent dwellings sprouted among the evergreens on the plateau. The buildings of Qualinost, formed from the rose quartz that occurred naturally there, were domelike or conical in shape, reaching like leafless trees to the heavens.

Greatest effort was reserved for the Tower of the Sun, a tremendous golden spire that was to be the seat of the Speaker of the Sun’s reign. In general design, it resembled Silvanost’s Tower of the Stars, but in place of cold, white marble, this tower was covered with burnished gold. The metal reflected the warm, bright rays of the sun. The shape of the Tower of the Sun was the only likeness Qualinost bore to the old elven capital; when it was done, and Kith-Kanan had been formally installed as Speaker of the Sun, then the break between East and West was complete.

*

One spring morning in the two hundred and thirtieth year of the reign of Kith-Kanan, the calm of Qualinost was shattered by the tramping of massed hobnailed boots. City folk gathered outside their rose-hued homes, in the shade of the wide, spreading trees, and watched as nearly the entire Guard of the Sun, the army of Qualinesti, marched across the high-arched bridges that spanned the four corners of the city. Unlike human fortified towns, Qualinost had no walls; instead, four freestanding spans of wrought iron and bronze arched from tower keep to tower keep, enclosing the city in walls of air. The bridges were designed to aid in the protection of the city, yet not interfere with the free passage of traders and townsfolk. Not unimportantly, they were breathtakingly beautiful, as delicate as cobwebs but obviously strong enough to hold the troops that even now marched across them. The bronze of the cantilevered spans flashed fire in the sunlight, and at night, the black iron was silvered by the white moon, Solinari. The four keeps had been named by Kith-Kanan as Arcuballis, Sithel, Mackeli, and Suzine Towers.

That morning, the people stood with their faces turned upward as the companies of guards left the tower keeps and converged on Suzine Tower, at the southeast comer of the city. The elves had been at peace for over two centuries, and no such concentration of troops had been observed in all that time. Once the two thousand soldiers of the guard had gathered at the keep, quiet returned once more to the city. Though the curious Qualinesti watched for long minutes, nothing else seemed to be happening. The arched bridges were again empty. The people, their faith in their leaders and their troops strong, shrugged their shoulders and went back to their daily routines.

There were too many warriors to fit inside Suzine Tower, so many stood on the lower intersecting ends of the bridges. Rumors circulated through the ranks. What was happening? Why had they been summoned? The old enemy, Ergoth, had been quiet a long time. Tension existed with Silvanesti, and the frightening idea formed that the Speaker’s twin brother, Sithas, Speaker of the Stars, was attacking from the east. This grim story gained momentum as it spread.

In ignorance, the troops waited as the sun passed its zenith and began its descent. When at last the shadow of the Tower of the Sun reached out and touched the eastern bridge, the keep’s doors opened and Kith-Kanan emerged, along with a sizable contingent from the Thalas-Enthia, the Qualinesti senate.

The warriors clasped their hands to their armored chests and cried, “Hail, Great Speaker! Hail, Speaker of the Sun!” Kith-Kanan acknowledged their salutes, and the soldiers fell silent. The Speaker of the Sun looked tired and troubled. His mane of blond hair, heavily shot through with silver, was pulled back in a crude queue, and his sky-blue robes were wrinkled and dusty.

“Guards of the Sun,” he said in a low, controlled voice, “I have summoned you here today with a heavy heart. A problem that has plagued our country for some years has grown so much worse that I am forced to use you, my brave warriors, to suppress it. I have consulted with the senators of the Thalas-Enthia and the priests of our gods, and they have agreed with my chosen course!”

Kith-Kanan paused, closing his eyes and sighing. The day was beginning to cool slightly, and a breeze wafted over the tired leader’s face. “I am sending you out to destroy the slave traders who infest the confluence of the rivers that guard our city,” he finished, his voice rising.

The guards broke out in subdued murmurs of surprise. Every resident of Qualinost knew that the Speaker had been trying to suppress slavery in his domain. The long Kinslayer War had, as one of its saddest consequences, created a large population of refugees, vagabonds, and lawless rovers. These were preyed upon by slavers, who sold them into bondage in Ergoth and Silvanesti. Since Qualinesti was a largely unsettled area between these two slave-holding countries, it was inevitable that the slavers would operate in Kith-Kanan’s land. Slavers who drove their human and elven “goods” to market through Qualinesti territory frequently captured Qualinesti citizens as they went. Slavery was one of the principal evils Kith-Kanan and his followers had wanted to leave behind in Silvanesti, but the pernicious practice had insinuated itself into the new country. It was time for the Speaker of the Sun to put an end to it.

“Lord Anakardain will lead a column of a thousand guards up the eastern river to the confluence. Lord Ambrodel will command a second column of seven hundred and fifty mounted warriors, who will sweep the western branch and drive the slavers into Lord Anakardain’s hands. As much as possible, I want these people taken alive for public trial. I doubt many of them will have the stomach to fight anyway, but I don’t want them dealt with summarily. Is that clear?”

Most of the guards were former Wildrunners who had fought with Kith-Kanan against the Ergothians; they were the sons and daughters of Kagonesti elves who had been held in slavery in Silvanost for centuries. Slavers could expect little kindness from them.

Kith-Kanan stood back as Lord Anakardain began dividing the troops into the two forces, with the remaining two hundred fifty warriors to remain behind in the city. General Lord Kernian Ambrodel, son of Kith-Kanan’s castellan, stood beside his sovereign.

“If you wish, sire, I can have Lady Verhanna assigned to the city guard,” he said confidentially.

“No, no. She is a warrior the same as any other,” Kith-Kanan said. “She would never want to be shown favoritism simply because she is my daughter.”

Even in the crowd of two thousand troops, he could easily pick out Verhanna. Taller by almost a head than most of the Qualinesti warriors, her silver helm bore the red plume of an officer. A thick braid of light brown hair hung down her back to her waist. She was quite mature for a half-human. Never married, Verhanna was dedicated to her father and to the guards. Kith-Kanan was proud of his daughter’s warrior skills, but some small fatherly portion of him wished to see her wedded and a mother before he died.

“I would prefer, however, that she go with you rather than Anakardain. I think she will be safer with the mounted troops,” Kith-Kanan told Lord Ambrodel.

The handsome, fair-haired Silvanesti elf nodded gravely. “As you command, sire.”

Lord Anakardain called his young subordinate to his side. Kith-Kanan watched Lord Ambrodel hurry away, and he was once more struck by the strong resemblance the young general bore to his elderly father.

As the guards broke up into their two units, the Speaker reentered Suzine Tower, trailed by several members of the Thalas-Enthia. With a notable lack of protocol, Kith-Kanan went to a table set beside the curved wall and poured himself a large cup of potent nectar.

The senators ringed round him. Clovanos, who was of an old, noble Silvanesti clan, said, “Great One, this act will cause great dismay to the Speaker of the Stars.”

Kith-Kanan set down his cup. “My brother must deal with his own conscience,” he said flatly. “I will not tolerate slavery in my realm.”

Senator Clovanos waved a dismissive hand. “It is a minor problem, Great Speaker,” he said.

“Minor? The buying and selling of people as if they were chickens or glass beads? Do you honestly consider that a minor problem, my lord?”

Senator Xixis, who was half Kagonesti, put in, “We only fear retribution by the Speaker of the Stars or the Emperor of Ergoth if we mistreat those slavers who happen to be their subjects. Our country is still very new, Highness. If we were attacked by one or both of those countries, Qualinesti would not survive.”

“I think you gravely underestimate our strength,” said a human senator, Malvic Pathfinder, “and overestimate the concern of two monarchs for some of the worst scum to walk this world.”

“There are deeper roots to this business than you know,” Clovanos said darkly. “Even within Qualinost, there are those who profit by this trade in flesh.”

Kith-Kanan snapped around, his robes swirling about his feet. “Who would dare,” he demanded, “in defiance of my edicts?”

Clovanos paled before the Speaker’s sudden wrath. He backed up a step and stammered, “G – Great Majesty, one hears things in taverns, in temples. Shadow talk. Dark things without substance.”

Xixis and Irthenie, a Kagonesti senator who still proudly wore the face paint popular with her wilder cousins, stepped between Kith-Kanan and the chastened Clovanos. Irthenie, whose intelligence and strong antislavery stance made her a confidant of the Speaker, declared, “Clovanos speaks the truth, Majesty. There are places in the city where money changes hands for influence and for slaves sold in other lands.”

Kith-Kanan released the gold clasp from his long hair and combed through the pale strands with his fingers. “It never ends, does it?” he said tiredly. “I try to give the people a new life, and all the old vices come back to haunt us.”

His gloomy observation hung in the air like dark smoke. Embarrassed, Clovanos and Xixis were the first to leave. Malvic followed, after offering words of support for the Speaker’s stand. The halfhuman Senator Harplen, who seldom spoke, left with Malvic. Only Irthenie remained.

With much tramping and shouting, the two units of the Guards of the Sun dispersed. Kith-Kanan watched from the window as his warriors streamed over the bridges to the tower keeps and down into the city. He looked for, but didn’t see, Verhanna.

“My daughter is going out with the guard,” he said, his back to the Kagonesti woman. “This will be her first taste of conflict.”

“I doubt that,” said Irthenie flatly. “No one close to you can be unfamiliar with conflict, Kith. What I don’t understand is why you don’t send your son along, too. He could use some hard lessons, that boy.”

Kith-Kanan rolled the brass cup back and forth in his hands, warming the nectar within. “Ulvian has gone off with his friends again. I don’t know where. Probably drinking himself sick, or gambling his shirt on a roll of the bones.” The Speaker’s tone was bitter. A frown pulled at the corners of Kith-Kanan’s mouth. He set his cup aside. “Ullie has never been the same since Suzine died. He was very close to his mother.”

“Give him to me for six months and I’ll straighten him out!”

Kith-Kanan had to smile at her declaration. Irthenie had four sons, all of whom were vigorous, opinionated, and successful. If Ulvian were younger, he might take Irthenie up on her offer. “My good friend,” he said instead, taking her dark, age-worn hands in his, “of all the problems that face me today, Ulvian is not the worst.”

She looked up at him, studying him closely. “You’re wrong, Speaker,” she said. “The fortress of Pax Tharkas is nearing completion, and the time is fast approaching when you vowed to abdicate. Can you in good conscience appoint a good-for-nothing idler like Ulvian the next Speaker of the Sun? I think not.”

He dropped her hands and turned away, his face shadowed by concern. “I can’t go back on my word. I swore I would abdicate once Pax Tharkas was finished.” He sighed heavily. “I wish to pass on the mantle of leadership. After the war, and after building a new nation, I am tired.”

“Then I tell you this, Kith-Kanan. Take your rest and give over the title to another, as long as it is anyone but your son,” Irthenie said firmly. The Speaker did not reply. Irthenie waited for several minutes, then bowed and left the tower. Kith-Kanan sat down on a hard barrack chair and let the sunshine wash over his face. Closing his eyes, he gave himself over to deep and difficult thoughts.

*

“Ho there, trooper! Close up your ranks.”

Sullenly the guards reined their horses about. They weren’t usually so glum, but they happened to have been assigned to the strictest, most particular captain in the Guards of the Sun. Verhanna Kanan did not spare herself, or anyone in her command.

Verhanna’s troop was moving northward, patrolling the western slopes of the Magnet Mountains, a small but steep range of peaks west of Qualinost. The stream that flowed past the western side of the city originated in these mountains. The land was sparsely wooded this close to the range of hills. Lord Ambrodel had given Verhanna’s troop the task of searching closest to the foot of the peaks, where the guards were vulnerable to ambush from above.

The captain kept her warriors close together. She didn’t want any stragglers getting picked off. Her eyes never left the hillside. The red rock and brown soil were streaked with veins of black. These were deposits of lodestone, the natural magnets that gave the mountains their name. Kender shamans came from all across Ansalon to dig up the lodestone for protective amulets. So far on this sortie, the only living things Verhanna had seen were a few of the small kender race, working at the outcroppings of lodestone with deer antler picks.

Her second-in-command, a former Silvanesti named Merithynos, Merith for short, kept by her side as their horses picked their way slowly over the stony ground. The slopes were in shadow all morning.

“A futile task,” Merith said, sighing loudly. “What are we doing here?”

“Carrying out the Speaker’s command,” Verhanna replied firmly. Her gaze rested on a dark figure nestled in a fold in the ground. She stared hard at it but soon realized it was only a holly bush.

Merith yawned, one hand pressed against his mouth. “But it’s such a bore.”

“Yes, I know. You’d rather be in Qualinost, strutting down the street, impressing the maids with your sword and armor,” Verhanna, said dryly. “At least out here you’re earning your pay.”

“Captain! You wound me.” Merith clutched his chest and swayed as if shot by an arrow.

She scowled at him, a mock frown on her face. “Fool! How did a dandy like you ever get in the guards?” she asked.

“Actually, it was my father’s idea. Priesthood or warriorhood, that’s what he told me. ‘There’s no room in Clan Silver Moon for wastrels’, he said.”

Verhanna stiffened and reined her horse up short. “Quiet,” she hissed. “I saw something.”

With hand signals, the captain divided her troop of twenty in half, with ten warriors, including herself, dismounting. Sword and buckler at the ready, she led the guards up the gravelly slope. Their booted feet slid in the loose dirt. The climb was a slow one.

Suddenly a shape rose up in front of Verhanna and scampered away, like a partridge flushed by a spaniel.

“Get him!” the captain shouted. The small creature, which seemed to be wrapped in a white cloth, darted away but lost its footing and rolled downhill. It came to rest with a bump against Merith’s booted feet.

He put the tip of his slender elven blade against the sheeted mound, pricking the creature until it lay still. “Captain,” Merith called coolly, “I have him.”

The guards closed around the captive. Verhanna took one edge of the white sheet and pulled hard, spinning the occupant around. Out popped a small, sinewy figure with flaming red hair and a face to match.

“Stinkin’, poxy, rancid, dirty, lice-ridden —” he sputtered, rubbing his backside. “Who poked me?”

“I did,” Merith said. “And I’ll do it again if you don’t hold your tongue, kender.”

“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” Verhanna said sharply. Merith shrugged and gave the outraged fellow an insolent smile. The captain turned to her captive and demanded, “Who are you? Why did you run from us?”

“Wrinklecap is who I am, and you’d run, too, if you woke from a nap to see a dozen swords over you!” The kender stopped rubbing his backside and twisted around to look at it. An almost comical expression of outrage widened his pale blue eyes. “You made a hole in my trousers!” he said, glaring at them. “Someone’s gonna pay for this!”

“Be still,” Verhanna said. She shook out the sheet Wrinklecap had been sleeping in. A double handful of black pebbles fell from its folds. “A lodestone gatherer,” she said. The disappointment in her voice was obvious.

“The lodestone gatherer,” intoned the tiny fellow, tapping his chest with one finger. “Rufus Wrinklecap of Balifor, that’s me.”

The guards who were waiting below on horseback called out to their captain. Verhanna shouted back that all was well. Sheathing her sword, she said to the kender, “You’d better come along with us.”

“Why?” piped Rufus.

Verhanna was tired of bandying words with the noisy kender, so she pushed him ahead. Rufus snatched his sheet from the elven captain and rolled it up as he walked.

“Not fair – big bunch of bullies – creepin’, pointyheaded elves —” he grumbled all the way down the slope.

Verhanna halted and ordered her troopers to remount. She sat down on a handy boulder and waved the kender over. “How long have you been in these parts?” she asked him.

After a few seconds of hesitation, the kender took a deep breath and said, “Well, after Uncle Trapspringer escaped from the walrus men and was eaten by the great ice bear —”

The captain quickly clamped a hand over the kender’s open mouth. “No,” she said firmly. “I do not want your entire life history. Simply answer my questions, or I’ll let Lieutenant Merith poke you again.”

His long red topknot bobbled as Rufus swallowed hard. Verhanna was easily twice his size. Merith, from his mounted position next to them, was tapping the pommel of his sword meaningfully. The kender nodded. Verhanna released her hold on him.

“I’ve been here going on two months,” Rufus said sulkily.

Verhanna remembered the loose stones he’d had. “You don’t have much to show for two month’s work,” she commented.

Rufus puffed out his thin chest. “I only take the best stones,” he said proudly. “I don’t fill my pockets with trash like all them others do.”

Ignoring for the moment the little fellow’s last remark, Verhanna asked, “How do you live? I don’t see any camp gear, cooking pot, or waterskin.”

The kender turned innocent azure eyes on her and said, “I find what I need.”

Merith snorted loudly. A smile touched Verhanna’s lips. “Find, eh? Kender are good at that. Who have you ‘found’ things from?” she asked.

“Different people.”

Verhanna drew a long, double-edged dagger from her belt and began to strop it slowly against her boot. “We’re looking for some different people,” she said carefully, making sure the kender followed every stroke of the bright blade. “Humans. Maybe some elves.” The dagger paused. “Slavers.”

Rufus let out his breath with a whoosh. “Oh!” he exclaimed, his high-pitched voice descending the scale. “Is that who you’re after? Well, why didn’t you say so?”

The kender launched into a typically random account of his activities of the past few days – caves he’d explored, wonders he’d beheld, and a secret camp he’d found over the mountains. In this camp, he claimed there were humans and elves holding other humans and elves in chains. Rufus had seen the camp just two days before.

“On the other side of the mountains?” Verhanna said sharply. “The eastern slope?”

“Yup. Right by the river. Are you going to attack them?” The kender’s eagerness was unmistakable. His darting gaze took in their armor and weapons, and he added, “Well, of course you are. Want me to show you where I saw them?”

Verhanna did indeed. She ordered food and water for Rufus while she conferred with Merith about this new intelligence.

The kender wolfed down chunks of quith-pa, a rich elven bread, and bites of a winesap apple. “This little fellow may be a great help to us,” she said confidentially to Merith. “Send a message to Lord Ambrodel informing him of what we’ve learned.”

Merith saluted. “Yes, Captain.” His expression turned grim as he added, “You realize what this means, don’t you? If the slavers are on the other side of the mountain, then they are operating within sight of the city.”

He turned on one heel and strode away to send the dispatch to Lord Ambrodel. Verhanna watched him for a moment, then pulled on her gauntlets and said to Rufus, “Can you ride pillion?”

The kender hastily lowered a water bottle from his lips, dribbling sweet spring water down his sunbrowned cheeks. “Ride a what?” he asked suspiciously.

Not pausing to explain, Verhanna swung onto her black horse and grabbed the kender by the hood attached to the back of his deerhide tunic. Yelping, Rufus felt himself lifted into the air and settled on the short leather tail of her saddle.

“That’s a pillion,” she said. “Now hold on!”

Chapter 2

THE RAID

The kender led Verhanna’s troops across the mountains to a bluff overlooking the River of Hope, which formed Qualinost’s western boundary. The towers and bridges of the city rose up to the northeast not three miles away. The sun was setting behind the mountains at the warriors’ backs. Its light washed the capital, and the arched bridges glowed like golden tiaras. Nestled in the light green of spring leaves, thousands of windows reflected the crimson sun. Brightest of all, the Tower of the Sun mirrored the fiery glow with a vigor that nearly burned Verhanna’s eyes.

Verhanna gazed over the city her father had founded, and a deep sense of peace filled her. Her home was beautiful; the thought that dealers in elven and human misery operated within sight of Qualinost’s beauty sent a wave of resolute anger washing over her.

Rufus broke her reverie. “Captain,” he whispered, “I smell smoke.”

Verhanna strained until she caught a faint tang of wood smoke on the gentle breeze. It was coming from below, from the base of the bluff. “Is there a way down there?” she queried.

“Not on horseback. The path’s too narrow,” Rufus replied.

Quietly Verhanna ordered her troops to dismount. The horses were tethered among the rocks, and a group of five warriors was set to watch them. The remaining fifteen followed Verhanna to the path. She, in turn, followed Rufus Wrinklecap.

It was obvious that others had been using this path. Sand from the riverbank had been spread over the rocky ground, no doubt to soften footfalls. Now the sand served the guards as they crept down the path two abreast. They were careful to keep their shields from banging against anything. The smell of wood smoke grew stronger.

The base of the bluff was some thirty yards from the river’s edge. Scrub pines dotted the landscape, and halfway out from the cliff, there was nothing but sand deposited by the river during spring floods. Verhanna caught Rufus by the shoulder and stopped him. The warriors crouched silently behind their captain, shielded from the camp by the small trees.

Voices drifted to them – voices and sounds of movement.

“Can’t see how many there are,” Verhanna said in a tense whisper.

“I can find out,” Rufus said confidently, and before she could stop him, he had eased out from under her hand and started forward.

“No! Come back!” the captain hissed.

It was too late. With the fearlessness, some might say foolishness, of his race, the kender scrambled forward a few paces, stood, and dusted the sand from his knees. Then, whistling a cheery air, he marched into the unseen slavers’ camp.

Merith crawled to his captain. “The little thief will give us away,” he murmured.

“I don’t think so,” she replied. “By the gods, he’s a brave little mite.”

Moments later, rough laughter filled the air. Rufus’s treble voice, saying something unintelligible, followed, then more laughter. To Verhanna’s surprise, the kender came rolling through the scrub pines, knees tucked under his chin. He made a graceful flip onto his feet and flung out his arms. There was more laughter, and a spattering of applause. Verhanna understood; the kender was playing the fool, doing acrobatic tricks to amuse the slavers.

Rufus scuffed his feet on the sand and dove headfirst into a somersault. From her hiding place, Verhanna could just make out what he’d marked in the dirt. A one and a zero. There were ten slavers in the camp.

“Good fellow,” she whispered fiercely. “We’ll rush them. Spread out along the riverbank. I don’t want any of them jumping in the water and swimming away.” Burdened by armor, her guards wouldn’t be able to pursue the slavers in the river.

Swords whisked out of scabbards. Verhanna stood, silently thrusting her blade in the air. The last rays of daylight fell across her face, highlighting its mix of human and elven features. Almond shaped elven eyes, rather broad human cheeks, and a sharp Silvanesti chin proclaimed the captain’s ancestry. Her braid of light brown hair hung forward across her chest, and she flicked it behind her. She nodded curtly to her warriors. The guards swept forward.

As Verhanna hurried through the screen of scrawny trees, she took in the slavers’ camp in a quick glance. At the foot of the cliff stood several huts made of beach stone chinked with moss. They blended in so well with their surroundings that from a distance no one would have recognized them as dwellings. Two small campfires burned on the open ground in front of the huts. The slavers stood in a ragged group between the fires. Rufus, his red topknot dripping perspiration and his blizzard of freckles lost on his flushed face, was standing on his hands before them.

The astonished slavers shouted when they saw the guards crashing toward them. A few reached for weapons, but most elected to flee. Verhanna pounded across the sand, straight at the nearest armed slaver. He appeared to be a Kagonesti, with dark braided hair and red triangles painted on his cheeks. In his hands he held a short spear with a wicked barbed head. Verhanna fended off the spear point with her shield and hacked at the shaft with her sword, lopping off the spearhead. The Kagonesti cursed, flung the wooden shaft at her, and turned to run. She was on him in a heartbeat, her long legs far swifter than his. The captain lowered her sword and slashed the fleeing slaver on the back of his leg. He fell, clutching his wounded limb. Verhanna hopped over him and kept going.

The slavers fell back, driven in toward the cliff base by the swords of the guards. Some chose to fight the Qualinesti, and these died in a brief, bloody skirmish. The ragged band was poorly armed and outnumbered, and soon they were on their knees, crying out for quarter.

“Down on your bellies!” Verhanna shouted. “Put your hands out flat on the ground.”

She heard a warning shout from her left and turned in time to see one of the slavers sprinting for the river. He had too much of a head start for any of the guards to catch him, but he hadn’t reckoned on Rufus Wrinklecap. The kender whipped out a sling and quickly loosed a pellet. With a thunk, the stone hit the back of the slaver’s head, and the escaping human fell and lay still. Rufus trotted over to him, and his hands began moving through the fellow’s clothing.

The fight was over. The slavers were searched and bound hand and foot. Of the ten in the camp, four were human men, four were Kagonesti, and two were half-humans. Merith remarked on the fact that the three who died fighting were all Kagonesti.

“They’re not inclined to submit,” Verhanna replied grudgingly. “Have those huts searched, Merith.”

Rufus came sauntering up, swinging his sling jauntily. “Pretty good fight, eh, Captain?” he said cheerfully.

“More a pigeon shoot than a fight, thanks to you.”

The kender beamed. Verhanna dug into her belt pouch and found a gold piece. Her father’s graven image stared up from the coin. She tossed it to Rufus.

“That’s for your help, kender,” she said.

He caressed the heavy gold piece. “Thank you, my captain.”

Just then Merith shouted, “Captain! Over here!” He stood by one of the huts.

“What is it?” she asked sharply when she reached him. “What’s wrong?”

Ashen-faced, he nodded toward the hut. “You – you’d best go inside and see.”

Verhanna frowned and pushed by him. The door of the crude stone house was nothing but a flap of leather. She thrust a hand through and stepped inside. A candle burned on the small table in the center of the one-room dwelling. Someone was seated at the table. His face was in shadow, but Verhanna saw numerous rings on the hand that rested on the table, including a familiar silver signet ring. A ring that belonged to —

“Really, sister, you have the most appalling timing in the world,” said the seated figure. He leaned forward into the candlelight, and the hazel eyes of the line of Silvanos sparkled.

“Ulvian! What are you doing here?” Verhanna asked, shock reducing her voice to a whisper.

Kith-Kanan’s son pushed the candle aside and clasped his hands lightly on the tabletop.

“Conducting some very profitable business, till you so rudely disrupted it.”

“Business?” For a long moment, his sister couldn’t take it in. The crude plates and utensils, the worn wooden table, the rough pallet of blankets in one corner, even the sputtering candle – all claimed her roving gaze before her eyes once more rested on the person before her. Then, with the force of a summer storm, she exploded, “Business! Slavery!”

Ulvian’s handsome face, so like his mother Suzine’s, twitched slightly. Full-blooded elven males couldn’t grow beards or mustaches, but Ulvian kept a modest stubble as a sign of his half-human heritage. With a quick, distracted motion, he stroked the fine golden hair.

“What I do is none of your affair,” he said, annoyed. “Nor anyone else’s, for that matter.”

Her own brother a trafficker in slaves! Eldest son of the House of Silvanos and the supposed heir to the throne of Qualinesti. Verhanna’s face flamed with her disgrace and the knowledge of the shame and pain this would cause their father. How could Ulvian do such a thing? Then her mortification was replaced by anger. Cold rage filled the Speaker’s daughter. Grabbing Ulvian by the front of his crimson silk doublet, Verhanna dragged him from behind the table and out of the hut. Merith was still waiting outside.

“Where are the slaves?” she rasped. Mutely Merith pointed to the larger of the two remaining huts.

“Come on, Brother,” growled Verhanna, shoving Ulvian ahead of her. Other guards saw the Speaker’s son and gaped. Merith stormed at them.

“What are you gawking at? Mind those prisoners!” he ordered.

Verhanna propelled Ulvian into the slave hut. Within, a guard was removing a young, emaciated female elf’s chains with a hammer and chisel. Other slaves slumped against the walls of the hut. Even with their deliverance at hand, they were broken in spirit, listless and passive. There were some half-human males, and to Verhanna’s horror, two dark-haired human children who couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old. All the captives were caked with filth. The hut reeked of stale sweat, urine, and despair.

The guard hacked the elf woman’s chain in two and helped her stand. Her thin, frail legs wouldn’t support her. With only the faintest of sighs, she crumpled. The guard lifted her starved body in his arms and carried her out.

Verhanna knew she must get control of her emotions. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to be calm, willed her heart to slow its frenzied beating. Opening her eyes once more, she said with certainty, “Ulvian, Father will have your head for this. If he favors me, I’ll gladly swing the axe.”

One pale hand adjusting the lace at his throat, Ulvian smiled. “I don’t think so, sweet Sister. After all, it wouldn’t look good for the Speaker’s heir to go around without a head, now would it?”

The captain slapped her brother. Ulvian’s head snapped back. Slowly he turned to face his sister.

She was four inches taller than he, and the prince tilted his head back slightly to stare directly into her eyes. The smirk was gone from his lips, replaced by cold-blooded fury.

“You will never be Speaker if I have anything to say about it,” Verhanna swore. “You are unfit to utter our father’s name, let alone inherit his title.”

A single bead of blood hung from the corner of Prince Ulvian’s mouth. He dabbed at it and said softly, “You always were Father’s lapdog.”

Sweeping the door flap aside, Verhanna called, “Lieutenant Merith! Come here!” The elegant elf hustled in, scabbard jangling against his armored thigh.

“Put Prince Ulvian in chains,” she ordered. “And if he utters one word of protest, gag him as well.” Merith stared. “Captain, are you sure? Chain the prince?”

“Yes!” she thundered.

Merith searched among the heaps of chain in the slave hut and found a set of manacles to fit Prince Ulvian. Abashed, he stood before Kith-Kanan’s son and held open the cold iron bonds.

“Highness,” Merith said tightly. “Your hands, please.”

Ulvian did not resist. He presented his slim arms, and Merith snapped the bands around his wrists.

A hole in the latch would take a soft iron rivet. “You will regret this, Hanna,” the prince said in a barely audible voice as he stared at his manacled wrists.

*

By the time Verhanna’s warriors had the slavers’ camp sorted out, Lord Ambrodel and his personal escort of thirty riders had come thundering up the riverbank, summoned by fast dispatch. The elves set up a double row of torches in the sand to light the riders’ way. By the same light, they had sorted the wretched captives by race and gender. The slavers were chained together in one large band, and a guard of bow-armed warriors set to watch them.

Lord Ambrodel rode up, sand flying beneath his horse’s hooves. He called out loudly for Verhanna. The Speaker’s daughter came forward and saluted the younger Ambrodel.

“Give me your report,” he ordered before dismounting.

Verhanna handed him a tally showing eight slaves found and freed, and seven slavers captured. “Three chose to fight and were killed,” she added. Lord Ambrodel slipped the parchment under his breastplate.

“How were they moving the slaves?” he asked, surveying the cunningly concealed camp.

“By river, sir.”

Lord Ambrodel glanced back at the moonlit water.

“My lord,” Verhanna continued, “we found signs that more slaves were sent on from this camp. The ones we found here were too sick to travel. I’d like to take my troop on and try to intercept the rest before they reach the Ergoth border.”

“You’re far too late for that, I’m sure,” Lord Ambrodel replied. “I want to question the leader of the slavers. Did you take him alive?” Verhanna nodded curtly. The warrior lord tugged off his leather gauntlets and slapped the sand from his mailed thighs. “Well, Captain, show him to me,” he said impatiently.

Without a word, Verhanna turned on one heel and led her commander toward the huts. The slavers lay on the ground, their heads buried in their arms in despair or else staring with hatred at their captors. Verhanna yanked a torch from the sand and held it high. She held the door flap open for Lord Ambrodel and thrust the torch inside. The face of the figure seated before them leapt into clarity.

Lord Ambrodel recoiled sharply. “It cannot be!” he gasped. “Prince Ulvian!”

“Kemian, my friend,” the prince said to the general, “you’d best have these fetters removed. I am not a common criminal, though my hysterical sister insists on treating me like one.”

“Release him,” said Lord Ambrodel. His face was white.

“My lord, Prince Ulvian was caught engaging in the forbidden commerce of slavery,” Verhanna put in quickly. “Both my father’s edicts and the laws of the Thalas-Enthia demand —”

“Don’t quote the law to me!” Lord Ambrodel snapped. “I shall bring this matter to the attention of the Speaker at once, but I will not drag a member of the royal family through the streets of Qualinost in chains! I cannot disgrace the Speaker so!”

Before she could order it, Merith was at Verhanna’s side, chisel in hand. She shoved her lieutenant’s hands aside and grasped the cold iron clamps in her own bare hands. With the strength bestowed upon her by her elven heritage, Verhanna pried the manacles apart just enough so that Ulvian could slip his arms out. Impudently he handed the empty chains to his sister.

“Captain,” Lord Ambrodel said, “return to your troop. Muster them for marching.”

“My lord! To what destination?” she answered tersely.

“Southeast – to the forest. I want you to search for other slaver camps there. Lieutenant Merithynos will remain to report on the finding of the slavers.”

Verhanna’s gaze flickered to her brother, to Merith, and back to Lord Ambrodel. She was too disciplined in the ways of the warrior to disobey her commander, but she knew Lord Ambrodel was sending her away so he could handle the delicate business of Ulvian’s crime and punishment. Kemian would not let the prince escape; he was too honest for that. But he would grant her brother every privilege, up to the moment he turned Ulvian over to Kith-Kanan himself.

“Very good, sir,” Verhanna finally responded. With a curt nod, she departed, spurs ringing as her heels struck the packed sand.

Ulvian rubbed his wrists and smiled. “Thank you, my lord,” he said. “I shall remember this.”

“Save your gratitude, my prince. I meant what I said; you will be given over to your father’s judgment.”

Ulvian maintained his smile. The ruddy light of the torch made his blond beard and hair look like copper. “I’m not afraid,” he said lightly. Indeed he wasn’t. His father had never punished Ulvian for his errant ways in the past.

As Verhanna gathered her warriors together with hoarsely shouted commands, the kender reappeared. His pockets were bulging with plunder from the slavers’ camp: knives, string, flints, clay pipes, brass-studded wristbands.

“Hail, Captain,” Rufus called. “Where to now?”

Verhanna looped her reins around her left hand. “So you came back! I thought I’d seen the last of you.”

“You paid me. I’m your scout now,” Rufus announced. “I can lead you anywhere. From which horizon will we next see the sun?” Verhanna swung into the saddle. Her eyes rested on the hut where her brother and Lord Ambrodel still tarried. Her brother, the slaver. “South,” she said, biting off the word as it left her tightly drawn lips.

*

The Speaker’s house was quite large, though far less grand than the Quinari Palace in Silvanost where Kith-Kanan had grown up. Built entirely of wood, it had a warmth and naturalness he felt was missing from the great crystal residence of his brother, the Speaker of the Stars. The house was more or less rectangular in shape, with two small wings radiating to the west. The main entrance was on the east side, facing the courtyard of the Tower of the Sun.

Lord Ambrodel, Lieutenant Merith, and Prince Ulvian stood in the lamplit antechamber where Kith-Kanan usually greeted his guests. As it was well past midnight, the bright moons of Krynn had already set.

Despite the late hour, the Speaker looked alert and carefully groomed as he and Tamanier Ambrodel descended the polished cherrywood staircase to the antechamber. His fur-trimmed robe swept the floor. The toes of his yellow felt slippers protruded from under the green velvet hem.

“What has happened?” he asked gently.

As senior officer present, it fell to Kemian Ambrodel to explain. When he reached the point in his story where Verhanna had discovered Prince Ulvian in the slavers’ camp, Kemian’s father Tamanier gasped in astonishment. Kith-Kanan’s gaze shifted to Ulvian, who pursed his lips and rocked on his heels in an obvious display of arrogance.

“Were the slaves you found badly treated?” asked the Speaker in clipped tones.

“They were sick, filthy, and ill-fed, Majesty. From what they told us, they were held back from a larger group of slaves sent on by river to Ergoth because they were deemed too feeble for hard work.” Kemian fought down his disgust. “A few had been whipped, Speaker.”

“I see. Thank you, my lord.”

Kith-Kanan clasped his hands behind his back and studied the floor. The maple had a beautiful grain pattern that resembled the dancing flames of a fire. Suddenly, he lifted his head and said, “I want you all to swear to keep what happens here tonight strictly secret. No one is to know of it – not even your families. Is that clear?” The assembled elves nodded solemnly, except Ulvian. “This is a delicate matter. There are those in Qualinost who would try to profit from my son’s actions. For the safety of the nation, this must remain a secret.”

Stepping down from the last stair, the Speaker stood nose-to-nose with his son. “Ullie,” he said quietly, “why did you do it?”

The prince quivered with suppressed anger tinged with fear. “Do you really want to know?” he burst out. “Because you preach about justice and mercy instead of strength and greatness! Because you waste money on beggars and useless temples instead of a proper palace! Because you were the most famous warrior of the age, and you’ve thrown all your glory away to idle in gardens instead of fighting your way to the gates of Silvanost, our rightful home!” His voice choked off.

Kith-Kanan looked his son up and down. The grief on his face was visible to all. The Speaker’s great dignity asserted itself, however, and he said, “The war and the great march west left Silvanesti with an acute shortage of farmers, crafters, and laborers. To appease the nobles and clerics, my brother, the Speaker of the Stars, has sanctioned slavery throughout his realm. A similar condition exists in Ergoth, with similar results.

But no amount of inconvenience justifies the bondage of living, thinking beings by others. I have made it my life’s goal to stamp out the evil traffic in servitude in Qualinesti, and yet my own son —”

Kith-Kanan folded his arms, gripping his biceps hard through the plush velvet of his robe. “Ulvian, you will be held under close confinement in Arcuballis Tower until – until I can think of a proper punishment for you,” he declared.

“You don’t dare.” The prince sneered. “I am your son, your only legitimate heir! Where will your precious dynasty be without me? I know you, Father. You’ll forgive me anything to keep from being the first and last Speaker of the Sun from the House of Silvanos!.”

The aged Tamanier Ambrodel could contain himself no longer. He had been friend to Kith-Kanan ever since the Speaker was a young prince in Silvanost. To listen to this spoiled pup jeering at his father was more than mortal flesh could bear. The gray-haired castellan stepped forward and struck Ulvian with his open hand. The prince rounded on him, but Kith-Kanan moved swiftly, placing himself between his son and castellan.

“No, Tam. Stop,” he said, his voice shaking. “Don’t justify his hatred.” To Ulvian, he added, “Fifty years ago you might have earned a beating for your insolence, but now I will not ease your conscience so readily.”

Tamanier stepped back. Kith-Kanan beckoned to Merith, standing quietly behind Kernian Ambrodel.

“I have a charge for you, Lieutenant,” Kith-Kanan said gravely. The Speaker’s gaze unnerved the anxious young elf. “You will be my son’s keeper. Take him to Arcuballis. Stay with him. He must see and speak to no one – no one at all. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Great Speaker.” Merith saluted stiffly.

“Go now, while it is still dark.”

Merith drew his sword and stood beside Ulvian. The prince glared sullenly at the naked blade. Speaker, castellan, and general watched the two leave for the tower keep that guarded the city’s northeastern corner. When the great doors of the house closed behind them, Kith-Kanan asked Kernian where Verhanna was. Lord Ambrodel explained how he’d thought it best to separate brother and sister at such a crisis.

“A wise decision,” Kith-Kanan said ruefully. “Hanna would wring Ullie’s neck.”

The Speaker bade Kemian return to the field and continue the hunt for slavers. The general bowed low, first to his sovereign and then to his father, and swept out of the hall. Once he was gone, Kith-Kanan sank shakily to the steps. Tamanier swiftly knelt beside him.

“Majesty! Are you ill?”

Tears glistened in Kith-Kanan’s brown eyes. “I am all right,” he murmured. “Leave me, Tam.”

“May I escort Your Majesty to his room?”

“No, I want to sit a while. On your way now, old friend.”

Tamanier rose and bowed. The scuff of his sandals faded in the dimly lit corridor. Kith-Kanan was alone.

He realized his hands were clenched into fists, and he relaxed them. Five hundred years was not a long time to live, by elven standards, yet at that moment, Kith-Kanan felt very aged indeed. What was he to do with Ulvian? The boy’s motives were a mystery to him. Did he need money so badly? Was it the thrill of doing something forbidden? No reason could excuse his conduct this time.

Once, after Ulvian had returned home half-naked and filthy after literally losing his shirt gambling, Verhanna had cornered her father. “He’s no good,” she had said.

“Isn’t he? Who made him so?” Kith-Kanan had wondered aloud. “Can I blame anyone but myself? I hardly ever saw him till he was twelve. The war was going badly, and I was needed in the field.”

“Mother spoiled him. She filled his head with a lot of nonsense,” Verhanna said bitterly. “I can’t count the times he’s told me you were responsible for her death.”

Kith-Kanan drew a hand across his brow. He couldn’t count the times he’d told Ulvian the truth about Suzine, that she had sacrificed her life for her husband and his cause, but Ulvian never believed it.

What could he do? Ulvian was right; Kith-Kanan couldn’t have his own son executed or banished. He was the Speaker’s heir. After working so hard, sacrificing so much, to build this great nation, Kith-Kanan wondered, was it all to be lost?

A bell tolled somewhere far off. The priests of Mantis, called Matheri in old Silvanost, were ringing the great bronze temple bell, signaling the imminent dawn. Kith-Kanan raised his weary head from his hands. The sound of the bell was like a voice, calling to him. Come, come, it said.

Yes, he thought. I will meditate and ask the gods. They will help me.

Chapter 3

THE BALANCE OF JUSTICE

The domed ceiling of the Tower of the Sun was decorated with an elaborate mosaic symbolizing the passage of time and the forces of good and evil. One half of the dome was blue sky, made up of thousands of chips of turquoise, and a brilliant sun made from gold and diamonds. The opposite half was tiled with the blackest onyx and sprinkled with diamond stars. The three moons of Krynn were represented by discs of ruby for Lunitari, silver for Solinari, and oxblood garnet for Nuitari.

Dividing these hemispheres was a rainbow band set with crimsonite, topazes, peridots, sapphires, and amethysts. The rainbow was a barrier and bridge between the worlds of night and day, a symbol of the intervention of the gods in mortal affairs.

Kith-Kanan meditated on the symbolism of the dome as he lay on his back on the rostrum in the center of the tower floor. Unlike its counterpart in Silvanost, this tower was not used as the throne room. The Tower of the Sun was mainly used when Kith-Kanan wanted to, as Verhanna put it, “impress the boots off a visitor.”

Kith-Kanan pillowed his head on one hand. His silver-blond hair was loose and spread out around his head like a halo. Fixing his gaze on the ceiling of the tower, he opened his mind. The peace and balanced beauty of the Tower of the Sun calmed him, allowing him to consider difficult matters.

Rows of windows and mirrors spiraled up the height of the tower, letting in the sun and reflecting it in endless cascades. No matter where the sun was in the sky, the Tower of the Sun would always be brightly lit. The Speaker draped his free arm over his face. A cool breeze played over his arms as it whistled through the tower windows. Even that was soothing. On this day, the Speaker of the Sun needed every bit of peace he could find as he wrestled with the problem of succession.

Qualinesti must have an heir. Kith-Kanan had sworn, before the gods and the assembly at Pax Tharkas, that he would step aside when the fortress was complete. Weekly dispatches from the chief architect and master builder, the dwarf Feldrin Feldspar, kept him informed of the progress there. Pax Tharkas was ninety percent done; with good weather and no delays, the citadel would be finished in another two or three years. Kith-Kanan must name his successor soon.

For too long, the Speaker had consoled himself with the thought that his only son was merely wayward, but now there was no denying that the problems ran much deeper. His own son involved in the slave trade....

With Ulvian obviously unworthy for the position of Speaker of the Sun, Kith-Kanan pondered other candidates. Verhanna? Not a good choice. She was brave, intelligent, and as honorable as any highborn Silvanesti, but also temperamental and sometimes prone to harshness. In spite of Kith-Kanan’s dreams of equality in his kingdom, the fact that Verhanna was half-human would also weigh against her in the minds of some of his full-blooded elven subjects. These prejudices were kept carefully tucked away, out of plain sight, but the Speaker knew they existed still. Coupled with the fact that Verhanna was female, that bias would be too much to overcome.

“You could marry again,” said a quiet voice.

Kith-Kanan descended the rostrum and looked around. The tower was pitch-dark, though he knew it wasn’t yet midday. Standing to his left, between two of the pillars that ringed the chamber, was a strange elf, wreathed in yellow light.

“Who are you?” demanded Kith-Kanan.

The halo of light followed the stranger as he approached the rostrum, though the elf carried no lamp or candle. He was clad entirely in a suit of close-fitting red leather. A scarlet cape hung from one shoulder and brushed the floor. The stranger’s ears were unusually tall and pointed, even for an elf, and his long hair was a vivid ruby red.

“I am one who can help you,” the intruder said. He spoke with an air of supreme self-assurance. Now that he was closer, Kith-Kanan saw that his eyes were black and glittering, set in a face as dead white as dry bones. No lines at all touched the face; it might have been carved from purest alabaster.

“Begone from here,” Kith-Kanan said sharply. “You intrude on my privacy.” He faced the stranger, his muscles tensed for fight or flight.

“Come, come! You’re in a quandary about your son, aren’t you? I can help. I have considerable power.”

Kith-Kanan knew this elf must be, at the very least, a powerful sorcerer. The tower was wrapped in protective spells, and for any malign being to enter would require great mastery of magic. “What is your name?”

The red elf shrugged, and his cape rippled like waves in a scarlet sea. “I have many names. You may call me Dru if you like.” With one hand at his slim waist and the other held out before him, Dru made a graceful, mocking bow. “You came here seeking help from higher powers, Great Speaker, so I have answered your call.”

Kith-Kanan’s brows arched. “Are you mortal?”

“Does it matter? I can help you. Your son has offended you, and you want to know what to do about it... yes? You are Speaker of the Sun. Condemn him,” Dru said smoothly.

“He is my only son.”

“And yet you might have another, if you marry again. For a slight fee, I can procure for you the mate of your heart’s desire!” He smiled, revealing teeth as red as his hair. Kith-Kanan recoiled and moved quickly back to the rostrum, where the potent magic symbols set in the floor mosaic would protect him from evil spells.

“I will not bargain with an evil spirit,” he exclaimed. “Begone! Trouble me no more!”

The red elf laughed, the loud peals echoing weirdly in the black, empty tower. “Our bargain has already commenced, Great Speaker.”

Kith-Kanan was confused. Already commenced? Had he somehow summoned this odd being from the netherworld?

“Of course you did,” Dru said, reading his thoughts. “I’m a busy fellow. I don’t waste my valuable time appearing to just anyone. Here, son of Sithel. Let me demonstrate what I can do.”

Dru brought his white hands together with a loud clap. Kith-Kanan felt a breeze rush by him, as if all the air in the tower gusted toward the strange elf. With a crackling hiss, a ball of fire appeared suddenly between Dru’s palms, and he flung it to the floor, where it burst. The loud crack and blinding flash caused Kith-Kanan to stagger back. When his vision cleared, he beheld a transformed scene.

Kith-Kanan no longer stood in the Tower of the Sun, though its rostrum was still solid beneath his feet. His surroundings were those of a smaller tower. By the stonework and the shape of the windows, he knew that it was in Silvanost. Tapestries in shades of pale green and blue hung on the walls, depicting woodland scenes and elegantly clad ladies. Sunlight filled the room.

A sigh caught his ears. He turned and saw a large, heavy wooden chair, its back to him, facing an open window. Someone was sitting in the chair. Kith-Kanan couldn’t see who.

Suddenly the someone stood. Kith-Kanan glimpsed her beautiful red hair and his breath caught.

“Hermathya,” he whispered.

“She cannot see or hear us,” Dru informed him. “You see how she languishes in Silvanost, unloved and unloving. I can have her at your side in the blink of any eye.”

Hermathya... the love of his youth. For many years the wife of his twin brother, Sithas. She stared straight through the spot where Kith-Kanan stood, piercing him unknowingly with her deep blue eyes. Her red-gold hair was piled up on her head in elaborate braids, showing the elegant shape of her upswept ears, and she wore a gown of the finest spider’s web gold, thin and clinging. Once he had proposed marriage to her, but his father, not knowing of their love, had betrothed her to Kith-Kanan’s twin, Sithas. So much time had passed since that distant day. Now Sithas was leader of the Silvanesti elves, as Kith-Kanan ruled the Qualinesti.

Lonely and a bit self-pitying, Kith-Kanan felt himself sorely tempted. Always Hermathya’s great beauty had been able to arouse him. An elf would have to be made of stone not to feel something in her presence.

Just as he was about to ask Dru his terms, Hermathya turned away. She lunged at the open window before her chair. Kith-Kanan cried out and reached for her.

Before she could hurtle through the high window, Hermathya was brought up short. The harsh clank of metal shocked Kith-Kanan. Beneath the hem of her golden gown, he spied an iron fetter, locked about her right ankle and attached by a chain to the heavy chair. The chair was fastened to the floor. Though the fetter was lined with padded cloth, it gripped Hermathya’s slender ankle tightly.

“What does this mean?” demanded Kith-Kanan.

Dru seemed vexed. “A minor problem, Great Speaker. The lady Hermathya suffers from despondency over the crippling of her son during the war and, I might add, over the loss of your love. The Speaker of the Stars has ordered her chained so that she won’t harm herself.”

Hermathya had been staring with palpable longing at the open window. Her face was as exquisitely lovely as Kith-Kanan remembered it. The high cheekbones, the delicately slender nose, and skin as smooth as the finest silk. Time hadn’t marked her at all. Once more her faint sigh came to him, a sound full of sorrow and yearning. Kith-Kanan squeezed his eyes shut. “Take me away,” he hissed. “I cannot bear to see this.”

“As you wish.”

The dark embrace of the Tower of the Sun in Qualinost returned.

Kith-Kanan shuddered. Hermathya had been out of his thoughts, and out of his heart, for centuries.

The break between him and his twin brother had been widened by the passion Kith-Kanan had felt for Hermathya. Time and other loves had practically extinguished the old fire. Why did he feel such longing for her now?

“Old wounds are the deepest and the hardest to heal,” said Dru, once more answering Kith’s thoughts.

“I don’t believe any of this,” the Speaker snapped. “You created that scene with your magic to deceive me.”

Dru sighed loudly and circled the rostrum, his yellow aura moving with him. “Ah, such lack of faith,” Dru said sardonically. “All I offered was true. The lady can be yours again if you meet my terms.”

Kith-Kanan folded his arms. “Which are what?”

The red elf pressed his hands together prayerfully, but the expression on his face was anything but pious. “Permit the passage of slave caravans from Ergoth and Silvanesti through your realm,” he said quickly.

“Never!” Kith-Kanan strode toward Dru, who did not retreat. The strange elf’s yellow aura stopped the Speaker’s advance. When he, reached out to touch the golden shell, he snatched his fingers back as if they’d been burned. But the glow was bizarrely, intensely cold.

“You are brave,” Dru mused, “but do not try to lay hands on me again.”

At that moment, Kith-Kanan realized who Dru really was, and for one of the few times in his life, he was truly frightened.

“I know you,” he said in a voice that wavered, though he fought to keep it steady. “You are the one who corrupts those beset by adversity.” Almost too softly to be heard, he added, “Hiddukel.”

The God of Evil Bargains, whose sacred color was red, bowed. “You are tiresome in your virtues,” he remarked. “Is there nothing you want? I can fill this tower twenty times with gold or silver or jewels. What do you say to that?” His red eyebrows rose questioningly.

“Treasure will not solve my problems.”

“Think of the good you could do with it all.” Hiddukel’s voice dripped with malicious sarcasm.

“You could buy all the slaves in the world and set them free.”

Kith-Kanan backed away toward the rostrum. It was his safe haven, where not even the evil god’s magic could reach him. “Why do you concern yourself with the slave trade, Lord of the Broken Scales?” he asked.

The god’s elven form shrugged. “I concern myself with all such commerce. I am the patron deity of slavers.”

The stone of the rostrum bumped against Kith-Kanan’s heels. Confidently he climbed backward onto it. “I refuse all your offers, Hiddukel,” he declared. “Go away, and trouble me no further.”

The look of malign enjoyment left the red-garbed elf’s face. Addressed by his true name, he had no choice but to depart. His pointed features twisted into a hateful grimace.

“Your troubles will increase, Speaker of the Sun,” the God of Demons spat. “That which you have created will come forth to strike you down. The hammer shall break the anvil. Lightning shall cleave the rock!”

“Go!” Kith-Kanan cried, his heart pounding in his throat. The single syllable reverberated in the air.

Hiddukel backed away a pace and spun on one toe. His cape swirled around like a flame. Faster and faster the god whirled, until his elven form vanished, replaced by a whirling column of red smoke and fire. Kith-Kanan threw up an arm to shield his face from the virulent display. The voice of Hiddukel boomed in his head.

“The time of wonders is at hand, foolish king! Forces older than the gods surround you! Only the power of the Queen of Darkness can withstand them! Beware!”

The fiery specter of Hiddukel flew apart, and in two heartbeats, the Tower of the Sun was quiet once more. The deep darkness that filled it remained, however. Sweating and shaking from his near escape from the Collector of Souls, Kith-Kanan sank to the floor. His body was wracked with spasms he could not control. A jumble of thoughts and images warred inside his brain – Ulvian, Hermathya, Suzine, Verhanna, his brother Sithas – all surmounted by the leering visage of Hiddukel. He felt as if his soul was the object of a deadly tug-of-war.

Kith-Kanan’s entire body ached. He was limp, worn out, exhausted. Rest was what he craved. He must rest. His eyelids fluttered closed.

*

“Sire? Speaker?” called a faint voice.

Kith-Kanan pushed himself up on his hands. “Who is it?” he replied hoarsely, brushing hair from his eyes.

A glow appeared from the entry hall. This time it was the mundane light of a lamp in the hands of his castellan.

“I’m here, Tam.”

“Great Speaker, are you well? We could not reach you, and – and the whole city has been plunged into darkness! The people are terrified!”

Concentrating his strength, Kith-Kanan struggled to his feet. Behind the agitated Tamanier were several silent Guards of the Sun. Their usual jaunty posture was gone, replaced by an attitude of tense fear.

“What do you mean?” the Speaker demanded shakily. “How long have I been in here? Is it night?”

Tamanier came closer. His face was white and drawn. “Sire, it is barely noon! Not long after you entered the tower to meditate, a curtain of blackness descended on the city. I came at once to inform you, but the tower doors were barred by invisible forces! We were frantic. Suddenly, only a few moments ago, they swung wide.”

Kith-Kanan adjusted his rumpled clothing and combed his hair back with his fingers. His mind was racing. The tower seemed normal, except for the darkness cloaking it. There was no trace of Hiddukel. He took a deep, restoring breath and said, “Come. We will see what the situation is and then calm the people.”

They went to the entrance, Kith-Kanan striding as purposefully as his nerves and throbbing muscles would allow. Tamanier hurried along with the lamp. The guards at the door presented arms and waited dutifully for the Speaker to pass. The great doors stood open.

Kith-Kanan paused, his feet on the broad granite sill. The gloom beyond was intense, far denser than ordinary night. In spite of the torches carried by Tamanier Ambrodel and several warriors, Kith-Kanan could barely see to the bottom of the tower steps. The torchlight seemed muffled by the jet-black fog. There were no lights to be seen in the gloom, though from this high vantage point, all of Qualinost should be spread out before him. Overhead, no stars or moons were visible.

“You say this happened just after I entered the tower?” he asked tensely.

“Yes, sire,” replied the castellan.

Kith-Kanan nodded. Was this some spell of Hiddukel’s, to coerce him into accepting the god’s vile bargain? No, not likely. The Lord of the Broken Scales was a deceiver, not an extorter. Hiddukel’s victims damned themselves. Their torment was thus sweeter to the wicked god.

“It’s very strange,” Kith-Kanan said in his best royal manner. “Still, it doesn’t seem dangerous, merely frightening. Is the prisoner still in Arcuballis Tower?” No need to bandy the prince’s name about.

One of the guards stepped forward. “I can answer that, sire. I was at the tower myself when the blackness fell. Lieutenant Merithynos thought it might be part of a plot to free his prisoner. No such attempt was made, however, Highness.”

“This is no mortal’s spell,” remarked Kith-Kanan. He swept a hand. through the murk, half expecting it to stain his skin. It didn’t. The gloom that looked so solid felt completely insubstantial, not even damp like a normal fog.

“Tell Merithynos to bring his prisoner to my house,” Kith-Kanan ordered briskly. “Keep him sequestered there until I return.”

“Where are you going, sire?” asked Tamanier, confused and unsure.

“Among my people, to reassure them.”

With no escort and bearing his own torch, Kith-Kanan left the Tower of the Sun. For the next several hours, he walked the streets of his capital, meeting common folk and nobles alike. Fear had thickened the air as surely as the weird gloom. When word spread that Kith-Kanan was in the streets, the people came out of the towers and temples to see him and to hear his calming words.

“Oh, Great Speaker,” lamented a young elf woman. “The blackness smothers me. I cannot breathe!”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s good air,” he assured her. “Can’t you smell the flowers in the gardens of Mantis?” His temple was close by. The aroma of the hundreds of blooming roses that surrounded it scented the still air.

The elf woman inhaled with effort, but her face cleared somewhat as she did. “Yes, sire,” she said more calmly. “Yes... I can smell them.”

“Mantis would not waste his perfume in suffocating air,” said the Speaker kindly. “It’s fear that chokes you. Stay here by the gardens until you feel better.”

He left her and moved on, trailed by a large crowd of worried citizens. Their pale faces moved in and out of the gloom, barely lit by the scores of blazing brands that had sprouted from every window and in every hand. Where the avenue from the Tower of the Sun joined the street that curved northwest to the tower keep called Sithel, Kith-Kanan found a band of crafters and temple acolytes debating in loud, angry voices. He stepped between the factions and asked them why they were arguing.

“It’s the end of the world!” declared a human man, a coppersmith by the look of the snips and pliers dangling from his oily leather vest. “The gods have abandoned us.”

“Nonsense!” spat an acolyte of Astra, the patron god of the elves. “This is merely some strange quirk of the weather. It will pass.”

“Weather? Black as pitch at noon?” exclaimed the coppersmith. His companions – a mix of elves and humans, all metal crafters – loudly supported him.

“You should heed the learned priest,” Kith-Kanan said firmly. “He is versed in these matters. If the gods wanted to destroy the world, they wouldn’t wrap us in a blanket of night. They’d use fire and flood and shake the ground. Don’t you agree?”

The smith hardly wanted to contradict his sovereign, but he said sullenly, “Then why don’t they do something about it?” He gestured to the half-dozen young clerics facing him.

“Have you tried?” Kith-Kanan asked the acolyte of Astra.

The cleric frowned. “None of our banishing spells worked, Highness. The darkness is not caused by mortal or divine magic,” he said. The other clerics behind him murmured their agreement.

“How long do you think it will last?”

The young elf could only shrug helplessly.

The coppersmith snorted, and Kith-Kanan turned to him. “You ought to be grateful, my friend, for this darkness.”

That caught the fellow off guard. “Grateful, Majesty?”

“It’s pitch-black on a working day. I’d say you have a holiday.” The crafters laughed nervously. “If I were you, I’d hie on over to the nearest tavern and celebrate your good fortune!” A broad grin brightened the coppersmith’s face, and the disputants began to disperse.

Kith-Kanan continued on his way. Passing a side street on his right, he halted when he heard weeping coming from the dim alley.

The Speaker turned into the side street, following the sound of sobbing. Suddenly a hand reached out of the dark and pressed against his chest, stopping him.

“Who are you?” he said sharply, thrusting the torch toward the one who’d halted him.

“I live here. Gusar is my name.”

The weak torchlight showed Kith-Kanan an old human, bald and white-browed. Gusar’s eyes were white, too. Cataracts had taken his sight.

“Someone is in trouble down there,” said the Speaker, relieved. An old blind man was hardly a threat.

“I know. I was going to help when you blundered up behind me.”

Kith-Kanan bristled at the man’s bluntness. “Get that brand out of my face, and I’ll be on my way,” the blind man continued.

The monarch of Qualinesti drew his torch back. Gusar moved off with the easy confidence of one used to darkness. Kith-Kanan trailed silently behind the blind man. In short order, they came upon a trio of elf children huddled by the closed door of a tower home.

“Hello,” Gusar said cheerfully. “Is someone crying?”

“We can’t find our house,” wailed an elf girl. “We looked and looked, but we couldn’t see the daisies that grow by our door!”

“Daisies, eh? I know that house. It’s only a few steps more. I’ll take you there.” Gusar extended a gnarled hand. The elf children regarded him with misgiving.

“Are you a troll?” asked the smallest boy, his blue eyes huge in his tiny face.

Gusar cackled. “No. I’m just an old, blind man.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “My friend has a torch to help light your way.”

Kith-Kanan was surprised. He hadn’t realized the old man knew he was still there.

The girl who’d spoken got up first and took the human’s hand. The two boys followed their sister, and together the children and the old human wandered down the lane. Kith-Kanan followed at a distance, until the little girl turned and announced, “We don’t need you, sir. The old one can see us home.”

“Fare you well, then,” Kith-Kanan called. The bowed back of the aged human and the flaxen hair of the elf children quickly vanished in the inky air.

For the first time in days, the Speaker smiled. His dream of a nation where all races could live in peace was truly taking hold when three children of pure Silvanesti blood could fearlessly take the hand of a gnarled old human and let him lead them home.

Chapter 4

THE LIGHTNING AND THE ROCK

On the morning of what would have been the fourth day of darkness, a ball of red fire appeared in the eastern sky. The people of Qualinost swarmed into the streets, fearfully pointing at the dangerous-looking orb. Within minutes, dread turned to relief when they realized that what they were seeing was the sun, burning through the gloom. The darkness lifted steadily, and the day dawned bright and cloudless.

Kith-Kanan looked out over his city from the window of his private rooms. The rose-quartz towers sparkled cleanly in the newborn sunlight, and the trees seemed to bask in the warmth. All over Qualinost, in every window and every gracefully curving street, faces were upturned to the luxurious heat and light. As the Speaker looked south across his city, the songs and laughter of spontaneous revelry reached his ears.

The return of light was a great relief to Kith-Kanan. For the past three days, he had done nothing but try to hold his people together, reassuring them that the end of the world was not nigh. After two days of darkness, emissaries had arrived in Qualinost from Ergoth and Thorbardin, seeking answers from the Speaker of the Sun as to the cause of the fearful gloom. Kith-Kanan had his own ideas, but didn’t share them with the emissaries. Some new power was rising from a long sleep. Hiddukel had said it was a power older even than the gods. The Speaker did not yet know what its purpose was, and he didn’t want to spread alarms through the world based on his own flimsy theories.

From all over his realm, people poured into Qualinost, clogging the bridges and straining the resources of the city. Everyone was afraid of the unknown darkness. Fear made allies of the oldest enemies, too. From outside Kith-Kanan’s enlightened kingdom came humans and elves’ who had fought each other in the Kinslayer Wars. During the darkness, they had huddled together around bonfires, praying for deliverance.

From his window overlooking the sunlit city, Kith-Kanan mused. Perhaps that was the reason for it – to bring us all together.

There was a soft, firm knock at the door. Kith-Kanan turned his back on the city and called, “Enter.” Tamanier Ambrodel appeared in the doorway and bowed.

“The emissaries of Ergoth and Thorbardin have departed,” the castellan reported, hands folded in front of him. “In better spirits than when they arrived, I might add, sire.”

“Good. Now perhaps I can deal with other weighty matters. Send Prince Ulvian and the warrior Merithynos to me at once.”

“At once, Majesty” was Tamanier’s quiet reply.

As soon as the castellan had departed, Kith-Kanan moved to his writing table and sat down. He took out a fresh sheet of foolscap. Dipping the end of a fine stylus into a jar of ink, he began to write. He was still writing when Ulvian and Merith presented themselves.

“Well, Father, I hope this ridiculous business is over,” Ulvian said with affected injury. He was still clad in the crimson doublet and silver-gray trousers he’d been captured in. “I’ve been bored silly, with no one to talk to but this tiresome warrior of yours.”

Merith’s hand tightened on the pommel of his sword. His cobalt-blue eyes stared daggers at the prince. Kith-Kanan forestalled the lieutenant’s offended retort.

“That’s enough,” the Speaker said firmly. He finished writing, melted a bit of sealing wax on the bottom of the sheet, and pressed his signet ring into the soft blue substance. When the seal was cool, he rolled the foolscap into a scroll and tied it with a thin blue ribbon. This he likewise sealed with wax.

“Lieutenant Merithynos, you will convey this message to Feldrin Feldspar, the master builder who directs the work at Pax Tharkas,” said the Speaker, rising and holding out the scroll. Merith accepted it, though he looked perplexed.

“Am I to give up guarding the prince, Majesty?” he asked.

“Not at all. The prince is to accompany you to Pax Tharkas.”

Kith-Kanan’s eyes met his son’s. Ulvian frowned.

“What’s in Pax Tharkas for me?” he asked suspiciously.

“I am sending you to school,” his father replied. “Master Feldrin is to be your schoolmaster.”

Ulvian laughed. “You mean to make an architect out of me?”

“I am putting you in Feldrin’s hands as a common laborer – a slave, in fact. You will work every day for no wage and receive only the meanest provender. At night, you will be locked in your hut and guarded by Lieutenant Merithynos.”

Ulvian’s confident smirk vanished. Hazel eyes wide, he backed away a few steps, falling to one of the Speaker’s couches. His face was pale with shock.

“You can’t mean it,” he whispered. More loudly, he added, “You can’t do this.”

“I am the Speaker of the Sun,” Kith-Kanan said. Though his heart was breaking with the punishment he was visiting on his only son, the Speaker’s demeanor was firm and unyielding.

The prince’s head shook back and forth, as if denying what he was hearing. “You can’t make me a slave.” He leapt to his feet and his voice became a shout. “I am your son! I am Prince of Qualinesti!”

“Yes, you are, and you have broken my law. I’m not doing this on a whim, Ullie. I hope it will teach you the true meaning of slavery – the cruelty, the degradation, the pain and suffering. Maybe then you will understand the horror of what you’ve done. Maybe then you’ll know why I hate it, and why you should hate it, too.”

Ulvian’s outrage wilted. “How – how long will I be there?” he asked haltingly.

“As long as necessary. I’ll visit you, and if I’m convinced you’ve learned your lesson, I’ll release you. What’s more, I will forgive you and publicly declare you my successor.”

That seemed to restore the prince somewhat. His gaze flickered toward Merith, who was standing at rigid attention, though his expression reflected frank astonishment. Ulvian said, “What if I run away?”

“Then you will lose everything and be declared outlaw in your own country,” Kith-Kanan said evenly.

Ulvian advanced on his father. There was betrayal and disbelief in his eyes, and rage as well. Merith tensed and prepared to subdue the prince if he attacked the Speaker, but Ulvian stopped a pace short of his father.

“When do I go?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Now.”

A roll of thunder punctuated Kith-Kanan’s pronouncement. Merith stepped forward and took hold of the prince’s arm, but Ulvian twisted out of his grasp.

“I’ll come back, Father. I will be the Speaker of the Sun!” the prince vowed in ringing tones.

“I hope you will, Son. I hope you will.”

A second crash of thunder finished the confrontation. Merith led the prince reluctantly away.

Hands clasped tightly behind his back, Kith-Kanan returned to his window. Melancholy washed over him in slow, steady waves as he gazed up at the cloudless sky. Then, even as his mind was far away, from the corner of one eye, he spied a bolt of lightning. It flashed out of the blue vault and dove at the ground, striking somewhere in the southwestern district of Qualinost. A deep boom reverberated over the city, rattling the shutters on the Speaker’s house.

Thunder and lightning from a clear sky? Kith-Kanan’s inner torment was pushed aside for a moment as he digested this remarkable occurrence. The time of wonders was indeed at hand.

*

Twenty riders followed the dusty trail through the sparse forest of maple saplings, most no taller than the horses. Twenty elven warriors, under Varhanna’s command and guided by their new kender scout, Rufus Wrinklecap, rode slowly in single file. No one spoke. The muggy morning air oppressed them – that, and the cold trail they were trying to follow. Four days out of Qualinost, and this was the only sign of slavers they’d found. It hadn’t helped that they’d had to flounder on in three days of total darkness. Rufus warned the captain that the tracks they were tracing were many weeks old and might lead to nothing.

“Never mind,” she grumbled. “Keep at it. Lord Ambrodel sent us here for a reason.”

“Yes, my captain.”

The kender eased his big horse a little farther away from the ill-tempered Verhanna. Rufus was a comic sight on horseback; with his shocking red topknot and less than four feet of height, he hardly looked like a valiant elven warrior. Perched on a chestnut charger that was bigger than any other animal in the troop, he resembled a small child astride a bullock.

During their brief stopover in Qualinost, while the troops were reprovisioned and a horse was secured for him, the kender had bought himself some fancy clothes. His blue velvet breeches, vest, and white silk shirt beneath a vivid red cape made quite a contrast to the armor-clad elves. Atop his head perched an enormous broad-brimmed blue hat, complete with a white plume and a hole in the crown to allow his long topknot to trail behind.

They had passed through the easternmost fringe of the Kharolis Mountains onto the great central plain, the scene of so many battles during the Kinslayer War. Now and then the troop saw silent reminders of that awful conflict: a burned village, abandoned to weeds and carrion birds; a cairn of stones, under which were buried the bodies of fallen soldiers of Ergoth in a mass grave.

Occasionally their horses’ hooves turned up battered, rusting helmets lodged in the soil. The skulls of horses and the bones of elves shone in the tall grass like ivory talismans, warning of the folly of kings.

Once every hour Verhanna halted her warriors and ordered Rufus to check the trail. The nimble kender leaped from his horse’s back or slid off its wide rump and scrambled through the grass and saplings, sniffing and peering for telltale signs.

During the third such halt of the morning, Verhanna guided her mount to where Rufus squatted, busily rubbing blades of grass between his fingers.

“Well, Wart, what do you find? Have the slavers come this way?” she asked, leaning over her animal’s glossy neck.

“Difficult to say, Captain. Very difficult. Other tall folk have passed this way since the slavers. The trails are muddled,” muttered Rufus. He put a green stem in his mouth and nibbled it. “The grass is still sweet,” he observed. “Others came from the east and passed through during the days of darkness.”

“What others?” she said, frowning.

The kender hopped up, dropping the grass and dusting off his fancy blue pants. “Travelers. Going that way,” he said, pointing to the direction they’d come from Qualinost. “They were in deeply laden, two-wheeled carts.”

Verhanna regarded her scout sourly. “We didn’t pass anyone.”

“In that darkness, who knows what we passed? The Dragonqueen herself could’ve ridden by clad in cloth o’ gold and we wouldn’t have seen her.”

She straightened in the saddle and replied, “What about our quarry?”

Rufus rubbed his flat, sunburned nose. “They split up.”

“What?” Verhanna’s shout brought the other troopers to attention. Her second-in-command, a Kagonesti named Tremellan, hurried to her side. She waved him off and dismounted, slashing through the tall grass to Rufus. Planting her mailed hands on her hips, the captain demanded, “Where did they split up?”

Rufus took two steps forward and one sideways.

“Here,” he said, pointing at the trodden turf. “Six riders, the same ones we’ve been chasing all along. Two went east. They were elder folk, like the Speaker.” By this, the kender meant the two were Silvanesti. “Two others went north. They smelled of fur and had thick shoes. Humans, I’d say. The last two continued south, and they’re tricky. Barefoot, they are, and they smell just like the wind. Dark elders, and wise in the ways of the chase.”

“What does he mean?” Verhanna muttered to Tremellan.

“Dark elders are my people,” offered the Kagonesti officer. “They probably work as scouts for the other four. They find travelers, or a lonely farm, and lead the slavers there.”

Verhanna slapped her palms together with a metallic clink. “All right. Gather the troop around! I want to speak to them.”

The elven warriors made a circle around their captain and the kender scout. Verhanna grinned at them, arms folded across her chest.

“The enemy has made a mistake,” she declared, rocking on her heels. “They’ve split themselves into three groups. The humans and Silvanesti are headed for their homelands, probably carrying the gold they made selling slaves. Without their Kagonesti scouts, they don’t stand a chance against us. Sergeant Tremellan, I want you to take a contingent of ten and ride after the Silvanesti. Take them alive if you can. Corporal Zilaris, you take five troopers and follow the humans. They shouldn’t give you much trouble. Four warriors will come with me to find the Kagonesti.”

“Excuse me, Captain, but I don’t think that’s wise,” Tremellan said. “I don’t need ten warriors to catch the Silvanesti slavers. You should take more with you. The dark elders will be the hardest to catch.”

“He’s right.” chimed in Rufus. His topknot bobbed as he nodded vigorously.

“Who’s captain here?” Verhanna demanded. “Don’t question my orders, Sergeant. You don’t imagine I need numbers to track the woods-wise Kagonesti, do you? No, of course not! Stealth is what’s needed, Sergeant. My orders stand.”

A rumble of thunder rolled across the plain and was ignored. Without further discussion, Tremellan collected half the warriors and redistributed food and water among them. He formed his group around him while Verhanna gave him final orders.

“Pursue them hard, Sergeant,” she urged. Her blood was up, and her brown eyes were brilliant. “They’ve a week’s head start, but they might not yet know anyone is after them, so they won’t be moving fast.”

“And the border, Captain?” asked Tremellan.

“Don’t talk to me about borders,” snapped the captain. “Get those damned slavers! This is no time for faint hearts or half measures!”

Tremellan suppressed his irritation, saluted, and spurred his horse. The troop rode off through the maple saplings as thunder boomed at their backs.

Verhanna felt a tug on her haqueton. She turned and looked down, seeing Rufus standing close beside her. “What is it?”

“Look up. There are no clouds, “he said, turning his small face heavenward. “Thunder, but no clouds.”

“So the storm is over the horizon,” Verhanna replied briskly. She left the kender still staring at the clear-blue sky. Corporal Zilaris took his detachment and headed north after the human slavers. Verhanna was watching them recede in the distance when suddenly a bolt of lightning lanced down a scant mile away. Dirt flew up in the air, and the crack of thunder was like a blow from a mace.

“By Astra!” she exclaimed. “That was close!”

The next one was closer still. With no warning, a column of blue-white fire slammed into the ground less than fifty paces from Verhanna, Rufus, and the remaining warriors. The horses screamed and reared, some falling back on their startled riders. Verhanna, still on the ground, kept a tight hand on her straining mount’s bridle. Rufus had just remounted, and when his horse began to snort and dance, the kender climbed onto its neck to get a better hold. His cape flopped over the horse’s eyes, a fortuitous accident, and the beast calmed.

The shock of the lightning strike passed, and the elves slowly recovered. One warrior lay moaning on the ground, his leg broken when his horse fell on him. Verhanna and the others set to binding his shattered limb. Rufus, not being needed, wandered over to the crater gouged by the lightning.

The hole was twenty feet across and nearly as deep. The sides of the pit were black and steaming. Tiny flames licked the dry prairie grass around the rim of the hole. Rufus stamped on the fires he saw and gazed with awe at the gaping pit. A shadow fell over him. He turned to see that Verhanna had joined him.

“Someone’s hurling thunderbolts at us, my captain,” he said seriously.

“Rot,” was her reply, though her tone was uncertain. “It was just an act of nature.” The next flash of lightning came in an instant. Verhanna uttered a brief warning cry and threw herself down. The bolt struck some distance away, and she sheepishly raised her head. Rufus was shading his eyes, staring at the southern horizon.

“It’s moving that way,” he announced.

Verhanna stood up and brushed dirt and grass from her haqueton. Her cheeks were stained crimson with embarrassment, and she was grateful that the kender ignored her nervous dive for cover. “What’s moving away?” she asked quickly.

“The lightning,” he replied. “Three strikes we’ve seen, each one farther south than the last.”

“That’s crazy,” said Verhanna dismissively. “Lightning is random.”

“Ain’t no ordinary lightning,” the kender insisted.

The warriors made their injured comrade comfortable, and when Verhanna and Rufus rejoined them, she ordered one of the warriors to remain with the injured elf to help him back to Qualinost.

“Now we are four,” she remarked as they formed up to resume their hunt. A glance at Rufus caused her to amend her statement. “Four and a half, I mean.”

“Not good odds, captain,” one of the warriors said.

“Even if I were alone, I’d go on,” stated Verhanna firmly. “These criminals must be caught, and they will be.” To the south, where the plain seemed to stretch on endlessly, the flash and crack of lightning continued. It was in that direction the little band rode.

*

The audience hall of the Speaker’s house was crammed with Qualinesti, all talking at once. The breeze stirred up by the roiling crowd had set the banners hanging from the high ceiling to waving gently. The scarlet flags were embroidered in gold, hand-worked by hundreds of elven and human girls. The crest of Kith-Kanan’s family – the royal family of Qualinesti, not the old line in Silvanost – was a composite of the sun and the Tree of Life.

In the midst of this maelstrom, the Speaker of the Sun sat calmly on his throne while his aides tried to sort out the confusion. However, his inner conflict showed in the small circular movements of his thumbs on the creamy wooden arm of his throne. The wood was rare, a gift from an Ergothian trader who called it vallenwood and said it came from trees that grew to enormous size. Once polished, the vallenwood seemed to glow with an inner light. Kith-Kanan thought it the most beautiful wood in the world. It felt smooth and comforting under his nervously moving fingers.

Tamanier Ambrodel was arguing heatedly with Senators Clovanos and Xixis. “Four towers have been toppled by lightning strikes!” Clovanos said, his voice becoming shrill. “A dozen of my tenants were hurt. I want to know what’s being done to stop all this!”

“The Speaker is attending to the problem,” Tamanier said, exasperated. His white hair stood out from his head as he ran his hand through it in distraction. “Go home! You are only adding to the problem by being hysterical.”

“We are senators of the Thalas-Enthia!” Xixis snapped. “We have a right to be heard!”

All through this mayhem, thunder boomed outside and flashes of lightning, mixed with the bright morning sun, gave the hall eerie illumination. Kith-Kanan glanced out a nearby window. Three columns of smoke were visible, rising from spots where trees had been set afire by lightning. After two days of lightning, the damage was mounting.

Kith-Kanan slowly rose to his feet. The crowd quickly fell silent and ceased its nervous shuffling.

“Good people,” began the Speaker, “I understand your fear. First the darkness came, weakening the crops and frightening the children. Yet the darkness left after causing no real harm, as I promised it would. Today begins our third day of lightning —”

“Cannot the priests deflect this plague of fire?” shouted a voice from the crowd. Others took up the cry. “Is there no magic to defend us?”

Kith-Kanan held up his hands. “There is no need to panic,” he said loudly. “And the answer is no. None of the clerics of the great temples has been able to dispel or deflect any of the lightning.”

A low murmur of worry went through the assembly. “But there is no threat to the city, I assure you!”

“What about the towers that were knocked down?” demanded Clovanos. His graying blond hair was coming loose from its confining ribbon, and small tendrils curled around his angry face.

From the rear of the hall, someone called out, “Those calamities are your fault, Senator!”

The mass of elves and humans parted to let Senator Irthenie approach the throne. Dressed, as was her custom, in dyed leather and Kagonesti face paint, Irthenie cut an arresting figure among the more conservatively attired senators and townsfolk.

“I visited one of the fallen towers, Great Speaker. The lightning struck the open ground nearby. The shock caused the tower to fall,” announced Irthenie.

“Mind your business, Kagonesti!” Clovanos growled.

“She is minding her business as a senator,” Kith-Kanan cut in sharply. “I know very well you expect compensation for your lost property, Master Clovanos. But let Irthenie finish what she has to say first.”

A flash of lightning highlighted the Speaker’s face for a second, then passed away. Chill winds blew through the audience hall. The banners suspended above the assemblage flapped and rippled.

More calmly, Irthenie said, “The soil near Mackeli Tower is very sandy, Your Majesty. I recall when Feldrin Feldspar erected that great tower keep. He had to sink a foundation many, many feet in the ground until he struck bedrock.”

She turned to the fuming Senator Clovanos, eyeing him with disdain. “The good senator’s towers are in the southwestern district, next to Mackeli, and they had no such deep foundations. It’s a wonder they’ve stood this long.”

“Are you an architect?” Clovanos spat back. “What do you know of building?”

“Is Senator Irthenie correct?” asked Kith-Kanan angrily. Before the fire in his monarch’s eyes and the dawning disgust evident in the faces around him, Clovanos reluctantly admitted the accuracy of Irthenie’s words. “I see,” the Speaker concluded. “In that case, the unhappy folk who lived in those unsafe towers shall receive compensation from the royal treasury. You, Clovanos, shall get none. And be thankful I don’t charge you with endangering the lives of your tenants.”

With Clovanos thus humbled, the other complainants fell back, unwilling to risk the Speaker’s wrath. Sensing their honest fear, Kith-Kanan tried to raise their spirits.

“Some of you may have heard of my contact with the gods just before the darkness set in. I was told that there would appear wonders in the world, portents of some great event to come. What the great event will be, I do not know, but I can assure you that these wonders, while frightening, are not dangerous themselves. The darkness came and went, and so shall the lightning. Our greatest enemy is fear, which drives many to hasty, ill-conceived acts.

“So I urge you again: Be of stout heart! We have all faced terror and death during the great Kinslayer War. Can’t we bear a little gloom and lightning? We are not children, to cower before every crack of thunder. I will use all the wisdom and power at my command to protect you, but if you all go home and reflect a bit, you’ll soon realize there is no real danger.”

“Unless you have Clovanos for a landlord,” muttered Irthenie.

Laughter rippled in the ranks around her. The Kagonesti woman’s soft words were repeated through the ranks until everyone in the hall was chortling in appreciation. Clovanos’s face turned beet red, and he stalked angrily out, with Xixis on his heels. Once the two senators were gone, the laughter increased, and Kith-Kanan could afford to join in. Much of the tension and anxiety of the past few days slipped away.

Kith-Kanan sat back down on his throne. “Now,” he said, stilling the mirth swelling across the hall, “if you are here to petition for help due to damage caused by the darkness or the lightning, please go to the antechamber, where my castellan and scribes will take down your names and claims. Good day and good morrow, my people.”

The Qualinesti filed out of the hall. The last ones out were the royal guards, whom Kith-Kanan dismissed. Irthenie remained behind. The aged elf woman walked with quick strides to the window. Kith-Kanan joined her.

“The merchants in the city squares say the lightning isn’t in every country as the darkness was,” Irthenie informed him. “To the north, they haven’t had any at all. To the south, it’s worse than here. I’ve heard tales of ships being blasted and sunk, and fires in the southern forests all the way to Silvanesti.”

“We seem to be spared the worst,” Kith-Kanan mused. He clasped his hands behind his back.

“Do you know what it all means?” the senator asked. “Old forest elves are incurably curious. We want to know everything.”

He smiled. “You know as much as I do, old fox.”

“I may know a deal more, Kith. There’s talk in the city about Ulvian. He’s missed, you know. His wastrel friends are asking for him, and rumors are rampant.”

The Speaker’s good humor vanished. “What’s being said?”

“Almost the truth – that the prince committed some crime and you have exiled him for a time,” Irthenie replied. A sizzling lightning bolt hit the peak of the Tower of the Sun, just across the square from the Speaker’s house. Since the strange weather had begun, the tower had been struck numerous times without effect. “His exact crime and place of exile remain a secret,” she added.

Kith-Kanan nodded a slow affirmation. Irthenie pursed her thin lips. The yellow and red lines on her face stood out starkly with the next lightning blast.

“Why do you keep Ulvian’s fate a secret?” she inquired. “His example would be a good lesson to many other young scoundrels in Qualinost.”

“No. I will not humiliate him in public.”

Kith-Kanan turned his back to the display of heavenly fire and looked directly into Irthenie’s hazel eyes. “If Ulvian is to be Speaker after me, I wouldn’t want his youthful transgressions to hamper him for the rest of his life.”

The senator shrugged. “I understand, though it isn’t how I would handle him. Perhaps that’s why you are the Speaker of the Sun and I am a harmless old widow you keep around for gossip and advice.”

He chuckled in spite of himself. “You are many things, old friend, but a harmless old widow is not one of them. That’s like saying my grandfather Silvanos was a pretty good warrior.”

The Speaker yawned and stretched his arms. Irthenie noticed the dark smudges under his eyes and asked, “Are you sleeping well?” He admitted he was not.

“Too many burdens and too many anxious dreams,” Kith-Kanan said. “I wish I could get away from the city for a while.”

“There is your grove.”

Kith-Kanan clapped his hands together softly. “You’re right! You see? Your wits are more than a little sharp. My mind is so muddled that I never even thought of that. I’ll leave word with Tam that I’m spending the day there. Perhaps the gods will favor me again, and I’ll discover the reason behind all these marvels.”

Kith-Kanan hurried to his private exit behind the Qualinesti throne. Irthenie went to the main doors of the audience hall. She paused and looked back as Kith-Kanan disappeared through the dark doorway. Thunder vibrated through the polished wooden floor. Irthenie opened the doors and plunged into the crowd still milling in the Speaker’s antechamber.

*

There were no straight streets in Qualinost. The boundary of the city, laid out by Kith-Kanan himself, was shaped like the keystone of an arch. The narrow north end of the city faced the confluence of the two rivers that protected it. The Tower of the Sun and the Speaker’s house were at that end. The wide portion of the city, the southern end, faced the high ground that eventually swelled into the Thorbardin peaks. Most of the common folk lived there.

In the very heart of Qualinost was the city’s tallest hill. It boasted two important features. First, the top of the hill was a huge flat plaza known as the Hall of the Sky, a unique “building” without walls or roof. Here sacred ceremonies honoring the gods were held. Convocations of the great and notable Qualinesti met, and festivals of the seasons were celebrated. The huge open square was paved with a mosaic of thousands of hand-set stones. The mosaic formed a map of Qualinesti.

The second feature of this tall hill, lying on its north slope, was the last bit of natural forest remaining within Qualinost. Kith-Kanan had taken great care to preserve this grove of aspens when the rest of the plateau was shaped by elven spades and magic. More than a park, the aspen grove had become the Speaker’s retreat, his haven from the pressures of ruling. He treasured the grove above all features in his capital because the densely wooded enclave reminded him of days long past, of the time when he had dwelt in the primeval forest of Silvanesti with his first wife, the Kagonesti woman Anaya, and her brother Mackeli.

His time with Anaya had been long ago... four hundred years and more. Since then he had struggled and loved, fought, killed, ruled. The people of Qualinost were afraid of the darkness and lightning that had fallen upon them. Kith-Kanan, however, was troubled by the impending crisis of his succession. The future of the nation of Qualinesti depended on whom he chose to rule after him. He had to keep his word and step aside. More than that, he really wished to step aside, to pass the burden of command on to younger shoulders. But to whom? And when? When would Pax Tharkas be officially completed?

The grove had no formal entrance, no marked path or gate. Kith-Kanan slowed his pace. The sight of the closely growing trees already calmed him. No lightning at all had touched the grove. The aspen trees stood bright white in the morning sun, their triangular leaves shivering in the breeze and displaying their silvery backs.

The Speaker slipped the hood back from his head. Carefully he lifted the gold circlet from his brow. This simple ring of metal was all the crown Qualinesti had, but for his time in the grove, Kith-Kanan did not want even its small burden.

He dropped the crown into one of the voluminous pockets on the front of his monkish robe. As he passed between the tree trunks, the sounds of the city faded behind him. The deeper he went into the trees, the less the outside world could intrude. Here and there among the aspens were apple, peach, and pear trees. On this spring day, the fruit trees were riotous with blossoms. Overhead, in the breaks between the treetops, he saw fleecy clouds sailing the sky like argosies bound for some distant land.

Crossing the small brook that meandered through the grove, Kith-Kanan came at last to a boulder patched with green lichen. He himself had flattened the top of the rock with the great hammer Sunderer, given to him decades before by the dwarf king Glenforth. The Speaker climbed atop the boulder and sat, sighing, as he drank in the peace of the grove.

A few paces to his right, the brook chuckled and splashed over the rocks in its path. Kith-Kanan cleared his mind of everything but the sounds around him, the gently stirring air, the swaying trees, and the play of the water, It was a technique he’d learned from the priests of Astra, who often meditated in closed groves like this. During the hard years of the Kinslayer War, it had been moments like this that preserved Kith-Kanan’s sanity and strengthened his will to persevere.

Peace. Calm. The Speaker of the Sun seemed to sleep, though he was sitting upright on the rock.

Rest. Tranquility. The best answers to hard questions came when the mind and the body were not fighting each other for control.

A streak of heat warmed his face. Dreamily he opened his eyes. The wind sighed, and white clouds obscured the sun. Yet the sensation of heat had been intense. He lifted his gaze to the sky. Above him, burning like a second sun, was an orb of blue-white light.

It took him only half a heartbeat to realize he was staring at a lightning bolt that was falling directly toward him.

Shocked into motion, Kith-Kanan sprang from the boulder. His feet had hardly left its surface when the lightning bolt slammed into the rock. All was blinding flash and splintered stone. Kith-Kanan fell face down by the brook, and broken rock pelted his back. The light and sound of the bolt passed away, but the Speaker of the Sun did not move.

*

It was after sunset before Kith-Kanan was missed. When the Speaker was late for dinner, Tamanier Ambrodel sent warriors to the grove to find him. Kemian Ambrodel and his four comrades searched through the dense forest of trees for quite a while before they found the Speaker lying unconscious near the brook.

With great care, Kemian turned Kith-Kanan over. To his shock and surprise, the Speaker’s brown eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. For one dreadful instant, Lord Ambrodel thought the monarch of Qualinesti was dead.

“He breathes, my lord,” said one of the warriors, vastly relieved.

Eyelids dipped closed, fluttered, then sprang open again. Kith-Kanan sighed.

“Great Speaker,” said Kemian softly, “are you well?”

There was a pause while the Speaker’s eyes darted around, taking in his surroundings. Finally he said hoarsely, “As well as any elf who was nearly struck by lightning.”

Two warriors braced Kith-Kanan as he got to his feet. His gaze went to the blasted remains of the boulder. Almost as if he was talking to himself, the Speaker said softly, “Some ancient power is at work in the world, a power not connected with the gods we know. The priests and sorcerers can discern nothing, and yet.... “

Something fluttered overhead. The elves flinched, their nerves on edge. A bird’s sharp cry cut through the quiet of the aspen grove, and Kith-Kanan laughed.

“A crow! What a stalwart band we are, frightened out of our skins by a black bird!” he said. His stomach rumbled loudly, and Kith-Kanan rubbed it. There were holes burned through his clothing by bits of burned rock. “Well, I’m famished. Let’s go home.”

The Speaker of the Sun set off at a brisk pace. Lord Ambrodel and his warriors fell in behind him and trailed him back to the Speaker’s house, where a warm hearth and a hearty supper awaited.

Chapter 5

THE CITADEL OF PEACE

The blazing sun provided little heat in the thin air of the Kharolis Mountains. Under that dazzling orb, twenty thousand workers labored, carving the citadel of Pax Tharkas out of the living rock. Dwarves, elves, and humans worked side by side on the great project. Most of them were free craftsmen – stonecutters, masons, and artisans. Out of the twenty thousand, only two thousand were prisoners. Those with useful skills worked alongside their free comrades, and they worked well. The Speaker of the Sun had made them this bargain: If the prisoners performed their duties and kept out of trouble, they would have their sentences reduced by half. Outdoor work at Pax Tharkas was far preferable to languishing in a tower dungeon for years on end.

Not all the convicts were so fortunate. Some simply would not conform, so Feldrin Feldspar, the dwarf who was master builder in charge of creating the fortress, collected the idle, the arrogant, and the violent prisoners into a “grunt gang.” Their only task was brute labor. Alone of all the workers at Pax Tharkas, the grunt gang was locked into its hut at night and closely watched by overseers during the day. It was to the grunt gang that Prince Ulvian was sent. He had no skill at stonecarving or bricklaying, and the Speaker had decreed that he should be treated as a slave. That meant he must take his place with the other surly prisoners in the grunt gang, pushing and dragging massive stone blocks from the quarry to the site of the citadel.

Ulvian’s one meeting with Feldrin had not gone well. The chained prince, now dressed in the green and brown leathers of a forester, had been led by Merith to the canvas hut where the master builder lived. The dwarf came out to see them, setting aside an armful of scrolls covered with lines and numbers. These were the plans for the fortress.

“Remove his chains,” Feldrin rumbled. Without a word, Merith took Ulvian’s shackles off. Ulvian sniffed and thanked the dwarf casually.

“Save your thanks,” replied Feldrin. His thick black beard was liberally sprinkled with white, and his long stay in the heights of the Kharolis had deeply tanned his face and arms. He planted brick-hard fists on his squat hips and skewered the prince with his blue eyes. “Chains are not needed here. We are miles from the nearest settlement, and the mountains are barren and dry. You will work hard. If you try to run away, you will perish from hunger and thirst,” the dwarf said darkly. “That is, if my people don’t hunt you down first. Is that clear?”

Ulvian rolled his eyes and didn’t answer. Feldrin roared, “Is that clear?” The prince flinched and nodded quickly. “Good.”

He assigned Ulvian to the grunt gang, and a burly, bearded human came to escort the prince to his new quarters.

When they were gone, Merith’s shoulders sagged. “I must confess, Master Feldrin, I am exhausted,” he said, sighing. “For ten days, I have had the prince in my keeping, and I haven’t had a moment’s rest!”

“Why so, Lieutenant? He doesn’t look so dangerous.”

Feldrin stooped to retrieve his plans. Merith squatted to help.

“It wasn’t fear that spoiled my sleep,” the warrior confided, “but the prince’s constant talk! By holy Mantis, that boy can talk, talk, talk. He tried to convert me, make me his friend, so that I wouldn’t deliver him to you. He’s engaging when he wants to be, and clever, too. You may have trouble with him.”

Feldrin pushed back the front flap of his hut with one broad, blunt hand. “Oh, I doubt it, Master Merithynos. A few days dragging stone blocks will take the stiffness out of the prince’s neck.”

Merith ducked under the low doorframe and entered the hut. Though the walls and roof were canvas, like a tent, Feldrin’s hut had a wooden frame and floor, sturdier than a tent. The mountains were sometimes wracked by fierce winds, blizzards, and landslides.

Feldrin clomped across the bare board floor and dropped his scrolls on a low trestle table in the center of the room. He turned up the wick on a brass oil lamp and settled himself on a thick-legged stool, then proceeded to rummage through the loose assortment of parchment until he found a scrap.

“I shall send a note back to the Speaker,” he said, “so that he will know you and the prince arrived safely.”

The lieutenant glanced back at the door flap hanging loosely in the still, cool air. “What shall I do, Master Feldrin? I’m supposed to guard the prince, but it seems you don’t really need me.”

“No, he won’t be any trouble,” muttered the dwarf, finishing his brief missive with a flourish. He shook sand over the wet ink to dry it. “But I may have another use for you.”

Merith drew himself up straight, expecting an official order. “Yes, master builder?”

Stroking his thick beard, Feldrin regarded the tall elf speculatively. “Do you play checkers?” he asked.

*

Bells and gongs rang through the camp, and all over Pax Tharkas workers set down their tools. The sun had just begun to set behind Mount Thak, which meant only an hour of daylight remained. It was quitting time.

Ulvian dragged along at the rear of the ragged column of laborers known as the grunt gang. His arms and legs ached, his palms were blistered, and despite the cool temperature, the stronger sun at this high elevation had burned his face and arms cherry red. The overseers – the mute, bearded human Ulvian had met his first day in camp and an ill-tempered dwarf named Lugrim – stood on each side of the barracks door, urging the exhausted workers to hurry inside.

The long, ramshackle building was made from slabs of shale and mud, and the rear wall was sunk in the mountainside. There were two windows and only one door. The roof was made of green splits of wood and moss, and the whole barrack was drafty, dusty, and cold, despite the fires kept burning in baked-clay fireplaces at each end.

Inside the dim structure, the grunt gang members headed straight for their rude beds. Ulvian’s was near the center of the single large room, as far from either fire as it could be. Still, he was so tired that he was about to fall on his bunk when he noticed the man who slept on his right was already in bed, where he had apparently lazed all day. Ulvian opened his mouth to protest.

The prince froze two paces from the bed. The human’s head and right leg were swathed in loose, bloodstained bandages. His hands hung limply over the sides of the narrow bunk.

“Poor wretch won’t live the night,” rasped a voice behind the prince. Ulvian whirled. A filthy, rag-clad elf stood close to him, staring at him with burning gray eyes. “He was taking a load of bricks up the tower, and the scaffold broke. Broke his leg and cracked his skull.”

“Aren’t – aren’t there healers to take care of him?” Ulvian exclaimed.

A dry rattle of laughter issued from the throat of the sun-baked elf. He was nearly as tall as Ulvian, and very thin. When he looked down at the human on the bed, dust fell from his blond eyebrows and matted hair. “Healers?” he chortled. “Healers are for the masters. We get a swig of wine, a damp cloth, and a lot of prayers!”

Ulvian recoiled from the loud elf. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Drulethen,” said the elf, “but everyone calls me Dru.”

“That’s a Silvanesti name,” Ulvian said, surprised. “How did you come to be here?”

“I was once a wandering scholar who sought knowledge in the farthest comers of the world. Unfortunately when the war started, I was in Silvanesti, and the Speaker of the Stars needed ablebodied elves for his army. I didn’t want to fight, but they forced me to take up arms. Once out in the wilderness, I ran away.”

“So you’re a deserter,” said Ulvian, understanding dawning.

Dru shrugged. “That’s not a crime in Qualinesti,” he said idly and sat down on the nearest bed. “While I wandered the great plain, I found it was easier to take what I wanted than work for it, so I became a bandit. The Wildrunners caught up to me, and the Speaker of the Sun graciously allowed me to work here rather than rot in a Qualinost dungeon.” He held out his slender hands palms up. “So it goes.”

No one had spoken at such length to Ulvian since his arrival at Pax Tharkas. Dru might be a coward and a thief, but it was obvious he had a certain amount of education, which was as rare as diamonds in the grunt gang. Sitting down on his own bed, the prince asked Dru a question that had been bothering him. “Why can’t we get closer to the fires?” he said in a low voice. Dru laughed nastily.

“Only the strongest ones get a place by the chimneys,” he said. “Weaklings and newcomers get stuck in the middle. Unless you want a beating, I suggest you don’t dispute the order of things.”

Before Ulvian could broach another question, Dru moved to his own bunk. Dropping down on the bed, he turned his back to the prince and in seconds began to snore lightly with each intake of breath. Ulvian threw himself across his own bed, which consisted of strips of cloth nailed to a rough wooden frame. It stank of sweat and dirt even more strongly than the barracks as a whole. The prince locked his hands together behind his head and stared at the crude ceiling overhead. The orange-tinged sunlight filtered in through the chinks in the roof slats. While he pondered his fate, he dozed fitfully.

Something thumped against the prince’s feet, which hung over the end of his short bunk. Ulvian snapped to a sitting position. Dru had bumped him on his way to the injured human’s bed, where he now stood. Skinning back the man’s eyelid with his thumb, Dru shook his head and made clucking sounds in his throat.

“Frell’s gone,” he announced loudly.

An especially tall human came to the dead man’s bed and hoisted the body easily over his shoulder. He strode across the room and kicked the front door open. The red wash of sunset flowed into the gloomy barracks. The tall human dumped the corpse unceremoniously on the ground outside.

Before he could close the door again, a dozen gang members were already picking the dead man’s bed clean. They took everything, from his scrap of blanket to the few personal items he’d stowed under the bunk. The press was so great that Ulvian was forced to move away. He spied Dru leaning against the wall near the water barrel. Slipping through the crowd, he finally faced the Silvanesti.

“Is that it?” he asked sharply. “A man dies and he gets dumped outside?”

“That’s it. The dwarves will take the body away,” Dru replied, unconcerned.

“What about his friends? His family?” insisted the prince.

Dru took a small stone from his pocket. It was a four-inch cylinder of onyx the thickness of his thumb. “Nobody has friends here,” he said. “As to family —” He shrugged and didn’t finish. His fingers rubbed back and forth over the piece of black crystal.

Just as night was claiming the mountain pass, the sound of metal against metal sent the grunt gang storming toward the door. Outside was a huge iron cart wheeled by four dwarves. The cart bore a great kettle, and when one of the dwarves removed its lid, steam poured out. Ulvian let the rest of the gang press ahead of him, having no desire to be trampled for a dish of stew.

When he got outside, he shivered. A raw wind whistled down the pass, knifing through the clothing the prince wore. He watched the laborers, clay bowls in hand, mill around the food wagon while the dwarves served the steaming stew and doled out formidable loaves of bread to each worker. The aroma of roasted meat and savory spices drifted to Ulvian’s nose. It drew him toward the wagon.

He was promptly shoved away by a Kagonesti with a shaved head and two scalp locks that hung down his back. Ulvian bristled and started to challenge the wild elf, but the hard muscles in the fellow’s arms and the definite air of danger in his manner held the prince back. Ulvian slinked to the rear of the poorly formed line and waited his turn.

By the time he reached the wagon, the dwarves were scraping the bottom of the kettle. The ladle-bearing dwarf, warmly dressed in fur and leather, squinted down from the cart at Ulvian.

“Where’s your bowl?” he growled.

“I don’t know.”

“Idiot!” He swung the ladle idly at the prince, who ducked. The copper dipper was as big as his hand and stoutly formed. The dwarf barked, “Get back inside and find yourself a bowl!”

Chastened, Ulvian did so. He searched the room until he saw Dru, who was leaning against the wall by the water barrel, eating his stew.

“Dru,” he called, “I need a bowl. Where can I get one?”

The Silvanesti pointed to the fireplace at the south end of the room. Ulvian thanked him and wended his way through the crowd to the fireplace. Up close, he saw that the hearth was dominated by the same Kagonesti who had shoved him away from the food cart.

“What do you want, city boy?” he snarled.

“I need a bowl,” replied Ulvian warily.

The Kagonesti, who was called Splint, set down his bowl. Glaring at the prince, he said, “I’m no charity, city boy. You want a bowl, you got to buy it.”

The Speaker’s son was perplexed. He had nothing to trade. All his valuables had been taken from him before he left Qualinost.

“I don’t have any money,” he said lamely.

Harsh laughter rang out around him. Ulvian flushed furiously. Splint wiped his mouth with the end of one of his long scalp locks.

“You got a good pair of boots, I see.”

Ulvian looked at his feet. These were his oldest pair of boots, scuffed and dirty, but there were no holes in them and the soles were sound. They were also the only shoes he had.

“My boots are worth a lot more than a clay dish,” Ulvian said stiffly.

Splint made no reply. Instead, he picked up his bowl and started eating again. He studiously ignored Ulvian, who stood directly in front of him.

The prince fumed. Who did this wild elf think he was? He was about to denounce him and tell everyone in earshot that he was the son of the Speaker of the Sun, but the words died in his throat. Who would believe him? They would only laugh at him. Hopelessness welled up inside him. No one cared what happened to him. No one would notice if he lived or died. For a horrible instant, he felt like crying.

Ulvian’s stomach rumbled loudly. A few of the gang around him chuckled. He bit his lip and blurted out, “All right! The boots for a bowl!”

Languidly Splint stood up. He was the same height as Ulvian, but his powerful physique and menacing presence made him seem much larger. The prince shucked off his boots and was soon standing on the cold dirt floor in his stockings. The Kagonesti slipped his ragged sandals off and pulled on the boots. After much stamping of his feet to settle them into the unfamiliar footwear, he pronounced them a good fit.

“What about my bowl?” Ulvian reminded him angrily.

Splint reached under his bunk next to the fireplace and brought out a chipped ceramic bowl, enameled in blue. Ulvian snatched the dish and ran to the door, leaving gales of coarse guffaws in his wake. By the time he threw open the door and dashed out, the dwarves and the food wagon were gone.

The grunt gang was still laughing when he returned moments later. He stalked through them to the crackling fire, where Splint sat warming himself.

“You tricked me.” Ulvian said in a scant whisper. He was afraid to raise his voice, afraid he would start shrieking. “I want my boots back.”

“I’m not a merchant, city boy. I don’t make any exchanges.”

The barracks were quiet now. Confrontation was as thick in the air as smoke.

“Give them back,” demanded the prince, “or I’ll take them back!”

“You truly are an idiot, pest. Go to sleep, city boy, and thank the gods I don’t beat you senseless,” Splint said.

Ulvian’s pent-up rage exploded, and he did a rash thing. He raised a hand high and smashed the empty bowl against the Kagonesti’s head. A collective gasp went up from the workers. Splint rocked sideways with the blow, but in a flash, he had shaken it off and leapt to his feet.

“Now you got no boots and no bowl!” he spat. His fist caught Ulvian low in the chest. The prince groaned and fell against one of the spectators who had gathered, who promptly flung him back to Splint. The Kagonesti delivered a rolling punch to Ulvian’s jaw, sending him spinning into the wall. Splint followed the reeling prince.

Ulvian’s world swam in a sea of red fog. He felt strong hands grasp his shirt and drag him away from the support of the wall. More blows rained on his head and chest. Every time he was knocked down, someone picked him up and tossed him back to receive more abuse. Vainly he tried to grapple with Splint. The wild elf broke his feeble grip with little more than a shrug, kicking him in the stomach.

“He’s had enough, Splint,” Dru said, stepping between the prostrate Ulvian and the raging Kagonesti.

“I ought to kill him!” Splint retorted.

“He’s new and stupid. Let him be,” countered Dru.

“Bah!” Splint spat on Ulvian’s back. He rubbed his throbbing knuckles and returned to his place by the fire.

Dru dragged the semiconscious prince to his bed and rolled him into it. Ulvian’s face was bruised and battered. His left eye would soon be invisible behind a rapidly swelling lid. Eventually the pain of his injuries gave way to sleep. Hungry and beaten, Ulvian sank into forgiving darkness.

During the night, someone stole his stockings.

Chapter 6

BARDS AND LIARS

The lightning lasted three days, then suddenly ceased.

The next day, exactly one week after the darkness had fallen across the world, the sky filled with clouds. No one thought much of it, for they were ordinary-looking gray rain clouds. They covered the sky from horizon to horizon and lowered until it seemed they would touch the lofty towers of Qualinost. And then it began to rain – brilliant, scarlet rain.

It filled the gutters and dripped off leaves, a torrent that drove everyone indoors. Though the crimson rain had no effect on anyone save to make him wet, the universal reaction to the downpour was to regard it as unnatural.

“At least I am spared the hordes of petitioners who sought an audience during the darkness and lightning,” Kith-Kanan observed. He was standing on the covered verandah of the Speaker’s house, looking south across the city. Tamanier Ambrodel was with him, as was Tamanier’s son, Kemian. The younger Ambrodel was in his best warrior’s garb – glittering breastplate and helm, white plume, pigskin boots, and a yellow cape so long it brushed the ground. He stood well back from the eaves so as not to get rain on his finery.

“You don’t seem upset by this new marvel, sire,” Tamanier said.

“It’s just another phase we must pass through,” Kith-Kanan replied stoically.

“Ugh,” grunted Kemian. “How long do you think it will last, Great Speaker?” Scarlet rivulets were beginning to creep over the flagstone path. Lord Ambrodel shifted his boots back, avoiding the strange fluid.

“Unless I am mistaken, exactly three days,” said the Speaker. “The darkness lasted three days, and so did the lightning. There’s a message in this, if we are just wise enough to perceive it.”

“The message is ‘the world’s gone mad’,” Kemian breathed. His father didn’t share his concern. Tamanier had lived too long, had served Kith-Kanan for too many centuries, not to trust the Speaker’s intuition. At first he’d been frightened, but as his sovereign seemed so unconcerned, the elderly elf quickly mastered his own fear.

Restless, Kemian paced up and down, his slate-blue eyes stormy. “I wish whatever’s going to happen would go ahead and happen!” he exclaimed, slamming his sword hilt against his scabbard. “This waiting will drive me mad!”

“Calm yourself, Kem. A good warrior should be cool in the face of trial, not coiled up like an irritated serpent,” his father counseled.

“I need action,” Kemian said, halting in midstride. “Give me something to do, Your Majesty!”

Kith-Kanan thought for a moment. Then he said, “Go to Mackeli Tower and see if any foreigners have arrived since the rain started. I’d like to know if the rain is also falling outside my realm.”

Grateful to have a task to perform, Kemian bowed, saying, “Yes, sire. I’ll go at once.”

He hurried away.

*

Red rain trickled down Verhanna’s arms, dripping off her motionless fingertips. Beside her, Rufus Wrinklecap squirmed. She glared at him, a silent order to keep still. Ahead, some thirty feet away, two dark figures huddled by a feeble, smoky campfire. Rufus had smelled the smoke from quite a distance off, so Verhanna and her two remaining warriors had dismounted and crept up to the camp on foot. Verhanna grabbed the kender by his collar and hissed, “Are these the Kagonesti slavers?”

“They are, my captain,” he said solemnly.

“Then we’ll take them.”

Rufus shook his head, sending streams of red liquid flying. “Something’s not right, my captain. These fellows wouldn’t sit in the open by a campfire where anyone could find them. They’re too smart for that.”

The kender’s voice was nearly inaudible.

“How do you know? They just don’t realize we’re on their trail,” Verhanna said just as softly. She sent one of her warriors off to the left and the other to the right to surround the little clearing where the slavers had camped. Rufus fidgeted, his sodden, wilting plume bobbing in front of Verhanna’s face.

“Be still!” she said fiercely. “They’re almost in position.” She caught a dull glint of armor as the two elf warriors worked their way into position. Carefully the captain drew her sword. Muttering unhappily, Rufus pulled out his shortsword.

“Hail Qualinesti!” shouted Verhanna, and bolted into the clearing. Her two comrades charged also, swords high, shouting the battle cry. The slavers never stirred.

Verhanna reached them first and swatted at the nearest one with the flat of her blade. To her dismay, her blow completely demolished the seated figure. It was nothing but a cloak propped up by tree limbs.

“What’s this?” she cried. One of her warriors batted at the second figure. It, too, was a fake.

“A trick!” declared the warrior. “It’s a trick!” A heartbeat later, an arrow sprouted from his throat. He gave a cry and fell onto his face.

“Run for it!” squealed Rufus.

Another missile whistled past Verhanna as she sprinted for the trees. Rufus hit the leaf-covered ground and rolled, bounced, and dodged his way to cover. The last warrior made the mistake of following his captain rather than making for the edge of the clearing nearest him. He ran a half-dozen steps before an arrow hit him in the thigh. He staggered and fell, calling out to Verhanna.

The captain crashed into the line of trees, blundering noisily through the undergrowth. When she reached her original hiding place, she stopped. The wounded elf warrior called to her again.

Breathing hard, Verhanna sheathed her sword and put her back against a tree. The red rain coursed down her cheeks as she gasped for breath.

“Psst.”

She jumped at the sound and whirled. Rufus was on his hands and knees behind her.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

“Trying to keep from getting an arrow in the head,” said the kender. “They was waitin’ for us.”

“So they were!” Furious with herself for walking into the trap, she said, “I’ve got to go back for Rikkinian.”

Rufus grabbed her ankle. “You can’t!”

Verhanna kicked free of his grasp. “I won’t abandon a comrade!” she said emphatically. Shrugging off her cloak, Verhanna soon stood in her bare armor. She drew a thick-bladed dagger from her belt and crouched down, almost on all fours.

“Wait, I’ll come with you,” said the kender in a loud whisper. He scampered through the brush behind her.

Verhanna reached the edge of the clearing. Rikkinian, the wounded elf, was now silent and unmoving, lying face down in the mud. The other warrior sprawled near the phony slavers. Curiously, the stick figures and cloaks had been re-erected.

“Come here, Wart,” the captain muttered. Rufus crawled to her. “What do you think?”

“They’re both dead, my captain.”

Verhanna’s gaze rested on Rikkinian. Her brisk demeanor was gone; two warriors had paid for her mistake. Plaintively she asked, “Are you certain?”

“No one lies with his nose in the mud if he’s still breathing,” Rufus said gently. He squinted at the propped-up cloaks. “The archers are gone,” he announced. Again Verhanna asked him if he was sure. He pointed. “There are two sets of footprints crossing the clearing over there. The dark elders have fled.”

To demonstrate the truth of his words, Rufus stood up. He walked slowly past the fallen elves toward the smoldering fire. Verhanna went to Rikkinian and gently turned him over. The arrow wound in his leg hadn’t killed him. Someone had dispatched him with a single thrust of a narrow-bladed knife through the heart. Burning with anger, she rose and headed for her other fallen comrade. Before she reached him, she was shocked to see Rufus raise his little sword and fall on the back of one of the propped-up cloaks. This time the cloak didn’t collapse into a pile of tree limbs. Arms and legs appeared beneath it, and a figure leapt up.

“Captain!” Rufus shouted. “It’s one of them!”

Verhanna fumbled for her sword as she ran toward the campfire. The kender stabbed over and over again at the cloaked figure’s back. Though not muscular, Rufus possessed a wiry strength, but his attack appeared to have no effect. The cloaked one spun around, trying to throw the pesky kender off. When the front of the hood swung past Verhanna, she froze in her tracks and gasped.

“Rufus! It has no face!” she shouted.

With one last prodigious shake, the cloaked thing hurled Rufus to the ground. The kender’s small sword flew into the woods as Rufus landed with a thud. He groaned and lay still, crimson rain beating down on his pallid face.

Verhanna gave a cry and slashed at the faceless figure, her slim elven blade slicing through the cloth with ease. She felt resistance as the blade passed through whatever lay beneath the cloak, but no blood flowed. Under the hood, where a face should have been, there was only a ball of grayish smoke, as if someone had stuffed the hood with dirty cotton.

Cutting and thrusting and hacking, Verhanna soon reduced the cloak to a tattered mass on the muddy ground. Shorn of its garment, the thing was revealed to be a vaguely elf-shaped column of dove-colored smoke. Two arms, two legs, a head, and torso were visible, but nothing else – only featureless vapor. Realizing she was exhausting herself to no avail, Verhanna stood back to catch her breath.

Rufus sat up slowly and clutched his head. He shook the pain aside and looked up at the smoky apparition standing between him and his captain. His hat had been trodden in the mud, and rain streamed from his long hair. Rufus glanced from the wispy figure to the dying campfire. Only a single coil of vapor, as thick as his wrist, snaked upward from the damp wood, and it twisted and writhed oddly in the still air.

Suddenly the kender had an inspiration. He dragged the other, unoccupied cloak to the fire and threw it over the smoldering wood. The sodden material soon extinguished the last of the sparks, and the fire died. As it did, the smoky figure thinned and finally vanished.

There was a long moment of silence, broken only by Rufus’s and Verhanna’s heavy breathing. At last Verhanna demanded, “What in Astra’s name was that infernal thing?”

“Magic,” Rufus replied simply. His attention was centered on retrieving his hat from the mud. Sorrowfully he tried to straighten the long, crimson-stained plume. It was hopeless; the feather was broken in two places and hung limply.

“I know it was magic,” Verhanna said, annoyed. “But why? And whose?”

“I told you those elves were clever. One of them knows magic. He made the ghost as a diversion, I’ll bet, to keep us busy while they escaped.”

Verhanna slapped the flat of her blade against her mailed thigh. “E’li blast them! My two soldiers killed and we’re diverted by magic smoke!” She stamped her foot, splashing blood-colored puddles over Rufus. “I’d give my right arm for another crack at those two! I never even saw them!”

“They’re very dangerous,” said Rufus sagely. “Maybe we should get more soldiers to hunt them down.”

The Speaker’s daughter was not about to admit defeat. She slammed her sword home in its scabbard. “No, by the gods! We’ll take them ourselves!”

The kender jammed his soggy blue hat down on his head. His new clothes were ruined. “You don’t pay me enough for this,” he said under his breath.

*

How empty the great house seemed with Verhanna gone and Ulvian sent off to toil in the quarries of Pax Tharkas. Lord Anakardain was away from the city, with the lion’s share of the Guards of the Sun chasing down the last stubborn bands of slavers. Kemian Ambrodel was out questioning new arrivals in Qualinost about the red rain and other marvels of days past.

So many friends and familiar faces gone. Only he, Kith-Kanan, had remained behind. He had given up his freedom to roam when he accepted the throne of Qualinesti. After all these centuries, he finally understood how his father, Sithel, had felt before him. Bound up in chains like a prisoner. Only a Speaker’s chains weren’t made of iron, but of the coils of responsibility, duty, protocol.

It was hard, very hard, to remain inside the arched bridges of Qualinost, just as it was hard to keep inside the walls of the increasingly lonely Speaker’s house. Sometimes his thoughts were with Ulvian. Had he done right by his son? The prince’s crime was heinous, but did it justify Kith-Kanan’s harsh sentence?

Then he thought of Verhanna, probing every glade and clearing from Thorbardin to the Thon-Thalas River, seeking those whose crimes were the same as her brother’s. Loyal, brave, serious Hanna, who never swerved from following an order.

Kith-Kanan rose from his bed and threw back the curtains from his window. It was long after midnight, by the water clock on the mantle, and the world outside was as dark as pitch. He could hear the bloody rain still falling. It seeped under windowsills and doors.

A name, long buried in his thoughts, surfaced. It was a name not spoken aloud for hundreds of years: “Anaya!”

Into the quiet darkness, he whispered the name of the Kagonesti woman who had been his first wife. It was as if she was in the room with him.

He knew she was not dead. No, Anaya lived on, might even manage to outlive Kith-Kanan. As her life’s blood had flowed out of a terrible sword wound, Anaya’s body had indeed died. But undergoing a mysterious, sublime transformation, Anaya the elf woman had become a fine young oak tree, rooted in the soil of the ancient Silvanesti forest she had lived in and guarded all her life. The forest was but a small manifestation of a larger, primeval force, the power of life itself.

The power – he could think of nothing else to call it – had come into existence out of the First Chaos. The sages of Silvanost, Thorbardin, and Daltigoth all agreed that the First Chaos, by its very randomness, accidentally gave birth to order, the Not-Chaos.

Only order makes life possible.

These things Kith-Kanan had learned through decades of studying side by side with the wisest thinkers of Krynn. Anaya had been a servant of the power, the only force older than the gods, protecting the last of the ancient forests remaining on the continent. When her time as guardian was ended, Anaya had become one with the forest. She had been carrying Kith-Kanan’s child at the time.

Kith-Kanan’s head hurt. He kneaded his temples with strong fingers, trying to dull the ache. His and Anaya’s unborn son was a subject he could seldom bear to think about. Four hundred years had passed since last he’d heard Anaya’s voice, and yet at times the pain of their parting was as fresh as it had been that golden spring day when he’d watched her warm skin roughen into bark, when he’d heard her speak for the final time.

The rain ended abruptly. Its cessation was so sudden and complete it jarred Kith-Kanan out of his deep thoughts. The last drop fell from the water clock. Three days of scarlet rain were over.

His sigh echoed in the bedchamber. What would be next? He wondered.

*

“Thank Astra that foul mess has stopped!” exclaimed Rufus. “I feel like the floor of a slaughterhouse, soaked in blood!”

“Oh, shut up. It wasn’t real blood, just colored water,” Verhanna retorted. For two days, in constant rain, they had tracked the elusive Kagonesti slavers with little result.

The Kagonesti’s trail had led west for a time, but suddenly it seemed to vanish completely. The crimson rain had ceased overnight, and the new day was bright and sunny, but Kith-Kanan’s daughter was weary and saddle sore. The last thing she wanted to listen to was the kender complaining about his soggy clothes.

Rufus prowled ahead on foot, leading his oversized horse by the reins. He peered at every clump of grass, every fallen twig. “Nothing,” he fumed. “It’s as if they sprouted wings and flew away.”

The sun was setting almost directly ahead of them, and Verhanna suggested they stop for the night.

Rufus dropped his horse’s reins. “I’m for that! What’s for dinner?”

She poked a hand into the haversack hung from the pommel of her saddle. “Dried apples, quith-pa, and hard-boiled eggs,” Verhanna recited without enthusiasm. She tossed a cold, hard-boiled egg to her scout. He caught it with one hand, though he grumbled and screwed his face into a mask of disgust. She heard him mutter something about “the same eats, three times a day, forever” as he tapped the eggshell against his knee to crack it – then suddenly let it fall to the ground.

“Hey!” called Verhanna. “If you don’t want it, say so. Don’t throw it in the mud!”

“I smell roast pig!” he exulted, eyes narrow with concentration. “Not far away, either!” He vaulted onto his horse and turned the animal.

Verhanna flopped back the wet hood of her woolen cape and called, “Wait, Rufus! Stop!”

The reckless, hungry kender was not to be denied, however. With thumps of his spurless heels, he urged his horse through a line of silver-green holly, ignoring the jabs and scratches of the barbed leaves. Disgusted, Verhanna rode down the row of bushes, trying to find an opening. When she couldn’t, she pulled her horse around and also plunged through the holly. Sharp leaf edges raked her unprotected face and hands.

“Ow!” she cried. “Rufus, you worthless toad! Where are you?”

Ahead, beyond some wind-tossed dogwoods, she spied the flicker of a campfire. Cursing the kender soundly, Verhanna rode toward the fire. The foolish kender didn’t even have his short sword anymore. In the fight with the smoke creature, Rufus’s blade had been broken.

Serve him right if it was a bandit camp, she thought angrily. Forty, no, fifty bloodthirsty villains, armed to the teeth, luring innocent victims in with their cooking smoke. Sixty bandits, yes, all of whom liked to eat stupid kender.

In spite of her ire, the captain kept her head and freed her sword from the leather loop that held it in its scabbard. No use barging in unprepared. Approaching the campfire obliquely, she saw shadowy figures moving around it. A horse whinnied. Clutching her reins tightly, Verhanna rode in, ready for a fight.

The first thing she saw was Rufus wolfing down chunks of steaming roast pork. Four elves dressed in rags and pieces of old blankets stood around the fire. By their light hair and chiseled features, she identified them as Silvanesti.

“Good morrow to you, warrior,” said the male elf nearest Rufus. His accent and manner were refined, city-bred.

“May your way be green and golden,” Verhanna replied. The travelers didn’t appear to be armed, but she remained on her horse just in case. “If I may ask, who are you, good traveler?”

“Diviros Chanderell, bard, at your service, Captain.”

The elf bowed low, so low that his sand-colored hair brushed the ground. Sweeping an arm around the assembled group, he added, “and this is my family.”

Verhanna nodded to each of the others. The older, brown-haired female was Diviros’s sister, Deramani. Sitting by the fire was a younger woman, the bard’s wife, Selenara. Her thick hair, unbound, hung past her waist, and peeking shyly out from behind the honey-golden cascade was a fair-haired child. Diviros introduced him as Kivinellis, his son.

“We have come hither from Silvanost, city of a thousand white towers,” said the bard with a flourish, “our fortunes to win in the new realm of the west.”

“Well, you’ve a long way to go if Qualinost is your goal,” Verhanna said.

“It is, noble warrior. Will you share meat with us? Your partner precedes you.”

She dismounted, shaking her head at Rufus. He winked at her as Diviros’s sister handed Verhanna a trencher of savory pork. The captain stabbed the cutlet with her knife and bit off a mouthful. It was good, sweet flesh, as only the Silvanesti could raise.

“What sets you wandering the lonely fields by night, Captain?” asked Diviros, once they were all comfortable around the campfire. He had a thin, expressive face and large amber eyes, which gave emphasis to his words.

“We’re on an elf hunt,” blurted Rufus between mouthfuls.

The bard’s pale brows flew up. “Are you, indeed? Some dire brigand is haunting these environs?”

“Naw. They’re a couple of woods elves wanted for slaving.” Food had restored the kender’s natural garrulousness. “They ambushed some of our warriors, then used magic to get away.”

“Slavers? Magic? How strange!”

Rufus launched into an animated account of their adventures. Verhanna rolled her eyes, but only when Rufus nearly revealed Verhanna as the daughter of the Speaker of the Sun did she object.

“Mind your tongue,” she snapped. She didn’t want her parentage widely known. After all, traveling across the wild country with only a chatty kender for company, the princess of Qualinesti would make an excellent hostage for any bandit.

Planting his hands on his knees and glancing at his family, Diviros told his story in turn. “We, too, have seen wondrous things since leaving our homeland.”

Rufus burped loudly. “Good! Tell us a story!”

Diviros beamed. He was in his element. His family sat completely still as all eyes fastened on him. He began softly. “Strange has been the path we have followed, my friends, strange and wonderful. On the day we left the City of a Thousand White Towers, a pall of darkness fell over the land. My beautiful Selenara was sore afraid.”

The bard’s wife blushed crimson, and she looked down at the tortoiseshell comb in her hand.

Diviros went on. “But I reasoned that the gods had draped this cloak of night over us for a purpose. And lo, the purpose was soon apparent. Warriors of the Speaker of the Stars had been turning back those who wished to leave the country. His Majesty feared the nation was losing too many of her sons and daughters to the westward migration, and he – But I digress. In any event, the strange darkness allowed us to slip by the warriors unseen.”

“That was lucky,” Verhanna said matter-of-factly.

“Lucky, noble warrior? ‘Twas the will of the gods!” Diviros said ringingly, lifting a hand to heaven. “That it was so was shown five days later as we traversed the great southern forest amid a tempest of thunderbolts, for there we beheld a sight so strange the gods must have preserved us that we might be witness to it!”

Verhanna was growing weary of the bard’s elaborate storytelling and showed it by sighing loudly. Rufus, however, was in awe of so spellbinding a speaker. “Go on, please!” he urged, a forkful of pork halted midway to his mouth.

Diviros warmed under the kender’s intense regard. “We had stopped by a large pool of water to refresh ourselves. Such a beautiful spot, my little friend! Crystalline water in a green bower, surrounded by a snowy riot of blooming buds. Well, as we were all partaking of the icy cold liquid, a monstrously large bolt of lightning struck not a score of paces from us! The flash was brighter than the sun, and we were all knocked completely senseless.

“It was Selenara who roused first. She knows well the sound of a child in distress, and it was just such a sound that brought her awake – a mewling noise, a crying. My good wife wandered up the wooded hillside into a large meadow, and lo! there a great oak tree had been hit by the lightning, blasted into more splinters than there are stars in the heavens! Where the broad trunk had split open, she found the one who cried so piteously.”

Diviros paused dramatically, gazing directly into Verhanna’s impatient eyes. “It was a fully grown male elf!”

Rufus and his captain exchanged a look. Verhanna set aside her empty trencher and asked, “Who was it – some traveler sleeping under the tree when it was hit?”

The bard shook his head solemnly, and once more his voice was low and serious as he replied, “No, good warrior. It was clear that the fellow had been inside the tree and that the lightning had released him.”

“Bleedin’ dragons!” sighed the kender.

“My good spouse ran back to the pool and raised us from our stupor. I hurried to the shattered tree and beheld the strange elf. He was slick with blood, yet as my wife and sister washed him, there was not a cut, not even a scratch, anywhere on him. Moreover, there was an oval hollow in the tree, just large enough for him to have fitted in with his legs drawn up.”

Verhanna snorted and waved a hand dismissively. “Look here,” she said kindly, “that’s quite a tall tale you’ve spun, bard, but don’t carry on so hard that you begin to believe it yourself! You are a tale-spinner, after all, and a very good one. You almost had yourself convinced.”

Diviros’s mobile face showed only the briefest flash of annoyance. “Forgive me. I did not intend to deceive, only to relate to you the marvel we encountered in this elf who seemed born from a tree. If I offended, I apologize.” He bowed again, but Kivinellis blurted, “Tell them about his hands!” Everyone stared at the child, and he retreated once more behind his mother’s back. Rufus hopped up from the log he’d been sitting on.

“What about his hands?” asked the kender.

“They were discolored,” Diviros said casually. “The elf’s fingers, including his nails, were the color of summer grass.” His tawny eyes darted to his son, and the quick look was not kind.

“What happened to the green-fingered elf?” Rufus wondered aloud.

“We cared for him a day or two, and then he wandered off on his own.”

Verhanna detected a note of resistance in his voice. In spite of Rufus’s obvious enjoyment of the story, the bard was suddenly reluctant to speak. The captain had never known a bard to be reticent before an attentive audience. She decided to press him. “Which way did this odd, green-fingered fellow go?”

There was a momentary hesitation, barely discernible, before Diviros answered, “South by west. We have not seen him since.”

The Speaker’s daughter stood. “Well, we thank you, good bard, for your tale. And for our dinner. We must be off now.”

She tugged Rufus to his feet.

“But I haven’t finished eating!” protested the kender.

“Yes, you have.”

Verhanna hustled him to his horse and sprang to her own saddle. “Good luck to you!” she called to the family. “May your way be green and golden!”

In a moment, they’d left the group of elves staring in surprise after them.

Back on the trail, cloaked by the robe of night, Verhanna brought her horse to a stop. Rufus bounced up beside her. The kender was still babbling about their abrupt departure and the premature end of his meal.

“Forget your stomach,” Verhanna ordered. “What did you make of that strange encounter?”

“They had good food,” he said pointedly. When she raised a warning eyebrow, Rufus added hastily, “I thought the bard was all right, but the others were a little snooty. Of course, a lot of the elder folk are like that – your noble father excluded, my captain.” He flashed an ingratiating smile.

“They were afraid of something,” Verhanna said, lowering her voice and tapping her chin thoughtfully. “At first I thought it was us, but now I think they were afraid of Diviros.”

The kender crinkled his nose. “Why would they be afraid of him?”

Verhanna wrapped her reins tightly around her fist. “I have an idea.”

She turned her horse back toward the bard’s campfire. “Get your knife out and follow me!” she ordered, putting her spurs to work.

Her ebony mount bolted through the underbrush, its heavy hooves thrashing loudly. Puzzled, Rufus turned his unwieldy animal after his captain, his heart pounding in excitement.

Verhanna burst into the little clearing in time to see Diviros shoving his small son into the back of one of their carts. The bard whirled, eyes wide in alarm. He reached under the cart and brought out a leaf-headed spear – hardly bardic equipment. Verhanna shifted her round buckler to catch the spear point and deflect it away. Diviros planted the heel of the spear shaft against his foot like an experienced soldier and stood while the mounted warrior charged toward him.

“Circle around them, Wart!” the captain cried before ducking her face behind the rim of her shield. Verhanna and Diviros were seconds from collision when the young elf boy stood up in the cart and hurled an earthenware pot at his father. The thick clay vessel thudded against Diviros’s back. He dropped his spear and fell to his knees, gasping for air. Verhanna reined in her mount and presented the tip of her sword at his throat.

“Yield, in the name of the Speaker of the Sun!” she declared. Diviros’s head dropped down in dejection, and he spread his hands wide on the ground.

Rufus clattered up to the cart. The boy scrambled over the baggage and bounced up and down in front of the kender.

“You’ve saved us!” he cried joyously.

“What’s going on here?” Rufus asked, his confusion evident. He looked up at Verhanna. “Captain, what in darkness is going on?”

“Our friend Diviros is a slaver.” Verhanna prodded Diviros with her sword tip. “Aren’t you?” The elf didn’t answer.

“Yes!” the boy said. “He was taking us all to Ergoth to be sold into slavery!”

The two elf women were released from their cart, where Diviros had bound and gagged them. Gradually the whole story came out.

The Guards of the Sun, under Kith-Kanan’s orders, had so disrupted the traffic of slaves from Silvanesti to Ergoth that slave dealers in both lands were resorting to ruses like this one. Small groups of slaves, disguised as settlers and held by one or two experienced drivers, were being sent on many different routes.

Verhanna ordered Diviros bound. The elf women did her bidding eagerly. Once the erstwhile bard was secured, Rufus approached her and said, “What do we do now, Captain? We can’t keep trailing the Kagonesti with a prisoner and three civilians in tow.”

Disappointment was written on Verhanna’s face. She knew the kender was right, yet she burned to bring the crafty Kagonesti slavers to justice.

“We can resume the hunt,” she said firmly. “Their trail was leading west, and we’ll continue in that direction.”

“What’s in the west?”

“Pax Tharkas. We can turn Diviros over to my father’s guards there. The captives will be taken care of, too.”

She looked up into the starry sky. “I want those elves, Wart. They ambushed my soldiers and made a fool of me with their smoke phantom. I want them brought to justice!” She drove her mailed fist into her palm.

They bundled Diviros into one of the carts and set Deramani, the older elf woman, to watch him. The younger woman, Selenara, volunteered to drive their wagon. Rufus tied Diviros’s horse to the other cart and climbed in beside Kivinellis. Once Verhanna was mounted, she led the caravan out of the clearing and headed west.

The elf boy told Rufus and Verhanna that he was actually an orphan from the streets of Silvanost. Then he proceeded to shower them with questions about Qualinesti, Qualinost, and the Speaker of the Sun. He’d heard tales of Kith-Kanan’s exploits in the Kinslayer War, but since the schism between East and West, even the mention of Kith-Kanan’s name was frowned upon in Silvanesti.

Verhanna told him all he wanted to know – except that she was the daughter of the famous Speaker.

Then Rufus posed a question to Kivinellis. “Hey, was that story about the elf coming out of the tree true?” he asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” put in Verhanna. “Diviros was lying, playing the part of a bard.”

“Oh, no, no!” said the boy urgently. “It was true! The green-fingered elf appeared just as he said!”

“Well, what happened to him?” queried the kender.

“Diviros tried to feed him a potion in order to steal his will so he could sell him in Ergoth as a slave. But the potion had no effect on him! In the night, while we all slept, the green-fingered one vanished!”

Verhanna shrugged. “I don’t believe it,” she muttered.

The red moon, Lunitari, set at midnight. The freed slaves slept in the carts, but Verhanna and Rufus remained awake, and the caravan continued to move west through the night.

Chapter 7

THE BLACK AMULET

“Clear Away, clear away there! Do you want to be mashed to jelly? Get out!” The dwarf overseer, Lugrim, bellowed down at one of the workers pushing a granite block ten feet long, eight feet wide, and six feet high. It didn’t help the grunt gang that the rotund dwarf stood on top of the block, adding his own weight to their overall burden. The block was sliding slowly down an earthen ramp. Other workers, human and half-human boys, skipped back and forth in front of the stone, sweeping the wave of displaced dirt out of the way with shovels and rakes. Theirs was a dangerous job; the block could not be stopped once in motion, and if the boys got caught or fell while sweeping, the stone would crush them. Only the most nimble worked as sweepers. Ulvian was embedded in a mass of sweating, straining bodies, his hands flat on the block and his bare toes dug into the dirt.

The red rain had stopped just two days before. Its remains were evident all over Pax Tharkas in the form of crimson puddles, and now the damp soil gripped like glue. Five days he had been at Pax Tharkas. Five days of exhaustion, toil, and fear.

“Push, you laggards!” Lugrim exhorted. “My old mother could push harder than you!”

“I knew your mother,” Dru shot back quickly, face to the ground as he strained. “Her breath could move solid rock!”

The overseer turned and glared in the direction from which the voice had come. A squat fellow, even by dwarven standards, he could barely see over his thick, fur-wrapped belly. “Who said that?” he demanded, his eyes darting over the gang.

“All together, lads,” grunted Splint. As one, the convicts gave a hard, sudden shove. The block slid forward, skewing to the left. The dwarf atop the stone lost his footing and toppled over the side. He let out a loud “oof!” and lay stunned. The block ground inexorably onward.

Merith appeared, elegantly clad in burnished armor and a fur mantle, his fair hair clean and neatly combed. Helping the fallen dwarf to his feet, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“Aye.” Lugrim braced his arms against his back and winced, then turned ponderously to face the grunt gang, who were watching him. “You think you’re clever, don’t you, scum?”

“Yes, Master Lugrim,” they replied in unison, sing-songing their words like naughty children.

Merith easily picked out Ulvian in the crowd of twenty convicts. The prince didn’t meet his glance but kept his legs driving forward in the blood-colored mud. In spite of his growing blond beard, the marks of his beating by Splint still showed. Gossip had told Merith what happened, but the warrior refused to intervene. Kith-Kanan’s son had hard lessons to learn if he was to survive.

Below the pinnacle where Merith stood, the two square tower keeps that were the innermost defense of the fortress rose to unequal heights. Construction on the west tower was farther along than on the east. Its parapets were already in place. From this distance, Merith could see tiny figures walking on them and on the great wall that connected the two towers.

The camp was situated in the valley behind the fortress. In front of the citadel, farther down the pass, two curtain walls had been erected as the first lines of defense against any attacker. Tall, single gates of hammered bronze were the only openings in the walls. They stood open now, propped apart by huge timber balks. Workers and artisans poured in and out like streams of ants around a bowl of fruit.

Looking down on all this, Merith could well believe the completion of Pax Tharkas was not far away. A year, perhaps less. Feldrin Feldspar had done a magnificent job, building the citadel not only quickly but also well.

The night before, the master builder had shown him detailed drawings of the underground galleries that were being hollowed out of the mountainside beneath each tower. Enough food and water to last for years could be stored there, making Pax Tharkas resistant to any siege. An elaborate throne room, suitable for either the King of Thorbardin or the Speaker of the Sun, was also being constructed. Details such as these might take a few more years to finish, but the basic fortress would be ready to occupy much sooner than that.

A shadow fell across Merith; a cloud had covered the sun. As he turned from his study of the fortress, tiny particles peppered his face, and he inhaled grit. Vibrations tingled the soles of his shoes. It was an odd, tickling sensation, and Merith shifted his weight, looking down at his boots. Then he became aware of a deep humming sound, like the bass drums the priests of E’li sometimes played during festivals. The dust cloud was thickening. Below, workers scrambled in confusion.

“Landslide!” someone shouted.

Merith whirled and saw behind and to his left what he had only felt before. Boulders and rain-soaked chunks of wet soil were rolling down the east face of the mountain. Paralyzed, the elf warrior could only stare in amazement as tons of rock and dirt hurtled toward the quarries in the high pass. The noise increased to a deafening roar, and the ground shook so that he lost his footing and fell.

Screams filled the air, piercing the thunder of the avalanche. Merith rolled about like a pea shaken in its pod. He clawed at the stony earth, trying to keep his balance.

The landslide hit the pass. Rock chips and boulders flew, crushing everything they hit. Merith watched helplessly as a huge stone bowled over half a dozen quarry workers. A pall of reddish dust descended over the scene. The roar faded. The sobbing of the terrified and injured was everywhere.

“Help!” A loud cry sliced through the moans of the injured and dying. “Help, somebody! Help me!”

Merith stumbled to his feet and ran down the earthen ramp. The overseer was lying on the path on this side of the block. The convicts had scattered, as had the sweeper boys. Merith knelt beside the dwarf. Lugrim had an ugly, bleeding gash on his forehead. His heart beat strongly, however, so the elf warrior knew he was only knocked unconscious.

“Help, in the names of the gods! The stone is moving!” The shout came again, nearer this time. Merith looked up and caught his breath in a gasp. The severe vibrations from the landslide had twisted the path of the granite block. It was teetering on the edge of the ramp, and people lay prostrate in the very shadow of the rock.

Merith left the dwarf where he lay. A few paces closer, he saw two gang members close to the block. One was a Silvanesti he didn’t know; the other was Prince Ulvian. The prince’s pant leg was caught under the block! The granite had run over his trailing hem and was dragging him along.

Only one of his comrades remained behind to help him.

“Merithynos! Help me!” screamed Ulvian. He kicked vainly at the huge stone with his left leg. His other was hard against the rock. The block crept forward on its own, driven by the slope of the ramp and its skewed position. In another yard or two, it would be far enough off the ramp that it would topple over on its side. Anything or anyone in its way would be crushed.

Merith and the Silvanesti pulled on Ulvian’s arms, trying to tear him free. The prince’s forester clothing was made of deerhide and was very tough. The warrior drew his knife and sawed at the leather. Too slow, too slow!

“Do something!” Ulvian pleaded, tears streaking his face.

“I’m trying, Your Highness!” Merith replied. The other elf stiffened for a moment, staring at Merith.

The lieutenant sawed harder at the deerhide and finally succeeded in making a small slit.

The block ground a sweeper’s broom into the stony ramp. The crushing sound of the wooden handle being pulverized sent fresh paroxysms of terror through the prince. “Please don’t let me die!” he groaned piteously. “Save me, Merith, Dru!”

The enormous cube of granite wobbled on the edge of the ramp. Merith cursed and tore at the leather pants with his hands. Ulvian’s lower body already hung over the rim of the ramp, while he was pinned on his back.

The Silvanesti, Dru, grabbed Merith by his cloak and dragged him away. “Go to the tent of Feldrin Feldspar,” he shouted at the warrior’s horrified face. “Get the onyx ring he keeps on a thong around his neck!” When Merith continued to regard him with utter incomprehension, Dru shook him and roared, “Go now, if you hope to save your royal charge!”

Merith scrambled up the ramp and sprinted toward the master builder’s tent. Mobs of dazed workers clustered around it, seeking Feldrin’s attention. Merith had to whip out his sword in order to convince them to part to let him through.

Feldrin stood at the door of his hut, a cold wet cloth pressed to his head. He took it away and dipped it in a bowl of fresh water. There was a goose-egg-size bruise over his left eye.

“Quick! Give me the ring!” Merith demanded.

“What?” rumbled Feldrin. Merith thrust a hand into the dwarfs collar and found the onyx ring on a thong, just as Dru had said. It was made of black crystal, slightly larger than a finger ring, square cut, with odd glyphs engraved around the edge. Just then a shriek pierced the air. Merith yanked the ring from Feldrin’s neck and took off at a run. The master builder bellowed for him to stop.

If the prince dies, it will be my fault, Merith thought desperately. Not only Ulvian, but also perhaps the entire dynasty of the House of Silvanos might come to an end under that block of gray stone.

Dru was a few feet from the block, kneeling, his eyes mere slits, his hands clasped around the four-inch-long cylinder of onyx he constantly carried with him. Ulvian was calling out to the gods, begging for a merciful, quick death. As Merith approached, he saw the near end of the stone begin to lift off the ramp, about to topple over.

“Here!” he cried, thrusting the black crystal ring into Dru’s fingers. The elf’s eyes snapped open. Not even the terror of the moment could overcome Merith’s shock at seeing the Silvanesti’s eyes. They were solid black, with no white at all.

Dru took the ring from the thong and fitted the cylinder of onyx into its center hole. The result was an object that looked very much like a child’s top – indeed, Dru balanced the two onyx pieces on the tip of the cylinder and removed his hand. The piece didn’t topple over, but instead began to spin. All by itself.

A roaring filled Merith’s ears. The air above the spinning top coalesced into a tight vortex, like a miniature whirlwind. Dust whirled and spun, caught up by the racing air. Dru rose to his feet and walked straight into the vortex. Merith, trying vainly to shield his face from the flying grit, was pressed backward. Invisible hands shoved him to his knees and then onto his back. It was as if lumps of stone had been laid across his chest. He could barely move his head, and his breath came in ragged gasps.

Through a haze of flying dirt, Merith saw Dru step up to the granite block and, with his bare hands, turn it over! The black-eyed elf simply grasped the lower edge of the stone and lifted it, with no more strain than shifting an empty barrel. The block slammed down on the ramp. Ulvian was saved!

Dimly Merith saw figures move past him. Feldrin Feldspar, walking jerkily, slowly, went straight to where the onyx top still rotated. The dwarf pulled a sparkling silver cloth from a small leather pouch and dropped it on the top.

Instantly the tremendous magical force dissipated. Blessed air filled Merith’s lungs with a rush. His straining muscles, freed from the terrible force, slackened, and he lay limply on the ground.

Through a pounding headache, he discovered a dampness on his face that proved to be a nosebleed. Painfully he sat up.

Armed overseers seized Dru and shoved him to the ground. A large wooden fork was thrust around his neck, pinning him to the dirt. Ulvian dragged himself to the elf who had saved his life and demanded in a weak voice that Dru be released.

“That cannot be done,” Feldrin said, grimly surveying the area. “He could slay us all.”

Workers and artisans had gathered in a crowd around the scene. Feldrin bent down and scooped up the silver cloth and onyx top, being careful to keep the black crystals wrapped in the shiny covering. Merith hauled himself to his feet and stood swaying.

“Come with me” Feldrin told him. “The rest of you, return to your tents! The healers will come and tend to your injuries!”

Feeling quite battered, Merith sluggishly followed Feldrin back to his tent. The master builder put the onyx pieces and silver cloth in a small golden box and locked it. Then he poured the grateful lieutenant a mug of Qualinesti nectar. Merith gulped it down.

“That was a very dangerous thing you did,” Feldrin said, crossing his powerful arms over his broad chest.

The room still seemed to Merith to be spinning like the magical onyx top, and he put a hand to his head. “I don’t understand,” he protested.

“That elf is Drulethen, the infamous sorcerer. For fifty years, he ruled a portion of the Kharolis Mountains from his hidden keep, and he used his terrible magic to kill and enslave anyone who passed by. Finally, the King of Thorbardin led an expedition of elves and dwarves against him. The clerics managed to defeat his spells only with great difficulty, but the warriors were finally able to storm the keep and take him prisoner.”

Merith’s mug was empty, and Feldrin refilled it. “It was discovered that his power was chiefly invested in a simple onyx amulet. When that was taken away, he was powerless. We didn’t know about the other piece of onyx. Drulethen must’ve kept it hidden for just such an occasion.”

The nectar was sweet and strong. It sent strength coursing through Merith’s veins as his head cleared. “But – he saved the prince!”

Feldrin sighed gustily. “Yes, thank Reorx! I don’t know why he did it, but I can’t fault his deed.”

“Why don’t you destroy the amulet? Or send it to Thorbardin, or somewhere else where Dru can’t possibly get at it?”

Feldrin smote the table top with his fist. “That’s the trouble! We can’t! My king originally took the ring to his palace in Thorbardin. While it was in his possession, he was so wracked by illness and his sleep so tormented by dreadful nightmares that in desperation he sent it back to me.” The master builder lowered his voice, though they were alone in the tent. “You see, my friend, the amulet is alive. It sometimes talks to mortals, and indeed there are those who say it was fashioned by the Queen of Darkness herself. It cannot be destroyed. Only the silver cloth can confine it once its power has been unleashed.”

Merith asked about the cloth. “One of the most sacred relics of my people,” Feldrin informed him. “No less than a scrap of hide from the Silver Dragon, the same one who loved and fought with the great human warrior Huma Dragonsbane.”

This revelation stunned the already woozy Merith. “By the gods,” he breathed. “I had no idea who or what I was dealing with! My only thought was to save the prince!”

“No harm done, young warrior.” Feldrin put a hand on Merith’s shoulder. “The Speaker of the Sun and the King of Thorbardin made a bargain to put the evil Drulethen to work. Personally, I would have struck his head off, but my royal master believes he can use the sorcerer’s knowledge for his own benefit, and the great and wise Kith-Kanan thinks he can actually reform Drulethen!” Feldrin shook his head. “The Speaker is always trying to improve his enemies.”

“Aye,” Merith agreed. “Ofttimes I have heard him say, ‘I used to kill my foes; now I make them my friends. A warrior needs as few enemies as possible, but a Speaker needs as many friends as he can make’.”

The barracks were quiet, save for the coughs of sleeping grunt gang members trying to expel the dust they’d breathed all day. Ulvian lay on his side, wide awake. Aside from some scrapes and an aching right leg, he was essentially unharmed by his brush with death, yet he could not sleep. Over and over he replayed the scene – the block teetering above him, Dru pushing it aside with his bare hands, the awesome presence of the power in the black crystal.

The prince sat up, wincing as his wrenched muscles protested. He padded on bare feet to Dru’s bed. Peering through the darkness, the prince realized his savior was not lying down but sitting with his knees drawn up to his smooth chin.

“Dru?” he whispered. “I need to talk to you.”

“If you answer one question for me. Are you in truth the son of Speaker Kith-Kanan?” Ulvian admitted he was. “I knew the Speaker had some half-human children,” Dru, said softly. A gruff voice nearby rumbled a demand for silence. The sorcerer rose and took Ulvian by the arm. He led the prince to the relatively open area by the water barrel, where they could talk more freely.

“I won’t forget your deed,” Ulvian began.

“I should hope not.” Dru said dryly. He smiled, his teeth showing white in the darkness. “We are a natural pair of allies, are we not? A prince and a sorcerer, both sentenced to labor on this ridiculous mausoleum, both required to hide their true identities.”

Dru lifted a dipperful of water to his lips. Once he’d taken a long drink, he asked, “What did you do to end up in such a place, Your Highness? Why did your infamously just father send you here to work like a dog?”

With some hemming and hawing, Ulvian explained his activities as a slave trader.

“It was a harmless diversion,” he insisted. “A few wealthy traders approached me and asked for my patronage. I had influence and knew warriors who could be bribed to look the other way. It was a mere lark, an adventure to keep boredom at bay, but my enemies in Qualinost used my capture as an excuse to exile me!” His voice rose until Dru had to quiet him. “I will reclaim what is rightfully mine,” the prince finished darkly. “I will fulfill my destiny!”

Dru squatted and began to idly trace elaborate designs in the dirt floor. Curving lines, loops, and squares took shape. “What enemies do you have, my prince? Who are they?”

Ulvian hunkered down across from his friend and said, “There is my sister, Verhanna, for one. The old castellan, Tamanier Ambrodel, thinks I’m immoral and wicked, and his son, General Lord Kemian Ambrodel, believes he is better suited to be Speaker than I. There is an old Kagonesti senator, Irthenie by name, who —”

“I see.”

Dru brushed the designs away with his hand. “I think we should make common cause, Your Highness. Your father and the king of the dwarves put me here. I’ve had to keep my true identity hidden because some of the elves and dwarves we work alongside would kill me if they knew who I really was.” The sorcerer thrust his face close to Ulvian’s. “Together we can escape this place and regain the power and position we are destined to have.”

“Escape?” Ulvian echoed weakly. “I – I can’t. My father will declare me an outlaw if I flee the country.”

“Who said anything about fleeing the country? You and I will go to Qualinost. There must be nobles, senators, and clerics who favor you, my prince. We’ll rally them round you and demand a pardon. What do you say?”

Ulvian rubbed his palms together. Despite the cool mountain air, his hands were damp with sweat. “I – I don’t know,” he said faintly. Much as he loathed his current situation, the prince realized that such a plan was risky at best. “When would we leave?” Ulvian asked hesitantly.

“This very night,” Dru said, and Ulvian actually started at the abrupt words. “Both parts of my amulet are in camp. We can break into Feldrin’s tent and get them. Then no power within a hundred miles can stop us.”

The prince sank back slowly on his haunches. Bracing himself with his hands, he said, “Feldrin won’t just hand —”

“With your help, I’ll kill the old stonebreaker,” the sorcerer snapped.

“No.” Ulvian stood up, looking around nervously. “I can’t do that. I can’t murder Feldrin. I plan to be vindicated and pardoned. I won’t murder my way to freedom.”

Dru stood and shrugged expressively. “As you wish, my prince. I’ve been here for many years, you only a short time. After you’ve broken your back working on this damn fortress for a while longer, perhaps you’ll change your mind.”

Ulvian was about to reply when Dru’s head suddenly snapped around, as if he’d heard a strange noise. He held up one hand to forestall Ulvian’s words. “Wait,” he said. “Something’s amiss.”

Ulvian followed the sorcerer to one of the two windows in the barracks. It seemed brighter outside than it should be this late at night. As they watched, it grew brighter still. The outline of the camp became clearer. Silhouetted tents gained distinct features. To Ulvian’s astonishment, the sun appeared in the sky directly overhead. At first, only a faint red glow was visible, but then it blazed more and more brilliantly until the mountain pass was bathed in the full light of noon.

“What – what’s happening?” Ulvian cried, shading his squinting eyes from the sudden glare.

Dru stroked his dirty, pointed chin. “Someone is tampering with the balance of nature,” he said coolly. “Someone – or something – very powerful.”

Men and dwarves emerged from their huts to stare at the bright sky and scratch their heads in wonderment. By the water clocks, it was still two hours till sunrise, yet sunlight flooded the tents.

*

Dust from the landslide tinted the sky over the Kharolis Mountains rusty red. The gritty fog hung in the still air, unmoving. The day after the avalanche, the sun burned like an orange ball through the haze. It hung fixed at the peak of the heavens. As measured by notched candles and water clocks, several hours had passed, yet the sun had never budged.

“Master Lugrim, what o’clock is it?” called Ulvian to the overseer, whose face was hidden by a dripping dipper of cool water.

Lugrim poured the last few drops on his brow, which was already wet with sweat. “Nigh time to work again,” he growled. “Are you men or camels? How much do you plan to drink?”

“I’m no man,” Splint said acidly, “and I’ll drink how I please.”

“‘Tis fearful hot,” added a human named Brunnar in a thick Ergothic accent.

Six hours had passed since the sun’s abrupt appearance, and the temperature had been growing steadily warmer. The air was unusually dead; no breeze wafted through the pass, and no clouds shielded the workers from the sun. Only the ever-present dust diffused the sunlight, coating the workers’ sweltering bodies.

At Feldrin Feldspar’s hut, a crowd of overseers and guild masters had formed. There was much debate over the strange sunrise. Some in the group insisted that work be halted until the heat abated, while others argued that work should continue.

“Our covenant with the Speaker of the Sun calls for us to work till sunset,” the chief mason complained. “We must honor our pledge.”

“Our people can’t work forever,” objected the leader of the carpenters’ guild.

“Quiet, you shortsighted fools!” rumbled Feldrin, waving his hands over his head. “The sun hasn’t moved for hours. Merciful Reorx! A calamity is upon us, and you quibble about schedules and quotas!”

The overseers and masters lapsed into embarrassed silence. Merith appeared and stood on the fringe of the crowd. He’d shed his armor in the heat and wore a lightweight white tunic and baggy gray trousers.

“This must be yet another of the wonders,” said the elf warrior. “Like the darkness, the lightning, and the scarlet rain.”

That set off a fresh wave of contention in the group. Feldrin let them argue a while, then shouted for quiet again.

The chief mason wailed, “What are we to do!”

“Collect all the fresh water you can,” ordered Feldrin. “Fill every pot and jar in Pax Tharkas. Tell the sewing women to make canopies – very large canopies. We will erect them over the quarry walls to shade the workers.”

The master builder loosened his fur mantle and let it fall to the ground. “Let it be done. And tell everyone to get rid of his heavy garments!”

“Do we resume work?” asked Lugrim.

“In two hours, by the water clock.”

Feldrin’s assistants dispersed to carry out his bidding. The trumpets blew, signaling an end to work, and every worker in the pass hurried indoors, out of the broiling sun. Feldrin and Merith watched the teeming site become a ghost fortress in a matter of minutes. The last people in sight were the dwarves who had been working on the parapet of the west tower. They secured their hoist and winch, then ducked inside the massive stone structure. For some time after that, the hoist swung to and fro, the block and tackle creaking loudly.

The sight of the sun-baked, lifeless fortress bothered the master builder. It was unnerving. In a gloomy tone, he said as much to the lieutenant.

“Why so, my lord?” asked Merith, surprised.

“The other marvels were like conjurer’s tricks – they seemed mysterious and impressive, but they were essentially harmless. This is different. A few days of unrelieved sun could be the end of us all.”

Feldrin dabbed sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his yellow linen shirt. “I can’t help but wonder who has the power to do this. Who can stop the course of the sun itself through the sky?”

“Drulethen?” the lieutenant suggested.

“Certainly not,” Feldrin said firmly. “Even if he possessed both halves of his evil talisman, he could never do such a thing.” The dwarf shook his head. I wonder if even the gods themselves...”

“Nothing is beyond the gods,” Merith replied reverently.

“Perhaps. Perhaps.”

The dwarf picked up his discarded cloak and draped it over one arm. Already his salt-and-pepper hair was clinging to his damp face. With a sigh, he said, “I shall retire indoors now. Can’t have my brain getting scrambled in this blasted sun.”

“A wise notion, master. I shall do likewise.”

Elf and dwarf parted company. Merith crossed the winding road to the fortress site alone, the only living thing moving through the entire construction site. Overhead, the hoist continued to sway and creak. The lieutenant thought it a mournful, lonely sound.

Chapter 8

GREENHANDS

Midnight in Qualinost was as bright as any noon. There had been no night at all for two days, and the heat was appalling. Half the public fountains in the city had dried up during the first twenty-four-hour period of the strange daylight. The people of Qualinost filled the courtyards of the great temples, begging the priests and priestesses to intercede on their behalf with the gods. Incense burned and chants rose to the heavens, but the sun burned mercilessly on.

The water clock in the chamber of the Thalas-Enthia showed it was midnight, yet the senators of Qualinesti were all present. Seated in his place of honor on the north side of the circular room, Kith-Kanan listened to the representatives of the people debate the series of marvels they had experienced, including the current dangerous manifestation. Many of the senators bore the signs of lack of slumber; not only were their duties pressing in this time of crisis, but the lack of night made it difficult for many in Qualinost to sleep.

“Clearly we have offended the gods,” Senator Xixis said, “though I have no knowledge of what the offense could have been. I propose that offerings be made at once, and that they be continued until these plagues cease.”

“Hear! Hear!” murmured a group of senators sitting on the western side of the chamber. These were known as the Loyalists, because they were loyal to the old traditions of Silvanesti, especially in matters of religion and royalty. Most of the full-blooded elven senators were members of this extremely conservative faction.

Clovanos, senior senator of the Loyalists, descended from his seat to the floor. The Thalas-Enthia met in a squat, round tower, larger in diameter than even the Tower of the Sun, though far less tall. The floor of the meeting chamber was covered with a mosaic map of the country, exactly like the more famous and larger map in the Hall of the Sky. High on the wall, near the ceiling, more mosaics ringed the chamber. These were the crests of all the great clans of Qualinesti.

Clovanos held out his hand to his friend Xixis, and the latter handed him the speaking baton. A rod twenty inches long made of ivory and gold, the baton was passed to whomever was addressing the Thalas-Enthia.

Resting the baton in the crook of his left arm, a signal that he intended to speak at length, Senator Clovanos scanned the assembly. The so-called New Landers sat on the east side of the chamber. They were a loose association of humans, half-humans, Kagonesti, and dwarves who favored new traditions, ones that reflected their mixed society. On the south wall was the middle-of-the-road group that had come to be known as the Speaker’s Friends, people like Senator Irthenie, who preferred to follow the personal leadership of Kith-Kanan.

“My friends,” Clovanos finally began, “I must agree with the learned Xixis. From the strange and terrifying wonders that have been visited upon our helpless world, it is quite obvious that a grave offense has been committed, an offense against the natural order of life, against the gods themselves. Now they seek to punish us. Our priests have divined and meditated; our people have prayed; we ourselves have debated continuously. All to no avail. No one can determine why this should be so. However, very recently I received some information – information that enabled me to ascertain what the dreadful sacrilege was.”

A buzz of speculation swept the chamber in the wake of Clovanos’s words. The senator allowed it to continue for a moment, then said, “The knowledge came to me from a strange place – a place close to the hearts of the Speaker’s Friends.”

“Speak up. I can’t hear you,” Irthenie droned mockingly. A scattering of laughter among the New Landers and Friends made Clovanos’s heat-reddened face grow even more florid.

“My information came from Pax Tharkas,” he said loudly, facing the calm Kagonesti woman, “that folly of a fortress the Speaker puts so much faith in.”

“Get on with it! Tell us what you know!” chorused several impatient senators.

Clovanos brandished the baton. The cries declined. “I received a letter from a friend and fellow Loyalist,” he said with heavy emphasis, “who happens to be at the site of the fortress. He wrote, ‘Imagine my surprise when I saw the Speaker’s son, Prince Ulvian, working as a common laborer in the crudest and most dangerous of jobs’.”

Having thus spoken, Clovanos turned quickly to face Kith-Kanan. The chamber erupted. New Landers and Loyalists stood and shouted at each other. Denunciations flew in the thick, hot air.

Only the Speaker’s Friends sat quietly, waiting for Kith-Kanan to deny the report.

Slowly, with great deliberation, the Speaker rose and crossed the floor to where Clovanos had turned to hurl retorts at the ranks of New Landers seated above him. He tapped on the senator’s shoulder and asked for the baton. Clovanos had no choice but to surrender the speaking symbol to Kith-Kanan. Stiffly, his face sheened with sweat, the Silvanesti senator climbed the marble steps to his place among the Loyalists.

Kith-Kanan held the baton over his head until the room grew still. Bare to the waist in the dreadful heat, his tanned chest bore pale scars from wounds he’d received in the great Kinslayer War. A simple white kilt, a wide golden belt, and leather sandals were all he wore, save for the circlet of Qualinost atop his head. Though past midlife, his face growing more lined, the white blond of his hair now more than half silver, the Speaker of the Sun was still as vibrant and handsome as he had been centuries earlier when he led his people out of Silvanesti.

“My lords,” Kith-Kanan said in a firm voice, “what Senator Clovanos tells you is true.”

The chamber grew so quiet that a falling feather would have rung out like a gong. After Clovanos’s longwinded oration, the Speaker’s simple statement seemed blunt and harsh. “My son is indeed working as a slave at Pax Tharkas.”

Xixis leapt to his feet. “Why?” he shouted.

Kith-Kanan turned slowly to face the senator. “Because he was taken during the campaign to stamp out slave-trading and found guilty of helping such traders cross Qualinesti territory.”

Malvic Pathfinder, a human and a New Lander, called out, “I thought the penalty for slave-trading was death.”

A dozen Loyalists booed him.

“No father wishes to sentence his own son to the block,” Kith-Kanan replied frankly. “Ulvian’s guilt was plain, but instead of a useless death, I decided to teach him a lesson in compassion. I believed, and still believe, that once he had experienced the wretched life of a slave, he would never again be able to look upon people as cattle that can be bought and sold.”

Kith-Kanan’s well-muscled frame might have been carved from wood or marble. His proud and noble countenance was so overpowering that no one spoke for some time.

Finally Irthenie broke the silence. “Great Speaker, how long will Prince Ulvian be held at Pax Tharkas?” she asked. Her words, spoken with quiet force, carried to every bench in the chamber.

“He remains at my discretion,” Kith-Kanan replied, facing her.

“It is wrong!” Clovanos countered. “A prince of the blood should not be forced to work as a slave by his own father! This is the offense the gods are punishing us for!” The other Loyalists took up his refrain. The chamber echoed with their outraged cries.

“Your Majesty, will you recall the prince?” asked Xixis.

“I will not. He has been there only a few weeks,” Kith-Kanan answered. “If I freed him now, the only lesson he would have learned is that influence is stronger than virtue.”

“But he is your heir!” insisted Clovanos.

Kith-Kanan gripped the speaking baton tightly, his other hand clenched into a fist. “It is my decision!” he replied, his voice ringing through the chamber. “Not yours!”

All the arguments and accusations ceased abruptly. Kith-Kanan’s blazing gaze was fastened on the unfortunate Clovanos. The senator, his body quivering with anger, stared balefully down at his sovereign. Breaking the tense silence, Xixis said unctuously, “We are naturally concerned for the safety and future of the royal house. Your Majesty has no other heir.”

“Your time, my lords, would be better spent finding ways to soothe the troubles of the common folk, and not interfering with the manner in which I discipline my son!” Kith-Kanan turned on his heel, strode to the door, and departed.

Since the Speaker had taken the baton with him, that meant the Thalas-Enthia session was over. The senators filled the aisles, clustering in small groups to discuss Kith-Kanan’s stand.

There was no debate between Clovanos and Xixis. The two elves were in complete agreement.

“The Speaker will ruin the country,” breathed Xixis anxiously. “His stubbornness has already offended the gods. Does he think he can stand against their will? It will mean the end of us all!”

“He has already cost me plenty,” Clovanos agreed. He couldn’t forget the loss of his towers during the siege of lightning. “If only we could come up with some alternate plan.”

The din in the chamber was considerable. Xixis leaned closer to his ally. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I can’t speak in certainties,” Clovanos replied, his words barely audible, “but suppose the fortress is finished before the Speaker decides the prince has been re-habilitated? Kith-Kanan has sworn to retire once Pax Tharkas is done; if Prince Ulvian is still under a cloud, another candidate must be found.”

Xixis’s mouse-colored hair was limp with perspiration, and his flowing robe clung to his clammy skin. Blotting his face with one sleeve, his eyes darted around. No one was listening to them.

“Who, then?” he hissed. “Not that dragon of a daughter!”

Clovanos sneered. “Even the open-minded people of Qualinesti would balk at having a half-human female as Speaker of the Sun! No, listen. You are familiar with the name Lord Kemian Ambrodel?” Xixis nodded. Lord Ambrodel was a prominent figure. “He is pure Silvanesti in heritage and a notable warrior.”

“But he is not of House Silvanos!” Xixis cried, and Clovanos shushed him.

“That’s the beauty of my plan, my friend. If we begin a campaign to have Lord Ambrodel named as the Speaker’s heir, then His Majesty will feel compelled to recall Prince Ulvian from Pax Tharkas.”

Xixis regarded his companion blankly.

“Don’t you see?” Clovanos went on. “Publicly the Speaker may denounce his son as a failure, a weak and cruel rogue who deals in slaves. However, Kith-Kanan won’t deny his own family. He cannot, any more than he could have had Ulvian executed. No, the Speaker, for all his harsh words, wants only his own son, the direct descendant of the great Silvanos, to ascend the throne of

Qualinesti. If we agitate for another heir, it will force the Speaker’s hand. He must recall the prince!”

Xixis didn’t seem convinced. “I have known the Speaker for two hundred years,” he said. “I fought with him in the great war. Kith-Kanan will do what he thinks is right, not what’s best for his family.”

Clovanos rose to go, smoothing his pale hair back from his face. Xixis stood also. Linking his arm in the arm of Xixis, Clovanos murmured sagely, “We’ll see, my friend. We’ll see.”

*

“This air is like dragon’s breath!” complained Rufus, sagging on the seat of the cart. Beside him rode Verhanna on her coal-black horse, and behind the kender creaked the other cart containing the freed slaves. Two days had passed, and the sun had burned continuously for a day and a half now.

“Have some water,” Verhanna suggested, licking her dry lips. She passed her waterskin to the kender. He put the spout to his lips and drank deeply. “How far do you think we’ve ridden?” she asked. Without the moons or stars to go by, or even the passage of the sun across the sky, they’d lost track of what hour or day it was.

Rufus pondered her question. His scouting skills had grown fuzzy in the constant daylight and mounting heat. “A horse can walk forty miles a day,” he said slowly. His freckled face screwed itself into a fearsome frown. “But how long is a day when the sun doesn’t shift and the stars don’t shine?” He shook his small head, lashing his damp topknot from side to side. “I don’t know! Is there anything more to drink?” The waterskin was drained.

Verhanna sighed and admitted there was no more water. She’d shed her armor and cloak and was down to wearing a thin white shirt and divided kilt. Her elven heritage was ever more apparent in her long limbs and pale skin. The subtle influence of her human blood showed in her figure, more muscular than any elven woman.

“Any problems back there?” she called over her shoulder. The boy, Kivinellis, and the elf woman, Deramani, sprawled atop a mound of loose baggage in the second cart, waved listlessly from their perch. Selenara, driving the cart, was too weary even to acknowledge Verhanna’s call. Diviros himself was propped up in the first cart, driven by Rufus, and his hands and feet were still tied, a gag in his mouth.

No trace of the Kagonesti slavers had turned up during their drive west. Verhanna had resigned herself to the fact that they had lost the slavers. Nevertheless, she felt a strong sense of responsibility for the former slaves in her care. Rufus, however, insisted he might still recover their trail. Ahead lay the Astradine River, and the Kagonesti would have to cross it. There was no bridge, the kender recalled, just privately owned ferries. Someone would have seen the Kagonesti.

Someone would remember them.

They rode on, their heads nodding as they drifted in and out of heat-fogged sleep. The forest around them was unnaturally quiet. Even the birds and beasts were oppressed by the heat.

As he bobbed along, the kender dreamed he was back in the snow-capped peaks of the Magnet Mountains, where the captain had first found him. In his mind, he climbed the highest slopes and threw himself down into the drifted snow. How good it felt! How sweet the wind was, how fresh the clear, cold air! The gods themselves knew no kinder home than the peaks of the Magnets.

No one had any business screaming in such a peaceful place.

A drop of sweat slid down Rufus’s nose. He batted it away. Ah, to shiver as the chill air brought gooseflesh to his bare arms! The brilliance of the valley below... Screaming?

He forced his eyes open as the sound came again. Verhanna was also drowsing, and it took several tugs on her arm before Rufus could get her to open her eyes.

“What – what is it?” she asked languidly.

“Trouble,” was his matter-of-fact reply. As if on cue, the scream rang out a third time. Verhanna sat up and pulled in her reins.

“By Astra!” she exclaimed, “I thought I’d dreamed that!”

Kivinellis ran up beside Verhanna’s horse. Damp with sweat, his blond hair gleamed in the brilliant sunlight. “It sounds like a lady in distress!” he announced.

“So it does. Can you tell which direction, Wart?” Verhanna nervously drew her sword.

Rufus stood on the cart seat and slowly craned his head in a circle, trying to catch the source of the sound. His pointed, elflike ears were infallible. “Ha!” he crowed at last and bounced on his toes.

Verhanna listened hard. Sure enough, she heard a faint crashing sound, the sort of noise a person might make if he were running pell-mell through the woods. She thrust her dagger and shield at Kivinellis.

“Defend the carts!” she cried. The shrill scream split the air once more. “Grab your horse, Wart. We’re off!” Rufus was off the cart and on his chestnut mount before the words had scarcely left his captain’s mouth. They turned their horses south, off the narrow track they’d been following, and plunged into the forest proper. Saplings and tree limbs raked at their faces. Verhanna had her sword, but the kender was poorly armed for a fight. Aside from a sheath knife, his only weapon was a kender sling. It was a light, handy missile thrower, which he’d used to good effect in the fight at the slavers’ camp, but it would be hard to use in the close-growing trees.

Indistinct shouts came from ahead, off to their left. Verhanna halted her horse and waited. Someone was running.

A black-haired human woman, clutching a baby to her breast, came stumbling through the undergrowth. Tears streaked her face. Now and again, she looked back over her shoulder and screeched in terror. Verhanna dug in her spurs and rode hard toward her. The woman saw the warrior maid on horseback, sword drawn, and screamed again – this time for pure joy. She threw herself at the horse’s feet.

“Noble lady, save us!” she whimpered. The baby in her arms was bawling loudly, nearly drowning out her words.

Rufus rode up beside his mistress. “Who’s after you?” he asked the frightened woman.

“Terrible creatures – monsters. They want to eat my child!”

Hardly had she finished this declaration when a trio of hideous, gnarled creatures appeared in the undergrowth, obviously following the woman’s trail. Verhanna’s lip curled in disgust.

“Goblins,” she said with distaste. “I’ll settle with them.”

They were indeed goblins, but of the most backward and gruesome sort. All wore necklaces of human or elven teeth and bones, and one wore a sort of helmet made from a human skull. Their long fangs protruded over their bottom lips. Even from ten yards away, it was impossible not to smell their rank odor. The goblins were armed with crude maces made from lumps of rounded stone tied to thick ironwood handles. The sight of Verhanna, sword in hand, did not seem to upset the angry creatures. They must be desperately hungry, the captain decided, or driven mad by the suffocating heat.

Verhanna rode straight at them while the kender fitted a pellet into his sling. Clutching her baby tightly, the human woman crawled through the dead leaves until Rufus’s broad horse was between her and the goblins.

Leaning forward, Verhanna smote the nearest creature with her keen Qualinesti blade. The goblin gave an inarticulate gurgle and dropped his club, his chest split open from shoulder to breastbone. The captain planted a foot on his chest and withdrew her blade. The goblin was dead before he hit the ground.

The other two monsters separated, one on each side of the warrior woman’s horse. They swept their maces back and forth, warding off her sword. The goblin on Verhanna’s left tried to get by to reach the woman cowering in the leaves. Before the captain could turn to cut him off, Rufus had put a pellet in the center of the goblin’s forehead. Stunned, the cannibal creature fell facedown.

“Nice shot!” Verhanna cried.

“Look out!” yelled the kender at the same time.

His warning came too late. Verhanna had been distracted by the first goblin and had turned her back on the other. The second creature, who wore the human skull on its pointed head, dropped its mace in favor of using its teeth and claws. Grabbing her with its taloned hands, he yanked the captain off her horse.

Rufus drew his knife and half fell from his mount. The goblin sank its fangs into Verhanna’s shoulder. She yelled loudly enough to rattle the leaves on the trees, and together she and the goblin toppled to the ground. The creature wrapped its arms and legs around her, entwining its rubbery black toes together. As Verhanna tried to pry it off, they rolled over and over in the leaves, locked in deadly embrace.

When the goblin presented its back to him, Rufus rammed his iron blade into its body – once, twice, thrice. The ferocious creature howled and let go of Verhanna. It turned on the little kender, murder in its bulging red eyes. Rufus held out his short blade and looked startled. How would it feel to be torn to bits by a filthy, heat-crazed goblin?

Wounded but not out of the fight, the captain flung herself at her sword where it lay in the dead leaves. As the wounded goblin gathered itself to leap on the kender, Verhanna beheaded it with one two-handed blow. Then the blade fell from her hands and she collapsed.

Just then the goblin that Rufus had knocked out with a pellet stirred noisily in the leaves. The kender quickly dispatched it by cutting its throat, then rushed to Verhanna.

“Captain, can you hear me?” he shouted.

“Of course I can hear you, Wart,” she muttered. “I’m not deaf.”

Indignation spread over the kender’s mobile face. “I thought you were dead!”

“Not yet. Help me up.”

Rufus pulled on her arm until Verhanna was able to sit up. Aside from the bite wound on her right shoulder and a few cuts and bruises, she didn’t seem to be seriously injured.

“Where’s the woman and her baby?” she asked, pushing her tumbled brown hair out of her eyes. Rufus looked toward his horse; there was no sign of the woman. In the confusion of battle, she must have fled. He didn’t blame her. For a moment, it had looked like the goblins were going to get the best of them.

“She skedaddled,” he reported, wiping the noxious goblin blood from his knife blade. “No sign of her or the baby.”

“That’s gratitude for you,” grumbled Verhanna, wobbling to her knees. “Ugh! These goblins are the filthiest creatures I know.”

Studying her shoulder dispassionately, the kender said, “Your wounds should be washed, but we haven’t any water.”

“Never mind. We’ll be at the Astradine soon.”

The captain put a hand on her scout’s shoulder and heaved herself to her feet. The two of them remounted their horses, and Verhanna took one last look at the bloody scene before they moved on.

Her shoulder burned as if a glowing coal had been set under the skin. Verhanna held her reins limply in her left hand, favoring her injured side.

“Wait a minute,” said Rufus. “This isn’t the way we came in.”

“Are you sure?”

He scratched his head and looked all around. There was nothing but trees and brush in all directions. “Blind me with beeswax! Which way do we go?” Shielding his eyes with his hands, the kender squinted into the hazy sky. The immobile sun gave no clue which direction they should take.

“Can’t you find the trail?” Verhanna asked hoarsely. “That’s what I pay you for, to be a scout.”

Rufus leapt to the ground. He sniffed the dead leaves and dry moss. He turned his head, straining for any sound. Finally, in desperation, he shouted, “Ho, Kivinellfis! Can you hear me? Where are you?” In spite of repeated calls, there was no answer. At last the kender turned to Verhanna and shrugged helplessly.

“Wart,” she said weakly, “you’re fired.”

Verhanna’s eyes rolled up until only the white showed. Without another sound, she toppled from her saddle and landed squarely on the kender.

Mashed flat on his back, with only his head showing under the prostrate warrior maiden, Rufus groaned loudly. “Ow! Feels like a bear fell on me!”

There was no response from his captain. Finally he managed to haul himself out from under her and rolled her over. Verhanna was still breathing, but her face was deathly pale and her skin blazed hotter than the calm, radiant air.

*

Rufus set to work. He hadn’t lived so long by his own wits without learning a thing or two about sickness. His captain had been poisoned by the filthy goblin’s fangs, and unless he could cool her off, the raging fever would be the death of her.

Among their camp gear was a short-handled spade. The kender used it to rake away the layers of leaves that covered the forest floor. Within seconds, he was down to black soil. Below the dry top layer, he knew the earth would be moist and cool. Disregarding his parched throat and sweat-stung eyes, Rufus dug a shallow hole six feet long, two feet wide, and eight inches deep. It was hard going. The forest soil was a tangle of roots, rocks, and chunks of decayed wood. The captain was his friend though, and Rufus intended to do everything he could to save her. An hour after she’d fallen from her horse, the hole was ready for her.

Dropping his shovel, the kender dragged the much larger half-elf woman to the shallow pit and rolled her in so she lay on her back. Collapsing over her unmoving form, he panted and puffed with the exertion. This was hard work, especially since it was like toiling in a blast furnace. Not, of course, that Rufus had ever toiled in a blast furnace...

After a bit, he set about heaping damp dirt around her and scattering leaves on top of her. Her face he left uncovered. Steam rose from the ground, drawn out either by the hot, dry air or Verhanna’s fever. Finished at last, Rufus sat down near his captain’s head and waited.

He prayed to the Blue Lady to heal Verhanna; to be fair, he also addressed the goddess of healing by her Qualinesti name, Quen. Perhaps if he prayed to both her incarnations, she would be more likely to heal his captain.

Verhanna shifted restlessly under her covering of leaves and moist soil. The kender patted her forehead distractedly and pondered his situation. If Verhanna died, should he return to Qualinost with the news, or go on with the hunt for the Kagonesti slavers? And if she lived, how could they go on? How could anyone find his way cross-country without the sun or moons or stars to guide him?

The kender chewed his lip while his mind raced. Briefly he wished that he was back in the Magnet Mountains. At least there he knew his way around. Of course, life there hadn’t been nearly so exciting. Since meeting his captain, he had fought slave-traders and goblins, met the Speaker of the Sun, and had a chance to investigate the city of Qualinost. Unbidden, his hands explored the multitudinous pockets of his tunic and vest for all the trinkets he’d collected. Instead of rings or beads or writing styluses, Rufus’s nimble fingers brought out a walnut-sized piece of lodestone. Surprise lifted his eyebrows. He’d forgotten he had that.

Something about lodestones made his nose itch. Rufus scratched. No, that wasn’t it. Something about lodestones made his brain itch. Yes, there was something important about the little rock. Lodestones, mountains, and mines. What about mines? He’d once sold some stones to a band of dwarf miners. In Thorbardin, the dwarves had mines that ran for miles under the ground, where the tunnels and shafts and galleries were quite confusing. How did they navigate? They never saw the sun or stars down there.

Now the kender’s ear itched. He swiped at it with one hand; then both ears started itching. It grew unbearable.

Grabbing the wide brim of his blue hat, Rufus yanked it from his head. Two ravelings from the sewn headband were hanging down and tickling his ears. He started to break off the annoying threads.

Threads!

In an instant, he remembered what he’d been trying to remember about lodestones. A dwarf had told him once, “To find your direction underground, hang a sliver of lodestone from a thread. It will always point north and south.” Rufus had scoffed at the dwarf’s tale. After all, how could a dumb piece of rock know directions?

Verhanna moaned loudly, interrupting the kender’s darting thoughts. Recalling again what he had finally remembered before about the lodestone, Rufus brought out his knife and whittled the small stone, trying to get it long and narrow, like a pointer should be. His blade grew dull and several fresh nicks appeared, but before long, he had the stone roughly spindle-shaped.

Carefully he pulled a long raveling from his hatband. The woolen strand was about six inches long. He tied it around the center of the stone and let the black rock dangle from his fingers. The whittled stone turned round and round, then gradually slowed and stopped.

The kender realized he didn’t know which way was north and which was south. And he wasn’t entirely certain he could trust such a silly trick.

“What choice have you got?” Rufus asked himself aloud. None, he answered himself silently.

He tied Verhanna’s horse’s reins to his saddle. Then he set about uncovering his captain. She was noticeably cooler, thanks to his treatment, but still gravely ill. He had a dragon’s own time getting the unconscious woman out of the hole. Grunting with effort, he braced her up in a sitting position on the ground.

Verhanna’s fever-fogged eyes opened. “Wart,” she muttered. “I thought I fired you.”

“You haven’t paid me yet, my captain. I can’t leave till I get my gold!”

With much wobbling, Verhanna rose to her feet. Rufus boosted her into her saddle, his head and both hands pushing on her backside. In another time and place, it might have been a comical scene, but now Verhanna’s life was literally hanging by a thread – a woolen thread from a kender’s hat.

The warrior maid drooped over her horse’s neck. Leaving her mount tied to his saddle, Rufus took his horse’s reins in hand and began to lead them out. The track they’d been on with the carts lay to the north, so he chose a direction and hoped it was right. His eyes were glued to the sliver of lodestone he held in his other hand. He walked and walked and walked. So intent was he on keeping to his course that it was some time before he noticed it was getting harder and harder to see.

“Just my luck!” the kender exclaimed. “I’m going blind!”

But Rufus was not going blind. The sun, so long fixed overhead, was finally moving. Already it was low in the sky off to his left, sinking through the trees and confirming his route as northerly. Never unhappy for very long, the kender found himself feeling rather satisfied. He had chosen the right path. His lodestone pointer worked.

A few minutes later, he came to the track through the forest they’d left earlier. Rufus danced with joy. He was the best scout in the whole world! He climbed onto his mount and thumped his heels cheerily against its sides, turning its face toward the setting sun.

There was no sign of the two carts or the former slaves, but Rufus was immensely relieved to be on the path again.

Crickets and birds, silent during the three days of noon, sang again as shadows lengthened on the trail. Rufus stopped now and then to see how his captain was doing. Her breathing was shallow and quick, and her face was too warm again. That was bad. How he wished he was in Balifor, where he knew several healing shamans! There was one on Peacock Street who had —

Water. The kender’s button nose twitched. He smelled water. In a few seconds, the horses detected it, too. The tired, parched animals shambled faster, eager for a refreshing drink. Agreeing with them completely, Rufus let them have their heads.

The trees thinned and finally disappeared. In the last of the daylight, the kender saw that a wide bed of mud lay before him. The horses walked laboriously across the mud, pulling their hooves free with loud sucking noises. Evidently the river had shrunk during the long heat wave. Rufus wondered if there was any water left. If so, he couldn’t see it. A thick scroll of fog shrouded the center of the river.

As they entered the fog, Rufus heard a splashing sound. He looked down. The horses had found the water. They waded in up to their bellies. Rufus leaned over and drank some of the sweet liquid from his cupped hand. Then he stood in his saddle and clambered over to Verhanna’s mount.

Her hands and feet trailed in the cool stream. Standing with one foot in her stirrup, the kender scooped up a hatful of water and held it to her lips. Only partly conscious, she drank.

Sounds from the opposite shore caught Rufus’s attention – voices, axles creaking, horses whinnying, Incapable of ignoring something that sounded so interesting, Rufus slipped into the water and swam quietly toward the noises.

As the kender rose out of the river, his soaked topknot fell across his face. He pushed it aside. Only his head showed above water, and the fog hung close around him. When he felt the oozy bottom under his toes, he walked slowly to shore.

The figures in the fog resolved themselves into tall people, elves or humans, who were trying to push a heavily loaded wagon out of the mud. They had foolishly steered the conveyance too close to the water’s edge, and now it was held fast by the thick muck. As far as Rufus could see by the light of their torches, they were unarmed. Mostly they were muddy, and from the sounds they were making, disgusted with their plight.

He decided they must be immigrants bound for Qualinesti. Perhaps there would be a healer among them. He’d have to go back and get his captain.

When he returned to his horses, he remounted and started for the far shore, toward the immigrants. The very center of the stream was too deep for the animals to walk, but the Thoradin-bred chargers swam the short distance easily. Kender, horses, and the unconscious warrior maiden splashed ashore.

“Hullo there! Rufus! Rufus Wrinklecap!” called a high voice. The startled kender saw a small fellow break away from the others.

“Kivinellis? Is that you?” The elf boy yelped with delight and waved Verhanna’s dagger over his head. The other elves froze in their tracks.

Rufus clapped the boy on the back, saying, “Good to see you! My captain’s wounded. We had a fight with some goblins, then got lost in the woods.”

He peered over the boy’s head at the people beside the wagon. None of them looked familiar.

“Where’re Diviros and the women?” he asked quickly. “Who are these folk?” The Kagonesti at the wagon broke ranks and came toward him.

“Oh, these are my friends,” said Kivinellis. “When you and the warrior lady rode off, Diviros got his legs untied and jumped down from the cart. I chased him, but he ran into the woods and I was afraid to follow. Me and the womenfolk came to the river ‘cause you didn’t come back.”

The Kagonesti settlers were close now, so Rufus hailed them. “Hello! My captain is sick with a goblin’s bite. Is there a healer among you?”

One Kagonesti male, his face painted with a host of black and white dots, turned away from the kender and called over his shoulder, “They have come, just as you said!”

Puzzled, Rufus said to Kivinellis, “Who’s he talking to?” The fair-haired elf boy merely shrugged.

A soft yet penetrating voice pierced the night. “Bring the woman to me.”

A male voice, Rufus decided. A little farther up the riverbank.

Two sinewy Kagonesti lifted Verhanna from her horse and carried her ashore. Rufus and Kivinellis followed, and the boy explained that his female companions had gone on to Qualinost with another group of wagons. He had decided to wait at the river ford for a while to see if Verhanna and the kender turned up.

“Where are they taking my captain?” asked Rufus, loud enough for the elves to hear.

His answer came striding out of the dark. A head taller than the Kagonesti, the newcomer was also an elf, though fairer in complexion. His face wasn’t painted. Yellow hair hung loose around his wide shoulders. A rough horsehair blanket, with a hole cut in the center for his head, covered his chest and arms. His legs were sheathed in leather trews.

He stopped where the grassy shore met the mud flats. “I can help you,” said the stranger. His words were softly spoken, yet carried easily to Rufus.

“Are you a healer?” asked Rufus.

“I can help you,” he repeated.

The tall, yellow-haired elf went to the Kagonesti and took Verhanna from their arms. He carried the strapping warrior woman effortlessly, but with great gentleness. He turned and started away from the river.

“Where are you going?” called the kender. He pushed between the Kagonesti and splashed through the mud till he was dogging the tall elf’s heels. Kivinellis remained with the Kagonesti, conversing with the wild elves. Where a line of locust trees bordered the grassy bank, the stranger lowered Verhanna to the ground.

“A goblin bit her,” Rufus said, panting. “The wound’s poisoned.”

The stranger’s long fingers probed Verhanna’s shoulder. She gasped when he touched the wound itself. Sitting back on his haunches, the tall elf regarded her with rapt attention.

“What’re you waiting for? Make a poultice. Work a spell!” The kender wondered if this fellow was really a healer.

The stranger held up a hand to quell the impatient Rufus. By the light of Krynn’s stars and two bright moons, the kender could see that his fingers were dark, as if stained with dye. Rufus’s penetrating vision could just make out that the stain was green.

Green. Green fingers. In a flash, Rufus remembered Diviros’s queer tale of the lightning splitting the oak and a fully grown elf falling from the broken tree – a fully grown elf whose hands were green.

“It’s you!” the kender exclaimed. “The one from the shattered tree! Greenhands!”

“I have been waiting for you,” said Greenhands. “Through days of red rain and endless sun.”

He bent down and slipped his arms around Verhanna. Taking her limp form into his embrace, Greenhands closed his right hand over the ugly, swollen wound on her shoulder. Rufus could see the muscles in the tall elf’s neck tighten as he drew Verhanna closer to him, as if he were embracing a lover.

“What’re you —?”

She groaned once, then cried out in torment as the stranger dug his odd, grass-colored fingers into her wound. Verhanna’s eyes flew wide. She stared over the strange elf’s shoulder at Rufus. What was in her eyes? Terror? Wonder? The kender couldn’t tell. She uttered a long, tearing wail, and Greenhands suddenly joined his voice with hers. The combined scream hammered painfully at the listeners, wrenching their hearts as it agonized their ears.

Kith-Kanan’s daughter closed her eyes with a slow flutter. Greenhands lowered her carefully to the ground, straightened up, and walked away. Rufus went to his captain.

Her breast rose and fell evenly. She was asleep. Beneath the filthy shreds of her linen shirt, Verhanna’s right shoulder was as smooth and unscarred as a baby’s cheek.

The kender yelped in astonishment. He jumped up and stared after Greenhands, who was still walking away. “Wait, you!” he yelled. Not ten paces from where Verhanna lay, Greenhands sank to the ground. The kender and elves ran to him.

“Are you all right?” Rufus asked as he reached the elf. Kivinellis already knelt by the stranger. It was he who noticed the change.

“Look at his hand!” the boy gasped.

The tall elf’s right hand, the one he’d healed Verhanna’s wound with, was split open. A long, deep gash, from which blood oozed, ran across his palm. Black blood caked his green fingers, and the smell of the suppurating goblin bite rose up like foul smoke.

“He is thalmaat,” said one of the Kagonesti in deeply reverent tones.

“What’s that?” asked Kivinellis, unfamiliar with the old dialect.

Rufus glanced from the bloody green hand of the tall stranger to his captain, now peacefully resting. “It means ‘godsent’,” the kender said slowly. “One who is actually sent by the gods.”

Chapter 9

THE PACT

Rain pattered on the dry streets of Qualinost. After three days of continuous sunshine, the rain was a blessing. The city dwellers, who had so fastidiously avoided the crimson downpour, stayed outside, luxuriating in the refreshing, clean liquid. The wide, curving streets were full of people.

Once the rain had abated to a soft shower and cool breezes flowed across his capital, Kith-Kanan rode with Senator Irthenie and Kemian Ambrodel through the busy streets. The Speaker of the Sun was surveying the city to see how much it had suffered in the three days of heat. Qualinost, he was relieved to see, didn’t seem to have been much damaged by the burning sun.

His subjects noticed the Speaker riding among them. They tipped their hats or bowed as he passed. Here and there, Kith-Kanan came upon a gang of gardeners removing some tree or bush that had succumbed to the relentless heat. At the right hand of each of these groups waited a priest of Astra, ready to plant a new tree in place of the old. No, Qualinost had not suffered very much.

The market square was less cheerful. Kith-Kanan rode ahead of his two companions across the almost deserted plaza and saw all the empty stalls and ruined produce lying trodden on the cobblestones. One merchant, a burly human with a leather apron, was sweeping up some spoiled potatoes when Kith-Kanan reined in to speak with him.

“Hello there, my good fellow,” called the Speaker. “How goes it with you?”

The man didn’t look up from his work. “Rotten! All of it rotten! What’s a man supposed to do with five bushels of dried-out, split-open, rotten vegetables?”

Irthenie and Kemian drew alongside Kith-Kanan. “So the sun ruined your crop?” asked the Speaker sympathetically.

“Aye, the sun or the darkness or the lightnin’ or the flood of bloody rain. Makes no never-mind to me which it was. It happened.” The man spat on the damp stones.

An elf woman with a basket of withered flowers under one arm heard their conversation. With a quick curtsy to her sovereign, she asked, “Why do the gods punish us so? What sin have we committed?”

“How do you know the gods are punishing anyone? These strange things might all be signs of some great wonder to come,” Kith-Kanan suggested.

The human, squatting on the ground to gather his ruined potatoes into baskets, grumbled, “They say it’s because Kith-Kanan has put his own son in chains to help build the fortress at Pax Tharkas.” He still didn’t realize to whom he was conversing. At his harsh words, the elf woman blushed, and Kemian Ambrodel cleared his throat loudly. The human lifted his head.

Even though the Speaker didn’t wear the glitter and gold of state robes, the man recognized him. “Mercy, Your Worship, I’m sorry!” the man gasped. “I didn’t know it was you!”

Grimly Kith-Kanan replied, “Have no fear. I would hear everything my people think of me.”

“Is it true, Majesty?” asked the elf woman meekly. “Did you sell your own son into slavery just to finish that big castle?”

Kemian and Irthenie started to remonstrate with the woman for her blunt query. The Speaker held up his hands to silence them. Patiently he explained what Ulvian had done, and why he had sent him to Pax Tharkas. His earlier wish to keep Ulvian’s crime from public gossip seemed hopeless. Now he felt it was more important for his people to know the truth and not entertain wild imaginings.

While he spoke, more people gathered – peddlers, tinkers, farmers, potters. All came to hear Kith-Kanan’s story of the trouble he was having with his son. To his amazement, they all believed that Ulvian’s exile and the twelve days of marvels were related.

“Where did you get these ideas?” Irthenie asked sharply.

The potato man shrugged. “Talk. Just talk... you know.”

“Shadow talk,” said Kith-Kanan, too faintly for most to hear. Kemian heard, and he glanced at the Speaker.

“Is Lord Kemian Ambrodel to be your son now?” shouted a voice from the crowd. The three mounted elves turned their heads to and fro, trying to spot the one who’d spoken.

“Will Lord Ambrodel be the next Speaker of the Sun?” the same voice demanded.

“Who said that?” muttered Irthenie. No one answered, but others in the crowd took up the cry. Keeping a steady hand on his fractious mount’s reins, Kith-Kanan let the shouting grow a while. He wanted to measure the sentiment of his people.

Kemian, however, could not remain calm. “Silence!” the general roared. “Show respect for the Speaker!”

“Silvanesti!” someone shouted back at him, and it was like a curse. The young warrior, in an agony of embarrassment and anger, looked to his sovereign. Kith-Kanan seemed thoughtful.

“Sire,” said Kemian desperately, “I think you’d best assure them I am not to be your successor!” His voice was tight but earnest.

“Say something,” Irthenie urged from the side of her mouth.

At last the Speaker held up a hand. “Good people,” he said. “The crowd instantly fell silent, awaiting his response. “I understand your concern for the throne. Lord Ambrodel is a faithful and valiant servant. He would make an excellent Speaker —”

“No! No!” the crowd erupted. “No Silvanesti! No Silvanesti!” they chanted. In his own shock at the Speaker’s words, Kemian barely heard their insults.

“Have you forgotten that I am of the royal house of Silvanos?” Kith-Kanan said icily. “No one is more Silvanesti than I!”

“You are the Speaker of the Sun! The father of our country!” a male voice answered. “We don’t want some Silvanesti courtier’s boy to rule us. We want a ruler of your blood or none!”

“Your blood or none!” echoed a large segment of the crowd.

Kemian snatched at his reins, ready to charge into the mass of unarmed Qualinesti and put an end to these insults. Kith-Kanan leaned over and laid a hand on the warrior’s arm. Eyes blazing, Kemian stared angrily at the Speaker, but he didn’t try to evade his grasp. Reluctantly he relaxed, and Kith-Kanan let go of his mailed arm.

“Go back to the Speaker’s house, General,” Kith-Kanan said coolly. “I shall return shortly.”

“Sire!” Kemian saluted and wheeled his prancing horse in a tight half-circle. The traders and farmers scattered from his path. The general let out a yell and spurred his mount. With a loud clatter of hooves, horse and rider tore across the market square and vanished down a curving street.

The people cheered his abrupt departure. Disgusted with them, Kith-Kanan was about to follow Kemian’s exit when Irthenie abruptly got down off her horse.

“I’m too old to stay up that high for so long,” she proclaimed loudly, rubbing her backside with exaggerated care. “For seven hundred and ninety-four years, I walked everywhere I needed to go. Now that I’m a senator, I’m not supposed to walk anywhere.” Those nearest the Kagonesti woman chuckled. “One pays a price to sit in the Thalas-Enthia,” she said gruffly. More people laughed.

Kith-Kanan slackened his reins and sat still, waiting to see what the foxy senator was up to. “You people,” she said loud enough to carry to the fringes of the mob, “you stand here and say you don’t want Kemian Ambrodel as the next Speaker of the Sun. I say, who told you he would be? It’s the first I’ve heard of it.” She stepped away from her dapple-gray horse, deeper into the crowd.

“He’s a fine general, that elf, but you’re right about one thing: We don’t want a bunch of Silvanesti nobles ruling us, telling us we’re not as good as they are. That’s one reason we left the old country, to get away from so many lords and masters.”

Irthenie’s Kagonesti garb blended in well with the crowd, her leather and raw linen against their homespun wool and drab cotton. She literally rubbed shoulders with the people in the square. Irthenie was one of them. “When I was younger and better-looking —” laughter rippled across the plaza – “I was taken from the forest by warriors. They were looking for wives, and their idea of catching one was to drag a net through the bushes and see what they flushed out.” The senator stopped walking when she reached the center of the crowd. Every eye was on her. Kith-Kanan experienced a moment of nervousness at the sight of her small figure hemmed in on all sides by the mob. “I didn’t much want to be a warrior’s woman, so I ran away the first chance I got. They caught me, and this time, they broke my leg so I couldn’t run again. Vernax Kollontine was hardly a loving husband. After he beat me for not washing his clothes often enough and not cooking his supper fast enough, I killed him with a bread knife.”

There was a concerted gasp at this revelation. The Speaker of the Sun seemed just as surprised as his subjects, and he listened to the senator’s tale just as intently. Irthenie held up a hand to calm the crowd, insisting, “No, no, it was a fair fight.” Kith-Kanan smiled.

“The point of this long and boring story is that the Speaker of the Stars at that time, Sithel, ordered me sold into slavery as punishment for my crime. I lived as a slave for thirty-eight years. The great war freed me, and I was in the first band of settlers who came with Kith-Kanan to found Qualinost. This city, this country, is like no other in the world. Here every race can live and work, can worship, and can prosper or not as they please. That’s freedom. That you and I enjoy it is mostly due to that fellow on horseback you see over there. It was his wisdom and judgment that got us here. If you’re pleased with that, then you ought not doubt his wisdom regarding either his son or his successor.”

The square remained quiet after she finished speaking. Only the soft patter of rain accompanied Irthenie’s final words.

“Slavery is an evil, ugly thing,” she concluded. “It degrades not only the slave, but the master as well. Like any good father, the Speaker is trying to save his son from a terrible mistake. You should pray for him as I often do.”

Irthenie walked back through the calmed crowd to her horse. Kith-Kanan handed her the reins, and she climbed into the saddle with a grunt. “Damn leg,” she muttered. “It always gets stiff when it rains.”

The Speaker and the senator rode on across the square. The people parted, making way for them. Hats were doffed. Wool tams and felt hoods were removed in respect.

Kith-Kanan kept his gaze serenely ahead. What had been a potentially dangerous situation had been reversed by the words of his old friend.

The cool rain felt good on his face. The air smelled sweet. Though nothing had been decided or changed, Kith-Kanan felt a sudden rush of confidence. Whatever forces were at work, he felt sure they were in his favor. Hiddukel’s dire prophecies in the Tower of the Sun seemed like remote threats now.

“A question,” he said as they rode on. “Was that story you told the crowd true?”

Irthenie kicked her heels against her horse’s sides. The gelding broke into a trot.

“Some of it was,” she replied.

*

Steam hung in the air where the cold rain hit the baked stones of Pax Tharkas. All outside work had ceased, as it was too dangerous to cut stone or move blocks when the ground was wet. The grunt gang was not allowed to lie idle, though. Feldrin Feldspar was anxious about his rate of progress, so he put the convicts to work enlarging the tunnels being sunk into the mountainside beneath the towering citadel.

Ulvian hobbled about on a makeshift crutch. His right leg, the one that had been caught by the runaway granite block, had stiffened to the point where he needed a crutch to get around. He wasn’t excused from work however, so he limped through the dim, limestone tunnels, carrying waterskins to the other grunt gang members.

Near the end of one long gallery, barely wider than his shoulders, he came upon Dru. Ulvian paused a few feet away from the laboring elf. A small lamp burned on the tunnel floor. In its brassy light, Dru’s chalk-covered body appeared ghostly.

“Here, friend,” said the prince. “Drink while the water’s still cool.”

Dru set aside his pick and took the skin. He pointed the spout at his lips and let a stream of cold water flow into his mouth.

“Don’t take it all. There are others who will want a drink.”

Dru let the prince take the nearly drained skin. “You puzzle me,” the Silvanesti said, leaning against the wall. The lamp threw weird highlights from below, making the elf’s lean, angular face look like a mask. “You are a prince, the son of a monarch, and yet you fetch and carry water like any base-born serf.”

“Hold your tongue! You may have saved my life, but I don’t have to endure a lecture from you!” snapped Ulvian, more like his arrogant, proud, former self.

Dru smiled thinly. “That’s better. That’s what I want to hear.” Clasping his pick, the sorcerer stepped over the lamp and stood nose to nose with the son of Kith-Kanan. “If you can behave like a prince and not a serf, we can be gone from this miserable prison. Are you with me?”

“In what?” was Ulvian’s derisive reply. “Shall we run away to the mountains, just so Feldrin’s watchdogs can hunt us down? I’m on my good behavior here. If I sacrifice that, I have no hope of gaining my father’s throne.”

“We have only to cause a little excitement. That will distract the camp long enough for us to get inside Feldrin’s tent and get my amulet.”

So they were back to that. Ulvian folded his arms, disgust evident on his face. “I won’t murder Feldrin. He’s a thickheaded old bore, but he’s honest.”

Dru’s smile was nasty. He turned and went to the low niche he’d already hollowed out in the soft rock. He tossed his pick aside. It rang dully on the dusty floor. Slumping against the wall, Dru said, “When are you going to wake up, Highness?” His tone dripped irony. “I have waited a long time for someone with whom I could ally myself. No one else in the grunt gang has any wit or breeding. But you and I, my friend, can go far together. You spoke of enemies. I can help you defeat them. The throne of your father can be yours, not in ten years or a hundred, but in two months. Perhaps sooner. With your leadership and my magic, we can make Qualinesti the most powerful empire in the world!”

His words held the prince’s attention. Without realizing it, Ulvian let the waterskin drop from his fingers. It sloshed to the ground.

“I’ve dreamed of the day I would see Verhanna and the Ambrodels groveling at my feet,” Ulvian whispered. “And the Crown of the Sun on my head.” The prince’s eyes were distant, beholding future glory. Visions of the empire he would rule, of the grand and opulent palace he would build, filled Ulvian’s mind. Power and glory, comfort and ease, riches beyond dreaming. His word would be law. The people would worship him as they now worshiped his father.

Cutting through Ulvian’s golden dreams, a rough voice from farther back in the tunnel called faintly, “Waterboy! Where’s that waterboy?”

Abruptly Ulvian focused once more on Dru. “If we can accomplish this without bloodshed, count me in,” he said grimly.

Dru bowed his head. “As Your Highness wishes. I shall be very careful.” Then he quickly gave Ulvian a precise list of the things he’d need. It was a short list, but a puzzling one.

“What on Krynn can you do with a pound of white clay, some chips of coal, a span of leather thong, and a copper brazier?” the prince asked, confused. “None of them is rare or guarded. Why don’t you collect them yourself?”

The sorcerer’s gray eyes glittered like diamonds in the half-light. “You may not realize it, my prince, but I am closely watched. No one dares kill me, but I dare not do anything to cause suspicion, or my limbs would be fettered and I would be consigned to a deep, dark hole.” He gestured at the rough limestone walls. “Like this.”

Ulvian left him there. As he wended his way to the main tunnel under the central citadel, he mulled over the possibilities. Dru was dangerous, but a potentially powerful ally. Ulvian smiled in the dark tunnel as he limped along. Let Dru believe he was a vainglorious fool. That was a useful illusion. The time might come when Ulvian would no longer require Dru’s services....

Rough hands seized his shirt front. “Here!” bellowed a harsh voice. “Here he is, lads!”

Ulvian was dragged into a side tunnel and flung to the floor. His bruised leg knifed with pain. Through the gloom, he saw three grunt gangers standing over him. Two he knew well – the Kagonesti Splint, and a human called Brunnar. The third was another Kagonesti he knew only as Thrit.

“We been waiting an awful long time for our water,” snarled Splint. “The damn dust down here is thicker than soup.” He planted a foot on Ulvian’s back. “So where’s the water?”

Painfully the prince dragged the waterskin from beneath him. It was snatched from his grasp by Thrit, who reported that it was empty.

“I think our little waterboy needs a lesson,” Splint growled, and kicked the prince in the ribs. The three tall figures closed in.

*

Dru swung his pick energetically at the limestone around him. He had no interest in working hard for his captors; the physical activity was simply a reflection of the state of fevered excitement in his mind. His time in this unnatural prison could be measured in days, perhaps only hours. Soon he would be free! Surely his patron god had sent that fool of a prince to be the instrument of his deliverance.

A sound in the passage behind him made him pause. Pick in hand, Dru whirled. The feeble glow of the fat-burning lamp didn’t penetrate beyond the bend in the tunnel some six feet away. He waited. The noise came again, a scraping, dragging sound. Carefully the sorcerer bent down to take up the lamp, his eyes never leaving the black passage.

A hand, pale and slim, came into view on the dusty floor. Dru crept forward until the lamplight fell across the form of Prince Ulvian, sprawled on the ground. Blood matted his unkempt beard, and one eye was swollen shut.

Dru knelt. “Your Highness! What happened?”

“Splint... Brunnar... Thrit... beat me.” Ulvian’s lips were swelling, making speech difficult.

Dru dragged the prince to the far end of the tunnel and propped him against the wall. After making certain no one was around, the sorcerer reached under the waist of his baggy trousers and brought out a small hide drawstring bag. He poured a little of its contents into his hand. A pungent, sweet smell filled the air.

“Take this,” murmured Dru, putting his hand to Ulvian’s purple lips. “It’s an herbal mixture of my own. It will restore you.”

The prince managed to swallow some of the ground herbs. In a few minutes, the swelling in his eye and lips began to subside. A modicum of strength flowed into his body. Though the pain of his injured leg eased, his ribs still ached from his beating.

Ulvian lifted clouded eyes to the sorcerer’s face and struggled to his feet.

“Rest a bit longer, Highness.”

“No.” Ulvian struggled to his feet. The magic herbs hadn’t healed all his pains, but he felt considerably better. “I want to proceed with our plans as quickly as possible,” he informed Dru. “And I’ve added a condition of my own.”

Dru tucked his herb bag away. “What’s that?”

“Twice Splint has laid hands on me. I want revenge!”

“Easily done, Highness. Just get the items I need.”

Ulvian pushed Dru aside and hobbled off down the tunnel. His voice echoed back to the pleased sorcerer. “I’ll have it all for you tonight!” he declared grimly.

Chapter 10

THE KNOWING CHILD

Verhanna slept deeply for the rest of the night and well into the next day. When at last she stirred and sat up, she saw Rufus sitting on the ground beside her. A cool compress of damp moss fell away from her forehead when she moved. “What – what is this? Where are we?”

“The west bank of the Astradine River,” said the kender.

Rufus gave her a strand of venison jerky he’d bought from the Kagonesti settlers. Verhanna gnawed on the tough meat in silence for a while, then finally said, “Now I remember. The goblins! That rotten scab of a creature bit me. The wound festered.” Suddenly she twisted around and lifted the horsehair poncho draped over her. “It’s gone!” she shouted. Verhanna lowered the piece of blanket. “Who healed me? My muscles aren’t even sore!”

The kender pointed away from their campsite. “Him,” Rufus said simply.

Seated on a fallen log a dozen paces distant was Greenhands, bare-chested now since Verhanna was using his poncho. His hair, which had appeared yellow by torchlight, was revealed by the light of day to be of purest white. Kith-Kanan’s daughter picked her way down the mossy riverbank toward him. The strange elf was gazing placidly across the sluggish stream, which was still depleted by the three-day onslaught of the sun.

Verhanna opened her mouth – to demand, question, challenge – but she closed it again without speaking. There was something unsettling about this elf, something compelling. He was not handsome by elven standards. His cheeks were broad, but not high; his chin and nose were not fashionably narrow; his lips were full, not thin; and his forehead was massive, almost human in proportion. However, he was unmistakably elven, with almond-shaped eyes, elegantly pointed ears, and exquisitely long, tapering fingers. The expression on his face was serene.

“Hello,” the Qualinesti princess finally said. His green eyes left off their study of the river and found her. A chill passed through Verhanna. She’d never seen any elf with eyes that color, and his gaze was direct – unwavering and unnerving. “Can you speak?”

“I speak.”

“Thank Astra.” She paused, embarrassed at the debt she owed him and unsure what to say. After a long moment, during which the elf’s eyes never left her, she added rather hastily, “Rufus tells me you healed me. I – I wanted to thank you.”

“It needed to be done,” replied Greenhands. The wild elves whose wagon had been stuck in the mud hailed them, and the elder Kagonesti male called for Greenhands to join them.

“Come along,” the Kagonesti said. “We’re bound for Qualinost.”

The strange elf replied, “I cannot go.” Still his eyes remained on Verhanna.

The Kagonesti father tied off his reins and jumped down from the wagon. “What’s that? Is this warrior holding you back?” he asked, glaring at the warrior maiden.

“I am not,” she replied tartly.

“I must go to the west,” Greenhands said. He rose and faced in that direction. “To the High Place. They must come with me.” He indicated Verhanna and Rufus, who had managed to join them quietly for a change. Kivinellis, riding in the wagon with the Kagonesti’s family, jumped off and ran to Verhanna.

“I want to go, too!” he declared. The father protested strongly. A young boy couldn’t wander around with a kender, a warrior, and a simpleminded elf.

Verhanna ignored the Kagonesti and turned to Greenhands. “Why do you have to go west with us?” she wanted to know.

His brow furrowed in thought. “I have to find my father,” he said.

“Who is your father?”

“I do not know. I have never seen him.”

In spite of these vague replies, Greenhands was obstinate. He must go west, and Verhanna and Rufus must go with him. Defeated, the Kagonesti returned to his wagon, propelling Kivinellis ahead of him. The elf boy complained all the way.

“Poor little fellow,” said Rufus. “Couldn’t we keep him, my captain?”

Verhanna’s attention was all on Greenhands. “No, he’s better off with a family,” she said distantly. “Astra only knows where we’re headed —” The creak of wheels interrupted her. The loaded wagon lurched onto level ground and pulled away. Kivinellis, his blond head shining among the dark elves, waved forlornly from the back of the wagon. He was securely held by the Kagonesti’s wife. Verhanna returned the wave, then turned back to Greenhands.

“I need some answers,” Verhanna declared. “Who are you?”

“I have no name,” was the mild answer.

“Greenhands, that’s your name,” said the kender. He clasped the elf’s grass-hued hand in both of his small ones. “Pleased to meetcha. I’m Rufus Wrinklecap, forester and scout. And that’s my captain, Verhanna. Her father is Kith-Kanan, the Speaker of the Sun.”

Greenhands seemed startled, even bewildered, by this flood of information.

“Never mind,” said Verhanna, shaking her head. Awkwardly she put a hand on the elf’s bare shoulder. His skin was warm and smooth. When she touched him, Verhanna felt a tingle shoot up her arm. She didn’t know if it was due to some force passing between them or if it was simply her own nervousness. Greenhands didn’t seem to notice anything odd.

Looking him directly in the eyes, Verhanna asked firmly, “Who are you? Really?”

He shrugged. “Greenhands.”

A flush of irritation washed over the warrior maiden. She was intrigued by this odd fellow and deeply grateful that he’d saved her life, but his naive and evasive replies were getting under her skin.

“I guess you’d better come with us,” she stated. “My father would want me to bring you to Qualinost.”

“What about the slavers?” asked Rufus.

“This is more important.”

Greenhands shook his head. “I cannot go with you. I must go to the High Place.” He pointed west, toward the Kharolis Mountains. “There. To find my father.”

Verhanna’s eyes narrowed, and her jaw clenched. Rufus intervened quickly. “It’s not so far off the track to Qualinost, my captain. We could swing by the mountains first. You know,” he said, changing the subject completely, “my father was a famous pot thrower.”

Suitably distracted, Verhanna hitched the horse blanket up on her shoulders and looked at her scout. “You mean he made pots – threw them – on a wheel?” she asked.

“No, he threw them at my Uncle Four-Thumbs. In the carnival.”

Suddenly Verhanna realized Greenhands was no longer with them. He was twenty paces away, loping along with the morning sun at his back. She called out for him to stop.

“You must stay with us!” she shouted.

Wind stirred his long, loose hair. He stopped, eyes fixed on the western horizon, while Verhanna retired to a stand of trees to dress. Now that the perishing heat was over, she donned her breastplate, childrons, and greaves over a fresh haqueton. Rufus did one of his usual vaults to reach the broad back of his red-coated Thoradin mount, and together they rode to where Greenhands waited.

“Do you ride?” Verhanna asked, returning the poncho to Greenhands. “There’s room behind Wart if you do.”

“There’s room for most of Balifor up here,” opined Rufus.

Greenhands pulled the poncho on over his head. “I’ll walk,” he said.

“It’s a long way to the mountains,” she warned, leaning on the pommel of her saddle. “You’ll never be able to keep pace with the horses.”

“I’ll walk,” he repeated, with exactly the same intonation.

She shook her head. “Suit yourself.”

They topped a low rise and were out of the shallow valley cut by the river and back on the grass-covered plain. To the south, the blue humps of the Kharolis foothills were plainly visible in the clear morning sky, but Greenhands went resolutely west.

So intent were Verhanna and Rufus on keeping their eyes on Greenhands that neither bothered to look back at the riverbank. What had been a mud flat the night before was now a blossoming meadow. Grass had sprung up knee high in a few short hours, and a thousand colors of wild flowers bloomed where once there had been nothing but mud and cattails. Moreover, this strange growth narrowed as it entered the upland. Eventually it thinned to a point – the exact trail where Greenhands trod.

*

The day wore on, and Greenhands showed no signs of tiring.

Verhanna and Rufus ate in the saddle, passing a water bottle back and forth between them. Greenhands plucked a few stems of grass from the turf to nibble. He ate and drank nothing else.

By mid-afternoon the novelty of watching the strange elf had worn off. Rufus lay down on his horse’s back, clasping his hands behind his head and shading his face with his travel-worn hat. He gave his reins to his captain, and soon high-pitched snores whistled from his lips. Verhanna nodded a bit, but she was too conscious of her duty to falter and fought the sleep that tried to claim her.

Fatigue and the lingering shock of her healed goblin bite proved too strong, though, and she, too, eventually nodded off. When her charger stumbled slightly over a gopher mound, Verhanna jolted awake. Greenhands was no longer forging ahead on foot. The warrior maiden reined in and looked back. In the high grass fifteen yards behind them, the tall elf was kneeling.

“Wake up, Wart.” She called to the kender. Yawning, Rufus sat up and caught his reins as she tossed them.

“Hey,” the kender said sleepily, “where’d all the flowers come from?”

Verhanna looked past Greenhands and saw the vast trail of blooms that widened as it stretched out behind him. Not only flowers, but the dry prairie grass in the area had grown a foot taller.

“Look you,” she said, leaning down from the saddle. “What sort of magic is this?”

“Quiet,” he murmured. “The children call me.”

She bristled at his abrupt command. “I’ll speak when I like!”

The strange elf’s tense, prayerful posture suddenly relaxed. He inhaled deeply and said, “They come.”

Verhanna was about to make a rejoinder when a faint rumbling sound reached her ears. Heavy vibrations in the ground caused her mount to shift his feet and stamp nervously. Rufus sat up and called, “Captain, look!”

To the south, a dark brown line appeared on the horizon. It bulked larger and higher, and the rumbling grew louder. Swiftly the brown mass resolved into elk-thousands of them. A gigantic herd, stretching far to the left and right, was coming straight toward them.

“By Astra, it’s a stampede!” Verhanna cried. She twisted her horse around to ride hard in the same direction the elk were moving. Their only chance was to go with the flow and not fall under those churning hooves.

“Give me your hand!” she shouted to Greenhands. “We must flee!”

The elk were only a couple hundred paces off and gathering speed. Rufus turned his mount and urged it next to his captain’s. Bouncing to his feet in the saddle, he crowed with delight, “What a sight! Have you ever seen so many deer? If only I had a bow, we’d have venison for dinner forever!”

“You idiot, we’re going to be trampled!”

Then the elk herd was upon them like a living wall of hide, antlers, and sharp hooves. The musky smell of the animals mingled with the dry odor of trampled grass. Thinking first of her decision to bring Greenhands to Qualinost, Verhanna threw herself on top of the elf to shield him from harm. Only after an eternal, terrifying second did the realization sink in that the herd had split and was flowing around them. The patch of ground with Verhanna, Greenhands, Rufus, and the two horses had been spared.

Thousands of elk, with liquid brown eyes and gaping mouths, rushed past them, nose to flank, shoulder to hip. The noise of their passage was deafening. Verhanna raised her head just enough to see the kender, still standing on his quiescent horse, hands clamped over his ears. With great astonishment, the warrior maid discovered that the stupid fellow was grinning. His carroty topknot was whipped back by the wind of the herd’s passage, and a huge smile lit his pale eyes.

It seemed hours before the herd thinned. Alone or in pairs, the last few animals bounded in wide zigzags. In minutes more, the receding herd was again a brown line on the horizon. Then there was nothing but flying dust and the fading rumble of ten thousand hooves.

“E’li be merciful!” Verhanna breathed. “We are truly blessed!”

“Move away,” Greenhands grumbled from beneath her. “You smell terrible.”

She rolled smartly aside, and he sat up. Verhanna slipped the mail mitten back from her hand and slapped the elf across the jaw. She was instantly sorry, because tears formed in his vivid green eyes and his lips quivered.

“It’s the metal you wear,” he sniffled. One tear traced a shining path down his cheek. “It smells like death.”

“Yippee!”

The two of them turned to look up at Rufus. The kender was capering atop his horse. “What a sight!” he caroled gleefully. “That must be the biggest herd of elk in the world! Did you feel the wind they kicked up? The ground shook like a jelly pudding! What do you suppose made them run like that?”

“Thirst,” Greenhands said. He sniffed and touched a hand to his wet cheek. The sight of his own tears seemed to confound him. “The heat of days past made them mad with thirst.”

“How do you know?” Verhanna demanded.

“They called out to me. I told them how to get to the river.”

“You told them? I suppose you told them not to trample us, too?”

“Yes. I told the horses to stand still, and the elk would go around us.”

The tall elf rubbed his fingertips together till the tears were gone. Then he stood and walked slowly away, not west as they had been going, but veering south. Exasperated beyond words, Verhanna swung into her saddle and followed him. Rufus fell in beside her. He could hear her grumbling and grinding her teeth.

“Why so angry, my captain?” the kender asked, his eyes still bright at their encounter with the elk herd.

“We spend our time trailing after him like body servants!” She slapped her armored thigh. “And the lies he tells! He knows more than he’s telling, mark my words.”

The kender turned down his hat brim to shade his eyes from the lowering sun. “I don’t think he knows how to lie,” he said quietly. ‘The elk herd might’ve split by coincidence, but my horse just stood like a statue. It wasn’t even quivering. If you ask me my opinion, Greenhands did talk to the elk.”

Chapter 11

RISING SON

Kith-Kanan watched the sun set from the Hall of the Sky. He’d been alone there for hours, thinking. Since the day Irthenie had calmed the crowd in the market square, there had been other demonstrations in the streets in favor of Ulvian. Kemian Ambrodel, who sought no higher office than the one he held, was berated everywhere he went. Once he was even pelted with overripe fruit. The Speaker had to order him to remain in the Speaker’s house to protect the proud warrior from further humiliation or worse.

Clovanos and the Loyalists were discreet enough not to be seen leading the activities, but within the hall of the Thalas-Enthia, they trumpeted the popular sentiment and demanded the return of Prince Ulvian. Lengthy petitions, inscribed on parchment scrolls three feet long, arrived at the Speaker’s house daily. The signatures on the petitions grew more numerous each time, with many of the New Landers joining the Loyalists in seeking Ulvian’s confirmation as Kith-Kanan’s heir. Disgusted with the senate’s shortsightedness, Kith-Kanan repaired to the Hall of the Sky to ponder his choices. He half hoped that the gods would choose for him, that some meaningful sign would show him what to do. However, nothing so mystical happened. He remained in the great plaza, watching his city through the waving treetops, until at last Tamanier Ambrodel came from the Speaker’s house.

The Speaker got up from his knees and crossed the vast mosaic map to greet his faithful castellan.

In spite of the worries that clouded his mind, his step was springy; no one viewing the beauty of the sunset and the great elven city from this vantage point could fail to be moved, and some small measure of his strength had been renewed by his meditation.

“Good health to you, Majesty,” Tamanier said, bowing and presenting Kith-Kanan with an embossed dispatch case.

By the seal pressed in the wax of the lid, Kith knew the dispatch case was from Feldrin Feldspar. He broke the seal with his knife tip, and while Tamanier held the box, the Speaker raised the lid and drew out the papers inside.

“Hmm... Master Feldrin’s report on the progress at Pax Tharkas... the usual requests for food, clothing, and other supplies... and what’s this?” From between the sheets of official correspondence, the Speaker pulled a small folded letter on fine vellum, sealed carefully with a ribbon and a drop of blue wax.

He returned the other documents to the box and opened the sealed letter. “It’s from Merithynos,” he said, surprised.

“Good news, sire?”

“I’m not sure.” Frowning, Kith-Kanan read the brief letter, then handed the vellum to his castellan. Tamanier read Merith’s account of Ulvian’s near death, his salvation at the hands of the sorcerer Drulethen, and the friendship that Merith had observed growing between the prince and Dru.

“Drulethen – isn’t he the monster who ruled the high pass to Thorbardin during the Kinslayer War?” asked Tamanier.

“Your memory is still sharp. I’d forgotten the sorcerer was at Pax Tharkas. He shouldn’t be allowed to cultivate my son’s friendship; he’s far too dangerous.” The memory of another voice suddenly flashed into Kith-Kanan’s mind. What was it the god Hiddukel had said when he’d manifested himself in the Tower of the Sun?

You may call me Dru. It couldn’t be coincidence that the god had chosen the name of the evil sorcerer. Where the gods were concerned, little was left to chance.

Tamanier continued to stand holding the dispatch box. After a long moment of silence, Kith-Kanan’s eyes focused once more on the old castellan. “Return to the house, Tam,” he said briskly. “Prepare for a trip. Small entourage, with a light, mounted escort. I want to move quickly.”

The castellan’s brows lifted. “Where are you going, Great Speaker?”

“To Pax Tharkas, my friend. I’ll leave as soon as Lord Anakardain can get back to Qualinost. I want him to keep order here while I’m gone.”

Tamanier bowed and withdrew, head buzzing with the speed of events. Kith-Kanan remained in the Hall of the Sky a while longer. Standing at the edge of the artificial plateau, he looked out over his city. One by one, lamps were being lit in towers and on street comers, until it seemed the star-salted sky was mirrored on the ground. As the Speaker watched, lights illuminated the sweeping arch of the northern bridge directly ahead of him, behind the Tower of the Sun. Kith-Kanan turned slowly to each point of the compass to see the other three bridges similarly lighted. They surrounded Qualinost in a sparkling embrace.

Despite this glorious vista, something gnawed at Kith-Kanan. The great forces he’d sensed behind the marvels of the past days now seemed overshadowed by evil. He’d believed the wonders to be portents of some great event; perhaps they were indeed portents, but of a darker nature.

*

The bells clanged, signaling the end of another day of toil at Pax Tharkas. Ropes were tied off or dropped, tools piled on carts to be taken back to storage sheds, and cook fires blazed in the twilight. From the parapet of the west tower, Feldrin Feldspar surveyed the site as Merith stood close by.

“It will stand ten times a thousand years,” declared the dwarf, clasping his stout arms behind his back. “An eternal bridge between Thorbardin and Qualinesti.”

In the ruby glow of sunset, the stones of the citadel shone a soft pink. It was a magnificent yet lonely sight, the great gateway wedged between the slopes of the wide pass. Merith, who didn’t care for heights, kept back from the unwalled edge of the tower top. Feldrin stood with his toes hanging over the edge, completely unconcerned about the long drop before him.

“How long until it’s finished?” asked Merith.

“Barring strange quirks of weather and landslides, the east tower can be completed in six months. The fortress will be habitable then, though the inside details may take another year to dress out.” Feldrin sighed, and it was like the grunt of an old bear.

He raised a hand to shade his eyes from the sun, setting behind the mountains to their left. Below, the pass was a narrow valley stretching away to the north. A small stream wended its way through the pass, shadowed now that the sun was nearly down. Staring up into the dark hollows of the high pass, the dwarf said, “Dust. Hmm... could be riders coming.”

Merith moved as close as he dared to the edge of the parapet and looked up the valley. “From the north?” he queried. That meant Qualinost.

“Probably some dandified courtier or senator from the city who expects a guided tour of the fortress,” growled Feldrin. “I guess this means I have to wash my hands and beard and put on a clean vest.” He sniffed.

“It could be a courier from the Speaker,” Merith suggested, “in which case you’ll only have to wash your hands.”

Feldrin caught the small smile on the fair-haired warrior’s lips. “Very well! A compromise, lieutenant. I’ll wash my hands and beard, but I won’t change my vest!”

Chuckling, the two entered the stairwell sunk into the roof of the tower and descended the long set of steps. By the time they reached ground level and made their way outside, the rising plume of dust in the pass had been dispersed by the ever-present wind. There was no further sign of riders.

“Maybe they changed their minds and went home,” joked Feldrin. He shrugged and added, “The dust must have come from a rockslide. All the better. Let’s see what rubbish the cook has inflicted on us tonight.”

In fact, Feldrin’s cook was excellent. He did amazing things with the simple fare provided for the master builder’s table. Dwarven food was usually too heavy for elves, but Feldrin’s cook managed to prepare lighter dishes that Merith found quite delicious.

The lieutenant trailed after the fast-moving dwarf. Once more he looked up into the pass, where they had spotted the dust cloud.

“I wonder,” he said softly. “Were they riders, or —”

“Come, Merith! Why are you lagging?”

*

There were no sentinels in Pax Tharkas. No night watch patrolled the sleeping complex of tent, huts, and sheds. None had ever been needed. Not even the grunt gang barracks were guarded once its single door was locked for the night. Thus it was that Ulvian slipped unseen out a window of the barracks and worked his way around the camp, collecting the items Dru had requested. From the plasterers’ mixing shed, he got more than a pound of dry white clay, as fine and pure as cake flour. The prince dumped it in a wide-mouthed pottery jar and hurried on. He made for the long row of blacksmiths’ sheds. Coal by the peck was available there, hard black coal from Thorbardin, which the dwarf smiths used to forge some of the hardest iron in the world. Ulvian crept up to the closest furnace. It still glowed dull orange from the day’s fire. Squatting on the dirt floor, he picked through the rubbish that lay scattered around the hearth doors. He dropped several pieces of coal into the jar containing the clay.

The tanner’s shed yielded a length of thong. Now... where to find a copper brazier? Dru had been quite specific; only copper would do. Hugging the pot of dry clay and coal to his chest, Ulvian ran across the open compound to the coppersmith’s hut. Inside, he found an abundance of copper plates, nails, and ingots, but no brazier.

Outside once more, Ulvian huddled under the eaves of the hut for a moment, pondering where he might find what he needed. Only two kinds of people used copper fire pans: priests and cooks. There were no clerics at Pax Tharkas, but there were certainly cooks.

Half an hour later, Ulvian was back at the grunt gang barracks. He knelt by Dru’s bed and reached a hand out to awaken the sorcerer.

Before Ulvian touched him, Dru said quietly, “Do you have it all?”

“Yes – and it wasn’t easy.”

“Good. Put it under my bed and go to sleep.”

Ulvian was taken aback. “Aren’t you going to do anything now?”

“At this hour? No indeed. Morning will be soon enough. Go to bed, my prince. Tomorrow will be a busy day, and you’ll wish you had slept tonight.” So saying, Dru rolled over and closed his eyes. Ulvian stared, mouth agape, at the sorcerer’s back. With no other recourse, the prince shoved the pot, the cooking brazier, and the leather strap under Dru’s bed and lay down on his own sagging, dirty cot. In spite of the excitement of the night’s foray, he was asleep in a few minutes.

*

The soft sound of rattling chains caused Ulvian to open his eyes. A pair of scales was hanging in the air over his bed. The fulcrum of the scales was broken, and one of the golden pans was tilted, its chains sagging loosely. From the tilted pan, white powder fell, landing on Ulvian’s chest. It looked like the clay powder he’d gotten for Dru.

“What’s this?” he muttered, trying to sit up. Strangely he could not. A great weight seemed to settle on his chest, just where the powdered clay rested. But it was only a small heap of dust, his mind protested. It couldn’t hold him pinioned in his bed.

The pressure grew and grew until the prince found it difficult to draw breath. He lifted a weak hand to deflect the stream of powder cascading down. When his fingers touched the golden scale pan, he snatched them back quickly. The pan was red hot!

“Help!” he gasped, continuing his efforts to rise. “I’m suffocating! Help!”

“Be still,” said a soft, chiding voice. Ulvian opened his eyes and encountered blackness. He was lying facedown on his bunk, his nose and mouth buried in his dirty scrap of blanket. The prince bolted to his feet, flinging the blanket aside.

A wild glance around showed Dru sitting cross-legged on his own bed, mixing something in a wooden bowl. The grunt gang barracks were otherwise empty.

“What’s the matter?” Dru asked, not looking up from his task.

“I – I had a bad dream,” stammered the prince. “Where is everybody?”

“It’s the half-day of rest,” replied the sorcerer. “They’re all at breakfast.” He set aside his stirring stick and poured a bit more water into the bowl. The stick was thickly coated with gluey white clay.

Ulvian’s breathing returned to normal, and he ran his fingers through his tousled hair. When he was calm, he went to see what Dru was doing. The sorcerer had made a ball of clay the size of two fists. He wet his hands and picked up the mass. The thong and copper brazier sat on the floor by his bed.

“One of the simplest kinds of spells is image magic,” said Dru, sounding like some sort of schoolmaster. “The sorcerer makes an image and consecrates it as the double of a living person. Then whatever he does to the image happens to the living person.” He rolled the clay into a long cylinder and tore off smaller bits, which he dropped into the bowl. “A more advanced spell creates an image that has no connection to the living. From that image, another double can be born.”

Fascinated, Ulvian knelt on one knee. “Is that what you’re doing?”

Dru nodded. “With this small figure, I will generate a much larger double that will do my bidding. Such clay creatures are called golems.”

He had molded the rough form of a stocky body. To it, he attached clay arms and legs, and a round ball for a head. With chips of coal, Dru made eyes for the image. Laying the clay doll on the bed, he dipped the leather thong in the damp bowl.

The sorcerer tied the wet thong around the waist of the clay figure. Then he sent Ulvian to get some live coals and kindling from the fireplace. With a crackling fire laid in the brazier, Dru began dangling the clay figure over the flames.

“Rise up, O golem. Gather yourself from the dust and arise! I, Drulethen, command you! The fire is in you, the dust of the mountains! Gather yourself and do my will!” Unlike his usual soft tone, the sorcerer’s voice was changing, deepening, strengthening.

Wind whistled through the chinks in the crude barracks walls. Outside, the grunt gang members lounging around the breakfast wagon grumbled loudly about the dust being whirled into their eyes. In the barracks, Dru twisted the thong in his fingers, making the clay doll spin, first left, then right.

“Rise up, O golem! Your form is here! Take the fire I give you and arise!” Dru shouted. Ulvian felt his skin crawl as the sorcerer’s voice boomed through the room. The rafters of the poorly built barracks rattled, and bits of dried moss fell through the cracks.

Steam began to rise from the white clay doll. The smell of burning hide filled the prince’s nostrils, threatening to gag him. The air vibrated, sending a tingling all along the surface of Ulvian’s skin. The walls of the building groaned, and suddenly the complaints of the workers outside ceased. In seconds, hoarse shouts replaced the muttered grumblings.

“What’s happening?” whispered Ulvian.

Breathing heavily, Dru never ceased his turning of the clay figure in the flames. “Go and see, my prince!” he gasped.

Ulvian went to the door and threw it open. The astonished faces of the grunt gang were looking off to the left, toward the quarries and the tent city. When he turned his face in that direction, the prince saw that a whirlwind of white dust writhed heavenward near the open pits where the limestone was cut. Elves, men, and dwarves ran from the area, shouting things Ulvian couldn’t understand.

As Dru’s invocation continued, the whirlwind coalesced into a thick, white body, twice as tall as the tallest tents. The black eyes on the featureless face mimicked the coal chips on the sorcerer’s doll.

“By the gods!” Ulvian exclaimed, turning to Dru. “You’ve done it! It’s as big as a watchtower!”

The sorcerer’s hand was nearly invisible, shrouded by the steam rising from the baking clay figure. “Go!” he hissed. “The confusion will cover you. Get my black amulet!” Dru clenched his eyes shut, and tears trickled down his cheeks. The steam was scalding his hand. “Go! Hurry!”

“I will, but remember our bargain. You know who I want punished!” As he left, Ulvian closed the barracks door behind him. The grunt gang were all gone, and the dwarves who managed the food wagon had taken refuge underneath it. The clay giant was moving, striding stiffly across the camp, smashing through tents and huts as it went. The ground shook each time it took a step. No one tried to stop it. The workers weren’t soldiers, and what arms there were in camp were of little avail against a twenty-foot-tall golem.

Feldrin Feldspar was in the west tower when the giant appeared. He heard the commotion and came outside in time to see the monster plowing through his workers’ homes.

“By Reorx!” he shouted. “What is that thing?” No one stopped to answer his question, though he bellowed at his scattering people to stand and fight. The dwarf stood at the base of the west tower, shouting, until Merith appeared, mounted and in full battle armor.

“What do you propose, warrior?” Feldrin said, yelling above the uproar.

“Repel the monster,” Merith replied simply. He drew his long elven blade. His buckskin horse pranced nervously, upset by the tumult around them.

“That’s no natural beast!” Feldrin cried. “You’d be better off to find Drulethen. He’s got to be behind this!”

“You find him,” replied Merith. His horse turned a full circle. Touching his spurs to his mount’s side, Merith was off, moving against the flow of terrified workers. All the artisans and laborers streamed toward the finished section of the citadel, seeking shelter from the rampaging giant.

Once clear of the panicked workers, Merith reined in and studied the monster as it tramped on. As nearly as he could tell, it hadn’t injured anyone yet, but it had smashed about half a dozen huts with its thick feet and legs. It zigzagged around the camp as if it were looking for something.

Merith urged his horse forward, but the animal wanted no part of the giant. It reared and danced, trying to unseat its rider. The elf warrior held on and drew a yellow silk handkerchief from beneath his breastplate. It was a gift from a female admirer in Qualinost, but it served to cover his horse’s eyes and quieted the animal somewhat. Merith wrapped the reins around his mailed fist and spurred ahead.

The golem halted and bent stiffly at the waist. Bits of dried clay the size of an elf’s palm flaked off the giant’s joints and fell to the ground.

Merith watched, fascinated, as the monster’s hand split apart into five thick fingers. It plunged the hand into the ruins of a row of huts, and when it stood erect again, there was someone struggling in its grasp. The giant had the fellow by the throat. Merith saw that he was a Kagonesti elf.

Snapping down the visor on his helm, he charged at the monster. It paid no attention to him at all, even when Merith struck it full force with his sword. A wedge of hard white clay flew from the wound, but the giant was uninjured. The impact of the blow stung the elf warrior’s arm. Grimacing, he struck again. Another chip of clay flew, but to no avail; the poor wretch in the monster’s hand ceased kicking. The giant’s black eyes never blinked. Opening its fingers, it allowed the Kagonesti to drop to the ground close to Merith.

Crouched under the awning of a hut, Prince Ulvian took in the scene with satisfaction. The death of his tormentor, Splint, pleased him immensely. He also saw the warrior, Merithynos, trying to subdue the clay giant with his sword. The prince laughed out loud at the lieutenant’s antics, chopping at the mass of hard clay with comic futility.

Ulvian dashed down the lane, behind the busy Merith, up the hill toward Feldrin’s hut. The golem had stomped flat nearly every other structure around the master builder’s home. Ulvian burst through the door flap.

The outer room was empty. He searched every box and chest, with no result. The structure was divided by a canvas wall, the other half being Feldrin’s bedchamber. Ulvian bolted in and pulled up sharply. Feldrin himself stood guard over a small golden casket.

“So,” said the dwarf coolly, “you have joined forces with Drulethen.”

“Give me the amulet,” Ulvian said in a commanding tone.

“Don’t be a fool, boy! He’s using you. Can’t you see that? He’d promise anything to get his hands on that amulet again – and break every promise once he had it. He has no honor, Highness. He will destroy you if he has the chance.”

“Save your entreaties for someone else!” Ulvian’s voice was a harsh, angry rasp. “My father sent me here to suffer, and I’ve suffered enough. Drulethen has sworn to serve me, and serve me he will. You all think I’m a fool, but you’ll find out differently.” There was a loud crash nearby, and Ulvian added impatiently, “Now surrender the amulet, or the golem will crush you to jelly!”

Feldrin drew a jeweled shortsword from behind his back. “You will get it from me only after I’m dead,” he said solemnly.

Ulvian was unarmed. Feldrin’s keen sword and the steely look of determination in the dwarf’s eyes discouraged any rash action.

“You’ll regret this!” the prince declared, edging back toward the doorway in the canvas wall. “The golem won’t stand and argue with you. Once he comes, you will die!”

“Then it is by Reorx’s will.”

Furious, Ulvian dashed out of the tent. He nearly bowled over Dru, who was coming in his direction. The sorcerer cradled his left hand to his chest, and his ragged robes were soaked with sweat.

“Did you get it?” he cried, desperation glazing his eyes.

“No, Feldrin is guarding it. Why aren’t you with the brazier? Is the spell over?”

Dru mustered his strength; his spell had exhausted him. “I hung the doll over the brazier. The thong is almost burned in two. When it severs, the magic will end.”

The giant figure of the golem came into view over Dru’s shoulder. It had nearly reached the citadel. The parapets were lined with workers, many of whom were hurling stones at the unheeding monster.

“Can you control it?” asked Ulvian quickly. “If you can, then bring it here. It’s the only way to scare Feldrin into giving up the amulet!”

Wordlessly the sorcerer slid to his knees. His eyelids fluttered closed. Ulvian thought he had fainted, but Dru’s lips were moving slightly.

Abruptly the golem did a jerky about-face and came marching toward Feldrin’s hut. Merith dogged its heels, no longer slashing with his sword, but keeping it in view. When the elf warrior spied Ulvian and Dru, he put his head down and rode hard toward them.

“Merith is coming!” shouted the prince.

Still the sorcerer chanted. The golem’s wide, round head swiveled down to look at the mounted warrior. An arm the thickness of a mature oak limb swept down, knocking horse and rider to the ground. The horse let out a shriek and lay still. Merith struggled vainly but was pinned under his dead mount.

“That got him!” Ulvian cried, leaping into the air in his excitement.

“And I’ve got you,” said Feldrin from the door of his hut. Startled, the prince stepped back.

The dwarf had been a fighter of some note in his youth, and he knew how to handle a sword.

Raising the jeweled blade high, he advanced toward Dru. The sorcerer never flinched, so complete was his concentration. Ulvian flung himself at the dwarf and grappled with him. The golem was only a score of yards away, and its long stride ate up the distance rapidly.

“Let go!” roared Feldrin. “I’ve no wish to harm you, Prince Ulvian, but I must —”

His muscled arms pushed steadily against Ulvian’s lighter strength. The prince’s grip was slipping. Gleaming in the morning sun, Feldrin’s sword was only inches from the sorcerer’s skull.

A wall of white fell on the prince and the dwarf. Ulvian was knocked backward through the air, landing hard on a pile of torn canvas and broken tent stakes. The breath was driven from his body, and the world vanished in a red, roaring haze.

Hands propped the prince up. He gasped and fought for air, and at last breath whooshed into his lungs. His vision cleared, and he saw Dru kneeling beside him. Ulvian shook his head to clear it, for he saw a remarkable thing: The spell animating the golem had obviously ended and the giant had fallen on Feldrin’s hut, breaking into several large clay pieces. From under a barrel-sized portion of the monster’s torso, Feldrin’s fur-wrapped legs protruded. His feet twitched slightly. A groan sounded from under the mass of clay.

Dru was shaking and drenched with sweat, but his voice was triumphant as he said, “Where’s the amulet?” Ulvian stammered that Feldrin kept the onyx talisman in a golden box. The sorcerer dashed into the ruins of the master builder’s hut.

A profound silence had fallen over the construction camp. Ulvian blinked and gazed across the wrecked site. The walls of the citadel were lined with workers, all staring at him. Already some were leaving the parapet, no doubt to hurry to Feldrin’s rescue.

Dru was tearing through the broken bits of hut, muttering. Ulvian called out, “We must flee! The workers are coming!”

The sorcerer didn’t even respond, but kept up his frantic digging. Feldrin groaned once more, louder. Ulvian picked his way through the chunks of lifeless golem. He pushed a heavy slab of clay off the dwarf and knelt beside him.

“I regret this, Master Feldrin, “said the prince. “But injustice requires strong deeds.”

The dwarf coughed, and blood appeared on his lips. “Don’t go with Drulethen, my prince. With him lies only ruin and death....”

“Aha!” shouted the sorcerer, falling to his knees. He flung aside a bit of canvas, revealing the gilded box. No sooner did Dru stoop to pick it up than he shrieked in pain and dropped it again.

“You filthy worm!” he howled at Feldrin. “You put my amulet in a charmed case!” But Feldrin had lost consciousness and was beyond Dru’s maledictions.

“Come here!” the sorcerer barked peremptorily. “Pick up the box.”

Ulvian glared at him. “I’m not your servant,” he retorted.

The first band of workers from the citadel appeared at the end of the wrecked street. They were armed with hammers, staves, and mason’s tools. Eight men went to lift the dead horse off the fallen Merith. The warrior got stiffly to his feet and pointed expressively toward Feldrin’s tent.

“There’s no time for false pride now!” Dru spat. “Do you think those fools are going to pat us on the back for what we’ve done? It’s time to flee, and I can’t touch that wretched box. Pick it up, I say!”

Reluctantly Ulvian did so. Then he and the shaken sorcerer ran for the corral near the foot of the eastern slope. The prince snared two horses, short-legged mountain ponies, and boosted the weakened Dru onto one of them. Bareback, the pair rode hell-for-leather out the gate, scattering the other animals as they went. By the time the outraged workers reached the corral, not a single horse remained, and the only sign of the fugitives was a rapidly rising cloud of dust.

*

Merith stood by a crackling fire, which blazed in a wide stone urn outside Feldrin Feldspar’s hut. In spite of his badly bruised left leg, he had insisted on standing guard personally outside the master builder’s home. The entire camp was silent, and nothing stirred but the wavering flames before him. The lieutenant kept his cloak close around his throat to ward off a persistent chill.

The clip-clop of horse’s hooves alerted him. Quickly he stepped back from the fire, back into the deep shadows cast by the hut’s overhanging roof. Drawing his sword, he set his shield tightly on his forearm. The hoofbeats drew nearer.

A tall figure, mounted on a rather tired-looking sorrel, emerged from the night. The newcomer’s face and figure were obscured by a long, monkish robe with a deep hood. The rider approached the fire and dismounted. He peeled off a pair of deerskin gloves and held his long, tapered fingers to the heat. Merith watched carefully. Short plumes of warm breath issued from the stranger’s hood. Though he waited long minutes, the newcomer made no threatening moves. Warming his icy hands and body seemed to be his greatest concern. The lieutenant stepped out of the shadows and faced the robed figure.

“Who goes there?” he demanded.

“A weary traveler,” answered the stranger. He spoke through the lower edge of the hood, and his words were muffled. “I saw your fire from a distance and stopped to warm myself.”

“You are welcome, traveler,” Merith said warily.

“A naked sword is a strange welcome. Are you troubled by bandits hereabouts?”

“Not bandits. A single elf did all this. A sorcerer.”

The hooded one jerked his hands back from the fire. “A sorcerer! Why would a sorcerer trouble a lonely outpost such as this?”

“The evil one was a captive here, a prisoner of the King of Thorbardin and the Speaker of the Sun,” Merith explained. “Through treachery, he regained his powers, wrecked the camp, and escaped.”

The visitor passed a hand across his hidden brow. Merith caught the glint of metal at the fellow’s throat. Armor? Or just a decorative torc?

The stranger asked how the sorcerer had escaped. The elf warrior told him briefly about the golem, though he didn’t mention Ulvian’s part in the affair. The visitor asked endless questions, and Merith found the late-night conversation tired him. His leg ached unmercifully, and his heart was heavy with the news he must send to his sovereign. The hooded stranger must be a cleric, he decided.

Only they were so talky and inquisitive.

Weariness was banished instantly when Merith saw a pair of horses appear at the far end of the path. One of the riders was wearing armor. Merith lifted his sword and shield. The hooded stranger waved at him soothingly.

“Put down your weapons, noble warrior. These are friends of mine,” he said. In a swirl of dark robes, the hooded one turned and hailed the two mounted fellows.

“Is something the matter, sire?” called the armored rider.

“Sire?” wondered Merith.

The stranger faced Merith and tossed back his hood. Pale hair gleamed in the firelight. It was Kith-Kanan himself.

“Great Speaker!” Merith cried. “Forgive me! I had no idea —”

“Be at ease.” Kith-Kanan waved, and Kemian Ambrodel and his father, Tamanier, rode up to the crackling fire.

“Are there just the three of you, Majesty?” asked Merith, scanning the path for more riders. “Where is your entourage?”

“I have a small party at the high end of the pass,” Kith-Kanan explained. “I came down with the Ambrodels to find out what had happened. Even in the dark, the camp looks like a cyclone hit it.”

Merith told the story of Drulethen, Ulvian, and the golem in detail, this time leaving out nothing. “I led a band of fifty trusted workers along the trail Prince Ulvian and Drulethen made,” he finished, “but we couldn’t hope to catch up on foot.”

“Never mind, Lieutenant. Is Feldrin Feldspar well?” asked the Speaker.

“He has some broken ribs, but he will survive, sire.” Merith managed a smile.

Kemian relieved the younger warrior and sent Merith to bed. Once the lieutenant was gone, Kith-Kanan shed his monkish habit, revealing full battle armor.

“I had a premonition something evil would happen,” Kith-Kanan said grimly. “Now it is up to me to set things right. Tomorrow Lord Kemian and I will take the escort cavalry and go after Drulethen.”

Tamanier said, “And Prince Ulvian?”

The silence in the camp was unbroken except by the soft snapping of the fire in the urn before them. The Speaker stared into the flames, the light giving his face and hair a ruddy glow. When the castellan was certain his sovereign wasn’t going to answer, Kith-Kanan looked up and said evenly, “My son will face the consequences of his deeds.”

Chapter 12

THE GREEN AND GOLDEN WAY

The high plains in summer were a harsh place. Dry and barren, they were frequently swept by grass fires that would burn right up to the stony bases of the Kharolis Mountains before dying out from lack of tinder. Yet as Verhanna, Rufus, and Greenhands ascended the sloping plain toward the distant blue peaks, the grassland was not only green, but also covered with flowers.

“Aashoo!” The kender sneezed loudly. “Where did all dese flowers come fum?” he muttered through a clogged nose. The air was thick with blowing pollen, released by the thousands of wild flowers. Verhanna wasn’t much bothered by it, though she was startled by the vigor and variety of the flowers around them. The plain was an ocean of crimson, yellow, blue, and purple blossoms, all nodding gently in the breeze.

“You know, I’ve been this way before, on the way to Pax Tharkas,” she said. “But I’ve never seen the grasslands bloom like this. And in the heat of midsummer!”

Ahead of them, his rough horsehair poncho coated with yellow dust, Greenhands walked steadily onward. His simple, sturdy features took on a special nobility in the warm light of day, and Verhanna found herself studying him more and more as they traveled.

“Ushwah!” barked Rufus. “Dis is tewwibuh! I cand bweathe!”

The warrior maiden dug deep into her saddlebag. In a moment, she brought out a thin red pod, shriveled into a curl. “Here,” she said, tossing it to her scout. “Chew on that. It’ll clear your head.”

Rufus sniffed the tiny pod, but to no avail; nothing could penetrate his stuffy nose. “Whad is id?” he asked suspiciously.

“Give it back, then, if you don’t want it,” Verhanna said airily.

“Oh, all wide.” The kender stuck the stem end of the seed pod in his mouth and chewed. In seconds, his look of curiosity was replaced by one of horror.

“Ye-ow!” Rufus’s shriek rent the calm, flower-scented air. Greenhands halted and looked back, startled out of his unvarying gait. “Dat’s hot!” protested the kender, his small face purpling in distress.

“It’s a dragonseed pod,” Verhanna replied. “Of course it’s hot. But it will clear your head.” Despite its fearsome name, dragonseed was a common spice plant grown in the river delta region of Silvanesti. It was used to make the famous vantrea, a hot, spicy dried fish that was beloved by southern elves.

Their horses overtook Greenhands. Verhanna reined in and said, “Don’t worry. Wart was complaining about the pollen, so I did a little healing of my own.”

Tears running down his cheeks, Rufus sluiced his tingling mouth out with water. Then he sniffed, and a pleased expression spread across his florid features. “What do you know! I can breathe!” he declared.

Greenhands had been standing between their two horses. Now he headed out once more, and they rode after him.

Verhanna urged her mount forward until she was alongside the silver-haired elf. The day was quite warm, and he had flipped back the front edges of his makeshift poncho, exposing his chest to the sun. In secret, sidelong glances, the warrior maiden admired his physique. With a little training, perhaps he could become a formidable warrior.

“Why do you stare at me?” asked Greenhands, intruding on the captain’s thoughts.

“Tell me the truth, Greenhands,” she said in a low voice. “How is it you’re able to do the things you do? How did you heal my shoulder? How did you turn aside a herd of wild elk? Raise flowers out of dry soil?”

There was a long pause before he replied. Finally he said, “I’ve been thinking about those things. There seems to be something with me. Something I carry... like this garment.” He passed a hand over the coarse fabric of the blanket he wore. “I feel it around me and inside me, but I can’t set it aside. I can’t separate myself from it.”

Intrigued, Verhanna asked, “What does it feel like?”

Shutting his eyes, he lifted his face to the golden sunlight. “It’s like the heat of the sun,” he murmured. “I feel it, yet I can’t touch it. I carry it with me, but I can’t take it off.” He opened his eyes and regarded her. “Am I mad, Captain?”

“No,” she said, and her voice was soft. “You’re not mad.”

A piercing whistle cut her off. “Hey!” Rufus called from behind them. “Are you two going to walk right off the edge?”

Greenhands and Verhanna halted, taking in their surroundings. Not five paces in front of them was a deep ravine, cut through the grassy sod by some winter flood. They had been so absorbed in their conversation, neither had noticed the danger.

They turned and paralleled the rift for a dozen yards. Behind them, Rufus rode up to the lip of the ravine and gazed across. On the other side, the sere plain was covered with dry brown grass. At the kender’s back, the landscape was carpeted with lush green grass and a riot of blooming flowers.

“Wha – how!” A neck-snapping sneeze wrenched the kender. His nose felt like it was filling even as he sat. Kicking his heels against his horse’s red flanks, Rufus hastened after his captain. He hoped she could discover another dragonseed pod in her saddlebag.

*

Late in the afternoon, the trio was well into the shadowed presence of the Kharolis Mountains.

Peaks welled up on three sides, and the open ground was ever steeper in grade. Hereabouts there was only one path through the mountains wide enough for horses, and it funneled directly to Pax Tharkas.

Once the carpet of grass and flowers thinned, Rufus found his head much clearer. He occupied his time by tootling discordantly on a reed pipe he’d made back at the Astradine River. The shrill cacophony got on Verhanna’s nerves, and finally she snatched the reed from the kender’s lips.

“Are you trying to drive me mad?” she snapped.

He bristled. “That was a kender ballad, ‘You Took My Heart While I Took Your Rings’.”

“Ha! Trust a wart like you to know a love song with theft in it.” Verhanna tossed the reed flute away, but Greenhands detoured from his path to retrieve it. The warrior maiden sighed. “Don’t you plague me with that thing either,” she warned.

Unheeding, the elf put the flute to his mouth and blew a few experimental notes. His fingers ran up and down the scale, and the instrument trilled melodically. Rufus raised his head and peered down at Greenhands.

“How did you do that?” he asked. Greenhands shrugged, a gesture he’d only lately acquired from Verhanna. Rufus asked for his flute back. When he had it, he piped several notes. Verhanna grimaced; it still sounded like the death throes of a crow.

Before she could voice her protest again, Rufus thrust the reed flute back at Greenhands. “You keep it,” he said generously. “It’s not refined enough for kender music.”

His captain snorted. The elf accepted the instrument gravely and walked along slowly, playing random notes. Without warning, a red-breasted songbird settled on his shoulder. The tiny bird regarded Greenhands curiously, its beady black eyes almost intelligent.

“Hello,” Greenhands said calmly. Verhanna and Rufus stared. The strange elf put the flute to his lips and played a fluttering trill. Much to his companions’ astonishment, his feathered friend imitated the sound perfectly.

“Very good. Now this.” He sounded a slightly more complex series of notes. The redbreast repeated the notes exactly.

A second bird, slightly larger and duller in color, circled the elf’s head and settled on the opposite shoulder. A funny sort of musical trio began, as Greenhands and the little songbird exchanged perfectly pitched notes, while the brown thrush added off-key harmonics.

“The big bird sounds like you,” Verhanna commented to the kender. Rufus answered her with a rude noise.

The captain’s mount danced in a circle. The green-fingered elf had attracted more and more birds; in seconds, he was wrapped in a cloud of wildly singing creatures. He seemed unworried by them, continuing to walk steadily forward as his flute trilled. However, the birds were unnerving the horses.

“Stop it!” Verhanna called to Greenhands. “Send them away!” He couldn’t hear her over the shrill sound of birdsongs. More and more birds appeared, zooming around the group, dipping, soaring, diving. Wing tips and tails grazed their faces. Their mounts bucked and danced.

“Yow!”

A sizable starling thudded into the kender’s back. He yanked off his hat and began swinging it at the darting creatures without success. A careening purple martin flew too close to Verhanna and smacked solidly into her neck. She quickly pulled her visor down to protect her eyes. Though her hands were full trying to calm her frantic horse, she managed to draw her sword.

With a loud war cry, the captain drove her nervous mount hard at Greenhands. Birds thumped off her armored head and against her horse. Verhanna pushed through the swarm. Completely unaware of the havoc he was causing, the elf was walking along in the center of an avian maelstrom, playing Rufus’s flute.

Verhanna struck the pipe from the elf’s hands with the flat of her blade. The instant the notes ceased, the birds stopped their mad whirling and dispersed quickly in all directions.

Greenhands stared at the broken flute lying in the grass. He picked up the two halves and then turned accusing eyes upon Verhanna.

“Your playing drove those birds mad,” she explained, panting. He clearly had no idea what she was talking about. “We could’ve been killed!”

Understanding dawned on his face, and he apologized. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make trouble.”

Rufus rode up, brushing feathers from his topknot. “Blind me with beeswax! What was that all about?”

Verhanna pointed to the chastened Greenhands. “Our friend here doesn’t understand the power he has.”

Humbly he repeated, “I’m sorry.”

They resumed their march, guided by Greenhands. Though he honestly disavowed any knowledge of the fortress, it was obviously their destination.

The flowering grassland gave way to piles of boulders spotted by patches of dark green lichen. Coolness crept into the warm air of daytime, promising a brisk night. The sun sank behind the mountain peaks, washing the sky in gold, crimson, and finally deepest burgundy. As the last of the light was dying from the day, Verhanna dismounted. They had come to a wide spot in the pass, only a few hundred paces from the entrance. “We can camp here for the night,” she decided.

The kender and the elf were agreeable. They tethered their horses and built a campfire. Rufus did the cooking for the little band. Considering a kender’s ideas about dinner, things weren’t bad. He busied himself warming a soup of dried vegetables, bread crumbs, and water while his captain curried their animals.

Greenhands settled down by the fire, staring unblinking into the flames. The yellow light made his green eyes and fingers stand out against the dark background of his poncho. Verhanna found herself peering at him over the back of her horse. Her right hand, wielding the curry comb, slowed and stopped in its motion as her scrutiny of the elf intensified. The light tan of his skin was deepened by the golden glow of the firelight. Though at rest, his well-formed body showed a lithe grace and beauty she found arresting. His profile was somehow quite attractive. Strong brow, rather a long nose, firm lips, a good chin....

She brought herself up short. What was she doing? So many unfamiliar thoughts tumbled in her head. But one, quite odd, idea took precedence.

Could Greenhands be the husband she never thought she’d find?

A smile tugged the corners of her mouth upward. Wouldn’t her father be surprised? He’d wanted her to marry for a long time. Though he never pushed openly, the warrior maiden knew he longed for her to be wife and mother. As quickly as this thought occurred to her, a sharp chill set her to shuddering. The mountain air had cooled rapidly with the setting of the sun.

When she’d finished with the horses, Verhanna wrapped her bedroll around her shoulders and settled by the fire. The kender was just downing the last of his soup. He handed her a bowl and, while she ate, he skipped around the campsite, humming his tuneless kender songs.

“What are you so happy about?” Verhanna asked him with a smile.

“I like the mountains,” he said. “When the air is thin and the nights are cold, then Rufus Wrinklecap is at home!”

Verhanna laughed, but Greenhands’ eyes were closed, and gentle snores issued from his mouth. Though still sitting upright, the elf had fallen fast asleep.

The kender scaled a pile of boulders resting against the sheer wall of the mountain behind the warrior maiden. When she asked what he was doing, Rufus replied, “In these parts, it’s not wise to lie on low ground.”

Her brow wrinkled in thought. “Why not?”

“Falling rocks, sudden floods, prowling wolves, poisonous snakes....” The kender spoke a cheerful litany of disaster. He stopped and added a blithe “Good night, my captain. Sleep well!”

How well could she sleep after his listing of all those dangers? Her brown eyes searched the darkness beyond their dying fire. Moonlight and starlight washed the mountain pass, and the air was filled with the faint but normal sounds of night. The warrior maiden set her empty soup bowl down and sidled around the fire until she was close to Greenhands. Laying her head down by his crossed legs, she reasoned that since he seemed so connected to the wild, then he was probably safe from any natural disasters or creatures of the night.

The strange elf still slept upright, his head drooping toward the embers. The white light of Solinari washed his hair in silver. The dying firelight tinged the silver with rose. A single coral-hued strand had fallen across his closed eyes. Verhanna put up a hand to brush it away, but as her finger drew near, she shivered violently. It wasn’t the cold of the night, for under her bedroll, by the fire, she was quite warm.

It must be tiredness, she decided, and the lingering effects of the goblin bite. The Qualinesti princess withdrew her hand and put her head down to sleep.

Verhanna’s rest was troubled. She wasn’t usually prone to disturbing dreams, but on this occasion, visions appeared in her mind, images of magic and power in a dark forest peopled by her father, Ulvian, Greenhands, and some others she didn’t recognize. One countenance appeared frequently – a Kagonesti woman unknown to her. The wild elf woman had eyes the same brilliant green as Greenhands, and her face was painted with yellow and red lines. Her expression was ineffably sad, but in spite of the barbaric face paint, it was also regal and proud.

A faint noise intruded on Verhanna’s visions. The warrior maiden’s trained senses brought her fully awake. Only her eyes shifted as she tried to discover what had disturbed her. The fire was out, though a thin ribbon of white smoke rose from the bed of cinders. Her half-human eyes weren’t as sharp as those of her fullblooded elf kin, but they were better than any human’s. The moons had set, but the light of the stars was enough for her to make out a dark shape hovering over their pile of baggage, only a few yards from where she lay.

Kender, if you’re trying to scare me, I’ll have your topknot for a feather duster, she vowed silently. The black shape rose from its crouch. It was far too tall to be Rufus Wrinklecap.

In a flash, Verhanna rolled to her feet and drew her sword. She’d been lying on it, just in case Rufus was right about wolves. The intruder flinched and backed away. She heard hooves striking the stony ground. Her opponent must be mounted.

“Who are you?” Verhanna demanded. A strong animal smell invaded her nostrils.

More hoofbeats thumped in the shadows beyond Verhanna’s line of sight. She was getting worried; there was no telling how many foes she faced. Advancing to the firepit, she kicked some of the kindling Rufus had piled up onto the coals. The dry bark caught quickly and blazed up.

“Kothlolo!” With a loud bass cry, the thing near their baggage threw up an arm to shield its eyes. Verhanna gasped when she saw it clearly – it had the head, arms, and torso of a man, but four legs and a swishing horse’s tail. A centaur!

“Kothlolo!” shouted the centaur again. The circle of firelight caught the movement of other centaurs a few paces away. Verhanna shouted to Rufus and Greenhands to wake up.

“Rufus! Rufus, you dung beetle! Where are you?” she called.

“Here, my captain.” He was just behind her. She wrenched her gaze from the nearest centaur long enough to spy the kender sitting atop a large boulder. “Who are your new friends?” he asked innocently.

“Idiot! Centaurs murder travelers! Some of them are cannibals!”

“Ho,” rumbled the nearest centaur. “Only eat ugly two-legs.”

She almost dropped her sword in surprise. “You speak Elven?”

“Some.” On Verhanna’s left and right, half-man, half-horse creatures pressed in toward the fire. She counted seven of them, five brown and two black. They carried rusty iron swords and spears or crude clubs made from small tree trunks. The one who had spoken to Verhanna carried a bow and quiver of arrows slung across his body.

“You do not fight, we do not fight,” he said, cocking his brown head at her. Verhanna put her back against the boulder and kept her sword ready. Above her, Rufus loaded his sling.

“What do you want?” asked the warrior maiden.

“I am Koth, leader of this band. We follow the jerda, we hunt them,” said the centaur. He held up hairy brown fingers to his forehead to imitate horns. Understanding dawned on Verhanna. He meant the elk herd. “Jerda ran hard, and we lost them. Kothlolo are very hungry.”

Kothlolo must be the centaur word for “centaur,” Verhanna decided. “We haven’t much food ourselves,” she said. “We did see the elk herd. It was heading toward the Astradine River.”

A black-coated centaur picked up her saddlebags and pawed through them. He found a lump of bacon and shoved it in his mouth. Immediately those nearest him swarmed over him, trying to snatch the smoked meat from his lips. The centaurs dissolved into a bucking, scrabbling fight, with only the bass-voiced Koth remaining aloof.

“They are pretty hungry,” Rufus observed.

“And numerous,” mumbled Verhanna. She couldn’t very well start a fight with so many centaurs. She and Rufus might well end up as the main course at a losers’ banquet.

“Where’s Greenhands?” she said softly, looking around.

Through all the talking and squabbling over food, Greenhands had sat unmoving, lost in slumber.

So complete was his sleep, Verhanna felt obliged to see if he was breathing. He was.

“By Astra, when he sleeps, he sleeps,” she muttered.

A centaur found Rufus’s store of walnuts in his ration bag. The others tore at his hand, scattering the nuts over the campsite. A few landed on Greenhands’ head, and he finally stirred.

“You’re alive,” Verhanna said caustically. “I thought I was going to have to beat a gong.”

The elf’s face was blank. He licked his dry lips and said, “I’ve been away. Far away. I saw my mother and spoke to her.” Looking up at Verhanna, he added, “You were with me for a time. In the forest, with others I did not know.”

Had they been sharing the same dream? At another time, Verhanna might have been curious, but just now she had other worries. “Never mind that now,” she said to the elf. “We’ve got a camp full of wild, starving centaurs.”

Greenhands started in surprise. He jumped to his feet and walked right up to the centaur leader. “Greetings, uncle,” he said. “How fare you?”

As Rufus and Verhanna exchanged looks of consternation, Koth bowed and replied, “I am a dried gourd, my cousin. And my cousins here are likewise empty.”

“My friends have little to eat, uncle. May I show you to a stand of mountain apples? They are nearby and very sweet.”

The centaur laughed, showing fearsome yellow teeth. “Ho, little cousin! I am not so young in the world that I think there are apples in early summer!”

Greenhands pressed a hand to his heart. “They are there, uncle. Will you come?”

The sincerity of his manner won over the centaur’s natural skepticism. He snapped an order to his squabbling comrades, and the band of centaurs formed behind Greenhands. Then, without a brand to light the way, he stepped into the darkness, up the far slope. The centaurs followed, their small, worn hooves fitting deftly into the clefts in the rocks.

Rufus jumped off his boulder and started after them. “You, too?” snorted the warrior woman.

“My captain, I doubt nothing about that elf.”

Sheathing her sword, Verhanna found herself alone by the campfire. With a long-suffering sigh, she reluctantly followed the troop. Rufus made his way easily up the slope; the going was less easy for her, being larger and burdened with armor. Soon Rufus pulled away from her, and the only sign she had of him was the steady trickle of pebbles he dislodged on his way up.

The slope ended suddenly. A ravine plunged down in front of Verhanna, and she almost fell face first into it. She flung her hands wide on the crumbling, gravelly soil and cursed herself for following Greenhands in the middle of the night. Once she’d gotten to her feet and dusted the dirt from her palms, Verhanna looked down into the shallow ravine. She was amazed by what she saw. There, nestled close to the sheer wall of the rising mountain, was a stand of apple trees, heavy with fruit. The Qualinesti princess moved down for a closer look.

The ground around the trees was littered with fallen apples, some rotten-soft, and the air was spiced by their fermented odor. The centaurs appeared to esteem these, for they galloped up and down the ravine, filling their arms with the fallen fruit. Greenhands, Rufus, and Koth, the centaur leader, were standing together under the largest apple tree. The ancient tree was warped by wind and frost, yet its gnarled roots gripped the stony earth tenaciously.

“How did you know these were here?” Verhanna asked.

Greenhands looked at the laden branches close to his head. “I heard them. Old trees have loud voices,” he said.

Verhanna was speechless. His words seemed completely ridiculous to her, yet she couldn’t dispute the find.

Rufus went to the tree and climbed up to a triple fork of branches. He inched out on a branch until he could just reach a ripe fruit still hanging from the tree. Before his fingers could close on it, Greenhands was there, his moss-colored fingers wrapping tightly around the kender’s wrist.

“No, little friend,” he chided. “You mustn’t take what the tree has not offered!”

Koth popped a whole apple in his mouth and chewed it up – stem, seeds, skin, and all. He grinned at Verhanna. “Your cousin with the green fingers is one of the old ones,” he said.

“Old ones” was a common epithet given to members of the elven race. Verhanna, still ill-at-ease around the centaur band, said, “He’s not my cousin.”

“All peoples are cousins,” answered Koth. Bits of overripe apple flew from his mouth. The other centaurs were racing around the ravine, yelling and dancing. Verhanna realized that the fermented fruit was making them tipsy. Soon the centaurs were singing, arms looped around their fellows’ shoulders. Their bass and baritone voices sounded surprisingly harmonious.

Koth sang:

“Child of oak, newly born,

Walks among the mortals mild,

By lightning from his mother torn.

Who knows the father of this child?

Who hears music in the flowers’ sway

And fears no creature in the wild

Shall wear a crown made far away

And dwell within a tower tiled.”

“You made up a song about Greenhands,” Rufus said admiringly. “That part about crowns, though —”

“It is a very sad song,” Koth interrupted. “My grandfather’s grandfather sang it, and ‘twas ancient then.”

Verhanna was growing tired of the drunken, bumptious centaurs. When one thumped into her for the second time, she announced she was going back to get some sleep. She strongly hinted that Rufus and Greenhands should do likewise.

“Cousin,” said Koth to Greenhands, “You travel far?”

The centaurs quieted down and gathered around the green-fingered elf. “Yes, uncle. My father awaits me in a high place of stone,” replied Greenhands.

“Then take this with you, gentle cousin.” Koth took a ram’s horn that hung by a strap around his neck and gave it to the elf. “If ever you need the Sons of the Wind, blow hard on this horn and we shall come.”

“Thank you, uncle, and all my cousins,” Greenhands said, looping the strap around his neck.

He led the warrior maiden and the kender back to their camp. No one spoke. The shouts of the centaurs echoed once more through the peaks, slurred now as they continued to eat the fermented apples. Greenhands returned to the same boulder he’d sat by before, and he was asleep nearly as soon as he sat down. Rufus climbed back up to his safe perch, and Verhanna curled up by the dying fire. The smell of the centaurs lingered in her nostrils a long time. So did the words to Koth’s ancient song.

Chapter 13

THE GREAT STONE HOUSE

Dru and Ulvian rode all day without stopping. The rugged mountain ponies were hardy beasts, but even they rebelled at such treatment. By evening, they were panting and balking. In a fury, Dru lashed at his mount with a cut sapling switch. The pony responded by throwing the short-tempered sorcerer to the ground and galloping away.

Ulvian, sitting calmly on his own mount, watched Dru’s fall and the flight of the abused pony. Dru scrambled to his feet and shouted, “After him! Worthless nag! I’ll flay him if I ever get my hands on him!”

“Seems unlikely, from where I sit,” remarked the prince. He slid off his horse, wincing. Riding bareback through the mountains for six hours had taken its toll on his aching backside.

Dru scowled and threw the hair back from his eyes. His manner had changed considerably since they left Pax Tharkas; his respectfulness, never sincere, had vanished completely. Sitting on a convenient boulder, he stared daggers in the direction of the fleeing pony.

All anger at the horse was forgotten, though, when Ulvian pulled the golden box out of his ragged cloak. The gilt flashed in the failing daylight. Dru licked his thin lips expectantly as Ulvian set the box on the ground between his feet. The prince produced the only tool he had, a mason’s trowel he’d picked up near Feldrin’s tent. He poked and scraped at the box. The gilt covering was supple, like leather, but the hard dwarven iron of the trowel didn’t even scratch it. A charmed box indeed. Ulvian examined the hinges, the hasp in front, and the seal that held the box closed.

“Well?” Dru demanded peevishly. “What are you waiting for? Open it!”

“I shall. There’s no sense blundering into it, though.” The sorcerer slapped his thigh in frustration.

Ulvian lifted the seal on its silken string. He guessed that Feldrin wouldn’t rely on a flimsy wax seal alone to protect the black amulet. Hooking the tip of the trowel inside the loop of silk, he broke the seal. Dru inhaled sharply.

“Now,” he breathed. “Open it!”

The prince set the box down. The hasp was loose. Very gently he inserted the tip of the trowel under the lid and, with a sudden jerk, flipped the lid up. Something moved with blinding speed toward his hand. Ulvian recoiled and drove the trowel like a knife into the yellowgreen thing that had leapt at him.

Dru peered over his shoulder. “What is it?”

Skewered neatly on the tool was a large spider with a red rectangle on its belly.

“A headstone spider,” Dru said. His tone was admiring. “One bite means certain death. Old Feldrin wasn’t such a fool after all.”

The prince flung the dead spider aside. Inside the box was a folded piece of silver cloth. Though there was little light remaining, the silver material threw off scintillas of light. When Ulvian touched it, its surface rippled with iridescent colors. The lumpy shape of the onyx amulet was obvious beneath the supple material. Without removing the cloth, he surreptitiously pushed the cylinder out of the ring, separating the halves of the magic talisman.

“Give it to me,” Dru ordered imperiously. “Why are you so slow? Give me my amulet!”

Ulvian’s hazel eyes glittered like cold metal as he looked at the sorcerer. “And if I don’t? Will you flay me like the tired pony?”

The sorcerer balled his fists and nudged Ulvian sharply with his knee. “Don’t be a fool!” he thundered. “The whole point of our escaping was to get my amulet back! It’s of no use to you. Give it to me!”

Ulvian stood abruptly and presented the point of the trowel to Dru’s throat. Reddish blood, the poisonous blood of the headstone spider, covered the tool’s sharp tip. Dru blanched and turned his head away.

“You seem to forget that I am a prince,” Ulvian snapped.

Dru swallowed hard and forced a smile. It was the ghastly expression of a grinning skull. “My friend,” he said, striving for a soothing tone, “be at ease. I was – I am – very nervous about getting my property back. Did I not save you from the stone block? Didn’t my golem avenge the insults inflicted on you by Splint? We are free now, my prince, but vulnerable. Only my magic can protect us from the wrath of your father and the dwarf king.”

The trowel was lowered a few inches. “I am not afraid of my father. I have no intention of hiding from him,” Ulvian said slowly. “My only thought in aiding you was to escape those thugs in Pax Tharkas who seemed bent on murdering me. Now that we are free, I intend to make my way back to Qualinost.”

“But, Highness,” Dru objected, “How do you know your father won’t simply return you to Pax Tharkas? Your supposed crimes are now compounded by mayhem, murder, and escape. I would not trust the Speaker’s mercy. Better to return with me at your side, my prince, fully armed with all my black arts and ready to defend you!”

Ulvian bent over and lifted the wrapped amulet. Dru’s eyes bulged. Color flooded his face, and his breath hissed out. Ulvian shook the silver cloth, and a single piece of onyx – the ring – fell out into Dru’s hands. He put the cloth back in the box and closed the lid.

“What’s this?” Dru all but shrieked. “The other —”

“I don’t trust you enough to give it all to you. If you behave and do as I tell you, then I’ll give you the other half. Maybe.”

A scream of outrage welled up in the sorcerer’s throat, but it died before it could escape his lips. Instead, Dru closed his fingers around the black stone ring, and his tight lips pulled back in a smile. “As you wish, Highness. I, Drulethen, am your servant.”

The sorcerer told Ulvian that the onyx ring solved his transportation problem; he no longer needed a pony. The ring allowed its possessor to shape-change. Before Ulvian’s wide eyes, Drulethen the elven sorcerer expanded like a water-filled bladder. His skin split, and feathers sprouted. His fingers curved into talons as his arms were transformed into wings. A ripping scream issued from his swollen throat, and a hooked yellow beak burst through Dru’s face. The sorcerer’s eyes, as gray as storm clouds, were slowly suffused with a yellow tint. The transformation was too horrible to watch. When next Ulvian looked, a giant falcon stood before him, preening his shiny, golden-brown feathers.

So warlike was the expression in the great bird’s eyes, Ulvian fell back a pace. Uncertainly he asked, “Dru? Can you speak?”

“Har! Yes!”

Ulvian put the golden box under his cloak and walked to his pony, which was straining against its tied reins. The sight of the six-foot-tall hawk was unnerving it. As the prince mounted, he said, “Where shall we go?”

“Har! My home. Black Stone Peak. Har!”

So saying, the giant falcon spread its wings and lifted into the air. It was completely dark, but Dru’s eyes glowed yellow, allowing Ulvian to mark his position. Calling out his harsh cries, the transformed sorcerer circled overhead, guiding Ulvian along the narrow path. A few hours ride, Dru promised, and they would reach his stronghold, the ancient pinnacle known as Black Stone Peak.

*

Twenty elven warriors, armed with lance and shield, formed ranks in the pass above Pax Tharkas with Kemian Ambrodel and Kith-Kanan at their head. Each warrior carried three days’ worth of water and dried food, a thin blanket roll, and a clay cup. Kith-Kanan told his soldiers that the eyrie occupied by Drulethen was at the very highest ridge of the Kharolis, up a steep trail. The warriors would need to travel fast and light.

The peak of his conical helmet flashed in the clean mountain sunlight. No ceremonial headpiece, Kith-Kanan’s helmet had served him all through the Kinslayer War and bore its hammered-out dents and broken rivets with pride. Mounted on his snow-white charger, the Speaker looked back over his small band of fighters, none of whom had served with him against the armies of Ergoth. He marveled at their youthful seriousness. When the young blades of Silvanesti had first gone to war against the humans, they had done so with singing and shouting and tales of valor ringing in their ears.

Every one of them imagined himself a hero in the making. But these warriors with their solemn faces – where did these pensive young elves come from?

He raised his hand and ordered Kemian to lead the warriors forward. Tamanier called out, “When will you return, Great Speaker?”

“If you do not see my face five days hence, summon all the Wildrunners,” Kith-Kanan replied.

“And find Verhanna. She must know, too.”

Touching his heels to his horse’s snowy sides, Kith-Kanan cantered to the head of the double column. The old castellan watched the riders go. The constant breeze sweeping down the pass fluttered the small pennants on their lance tips. Tamanier was afraid, but he couldn’t decide whom he feared most – his own son, Prince Ulvian, or Kith-Kanan.

Leaning heavily on his staff, the castellan walked back to the camp. It was alive with the sound of saws and hammers, as the damage wrought by the golem was being speedily repaired.

*

The head of the pass gave onto three paths. One was the way down to Pax Tharkas; the one to Kith-Kanan’s left, north, was the route to Qualinost; and trickling off to the Speaker’s right, southward, was a narrow goat path that led to the higher reaches of the Kharolis Mountains. It was that way they must go.

“Single file. Tell the warriors,” Kith-Kanan said in quiet, clipped tones. It was strange how easily the old ways of war and campaign came back, even after a long time.

“Who shall ride point?” asked Kemian.

“I will.” The young general would have protested, but Kith-Kanan forestalled him by adding, “Drulethen and my son have had no time to set traps. Speed is the essential thing now. We must catch them before they reach the sorcerer’s stronghold.”

Kemian turned his horse around to spread the word to the others. He asked in parting, “Where is it this Drulethen is going? A castle?”

“Not exactly. It’s called Black Stone Peak. The mountaintop was once a nest of dragons, who hollowed out the spire and made a warren of caves through it. Drulethen, with the help of his dark masters, took over the empty peak and made it his stronghold. You see, many years ago, during the great war, Drulethen extracted tribute from the dwarves as well as from any caravan crossing the mountains. He used to fly out on a tame wyvern and carry off captives to his high retreat. It took a concentrated assault by the dwarves and the griffon corps to overcome him.”

“It must have been an amazing battle, sire. Why have I not heard of it? Why is it not sung?” he asked.

Unaccountably Kith-Kanan’s eyes avoided his. “It was not a proud fight,” he said, “nor an honorable one. I will say no more about it.”

Kemian saluted and rode off to give the troopers their orders. The warriors strung out in a long, single-file line. The path was so narrow the riders’ boots scraped rock on both sides as they negotiated the passage. Their lances proved troublesome in the close quarters as well. They were constantly banging against the overhanging wall of rock, making quite a clatter and bringing a barrage of pebbles down on the riders’ heads. This narrow trail persisted for some hours, until Kith-Kanan emerged from it onto a small plateau. Once hemmed in by rock, the warriors were now exposed. The plateau was turtlebacked, paved with large stones worn smooth by centuries of wind and the runoff of melting ice. The heavy cavalry horses stumbled on the rocks. Dru’s and Ulvian’s ponies were far better suited to this terrain.

A cloud passed between the sun and the valley below. They were so high up, the cloud sailed along below them. The elves admired the view, and Kith-Kanan allowed them to rest for a few minutes while he scouted ahead. Kemian turned his horse to follow the Speaker.

“Any sign, Majesty?” he asked.

“Some.” Kith-Kanan pointed to where moss had been scuffed off some stones by the hooves of ponies. “They are nearly a half day ahead of us,” he reported grimly.

Water bottles were tucked away, and the ride resumed. They crossed the plateau to a steeply climbing trail. Kith-Kanan spotted a glint of metal on the ground. He raised his hand to halt the troopers and dismounted. With his dagger tip, he fished the object out from a cleft in the rocks. It was the broken lock from Feldrin’s golden casket. A cold pressure constricted the Speaker’s heart.

“They have opened the box,” he said to Kemian. Standing, Kith-Kanan held the broken lock in his gauntleted palm and studied the surrounding slopes. “Yet there’s no sign of any magic being unleashed. Perhaps Drulethen does not possess the amulet yet.” Perhaps his son was smarter than he reckoned, Kith-Kanan silently added. The only hope Ulvian had for survival was to keep the talisman from the sorcerer’s hands. The Speaker could only pray that his son realized that. Of course, Drulethen might be in such a hurry to reach his stronghold that he simply hadn’t used the power he possessed.

The Speaker remounted and dropped the broken lock into his saddlebag. “Pass the word: Be as silent as possible. And quicken the pace.”

Kemian nodded, his blood racing. This was far more challenging than rounding up bands of scruffy slavers. The chill air seemed charged with danger. The general rode down the line, conferring with the warriors in a hushed voice. The young fighters tugged at harness straps and armor fittings, tightening everything.

Kith-Kanan remained in the lead. He shifted his sword handle forward for easier drawing. Alone among all the rest, he was armed with sword and small buckler, instead of lance and full shield. His charger took the slope easily, its powerful legs propelling horse and rider up the hill. The warriors followed, but it was a slow process going up so steep a grade in single file. The column strung out until a half-mile separated Kith-Kanan and the last rider.

A covey of black birds started up in front of Kith-Kanan’s horse. The animal snorted and tried to rear, but the Speaker’s strong hands on his reins brought him down. With soothing pats and almost inaudible words, Kith-Kanan calmed his nervous mount. The black birds circled overhead, twittering. Staring up at the ebony whirlwind, Kith-Kanan experienced a sudden flash of memory, of a time long ago when crows had watched him as he struggled to find his way through a deep and mysterious forest. They had led him to the boy, Mackeli, who in turn had brought him to Anaya.

A shout from behind snapped Kith-Kanan’s head around. One of the warriors had seen something. He twisted his horse around in time to see the elf lower his lance and charge into a small passage Kith-Kanan had passed a hundred paces back down the trail. There was a fearful scream. The nearest warriors crowded into the passage. Kith-Kanan rode hard down the slope, shouting at them to clear the way.

Just before he reached the mouth of the side ravine, the warriors sprang apart, some losing their lances in the process. A dark brown form hurtled by, veered between the tall chargers, and bolted down the trail. Seconds later, a sheepish-looking warrior appeared, unharmed, from the narrow passage.

“Your Majesty,” said the elf, scarlet to his ear tips. “Forgive me. It was a stray pony.”

The warriors, keyed up for a fight or to face some unknown horror, began to chuckle. The chuckles grew into guffaws.

“Brave fellow!”

“How big was the pony’s sword?”

“Did he kick you with his little hooves?” they gibed. Kith-Kanan called them down, and they rapidly fell silent. The Speaker glared at them.

“This is not a pleasure ride!” he snapped. “You are in the field, and the enemy could be near! Deport yourselves like warriors!”

He ordered the soldier who’d charged the pony to report exactly what had happened.

“Sire, I saw something large and dark move. I called out, and it didn’t answer. When I challenged it again, it looked like it was trying to avoid being seen. So I couched my lance and went after it.”

“You did correctly,” Kith-Kanan replied. “You say it was a pony?”

“Yes, sire. Its mane was clipped short, and there was a brand on its left flank – a hammer and square.”

“The royal brand of Thorbardin,” Kemian observed. “The pony came from Pax Tharkas.”

Kith-Kanan agreed. “It must be one of the stolen ones. Why is it free, I wonder?” he mused. It didn’t make sense for two escaping prisoners to abandon one of their mounts. The animal must have gotten away by accident.

“Luck is with us!” he announced. “Our quarry has lost half its mobility. If we ride without pause, we should overtake them!”

The elves hurried to their mounts. Kith-Kanan scanned the sky. The sun was subsiding in the west, throwing long shadows across the western peaks. They moved on, traveling into the setting sun, which made seeing distant objects difficult. However, the lost pony was a good omen. Drulethen could hardly be in full possession of his powers if he let a small horse get away.

A leaden sensation hit Kith-Kanan’s stomach like a hammer blow and his hands clenched the reins. Suppose the pony hadn’t bolted. Suppose Dru simply didn’t need it anymore. Because Ulvian wasn’t with him. Because Ulvian was already dead.

Kith-Kanan’s heart argued against it. The sorcerer had no reason to dispense with the prince yet. They had found no body, no sign of struggle, along the trail. Ulvian must be alive.

“Sire?”

Kith-Kanan turned to Kemian Ambrodel. “Yes?”

“The peak, sire. It’s in sight!”

Kith-Kanan looked up. Glowering down at them from its towering height, Black Stone Peak rose above the surrounding mountains. Clouds clung to its lower slopes, but the spire itself was washed by the orange sunset. No details were visible at this distance; the peak was at least twenty miles away.

“Keep the warriors moving,” Kith-Kanan said. The sight of the black pinnacle steeled his courage. For all their differences, there was a bond of blood between the Speaker and his son. If Ulvian had come to harm, Kith-Kanan would have sensed it. His son must still be alive. While he lived, there was hope. Separating him from the clutches of the sorcerer Drulethen, however, promised to be a difficult and dangerous task.

Chapter 14

THE CLASH OF STARS

Verhanna, Rufus, and Greenhands broke camp in early morning while heavy fog in the higher parts of the Kharolis still clung to the trail. It hampered their progress greatly. Fearing unseen crevices and crumbling paths, the trio crept slowly ahead, keeping their backs to the slope of Mount Vikris, the second highest peak in the mountain range. As the day wore on, the fog worsened, until the warrior maiden finally called a halt sometime in midafternoon.

“We’ll walk into a ravine if we continue,” Verhanna said, vexed. “It’s better to wait out the fog.”

“We don’t get stuff like this in the Magnet Mountains,” Rufus observed. “No, sir, we never get fog like this.”

“I wish we weren’t getting it here,” was her waspish reply.

Greenhands passed his fingers through the drifting mist, closing them quickly as if snatching something. Bringing his hands to his face, he opened his fingers and studied them closely.

“What’re you doing?” Verhanna asked.

“I cannot feel this gray thing around us, yet it dampens my hand,” he said, puzzled. “How is that?”

“How should I know?”

As he turned his serene gaze on her, perhaps to respond to her rhetorical question, Verhanna stepped away from the steep wall of the mountain and peered upward into the murk. “I wish there was some wood about. We could go on if we could make torches.”

There was no wood, so there was nothing to do but wait out the confounding mist. Patience had never been one of Verhanna’s virtues, and she chafed at the delay. Greenhands perched on the ground, his back propped against a square boulder. Rufus took a nap.

Eventually the sky darkened and the air cooled. The fog fell as a heavy dew, soaking the travelers, their horses, and all their baggage. Rufus’s hat sagged around his ears. Verhanna wiped futilely at her armor, muttering dire predictions about rust. Only the green-fingered elf remained unconcerned. His long hair hung in thick, damp strands, and water dripped from the hem of his poncho.

“Let’s move,” Verhanna said at last. “As I figure it, we’re only a couple hours’ ride from Pax Tharkas.”

Once more Greenhands took the lead. He seemed to know where he was going, though he’d never been this way before. Verhanna and Rufus let their mounts pick their way several paces behind him. The violet dusk quickly changed to purple twilight. Solinari, the silver moon, rose above the mountains. The top of the pass was in sight, no more than twoscore paces ahead.

The warrior maiden jiggled her reins, urging her horse to a faster walk. Greenhands was nearly to the top of the pass. His right foot came down on the ridge of rock and dirt that marked the highest point in the pass, and he abruptly stopped. Verhanna pulled up beside him.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Wait,” he replied. “It’s coming.”

“What now?”

She looked up and down the pass, alert for stampedes or rampaging goblins or anything.

Greenhands’ placid expression had changed to one of great excitement. His eyes danced as he pointed upward and said, “Look!”

The starry vault of the sky was crisscrossed by brilliant streaks of light. Dazzling fireballs began at one horizon, streamed upward to the zenith of heaven, and vanished in explosions of color. From every corner, to every corner, the sky was gridded with fiery trails that left ghostly glowing imprints on the watchers’ eyes.

Rufus halted on Greenhands’ other side. “Shooting stars,” he breathed, awestruck.

The celestial pyrotechnics raged on, utterly silent and blindingly brilliant. At times, two streaming fireballs would collide, making a doubly bright burst. Tiny streaks and broad, cometlike meteors were bom, chased each other, and died in every color of the rainbow. Red fireballs left yellow trails. Blue-white comets fell toward the ground, only to burst soundlessly overhead.

“What does it mean?” Rufus wondered, rubbing his neck, stiff from staring up so long.

“Who says it means anything?” replied Verhanna.

“Perhaps it’s an omen, or a warning from the gods, my captain.”

Greenhands smiled. “Do not always look for the worst, little friend. Perhaps this is simply the gods making merry. Maybe the gods need amusement, too. This might be a celebration, not a dire warning of doom.”

No one disputed his words, but Verhanna and Rufus shared a vague feeling of apprehension. This seemed but one more of the inexplicable, and therefore frightening, phenomena that had afflicted their world lately.

“Well, I can see the lamps of Pax Tharkas from here,” said Verhanna. “We’ll be there soon, and you can hunt for your poppa all over the camp.”

Greenhands pointed away from the site of the fortress. “No, this way,” he said and set off on the steep southern trail.

Verhanna maneuvered her horse in front of him. “Look here,” she fumed, “we’ve followed you across nowhere long enough. There’s nothing up this way. If your father is anywhere in these mountains, Pax Tharkas is the place to look. Besides, we’re low on food and water.”

“He is near,” said the green-fingered elf. Greenhands moved to go around the horse. Verhanna let her mount drift forward, cutting him off again. Finally the strange elf put his arms under the black charger’s belly.

“Hey!” Verhanna said sharply. “What’re you —?”

Greenhands planted his feet and lifted. Horse and rider together came off the ground. The animal remained strangely calm, though its feet dangled in midair. Verhanna remained quiet as well; she was dumbstruck. With a few grunts and only the slightest evidence of strain, the green-fingered elf raised the enormous load off the rocky ground, turned a half-circle, and set it down on the trail behind him.

“Yow! Do that again!” cried the kender. Greenhands was already on his way, climbing the path.

Stunned, Verhanna called for him to stop. When he didn’t, she said, rather illogically, “Stop him, Rufus! Don’t let him go that way!”

The kender gave her a look of supreme disgust. “How do you reckon I’ll stop him, my captain? Shall I tell him a funny story?”

Verhanna spurred her horse after the rapidly disappearing elf. She rattled up the sloping path, and out came her longsword. She had no desire to hurt him, but his confounding actions and sudden display of strength had shamed her. Raising her weapon, the warrior maiden intended to use the flat of the blade to stun Greenhands.

When she was only yards from the elf, there was a sudden glare of blinding light. For an instant, the mountainside was as bright as noon. Rufus yelled shrilly, and Verhanna felt searing heat on her neck and upraised sword arm. A roar filled her ears, a sizzling sound hissed nearby, and all was white light and throbbing pain.

Eventually cool darkness returned, and Verhanna found herself looking up into the unhappy face of Greenhands.

“Are you all right, my captain?” he said worriedly.

“Y – Yes. Ow!”

Her sword arm burned and ached. “What hit me?”

“Nothing hit you,” said Rufus, his head showing over the kneeling elfs shoulder. “One of those fireballs blasted into the mountain just above your head. The strike flung you off your horse and did this.”

He tossed the stump of her sword down beside her. Verhanna numbly grasped the handle. It was still hot to the touch, and the blade had been melted off, leaving only a misshapen nub of iron above the crossguard.

“Where’s my horse?” she asked groggily.

Rufus shook his head sadly and glanced over his shoulder toward the precipitous drop down the side of the mountain. He quickly said, “You can have mine, though. It’s too big for me. I feel like a pea on a boar’s back.”

They hoisted the stiff Verhanna to her feet and showed her the furrow plowed over the slope by the fireball. The steaming slash was melted at the edges. It was a mere foot or so above where her head had been.

Verhanna peered down the steep slope where her mount had perished. Shaking her head, she whispered sadly, “Poor Sable. You were a brave warrior.” Greenhands was supporting her trembling body. When she stumbled over a stone, he steadied her effortlessly.

With a healthy boost from Greenhands, Verhanna was soon mounted on Rufus’s chestnut horse. Their mobility was severely reduced by the loss of an animal but the kender wasn’t heavy and his horse carried the two of them easily.

“Do you know this trail?” the warrior maiden asked Rufus as they rode away from Pax Tharkas.

“No, my captain, though it seems to lead higher into the mountains.” The kender scrutinized the stars through a screen of speeding meteors and announced they were headed south.

“Into Thorbardin,” Verhanna mused. She cradled her sword arm, still numb from the shock of the fireball’s near miss. For Greenhands’ benefit, she said loudly, “Your father wasn’t a dwarf, was he?”

Before the elf could reply, Rufus piped up, “Oh, that’s impossible, my captain. He’s much too good-looking.” Verhanna jabbed the kender in the stomach with her elbow – her sore elbow. Drawing in her breath sharply, she cursed and groaned, “Shut up, Wart.”

*

Like one of the famed towers of Silvanost, Black Stone Peak stood out against the starry sky, tall, cold, and imperious. The darker openings on its face were entrances to its web of caves, first carved out of the hard, black rock by wild dragons some two thousand years earlier. Ulvian halted his pony and stared up at the forbidding peak.

Dru had once more regained his human form. Now he pushed past the Qualinesti prince, eager to be home again.

“You’ll have to dismount,” said the sorcerer, his voice drifting back on the night air. “There’s no true path into the caves, only some hand-cut steps.”

Ulvian swung down and led the pony by the reins. The night was fiercely cold, and his worn clothes provided little protection. There was no wind around Black Stone Peak, unlike every other mountaintop Ulvian had ever visited. Here the air was still and pregnant with menace.

The trail ended, and the two started up an uneven set of steps chiseled from the living rock. The pony went along reluctantly, tugging at its halter as the steps became steeper and narrower. Ulvian warred with the frightened animal until the pony finally snatched the reins from his hand. It clattered over the steps and quickly fled down the steep, winding trail.

“It’s no matter, my prince.” Dru said genially. “There’s no place for the beast to go.”

Ulvian turned to continue his climb. In the darkness, he took a wrong step and slid off the rock stairway. His sudden gasp and the sound of scattering pebbles echoed loudly.

“We’ll break our necks trying to climb this in the dark!” Ulvian declared.

Dru held out his left hand. As the sorcerer muttered some words in an unknown tongue, Ulvian saw that the ring of black onyx lying in his palm had begun to glow faintly orange, then cherry red. In seconds, a crimson aura had enveloped the sorcerer. The prince, his cuts and bruises forgotten, shrank back as Dru turned toward him.

The sorcerer smiled. “Don’t be afraid, Highness. You wished for light, and I have provided it,” he said smoothly. He climbed higher, approaching the vertical side of the peak. In the glow of the amulet, an oval opening came into sight. Dru ducked into the low cave, and Ulvian, rather reluctantly, followed behind.

The cave smelled old and dry, with a faint background aroma of decay the prince couldn’t identify.

A dragon’s den should smell fetid, he knew, but this one had been vacant for two millennia. The floor was remarkably smooth and doubly difficult to walk on since it sloped seamlessly up to join the walls and ceiling.

As they moved through the passage, the bloody glow surrounding Dru now and again illuminated some object on the tunnel floor: a dead, desiccated bird, a broken clay lamp, some tatters of cloth.

The two moved hunchbacked for some distance. Suddenly Ulvian saw Dru straighten. In a pace or two, the prince had emerged from the low tunnel into a vast cavern hollowed out of the very center of the stone spire. The sorcerer kicked among some debris near the wall and found a torch. He muttered a word of magic over it, and the ancient timber burst into flame. Dru circled the great chamber, lighting other torches still held in iron wall brackets decorated with metal spikes. The smell of burning tarry pine filled the cold air.

When at last all the torches were lit, Dru tossed his into a firepit in the center of the room. Some debris and wood there crackled into flame.

Lighted, the chamber was hardly less fearful than when dark. Most of the furnishings were wrecked, destroyed when the sorcerer’s stronghold fell to the dwarves and elves. Glancing upward, Ulvian could see a few stars through the smoke hole fifty feet above him.

A more gruesome sight met his gaze when he looked down again. Resting in niches around the circular wall were hundreds and hundreds of skulls – white, empty, dry skulls. Some belonged to animals: mountain bears, elk, lions. Others were more disturbing. The light, airy craniums of elves nestled beside the thicker, smaller skulls of dwarves. In fewer numbers were human heads, recognizable by their wide jaws and small eye sockets.

“Lovely décor,” the prince said, sarcasm masking his nervousness.

Dru had righted a broken chair that could nonetheless bear his weight. “Oh, these are not my doing,” he said with mock humility. “The original owners of the peak collected these little mementos, and I didn’t have the heart to throw them away when I took possession.” A smile parted his thin lips. “Besides, I think they lend a certain air to my humble domicile.”

Ulvian shrugged and kicked through the shattered remains of Dru’s former life. He threw a leg over a stove-in barrel and sat. “Well, we’re here,” he said. “Now what?”

“Now you must give me the other half of my amulet.”

The small golden box was hard and heavy inside Ulvian’s cloak. “No,” the prince replied. “I have no illusions about how long I’ll live once I do that.”

“But, Your Highness, Feldrin will certainly send someone after us, perhaps even royal warriors of Thorbardin and Qualinesti! I cannot possibly defend us with only a half measure of my powers.”

Half a hundred skulls leered over Dru’s shoulders. Here on his own ground, the ragged prisoner of Pax Tharkas seemed to acquire new strength, greater self possession. “I didn’t come here to withstand a siege. I am bound for Qualinost,” Ulvian declared. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve gotten all the reward you earned – escape from Pax Tharkas and half your amulet.”

Dru folded his hands, twining his fingers together. “It’s a long way to Qualinost, my prince. You have neither horse, nor pony, nor royal griffon to take you there.”

From the corner of one eye, Ulvian saw the pommel of a sword lying on the floor, buried by torn parchment and broken pottery. “Am I your prisoner?” he asked coolly.

“I thought we were partners.”

“A prince of the blood and a base-born sorcerer, partners? I think not, Master Drulethen. On the other hand, if you wish to become my servant... “Ulvian rubbed his beard thoughtfully. The sword hilt was just beyond easy reach.

“I would serve you gladly! But without my entire amulet, I am a poor spell-caster and not half the sorcerer I could be for you, Highness.”

As Dru finished speaking, Ulvian hurled himself at the half-buried sword hilt. He skidded in the debris, and his fingers closed over the rough, wire-wrapped handle. By the time he’d rolled clumsily to his feet, Dru was gone. The broken chair was still there, but the sorcerer had vanished.

The prince whirled, searching wildly. Drulethen was nowhere to be seen. Then his voice boomed out, echoing in the vast circular hall. “You stupid half-breed! Do you think you can get the better of me so easily? How disappointed your father must be, to have such a worthless, stupid son. Will he weep, I wonder, when he learns of your death?”

“Come out and face me!” Ulvian cried, his eyes flying to and fro over the grisly trophies lining the wall.

“We could have worked together, you know,” Dru went on. ‘With your name and my power, we could have forged a mighty empire. No one could have stopped us – not the dwarves, nor the Speaker of the Stars in Silvanost. But you had to be foolishly greedy. You thought you could command Drulethen of Black Stone Peak.”

Ulvian stood by the firepit, turning constantly, keeping the sword always ready. It was an ancient dwarven blade, short and thick and rather rusty, but still lethal. The sorcerer’s voice bounced off the walls.

“I am no one’s tool!” the prince shouted. “Even my father will give way to me in time!”

Ten tunnel mouths opened into the central chamber at floor level, and Ulvian could see nearly a dozen more higher up. The prince didn’t recognize the one he’d emerged from with Dru. Sweat formed on his brow.

“I have only to wait,” the sorcerer said silkily. “When you fall asleep, the amulet will be mine.”

“Liar! You can’t touch the charmed box!”

“True enough, but I will have it, and I’ll be rid of you. Good night, my prince. Sleep well. I’ll be waiting.”

Then there was silence, except for the soft crackling of the fire.

“Dru!” called Ulvian. No answer. “Drulethen! If you don’t come out, I’ll pitch the box into a gorge so deep you’ll never find it!”

Still there was no response.

Furious and terrified, Ulvian strode to the nearest tunnel opening. As he stepped inside it, a wall of wind gushed forth, flinging him back into the circular chamber. It was impossible to resist the wind, as the slick, curving tunnel floor offered no purchase for his feet. Trash covering the floor whirled around him, and soon Ulvian was back by the firepit. The wind ceased abruptly.

The same thing happened when he tried two other tunnels. Dru wasn’t going to allow him to escape with the box. Very well, resolved the prince silently. If he had to, he would smash the onyx cylinder himself rather than allow the sorcerer to possess it. The pommel of the dwarven sword was hard brass; it would do nicely as a hammer.

The torches blazed brightly in their wall sconces. Ulvian sank down by the soot-stained rim of the firepit, the sword held firmly in one hand and the golden box in the other. The cold of the mountain penetrated to his very bones. He huddled by the small fire burning in the firepit and tried to ward off sleep.

*

Twenty warriors and their leaders crouched in a cold defile, screened on three sides by slabs of upright stone. Some watched the wild aerial display, mesmerized by the dash and clash of shooting stars. Others gripped their lance shafts tightly, feeling the strain of impending combat like a hollow ache in the pit of their bellies.

“I don’t like this – this marvel,” Kemian whispered. “Do you think it’s the sorcerer’s doing, Majesty?”

Kith-Kanan looked up at the dance of comets and shook his head. “That is beyond the power of any mortal to orchestrate,” he said. “More likely, it’s part of the other wonders we’ve seen.” For no reason he could name, the Speaker felt a surge of elation as he watched the stars racing and crashing over their heads. It seemed almost a celebration of sorts. He turned his attention back to the dark pinnacle just ahead. Dru and Ulvian must be inside by now. Still, they couldn’t simply storm in. There was no telling what might lie waiting for them.

Though the Speaker hadn’t been part of the attacking force that originally captured Drulethen, General Parnigar had. Parnigar had reported that Drulethen’s wyvern had slaughtered many good warriors who tried to fight it in the tight confines of the tunnels. At last, Parnigar and the noted dwarf hammer-fighter Thulden Forkbeard had gotten behind the monster and cut its head off.

“Here’s what we will do,” the Speaker whispered. The young warriors forgot the shooting stars and listened intently. “You will separate into five groups of four, and each group will enter a separate tunnel. They supposedly all converge on the center hall, but be careful! Be as silent as you can, and if you find Prince Ulvian, subdue him and bring him out.”

“What if we find the sorcerer?” asked one of the warriors.

“Take him alive if you can, but if he resists, slay him.” Twenty heads nodded in unison.

“Sire,” Kemian said, “what about you and me?”

“We shall go in the main entrance,” Kith-Kanan announced.

The warriors left their lances with their tethered horses and formed into their assault groups, daggers drawn. Kith-Kanan raised his hand, and the ones destined for the farthest cave opening started up the trail. A moment later, the second group set out, and when they had reached the base of Black Stone Peak, the Speaker and General Ambrodel drew their swords and started forward.

In the cold, still air, every sound was as clear as crystal – the click of spurs on stone, the squeak of armor joints flexing, the rush of each elf’s breath. The peak loomed over Kith-Kanan. Memories tumbled through his head, brief flashes of his past like the flare of the exploding meteors overhead. The scene he’d created by baring a weapon in the Tower of the Stars in Silvanost. Scaling the Quinari Palace the night he left on his resulting exile. Arcuballis, his noble griffon, companion during his sojourn in the wilds. Sithas, his twin, whom he hadn’t seen since the division of the elven nation. Flamehaired Hermathya. The vestiges of old shame still burned when he remembered how much he’d been tempted by her beauty, even though she was wife to his brother. His own wife, Suzine, who had perished in the war. Mackeli, his brother, if not by blood then by heart and soul. And as the black shadow of the peak covered him completely, Kith-Kanan recalled the face of Anaya, his first wife and greatest love, the dark Kagonesti woman he’d lost so long ago in the wild forest of Silvanesti.

The cave mouth was low, and both elves had to duck to enter. Kemian tried to go in ahead of his monarch, but Kith-Kanan gestured him back.

Compared to the brightly flashing display outside, the tunnel was velvet blackness. Kith-Kanan eased his feet along, sword point leading, as his eyes adjusted to the dark. The curving floor was like glass, and his iron-shod feet slid all too easily. Kemian lost his balance and fell backward, landing with a loud clang. Shamefaced, he rolled to his hands and knees and hissed, “Forgive me, Majesty!”

Kith-Kanan waved away his apology and asked, “Can you stand?”

The young general rose slowly. “Come,” whispered the Speaker.

A yellow glimmer appeared far ahead. Kith-Kanan’s breath froze on the chin guard of his helmet. The feeble light grew and picked out a thin coating of frost on the tunnel walls. No wonder it was so hard to walk! Kith-Kanan put out a hand to halt Kemian. The warrior stopped.

Carefully the Speaker replaced his sword in its scabbard. Tied to the upper hanger ring of the scabbard was a small leather bag, closed with a drawstring. Kith-Kanan removed the bag from its ring. It held powdered resin, which sword-armed warriors used to coat the grips of their weapons. During battle, blood and sweat conspired to make sword grips treacherous, so a generous layer of pine resin made a warrior’s hold more secure.

Kemian watched, fascinated, as Kith-Kanan sprinkled resin on the soles of his metal-clad boots.

The white powder clung to everything it touched. Kith-Kanan indicated that Kemian should imitate his action. The younger elf did so.

It was fortunate they applied the gum to their feet, for only a short way ahead, the tunnel floor sloped downward at such an angle that walking without the resin would have been impossible. By now, both elves could smell torches burning – and something else. They heard a low drone, not of conversation, but of a male voice singing.

The Speaker stopped short. He squatted, using his sword for balance. Far out in the center of the great chamber ahead, a lone figure huddled under a ragged brown cloak, rocking back and forth, humming.

“It’s the prince!” Kemian breathed.

There was no sign of Drulethen, which worried Kith-Kanan greatly, though he was relieved to see his son alive. “Stay hidden, General. I will approach my son.”

“No, sire!” Kemian caught the Speaker’s arm. “It could be a ruse to draw you out!”

“He is my son.” The Speaker’s brown eyes bored into Kemian’s blue ones. The general dropped his gaze and his restraining grip.

“The other warriors should be in position by now,” Kith-Kanan said encouragingly.

He stepped down the passage, his sword still sheathed. Kemian braced his hands against the walls and waited in an agony of suspense, fearing something would spring out and attack the Speaker.

Kith-Kanan emerged into the chamber. The array of skulls, the detritus of Drulethen’s former furnishings, failed to distract him. In a moderate tone, he called out, “Ulvian?”

The prince’s sagging head jerked up, and he swiveled his neck to face his father. Cuts and bruises marred his bearded face. Ulvian’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, that’s clever,” he said, his words slurred and rather high-pitched. “Assuming the shape of my father, eh? Well, it won’t work!”

He slashed at the air with an antique short sword.

Kith-Kanan glanced at the other tunnel mouths. The dark circles were all empty. He saw no sign of his other warriors.

“Son, it’s truly me. Where is Drulethen?”

Ulvian staggered to his feet. He needed two hands to keep the sword pointed at his father. “I won’t give you the amulet,” he snarled. “I won’t!”

Kith-Kanan walked slowly forward, hands wide and devoid of weapons. “Ulie, this is your father. I’ve come to save you. I’ve come to take you home.” He spoke soothingly, and the prince listened, his head hanging like a ponderous weight on his shoulders. The Speaker came within an arm’s length of his son.

“You’re not my father,” croaked the exhausted Ulvian. Awkwardly he thrust at Kith-Kanan. The Speaker easily sidestepped the blow and grappled with his bleary son. Kemian and all the other warriors, still hidden in the tunnels, burst from the openings, believing their Speaker was in danger. No sooner had they shown themselves than a blast of wind roared down from the ceiling, flattening the warriors and sweeping them head over heels back into the tunnels. Their cries echoed from far up the passages. The wind ceased blowing, and Kith-Kanan and Ulvian were alone in the chamber. Almost.

“Well, well,” said the voice of Dru. “The sovereign of Qualinesti has come to see me. I’m flattered. I knew there would be pursuit, but I hardly dared imagine the Speaker of the Sun himself would seek me out.”

“Show yourself, Drulethen,” Kith-Kanan commanded. “Or do you prefer to hide like some eavesdropping servant?”

“Here I am!”

Kith-Kanan whirled awkwardly, supporting Ulvian in his arms. The sorcerer had appeared behind them, on the opposite side of the firepit. Drulethen now wore a crimson robe. A band of shining black silk flowed across his chest and over his shoulder, trailing on the floor behind him. A ruby pin glittered in the silk on the sorcerer’s left breast, and his blond hair was shiningly clean and combed back from his forehead. All trace of the slave of Pax Tharkas called Dru was gone. He was Drulethen of Black Stone Peak once more.

“By your command, Great Speaker,” he said mockingly. He wore the onyx ring portion of the amulet around his neck on a strand of braided black silk. He bore no obvious weapons.

“You will surrender now to the authority of the Speaker of the Sun and the Thalas-Enthia of Qualinesti,” Kith-Kanan said. “Surrender or face the consequences.”

Dru chuckled. “Surrender? To one elf and one halfbreed? I think not. Your troops are scattered, Speaker, and cannot enter this place unless I wish it. And you cannot compel me to do anything.”

Never taking his eyes from the sorcerer, Kith-Kanan lowered Ulvian to the floor. The prince was unconscious from sheer exhaustion. The Speaker drew his own formidable blade.

“Swords don’t frighten me! I have only to wish it, and I’ll go where you’ll never see me or find me. That will leave you and your worthless son to fall asleep or starve. In either case, you will be at my mercy.”

The Speaker stared hard at Drulethen’s face. He knew from experience that magical disappearance was an illusion, a misdirection of the watcher’s attention. The sorcerer wasn’t going to fool him easily.

“So why don’t you go?” asked Kith-Kanan.

Drulethen stepped down from the hearth and circled around, coming closer. His scarlet raiment rustled softly. Kith-Kanan kept himself between the sorcerer and Ulvian. “I merely hoped that you could be reasonable,” purred the Silvanesti. “Perhaps we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”

Stall. Think, thought Kith-Kanan. Give Kemian a chance to do something. “Such as what?” the Speaker said.

“Inside your son’s shirt is a small golden box. It holds the other half of my amulet, and I cannot get it myself. If you give me the rest of my amulet, I will swear to serve you for, say, fifty years.”

“Serve me how? I do not traffic in black magic.”

Drulethen smiled pleasantly. He looked sleek and well groomed in his new attire, not at all like the wretched prisoner who had hauled stones from the Kharolis quarries. “If it’s definitions that bother you, then I’ll stipulate that I shall perform only the whitest of magic, exactly as Your Majesty orders. Isn’t that fair?”

Torchlight flashed off the ruby pinned to the black silk on Drulethen’s chest. Kith-Kanan’s eyes flickered to it and back to the sorcerer’s face. What had the magician just said? Ah, yes. He remembered now. “So for fifty years’ service to me, you get a lifetime of power for yourself,” he said. “Assuming you even honor your oath to me. I don’t think the world would thank me, Drulethen.”

The sorcerer’s gray eyes were flinty. “Then your answer is no?”

“It is no.”

The ruby flashed fire again. This time Kith-Kanan’s attention strayed too long, and Drulethen suddenly wasn’t there. The Speaker crouched, ready for an attack, then cut through the air with his sword. From above came thin, eerie laughter.

“Father and son are so alike!” chortled Drulethen. “I shall leave you to a common fate. Farewell, son of Sithel! I only wish my wyvern were here. He did so enjoy eating the flesh of highborn Silvanesti!” The laughter took a long time to fade away.

Kith-Kanan knelt and found the hard lump that was Feldrin’s box inside Ulvian’s clothing. The prince never stirred.

Circling the room, the Speaker searched for a way out. No wind rushed in at him unless he got within a pace of an opening. Lying just inside the tunnels were daggers and helmets dropped by his lancers.

An idea came to him. Cupping his hands to his mouth, Kith-Kanan shouted, “Hello! Kemian Ambrodel, can you hear me?”

Nothing. He moved to the next tunnel, always standing back to avoid triggering the magic wind. “Hello, this is the Speaker! Can you hear me?” he cried. After trying six holes, he finally received a reply.

“Yes, we hear you,” came the faint answer. It was one of his warriors. Soon the Speaker heard Kemian’s shout.

“Get all the rope you have,” Kith-Kanan ordered. “Tie it together, then tie one end to a large rock. Roll it into the tunnel. It should follow the downslope to me, then I’ll be able to use the rope to climb out against the wind!”

“Understood!”

“It won’t work,” said Dru’s bland voice. “No rope in the world can withstand the Breath of Hiddukel.”

Kith-Kanan planted his fists on his hips and said sarcastically, “You don’t mind if we try, though, do you?”

He returned to his sleeping son and gathered him in his arms. He lay Ulvian’s slack form near the entrance to the tunnel where he’d heard his warriors. As he did so, Kith-Kanan recalled Drulethen’s reference to Hiddukel. That must be the evil sorcerer’s patron deity. Weeks ago, when Hiddukel had appeared to him in the Tower of the Sun, he’d given his name as Dru. Had the god been hinting at the part his infamous disciple would play in the lives of the Qualinesti?

“There’s no way out for you.” Dru’s voice was sharp. “Give me my amulet, and I’ll spare your life.”

“My life? A while ago you offered to be my slave for fifty years.”

The sorcerer said no more. Kith-Kanan drew a tattered piece of tapestry over his son and sat down to wait. His nerves were singing with tension, but he knew that if the warriors took too long, fatigue would surely set in.

And nothing would stand between Drulethen and his black amulet.

Chapter 15

THE FERTILE SEED

“Are you sure this is the way?”

Rufus Wrinklecap’s high voice split the cold night air. He, Verhanna, and Greenhands were following the steep, south-leading pathway up into the mountains. Verhanna had convinced Greenhands to let the kender take the lead to scout the narrow path for them. After some grumbling about having to walk instead of ride, Rufus complied. He quickly grew excited as he detected signs that others had passed along the trail very recently.

“Who were they?” asked Verhanna.

“Qualinesti, on shod horses,” the kender replied. He sniffed the scant hoofprints, barely indented in the stony soil. “Warriors. At least twenty of them.”

She scoffed, “How can you tell they were warriors?” Rufus stuck his small nose in the air. “I can smell their iron, my captain.”

Verhanna pondered the significance of the warriors’ presence. They surely weren’t hunting runaways from Pax Tharkas; Feldrin Feldspar had dwarven brigades to do such work. Intrigued, she moved on, following the kender.

Greenhands had barely spoken at all since they’d begun to climb. Not even the continued panorama of fiery comets overhead broke his profound silence.

At last they reached a small level patch on the upward slope, and Verhanna called a pause for rest.

Rufus dropped where he stood, worn out by his nose-to-the-ground scouting. Greenhands remained upright, his eyes fastened on the slope before them. Now he started off again. Verhanna, chewing on a piece of venison jerky, called him back.

“My father is near,” he replied, glancing back at her. “I must go.”

Wearily the warrior maiden dropped her half-eaten snack in her saddlebag. “Come on, Wart. His Majesty is going.”

“What’s the hurry?” complained the kender. Verhanna offered him a hand, and he swung onto the saddle pillion. “Where are we going? That’s all I want to know – and what’s the hurry?”

“Don’t ask me,” Verhanna said, clucking her tongue to urge the tired horse forward. “But I tell you this, Wart – If we don’t find something significant by sunrise, I’m turning back, and to Darkness with Greenhands!”

The trail made several sharp turns and climbed at an even greater rate, so that they lost sight of Greenhands, who was keeping some paces ahead of them. Verhanna and Rufus passed a deeply shadowed defile on their left, and the horse halted on its own. It danced and snorted, tossing its head and refusing to go on, no matter how Verhanna coaxed or used her spurs.

The sky went dark.

The sudden cessation of the darting stars was startling and left the landscape much blacker than before. No moons shone; only the glimmer of starlight illuminated their way.

Rufus tugged at Verhanna’s elbow. “The horse is calm now,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“No, wait. Don’t you feel it?”

Her voice was a whisper, and Verhanna sat stiff and still in the saddle.

“Feel what?” the kender asked impatiently.

“Like a storm is about to break....”

Rufus replied tartly that he felt nothing, and Verhanna touched her heels to the horse’s flanks. They went on. Around a turn, the sharp spire that was Black Stone Peak jutted into view, blotting out an area of stars.

“I feel cold,” said Rufus, wiggling closer to Verhanna’s back.

“I hear voices!” she hissed, and urged the horse to a brisker pace. Up the final stretch of trail, kender and warrior maiden rode hard. They burst onto a scene of frantic activity. A score of white faces turned to her, and she recognized them as fellow Guards of the Sun.

Kemian Ambrodel appeared out of the night. “Lady Verhanna!” he exclaimed. “This is amazing! How come you to be here?” He offered a gauntleted hand to her.

She shook his hand and said frankly, “My lord, I’m no less shocked to see you. My scout and I were led here by an extraordinary fellow, a tall, flaxen-haired elf we call Greenhands. He must’ve passed you only moments ago.”

“He is here. I put him aside, as we are too busy to deal with newcomers at present.” Kemian lifted his chin to indicate a boulder a few paces away. On it was seated the green-fingered elf. His attention was not directed at the warriors or Verhanna, but at Black Stone Peak.

Verhanna dismounted, and Rufus hopped to the ground behind her. “What’s going on here?” piped the kender.

The warriors were tying hank after hank of rope together. Most of it was in short lengths, used to tether horses on a picket line at night.

“Your father is in there,” Kemian said gravely, sweeping a hand toward the black spire of rock behind them. Quickly the young general sketched the situation.

“Will two extra pairs of hands help, my lord?” she asked.

Kemian grasped her shoulder. “More than help, lady.”

Verhanna and Rufus began tying what line they had to the end of the warriors’ supply. While thus engaged, they didn’t notice Greenhands slide off the boulder and walk straight up the ramp toward the caves in the spire. Rufus glimpsed him and shouted, “Hey!”

“Stop!” Kemian commanded. Greenhands was almost at the mouth of one of the cave openings. At any second, the awful wind would rise and sweep him back. It might also scatter their hard-won loops of rope. “Stop at once, I say!” bellowed Lord Ambrodel.

Greenhands spared a brief look at the elves and kender, then stepped into the opening. Kemian Ambrodel clenched his jaw, his body tensing in anticipation.

No wind boiled forth. The night was quiet and cold, and not a breath of breeze stirred.

Kemian gaped. “Who is this elf? A sorcerer?”

“A very strange fellow,” Rufus said. He struggled with the rope he was tying. It was thick and stiff. “He’s got all kinds of power, but he never works a spell.”

Lord Ambrodel looked to Verhanna. “Wart’s right,” she agreed. “If anybody can reach my father, this Greenhands can.”

“We can’t risk the Speaker’s life on some vagabond’s tricks. Get the rope ready!” barked Kemian.

The warriors gathered up the rope and hastened to the main tunnel mouth. Rufus had wrapped the tough rope around his small hands, the better to wrestle with a last knot, and he was dragged all the way to the base of the peak.

*

Kith-Kanan tapped the flat of his sword blade against the palm of his hand. Dru had made no sound or appearance in an hour or more, and the torches around the great circular room were burning out one by one. Half were gone when he heard the distant ring of shouting outside. He called up the tunnel in reply, but all was silence once more. The Speaker didn’t want to make too much noise for fear of encouraging Dru to think he despaired of his situation.

Ulvian lay completely immobile at Kith-Kanan’s feet. Father regarded son with mixed feelings. It was Ulvian’s willfulness and pride that had brought them here. He had not only dealt in slaves, but also had fled the Speaker’s justice and helped an evil sorcerer to escape. Yet Kith-Kanan’s expression softened as he watched him sleep, curled up on the floor like a harmless child. This was his son, the baby boy he and Suzine had rejoiced in. He might be fully grown, but his heart was as a child’s – a boy who adored his mother and seldom saw his father.

Tiredly Kith-Kanan rubbed his temples and tried not to dwell on what might have been.

“You are not alone.”

Kith-Kanan whirled. A quarter of the way around the room, a solitary elf stood. It wasn’t Dru. This elf was tall, fair-haired, young. He wore a rough horsehair poncho and leather trews. His gaze on

Kith-Kanan was intense.

“Who are you?” demanded the Speaker, stepping over Ulvian. “Is this another of your guises, Drulethen?”

The stranger didn’t respond. Instead, he continued to regard Kith-Kanan with an unsettling stare.

His face bore such a look of rapt joy that the Speaker was momentarily distracted from his own worry. With a shake, as if coming to himself suddenly, Kith-Kanan lifted his sword point a bit higher and demanded, “Answer me!”

“Who are you?”

“I am Greenhands. At least, that’s what my captain calls me.”

“Green —” Kith-Kanan’s eyes traveled downward, noticing the colored fingers for the first time. The room was growing dimmer as more of the torches flickered and died, but the grassy hue of the elf’s hands was plainly visible.

“How did you get in here? Why didn’t the wind blow you out?” asked the Speaker sharply.

“I simply walked in. I have been looking for you for a long time.” The stranger moved a few paces closer, and a smile lightened his face. “You are my father.”

Kith-Kanan was taken aback. His first reaction to this astonishing statement was puzzlement. If this was some trick of the sorcerer’s, what was its purpose? Perhaps this elf was some feeble-minded innocent, a dupe of Drulethen’s.

Again Greenhands moved nearer to the one for whom he had searched. Kith-Kanan’s shifting thoughts were stilled as he looked into the strange elf’s eyes. They were brilliantly, shiningly green, brighter than the clearest emeralds. His face seemed familiar somehow – the full-lipped mouth, the high forehead, the shape of his nose. It reminded the Speaker of – Kith-Kanan rocked back on his heels, stunned by the thought that had exploded across his mind. Anaya! The tall elf reminded him of Anaya. The features, the eyes, were identical, even his green-tinged skin. Anaya’s skin had changed just so when she had begun her transformation into a mighty oak. Lowering his sword, he moved forward to meet Greenhands halfway, near the now cold firepit. Their height was identical.

“Hello, Father,” Greenhands said happily.

Kith-Kanan couldn’t believe what he saw. It seemed impossible, yet he only had to look at this young elf to see his amazing resemblance to Anaya, to know that he spoke the truth. Somehow, by some miracle, his and Anaya’s son had come here, to Black Stone Peak.

The Speaker’s voice was uncertain, so strong were the emotions that gripped him. “Your coming was foretold to me centuries ago,” he whispered. “Only I did not understand then....” He lifted a shaking hand to touch Greenhands’ face. The elf smiled broadly, and Kith-Kanan enveloped him in a warm embrace. “My son!”

The happy moment was brief. Danger remained all around them. Kith-Kanan wiped away the tears that dampened his cheek and held Greenhands out at arm’s length.

There was a rush of air overhead, a beating of unseen wings. Alarmed, Kith-Kanan stood back and raised his sword. Only a quarter of the torches in the room still burned, and in the half-light he saw a winged thing circle and dip in and out of the fitful light.

“Son, do you carry a weapon?” he asked, swiftly donning his helmet.

Greenhands held out empty arms. “No, Father.”

The Speaker kicked among the debris on the floor. The winged creature swooped near him, and he slashed hard at it, missing. The beast soared away, and Kith-Kanan squatted long enough to pick up a stout piece of wood, a leg broken from a dining table.

“Take this,” he said, tossing it to Greenhands. “If anything comes at you, hit it!”

An eerie laugh floated through the chamber. Kith-Kanan glanced at Ulvian. The prince was still unconscious. Overhead, the laugh sounded again.

“A fine weapon for a fine-looking warrior,” said Drulethen. His voice caromed off the stone walls, making it difficult to determine where he was. “A worthy addition to the House of Silvanos!”

“Indeed he is,” Kith-Kanan retorted. “He got in past your spells, didn’t he?”

“How do you know I didn’t let him in intentionally? I’m collecting royal Qualinesti!” he snarled nastily.

With hand gestures, Kith-Kanan indicated that Greenhands should go around the other side of the chamber, away from him. The elf complied with commendable stealth. Kith-Kanan edged away from the unconscious Ulvian and talked to distract Drulethen.

“Well, great sorcerer, what do you intend to do with us?” he called out.

“My amulet. One of you is going to give me the other half of my amulet if I have to torture each of you in turn to convince you to do so.” The sorcerer’s voice had fixed in one place. Kith-Kanan peered at an upright, though broken, chair. A tall shadow had appeared there. He lowered his sword so the blade wouldn’t gleam in the remaining torchlight.

“You cannot win, Drulethen. Ulvian might have helped you, but I will see to it you never have the amulet,” he vowed. He stepped gingerly over some smashed crates, moving as silently as possible.

“Ulvian! That idle, untrustworthy wretch? He’ll be the first to go, mark my words. I shall enjoy his torment.”

Kith-Kanan’s left shoulder bumped the wall. He was under one of the burned-out torches, and he slipped it from its bracket and sidled over to the next one, which still barely burned. He lit the stump and rushed toward the broken chair. As he did, the light from his brand fell upon Dru.

The Speaker froze in midstride, horrified. The thing perched on the chair was not an elf, nor was it a bird. It had golden-brown wings with red-tipped feathers, but instead of falcon’s claws, two white elven hands gripped the back of the chair. Instead of a falcon’s noble head, the thing was topped by a horrid mix, part elven, part bird. Dru’s face and head bore feathers where hair had been. His eyes were large and black, like a falcon’s, but set in elven eye sockets surmounted by feathery brows. Most hideous of all, instead of a nose, a large horny beak protruded from Dru’s face.

“You see,” hissed the sorcerer, “how much I need the rest of my amulet. The ring is the more powerful half, but it lacks refinement and control.” He shuddered and hunched his head down between his shoulders. The awful face seemed to reflect a spasm of pain. “I find I can’t control my transformations without the cylinder.” The bizarre white fingers flexed over the broken chair’s thick arm. “This is the last time I shall ask – give it to me!”

In reply, Kith-Kanan hurled the torch at the monster and lunged with his sword. Dru launched himself into the air, overturning the chair. He avoided Kith-Kanan’s attack, but he didn’t see Greenhands standing close by in the shadows, motionless. As he passed by, Greenhands swung his crude club. His strength was considerable, but his skill was not, and the blow was only a glancing one.

Nevertheless, Dru was sent spinning, to land in a flurry of loose feathers on the other side of the chamber, near Ulvian. “Get him! Don’t let him get up!” the Speaker cried.

He outran Greenhands to the fallen sorcerer, and he prodded the strange creature with his sword tip, ordering him to stand and surrender. The pile of feathers writhed and shifted, and a piercing shriek rose up from them. Greenhands arrived, and before their astonished eyes, the sorcerer changed shape once more.

The body of the bird lengthened, and the wings shriveled into feather-covered arms. Dru pushed himself onto his back and cried out again in agony. The beak on his white face and his black falcon’s eyes remained the same. Feathers covered the rest of his body.

“Stand up!” Kith-Kanan ordered again.

“I – I cannot,” the sorcerer wheezed. Sweat ran down his grotesque face in rivulets, and his body shook as if palsied. “I am – undone.”

Just then Ulvian groaned and shifted on the stone floor. He moved to push himself up, inadvertently distracting Kith-Kanan. In a flash, the supposedly exhausted sorcerer had tripped Kith-Kanan. The Speaker went down hard. Before anyone could draw another breath, Drulethen’s fingers locked around the Speaker’s throat.

The sorcerer stood, dragging Kith-Kanan to his feet.

Blood roared in the Speaker’s ears. The fantastic figure of the sorcerer was lost as Kith-Kanan’s vision was suffused with a red haze. He tore at the hands that were throttling him, but Dru’s grip was like iron.

“I know you have it!” he shrieked, shaking the Speaker violently. “Give me my amulet!”

Just as Kith-Kanan was losing consciousness, there was a crash and a scream. He felt himself falling, falling, until the hard floor met his back. He rolled aside, gasping, and let his vision clear. When he tried to grab for his sword, just out of easy reach, a wave of dizziness brought him down.

Greenhands was grappling with Dru. The sorcerer wasn’t as strong as the Speaker’s son, but he was infinitely more cunning. Twisting his body and breaking Greenhands’ grip, Drulethen managed to wrest the table leg club from him. The thick pine flashed down and snapped across Greenhands’ shoulders. He went reeling. Shouting with triumph, Dru picked up the Speaker’s sword, put its tip to Kith-Kanan’s throat, and felt in his clothing until he located the other half of the amulet. Kith-Kanan had secreted it beneath the breastplate of his armor.

“Ah!” Dru said, taking the black cylinder in his hand. “At last!”

“What’s happening?” Ulvian asked, pulling himself up to a sitting position. His short sleep had left him confused.

Dru had moved away. Kith-Kanan crept on hands and knees to his son. “Drulethen,” he managed to gasp.

“Father,” said Greenhands, moving stiffly to join them, “the evil one is changing again.”

Kith-Kanan staggered to his feet, retrieved his sword, and turned to face Drulethen. The sorcerer was across the room. He’d fitted the cylinder into the onyx ring he wore around his neck, and now the complete amulet dangled against his chest. His face was slowly swelling and turning purple; his feather-covered limbs were growing longer and more muscular. A slow laugh escaped his twisted lips.

“What a bargain,” he rumbled from deep in his throat. “A thousand years of power for a thousand years of servitude. That’s the deal I made with Hiddukel.” A loud snapping and cracking sounded. Dru clapped his hands to his head and howled with pain. “Now that I have my amulet whole again, the world shall tremble at my name!”

Hard, pointed plates erupted through the skin of Dru’s back. The feathers on his body dropped away as a thick tail, covered with scales, grew visibly before the elves’ astonished eyes. The sorcerer’s elven form grew and grew, hardening and thickening, until a winged, scaly monster filled the cavern deep inside Black Stone Peak.

Ulvian dragged himself close to his father. “By the gods,” he gasped, “he’s become a dragon!”

“No... a wyvern,” Kith-Kanan said. “Just like the one he rode before, terrorizing the countryside.”

The wyvern reared up twenty feet tall, green-black and glistening. Its catlike eyes were a poisonous yellow, and from its fanged jaws flicked a blood-red tongue. Horns sprouted from its head. For a moment, it looked wonderingly at its own ivory-clawed forepaws, then its wicked gaze returned to the three grouped beyond the center firepit.

“We must get out of here,” Ulvian wheezed.

“If we can. The wind spell may not let us,” answered his father. Kith-Kanan flexed both hands around the handle of his sword. He had little hope of getting close enough to kill the wyvern before it mauled him to death. He glanced at his newest son. “Greenhands can get out, though,” he said.

Ulvian looked at the unknown, white-haired elf before him. There was no time for questions or answers, as the wyvern opened its hooked, leathery beak and hissed a challenge.

“Spread out and try the tunnels!” Kith-Kanan ordered.

The prince started for the nearest passage. His limbs felt strangely leaden. To his surprise, no blast of air came out of the passage to bar his way. He ducked his head and disappeared into the tunnel.

“Go!” Kith-Kanan urged Greenhands. “Save yourself!”

“I will stay and help you, “he resolved. “I am strong.”

The wyvern rushed the Speaker. Kith-Kanan backpedaled, slashing his sword back and forth to ward off the monster. From the side, Greenhands pried loose a paving stone in the floor and hurled it with all his might. The monster roared and hissed like a hundred boiling kettles as its left wing went limp. Its tail lashed out and swept Greenhands off his feet. The spearlike tail tip thrust at him, but the elf caught it in his hands and flung it back.

Kith-Kanan’s sword scored a bloody line down the monster’s torso. The wyvern returned its attention to the Speaker of the Sun. An iron-hard claw caught him in the chest driving all the wind from him. Had he not been wearing armor, every bone in his chest would have been crushed. Kith-Kanan hurtled back. The wyvern’s claw came down, but the Speaker drove his sword straight through the monster’s paw, pushing and pushing until black blood flooded down the blade. The wyvern bellowed in pain and snatched its claw back, taking the Speaker’s sword with it.

Kith-Kanan shouted at Greenhands that now was the time to flee. Then he himself backed into one of the tunnels. The monster was shaking its injured claw, finally dislodging the sword from it. As the Speaker disappeared into the tunnel, the wyvern snaked its neck down and thrust it into the opening. Kith-Kanan retreated out of reach.

The wyvern turned on Greenhands, the only remaining target. The green-fingered elf was markedly unafraid, and he dodged nimbly about the chamber, throwing enormous pieces of stone at the monster. From the tunnel, Kith-Kanan shouted over and over for him to abandon the room, to make his escape.

Greenhands fought on. The power that had made him and given him great strength had also bestowed upon him lightning-fast reflexes and an instinctive knowledge of how to hurt the beast. After one near miss by the wyvern’s snapping beak, Greenhands found himself flat against the curving wall. A torch bracket was by his ear, and he reached up and snapped the black iron holder off the wall. The holder was ringed with iron spikes. With sufficient force, the points could pierce the wyvern’s skull.

Kith-Kanan saw his newfound son leap at the monster. The wyvern’s tail slashed around, destroying the last few burning torches in the room. Darkness seized the scene, though Kith-Kanan could still hear the sounds of the struggle. Now and then the iron bracket held by Greenhands would scrape on stone, and a fount of red sparks flared.

The wyvern howled – in pain or victory? Kith-Kanan couldn’t tell. He had taken a step back toward the room when the smell and sound of the monster filled the end of the passage. It hissed at him and began to force its way in. Only its yellow eyes, each as big as the Speaker’s head, shone in the darkness.

*

“Try it again! Come on, put your backs into it!”

Verhanna, Rufus, and the warriors braced themselves against the back of a giant boulder, which they had managed to lever out of the mountainside. The scavenged rope was webbed about the rock, and now they were trying to roll it into the cave opening through which Kemian had heard the Speaker’s voice. The boulder refused to budge more than an inch at a time.

“Weaklings!” Verhanna stormed, fear for her father manifesting itself in fury. And fear for Greenhands, to whom she owed her life. “You aren’t true Guards of the Sun! The Speaker is in danger!”

Kemian snapped, “We know that! Do you think —?”

“Shh! Hear that?” Rufus said, interrupting Lord Ambrodel.

Strange sounds filtered out from the tunnel opening into the early morning air. They sounded like footsteps. Someone was coming out. The sun was a sliver on the eastern horizon, brightening the scene. Verhanna pushed forward to peer inside.

A slim figure staggered into view.

“Ulvian!” she exclaimed.

“Help!” he gasped. Two elves rushed forward to aid him. They supported him to the boulder and gently let him down. “Dru – he’s become a wyvern! He’s got both parts of the amulet!”

“Where’s the Speaker?” demanded Kemian.

Ulvian closed his eyes and let his head sag against the rock. “Isn’t he here?”

“No.” Verhanna spat. “Neither is Greenhands!”

Kemian prodded the prince. “You left the Speaker to face a full-grown wyvern?”

“He told me to leave!”

The warriors and kender stared down at him. His face was still bruised from his beatings at the hands of the grunt gang, but his limbs were whole. Somewhere in the rear of the band, the word “coward” found voice.

Verhanna turned to Kemian. “The wind spell must be broken. We don’t need the boulder and rope anymore. Let’s go!”

“Wait. We can’t just rush in. We must plan our attack!”

Kemian paused, then added more calmly, “Half will go in, the other half will stay and watch for the Speaker or Greenhands to emerge.”

All except Ulvian volunteered to be in the contingent that went inside. In the end, Kemian made the choices. The attacking party included himself and Verhanna, who made it plain she was going in whether or not he chose her. She ordered Rufus to remain outside.

“But why? I haven’t ever seen a wyvern before,” he complained.

“Because I said so, that’s why. And I pay you.” She glanced at Ulvian, who sat leaning against the boulder, eyes closed. “You can guard Prince Ulvian,” she said contemptuously. “He’s an escaped prisoner, after all.”

Chagrined, the kender watched half the warriors file into the yawning cave. He shifted from one foot to the other, looking from the tunnel mouth to the remaining elves. They were as anxious as he to be part of the fight, but they stayed where they were, tense and expectant.

When the last elf entered the tunnel, Rufus could stand it no longer. He sprinted to an adjacent opening and promptly collided with Kith-Kanan. “Your Mightiness!” burst out the kender. “We thought you were monster food!”

“Not yet, my friend. The beast is about twenty paces behind me.”

“Yow!”

The kender darted around the Speaker to get a better look. The morning sun sent a roseate beam down the shaft, lighting the crawling monster’s head and serpentine neck. Its mouth opened and a shrieking hiss reverberated down the passage.

“So that’s a wyvern,” Rufus said matter-of-factly.

“You’ll get a much closer view if you don’t get out of the way,” Kith-Kanan stated. Kender and elf moved quickly away.

Kith-Kanan saw Ulvian scrambling to his feet by the rope-bound boulder. He also spied the unhappy warriors Kemian had left behind.

“Warriors! Get your weapons! The wyvern is coming!”

The ten elves ran to their horses and mounted, taking their lances from the conical pile they’d been arranged in. The wyvern’s head snaked out of the cavern opening. It saw Kith-Kanan and hissed in outrage.

“Go in and fetch Lord Ambrodel,” Kith-Kanan ordered the kender. Rufus saluted and dashed inside a tunnel.

A warrior brought Kith-Kanan a horse and lance. The tired, battered Speaker climbed into the saddle and couched his lance. The monster’s forelegs were free of the passage and it was wriggling the rest of its body out. The disk of the sun cleared the eastern mountains. The sky was bright blue.

The lancers charged the monster in ragged formation before it could get its wings, legs, and tail free. The first warriors scored hits on the wyvern’s exposed chest, but it snapped its beak over their lance shafts and tossed the elves aside like dolls. One was thrown over the edge of the plateau, to vanish in the deep gorge below. A second was hurled against Black Stone Peak and slid to the ground dead, his neck broken.

“For Qualinesti!” Kith-Kanan shouted, charging forward.

Pushing with its powerful hind legs, the, monster freed its wings. One of the leathery flying limbs hung limp, injured by Greenhands in the chamber; the other swept to and fro, upsetting horses and blinding riders. Kith-Kanan buried his lance in the wyvern’s neck but was knocked from his horse. Two warriors shielded him from the enraged beast. The wyvern snatched the closest in both foreclaws and shook him as a terrier worries a rat, then hurled his lifeless body to the ground. The other warrior succeeded in driving his lance through the monster’s uninjured wing. The elf let go of the weapon, turned his horse in a fast circle, and offered a hand to the fallen Speaker. Sore but spry, Kith-Kanan mounted behind the warrior.

The wyvern bled from half a dozen wounds and both its wings were damaged, but its strength hardly seemed diminished by the time it worked its legs free. The warriors drew off a short way on the lower plateau in order to form ranks and charge again. Kith-Kanan took the horse of a fallen fighter.

“Try to get behind it,” he told the elves. “I’ll try to distract it.” The warriors settled into tight ranks. “Now!”

They galloped at the beast, then split into two columns and surrounded the wyvern. It lashed out from side to side with its barbed tail, slaying elf and horse alike. The great beast suffered more wounds, but no one came close to piercing its heart. Kith-Kanan dueled furiously with its beaked head, slashing with his sword at the ugly, snapping mouth. At one point, the wyvern caught the crest of his helmet. Kith-Kanan frantically tore at the strap buckle, releasing it before the wyvern could tear his head off.

“Fall back!” he shouted. “Fall back!”

Four warriors were able to comply. The other six were either dead or seriously wounded.

The monster let out a howl and stamped its feet. It flung the bodies of fallen warriors at Kith-Kanan and the survivors, a hideous gesture of contempt. Panting, sweating in the chill mountain air, the warriors clustered around their Speaker.

“We must kill it!” Kith-Kanan said grimly. “Otherwise its wings will heal, and it will be able to fly away.”

A sharp whistle caught the Speaker’s ear. He looked up at the peak, toward the source of the sound, and saw Rufus Wrinklecap, Verhanna, and some of the warriors who had entered the cave. They were standing in several higher tunnel mouths, forty feet above the Speaker.

Verhanna raised a hand, and the warriors in the caves began to shower the beast with stones and debris from inside the peak. The wyvern hissed loudly and leapt at them. Even with numerous lance wounds, it was able to jump three-quarters of the distance to the caves. On the third such leap, the monster dug its four clawed feet into the rocks and clung there. With its injured wings tightly furled against its body, the wyvern started to climb.

Kith-Kanan’s heart leapt when he spied Greenhands at one of the cave openings. His son lived, praise the gods! In his hands, he held a loop of rope. All the others in the high caves had weapons of some kind, but not Greenhands. What was he up to?

The Speaker and the remaining elves on horseback sat ready, lances couched. Slowly the beast clawed its way up the peak, its talons leaving gray streaks on the black rock. Loose stones and pieces of Drulethen’s furniture thudded off its head and body from above. Thick, horny eyelids blinked shut every time an object hurtled at the wyvern’s eyes. Sword in hand, Kemian appeared in the tunnel mouth next to Greenhands.

“The monster will cut them to pieces in those tunnels,” said one of the mounted warriors. “Shouldn’t we go in and help them?”

“Stand your ground,” Kith-Kanan said sternly. “Lord Ambrodel knows what he’s doing.” In fact, the Speaker was extremely worried, but he had to trust his general’s judgment.

Greenhands leaned far out of the cave opening, the loop of rope in his hand. The wyvern was only a few feet below, its attention on those hurling debris at it. The others suddenly ceased their attacks and withdrew deeper into their caves. Hissing and howling, the wyvern raised its head to see what they were doing and Greenhands dropped the loop of rope over its head, like a herder roping a wild bull. He and Kemian leaned hard on the rope, and it pulled taut around the monster’s neck. The wyvern flung its head from side to side, trying to break the line. When that failed, it snapped its jaws in a vain attempt to catch the rope in them.

The beast decided to continue on in the direction it was being pulled. Greenhands and Kemian disappeared inside the tunnel just as the wyvern reached their level. The long, green-black neck snaked into the cave. All at once, the wyvern’s four legs were scrabbling furiously on the peak and at the tunnel mouth, trying to find purchase. Its hideous shrieking cry echoed through the mountains. The massive muscles in its back arched as it tried to pull its head out of the tunnel. Kith-Kanan’s breath caught when he saw blood washing out of the cave.

The violent scratching of the monster’s limbs continued for a moment, and then it fell. The enormous beast hit the ground, and the impact shook the earth all around. Its legs continued to thrash and claw at nothing, and Kith-Kanan saw why. The wyvern had left its head inside Black Stone Peak.

They kept away from the raging, headless corpse until its dark blood had all leaked out. Its legs continued to twitch slightly. Kith-Kanan rode forward and drove his lance through the monster’s heart. That put an end once and for all to the wyvern, and it lay unmoving.

Verhanna emerged with Rufus and the other warriors. Kith-Kanan asked, “Where’s Greenhands? And Lord Ambrodel?”

“Here!” came the shout from above. Kith-Kanan looked up. Greenhands stood at the high cave entrance. He was covered with blood and held the head of the wyvern in both hands. As everyone watched, he hurled the head to the ground.

When Greenhands came out of Black Stone Peak, he moved slowly, carrying Lord Ambrodel in his arms. Two warriors came and relieved him of his burden.

“What happened?” asked Kith-Kanan, rushing to his son’s side.

“The creature smashed him against the wall,” Greenhands replied softly. “He has something broken....” The green-fingered elf’s legs folded beneath him, and he would have dropped to the ground but for his father’s quick arms.

Verhanna ran to them. “He breathes,” she reported anxiously. “I think he just passed out.”

“No wonder,” observed Rufus. “After seeing Lord Kemian cut that monster’s head off!”

The young general coughed and lifted a feeble hand, “No,” he said in a scratchy voice. “I didn’t kill the monster. He did.”

*

The wounded were cared for, and the dead were placed on a funeral pyre. Six young elf warriors had died in the fight, and Lord Ambrodel’s life was hanging in the balance. Rufus bathed Greenhands with a bucket of water and found that, for all the black blood on him, he hadn’t any wounds at all.

The wyvern’s body was too heavy to move, so they piled what tinder they could find against it where it lay. The broken furniture from inside the peak proved useful, as did the lamp oil. Soon the beast was in the center of a roaring bonfire. As the sun passed its zenith, coils of oily black smoke darkened the sky, spreading an evil smell over the high mountains.

That deed done, the warriors dropped into an exhausted slumber. Kith-Kanan drew Ulvian and Verhanna a little away from the group.

“I have some news for you,” he began, feeling a little uncertain how to go on.

Ulvian tensed. Verhanna glanced at him and then back at the Speaker. “What is it, Father?” she asked, her face serious.

Kith-Kanan looked toward Greenhands, who’d been sleeping since his battle with the wyvern. A feeling of tenderness warmed the Speaker’s heart. Anaya’s son. This elf was his and Anaya’s son.

“I suppose there’s no other way to say it than simply to say it,” he said briskly. “Ullie, Hanna... Greenhands is my son.”

Verhanna’s jaw dropped in shock, but Ulvian’s face remained as still as stone. Only the brightness of his hazel eyes betrayed his surprise.

“He’s your what?” Verhanna exploded. Kith-Kanan passed a weary hand across his brow. “You deserve the whole story. I know you do. Just now, though, I am weary to the bone,” their father sighed. “Greenhands is the son of my first wife, a Kagonesti. I think the marvels of these last days were signs of his coming.” He put a gentle hand on Verhanna’s arm and was surprised to feel her trembling. “I know it’s a shock, Hanna. It was to me, too. I’ll explain everything later, I promise. It’s been an eventful day.”

With a fond pat on her cheek, the Speaker moved back among the sleeping warriors. He lay down near Greenhands, and in no time he was gently snoring.

Verhanna was astonished. Her brother! Greenhands was her brotherl All at once, the absurdity of the situation struck her. After not thinking of marriage for centuries, now she chose a mate who turned out to be her own brother! The warrior maiden vented her spleen on a handy boulder, kicking the rock with all her might. All she succeeded in doing was making her foot sore. She simply couldn’t think about this right now. She was worn out from battle and from all the worrying she’d done on behalf of her father and Green – her half-brother. Gods, it was too unbelievable!

The warrior woman stalked back to camp. At the edge of the sleeping mob, near the unconscious Kemian Ambrodel, she dropped down and slept.

Ulvian had also been surprised by his father’s announcement. This unknown bumpkin, a son of Kith-Kanan? It was a startling bit of news. But the prince had too many worries of his own to waste much effort wondering how he had come to acquire a half-brother. He, too, lay down to sleep, but sleep was longer in coming. His mind was filled with thoughts of what his immediate future might hold. Some hours later, Prince Ulvian awoke with a start.

“Who is it?” he said. “Who’s calling?”

He glanced around. The sun was low in the western sky, and its orange rays showed him the kender nearby. Rufus was curled into a ball, fast asleep, giving vent to his unique, high-pitched snores. The rest of the group also slumbered on. Just above them floated smoke from the funeral pyres, like a cloud of remembered evil. Ulvian grimaced at the smell and wondered how they had all managed to sleep in such a vile place.

Once more the prince heard the voice. It was soft and low, a feminine voice, he thought. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the largest fire, at the base of the peak. Ulvian rose and walked in that direction. Heat shimmered off the bed of coals. The voice, a faint whisper barely louder than the hiss of the dying flames spoke to him.

A stack of charred wood collapsed, sending sparks up into the cold, twilight sky. Ulvian listened to the voice and answered, “How can I reach you? The fire is still hot.”

The voice told him. The words entered his head like smoke wafting into his nose. The words were caressing, the tone melodic and resonant. His tired, aching limbs seemed imbued with strength. Belief flooded his mind. He could do it. The voice said so, and it was true.

Looking into the charred remains ahead, from where the voice seemed to emanate, Ulvian strode into the cinders. His bare feet pressed down on glowing coals, yet he did not cry out. So great was his desire to find the source of the silver-toned voice that he no longer took notice of where he walked. In the center of the pyre, he found it. Thrusting his hand into the ashes and charred bones of the wyvern, the prince found the onyx amulet. Heat had fused the two pieces together. Now they could never be taken apart.

The voice spoke again, and Ulvian nodded. Though the amulet was still hot, he put it into his pocket and walked out of the fire. In minutes, he had fallen asleep once more. Though smeared with soot, neither his hand nor his feet were burned.

Chapter 16

FOUR-LEGGED COUSINS

Verhanna stirred from her slumber. Opening her eyes, she saw Greenhands sitting cross-legged on the ground a few feet away. The morning sun was in her eyes, and she lifted a hand to shade them. Greenhands was looking across the broad vista of mountain peaks.

It took the Qualinesti princess a moment to recall the events of the past days. The cold funeral pyres remained as mute evidence of what had transpired. She also recalled the news she had received regarding the white-haired elf before her. Her half-brother.

He turned to her, and she quickly looked away, embarrassed that he’d noticed her scrutiny.

“Hello, my captain,” he said equably. “You have slept long – a night, a day, and a second night.” Wind stirred his long hair. His green eyes were darker somehow, more muted than their usual vivid hue.

“By Astra!” Verhanna got to her feet and hurried to Rufus. She poked him in the back with the toe of her boot. The kender screwed up his wizened face and groaned.

“Go ‘way, Auntie! I wanna sleep,” he grumbled.

“On your feet, Wart!”

Rufus’s blue eyes popped open.

The warrior maiden and kender circled through the scattered sleepers, waking them. Kith-Kanan sat up, coughing and shaking his head. “Merciful gods,” he muttered. “I’m too old to sleep on bare ground.” Verhanna grasped Kith-Kanan’s arm and helped him stand. He was very stiff from having slept in the open. “Is there anything to eat?” he asked. “I’m hollow.”

Rufus approached Kemian cautiously. The general had been seriously injured by the wyvern, and the kender feared that he’d find him dead. But Kemian drew breath steadily. His brow was cool and dry, and after Rufus awakened him, his eyes were clear.

“Water,” he said hoarsely. Rufus put a wicker-wrapped bottle to the elf’s lips.

Gradually the whole party arose. They stood around, a bit dazed, taking in their situation.

Kith-Kanan saw Greenhands, still seated serenely on the ground. He stood when Kith-Kanan approached him. The Speaker held out a hand. His son looked at it uncomprehendingly, and Kith-Kanan showed him how to shake hands.

“My son,” he said proudly. “You did well.”

Greenhands’ brow wrinkled in thought. “I only wanted to save you,” he replied. “I did not mean to kill.”

“Shed no tears for Drulethen, Son! His heart was as black as the onyx talisman he prized. He chose his path, and he chose his destruction. Be at peace. You have done a noble deed.”

The elf didn’t look convinced. In fact, he had a look of such sadness that Kith-Kanan put an arm around his shoulder and asked him what troubled him so.

“Before I found you, I often felt the presence of my mother,” he replied. “She would guide me and help me. I have sat here a long time, reaching out to her, but she does not answer. I do not feel her near any longer.”

“She must know that you’re with me now. You’re not alone,” Kith-Kanan said gently. “When your mother... left me, it took me a long time to get used to not having her by my side. But we are together now, and there are many things I need to know about you and how you came to be here.”

A disturbance erupted on the other side of the plateau. Kith-Kanan left his newfound son and hastened to the point of trouble. All the warriors were clustered in a group. They parted for the Speaker. In the center of the knot, he found Ulvian being restrained by two warriors. Verhanna and her kender scout faced them.

“What is this?” asked Kith-Kanan.

“My loving sister seeks to deny me a horse,” Ulvian said, straining against his captors. “And these ruffians have laid hands on me!”

“There are twenty people, and only twelve horses,” Verhanna snapped at him. “You’re still a convict, and by Astra, you’ll walk!”

“Release him,” Kith-Kanan said. The elves let go of Ulvian. A smug sneer appeared on the prince’s face, but his father erased it by adding, “You will walk, Ullie.”

The prince’s face turned red under his dirty blond beard. “Do you think I can walk all the way to Qualinost?” he exploded.

“You’re going back to Pax Tharkas!” Verhanna put in.

“No,” said the Speaker. The single quiet syllable silenced both siblings. “The prince will accompany us home to Qualinost.”

“But, Father —!”

“That’s enough, Hanna!” She flushed at this mild rebuke. “Has anyone seen to Lord Ambrodel?”

“He’s doing OK, Your Worship,” interposed Rufus. “But with those busted ribs, he can’t ride.” The kender suggested they make a stretcher from whatever they could find inside the cave. The stretcher could be dragged behind a horse.

Kith-Kanan gave orders for this to be done. Two warriors went in search of poles and cloth while the others collected their scattered gear and loaded for home.

The Speaker and his daughter went to see Kemian. The general was white-faced with pain, but he saluted gamely when his sovereign arrived. Kith-Kanan knelt beside him.

“The kender says you’ll be all right,” he said encouragingly. “Though he’s not a healer, he does seem to have some knowledge of these things. How do you feel, my lord?”

Through clenched lips, Kemian replied, “I am well sire.”

“Do you feel well enough to tell me what happened in the cave? How did you get hurt, and how did Greenhands manage to kill the wyvern?”

The injured elf coughed and almost fell back in pain. Verhanna got behind him to bolster him up. Kemian gave her a grateful glance over his shoulder, then launched into his account of the death of the sorcerer Drulethen.

“The green-fingered one reasoned that, with his strength, he could rope the beast and pull its head inside, where I would chop it off with my sword. I got the rope we’d gathered for you, Speaker, and tied off the end to a wall bracket in the great chamber. The warriors and the kender teased the monster into attacking, and Greenhands caught him in his snare.” He paused to draw a ragged breath.

“We pulled the monster in, even though it fought hard against us,” Kemian continued. “I’ve never seen so strong an elf, sire. Greenhands hauled in that wyvern as if it were a river trout. I stepped forward to finish the job with my sword, but —” he passed a hand over his chest — “the monster pinned me against the wall with its head. It meant to crush the life out of me and was doing just that when Greenhands took the sword from my hand and chopped the beast’s head off. Two strokes was all it took, I swear. Then I swooned from pain.”

Verhanna took up the water bottle Rufus had left and wet Kemian’s lips. “Thank you, lady,” he whispered. “You’re very kind.”

“That’s not something I hear very often,” she replied tartly.

Kemian coughed. Agony contorted his face. “Sire,” he gasped, “is he really your son?”

“Yes. He is the child of my first wife, whom I lost many, many years ago.”

Kemian grasped Kith-Kanan’s hand. “Then you have a fine son, Majesty. With guidance, he would make a fine Speaker of the Sun.”

It was the same thought that had just occurred to the Speaker. By common law of primogeniture, the eldest son was to inherit a monarch’s crown. Even though Ulvian was born first, Greenhands had been conceived several centuries earlier. It was a legal and ethical riddle to try the brains of the wisest thinkers in Qualinost.

Verhanna interrupted his thoughts. “Father, I agree with the general. Greenhands is brave and good and has powers beyond what you have already seen.” She recounted the experiences she and Rufus had had with Greenhands – his control of the herd of elk, her healing, their meeting with the centaurs.

The centaurs! She jumped to her feet, letting go of Kemian so quickly he slid sideways to the ground. He moaned, but Verhanna was already stepping over him and bawling for Greenhands. He and Rufus were standing at the edge of the ashes, all that was left of the wyvern’s pyre.

“I’m calling you!” she said, planting her hands on her hips. “Why don’t you answer?”

Rufus pointed to the object of their rapt attention. Half-buried in the cinders was the scorched skull of the monster. All the flesh had been burned away, and the horny yellow beak had turned a sickly gray from the heat.

“We was thinking that would make a great trophy,” Rufus said.

“And on what pack mule were you planning to put that thing?” she asked pointedly. The skull was four feet long.

“I can carry it,” Greenhands said softly, and Rufus beamed at him.

“Leave it. It’s just carrion.” Verhanna took hold of Greenhands’ arm, pulling him away from the ashes. “Do you still have the horn that centaur gave you?”

“It’s there.” He indicated the rocks where their gear had been placed before the fight.

“Use it,” she said. “Summon the centaurs.”

“Why, my captain?” Rufus scratched his freckled cheek.

“We need mounts, don’t we? Centaurs have four legs, don’t they? If they’re agreeable, we’ll ride them right into Qualinost!” She grinned. “What an entrance we’ll make!”

Rufus grinned back at her. So taken was he with her idea that he ran to the rocks and fetched back the ram’s horn.

He inhaled deeply. Fastening his lips on the horn tip, the kender blew till his red face turned purple. A horrible wail escaped from the open end of the horn. Everyone on the plateau stopped what he was doing and put his hands over his ears.

“Enough!” said Verhanna, snatching the horn from Rufus’s lips. He staggered away, winded from his effort.

She handed the ram’s horn to Greenhands. He raised it high and blew.

A deep, steady tone issued from the horn. The unwavering bass note bounced against the mountains and echoed back like a phantom reply.

“Again,” Verhanna demanded.

The second note took wing before the first had died. The two sounds chased each other all through the Kharolis and back again. Greenhands lowered the horn, and the two calls finally faded away into the distance. Everyone waited, but nothing happened. There was no answering sound.

Verhanna was disappointed, but before she could order Greenhands to sound the horn again, Kith-Kanan came up to them. “Son,” he said quickly, “Hanna said you were able to heal a goblin bite she received. Do you think you could do as much for Lord Ambrodel?”

“If you wish it, Father,” was Greenhands’ reply.

They went to the general, and Greenhands sat down on the ground beside him. Kemian watched him expectantly, a fevered gleam in his gray-blue eyes.

Greenhands touched his fingertips lightly to each side of the warrior’s head, cocking his own as if listening to something. “You must take off the metal he wears,” Greenhands murmured, pulling his hands back. “It blocks the power.”

“What power?” demanded Ulvian, who had joined them. Verhanna punched him in the arm to silence him.

Rufus deftly untied the armor that Kemian still wore and tugged it free. He removed every bit of metal the general had, even snipping the copper buttons from his haqueton. Those buttons found their way somehow into the kender’s pockets.

“Now it begins,” Greenhands said. He placed his hands flat against Kemian’s ribs. After a few moments, it became obvious the breathing of the two elves was synchronous. Kemian’s was short and ragged because of his injury; Greenhands also breathed in small gasps. The green-fingered elf slowly closed his eyes. Kemian’s eyelids fluttered down also.

Their breathing came faster. All the color drained from Greenhands’ face, and beads of shiny sweat broke out on his brow. At the same time, a flush of red blood came to Lord Ambrodel’s face. His body went limp, his head lolling to one side. The green-fingered elf stiffened abruptly, his back and neck rigid. Now his breath came in harsh, loud gasps for air.

Verhanna cared greatly for Greenhands and hated to see him in pain. Her guilt was compounded by knowing that he had suffered for her also, when he’d saved her from the festering goblin bite.

Kemian cried out. His shout was echoed by Greenhands. The sound rose in intensity and was suddenly cut off. Greenhands’ head hung down. His hands slid off the now sleeping general. He wrapped them around his own chest and moaned. Kith-Kanan and Verhanna gently lowered him to the ground.

“Rest easy,” Kith-Kanan said, smoothing Greenhands’ sweat-soaked hair from his brow. “Rest easy, Son. You’ve done it. You’ve healed Kemian.” The general’s chest rose and fell in deep, untroubled breaths.

It was early afternoon by the time the party was ready to go. Kemian and Greenhands had slept for several hours. Lord Ambrodel awoke fully recovered, and his healer had only some soreness and stiffness remaining. No centaurs had come to aid them, so they set out with ten riding and ten walking. Two horses were used for baggage only. Verhanna mounted up with Kemian and eight warriors. In spite of her protests, her father had chosen to walk, along with Greenhands and Ulvian.

“But you’re the Speaker!” she protested.

“An even better reason to go on foot. My subjects should always know that I am willing to do without so that they may live better. Besides, down here I can talk with my sons.”

Verhanna looked at Greenhands and Ulvian, who walked on each side of their father. Neither of them had spoken to the other. In fact, Ulvian seemed to be assiduously avoiding his newly revealed half-brother. With a last shake of her head, Verhanna reined about and galloped to the head of the little column, taking her place by General Ambrodel’s side.

“How long is the journey to your city, Father?” asked Greenhands.

“On foot, we’ll be many days walking,” said the Speaker. “We’ll have to pass through Pax Tharkas on the way.”

Ulvian reacted violently to this. He halted in his tracks and stared hard at Kith-Kanan, who continued walking along with the rest of the group. The others on foot passed the prince, until he was standing alone on the narrow mountain trail, the rest of the party well ahead of him.

Kith-Kanan called out, “Coming, Ullie?”

He wanted to shout back, “No!” but there was no wisdom in resisting. His sister would merely insist he be restrained. His father had said he would be allowed to return to Qualinost with the rest of the group. All the prince could do was hope that was true.

*

They made good time that day, reaching the wider road in the lower elevations by midafternoon. Kith-Kanan halted them there for a rest and food. Cooking fires were lit under the flawless blue vault of sky. The Speaker commented on the fine weather.

“Strange,” he mused, “the Kharolis in summer is usually beset by daily thunderstorms.”

“Perhaps the gods are showing their favor,” Kemian suggested.

Verhanna and her father exchanged a private look. “Some happy influence is at work,” Kith-Kanan agreed. The Speaker believed that the shooting stars and this fine weather were all signs that the gods were pleased by the fact that, after four centuries, he and Greenhands had come together.

Rufus had dropped off the rump of Verhanna’s horse when the column stopped and promptly disappeared into the rocks on the high side of the road. The group was busy, though, and no one paid any attention.

The soup was just beginning to boil when the drumming of hooves echoed down the road. The warriors, true to their training, dropped their pots and cups and grabbed their weapons. Kith-Kanan, more curious than alarmed, walked to the end of the road and looked up and down the mountainside, trying to see who was coming. Dust rose from the trail. He heard a high, broken yelp.

“Hi-yi-yi!”

Around the curve in the road appeared Rufus Wrinklecap, clinging to the back of a brown-skinned centaur. More wild horse-people followed, and they barreled up the road straight at Kith-Kanan.

The warriors shouted for the Speaker to withdraw to safety, but Kith-Kanan stood his ground.

The lead centaur, carrying the kender, came to a stop just inches from the Speaker.

“Hail, Your Worthiness!” declared Rufus. “This is my friend, Uncle Koth, and these are his cousins!”

Kith-Kanan placed his right palm over his breast. “Greetings, Uncle Koth, and all your family. I am Kith-Kanan, Speaker of the Sun.”

“Most happy to see you, cousin Speaker.” The centaur’s dark eyes, round like a human’s, flitted quickly from side to side. “Where would be our friend, he of the green fingers?”

Kith-Kanan beckoned Greenhands forward. The centaur embraced him with both brawny arms.

“Little cousin! We heard you call, and have run hard all day to find you!”

“You were a day’s ride away, and you heard him blow the horn?” asked Verhanna, amazed.

“Indeed so, sister cousin. Is that not why I gave it to him?”

Koth beamed, showing his uneven, yellow teeth. “We found the littlest cousin down the road, eating jackberries. He explained the boon you desire from us and led us back here.”

Verhanna raised an eyebrow at her kender scout. “Jackberries, eh?”

Rufus gave her an ingratiating smile. “Well, there were only a few —”

“This is excellent,” Kith-Kanan said. “Are you willing to carry us all the way to Qualinost?”

Koth scratched behind one ear. The stiff brown hair that fringed it grated loudly on his callused fingers. “Well, cousin Speaker, where might this Kaal-nos be?”

Kith-Kanan said, “By horse, it’s an eight-day ride from here.”

“Horse!”

Koth snorted, and the band of centaurs at his back laughed loudly. “The sun and moons all know no horse can run like the Kothlolo,” he boasted. “If it pleases you, cousin Speaker, we will have you in your Kaal-nos in six days.”

This claim set the warriors buzzing with speculation. Kith-Kanan held up a hand for quiet. “Uncle Koth, if you can put me in my capital in six days, I will give you a reward such as no centaur ever dreamed of.”

The centaur’s eyes narrowed with thought. “Reward is good. I’ll think on it, cousin, and so should you. When we get to Kaalnos, I’ll find out if you think as big as Koth!”

There were only eight centaurs. Since it was claimed that ordinary horses would not be able to keep up, only the Speaker and his close party rode them. The rest of the warriors were told to proceed on horseback to Pax Tharkas, where relief and refreshment would be given them.

“Are we bypassing the fortress, Father?” asked Verhanna.

“If the centaurs can get us back to the city in six days, there’s no reason to detour to Pax Tharkas,” he replied. Verhanna looked at Ulvian and frowned but said no more.

There was much rough laughter and nervousness as the party climbed on the centaurs. Kith-Kanan rode Koth. Without saddles or stirrups or reins, the riders were worried about maintaining their balance as they rode. Rufus supplied the answer. His mount was a dapple-gray lady centaur who wore a buckskin halter over her small breasts. The kender took the wide sash belt from his formerly fine suit of clothes and tied it loosely around her human waist. This gave him something to cling to from behind, and it didn’t impede the centaur’s movements. In fact, she stroked the dirty yellow belt fondly, admiring its silky smoothness. The rest of the party quickly copied the kender’s invention with whatever belts or braces they owned, and they were soon set.

“Ready, cousins?” boomed Koth. Together the centaurs chorused their assent. “You have a firm hold, cousin Speaker?”

Kith-Kanan shifted his seat slightly. “I’m ready,” he said, gripping the leather baldric he’d converted to a centaur harness. Koth gave a wild, wavering yell and galloped down the road at breakneck speed. The rest of the centaur band thundered after him.

The Speaker had ridden some strange creatures in his life. His royal griffon, Arcuballis, had possessed breathtaking strength in flight and had once performed a complete loop in the air, but this! The riders’ weight didn’t seem to hinder the centaurs much; they bounded over low obstacles and careened around large ones with absolute abandon.

Kith-Kanan was above yelling from fright or excitement, but his followers were not so restrained. Verhanna, whose long legs nearly scraped the ground when astride her short-legged centaur, yelped involuntarily at every wild bump and turn. Rufus whooped and shouted from the back of his lady centaur and waved his big hat. Kemian tried to emulate the Speaker’s dignity, but an occasional startled shout escaped his lips from time to time. Ulvian was tight-lipped, his thoughts on distant things. Only Greenhands seemed to take the ride with perfect equanimity. Despite the pounding pace, he held on with one relaxed hand and studied the scenery with total attention.

The landscape swept past at an astonishing rate. As surefooted as goats, the centaurs raced near the sheer drop that bounded the mountain road. Kith-Kanan gradually relaxed his death grip on the baldric and sat more erect.

“How long can you maintain such a pace?” he said loudly in Koth’s ear.

“I shall be winded in a few hours,” shouted the centaur. “Of course, I am old. My young cousins can run longer than I!”

Kith-Kanan cast a glance back over his shoulder. His children and friends bounced and yelped on the centaurs’ backs. Red topknot streaming in the wind, Rufus flipped him a salute. Verhanna gave her father an uncertain smile as she glanced at the cliff’s edge almost below her feet. Greenhands waved casually.

The wind sang in Kith-Kanan’s ears, and the day was fair and warm. He would soon be home in his beloved city, arriving on the back of a wild centaur. Throwing back his head, the Speaker of the Sun laughed out loud. His merriment echoed through the hills against a rhythm of centaurs’ hooves.

*

By twilight, after half a day of constant motion – they even ate on the run – the centaurs were on the lower slopes of the eastem Kharolis, with the wide plain spread out at their feet. Kith-Kanan remarked on the abundance of flowers and the tall green grass, none of which had been present when he and his party passed through a week before.

“The flowers bloomed for Greenhands,” Rufus said. He bit a wild apple, then offered the rest of the fruit to his mount. She reached back with one sun-browned arm and deftly took the fruit.

Kith-Kanan looked over Koth’s human shoulder at the field of blooming flowers. He remembered a time long ago when he and his young friend Mackeli had journeyed to Silvanost through a land bursting with life. Pollen and flower petals had filled the sun-washed air, and everywhere there was a vibrancy above and beyond the usual growth of spring. It had happened because his wife Anaya had metamorphosed into an oak tree – she had joined the power that she served so faithfully. The ancient power had showed its rejoicing in an explosion of fertility. Now Greenhands’ passage through the countryside was provoking the same reaction. It was one more bit of confirmation that Greenhands was indeed his and Anaya’s child. Not that he needed much convincing. He saw his beloved every time he looked into his son’s innocent green eyes and smiling face.

“Majesty? Majesty?”

Kith-Kanan snapped back to the present. “Yes?”

Rufus had guided his mount next to the Speaker’s. “Your Mightiness, the others want to know if we can stop and stretch our legs.”

The Speaker rubbed his numb thighs. “Yes, an excellent idea. Stop, uncle, if you please.”

The centaurs drew up, and their riders stiffly dismounted. With many groans, they stretched their sore muscles. Kith-Kanan went to speak quietly with Greenhands. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ulvian stalking down the slope toward the plain, deeply shadowed now that the sun had set.

“Shall I fetch him back?” Verhanna asked, hand on her sword hilt.

“No. He won’t get far.” Kith-Kanan sighed. His delight in the fine day and his new son were tinged with worry for the problems of his other son. “Your people can catch up to him, can’t they, uncle?”

A wide grin split the centaur’s face. “No doubt, cousin Speaker!” Koth declared. “No two-legs can outrun the Kothlolo!”

They delayed a while longer, then everyone mounted up and Kith-Kanan pointed the way to distant Qualinost.

Chapter 17

A HOME NEVER SEEN

Ulvian kicked his way through the waist-high weeds, batting heavy-headed flowers aside in clouds of yellow pollen. It was easy to see which way his father’s mind was turning. Kith-Kanan was so solicitous of this newcomer, this upstart who claimed to be his son. Not once had he asked after Ulvian’s health, asked how he had fared with the scum of Pax Tharkas. All his attention was for Greenhands. And the power this elf wielded! He’d defeated a wyvern, healed Lord Ambrodel, called a band of centaurs.

The prince didn’t care whether Greenhands was truly his brother or not. All Ulvian was concerned about was making sure he received what he considered to be rightfully his – the throne of Qualinesti. The prince could see where this was leading – it was out with Ulvian, in with Greenhands. No wonder his father hadn’t insisted he return to Pax Tharkas. With Greenhands in the picture, it hardly mattered now where Prince Ulvian went.

By now it was fully night, but the red moon, Lunitari, had risen and shone over the flowering plain, lighting his way. Ulvian knew that his father and the others, mounted on those mad centaurs, would catch up with him. He wasn’t trying to run away; he just couldn’t stand the sight of his father fawning over his supposed son. Ulvian was a prince of the blood, by Astra! Let the Speaker try to favor that green-fingered elf over him. Let him try! Ulvian had friends in Qualinost, powerful friends who wouldn’t stand for such a usurpation.

He halted. Green-fingered elf. Elf. Greenhands was a pure-blooded elf, half Silvanesti, half Kagonesti. Humans, elves, and dwarves all lived together in peace now in Qualinesti, but there were always tensions among them. Ancient prejudices were hard to erase. What if Greenhands found favor among a majority of senators because of his purely elven heritage?

Ulvian realized he was stroking his bearded chin. The beard was just one more sign of his mixed blood, of the human heritage that flowed from the mother he had idolized.

If Greenhands were gone, everything would be all right.

So get rid of him.

Ulvian shook his head. It was as if someone had said those words in his mind.

Someone did.

“Stop it!” he said aloud. “What is happening to me? Am I bewitched?”

No, it is I who speaks to you.

“Who are you?” he yelled at the star-laden sky.

We spoke once before. The night Drulethen died, remember? You saved me from the fire.

The voice. Low and softly feminine. Inserting a hand into his shirt, Ulvian felt the onyx amulet there. It was warm from being next to his skin. He drew it out and stared at it in the red moonlight.

“Are you a spirit imprisoned in the amulet?”

I am the amulet itself. Once I served Drulethen. Now I serve you.

A slow smile spread over the prince’s face. His fingers closed tightly around the stone. “Yes! Then your power is mine?”

It will be in time.

“Tell me what to —” Ulvian broke off suddenly. He heard loud swishing noises, as if made by many legs striding through the grass. He shoved the amulet back inside his shirt.

A pair of riderless centaurs appeared. The black one who had been Ulvian’s mount said, “Ho, little cousin. We were sent to look for you. Uncle Speaker wants you back. Will you come?”

Ulvian regarded them with distaste but replied, “I will come.”

The centaur approached him, and the prince climbed on his back. They went bounding away in the grass until they caught up to the rest of the party, hardly a mile distant. The other riders were slumped forward, sleeping. Only Kith-Kanan was awake.

“There’s no reason to run away, Ullie,” he said softly. “I’m not taking you back to punish you.”

Ulvian gripped the belt that formed his centaur’s harness. He forced himself to ask the difficult question. “Why are you taking me to the city, Father?”

“Because I want you there. Putting you in prison only taught you to make friends with criminals like Drulethen. I shall try to give you the guidance I should have given you when you were younger.”

Guidance. He would give Ulvian guidance while installing that rustic on the Throne of the Sun. “That won’t be necessary, Father.” Ulvian’s voice was firm in the darkness. “I intend to pursue a different course once we get back home.” Kith-Kanan studied his son. Darkness and distance separated them from each other, and it was hard to read Ulvian’s expression.

*

Verhanna and Rufus had ridden ahead to prepare Qualinost for the Speaker’s return and to quell any panic at the sight of wild centaurs entering the city. Kith-Kanan, Kemian, and Ulvian rode together at the head of the little column. Behind them walked Greenhands and the other, riderless centaurs. The green-fingered elf had dismounted several hours earlier, claiming he needed the touch of the living soil on his bare feet.

They topped a treeless rise. Without being told to do so, Koth stopped. Kith-Kanan asked, “What’s the matter, my friend?”

“That place yonder. Is that your city?” asked the awed centaur, pointing ahead.

“That is Qualinost,” the Speaker replied proudly. “Have you never been to a city before?”

“Nay – the smell of so many two-legs is hard for us to bear.”

Kemian raised his hand to cover his mouth and smiled. Five days with centaurs hadn’t made any of them more used to the powerful aroma the creatures gave off.

In the clear air, the capital city of the western elves seemed close enough to touch. The soaring, arched bridges hung from the sky like silver rainbows. The Tower of the Sun was a molten gold spire, a flame leaping from the trees on the plateau. Kith-Kanan could feel the centaur’s muscles tensing.

The sight of Qualinost had brought silence to the boisterous band. A feeling of joy filled the Speaker’s heart.

“Onward, cousins,” said Koth at last, lurching into motion. They descended the rise and soon entered a band of forest land. The centaur leader broke out into song. Rufus and Verhanna would have recognized it, for they had heard it before:

“Child of oak, newly born,

Walks among the mortals mild...”

Kith-Kanan was intrigued. He let the centaurs sing through the entire song once before he interrupted to ask, “Did you just make that up?”

“An ancient ode, it is,” replied Koth. “Sung by uncles who died before I was a colt. Do you like it?”

“Very much.”

The forest had given way to rolling hills, many tilled by farmers. The dirt road suddenly became paved with pounded cobbles. Other travelers on the road gave the caravan of centaurs wide berth. When they recognized Kith-Kanan, many set up a cheer.

The people grew more numerous. By the time the party reached the high cliffs overlooking the river that formed the city’s eastern boundary, throngs of people had turned out to see the return of the Speaker of the Sun. The added spectacle of their Speaker riding on a centaur only increased their excitement.

The Qualinesti cheered and waved. Amused, the centaurs bellowed back their own hearty greetings. They came to the central bridge over the river, and the Guards of the Sun were drawn up in two lines, holding back the enthusiastic crowds.

“Hail, Speaker of the Sun! Hail, Kith-Kanan!”

Koth’s front left hoof stepped down on the hundred-foot-long, suspended rope bridge. It swayed dizzyingly. He looked down into the deep river gorge and rolled his dark eyes. “Not good, cousin! We Kothlolo are not squirrels, to scamper on high!”

“The bridge is quite safe,” Kith-Kanan countered. “It’s used by hundreds daily.”

“Two-legs are too foolish to be afraid,” he muttered. “But a bargain is a bargain! He threw wide his thick arms and let out a bellow that silenced the assembled Qualinesti. Kith-Kanan tightened his grip on the strap around the centaur’s waist, wondering what this yelling portended.

Still bellowing, Koth tore across the bridge at a blistering gallop, with Kith-Kanan holding on for dear life. The other centaurs set up a similar roar and, one by one, dashed across the bridge. By the time the last one reached the plateau and city gate, the crowds were cheering them on wildly.

“Who is brave? Who is strong? Who is fast?” roared Koth.

“Kothlolo!” answered the massed centaurs in deafening shouts.

Kith-Kanan slid off the horse-man’s back. “My friend, I would walk to the Speaker’s house now to be among my people. Will you follow?”

“Of course! There is a reward waiting. We traveled from Kharolis to city in five days!”

Kemian and Ulvian dismounted also. Flower petals and whole bouquets fell around them. Smiling broadly, Kith-Kanan drew Greenhands forward. “Walk with me,” he said in his son’s ear. Ulvian waited for a similar invitation, but none was forthcoming.

Arm in arm, Kith-Kanan and Greenhands went down the street, trailed by Kemian, Ulvian, and the centaurs. The upper windows in every tower stood open, and elven and human women waved white linens as the Speaker strode past. The falling flower petals became so thick on the pavement that the underlying cobbles were lost from view. Elves, humans, half-humans, dwarves, and a kender or two cheered and waved all along the sweeping route to the Speaker’s house. Kith-Kanan waved back.

He looked at Greenhands. The younger elf seemed dazzled by the sheer size and magnitude of the greeting. The Speaker realized his son had never seen so many people before at once. The noise and outpouring of affection drew them on.

“Majesty, did Lady Verhanna announce the coming of your newfound son?” asked Kemian. Kith-Kanan shook his head. “Then why are they cheering him?”

“My people know who he is,” said the Speaker confidently. “They can see it in his face, in his bearing. They are cheering the next Speaker of the Sun.”

Lord Ambrodel grinned. Ulvian, just behind the general, heard every word his father said, but he plodded resolutely onward. Every joyous cry, every tossed bouquet, was yet another nail driven into the coffin of his desires.

They paraded past the Hall of the Sky. The slopes of the hill were likewise covered with Qualinesti, shouting and cheering. Each tree boasted several children who had climbed up for a better view.

In the square before the Speaker’s house, Verhanna, Rufus, and Tamanier Ambrodel waited, flanked on both sides by the household servants and the remaining Guards of the Sun. Kith-Kanan went ahead of Greenhands, who hesitated at the foot of the steps. The Speaker stepped briskly up to the landing in front of the polished mahogany doors. He clasped arms with Tamanier Ambrodel and received a salute from Lord Parnigar, who had kept order in his absence. Kith-Kanan turned and faced the crowd, which gradually fell silent in expectation of a speech.

“People of Qualinost,” he proclaimed, “I thank you for the warmth of your greeting. I am weary, and your affection makes me strong again.

“I have been to the high mountains, first to inspect the Fortress of Peace, later to put an end to an evil sorcerer who had long plagued those regions. Now that I have returned, I do not plan to leave you again any time soon.”

He smiled and fresh cheers erupted from ten thousand throats. The Speaker held up his hands.

“More than that, I have brought with me someone new, someone very close to me. A long time ago, when I was merely the second son of the Speaker of the Stars, I had a wife. She was Kagonesti.”

There were loud hurrahs from the wild elves in the crowd. “Our time together was short, but our love was not in vain. She left for me a most precious gift – a son.” The multitude held its collective breath as Kith-Kanan descended the mahogany steps and took Greenhands by the hand. He led him up to the landing.

“People of Qualinost! This is my son,” Kith-Kanan shouted, his heart full. “His name is Silveran!”

Through the roar that followed, Verhanna stepped close to her father and asked, “Silveran? Where did that name come from?”

“I chose it on the way here,” said Kith-Kanan. He held his son’s green-hued hand aloft. “I hope you like it, Son.”

“You are my father. It is for you to name me.”

“Silveran! Silveran!” the crowd chanted.

Kith-Kanan wanted very much to tell his people the rest of it. Silveran was his heir; he would be the next Speaker of the Sun. But he couldn’t simply announce his decision, though he knew in his heart that Silveran was the best and wisest choice. Many people had to be consulted, even his political foes. The stability of the Qualinesti nation came first, even before his personal pride and happiness. He knew, too, that Ulvian would take the news very hard.

After receiving the cheers of the crowd for some time, Kith-Kanan led his family into the Speaker’s house. Rufus and the Ambrodels, father and son, followed. The crowd began to disperse.

“Sire, what am I to do with the, ah, centaurs?” asked Tamanier, as the Kothlolo crowded up the steps to the double doors.

“Make them comfortable,” Kith-Kanan replied. “They have done me a signal service.”

Tamanier looked askance at the band of rowdy centaurs who filled the antechamber. Their unshod hooves skidded on the smooth mosaic and polished wood floor, but they moved in eagerly, delighted by the strange sights and sensations of the Speaker’s house. As Kith-Kanan ascended the steps on his way to his private rooms, his castellan sent for troops of servants to deal with the centaurs. Amidst all the hubbub, no one noticed Prince Ulvian slip away from the royal family and disappear through the rear of the antechamber.

The prince strode furiously down the corridor that led to the servants’ quarters, to a room used by the household scribes. The room was windowless and stood empty, as he knew it would be; everyone was in the streets, celebrating. When he shut and bolted the door, Ulvian had complete privacy. He turned up the wick on a guttering lamp and sat down at the scribes’ table. With shaking hands, he took the amulet from his clothing and set it on the table before him.

“Speak,” he said in a loud whisper. “Speak to me!”

Ulvian could barely form the words, so angry was he. Angry and, though he could hardly admit it even to himself, afraid. The prince was terrified by the adulation and acceptance Greenhands had received from the people of Qualinost. First he’d been banished to Pax Tharkas to be beaten and humiliated by the grunt gang, then he’d been terrorized by a lying sorcerer, and now, when all that he wanted should be within his grasp, now there was Greenhands.

The amulet was silent. The only voices Ulvian could hear were those of the people in the streets outside, still rejoicing.

“Are you trying to drive me mad?” he shrieked, flinging the onyx talisman against the far wall. It bounced off and rolled away. Ulvian buried his face in his hands.

I am not your servant. I do not come when ordered, said a haughty, cold voice inside the prince’s head.

He raised up with a jerk. “What? Are you there?”

You must learn self-discipline. This anger of yours gets out of control and serves you ill. Drulethen did not lose his temper so readily.

Ulvian got down on his knees and felt under the shelves loaded with scrolls. His fingers found the amulet. It was warm to the touch, like a living thing.

“Dru wasn’t so superior,” said the prince, shifting around to sit on the floor.

Yes, I know, his killer is the one who has stolen your birthright.

Ulvian set the amulet on the floor. “Greenhands,” he said with a sneer. “Now called Silveran – as if he deserves a royal name.”

He is your father’s son, but there is more to him than his ancestry. The power dwells within him. It is a danger to us.

“What power?”

The ancient power of order, which brings life to the world. It is not of the gods, but a more elemental force.

The prince shook his head. “This theology means nothing to me. All I want is what I was promised from birth: my place on the throne!”

Then Greenhands must die.

Put so bluntly, the idea gave Ulvian pause. He pondered the possibility for a long time and finally said, “No, Greenhands must not die. No matter how subtly it was done, suspicion would fall on me. That must not happen. I want this upstart discredited, not killed. I want the people, including my father, to want me on the throne.” His jaw clenched, he added in a whisper, “Especially my father.”

It was the amulet’s turn to fall silent. Then it said, You are a worthy successor to Drulethen.

Ulvian smiled, basking in the praise. “I shall surpass that lowbom sorcerer in every way,” he said smugly.

*

“I am most pleased to meet you, Prince Silveran.”

Senator Irthenie bowed to Kith-Kanan and his son. They were in the outer hall of the Thalas-Enthia tower. The Speaker was about to present his newest son to the senators of Qualinesti, and he knew they weren’t going to be as enthusiastic as the common folk had been.

The Kagonesti woman studied Silveran closely. He was dressed in a simple white robe, with a green sash at his waist. His long hair shone in the late morning sunlight that poured through the windows. “The public display yesterday was very clever,” said Irthenie. “How did you accomplish it?”

The elf once known as Greenhands gave her a blank look and said, “I don’t understand. I was very happy when I entered the city. The people were friendly to me. That’s all I know.”

“My son has certain gifts,” Kith-Kanan remarked. “They come from his mother’s side of the family.”

Verhanna, standing back by the wall, raised her eyebrows.

“A very useful talent,” Irthenie said. “But can he rule, Majesty? That is your plan, I know. Can this innocent in a grown elf’s body rule the nation?”

Kith-Kanan adjusted the folds of his creamy white robe distractedly. “He will learn. I – we – shall teach him.”

The rumble on the other side of the thick obsidian wall was the debate already raging about the Speaker’s new son and possible heir. The Loyalists were outraged, the New Landers were doubtful, and the Friends of the Speaker were completely in the dark about what to say or do.

“Where is Prince Ulvian?” Irthenie asked. “Why isn’t he here?”

“He’s sulking,” Verhanna snorted. “I offered to drag him here by his heels, but Father wouldn’t let me.”

“The Speaker has a kind heart and a wise mind. There is real danger in alienating Prince Ulvian and those who support him. I have not served this nation so long to see it torn apart by a dynastic war.”

“Do you think it will come to war?” asked Verhanna, sensitive to the larger issues.

“Not really,” the senator admitted. “The Loyalists want to exploit Ulvian in the name of tradition, for their own greed, but none of them would choose to die for him.”

“I pray you are right,” said the Speaker softly.

The ceremonial doors of the senate swung outward, and the steward of the chamber announced, “The Thalas-Enthia humbly requests that the Speaker of the Sun enter their house and address them.”

The ritual invitation was a signal to Kith-Kanan that the fight was at hand. Adjusting the drape of his clothing once more, the Speaker said quietly to Silveran, “Are you ready, Son?”

The young elf was quite composed, having no conception of the fight that lay ahead. “I am, Father.”

The Speaker raised an eyebrow at Irthenie. “Ready for yet another battle, my old friend?”

Hitching her wide, beaded belt off her narrow hips, the Kagonesti woman replied, “I say give them no quarter, Great Speaker.” Her eyes gleamed.

Kith-Kanan swept into the hushed senate chamber, followed by Silveran, then Irthenie. Verhanna remained outside. As the steward moved to close the huge, balanced doors, she heard the first voices rising in anger from within. Unable to bear the suspense of waiting here but having no desire to sit in on what she considered pointless arguing, Verhanna left the Thalas-Enthia tower and returned to the Speaker’s house.

There she was met by Tamanier Ambrodel, who looked harassed. “Lady,” he pleaded, “if you have any influence with these vulgar centaurs, will you please ask them to get out of the house? They’re wrecking it!”

She winked. “I’ll have a word with uncle Koth.”

The antechamber was in chaos. The centaurs had camped in the open room, changing it from an elegant greeting hall to a fancy stable. Somewhere they’d found some straw, which they had strewn about on the floor to give their hooves better purchase. All the ornamental vases and artfully grown plants had been broken, uprooted, or eaten.

When Verhanna entered, four centaurs were playing catch with a globe of flawless emerald taken from the stair baluster.

She intercepted a toss and caught the emerald. It was weightier than she expected. “Oof!” she grunted, bending low with the ten-inch sphere in her arms.

“Hail, sister cousin!” cried Koth. He sat by the far wall, his legs folded beneath him. A heap of fruit was piled up beside him. On the other side was an equally large pile of gnawed cores. Koth’s face was sticky with juice.

“Hello, uncle,” she said, setting the emerald down on the floor. “You fellows are having quite a good time, aren’t you?”

“This city of yours is paradise!”

The elder centaur burped loudly. “Why, only this morning, I went to the big open place with cousins Whip and Hennoc and found all this lovely fruit!”

She surveyed the small mountain of pears, apples, and grapes. “Did you pay for this, uncle?”

“Pay? Why, as soon as we got to the two-legs who had the fruit, he yelled and ran away! He wanted to make us a gift of this, I am sure.” Koth polished a dusty pear against his hairy chest and bit into it.

“Look here, uncle. You can’t let all the cousins carry on like this inside the Speaker’s house. It’s, er, causing a bit of a disturbance,” Verhanna said in a kindly tone. “Why don’t you go outdoors? There’s a great deal more room.”

He regarded her with sharp, intelligent eyes. “I think Kothlolo should live under the open sky,” he declared. “City life is making us fat!”

With a few raucous words, he rounded up his band. He spoke a bit longer, and they began to file out of the antechamber.

“You’re not angry, are you?” asked Verhanna as they headed for the doors.

“No, sister cousin. Why should I be? No uncle of mine ever went to a city. I am old and have seen more than I might have seen. I am content.”

Outside, in the square before the Speaker’s house, a group of four Kagonesti elves waited with a small, donkey-drawn cart. Tamanier Ambrodel was talking with one of the Kagonesti. When Verhanna and the centaurs appeared, the castellan approached them.

“Ahem,” he said. “His Majesty Kith-Kanan would like me to present you with this gift.”

With a sweep of his arm, Tamanier indicated the four elves and cart. “These Kagonesti are farriers. They will teach you and your people about shoeing. The Speaker thought that if your people were shod with iron shoes, you could travel farther and have less problem with worn and cracked hooves.”

Koth descended the steps to the square and approached the chief farrier. “We will wear iron, like elf horses?” he asked with curiosity.

“If it pleases you,” replied Tamanier, nervously stepping back by Verhanna.

The elder centaur lifted a horseshoe from the farriers’ cart. The four Kagonesti farriers regarded the horse-man speculatively, as if already sizing him for shoes.

All at once, Koth yelled and lifted the horseshoe over his head. He spoke a long stream of centaur talk at his band, and they raised a cheer, crowding around the cart.

The four farriers got on their cart and led the band of centaurs away to their smithy. The Kothlolo followed with shouted good-byes and boisterous waves, except for one. A lone centaur remained behind. It was the dapple-gray lady centaur who had carried Rufus from the mountains to the city.

She approached Verhanna. “Sister cousin,” she said slowly, as if searching for words in the unfamiliar Elven language. “Please thank for me littlest cousin Rufus!” She smiled triumphantly but Verhanna lifted puzzled eyebrows at her.

“Thank him? For what?” asked the warrior maiden.

In reply, the lady centaur patted a yellow sash she’d wound around her muscular human waist. After staring at it for a few seconds, understanding dawned on Verhanna. It was the same sash Rufus had used as a centaur harness on their wild ride to the city. The lady centaur had admired it, and the kender must have made her a present of it.

Verhanna smiled and nodded her agreement. The lady centaur whirled in a tight circle, her long white tail swishing out behind her, and trotted off to catch up to her comrades.

The warrior maiden stared after her. For some reason, she found herself wishing she could go back to the plains or the high mountains with them. They had no worries, no responsibilities, and ran wherever the wind took them. In the wilderness, you could fight your enemies with a sword, something Verhanna understood. Here in Qualinost, foes were not so clearly defined, and the weapon of choice was words. She had never mastered that form of battle.

Verhanna sat down on the steps. There were a few people moving across the square, and she watched them go about their daily affairs. To her left, the great spire of the Tower of the Sun glinted brightly. The dark stripe that was the tower’s shadow crept across the square away from the Speaker’s house. In a few hours, at sunset, it would blanket the entrance of the Thalas-Enthia, She wondered how long her father and Silveran would have to argue and maneuver with the crafty senators there. It could be hours or days... perhaps even weeks.

Yes, sometimes the simple life of the wilderness seemed very appealing.

*

When the meeting broke up, the news radiated outward from the senate hall in ever-widening circles, so that by a few hours after sunset, the entire city knew that the senate had accepted Kith-Kanan’s testimony that Silveran was his true son. The last bit of convincing evidence presented to the senate had been the testimony of the scribe Polidanus, reading from the copied archives of Silvanos the tale of the elf noble Thonmera. Thonmera was one of the original members of the legendary Synthal-Elish, the council that had been the foundation of the first elven nation several millennia ago. It was written that he had been born sixty years after his mother’s official death. Apparently the sorcerer Procax had cast a spell on Thonmera’s mother because she had refused the magician’s offers of love. Procax turned the elf woman into stone. Sixty years later, when Thonmera’s father had the stone image of his dead wife moved to his newly built home, the laborers dropped it. The stone image shattered, and the living infant form of Thonmera was discovered.

The Loyalists were completely defeated. Indeed, the tale of Thonmera undercut their entire position. Senator Clovanos and his cronies had made a great show of proclaiming themselves loyal to the traditions of the elven race. What could be more traditional, Irthenie demanded, than the birth of a member of the great Synthal-Elish?

Throughout the debate, Kith-Kanan sat quietly, not indulging in the raucous verbal maneuvers. The Speaker left it to Irthenie and his other friends to put forth his case. He answered occasional questions put to him, but by and large he remained in the background.

In the end, by a vast majority, the Thalas-Enthia gave its approval to Silveran as the Speaker’s son. Kith-Kanan did not press right away for the issue of succession, though everyone in the hall had no doubt that was his ultimate goal.

The dying rays of sunlight streamed in the high window slots in the chamber as the session ended. Senators stretched and yawned, rising from their hard marble seats to go to their homes. The Loyalists filed out silently, utterly dejected. Many of the New Landers came forward to offer their congratulations to Kith-Kanan for finding his long-lost son. He remained to speak to all of them, thanking each one personally for his or her vote of confidence.

Finally only Irthenie was left. Her hands shook and her legs were weak from the long, hard afternoon’s work. Kith-Kanan put an arm around her tiny waist and supported her with his strength.

“You’re about to collapse,” he said, concerned. “Shall I send for a litter to carry you home?”

“I can carry myself home,” she snapped, jerking away from his encircling arm. The Speaker of the Sun retreated from the old elf woman’s ire. “I may be tired, but I’m not senile yet!”

“That you are not,” agreed Kith-Kanan. He watched Irthenie’s painful progress up the chamber steps to ground level, then out the open doors. A warm wind blew into the hall, flapping the Speaker’s robe and stirring Silveran’s loose, long hair.

“You’ve been very quiet,” said Kith-Kanan to his son.

“In truth, Father, I haven’t understood one word in ten.” He pressed his hands to his temples. “Never have I heard so many words spoken at one time! It makes my head reel to remember it!”

His father smiled. “The good senators do like to talk. But the wellborn and the important should talk to each other and argue their points of view. It’s far better than settling their disputes with blades, as was the case in Silvanost in my father’s day.”

“Talking is better than fighting,” repeated Silveran, impressing the concept on his mind.

“And right now food is better than both,” Kith-Kanan sighed, putting an arm across his son’s shoulders. “A plump chicken, a loaf of fresh bread, and some fine Qualinesti nectar should do nicely.”

“I’m hungry, too.”

Father and son mounted the shallow steps and passed out of the hall. The rose quartz outer walls of the tower burned in the setting sun, and the full weight of summer leaves tossed back and forth on the trees as the wind stirred through them.

“I will teach you all I know,” Kith-Kanan promised. He held his head up, letting the sun wash over his face. His regal robe, rumpled by the long afternoon of sitting, flashed white satin highlights as he walked. “You will be a great Speaker of the Sun.”

Silveran was quiet for several minutes as they crossed the square toward the Speaker’s house. They were unescorted by warriors and unburdened by pomp. The green-fingered elf lifted his own face to the warmth of the sun and shook his hair out of his eyes.

“Father,” he said, at last, “I believe this is what my mother wanted.”

“I believe so, too,” Kith-Kanan murmured. “I believe you were sent so that the nation of Qualinesti would not die. You are its future.”

As the Speaker and his son moved through the people who were finishing the day’s chores, they were greeted by bows and smiles and happy voices.

“Long live the Speaker,” said a human woman whose arms were laden with freshly cut flowers. “Long live Prince Silveran!” added two nearby elves.

It was a fine day, a fine evening. At the door of the Speaker’s house, Kith-Kanan saw Tamanier Ambrodel waiting for him. He sent Silveran on ahead into the house. When his son was gone, Kith-Kanan asked his castellan why he was so happy.

“How do you know I’m happy, sire?” asked the surprised Tamanier.

“Your face is an open scroll,” the speaker replied. “I can read your every emotion. Now, what is it?”

“The centaurs have received their reward and left the house,” Tamanier reported.

Kith-Kanan sighed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to bid them farewell. They were staunch friends when we needed them. Such allies must be treasured.” He passed a hand before his eyes. “My head aches, Tam. Have the apothecary send up a soothing draft with dinner.”

Tamanier bowed. He watched the Speaker ascend the stairs to his private rooms to join young Silveran for their meal. How old he seems this evening, the castellan thought. The expedition against Drulethen had taken a great deal out of Kith-Kanan. But with a new son and plenty of rest, he would recover quickly.

Chapter 18

ONYX DREAMS

In a small room adjoining the Speaker’s bedchamber, Silveran lay sleeping on a simple pallet of blankets spread on the hard tile floor. He was too used to sleeping on the ground to be comfortable on the soft bed. Every night of the week he had been in Qualinost, he’d dragged his bedding onto the floor and spent the night there.

As often happens to those with untroubled minds, he fell asleep quickly and passed the night in harmless dreams of his forest birthplace. The heady changes in his short life had barely impressed themselves on his inner mind, and Silveran did not yet dream of glory or power or the adoration of the people.

The only troubling aspects of his dreams so far were the images of his half-siblings, Verhanna and Ulvian. They did not menace him, but he felt vaguely troubled whenever they appeared. Even the innocent Silveran could sense Ulvian’s hostility, and he did not know what to make of Verhanna’s strange behavior at all. Sometimes she got angry at him for no reason at all.

She loves you, whispered a voice in his dreams.

Like a child, Silveran took the voice for a normal part of his dreamworld. “I love her,” he replied reasonably. “And I love Rufus and my father, too.”

I could have loved, sighed the voice, but you took my life.

Silveran’s brow wrinkled and he stirred restlessly. “Who are you? How have I harmed you?”

A face rushed at him in his mind’s eye. With marble white skin over sunken cheeks, it stared balefully through bleary gray eyes. Its mouth hung slackly open, and its breath reeked of decay and the grave.

Silveran uttered a soft cry and awoke. After some seconds of disorientation, he realized he was in the Speaker’s house. A sigh of relief passed his lips.

The blanket over him twitched as if it were alive. Silveran grasped the satin hem where it lay on his chest and held on. The blanket billowed up, rippling from his legs up to his waist. The elf whipped it away to see what was making it rise. Silveran let out a much louder cry this time, for beneath the blanket, floating only a foot from his nose, was the disembodied face from his dream!

You killed me, whispered the white lips. I was Drulethen of Black Stone Peak, and you murdered

“No! I slew a monster! It was a noble deed!”

The head floated closer. Silveran threw up his hands to ward it off. Scrambling wildly, he fled the room on all fours.

The connecting door to the Speaker’s room stood ajar, and Silveran banged through it. Hearing his son’s wild cries, Kith-Kanan sat up in bed. Beside his bed, a magical lamp in the shape of a small silver pine tree flickered immediately to life.

“What? What is it?”

It took him a moment to notice Silveran cringing at the foot of his bed. “My boy, what’s the matter?” he asked sleepily.

“Make it go away!” Silveran pressed his face into the dark red drapes hanging from the corners of Kith-Kanan’s bed. “I didn’t mean to do it! I didn’t know!”

The Speaker arose and drew on a light cotton dressing gown. He knotted the sash at his waist and knelt beside his trembling son. “Tell me what’s frightened you,” he said, gently removing Silveran’s clenched fingers from the drapery. The elf related his dream haltingly, including how he’d seen the face of the sorcerer he’d killed at Black Stone Peak.

“It was only a bad dream... a nightmare,” Kith-Kanan whispered soothingly. He stroked his son’s sweat-damp hair. “You never saw Dru in human form, did you?”

“But I woke up and it was still there,” Silveran insisted. “He looked so ordinary in my dream... so thin and frail. Is that who the wyvern truly was?”

“It is true, Son, but the sorcerer is ash and dust now. He cannot hurt you.”

As he spoke, Kith-Kanan tried to ignore his own fears. The link between Drulethen, the sorcerer, and Dru, the manifestation of the god Hiddukel, loomed large in his mind. He didn’t want to see enemies and conspiracies under every stone and in every shadow, but coincidence rarely applied when the gods were involved.

It was a strange scene, the father consoling his fully grown son, rocking the weeping Silveran in his arms. The commotion had reached the sensitive ears of Tamanier Ambrodel, whose rooms were only a short distance down the corridor. The disheveled elf appeared in the Speaker’s doorway holding a candelabrum.

“Sire?”

“It’s all right, Tam,” Kith-Kanan said, waving a hand. “My son had a bad dream.”

“I killed him!” sobbed Silveran.

Embarrassed, Tamanier quietly withdrew. The prince certainly seemed more overwrought than a mere bad dream would warrant.

Silveran’s terror finally lessened, and he was able to compose himself. Kith-Kanan offered to sit up with him, but his son declined to return to his own room. “I would rather sleep here with you,” he said, indicating the hard floor at the foot of the four-poster bed. With a slight smile, Kith-Kanan nodded. He remembered from many centuries past the hollow tree in which he’d lived with Silveran’s mother, Anaya, and her brother, Mackeli. They had slept on the unpadded ground, too.

Kith-Kanan climbed back into bed. He listened for a long time, but Silveran’s only sounds were light, even breathing. The Speaker pondered the mystery of Dru and what the coincidence of names could mean. Was Drulethen really the god Hiddukel in disguise? Did the God of Evil Bargains torment Silveran’s dreams?

*

The Speaker’s house was haunted.

So the gossip went in the markets and towers of Qualinost in the days that followed. The strange son the Speaker had brought back from the mountains was being hounded by the dreadful specter of a severed head. It made the good folk shudder, yet they repeated the tale. The story was awful, but it was also fascinating.

No one else had seen the ghost – only Prince Silveran was tormented. The specter would not appear to him unless he was alone, and then it persecuted him relentlessly. The robust young elf soon lost his color and vitality as sleep was denied him by the vengeful spirit.

Verhanna and Rufus set themselves the task of always being with Silveran, since the ghost chose never to appear to others. For a time, this worked. With his half-sister or the kender always in attendance, Silveran’s health improved. Then, after many weeks of this happy companionship, the haunting changed.

Verhanna, Silveran, and Rufus were in the garden behind the Speaker’s house. A straw-stuffed sack had been set up, and the warrior maiden was teaching Silveran how to shoot a crossbow. With the passage of time, Verhanna had been able to accept him for what he was – her brother, and very likely the next Speaker of the Sun. She’d grown to enjoy his company immensely.

Rufus jogged back and forth, retrieving arrows that went awry. It was a balmy afternoon, with gray clouds scudding before the wind, chasing the last remnants of summer over the western horizon.

The trees were just beginning to show a hint of their autumn brilliance.

Thunk! A quarrel stuck, quivering, in the target. Verhanna lowered the crossbow from her shoulder. She wore a sleeveless red tunic and thin white trousers. On her feet were dainty red slippers, embroidered in gold. These had been a gift from Rufus on her birthday a week before.

“You see,” she said encouragingly, “it isn’t so hard. Even Wart can shoot a crossbow.”

“We kender think bows are cowardly,” Rufus replied airily. “A real weapon is the sling. That takes true skill to use!”

“Sling, ha! Slings are mere toys for children,” scoffed Verhanna.

Silveran sat on a marble bench cunningly shaped to resemble a fallen tree. He’d made a number of tries at the target, but his bolts always went wide. He couldn’t understand it, but his lack of success didn’t seem to bother him. It did, however, vex Verhanna.

“You have eyes like a barn owl,” she grumbled, hands perched on hips. “Why can’t you hit the target?”

“Weapons don’t work well in my hands,” Silveran replied with a shrug. “I don’t know why.”

“Nonsense. Warrior skills run in our family.” She thrust the hunting crossbow into his hands. “Try again.”

“If you wish, Hanna.”

Silveran fitted a quarrel onto the bow stock. Verhanna stood off to his left, Rufus on his right. He raised the crossbow to his cheek and squinted over the wire-bead sight fixed to the end of the stock.

Murderer...

Silveran lowered the bow and shook his head, frowning. Verhanna asked what was the matter. “Nothing,” he said, raising the weapon again.

Murderer...

The green-fingered elf knew that whispering voice all too well. Gripping the crossbow hard, Silveran tried to concentrate on the target, to banish all other thoughts from his mind. He hadn’t been bothered by the specter of dead Dru for over a month. His time had been spent with Verhanna and Rufus, or learning from his father the things that he needed to know as crown prince of the Qualinesti. His days were kept busy, and his nights had been calm since Rufus began sleeping on a small bed in his room.

However, hard as he tried to ignore it, the hollow sound of Dru’s voice filled his ears: Murderer. You killed me.

Green robe flying, Silveran spun around, looking for the terrible face he knew would be hovering nearby. Rufus threw himself flat on the ground as the quarrel tip on the cocked crossbow spun by. He shouted, “Hey! Watch where you point that thing!”

The only sound the Speaker’s son heard was the ghastly sighing of a long-dead elf. He swept around in a circle until he spied the horrible head suspended in space, just above his own eye level. The face of the evil sorcerer was even more decayed now than when he last saw it. The nose was sunken in, the eyes black sockets. The smell of death and putrefaction forced itself into Silveran’s nostrils. He choked and aimed the crossbow at the dead elf’s image.

“Silveran, don’t shoot,” Verhanna said evenly. The quarrel was pointing right at her forehead, only a half dozen feet away. A line of sweat appeared on her upper lip.

“Don’t shoot the captain!” Rufus, still flat on the sod, added his plea to hers.

“Go away,” Silveran quavered. “Leave me alone!”

“I’m not Drulethen,” Verhanna said carefully. Keeping her hands spread apart in front of her, she took a step forward. She continued to speak in calm, soothing tones. “Turn the bow away, Silveran. It’s me, Verhanna. Your sister.”

In Silveran’s fear-crazed mind, the words were different: Time is short, murderer. When the last flesh rots from my bones, I will come to avenge my death on you. Time is short! Look into the face of your death!

Maggots sprouted from the dead elf’s skin. Drulethen’s lower jaw fell away and vanished, leaving a horrid, gaping skull leering at him. Silveran shut his eyes and cried out for mercy. His hand tightened on the trigger bar.

Verhanna threw herself forward and knocked the bow aside. The square-headed quarrel leapt from the bowstring and hissed through the air, burying itself in a high tree branch. Silveran screamed and fought Verhanna, but she managed to pin him to the ground.

“No, no!” he ranted. “I’m sorry I killed you! Don’t hurt me, Dru! I don’t want to die!” Tears coursed down his cheeks.

Guards, servants, and Tamanier Ambrodel came running into the garden, alarmed by the cries. The guards restrained Silveran after Verhanna lifted him to his feet. The prince sobbed something about forgiveness and his own innocence.

“Did you leave him alone?” asked Tamanier quickly. “Did he see the ghost again?”

“We never left his side,” Rufus protested. “My captain and I were teaching Greenhands how to shoot a crossbow.”

Tamanier looked quickly to Verhanna. “Did you see anything untoward, Your Highness?”

She dusted dirt from her knees and shook her head. “I didn’t see or hear anything but Silveran.”

“He almost shot my captain,” blurted the kender.

“Shut up, Wart.”

Tamanier looked grave. “The Speaker must be told.” He folded his wrinkled hands and pressed them hard against his lips. “Forgive me, Highness.”

Verhanna bristled. “What do you mean?”

“His Highness could be ill in his mind.”

Her eyes blazed. “You go too far, Castellan Ambrodel! If my brother says he’s seeing a ghost, then by Astra, there’s a ghost!”

“I meant no offense, Your Highness —”

“Well, you’ve offended me!”

The guards supported Silveran as they walked him back to the Speaker’s house. Tamanier bowed and, white-faced, followed them inside.

Rufus picked up the crossbow and brushed the dirt from the bowstring. “You know, my captain, the old geezer could be right.”

She shook a finger under the kender’s nose. “Don’t you start, too, you noisy beetle!”

The kender turned and stomped away toward the house. Shaking with fury, Verhanna watched him for a second, then snatched up a forgotten quarrel and broke it over her knee. She flung the pieces aside and stalked off into the garden. Soon the warrior maiden was lost from sight as she crashed through the bushes and descended the gentle slope into the deepest recesses of the peaceful garden.

From a window in the Speaker’s house overlooking the upper garden, Ulvian watched the entire scene. He smiled. He was glad his rooms had such an excellent view.

*

Healers were summoned to the Speaker’s house; priestesses of Quen came and worked their incantations over Silveran – all with no success. Clerics devoted to the worship of Mantis and Astra wove protective spells around Kith-Kanan’s beleaguered son, but still the hideous corpse face of Drulethen tormented him, and him alone.

The Speaker met with the priests and healers. “Is my son bewitched?” he asked solemnly.

The high priestess of Quen, a former Silvanesti named Aytara, answered for all of them. “We have cast healing spells on your son, Great Speaker, and they do not affect him. The good brothers of Mantis have erected barriers to keep out elementals and evil spirits, and still he sees the dread specter.”

Her wide, pale blue eyes never faltered as she gazed at Kith-Kanan. “Prince Silveran is not afflicted by mortal magic, Great Speaker,” the young priestess finished.

“What, then?” he demanded.

Aytara glanced at her silent colleagues. “There are two possibilities, Majesty. Both are distasteful.”

“Speak the truth, lady. I want to hear it.”

“There are potions, poisons, that can corrode the mind. Your son may have been given such a potion,” she said.

Kith-Kanan shook his head. “Silveran and I eat the same foods. No one knows who will eat or drink from any given plate or cup. And I have experienced no such visions. It cannot be poison.”

“Very well. The last possibility is that your son has lost his mind.”

Terrible, icy silence followed the pronouncement. Kith-Kanan gripped the arms of his vallenwood throne so hard his knuckles turned as white as the wood. “Do you know what you’re saying? Are you telling me that my son – my heir – is mad?”

The priestess said nothing. A thought occurred to the Speaker. “My son has demonstrated magical ability in the past,” he ventured. “Can this power not be used to help him?”

“He does indeed have great power, but he is completely untrained. Without much study and practice, he can’t use these powers to help himself.” Aytara’s face was sad.

Kith-Kanan looked to each of the others in turn. All of them hung their heads and remained silent, having nothing further to offer.

“Go,” the Speaker said in a tired voice. “I thank you for your efforts. Go.”

With many bows and flourishes, the healers and clerics took their leave of Kith-Kanan. The Speaker turned away to stare out one of the windows. Only Tamanier remained in the hall.

“My old friend,” Kith-Kanan said to him. “What am I to do? I almost think the gods have cursed me, Tam. I’ve buried two wives, found that one son was a criminal and another may be insane. What am I to do?”

At the far end of the small hall, the aged castellan took in a deep breath. “Perhaps young Silveran has always been troubled,” he ventured. “After all, his early life and birth were not natural, and his powers are wild and uncontrolled.”

The Speaker slumped back on his throne. He felt every day of his five hundred and some-odd years of life weigh upon him like stones in the folds of his robe, or chains laid in long loops around his shoulders.

“I followed all the signs,” he murmured. “Has it all been a terrible hoax? It can’t be. Silveran must be my true heir, I know it. But how can we cure him? I can’t put my crown on the head of a mad person.”

“Sire,” said Tamanier, “I am reluctant to bring this up – especially now. But Prince Ulvian wishes to speak with you.”

The Speaker started, his mind far away. “What, Tam?”

“Prince Ulvian has asked to see you, sire.”

The Speaker gathered his wandering thoughts. With a nod, he said, “Very well. Send him in.”

Tamanier pushed the doors apart. An eddy of wind from the porticoed exterior sent a handful of dead leaves skittering across the burnished wooden floor of the hall. The castellan admitted Prince Ulvian, then departed, closing the doors quietly behind him.

“Speaker,” said Ulvian, bowing from the waist. Kith-Kanan waved for him to approach.

It took Ulvian twenty steps to cross the audience hall. In the months since his return from Pax Tharkas and Black Stone Peak, the prince had radically altered his looks and manner. Gone were the extravagant lace cuffs, the brilliantly colored and astonishingly expensive breeches and boots. Ulvian had taken to wearing plain velvet tunics in dark blue, black, or green, with matching trousers and short black boots. Heavy necklaces and bold gems on his fingers had given way to a simple silver chain around his neck, with a locket containing a miniature of his mother. Ulvian let his hair grow longer, in a more elven fashion, and shaved off his beard. Save for his broad jaw and round eyes, he could have been taken for a full-blooded elf.

“Father, I want you to send me away,” he said after bowing a second time at the foot of the throne. “Away? Why?”

“I feel it is time to complete my education. I’ve wasted too much time on frivolous pleasures. There are many things I want to learn.”

Kith-Kanan sat upright. This curious request intrigued him. “Where is it you wish to go for this education?” he asked.

“I was thinking of Silvanost.”

The Speaker raised his eyebrows. In a gentle voice, he said, “Ulvian, that’s impossible. Sithas would never allow it.”

Ulvian took a step forward. The toes of his boots pressed against the base of the vallenwood throne. “But I want to learn from the wise elves of the east, in the most ancient temples in the world. Surely the Speaker of the Stars would permit his own kin —”

“It cannot be, my son.” Kith-Kanan leaned forward and laid a hand on Ulvian’s shoulder. “You are half-human. The Silvanesti would not welcome you.”

The prince flinched as if his father had struck him. “Then send me to Thorbardin, or Ergoth! Anywhere!” Ulvian said desperately.

“Why do you wish to leave so suddenly?”

The prince’s eyes dropped before the Speaker’s questioning gaze. “I – I told you, Father. I want to complete my education.”

“You aren’t telling me the truth, Son,” Kith-Kanan contended.

“All right. I want to get away from this house. I can’t bear it anymore!” He jerked out of his father’s grip.

“What do you mean?”

Ulvian fidgeted with his narrow gray sash. Finally he turned away, putting his back to the Speaker. “His screams keep me awake at night,” he said stiffly; “I – I hear him wandering the halls, moaning. I can’t bear it, Father. I know he’s your legitimate heir, and I can’t expect him to go away, so I thought I’d volunteer to leave instead.”

Kith-Kanan rose and walked to his son. “Your brother is ill,” he said. “If it’s any consolation to you, he keeps me awake at night, too.”

The dark smudges under Kith-Kanan’s eyes testified to the truth of his statement. “I wish you would stay and help Silveran, Ullie. He needs a good friend.”

The somberly dressed prince knelt and gathered a handful of red and brown leaves from the floor. Slowly he turned them over, as if studying their wrinkled surfaces. “Do the healers give him any chance of recovery?” he asked, staring at the leaves.

Kith-Kanan sighed. “They don’t even agree on why he is afflicted,” he replied.

Ulvian dropped the leaves and stood. Turning to face his father, the prince said quietly, “If you want me to stay, Father, I will.”

Kith-Kanan grasped his son’s hands gratefully. “Thank you, Ullie,” he said, smiling. “I was hoping you’d stay.”

The prince had never planned to do otherwise. Back in his own quarters, Ulvian ran his fingers lightly down the front of his heavy quilted tunic. The hard lump of the black onyx amulet was there, sheathed in a tight leather bag hanging around his neck.

“My beauty,” Ulvian rejoiced softly. “It goes well! Soon I will be sole and undisputed heir.”

You deserve it, my prince, crooned the amulet for Ulvian’s ears only. Together we will rule.

The prince busied himself putting the finishing touches to the speech he would give when he was made heir to the Throne of the Sun.

Chapter 19

THE DEATH OF THE SUN

Before the first frost, they moved Silveran to a room at the end of the south wing of the Speaker’s house. In this secluded chamber, his nightly ravings wouldn’t disturb those sleeping near the center of the great house. Tamanier, as keeper of the keys, had the duty of locking Silveran in his room each night. If his cries became too loud, a sleeping draft would be brought for him to drink. Only through powerful soporifics could they hold back the relentless specter that haunted the young elf. The strong medicines left him groggy and befuddled most of his waking hours.

When Solinari, the silver moon, first called the fingers of frost over Qualinesti, Silveran was sleeping fitfully in his pitiful cell. There was no furniture or lamp or anything else he might use to harm himself or others. Of his blankets, only two hadn’t been shredded by fevered hands as he struggled to keep the hideous phantom at bay.

Greenhands, dead Dru called. Rise, murderer. Tonight, you join me in the land of the dead.

“No,” Silveran groaned. “Oh, no, please!”

Your time is all used up. Rise! I am coming for you!

“No!”

With a sudden spasm, the elf jerked awake. His heart hammered inside his ribs, and his breath came in rapid, shallow gasps. “You’ll not take me! You’ll not!”

He scrambled to his feet. The door to his room was locked from the outside. Panic seized Silveran. He stood and kicked the locked door hard.

The thick wooden panel boomed but stayed firm. Knowing his son’s great strength, Kith-Kanan had sadly ordered the door be the stoutest that could be found.

Greenhands, murderer...

In desperation, Silveran threw his entire body at the door. Under his frenzied assault, the jamb splintered, and the door flew wide. The dark hall outside was cold. Winter rugs had not yet been laid on the bare wood floor, and the elf’s teeth chattered as he staggered out into the chill.

To his left were door-sized windows, shuttered. Through the slats of the seven-foot-tall shutters came a weird, yellow-green light. Silveran uttered a short, sharp cry and recoiled from the slivers of sickly light slicing in between the slats. Laughter rang in his head – Dru’s laughter, mingled with the sound of rattling chains.

He ran down the hall, blindly blundering from one closed door to another. These ground floor rooms were unoccupied, as the Speaker was entertaining no guests. Silveran shook each door handle and pounded on each panel, but he couldn’t get in. The chartreuse light grew stronger, until it cast Silveran’s own long shadow to the end of the empty hall.

The light seeped through the closed shutters like oil through cheesecloth. As the petrified elf watched, it coalesced into the rough form of an elf. Silveran pressed his back against a locked door and stared in abject terror. The greenly glowing form assumed distinct arms and legs – but no head. The neck rose up, but where the head should be was only darkness.

Flee if you can, murderer! I have come for you! boomed the voice.

Silveran bolted from the shelter of the doorway and ran down the hall, crying out in horror.

He crossed the receiving room at the main entrance on the ground floor and seized the first available doorknob. This was the Speaker’s trophy room. Here were displayed Kith-Kanan’s various suits of armor, his personal weapons, as well as flags and standards captured from the Ergothians during the Kinslayer War. Silveran wove his way among the stands of halberds, swords, and pikes. The glint of metal gave him an idea, a mad idea. He would kill the wretched ghost again – for good this time – and be safe. Safe and free.

But the pikes and swords were held in their racks by strong loops of chain and wire, and none came easily to hand. Silveran hurried by them and went to the rear wall, scanning the trophies mounted there. These were not, properly speaking, weapons, but rather tools the Speaker had used in his long career. The saw he had wielded to fell the first tree when Qualinost was being built. The mason’s trowel he used to lay the cornerstone of the Tower of the Sun. The hammer King Glenforth of Thorbardin had given him to carve out the first block for the fortress of peace, Pax Tharkas.

The hammer rested on a small pedestal under a crystal dome. The silver bands on its handle sparkled, and its gilded head gleamed. The dome was not sealed, and Silveran quickly sent it crashing to the floor. The hammer fit his grip as if made for him.

He exulted. The mighty dwarven hammer would smash diamonds to dust if swung smartly and struck fairly. Now he would deal with the monster Drulethen. His torment would soon be finished!

The door of the trophy room opened slowly. The elf huddled in the shadows, hammer couched on his shoulders. A pale yellow light filtered in from the open door, and a voice whispered, “Silveran? Are you in here?”

“Yes!” he shouted, leaping on the door and wrenching it fully open. He saw for a second a grinning, fleshless skull staring at him with empty white eye sockets, heard the mocking laughter in his ears. “Now I will kill you forever, Dru!” Silveran screamed and brought the hammer down in a smashing blow on Dru’s skull. Bone yielded under the awful impact, and he smelled blood. The yellow light went out.

Silveran collapsed in a limp heap on the floor. He’d done it. He’d killed Dru completely. Now he was free. His eyelids fluttered closed just as more light filled the room.

Tamanier, Ulvian, and Verhanna lifted their lamps high. Behind them, sleepy servants muttered about their interrupted rest. The lamplight fell upon the scene in the Speaker’s trophy room.

“By all the holy gods!” Tamanier cried. “He’s killed the Speaker!”

*

The entire Guard of the Sun was roused and turned out of their barracks while the best healers in Qualinost were summoned to the Speaker’s house. Kith-Kanan bore a terrible wound on his head where the dwarven hammer had broken his skull. But he was not dead. His heart beat, and he drew breath, but the Speaker of the Sun had not opened his eyes since the tragedy.

Strangely, Silveran was likewise insensible. His body was unmarked, yet he could not be roused, even when foul-smelling asafetida was waved under his nose. All signs of madness had left him; his face was peaceful, and the deep lines in his brow were smoothed out. He looked like a sleeping child, lying on the floor by his mortally wounded father.

Verhanna refused any help and carried her father to his bed. Tamanier explained how Kith-Kanan had heard the disturbance Silveran had caused and had gone, without summoning any guards, to investigate.

“I will never forgive myself,” the old castellan said, wringing his hands. “I should have gone in his stead!”

“Never mind,” Ulvian said unsteadily as they mounted the steps on each side of Verhanna. “No one knew this was going to happen. Silveran must have struck out at Father in a delirium.”

In truth, the prince was much shaken by this turn of events. He had never desired Kith-Kanan’s death, and he somehow realized the amulet had deliberately maneuvered father and son together for just this result. Now the evil talisman wouldn’t have to wait long for Ulvian to receive that which he’d requested. In days – perhaps hours – Ulvian would be Speaker of the Sun.

Aytara and the entire college of Quen arrived, and they were put to work trying to save Kith-Kanan’s life. Silveran merited only a passing glance. Aside from the fact that he couldn’t be awakened, he seemed in perfect health. The high priestess didn’t wish to waste a single spell or incantation on the uninjured elf; all the magic they could gather would be needed for the Speaker. Two of the guards carried the Speaker’s unconscious son to a small room on the second floor of the great house. Their orders were to chain him and stand guard at his door.

Kith-Kanan was dying.

Soon the whole house was saturated with the smell of incense and the sound of chanting. The Clerics of Quen invoked their mightiest spells, and they succeeded in slowing the creep of death through the Speaker’s limbs, but they couldn’t stop it. Aytara admitted as much to Verhanna and Ulvian in the sitting room of their father’s chambers.

“How – how long will he live?” asked Verhanna, silent tears trickling down her face.

“A day. Perhaps two. He is very strong. A normal elf would have died on the spot from such a blow. You should be prepared, my lady. The end could come at any time.”

“Is there nothing you can do?”

Aytara bowed. Her white robes were wrinkled, her sky-blue sash loosely tied. She, too, was crying. “No, Highness. I am deeply sorry.”

Verhanna nodded and the high priestess departed.

After a silent moment, Ulvian coughed. “There remains the matter of my succession,” he said. Verhanna. Glared. “What succession?”

“When our father dies, who will be the next Speaker? Certainly not our mad half-brother.”

Snarling with outrage, Verhanna seized her brother by the front of his shirt and propelled him backward out the door and into the hallway, until he thudded against a pillar. “Don’t talk to me about crowns!” she said through clenched teeth. “Our father isn’t even dead yet, and already you crave his scepter! I tell you this, Brother, if you mention such a thing to me again before Father is gone, I’ll kill you. I’ll gut you like a wild pig! Is that clear?”

Mastering the fear that trembled through his body, Ulvian said that it was. He had no doubt she meant what she said. Though he clutched her arms, he knew he’d never break her grip.

Verhanna felt something hard under her wrist. She plucked open Ulvian’s blue shirt, sending buttons flying. There was a leather bag hanging around his neck. Her brother’s eyes were wide with fear and anger.

“What’s this?” she hissed. When he didn’t reply, she drew her dagger in her left hand and held it to his face.

For an instant, he thought Verhanna was going to slit his throat, but all she did was cut the thong holding the leather bag. Stepping back, she pried it open and found the onyx amulet.

“What are you doing with this?” she demanded.

“It’s just a lump of carved stone,” he said, his voice quavering. Ulvian prayed silently for the amulet to intervene. Nothing happened.

“This was destroyed in the fire when Drulethen was —” Verhanna stopped in midsentence. Her head snapped around in the direction of their father’s bedchamber. Slowly she turned back to Ulvian, her face suffused with blood.

“You!” she breathed.

“No, Hanna, it wasn’t —”

She seized her brother again, shoving him so hard against the pillar that his vision filled with stars. “Let me go! You’ll regret it if you hurt me!” he babbled.

“I haven’t got time for you now,” she muttered fiercely. She let him go. Ulvian’s feet dropped to the

floor.

“Sergeant of the guard!” Verhanna bawled. A warrior with a fanlike array of horsehair on the top of his helmet came running down the corridor. “Post a guard around this room,” she ordered. “No one is to enter but I myself, Tamanier Ambrodel, or the holy lady Aytara. Got that?”

The guard glanced sideways at the prince. “Is my lord Ulvian to be excluded, Captain?” he asked.

“He most certainly is. If I find out anyone else but the three I named has gone in there, I’ll have your head.”

The sergeant, a seasoned warrior, swallowed hard. “It shall be done, Captain!” he vowed.

A squad of eight guards formed before the doors to the Speaker’s rooms. It was nearly dawn. Verhanna left Tamanier to make the announcement to the people. Already heralds clad in golden tabards were appearing in the halls, rubbing the sleep from their eyes and tugging on their ankle-high boots. The old castellan, strain and sorrow written into every line on his face, shepherded the elf boys and girls into an adjoining room. Minutes later, the heralds emerged, red-eyed and weeping. They raced out of the building to cry the sorrowful news to the waking city.

Verhanna went to see Silveran. The guards outside the chamber stood aside for her as she unlocked the thick door of his room.

“Captain,” one of the guards said to her before she entered, “you’d best look at his hands.”

She was weary and heartsick and still angry with Ulvian, and she told the guard she had no patience for riddles.

“Please, Captain,” insisted the guard. “He was once called Greenhands, wasn’t he? Well, his fingers aren’t green anymore.”

Verhanna’s brows lifted at that. She went in and closed the heavy door behind her.

Despite the thick chains that encircled his arms and legs, Silveran was the picture of peace. It made her heart ache anew to see him lying so innocent and untroubled while their father was dying. What evil miasma had invaded his simple, guileless mind and made him go mad with fear? She still held the black amulet in her hand. Verhanna knelt on one knee and studied the elf’s hands. Just as the guard had said, Silveran’s fingers were now white, contrasting with his tanned hands.

Slowly, with much fluttering of eyelids, Silveran was waking.

“Hanna,” he said happily. “Hello.”

She stared down at him, incredulous at his calm manner. He sat up, and the chains draped heavily on his stomach. “Oof,” he wheezed. “What’s this? Why am I bound?”

“Don’t you remember what happened?” she asked.

“Remember what? Won’t you take these chains off? They hurt me.”

“How do you think you came to be here?” she said sharply.

Silveran’s brow furrowed. “I was asleep,” he said thoughtfully. “I had some bad dreams – then I woke up, and there you were, and here are the chains.”

In slow, deliberate words, she explained what had happened. Silveran cried out and retreated to the wall. The door opened and a guard poked his head in, but Verhanna waved him out. Silveran hugged himself and gasped for air.

“It cannot be,” he said, shaking his head. “It was a dream, a terrible dream!”

“It is the truth,” she said grimly. “The Speaker is dying.”

He buried his face in his hands. “I am cursed!” Silveran moaned. “I have slain my beloved father!”

Verhanna sprang forward, grabbing his hands and dragging them away from his face. “Listen to me! You may have been cursed, but you’re all right now. When father dies —” she choked on the word — “you must go before the Thalas-Enthia and demand that they name you Speaker of the Sun. Otherwise Ulvian will claim the throne. You must do it!”

“But I must be punished for slaying our father,” he objected, sobbing. “No one could want me to rule. Let Ulvian be Speaker. I must be put to death for my crime!”

Verhanna shook him hard, rattling his chains. “No! It wasn’t your fault. Ulvian used Drulethen’s black amulet to drive you mad. He’s the criminal. You are the chosen successor. Everything depends on you. Father believes you are the future of Qualinesti!”

Bells began tolling from the high towers of the city. The heralds’ dire tidings were spreading fast. Verhanna listened to the doleful sound, knowing it was the Speaker’s death knell. When the bells ceased ringing, it would mean Kith-Kanan was dead.

Quickly the warrior maiden unlocked the fetters on Silveran’s hands and legs. “You stay here,” she said. “I’ll have the guards lock you in. You’ll be safe.”

“Safe from what?”

There was no time to explain. Silveran reached out for Verhanna as she made for the door. Whatever he intended to say died in his throat as he noticed for the first time that his fingers were no longer green.

“The power has left me,” he breathed. “I no longer feel its touch.”

Verhanna hesitated, her hand on the knob. “The magic? It’s gone?”

He nodded. “Good,” she said firmly. “Maybe that will be to your advantage.”

The door slammed behind her before he could ask what she meant.

*

To walk among the green trees, to smell the sunwashed air, to eat what came to hand, and to sleep under the stars – that was the good life. The best life. For all his deeds and wisdom, it was this simple woodland existence that Kith-Kanan always hungered for. The myth makers, the legend builders, had elevated him into a hero, a demigod, in his own lifetime. No doubt after he was dead, their exaggerations would grow larger with each passing century. Perhaps Kith-Kanan might become a god someday in the eyes of his descendants. He did not wish it. A far more suitable tribute would be the continued happy existence of the nation he’d founded, Qualinesti.

Kith-Kanan walked in the shade of oaks. It was a remarkable dream he was having. Dreams were usually thin things, flashes in his mind’s eye. This one, though, was magnificent. The smells, sounds, and textures of the forest were all around him. Wind whispered in the leaves high overhead. He heard birds and small animals calling and scampering in the dead leaves on the ground. Sunlight made sparkling patterns in the air. Remarkable. Truly remarkable.

“Not so remarkable.”

He stopped, as if rooted to the spot. Leaning against a tree, not five paces away, was his first wife and dearest love.

“Anaya,” he sighed. “You visit my wonderful dream.”

“This is not a dream, Kith.”

She straightened and walked toward him. The green eyes, the dark hair, the Kagonesti face paint – it was all so real. As she scrutinized his face, he rejoiced in her every feature.

“This is not a dream,” she repeated. “You are in a shadowed realm between the light of life and the darkness of death. Our son struck you down with a dwarven hammer, but it was not his will that put the weapon in his hand. Your other son used the Amulet of Hiddukel to bring him down, and you with him.”

Sadness appeared in her eyes. “No one could prevent this destiny for you, my husband, but I have come back to tell you these things. Your son Ulvian must not sit on the Throne of the Sun. He has opened his soul to evil to further his ambition, and he will be the death and ruination of thousands if he is not stopped.”

Kith-Kanan looked past her at the serene wildwood, feeling removed and remote from the terrible tale she’d just related. He didn’t feel as if he’d been struck a mighty blow; instead, he felt as young and strong as he had when he’d first met Anaya. Tentatively he took her hand in his. It was warm and suntanned, and the tips of the fingers were delicately green. “How is it possible, my love? How can I be here with you?”

She lifted her free hand and caressed his cheek. “The gods you worship do not interfere with the ebb and flow of life. They are apart from it, and they allow life to follow its own course. But this place, and my existence, are not part of life or death. The power rules here in eternal balance with Chaos. Now, as a boon to me, the power allows me to see you and tell you the truth.”

“What is this power?” he asked, pressing her hand to his lips.

“It cannot be named, like a flower or a beast. It is the property of order in all things, the counterpart of Chaos. That is all I can say.”

Wind rustled through the closely growing oaks. Kith-Kanan held Anaya’s hand. “Will you walk with me?” he asked gently. She smiled and said yes.

As they strolled down the path, he wondered aloud, “Will I be with you always?”

Green moss softened their footfalls, and the wind lifted Kith-Kanan’s long hair.

“As long as you remember me, I shall be with you,” she replied. “But you cannot remain here much longer. Even as we speak, your mortal body grows cold. You must go back and tell those you love and trust the true story of your death.”

“My death?”

Kith-Kanan mused over the idea, normally so frightening. “I’ve seen many people die, for all sorts of reasons. Is it a sad thing to be dead?”

Anaya shrugged and said with her characteristic bluntness, “I don’t know. I’ve never died.”

He found himself smiling. “Of course not. I’m not frightened, though. Perhaps I will find all those who have gone before me. My father Sithel, my mother, Mackeli, Suzine....”

A large boulder appeared in the path, completely blocking it. Kith-Kanan touched the stone, feeling the lichen and watching a stream of tiny black ants march over it like soldiers conquering a mountain peak.

“This is the end, isn’t it?” he said, turning to face her.

“The end of your time here.” She regarded him solemnly. “Are you sad, Kith?”

He smiled and said, “No. I said good-bye to you long ago. This visit is a wonderful gift. It would be ungrateful to be sad.”

Kith-Kanan leaned over and kissed Anaya softly. She returned his kiss, but already she was beginning to pale. Not daring to end the moment, he whispered into her mouth, “Farewell, my dearest. Farewell....”

The forest became dark wooden walls and beams. Pain flooded his limbs, and he gasped loudly. There was a pressure on his cheek. Kith-Kanan opened his eyes and realized his daughter was kissing his face.

She drew back. “By Astra!” Verhanna cried. “You’re awake!”

“Yes.” Merciful gods, his throat was raw. “Water,” he gasped.

Verhanna looked distressed. “Water? Will nectar do?”

She had a bottle of nectar beside her that she’d apparently been drinking from. Kith-Kanan croaked his assent, and she carefully put the bottle to his parched lips.

“Ah. Daughter, get some people in here. Witnesses. Tam, the guards... anyone. As fast as you can.”

Verhanna called for help, and guards threw open the door. “Run and get Tamanier Ambrodel!” she said. “The rest of you, come in here. The Speaker has something to say, and he wants you to hear it!”

Seven warriors crowded into the modest bedchamber. Verhanna raised her father up and stuffed a pillow under his back so he could see the warriors. Then she lifted the nectar to his lips once more.

“My good warriors,” Kith-Kanan rasped. The thick white bandage that covered the horrible wound on his forehead didn’t dip low enough to cover his bloodshot eyes. “These are my last commands.”

The elves all leaned forward to catch every sound he made. “My son,” said the Speaker weakly, “is innocent. Silveran is not... responsible... for my death.”

The guards exchanged looks of puzzlement. Verhanna, heedless of the tears that had once more begun to flow down her cheeks, prompted, “Go on, Father.”

“He was bewitched... by the onyx amulet. The evil talisman struck a bargain with... Ulvian.”

Puzzlement gradually turned to anger. Muttering, the warriors fingered their sword hilts.

“Ulvian will die for this, Father, I swear it!” Verhanna said. The guards seconded her vow.

“No!” Kith-Kanan said strongly. “I forbid it! Few are... the mortals who can withstand the sweet words... of Hiddukel. Ulvian —” He coughed hard, and fresh blood began to trickle down his face from under his bandage. “Do not harm... him. Please!”

Verhanna buried her face against her father’s chest. “Father, don’t die!” she pleaded.

“I am... not afraid. Is Silveran... well?”

She lifted her tear-streaked face. “Yes, yes! He has lost his magic, but he is himself again. The madness has left him!”

“I want to see... him.”

Verhanna ordered a guard to fetch Silveran. He was gone several long minutes, so she dispatched two more. When they hadn’t returned after quite a long wait, and Kith-Kanan’s eyelids had begun to flutter closed, she got to her feet and stormed out of the room. Down the corridor at Silveran’s door, she found the three guards she’d dispatched and the three watching the chained prince. Half of the warriors were howling for Ulvian’s blood, the other half were protecting him.

“Get out of the way!” Verhanna said, shoving guards left and right. “The Speaker wants his son!”

“I’ll go to him,” Ulvian said quickly.

“Not you! Silveran!”

“But he’s a murderer!”

Thrusting a finger at her brother, Verhanna cried, “We know the truth! You conspired to destroy Silveran so you could reclaim the throne. Did you also plot the death of our father?”

She whipped out her sword, and the guards stood back, leaving sister and brother facing each other. “I want to kill you so much I could —” She stopped herself. “But Father has forbidden it! Now get out of my way before I forget my promise to him!”

She sheathed her sword and unlocked the door. After hustling Silveran out, she and her half-brother ran down the polished wood floor. They were trailed more slowly by Ulvian and the guards.

Verhanna flew through the open doorway of Kith-Kanan’s room. The four warriors who had remained behind were all kneeling around the Speaker’s bed. His eyes were closed. Verhanna didn’t need to ask; Kith-Kanan was dead.

Tamanier Ambrodel, his hair standing up on his head and his mantle askew, wept openly at the foot of the Speaker’s bed. “I was too late,” he sobbed.

The sergeant of the guard looked up at her. “He called to you, lady,” he said chokingly. “And to someone named Anaya.”

She had to swallow her grief, at least briefly. It was vitally important that her father’s wishes were carried out. “Did you all hear what he told me before he died?” she said frantically.

“Yes, lady,” said the sergeant. The other guards swore oaths that they had heard the Speaker’s words as well. Tersely Verhanna informed Tamanier of Ulvian’s plot against Silveran. Then she pulled Silveran into the room, and the guards rose to their feet.

“The Speaker of the Sun is dead,” the captain said, her voice cracking. “Long live Speaker Silveran!”

“Long live Speaker Silveran!” echoed the warriors.

Silveran’s face was bright as he tried to fathom it all.

“Your Majesty,” Tamanier added, bowing to the new young monarch.

“Where’s Ulvian?” Verhanna asked suddenly. He wasn’t in the Speaker’s rooms or the hallway nearby.

“Shall we search for him, lady?” asked the sergeant of the guard.

“It’s for the Speaker to decide,” Verhanna said softly, putting a hand to Silveran’s shoulder. The warriors looked expectantly at him. The elf’s eyes were calm.

The new Speaker gazed upon his father. “Let Ulvian go,” he said.

Now that she had fulfilled her duty to Kith-Kanan, Verhanna allowed her wobbly legs to give way, and she knelt by her father’s body, weeping uncontrollably. She had loved him and respected him with an intensity that approached worship. She couldn’t bear the thought that he was gone, that she would never again see his face, never again hear his voice, teasing her for her seriousness. Her brother moved to stand behind her and placed his hands on her shaking shoulders.

“I need you, Hanna,” Silveran whispered, for her ears only. “I need your help to rule Qualinesti.”

Verhanna pulled her gaze away from the still face of her father and looked up into the solemn visage of the new Speaker of the Sun. Kith-Kanan had been right. Silveran, once known as Greenhands, would make a fine leader. He was good and kind and incorruptible.

Her voice shook, but the words carried to all those in the room as she responded with the same ancient oath she had once sworn to her father. “You are my Speaker. You are my liege lord, and I shall obey you even unto death.”

With Silveran’s hands still on her shoulders, Verhanna rose slowly to her feet. The guards surrounded Kith-Kanan’s bed and came forward to raise him up. By ancient rite, a dead Speaker was carried to the Temple of Astra for prayers and purification.

“Stop,” Silveran ordered, and Verhanna looked startled. For just that instant, his commanding voice had sounded exactly like their father’s. Silveran held out a restraining hand. A hand no longer green. “This is my duty,” he stated.

With great tenderness, he lifted Kith-Kanan in his arms and carried him down the central stair to the reception hall. Verhanna walked behind him and to his right, and the warriors fell into step behind her.

At the bottom of the cherrywood stair stood the entire household, down to the humblest sweepers. All cried openly, and their heads bowed as the body of Kith-Kanan, founder and first Speaker of Qualinesti, was borne past them. Poor Tamanier Ambrodel was supported by the strong arm of his son Kemian. The aged castellan was so grief-stricken he could barely remain upright. He had one last duty to perform for his old friend and sovereign, though. When Silveran, with his sad burden, reached the bottom of the grand stair, Tamanier lifted his right hand and signaled the group of heralds waiting by the front doors.

The heralds flew out the double doors and ran like lightning across the square and into every part of the city. As the second Speaker of the Sun stepped into the morning sunshine, their high voices could be heard crying the dreadful news.

Speaker Silveran paused, blinking in the bright light. Verhanna felt her own step falter as, one by one, the great bells throughout the city of Qualinost fell silent.

Epilogue

THE LETTER

To His Gracious Majesty, Silveran, Speaker of the Sun, from Kemian, Lord Ambrodel, currently at Pax Tharkas.

Great Speaker: I wish to extend my heartiest good wishes to you on this, the first anniversary of your ascension to the throne. All Qualinesti is proud of the great work you have done following in the mighty footsteps of your esteemed father, the late Speaker, Kith-Kanan.

Preparations of the vault for your father’s final entombment here are nearly complete. The last touches are being applied, and Feldrin Feldspar is personally overseeing the tomb’s completion. Before the autumn equinox, everything will be ready to receive the late Speaker in his final resting place.

Regarding the other matters you wrote about, I can tell you a few things. Of Prince Ulvian, we have no certain news, though many rumors circulate about him. One week we hear he is living in Daltigoth, the pampered guest of the Emperor of Ergoth; the next week I am “reliably” informed that the prince lives in direst poverty in Balifor. The suggestion of the General of the Guards, Lady Verhanna, to send her scout to Balifor to ferret out the truth is a good one. If anyone can find Prince Ulvian, Rufus Wrinklecap can.

The flow of travelers from the east continues to dwindle. Some of the Silvanesti who have lately come to us say that the Speaker of the Stars, Sithas, plans to seal the border and prevent further emigration. Personally, I am not unhappy with this. The more people who leave Silvanesti, the more dangerous relations with the old country become, as they get more and more jealous of our wealth and success.

As Governor of Pax Tharkas, I can also report to Your Majesty that things go smoothly here.

The dwarves are admirable allies, and since the arrival of the Second Regiment of the Guards of the Sun, banditry has entirely ceased in the Kharolis Mountain region. The King of Thorbardin is greatly pleased. I enclose with this letter a missive from the king, in which he expresses his gratitude to Your Majesty for the garrison of guards. The king also hopes to begin mining nearby and says the mineral wealth of the mountains will greatly enrich both kingdoms.

Now, if I may, Great Speaker, I would like to beg a personal favor of you.

For many years, I have admired the person of General of the Guards, Lady Verhanna, but she has not returned my attention. Now that the period of mourning for Speaker Kith-Kanan has passed, I wonder if you would broach the subject of marriage to your esteemed sister on my behalf? I ask this for two reasons, Majesty. First, she is of royal blood and therefore requires your permission to marry, and second, she is my fellow officer, and I dare not approach her on such a delicate matter. It would be a breach of military discipline.

If you think it wise and prudent, Great Speaker, to do this for me, my happiness and gratitude would be boundless. I have loved Lady Verhanna for many years, but I dared not reveal myself to so formidable a warrior maiden. With you to sponsor me, I feel I may have a real chance at winning her hand.

That is all I have to tell you at this time. May the gods smile on Your Majesty, grant you wisdom, and continue the good fortune and happiness your young reign has already begun.

Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant,

Kemian, Lord Ambrodel,

Governor

Pax Tharkas

Vinas Solamnus

(1817 PC)

Great lives rarely make great stories. The reverse is also true. Even so, my advisors have decided I am too old to do much more than recount my days of greatness. They have virtually ordered me to write my memoirs. (Old soldiers and tired kings are often ruled by their valets.) I do not imagine the resulting story will be great, but perhaps it will prove diverting.

I am Vinas Solamnus. The nation of Solamnia bears my name, as do the Knights of Solamnia. I have traveled Ansalon, from Karthay of the minotaurs to Sancrist of the gnomes. I have led Ergoth’s vast armies and slain men in their thousands. I have flown griffon-back and besieged cities and drunk from the chalice of the gods.

Such things may be entertaining for readers, but they are decidedly hazardous to heroes. For heroes – anyone who rises upon the face of Krynn to stand against evil – true greatness lies not in adventures, but in honor.

Est Sularus oth Mithas – my honor is my life.

It took me a long time to learn that. I had always wanted to be a warrior, thinking sword skill was all a great man needed. But swords are only cold steel if they are not wielded with honor.

Honor is an inheritance. My father passed it to me with the name Solamnus, and I hope I have not sullied it too much before passing it to the nation and the knights.

True, I have not always been worthy of the name Solamnus. I have, in fact, fought on the side of evil. The following account will make these failings clear. But thankfully, greatness is not limited to those with perfect character. Greatness embraces all those who struggle for perfect character. No war I ever waged was more perilous than my struggle to become worthy of the name Solamnus.

This is the story of that struggle, that quest for honor. This is the story of my life. If readers can learn from my failings, they will have many teachers, indeed.

Heroes of Krynn... gather and hear!

Vinas Solamnus

Vingaard Keep

22 Argon, 1267 Age of Light

Part I

COURAGE

Prelude

27 Chislmont, 1183 Age of Light

Scintillating motes of magic fire circled the room. The sparks danced among the hammer beams in the ceiling. They bounced along the marble floor. They engulfed Emperor Emann and his court sorcerer.

“Remember, Caitiff,” the emperor said, oblivious to the sparks that smoldered in his black goatee,” she must be beautiful.”

The Black-Robed Wizard continued to circle his bony hands over the cauldron of lamb’s blood. His voice emerged from the shadowy hood he wore. He spoke with the unmistakable hauteur of an ancient Silvanesti elf. “Oh, she will be beautiful, Master. She will be.”

That response appeased the emperor for some moments. He drank deeply of the blood-red spirits in his pewter grail and deliriously watched the swirling specks of arcane power. They coalesced into a spinning column above the blood pool. Some of the sparks hissed down into the calm liquid. They sent up acrid smoke that thickened the column of motes.

“Passionate,” the emperor blurted. “My empress must be passionate. No woman is truly beautiful unless she has passion.”

“Yes, yes,” the old elf assured, “she will be passionate, even for you hot-blooded humans.”

Emperor Emann stared querulously at the warlock, wondering again if an elf could truly be trusted to work for the great human empire of Ergoth.

The sorcerer seemed to sense his master’s unease. “She will serve His Highness – and His Highness’s empire – well.”

Fevery and sweating, the emperor watched a form take shape in the pillar. It was a maiden sitting beside a stream. She was comely, yes, but in the soft way of country nobles. Emann had always imagined himself with an exotic woman, her legs and fingers and eyes as sharp as stilettos.

“No, Caitiff, you fey fool!” Emann shouted into the vision. The lass there seemed to hear him, looking up startled. “She is plump as a pigeon and just as dowdy I want a firebird, a phoenix, not this country chickadee.”

She had heard, somehow. Frightened, the girl of spark and smoke rose from the stream bank and ran. The scrying magic of the old elf followed her. Fleeing, she wept.

“Oh, Highness, she is sweet in look but cunning of mind,” said the sorcerer soothingly. “Young, now – but in a few years she will be a full woman, with a passion that could level all Ansalon. She is the one you will want.”

The poor girl clamped hands over her ears and screamed silently. Still, she could not block out the harsh voices that haunted her from afar.

“She is a fatted calf, no more!” the emperor snarled, and threw his grail through the image. Though the cup clanked against the opposite wall, the girl reacted as if she had been struck and fell. She huddled there, holding her head and sobbing.

“A fatted calf?” echoed the mage darkly. “I will tell you about this one. She has unmeasurable power in her. And that power is corruptible. Win her to your side, Emperor, and your reign of iron will become a reign of mithril steel!”

Caitiff had never been wrong. He had advised young Emperor Emann well in the massacre of the peasants, in the disavowal of the senate, and in the plan to dominate all of western Ansalon. He could hardly be wrong about one poor, trembling girl.

“If I wed this little trifle, I shall never fall?” Emann asked avidly.

“If you wed her,” the mage promised, “it would take a champion of the gods to bring you down....”

I

Two Months Hence, 17 Argon, 1183 Age of Light

The young man’s look was tender.

Luccia returned it. Her eyes had always been big and bright, like shiny plates streaked with cerulean glaze. Those eyes caught the morning sun from her gold-brown hair and made the freckles on her cheeks glow like dandelions. Luccia had a bright elven face – energetic, passionate, flirtatious.

“More mud,” Vinas said, smearing a thumb’s worth of the alley’s moist earth across one of those cheeks. Her inner glow was undimmed by the grainy stuff. Even covered in grime and clothed as a laborer and standing in a stone-walled alleyway, she was radiant. At this rate, she’d never pass as a boy. “And your hair is coming out from beneath the cap. You’ll have to let me shear it off.”

Luccia bit her lip in genuine regret. The gleam that mud could not remove from her face was gone now. She was fifteen, one year his younger, and precious little could dull the light of her smile. This did. “You don’t know how hard it is for me to have long hair. Washing it in the river, combing it out with fish bones, tying it up with whatever fresh rag falls from one of you nobles...”

He laughed. It was a broad, hearty laugh that he’d not grown into yet. His chest and belly would one day be a great bulwark of muscle and heart. Now they were only the thin scaffolding of youth. “Well, what of those breeches and that tunic you’re wearing? They’re no rags. I snatched the best clothes I could find in your size.”

“That you did,” Luccia replied. She gestured at a certain tightness in the gray fabric adorning her chest. “But you don’t seem to notice that my size is changing.”

He didn’t laugh at that, but he did blush. He tried to hide his embarrassment by stretching and yawning. The move brought his own servant’s tunic up from his breeches and showed a fish-white strip of belly. His color only deepened. “Mine don’t fit any better.”

His expression hardened. Keen focus came to his eyes, as though he were looking right through the world to the thing he wanted on the other side. “Enough fooling around. If we want to be accepted into the infantry and march off to battle gnolls and ogres, you’ll have to look like a man – like me. That means a shorn head and a little less beauty.”

She nodded, equally grim. “And you’re going to have to look like an orphan – a peasant, like me. So the mud belongs on your face!” She lunged for him. Though he reared back, her fingers traced quick, feral lines of dirt across his cheeks. Vinas somehow looked more handsome for that mud.

He caught Luccia’s hands and whirled her around, holding her arms behind her back. His serious demeanor cracked just slightly as he pushed her away and snatched up the sheep shears he had borrowed from a farm shed. He advanced on her. “I’ve taken my medicine. Now you take yours.”

Luccia started a playful retreat down the alley toward the murmur of Daltigoth’s peasant hordes. The snick, snick, snick of the shears, though, brought her up short. She crossed arms over her chest and seemed to consider whether to fight or flee.

“I could always join up without you and march on out of here,” Vinas warned.

Luccia’s resistance dissolved. She pouted. “Just make it quick.” She dragged the ragged hat from her head, revealing the slight points of half-elven ears. “Just don’t cut it too short. And don’t snip off the tips of my ears.”

He did, and didn’t, and didn’t. The shearing was soon done.

Luccia looked up at her young friend as though his green eyes were twin mirrors. “Well. How do I look, then?”

He blinked. “I don’t know if you look much like a boy, but you look fine, all the same.” He stood there, a silken handful of her long tresses clutched in one palm. She was alluring, even with her hair in a blocky wedge.

“Fine. I look fine,” she said, deflated, and donned her ragged cap.

“And how do I look?” Vinas asked. He turned slowly and held his arms out for her perusal.

Luccia pursed her lips. In a fit of pique, she knocked the clump of hair from his hand. “Fine. You look fine, too. The mud can’t hide the fact that you’re a milk-fed, soft-fingered boy, though. And it can’t put crooks and kinks in the way you talk, either. My guess is I’ll be marching out of here without you.”

He nodded, suddenly somber.

Luccia cuffed his shoulder and grabbed his elbow. “Let’s go. The foes of Ergoth are begging for a fight.”

Vinas didn’t know about the foes, but he knew about himself. He was begging for something to fight for, or at least against. As the two friends marched side by side down the mud-packed alley, Vinas thought how he could fight for this city. For Daltigoth, his home.

They stepped out into a cobbled road that ran between his father’s villa and the statehouses of the upper quarter. The city below the road was well awake, with peddlers and hawkers, gypsy children and guards. They huddled in the sunlit spaces beneath leaning shops of stone or wood, breathing white clouds of life into the chill morning.

“Look at them,” Vinas said sadly. “They look like they are bowing to somebody. They look like they’ve got something heavy on their backs, something that might press them into the ground.” He shook his head. “Even my dad looks like that. I’m glad to be getting out before I do, too.”

“You could carry half of Ansalon on your shoulders and still skip along,” Luccia said, tweaking his side.

Many of those huddled folk smiled in recognition at the disguised friends. Vinas caught a wink or two. He and Luccia were well known in this quarter, and their disguises and escapades were canonized in low legends. Vinas wondered, though, if even a stranger could see right through the peasant garb and dirtiness. As the old saying ran, “It is easier to clean an old silver spoon than to tarnish a new one.”

“There,” said Vinas, changing the subject. He pointed at a mounted griffon circling in the fiercely blue sky. “That’s what I want. I’m not going to be a spear-carrier any longer than it takes me to get a griffon. Imagine riding into battle on the back of one of those creatures! Magnificent!”

Luccia watched the distant silhouette. It hung motionless like a dead leaf on a still branch. “What’s the good of that?” she wondered. “The griffon’ll do all the fighting and you’ll end up a tick on a war dog.”

“You can fight from a griffon’s saddle,” Vinas said. “Why else does he have that lance there, and the holster for it, and the sword?”

“Every warrior’s got a sword – at least the ones that’ve got to shave do. And that lance – so what? You use it once and it’s gone,” Luccia said. “Now, the horse cavalry, on the other hand...”

She drew him up beside her. One glance at her pale, dirty face told him that everything had changed. “We’re here, Vinas,” she said simply.

He looked, and saw. The high street ended before them. Shops and houses shied back from what lay at the head of the hill – the martial esplanade that fronted the gates of Castle Daltigoth. The stony expanse was pitted. Its flagstones of granite and slate and quartzite had worn unevenly under centuries of boots. Any Ergothian foot that ever stomped upon an enemy throat stomped first upon those stones.

Just now, the esplanade was filled with ragged lines of recruits and straight ranks of soldiers. The soldiers wore the red and black tabards of the Ergothian Guard over battle-scarred field plate mail. The recruits wore rags.

Feeling a lump of apprehension in his throat, Vinas watched them. Each new man would nod when spoken to. At some unseen sign, he would bolt across the plaza and shimmy up a log leaning against a bulwark. Others dangled like wretched spiders from scaffold ropes, or jabbed poles into haystacks until collared badgers charged them. Such were the ordeals of recruits.

“There it is,” reiterated Luccia. All levity was gone from her freckled face. She looked pale, as any recruit should. “We can turn back now,” she joked nervously.

Vinas felt the same fear, but he had rehearsed this moment and knew how to win past it. “I doubt the ogres will be turning back,” he said brusquely. He strode onward. She followed.

They reached the first and longest line of new recruits and fell into position. At the other end of the queue sat a colonel behind a three-legged field table. His balding pate was crossed by no more than three strands of black hair. He was questioning the enlistees, writing in a slim book beneath his talonlike hands. The recruit before him was a thin, middle-aged farmer in clothes so ragged that his breechcloth showed through.

Now, it would be only a long, wordless wait. In the hush, Vinas listened to the distant slap of feet on stone, the tug and grunt of peasants climbing ropes, the occasional barked command.... He somehow knew that these sounds – the harsh, impersonal bustle of military life – would surround him the rest of his days.

In time, he stood before the man at the table, a mean-eyed colonel with black hair and sallow, pockmarked skin.

“Name?” asked the man curtly.

Oddly, Vinas had not until that moment expected to need an alias. “Tobe,” he ventured. He winced and shifted from foot to foot. “That’s what my friends call me. Tobe. I s’pose you could put down Tobias, though – spelt with a I-A-S. No surname.”

“Where was it, Tobias with an I-A-S, that you learned how to read?” the colonel asked, his hawklike eyes rising from the volume.

“Oh,” Vinas said, flushing, “I never did. Only my master had two Tobe’s, but only one Tobe with an I-A-S. That’s what he called us. Just plain Tobe and then Tobe with an I-A-S.”

The colonel’s stare was piercing. “You have run off from your master, then? Are you an indentured servant or slave?”

“We didn’t run off,” broke in Luccia. “We earned out our time. We got free, the legal way. But then we find out ‘free’ means you don’t eat.”

The colonel laughed a little. “You must be —”

“Tobe, yes, without a I-A-S,” she said, and then bowed with tramp-like decorum. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The colonel nodded, and wrote again. “I don’t believe you. Why is it that you, Tobe without an I-A-S have callused hands while your friend, Tobe with an I-A-S has soft, white hands?”

Vinas spouted, “I did silversmithing – detail work. Tobe, here, did ironmongery – heavy pounding and such.”

The soldier looked skeptical. “Do you know what happens to colonels who enlist noble brats among the peasant division?”

“We aren’t nobles,” Luccia insisted.

“Good,” said the colonel. “It would go very bad for you if you were.” His look was inscrutable, his eyes black. “I have a test for you, one that will measure balance, courage, and ingenuity.” He gestured across the proving grounds to a great, rough-barked tree, stripped of branches and leaning up against a stout, short wall. Many other recruits scampered or crawled up the sloped tree trunk. Few reached the other end, a hundred feet along the bole and thirty feet in the air. At one point or another, most of the recruits slipped off.

Vinas’s eyes narrowed. With a natural charm that bordered on arrogance, he said, “It looks easy enough to me.”

The colonel returned the look. “I thought that might be your opinion. That is why you’ll be climbing that one.” His nod directed Vinas’s gaze to another hundred-foot-long trunk. It was equally broad and stripped of bark. But, instead of leaning at a climbable angle, this log stood straight up. Its base had been rammed down into a dry well, and ninety feet of it jutted into the air. The ground around the bole was hard, mortared stone.

“That?” asked Luccia, her voice unexpectedly shrill. She coughed. “You want us to climb that?”

“If you want to join the imperial divisions, you will climb it,” the man replied flatly.

Sinews along Vinas’s jaw tightened. He smiled, slowly and humorlessly. The gray day glinted from his teeth. “We will climb it,” he growled. He turned and strode toward the log.

Luccia followed. Usually when Vinas made headstrong decisions for them both, Luccia took immediate and loud objection. Not today. She walked behind him, hands at her sides instead of poised defiantly on her hips, silent... at least until she caught up to him.

“What are you doing? We can’t climb that thing.”

He did not look at her, his eyes fixed on the splinter-filled bole ahead. “We can, and we will.”

“Let’s give it up this time,” she advised. “We’ll come back in a year and see if they take us.”

He stripped off his tunic, revealing the tight-muscled pale chest of a young noble. He was strong and wiry, yes, but with the clean beauty of an athlete, not a worker. Now, everyone would know he was noble. A small crowd of soldiers and recruits turned to trail them.

Vinas ignored the gawkers. He twisted his tunic into a long, strong coil of fabric. “Take yours off, too, Luce. We’re going to need two of these.”

Her face flushed. “What are you talking about? I can’t take off —”

“Well, at least that belt,” Vinas interrupted impatiently. He undid his own belt and pulled the coarse rope from his waist. Luccia followed suit. Vinas tied the two belts together and seemed pleased.

They reached the tree trunk. It was more daunting up close. Ninety feet into the air... The trunk was fat, its bark sheared off. The slick white quick beneath was frayed into wicked, dagger sized splinters that jutted upward.

“Get on the other side,” Vinas instructed calmly.

Luccia sought some softness in his eyes, but none remained. His pride had taken over. When Vinas’s pride was bruised, he would do anything – no matter how absurd or deadly – to soothe it. That was half the problem. The other half was that Luccia could not dissuade him.

She circled the trunk and looked dubiously up the tree. “There’s a thousand better ways to die than by doing this, you know.”

He nodded curtly. His eyes held a mild apology. “But there’s only one way we’ll get into the infantry.” He flipped the end of his twisted tunic toward her, and she caught it. Then, on the opposite side of the bole, he tossed her the end of the belt rope. “We hold each other up, right? We hold onto these ropes and lean our weight against them. If one of us loses our grip, we both fall.”

“I know, I know.”

He kicked off his shoes. “And our footholds are just as important. We lean back and dig our feet in. If one foot slips, we both go down.”

Her face darkened. “Yes. Let’s just climb.”

Vinas set his jaw, positioned one foot on a jagged lump on his side of the trunk, and leaned his weight back against the ropes. On the other side, Luccia did likewise. He couldn’t see her face, or the footholds she gained, but he felt her weight answer his along the lengths of cloth and hemp.

“Good,” he said. “Now, we ascend.”

She did not answer in words, only jiggling the ropes. They crept upward along the rough flank of wood. Unblinking, unbreathing, Vinas set his bare foot on a higher nub and eased his weight onto it. There came a pause.

“Luce,” Vinas ventured through long, deep breaths. “You know I wouldn’t trust another soul to counterbalance me.”

Her serious whisper came to him like a confession, “Yes. I know.”

She climbed again. His body answered the movement of hers. They rose above the spectators below.

Their audience muttered dubiously. Hushed jokes and not-so-hushed laughter wafted up. The watchers stood at a safe distance. Arms were crossed. Mouths were wry. Eyes squinted skeptically against the gray day. If it came to it, these soldiers and recruits would stand by as Vinas and Luccia dropped to the ground, legs broken.

Vinas asked, “How are your arms?”

“They’re starting to hurt,” Luccia replied quietly. “You’re pretty heavy.”

He laughed. “Yeah. You want to head back down?”

She answered by further ascent. He laughed again, and responded in kind.

Now when they spoke to each other, their voices were strained and their words came out in quick gasps. Vinas said, “It’s shorter to... the top... than to the bottom.”

“But faster... to the bottom,” Luccia added as she climbed.

Vinas matched her pace. Blood made their footing more treacherous. The minute splinters and rough shoulders of wood bled the soles of his feet. At first, the red stuff glued his arch to the wood, but now there was enough to make his feet slowly slide off. He could no longer rest. Every two steps gained would mean half a step lost.

Surely it was the same for Luccia, on the other side of the trunk. Surely – but still she rose.

High above the crowd. When Vinas looked down, sweat and dizziness filled his eyes. He blinked and tilted his head back. Perhaps twenty feet more, and they would reach the top.

The trunk thinned. Vinas soon could see Luccia’s arms, down to elbows dripping with sweat. Then he caught sight of her sleeves, rolled about her upper arms, then her shoulders. They had almost reached the top.

“Only a few... steps more,” Vinas gasped. His voice was fully of giddy realization.

They seemed to have climbed to the very clouds. Gray-white light streamed in festive pinions about them, welcoming them to the narrow top of the tree. At last, Vinas saw her face. The mud smeared across her freckled cheek was black, running with sweat down her neck. Her skin was mottled with exertion. But her eyes were joyous and triumphant.

One struggling step more, and their eyes met above the shorn top. They hunkered down on either side of the tree and breathed and laughed.

“We did it,” gushed Vinas. “He’s got to let us in now.”

Despite the happy flutter of her eyes, she spoke gloomily, “He’s not had his pound of flesh yet.”

Vinas’s expression grew suddenly gray. The smile left his mouth. “Luce, I’m going to slowly pull you around to my side. Keep hold of the rope and the tunic. I want you to climb around to me until you can grab my hand.”

“What is it?” Luccia asked. Then she saw. The midpoint of the tunic had frayed nearly through. Only a thin seam of one sleeve held them in place.

“We’ll never make it down the way we came up.” Vinas explained. “If you inch around and we hold hands, we can work our way down one at a time, slipping the rope as we go.

“But the rope will catch on the splinters and fray, won’t it?” Luccia noted.

“Come around,” Vinas replied calmly. “Well just have to try.”

Her chin trembled briefly, but her eyes were hard. “Start pulling me around. I’ll move toward you.”

He nodded, rolling the torn shirt around his fist. She edged around the tree. Her bare feet trembled as her toes sought purchase on the rough-skinned wood. With each sidelong step, the circle that held them aloft tightened. Vinas eyed the shirt, its seam visibly frayed. He looped the cloth around his fist.

Excruciating moments later, Luccia’s fingers touched his. She caught his hand and picked her way around until she stood beside him. The rope looped from her other hand, around the tree, to his grasp.

“Good,” Vinas breathed. “Now, hold my wrist while I get this shirt free.”

She did. He spun his hand around until the shirt fell away. It drifted as it fell, as though it were a living thing, before collapsing lifelessly upon the ground.

Flexing his numb fingers, Vinas clasped Luccia’s wrist. He could feel the hammering of her pulse.

“Good. Now, slowly, step downward,” he said. They both looked down and saw the bloody trail leading up the trunk. Luccia’s feet were no better off than Vinas’s, rimmed as though she had been trodding red grapes.

They stepped down. The rope drew tight. Once they both had found solid footholds, Vinas said, “We’re going to have to lean in and flip the rope away from the trunk. On three. One, two, three!”

They leaned in toward the trunk. The rope that held them aloft went terrifyingly slack. They looped the rope outward, and it skidded down the trunk to take hold a few feet below. The climbers fell away from the stalk. The circle of rope and arms caught tight. Vinas and Luccia breathed in relief.

So, they descended. Over and over again, they found footholds, flipped the rope free, and felt that fragile embrace again.

All the while, the crowd below grew. Recruits abandoned the proving grounds. Colonels left their field tables. The bald-headed colonel’s object lesson had drawn the attention of the whole castle. He stood with the other gawkers, looking upward with a mixture of shame and hope on his face.

The taut fatigue of holding to the rope and to each other began to take its toll. Vinas and Luccia were halfway down when the sweat made their hands begin to slip. They caught each other only by fingertips. The rope snagged itself twice more.

Then, thirty feet up from the paving stones, they lost hold of each other. Still clutching the rope, Luccia fell away from the trunk. The belts reeled her out and around the tree. She fell toward the ground below, closing her eyes.

The rope yanked tight. Her descent stopped. She looked down upon a mere twelve-foot drop and let go.

Her feet struck the hard stones, and she rolled across them, getting no worse than bruises. The crowd parted before her, and she sprawled to a halt among them. A cheer formed in her throat but caught dead when she gazed up at what the crowd was watching.

Vinas writhed above, hanging impaled upon a spear-length splinter of wood. His hand opened only now, letting the snake of rope fall to the stones.

“Get a ladder!” someone shouted. “Get him down from there!”

Meus Pater*

*my father

“Most lost sons show up in brothels or vomitoriums somewhere,” came a kindly voice. “You, on the other hand, always wind up in one infirmary or another.”

Vinas opened his eyes and looked up, seeing the yellow-plastered and crack-riddled ceiling of the soldiers’ hostel. Then, in the midst of this diffuse firmament, a gray-haired head emerged, sunlike. Eyes at once intense and merciful looked out from sharp folds of flesh. A prominent nose overshadowed a mouth that quirked in a smile.

“Hello, Father,” Vinas groaned. He tried to roll to one elbow, but the lancing fire that shot from his stomach to his right shoulder convinced him otherwise.

So did the staying hand of Adrenas Solamnus. “Give yourself time to rest, to heal. You’re lucky that wound is shallow, or you’d be resting forever.”

Vinas lay back on the cot. His hand gingerly traced the line of rumpled flesh. The shaft had slid in at his right hip, traveled beneath his stomach muscles, and sliced under his left pectoral. “It certainly doesn’t feel shallow.”

Adrenas seemed to consider. “At least it feels, son. At least it feels.”

Vinas gazed blankly at the ceiling. “I was planning on sending for you when I had the strength —”

“I wasn’t willing to wait that long,” interrupted the noble. He straightened his silken robe of blue and white, the colors of House Solamnus. His hands were as patient and prim as any woman’s. “It’s been a month since your pole-climbing escapade.”

“A month?” Vinas asked. “I just woke up last night.”

“I know,” his father replied. “I’ve been visiting you for the last three weeks.” The man finished his fastidious straightening and settled an infinitely weary face in his hands. “What were you thinking, Son?”

Vinas sighed. How many times had they had this discussion? “I’m sixteen, Father. If we were peasants, I’d have been a man for two years already. If we were plainsmen, I’d have been a man for four —”

“We aren’t peasants or plainsmen, a fact you all too often forget,” Adrenas admonished him from within his cradled fingers. “Yes, a sixteen-year-old is adult enough to hold a beggar’s cup or pillage a town, but not to own and run an estate, not to survive a single audience before a corrupted senate, not to do any of the things a nobleman must do.”

“I don’t want to do any of those things,” Vinas objected. “I want to fight. You had your years in the imperial army. You made our family what it is through the spoils of war. Why won’t you let me try the same?”

“Times are different now, Son. I fought elves in Caergoth and in Qualinesti, not sixty leagues from here. Now the wars are beyond Vingaard Keep, beyond Dargaard even, two hundred leagues hence. And it’s not elves but ogres and witchlings and worse. Are there any spoils worth having from such wars?”

“I need to rest,” Vinas said preemptively. “You said so yourself. Can’t this wait?”

The man nodded. “Forgive me. Old habits die hard. What I’d really intended to tell you was that once you were healed completely – perhaps by your seventeenth birthday – you’ll be made a field colonel,”

Vinas stared, astounded, at his father.

Adrenas shrugged. “After this latest stunt, I decided you’d be getting into the army one way or another. I called in some old favors. If you must be in the army, at least you can be a commander instead of a follower.”

Vinas blinked in amazement. “Thank you, Father. I’ll do you proud.”

“I expect no less,” the man said, utterly serious.

“Wait until Luccia hears,” Vinas said to himself.

“About Luccia,” Adrenas said. “She marched out with the XXVI Daltigoth. Your ploy worked at least that far. But in Solanthus, she was discovered to be a mere girl, and was cast out of the army. That was three weeks ago. I do not know what has become of her. No doubt she’s running with the peasants there. Solanthus has become notorious for its bread troubles.”

This time Vinas did sit up. “She’s where?”

Adrenas’s staying touch was gentle. “Solanthus is little more than a road fortification with a few small villages nearby. She couldn’t have gone far. When you are well enough —”

Vinas swung his legs down off the, cot. “I’m well enough now —” he began, before slumping into his father’s arms.

II

Two Years Hence, 13 Rannmont, 1186 Age of Light

Near midnight, Vinas Solamnus reined in his warhorse at the top of the snowy rise. A biting wind cast his colonel’s cloak away from him. He signaled to his senior lieutenants to halt the company of foot soldiers behind. They did. Gaias Camillus, a grizzled veteran and Vinas’s trusted captain, rode up beside him.

“There it is – Solanthus,” Vinas said. “Nothing but a stockaded fort beside a log bridge over a frozen river.” He spat. The spittle became ice before it struck ground. “If the so-called peasant rebels burned that bridge, it would take us a couple of hours to build a better one. Instead, the empire guards it with a unit of soldiers, who bum twice as much wood every day as it would take to build the bridge.”

The old soldier might have frowned, though his expression was lost beneath a mask of ice-encrusted beard. “It is the empire’s way.”

Vinas nodded grimly. Perhaps it was. The empire had, after all, denied Vinas enlistment among the foot soldiers, instead setting him – an inexperienced eighteen-year-old – at the head of a hundred career soldiers. Vinas had hoped for the appointment, true, and his father had requested it, but he blamed the empire for the folly of granting it.

Every time Vinas asked the counsel of Gaias, he regretted his own ambition. Gaias was a man who had ferreted dwarves from their dank burrows in Thorbardin, led charges into the teeth of Qualinesti bow fire, brokered peace with Hylo kenders, slain ogres in Blöten, driven plainsmen from their holdings. In short, he had fought. He had lived.

But Gaias was a peasant, and Vinas was a noble’s son. Gaias a common soldier, Vinas an officer. Such was the way of the empire.

Vinas smiled darkly. The ice in his tender mustache pulled against his face. Imperial foolishness had also sent him and his company to the very place where Luccia had vanished. Long live the empire. He would find her; he would find her, wherever she was.

“Sir,” Captain Gaias said, “the soldiers are freezing in their footsteps.” He gestured toward the palisaded fort, its wooden teeth lit from within by chimney sparks.

Vinas blinked, returning from his reverie. “Give the order to march. Let’s join our company with the one inside. Maybe that will be enough to keep at bay these rebels... these stray dogs and farmers.”

*

“We welcome Colonel Solamnus and his brave soldiers,” cried Lucias Scipio, colonel in charge of Solanthus.

He lifted a goblet of wine in his gnarled hand and struck a pose atop the long dining table where he stood. Scipio was a craven, stooped figure, looking only more so in the smoky light of the great hall’s tallow lanterns. He meant to appear triumphant, but the dark rafters above him, the curved black cape on his back, and the scale-mail shirt jangling in the hollow of his chest, made him seem batlike. “To your health!”

“Hear, hear!” came the customary response. Those who had wine drank deeply

Those who had wine were mostly Scipio’s men, who jammed the tables of the hall. Only a third of his company was present, but they filled the benches. Like ravenous bears, they huddled over their dinners and grumbled into the food.

Vinas glanced back at his company. They lined the walls of the dining hall, their mantles dripping snow and their boots frozen in great blocks on their feet. They were a tired lot, and deservedly so, after the twenty-mile forced march through the blizzard. Still, Scipio had made no provisions for their arrival. The cloak pegs were full, the tables were full, the beds were full....

“Once my third watch has finished its meal,” Scipio had said to Solamnus when they had first arrived, “your men may have what’s left.”

“That is unacceptable,” Vinas had replied. “These men are exhausted. I was told you would provide them food and beds.”

“You were told wrong,” had been the sneered reply.

Vinas lifted his goblet toward his men and quietly said, “To our health.”

After draining the goblet, he pushed one of Scipio’s men from the bench, kicked his food from the tabletop, and addressed his own company in a commanding voice that silenced the room. “Soldiers of Solamnus, you have acquitted yourselves well today. Hang your coats on whatever peg is nearest. Drink from whatever cup you wish. Eat from whatever plate looks good. Claim as your own whatever bunk you desire.”

Scipio and his men looked no more shocked than Solamnus’s company.

Vinas added, “Let us show the men of Solanthus what good hosts provide.”

In the stunned silence, Scipio scrambled toward his peer. “We had discussed other arrangements —”

“My soldiers do not eat leftovers,” Vinas interrupted. “Nor do they march all day through a blizzard and sleep on the floor. I do not know how you rule your company, Scipio, but my soldiers are not rats, and they will not scrounge.”

“My warriors have hunted and salted and prepared this game. They should have the first fruits of their labors,” whined Scipio.

Vinas turned to his troops. “Soldiers, teach them generosity.”

Vinas’s troops knew when they had been commanded. They also knew when they were hungry. Doffing their snow-laden cloaks, Vinas’s one hundred converged on the tables and on the thirty of Scipio’s men who greedily leaned over their dinners.

Some of the Solanthian soldiers held hands back in surrender, letting the hungry soldiers pillage their plates. Others resisted at first, but found their hands quickly pried away and wrenched up behind their backs. That was Scipio’s own fate, his arm twisted back by Vinas, himself, when the little man tried to intervene.

“What are you doing? This is not the way the army is run,” objected Scipio.

“I thought just the same thing when I saw how unwelcome you made us,” answered Vinas.

A fight broke out. A Solanthian soldier lashed out with his elbows. Those elbows were grabbed, and the man was flung backward from his bench. An icy boot pinned his chest.

“Whenever two dogs meet,” Vinas said philosophically, “there is always a brief scuffle to establish domain.”

“All right. I’ll have more salted boar brought in, and beds prepared,” Scipio said. “Just let me go.”

Vinas did.

Scipio straightened, brushing off his scale mail. He strode rapidly to the kitchens and gave the orders.

“Stand down, men!” called Vinas. “We have been promised hospitality. Only give our host a moment to make good on what he owes us.”

*

After that, the company’s reception was at least adequate, if not cordial. Part of that painful adequacy was a private drink and discussion in Scipio’s own chambers. The ultimate in luxury, the man’s rooms had been plastered and tiled. These appointments were palatial compared with the rough-sawn wood and dry rushes of the rest of Solanthus. Scipio’s fire blazed brightly in a small hearth on one end of the quarters, as he flitted into and out of its savage light.

Vinas sat in an embroidered chair beside the fire. He still enjoyed the sting of his cold legs being warmed. A more pleasant sting awaited him – brandy from a crystal decanter. Vinas watched patiently as the crooked little man poured shallow amber puddles into snifters on a tray. With a nervous bow, Scipio lowered the tray and offered the glasses. Vinas took the snifter closer to Scipio and sat back, warming the drink with his hand.

“I am sorry we were so poorly prepared for your arrival,” Scipio said. It was his fourth such apology, no more sincere than the first. “We’ve been so beset by villagers and plainsmen.”

Vinas sipped the brandy, curling his nose. He had not developed a taste for intoxicants, and this brandy seemed especially pungent. “Why would villagers want to destroy the bridge that brings all their trade? And why would plainsmen care about a bridge one hundred and twenty miles from their homelands?”

“Oh,” replied Scipio silkily, “it’s not the bridge they’re after. It’s our food store. The villagers say it was a bad crop this year – something about a plague of moths. They’re clamoring to get hold of our stores. As for the plainsmen – they don’t store up for winter. They count on coming to Ergoth for a handout. Come to Ergoth? We’d just as soon let them starve and take over their lands. Who knows what’s in their savage minds?”

Probably much more than is in yours, thought Vinas. “Your men seem well enough fed,” he observed.

“Oh, we have more than enough food. The ration caravans from Daltigoth come regularly, and I send my men hunting, too. We could feed ourselves twice over just off the bison massacre we had this past autumn.”

Vinas set his snifter down on the small table. “What, then, is the problem?”

“That’s just it,” said Scipio, “there is no problem. Word got back to Daltigoth that the villagers were organizing for an attack, but that is nonsense.”

“If they really are starving,” Vinas ventured, “they would have plenty of motivation to attack.”

“But they aren’t starving,” Scipio replied. “We trade them our excess whenever they bring anything of value.” He leaned in conspiratorially, his ruddy face made devilishly crimson in the light of the fire. “A loaf of mealy bread is up to five gold. A half-rancid haunch of bison goes for eighty.”

Vinas congratulated himself on his calm. “You are extorting such prices out of starving peasants? And toward what does this money go? Soldier salaries? Recruitment? Fortifications?”

Scipio sat back in his seat, a snide look on his ugly features. “You haven’t been a colonel for very long, have you, Solamnus?”

“Two seasons now,” Vinas said evenly. “This is my second campaign.”

“If you haven’t noticed it yet, the greatness of the empire has been won on the backs of fighters – men like you and me. But who gets rich off it all? Senators and emperors, priests and mages. It’s time for us to get ours. Colonels all over the empire are getting in on it. The senate expects as much. The emperor, too. They’re still raking in plenty.”

It is not who is getting rich, Vinas thought, but who is starving to pay for it all. He stood, lifted the brandy snifter, and tossed the liquor into the fire. A blue flame burst up for a moment among the logs. “My company is not needed here, then?”

Scipio’s nostrils flared. “No, you are not needed. Of course, if you wish, you could stay and share in the profits —”

“My men are fighters, Scipio,” Vinas said, “not leeches. If we draw blood, it will be that of Ergoth’s foes, not her citizens.”

“Perhaps you’ll continue up the road to Vingaard,” Scipio suggested. “If you are lucky, conditions will be more... dire there.”

Vinas could not imagine that.

“But remember, Solamnus, I have been a colonel for ten years. I have friends in many places. If you decide to inform anyone of my entrepreneurial endeavors, you will find your head separated from your neck.” The cold gleam of Scipio’s eyes told Vinas that he was perfectly capable of realizing his threat.

*

Two Days Hence, 15 Rannmont, 1186 Age of Light

“Cold night,” said the dark figure approaching along the palisaded wall.

Guardsman Markas shivered awake. He spun, fumbling for his sword. The damn thing was frozen in its sheath. He stumbled, and then steadied himself on the sharpened stakes atop the wall.

“Easy there, soldier,” the man said. “I’m not the specter of a cold death on the wall. I’m the new colonel – Vinas Solamnus. In fact, I’ve brought you a bit of cheer, to keep you warm tonight.” He produced one of the bottles of brandy he had robbed from Scipio’s private store. The man guarding it had been predictably eager to be bribed.

Markas received the bottle with silent alacrity, sliding it into a much-used inner pocket of his cloak. “Thank you, sir.”

“Make sure to share that with your comrades,” Vinas said.

“Off duty, of course,” Markas replied.

Vinas leaned back on his heels and glanced up into the intense blizzard. “Oh, I don’t imagine even plainsmen would be out in this.”

The soldier only nodded as Vinas strolled farther along the wall, giving a similar present to each of the men guarding the smokehouses and pantries.

*

“Do I look like a plainsman, Gaias?” Vinas asked the sleeping man.

The colonel had doffed his armor and improvised a loincloth and body wrap from a rough-woven sheet. Across his head, his hair was spiked in a savage cockscomb. He’d smeared his face with beet juice and painted it with daubs of boot black.

The old soldier woke with a jolt. “You look like a complete idiot, sir.”

For a moment, Vinas’s young eyebrows dipped in disappointment. His lips pursed. “What if you were a drunken, half-asleep guardsman trying not to fall off a palisade in the middle of a midnight blizzard?”

“Maybe, if I was half daft to begin with,” grumbled Gaias. He rolled to his side, dragging his blankets like a shield. “Sir, I’m not sure what you are up to, but I wouldn’t mind sleeping a few more weeks.”

Vinas shook his head. “Sorry, Gaias. Up with you. Pick five good souls, ones you’d trust with your wedding ring, and get yourselves up like this. I’ve already got the gate guard bribed and some of Scipio’s horses ready. We’ll just need to load up a few thousand pounds of food and drink.”

Letting out a miserable sigh, Gaias said, “Your plan for these poor devils?”

“Just pull your men together. I’ll tell you when I get back.”

*

Guardsman Markas tottered unsteadily around the corner of the stockade, looking for a vacant patch of ground where he could write his name. Something moved, in the shadowed lee of the second smokehouse. He blinked down into the dark yard of the fortress. Someone was there. Someone and something – a big rectangular something. He heard the impatient stamp of a hoof on frozen earth, and saw two plumes of white rise from the darkness. Horses? Why would there be horses there, beside the smokehouse and the open cellar door? Open cellar door?

There, in a wedge of glowing light from one of the fire-filled chimneys, he saw a spiked rill of hair, and a shoulder naked to the blizzard.

Plainsmen? How had plainsmen sneaked over the wall? Probably one of the other guards had drunk himself to sleep. Glass stomachs. Markas had finished half his own bottle and was still standing, wasn’t he?

How many of them were there? He squinted, taking the opportunity to finish his original business before he gave the alert. There was no sense rousing the foe while he had a full bladder. In the next trickling moments, he counted six forms, two wagons and four horses, in the darkness. Only six? He could stroll on down there and kill them all, single-handed. Perhaps he wouldn’t call out until he’d finished them off.

On the other hand, plainsmen were like fleas. You find one on the dog, and you know there’s a hundred more.

“Alaart! Alaart!” shouted Markas as he buttoned up. His warning, unfortunately, sounded more like an off-key yodel than a battle cry. “Plaimsmem imma fart!”

Even he had to laugh at that. Plaimsmem imma fart. Maybe his stomach wasn’t the cast-iron kettle he’d thought it to be.

Silly or not, the call alerted the other guard – and the plainsmen. The savages poured out of the smokehouse and cellar, carrying the last of the food they’d come to steal. With an agility that only a naked wild man could have had in such a storm, one of the thieves flung a side of bison from his back onto the already full wagon, then leapt to the buckboard. The warrior released an ululating cry and whipped the horse to a gallop. The second wagon tore out after the first, and the last of the feral devils lit out behind, atop four saddled Ergothian horses.

They’d not get far, Markas realized as he rounded the corner of the stockade. Ahead of him on the palisade, Manias was drawing an arrow back. Manias was a dead-eye shot. Somebody would die when he released that shaft. Manias’s aim followed the horsemen across the fortress, and then he calmly slipped off the wall and released the arrow as he fell.

Guardsman Aurulas was the unfortunate recipient of the missile, which buried itself in his heart with a sound like shattering glass. Yelping, Aurulas danced out of his cloak, and the arrow fell away with shards of brandy bottle.

Meanwhile, the plainsmen fled out an open fortress gate. Open fortress gate?

No matter, thought Markas. Once he got to the stables, he’d chase down those grass rats! He’d almost reached the ladder when he stepped off the wall and plunged to the ground. Numbness had its benefits. Markas got up and staggered toward the stables. He was halfway to the horse track when he wondered if that clicking sound was broken ribs. Worse. It turned out to be another broken brandy bottle.

“To the abyth with this cloag,” cursed Markas, shucking off the glass-laced garment just as he entered the stalls.

Griff, the black charger that Scipio preferred to ride, stood saddled and ready in the first berth. What an opportunity! Markas had often wished he could ride that spirited steed. This was an emergency! Scipio would thank him for taking the mount.

“It’th going to be awlright, good boy,” slurred Markas, patting the beast. He half expected to get his hand bit for his efforts – he’d seen the charger maim a man once – but the horse was unusually docile tonight. “Good boy. Good. Boy.”

Before he knew it, he was beside the creature, with one foot slung in a stirrup. He mounted up easily enough, though he’d forgotten to loop the reins up on the horn. Slumping forward, Markas struggled to grab the reins. He snatched up one and yanked backward, causing the mount to rear up slowly, awkwardly. It barged backward out the stall gate, smashing it down. In those chaotic moments of flailing, Markas caught the other rein and pulled hard. The horse came down onto its forelegs and kicked backward like an ass.

“Good boy,” soothed Markas in an overloud voice. “Gooooo!” His assurances to the horse ended as it pranced out of the stables and into the cold. Its hooves seemed blocky and clumsy on the icy ground. It fought for footing, reeled drunkenly, and snorted a brandysmelling fog into the air.

“What is it?” shouted Colonel Scipio, emerging half-naked into the whirling storm. “What is happening? Wha —?”

The horse seemed to recognize its master’s voice. It broke into a wobbly gallop toward him. Griff barreled down brutally upon the gasping man and bowled into him, its equine shoulder smacking Scipio down and rolling him under.

Markas followed, down on his side, and the mount rolled over him, too. It was, indeed, good to be numb.

*

The blizzard had reached its peak when, abruptly, the “plainsman raiders” reached the first settlement. It could not be called a village, this black, slumbering huddle of stone, mud, and stick. The buildings were dug into the ground, like entrenchments, their roofs little more than light-leaking mounds of gray-black snow.

If not for those loose-thatched roofs, the wagoners might have driven their horses directly onto the barrows. Instead, Vinas veered to one side and stood up on the buckboard, hauling hard on the reins. The horses wanted to rear, but he settled them to ground with even pressure and shouted commands.

In the other wagon, Gaias stood braced like a charioteer. He brought his team to a stomping halt on the far side of the clearing. Into the open space between the wagons, four horsemen rushed. The hooves made whuffing noises in the snow.

Vinas let out an exhilarated whoop as he tied off the reins and leapt down from the saddle. He waved Gaias into place beside him. The grizzled soldier wore, once again, his mask of snow crystals and ice, but even they could not hide the uncustomary joy in his eyes.

“What is it, then, Gaias?” asked Vinas, slapping the soldier on a pelt-piled back. “What makes you smile? The storm? The wintry ride? The thought of bringing food to starving peasants?”

In his laconic way, Gaias shrugged. As they approached the nearest barrow, he said, “I guess I never before saw a soldier work so hard to do the right thing.”

A serious look came over Vinas’s face. “If I were emperor, every soldier would work hard always to do the right thing.”

A moment of pensive quiet passed between them. The brooding looks on their faces were banished by a voice.

“Tell Scipio we’ve no more food to give him.” It was the voice of an old man, tired and resigned beneath the snow that blanketed his family’s hovel.

Vinas growled to Gaias, “Those buggers of Scipio supposedly hunted their own game. But no. They take food from these people as tribute, then sell it back to them when it goes bad.”

“Wolves guarding the sheep.”

Turning toward the snow-choked door, Vinas happily cried, “We’re not Scipio’s men. We’ve not come to take your food.”

There was a barely perceptible movement behind the ragged wooden door. “Plainsmen? Since when have plainsmen driven wagons?”

Vinas laughed. “We aren’t plainsmen, either. We are the true soldiers of Ergoth, doing the work Scipio has forsaken. Are you hungry, old man?”

“Of course,” the man said bitterly. Something of his true feelings began to emerge. “I live in the shadow of Solanthus, don’t I?”

“Yes, you do,” replied Vinas. “But tonight, things have begun to change. I know that the food we have here is only the smallest measure of what is owed to you —”

“We’ve no food to give you – and even less gold,” the man began.

“We ask no payment,” Vinas replied, “only that you take what you need to make it through the winter.”

The door cracked inward, and a thin eddy of snow entered the gold-glowing room beyond. Two old-man eyes, framed by hunger-ravaged flesh, peered out. The man’s white hair looked golden in the firelight. His reply was incredulous. “Make it through the winter?”

“If you need more, we’ll return with it —”

“It’s not that,” replied the man. He opened the door the rest of the way, and looked like a living skeleton in his tattered nightshirt. “I just... I just hadn’t expected that we would make it through the winter.”

“Now you will,” Vinas replied. “Wake your neighbors. Tell them to come out and stock their larders.”

His bare feet stepped out into the snow, but Vinas waved him back. “Don’t trouble yourself, Father. We have boots. We will wake the others and bring the food to all of you. I ask just one thing.”

“Anything,” replied the man, breathless.

“Would any of you have a barn and hay – and use for one of these horses?”

The man fell to his knees in the snow. “Oh, sir, what god do you serve, that I might give praise? And what is your name, great bringer of bounty, that I might ask a blessing on your head?”

Vinas was taken aback. From the time he could first speak, he had known of all the gods in the pantheon, but he had never sought a divine patron, had rarely even prayed.

Gaias’s icy eyebrows dipped in bemusement.

Vinas walked to the man and extended a hand to him, helping him up. He found himself speaking without any idea of what he might say. “I serve no god. I am a colonel of Ergoth, and so, I suppose, I serve only the empire... or, I should say, her people.”

Gaias looked suitably impressed. As for the old man – Vinas could not have seen how the man responded. The skeletal figure leaned, trembling, against the war-painted and barbarously clad soldier.

“It’s all right, Father. The true armies of Ergoth have come. You will see the spring.”

“Thank you, Sir Warrior. Festas and his poor family bless your name.”

Gaias tugged on Vinas’s arm. A furtive flick of the captain’s eyes indicated the open doorway. Vinas glanced toward it, and saw a pitiable sight.

The family clustered there had rheumy eyes, pallid skin, unkempt hair, gaunt arms.... They had a haunted look about them, from the old crone who blinked outward with clouded eyes, to the emaciated child she clutched to her side.

Vinas could not have spoken; his teeth were locked in a vice. All caprice had gone out of this ploy. So had all the joy. This was no longer an extravagant joke at Scipio’s expense, but a relief effort that meant these folk would live, not die.

Vinas felt shame for wearing the same uniform as Scipio.

*

The “plainsmen” had a similar reception in the first five villages. Vinas and his men provisioned each village with enough food to last them through the winter, and with a horse to help them plow and haul next spring. The third village, larger than the first two, asked for a wagon as well as a horse. There were more tears of joy, more criminally underfed peasants.

With each new look of suffering and outpouring of hope, Vinas’s resolve was hardened. He had originally planned to rush through the villages, quickly tossing food to the villagers and speeding away with the blizzard covering their tracks. Now, the heavens were nearly spent. The black impenetrable belly of overcast clouds had thinned to a charcoal gray. Dawn approached, and with it the certainty of detection.

It didn’t matter. When he returned, Vinas would strip Scipio of his commission and take charge of the garrison. The days of extortion were done.

In the deepening dawn, Vinas and his savages reached the last village. This settlement was merely a collection of huts, hunkered down in foot-deep snow. The wagon roiled into their midst, bearing Vinas and Gaias on the buckboard, their four comrades behind, and the last of the food piled in the back.

An arrow whistled past Vinas’s head, an arrow followed by a woman’s voice: “Come no farther, soldiers! You are not welcome here!”

Vinas halted the wagon. He stood, holding the reins. Hoarse from the night of riding, he bellowed between his hands, “We bring food for you!”

“Begone!” the woman replied without pause. “We have no gold, but plenty of arrows.”

“The food is yours. The wagon, and the horses, as well. You need pay us nothing for this.”

The silent pause that followed seethed with distrust. The voice responded, “This is the feeblest trick so far, Scipio.”

“I am not Scipio. We are not his men. We are soldiers of the true Ergothian empire. We’ve come to right the wrong done you,” Vinas replied wearily.

“Who are you, then?”

“Our names are not important. We will hobble the horses and leave the wagon with you. Surely someone in your village can recognize good food when he sees it,” Vinas said. “We will return to Solanthus on foot. The drifts will hide our tracks, so Scipio won’t suspect you. He thinks this the work of plainsmen.”

He jumped down from the buckboard into the snow, motioning the others to follow. They did. The weary band of false plainsmen looked only the more bizarre for their mantels of snow and ice. One by one, they turned to trudge toward the fortress. By Vinas’s best reckoning, it lay nine miles distant as the crow flew. It would be night before they got there.

“We have five superb archers among us,” the woman warned, “in case this is a trick.”

Vinas did not turn, only waving dismissively as they left.

*

Luccia pulled back from the snowy peephole through which she had watched the intruders. She slackened the bowstring of her short bow and let the arrow drop away between her fingers. “Since when do soldiers of the empire dress up as plainsmen, hand out food and horses and wagons, and go around righting wrongs?”

“No sign of movement in the woods,” came a voice from the back corner of the hut. Another bowstring eased.

Who would do such a thing? Luccia wondered to herself. Her mind raced back over the two years she had spent arming and training the villagers to oppose Scipio’s extortioners. She couldn’t conceive of any soldier who would have the courage or the heart to oppose the black-market colonel.

“Alansis and Borsh, bring your bows to the front. I’m going out to check that wagon.” Without pause, she placed the arrow back in her quiver, slung the bow over her shoulder, and pushed open the door. There was a shuffle of young men in the darkness behind her, then the door was shut, and she was out in the bitter, blowing dawn.

She gazed after the soldiers, only small gray specks floating in the distant white wind. Whoever they are, they’ll be dead when they step within a bow’s shot of Solanthus, Luccia thought to herself as she reached the wagon. Unless Scipio himself is dead.

*

One Day Hence, 16 Rannmont, 1186 Age of Light

“Scipio is dead,” came the guardsman’s shout from the dusk-cloaked wall of Solanthus. “A horse fell upon him. You and your men will be charged, therefore, with the murder of a colonel, as well as with treason, horse thievery, aiding the enemy, bribing the soldiery, and a host of other offenses.”

Vinas glanced sidelong at his men, who trembled with exhaustion, hunger, and cold. It was as though they had taken the afflictions of the peasants on their own shoulders.

“I, Captain Hellas, have assumed command of both companies in this garrison. Your men, Colonel Solamnus, seemed all too eager for a real commander. Now, will you surrender without a fight and spare yourself further charges, or must we ride out into the dark to slay you like wild dogs?”

“Let them go to hell,” said Gaias. “They’ll pay dearly in blood if they try to bring us in.”

For a moment, Vinas thought the old soldier delirious. The men wouldn’t last another half hour in this cold, nor would they last five minutes against a fresh band from the garrison. Staring into Gaias’s eyes, though, Vinas realized it was not delirium he saw, but resolve. A light had awakened in the veteran’s eyes at the first village, and it had grown only the brighter through that long, miserable day.

“Everybody dies eventually,” Gaias said to his commander. He drew his sword. “It’s a lucky few that get to die for a reason.”

Blinking, Vinas studied the old man. He drew a long breath. Then, turning back toward the wall of the fortress, Vinas called out, “There will be much of your blood spilled if you try to take us. In the end, perhaps we will all slip away into Paladine’s palace, denying you a single body for your tribunals and tortures. The senate and the emperor would be very unimpressed with the result of your first true task as colonel, Captain Hellas.

“On the other hand, we will come without a fight if you promise to charge only me with the crimes. These are my men. They followed my orders. Only I am in the wrong, not they. One treasonous colonel is a better gift for the emperor than six dead soldiers.”

Gaias began to whisper a protest, but Vinas cut him off. “There will be better fights for us, friend.”

The voice from the wall urged them forward. “Come. I, Captain Hellas, swear your men will be spared, and only you charged, Colonel Solamnus.”

Meus Pater

“I will not always be here to save you, Son,” Adrenas Solamnus warned coldly. The statesman’s booted toe nudged a red-hot coal back from the edge of the hearth. “And you are quickly exhausting the family fortune I’ve built up for your inheritance.”

“I didn’t ask you to save me,” Vinas replied heatedly. He began again to pace the mosaic floor of his father’s villa. “And I don’t want a fortune stolen from the poor, or clout gained and maintained through black-market dealings in influences and indulgences. That’s the very thing I was fighting in Solanthus.”

Adrenas shrugged. “That is the way of the empire.” He shifted, fighting to control his anger. “What exactly do you think would have happened if I had not gotten the tribunal dismissed and the charges dropped?”

“I would have gone to trial, where my witnesses and I could have exposed the corruption of Scipio’s rule, and demanded an investigation into the current practices of Colonel Hellas.”

His father rose. The man was getting old enough that, these days, precious little could make him stand. This time, sudden fury forced him to his feet. The action was ominous.

Adrenas’s voice was no louder than it had been before – perhaps even diminished – but the choked intensity of it made Vinas stop his pacing. “You would be dead. You would be executed. Son, who do you think sits on such tribunals? Soldiers such as yourself? No. Soldiers such as Scipio and Hellas – only older, more inured to evil. Corruption and violence and perverse cruelty have become second nature to such men. Even they do not recognize their own depravity. They would condemn you to the scaffold, and sit and drink a good bottle of wine while you hanged. A good man in an evil society will seem the greatest villain of all. We can’t change that.”

Vinas looked down. Shame colored his face. His father was right. Corruption was the way of the empire. No one man – certainly not a young colonel painted to look like a plainsman – could change that.

Vinas sighed, then offered weakly, “You’re right. I can’t change it – but at least those villagers didn’t starve.”

“Not this year, but what about next?” shouted Adrenas. “Besides, Scipio wouldn’t have let them starve. He kept them hungry and weak, yes, but if they starved, they couldn’t buy back the tribute he took from them.”

Vinas looked miserable.

Adrenas turned away and stalked toward the window. Outside, spring was making a sluggish attempt to drive off winter. “You’ve always been a dreamer, Son. So was I when I was young. But I learned to be hard. You have to learn that as well. You’ve always just plunged in and, when things fell apart, waited for Father to pick up the pieces. I won’t always be here to do that.”

“You already said so,” Vinas groused softly.

Adrenas went on as if he hadn’t heard. “You’re lucky I have been a close friend of the emperor since before he came to power. That was not an easy friendship to forge, nor to keep. You have nearly destroyed all that. I could barely convince the emperor you aren’t a traitor. I used your own dreams against you, Son – yes, I did. I told Emperor Emann you were only a starry-eyed kid out of your depth, impressionable, immature —”

“I knew what I was doing —”

“Kiri-Jolith slay me if you did!” cried Adrenas. “Unless you’re hiding a death wish, you had no idea. Luckily you’ve only been banned from military duty.”

“But that’s the only thing I ever wanted to do —”

Adrenas dropped his head forward and leaned heavily against the stone sill. “You destroyed that future, not me.” His fury was ebbing away. His face was placid again. “Emann Quisling is as corrupt as all the others. It was no small task to get him to concede.”

“What is it, Father? What did you agree to?”

Adrenas stood and turned toward his son. The old man blinked slowly as he explained. “Emperor Quisling fixed upon the idea that you were a moralist, a dreamer.

He dropped the tribunal on the condition that you enter the priesthood of Paladine.”

It was Vinas’s turn to be enraged. “The priesthood?”

Adrenas looked apologetic. “It was that or death.”

Vinas flinched as though he’d been struck. “So you said I would?”

In response, his father strode across the sitting room and threw back the door of an ornate mahogany cabinet. On the inside of the door hung a shapeless sackcloth. “These are your initiate robes.”

III

Two Years Hence, 2 Chislmont, 1188 Age of Light

“I can’t believe it,” rumbled Titus. His gigantic, muscular hands fiddled with the stole he wore around his neck. “The emperor’s own wedding, and we’ll be officiating!”

The young priest to which Titus was speaking struggled to find the collar of his robe. His voice was muffled beneath the labyrinthine garment. “Yes, Titus, we, and half the other priests of Paladine in Daltigoth.”

Beadle Titus considered his friend’s words and rubbed his jawline. “Still, we’ll be there when history is made.”

“Ah, made it,” sighed Underchancellor Vinas Solamnus as his head emerged from the robe. He looked up at the half-ogre priest, who was a year younger and three feet taller than him, and said, “You’re really looking forward to this, aren’t you?”

Titus lifted his arms. “Of course. Aren’t you?”

Vinas snorted, thrusting one arm out a hole. “Emperor Quisling is the reason I’m in this ridiculous costume.”

“You aren’t in that ridiculous costume,” Titus noted. He pointed toward the sleeve dragging on the ground.

Vinas looked down with a grimace. “How did that get down there?”

“Your head is in the other sleeve, and your arm is sticking out of the collar,” Titus explained.

Vinas groaned in frustration, ducked back into the robe, and hunted for the collar. “This is what I mean. I can’t even find my way out of my vestments. Last week, my candlesnuffer set the chancellor’s hair on fire.”

“I wondered why he’d gotten tonsured...”

“I’m always left standing when everyone else has been seated; I’ve fallen asleep twice during vespers.”

“I heard the snoring. I thought it was Jonas singing bass.”

“My heart’s just not in this, Titus,” Vinas confessed, not for the first time. At last, his head emerged in the right place, and he turned his attention to the sleeves.

The colossal man quietly let his ornate stole fall against his knees, folded a piece of parchment into a miniature hat, and balanced it upon his shock of black hair. He was mulling something over, and at last came out with it. “Do you believe in Paladine, Vinas?”

Vinas slipped a stole around his neck and fastened it to the back of his collar. “If you mean, can I heal small wounds or lay blessings on crowds or get pigeons to land on my fingers, as any good magician can —”

“You aren’t listening,” Titus said. He cradled his head in his hands. “I mean, do you believe?”

The underchancellor’s stare was thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose I do. But for me, believing in Paladine is like believing in trees. Paladine is good, and trees are good, and I’d not like to live in a world without either. But both get along quite well without me. Do you see what I mean? My belief doesn’t matter either way.”

“Mine does,” said the hulking priest. “I don’t know what you mean by a world without Paladine. To me, Paladine and the world and life and everything – it’s all one. Paladine isn’t like the trees, but like Krynn itself. You’ve got to believe in Krynn before you can exist on Krynn, right?”

“I don’t know,” Vinas replied, straightening the folds in his rumpled robe. “Does an ant believe in the world, or just live in it?” He stopped, chagrined. “You’ve led me into one of your damned theological debates again!”

Titus grinned apologetically. “I can’t help it. I eat and drink and breathe it.”

Vinas tugged his friend’s sleeve. “Come on – the other priests are already rehearsing the ceremony. If we don’t hurry, we’ll be sent to the catacombs.”

“Maybe I will,” said Titus, tramping after the underchancellor, “but not you. You’re the emperor’s favorite – the son of his best man.”

*

“The emperor will enter here, at the prior’s door,” said the white-haired chancellor to the crowd of priests waiting in the bright, dewy morning.

They all dutifully looked at the ancient and ornately carved frieze above the small, wooden door. At that moment, the door banged open and a hulking priest and a frazzled-looking underchancellor barged out, yammering, into the crowd. The two clerics took one more step, and then halted.

The chancellor coughed discreetly into his old, bony hand. He continued his address to the others. “The emperor’s personal guard will secure the door on both sides. Should any of you make an exit such as that of Underchancellor Solamnus or Beadle Titus, you will be assumed assassins and slain without question.”

“Forgive us, Chancellor Dorias,” the underchancellor said. He and his mountainous partner in crime averted their eyes and bowed respectfully, trying to dissolve into the crowd.

“Perhaps I should request a more punctual assistant,” Chancellor Dorias idly wondered aloud.

Beneath his breath, the underchancellor said, “Perhaps I should request a more forgiving master.”

Chancellor Dorias did not hear this reply, though Beadle Titus did.

*

So did the two priests directly ahead of them. Neither of them turned, though the one with a deep, pink cleft in his forehead said, “Do, please, continue, Chancellor Dorias.”

The old cleric brought a hand to his forehead, as though wondering at that fleshy wound. He hid the motion by dragging a white skein of hair down from his own pate. “I’m sorry. Where was I?”

A young, doe-eyed woman beside the scarred priest said, “You were talking about priests being mistaken for assassins.”

Laughter rippled among the group as the chancellor nodded and gestured toward the prior’s open door. “Seeing as the underchancellor and the beadle so generously opened the door for us, let us make our way through.”

As the robed faithful of Paladine filed through the door, the hatchet-headed man and his comrade lingered near the rear of the pack. They spoke together in whispers.

“Will we kill him here, Hatch?” asked the woman. She had a wide-eyed look of innocence, and her voice was like the coo of a dove.

Hatch frowned. “No. Too out-of-the-way, and too well-guarded. My employer wants the emperor to faint on the altar, like a good virgin boy, and then wilt to the floor like a dead lily, right in front of his people,”

“Poisoned nuptial wine?” the woman asked.

“What’s the sport in that? Anyway, the emperor’s got an army of tasters, and nothing’s gotten past them yet.”

From the door, Chancellor Dorias called, “Come along, you stragglers. Wouldn’t want to leave you out of the festivities!”

“Wouldn’t want to be left out, Chancellor,” said Hatch.

The two assassins shuffled through the door.

Beyond lay one of the southern wings of the temple. An elevated causeway of gold-veined white marble led from the door past seats carved into the white granite bedrock on which the temple had been built. The seats were empty now. Waiting.

Dorias closed the door and moved to the head of the group. He walked backward, into the cavernous stone wing. As he went, the chancellor gestured to either side. “The emperor will walk down this aisle, accompanied by bodyguard and retinue, including your father, Underchancellor Solamnus – the emperor’s dear friend and best man.”

The underchancellor ducked as if hoping that comment would fly by overhead.

Hatch was a bit too cruel to let such a bowed neck go unchopped. “I guess that would make the underchancellor second-best man, wouldn’t it?”

In the muffled amusement that followed, the underchancellor glared murderously toward Hatch. Their eyes met for the first but certainly not the last time. In that moment, the accoutrements of priesthood dissolved. Young Solamnus was no priest, but a warrior. Hatch wondered if his true profession had been recognized by the underchancellor.

Then, the moment was past. The tide of priests dragged them along. At the head of the group, the chancellor droned onward. The aisles of white and gold converged inward to a stepped dais in the center of the sanctuary.

Above those twenty-one raised steps – “one for each true god,” commented Dorias – hung a gold-worked dragon. The huge metal statue shimmered in its stained-glass apse. The life-sized gold dragon hovered in the pose of Paladine’s celestial constellation. Its horned head was uppermost in the vault of the central tower; its resplendent neck arched down to half-tucked wings; and its long tail snaked out from underneath to end in a flipped curl. That auric vision had sent armies of worshippers to their knees.

The assassin named Hatch could think only of Vinas Solamnus. “That brat – he will be a big problem,” he muttered to the woman.

She responded softly, “What is he? He is nothing. He is underchancellor.”

“He is son of the best man.”

“So what?” she asked.

“The best man has the ring,” replied Hatch, “the ring that will have the enspelled spur inside it.”

“I see,” said the child-faced killer. “I see.”

*

“Enter,” called Adrënas Solamnus toward the door of the study.

The wood panel slid silently aside into a beveled and bossed wall. In the open doorway, flanked by overstuffed bookshelves, stood Caritas, a slave-turned-manservant.

Slavery is a beastly business, thought Adrenas. But Caritas’s clan was gone, and he had no home now other than the villa. “Yes, Caritas? What is it?”

“A priestess of Paladine is here, milord,” replied Caritas, bowing stiffly. He’d never quite learned the grace of servitude. Good for him. “She says she must bless the rings.”

Adrenas stared, blinking, at the young man. He had heard nothing of a ring blessing, though a blessed ring would be better than a cursed one.

“Shall I send her away?” asked Caritas.

Adrenas waved away his distraction. “Forgive me, Caritas. I’m hopelessly lost in thought today. Let her in.”

Caritas bowed out of the way. A young priestess stepped through the doorway.

She was slim and small. Though childlike, she seemed somehow utterly sturdy, unbreakable. Her face was taken up mostly by two great brown eyes, a sweet little nose, and a child’s mouth, turned as though she still nursed from her mother.

Adrenas had never seen so strange a combination of force and innocence. It made the old man feel dizzy, even slightly queasy.

“Come in,” he said, gesturing her into the book-filled room.

She entered, gliding quietly. She curtsied. Her tiny form was lost in the robes. She rose and stared, offering no introduction nor reason for her unexpected presence.

“You are here to bless the rings,” the old noble said.

“Please,” the priestess replied with a nod.

Adrenas studied her sharply. His eyes could not penetrate her blank gaze. He felt not just queasiness now, but uneasy premonition.

Even so, Adrenas found himself saying, “I’ll get them.”

“Please,” she urged.

He rose from his seat, giving his bones a moment to settle dryly against each other. A single step took him toward the wall vault that held the small, gold-gilded ring box. He paused. Feigning absentmindedness, Adrenas muttered, “Forgot to tell Caritas about the posies.” Instead of heading to the vault, he trudged to the door, called Caritas, and whispered to him, “Lock the doors and stand ready with your sword. Something feels wrong.”

As the plainsman moved swiftly and silently away, Adrenas slid the door shut and bolted it from within. He turned and studied the priestess, who remained in the center of the floor. He padded past her to the vault. Adrenas shoved a small painting aside and began working on the lock on the vault.

The lock opened. With an arcane gesture, Adrenas parted the glimmering blue shield of magic – a vault within a vault. He reached in, past deeds and documents, past a stack of platinum bars, to a small gilded chest, and withdrew it. Reactivating the magic, he closed the vault and turned around.

“They are in here,” he said, striding toward the priestess. He lifted the case toward her and opened it.

Only then did her eyes change. Into their wide placidity came a harsh focus and deep purple intensity.

“Beautiful,” she said.

They were. The ring for the emperor’s bride had a large setting – one inch worth of the finest diamonds, rubies, and emeralds Ergoth could pry from the grip of dead dwarves. The central stone, a teardrop diamond, would likely weigh twenty carats by itself. The emperor’s ring was no less impressive, encrusted with shining jewels.

The priestess reached for the rings, but Adrenas reflexively drew the box back. She gazed at him, still wide-eyed but now accusingly so. “I must hold them to bless them.”

It was the most she had said so far.

“Of course,” Adrenas said, offering the box again.

Carefully, reverently, she drew the rings from the chest and held them overhead. She tilted her face toward the ceiling and began to chant a prayer in Old Ergothian, calling down the blessings of Paladine and his mate Mishakal, that the human union be a reflection of their divine marriage. All the while, her fingers moved in strange gestures, as though she were not merely blessing the rings, but somehow transforming them with her prayer.

The door to the room rattled loudly against its lock. The priestess started, almost dropping the rings.

Adrenas barked, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Father. Why is the door bolted?”

Adrenas snorted. He set a hand on the priestess’s trembling arm. “My son,” he apologized. “I’ll tell him to wait.”

“No,” said the priestess petulantly. “The blessing is done. I must go.”

As the door rattled again, she carefully replaced the rings.

Adrenas closed the chest. “Just a moment, Vinas.” When the chest was again safely secreted in the vault, Adrenas crossed the room and slid back the bolt. The door was flung open and in strode Vinas. Somehow, the priestess flitted past him, and was gone in the hall.

“Who was that?” Vinas asked, astonished.

His father stared after the priestess, saying blankly, “Oh, someone from your order. She was sent to bless the rings. Adrenas shook away his unease. “What brings you here, son?” he asked.

Vinas blinked distractedly. “She was the one next to that brain-bashed priest. Something feels wrong here.”

“My thoughts, exactly.”

*

Titus climbed the ladder rungs four at a time. The shaft, as dark and narrow as a chimney stack, was meant to be traversed only in emergencies – like this one. The magical wards that guarded the temple’s central vault had been compromised.

Titus’s head struck the iron-barred trapdoor at the top of the shaft. A wedge of yellow light flashed for a moment in front of him, then closed again as he stooped down. Grimacing in the darkness and muttering things that should not be said by a priest, Titus clung miserably to the rungs and waited for his head to stop ringing.

With the thrust of one massive hand, he flung back the trapdoor. It boomed ominously against the floor of a narrow crawl space above. Dust undisturbed for centuries danced with mold spores in the dim air. Titus crawled into the space and wriggled his broad shoulders forward. He squeezed past a crumbled bulwark that had held aloft the former central tower, and stepped out onto a wooden catwalk.

Someone was moving out there. On the dark, swaying framework of poles and ropes and planks, someone knelt – a saboteur. Titus strode across the ancient boards, toward the stooped shoulders and the dim flutter of hands.

“Beadle Titus,” came an unfamiliar voice. “I’m glad you’re here. I spooked him away from this spot, here. He was working on it when I came up.”

Never enamored of heights, Titus slowed on the swaying catwalk. He took a moment to glance down warily at the dome of stone below them. Beneath that, he knew, hung the Paladine statue – and a two-hundred-foot drop to solid granite.

“Who was working there?” he called to the man.

“I didn’t get a good look. He was built about like your friend.”

“My friend?” Titus asked, edging toward the man.

“You know, the underchancellor.”

“Vinas.” Titus had almost reached the center of the vault. There the man was crouched, his hands moving in mothlike flutters.

“There, that should do it,” the man said. A blue glimmer dribbled down from his fingers onto the headstones of the dark vault. As Titus watched, the magic coursed down the stone ribs, sped along the circumference of the vault, and, with a faint whoosh!, swept over the whole area.

In the blue glow, Titus saw the outline of the man’s face, especially the hatchet-shaped wound in his forehead. It was the priest who had insulted Vinas that morning.

“I’m Hatch, missionary to the kender of Hylo,” he said, holding out a grimy hand in greeting. Titus didn’t take the hand. “You probably noticed my accent. Got it from the rabble – you know how it goes.”

“I do,” said Titus. “What did he do, this saboteur?”

Hatch withdrew his filthy hand and scratched his neck with it. “I suppose I don’t really know. I’ll get another priest up here to check on it. Somebody who knows about architectural magic, not just a rural priest like me.”

“I know just the man,” said Titus. “I’ll ask him to come have a look.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll make sure he knows just what spot to check.”

*

One Day Hence, 3 Chislmont, 1188 Age of Light

Luccia had not come to Daltigoth for the imperial wedding. She had come for confrontation, not consummation.

The villagers around Solanthus had been especially desperate these past two years – ever since the intolerant reign of Scipio had been succeeded by the insufferable one of Hellas. The new colonel had twice the number of soldiers, and twice the will to use them to pillage the countryside. Each armed resistance by the villagers had brought only harsher reprisals. Skirmishes had become so constant as to be known in Daltigoth as the Solanthian Troubles.

News had reached Solanthus of the imperial wedding, and Luccia was inspired to trade in her devotion to a peasant rebellion for a personal mission.

Her plan involved a custom of the Quevalin emperors that carried through to the current Quisling line. On the day after the nuptial consummation, the new empress would receive requests from delegates of every imperial province. She then would grant, according to her wisdom, what aid she could.

Luccia had come to Daltigoth to demand bread.

And not just bread for right now, to save the skeletal villagers of Solanthus. She wanted bread forever. The right to remit reasonable taxes to the landed lord, and not to be pillaged into oblivion.

That was one phrase she had promised herself not to use. Pillaged into oblivion was, perhaps, too harsh for a new empress’s ears.

Cowled in the nondescript gray of peasants throughout Ergoth, Luccia shouldered her way through the throng that clustered at the base of the seemingly endless steps of Paladine’s temple. If she could push to the front of the crowd, she just might find a standing spot from which to see the spectacle. It was a royal wedding, after all... as well as being the chance to win bread and peace for the villages she called home.

Home. The word brought to mind thoughts of Vinas Solamnus. She wondered where he might be, what he might be doing, in the sprawling empire of Ergoth.

*

That afternoon, at the Gate of Eadamm, the wedding parade began. The gate stood on the spot where Eadamm, the legendary founder of the city, was said to have driven his slave shovel into the ground to begin building Daltigoth. In fact, three other sites in the city – including the Temple of Paladine – claimed to be the place where Eadamm first dug. Perhaps to be safe, the parade organizers had plotted a route that connected all the “shovel sites.” It was one of many signs that this wedding would be in the old tradition. It would be the sort of union not seen since the Quevalin line had ended, a century before.

First through the gate was the royal black watch. Its elite troops had served for three hundred years as bodyguards for every Ergothian emperor and his kin. Shiny boots clicked in absolute unison. The watch strode into the great arch. The echo of their steps would have terrified armies.

The sound inspired the peasants who lined the parade route. They waved scarves in eager greeting. Their shouts were utterly drowned out by the boot steps.

Gaias marched among the black watch. He had always hoped for a post in this elite force, though his involvement in the Solanthian Troubles had jeopardized his appointment. Ironically, Colonel Hellas had made it all possible by speeding the malcontent’s reassignment from the Solanthian frontier to the heartland of Daltigoth. Underchancellor Solamnus had then-put in a good word with the emperor, and Gaias was in.

He had certainly earned this post. He’d spent a lifetime in soldier sandals and scale mail – a bearded peasant in a peasant army. Now clean-jowled and garbed in a black uniform, he scraped steel-tipped boots against the flagstones and scowled at the peasant mob.

Gaias felt lost. It had taken him many years to be appointed to the black watch. It had taken him only a few days to realize accepting this appointment was the gravest mistake of his life. At least in the imperial army, he often stuck his sword into people who deserved it. Among the royalty, though, the guilty survived and the feckless innocent died.

This is no time for such thoughts, he reminded himself. The sound of his own marching feet brought him back to the parade, to the solemn task of guarding the bride of Emperor Quisling.

The royal wedding. If Gaias were a grandfather, he would have told and retold the story of this march for the rest of his days. It was just as well he had no descendants. Despite moments of glory – like that blizzard night, decked out like a plainsman and giving food to starving peasants – the story of his life was proving to be a disappointment.

*

The roar of the boots made the emperor’s bride – a great-great grand niece of the last Quevalin king, and no more than a child – crouch in fear inside her white carriage. She plugged her ears and laughed in terror, hunched as though against a harsh rain.

*

Empresses and armies were not the only ones to tremble in the wake of that thunderous noise. So, too, did the robed priests of Paladine. They moved in a timid flock behind the bride’s carriage. At their chests, the priests clutched glass-ensconced candles. In the winds of dusk, the tiny fires pulsed like fearful hearts.

Underchancellor Vinas Solamnus was one of the priests most concerned with keeping his flame lit. He held the sconce against his robe and cupped one hand over the vent at the top. The shadow of his hand touched the backs of the priests before him – the doe-eyed woman and her split-headed friend.

Beadle Titus nudged Vinas with his elbow. “Drop your hand. It’s making shadows. The light of truth should not be obscured.”

“Neither should it be snuffed,” countered Vinas.

They walked along for a while, the crash of boots and clop of hooves and cries of peasants combining in a ceaseless and meaningless clamor.

Still sheltering his candle flame, Vinas watched the backs of the two priests ahead of them. He nudged Titus’s arm and said, “What do you think of that pair?”

The hulking Beadle seemed for a moment to struggle with his need to be honest and his desire to be charitable. At last he came out with, “I don’t know why, but I don’t trust them.”

“Me neither,” Vinas confessed. “The woman visited father today – something about blessing the rings.”

Titus’s expression darkened. “The man was messing about in the dome. He said he’d almost caught a saboteur. I sent an architect up to check the dome, but never heard back from him.”

They had time for no more; the parade had reached the steps of the great temple. The black watch fanned out, pushing back the peasant hordes that hoped to stream in after the bride.

The woman alighted now from the carriage. Her young skin looked nearly as pale as her white, pearl-bedizened dress. Steadied on the arm of her father, she began the long climb to the temple above.

*

Luccia elbowed free of a gap-toothed young man. She almost got caught between him and an imperial guardsman. The peasant would not be getting past that palisade of sword and muscle, and would likely pay for his efforts with a few more of his dwindling teeth.

Luccia had no desire to win past the soldiers, but only to glimpse again the band of priests. She thought she had seen one whose face was... what? He did not look like a priest, not at heart. He walked with a martial stride rather than a monk’s stroll. He fretted over his candle, holding a hand above its vent and so making his own anxious face especially radiant. Though the cleric beside him was three heads taller and twice as wide as he, the young man who had caught Luccia’s eye looked too burly, too physical for so ethereal an office.

Luccia rose halfway up the first flight of steps and stood on tiptoe to see over the multitude.

There he was. His face was candle-bright in the deepening dusk. At first there were no shadows to define his features – only two glowing eyes. Still, she would have known him from the eyes alone. The man paused to draw the hem of his robe up from a snagging boot. The candle dipped down and cast his cleft jaw in square relief, then his cheekbones, his brow, and hair thick and windblown.

“Vinas Solamnus,” she whispered beneath her breath.

He was gone in the next moment, obscured behind the retreating shoulders of the man-mountain. Even so, in that space between heartbeats, he had unknowingly washed away the past four years of freedom fighting and bread-pillaging. He had reduced her to the infatuated fifteen-year-old girl he had left behind-

The Five Harvest Battles with their one hundred and twenty-three massacred villagers... the Summer of the Soot Sun... the entire vocabulary of her experience in the resistance fled from her. She suddenly wanted to break through the line, rush up beside her discontented soldier-priest, dash his candle to the ground, take his hand, and drag him back to that time four years ago....

The crowd surged up the stairs. She moved with the rising peasants – her people – pushing after the regal procession and toward the Temple of Paladine.

*

Adrenas Solamnus watched the loud, solemn procession edge down the central aisle of Paladine’s temple. In the thousand stone benches to either side of the parade, a veritable army of nobles and senators stood and sang. Ahead of the procession, a corps of fifty herald trumpeters and fifty pipers and fifty drummers played. Even so, at the moment when the future empress glided past her black-garbed escort to proceed up the aisle alone, the echoing cavern seemed utterly quiet, utterly still.

She was beautiful in white, a tender dove floating above the mere mortals. Though thirty noble maids bore the hem of her gown, she walked alone. It was an enormous train of cloth to be drawn by that tiny, brown-haired girl. The gold-veined marble looked gray and dirty beneath her delicate feet.

“What do you think of my freckled Phrygia?” came a voice very near Adrenas’s ear.

He turned to find Emperor Emann himself standing there, a gray-haired man with a feline face and intense silver eyes. “Quite the spotless white rose, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, Emperor,” replied Adrenas with solemn awe. “She is a dove. I look forward to meeting her.”

Emperor Quisling cast a sharply amused glance toward his best man and said, “As do I, Adrenas. As do I.” Adrenas tried to hide his surprise, but failed. Emann continued, “That is the problem with virgins: you can’t really know them until they are no longer virgins, and by then it’s too late. I only hope she learns quickly. I’m used to riding racehorses, not speckle-bellied ponies.”

Unsure how to respond to that, Adrenas looked toward the woman and nodded. Like the other warlords of Ergoth’s past century, Emperor Quisling was crude, brutal, and lecherous. Adrenas watched the fragile vision of that child in white, and wondered how the emperor could so brusquely speak of horses and riding.

The consummation tonight would be nothing short of a conquest. Emann would win her the same way he had won everything in his life, including Adrenas’s friendship. Vinas would say his father was in bed with evil, and that one could not rise from such a bed unsullied.

“Do you have the rings?” the emperor asked.

Adrenas bit his lip in surprise. He patted the woolen panel of the Solamnus family tabard. “They are here, in my pocket. The case was too large to carry.”

“Fine,” replied the emperor, stepping forward and motioning Adrenas to follow... at a distance, “because that is our cue.”

With his bride only a small, retreating spot of white among the roaring multitude, Emperor Emann Quisling started down the aisle.

Adrenas waited. He peered ahead. There, the crowd of priests, including his son, gathered on the dais beneath the dragon statue. He looked behind him, where the two great doors slowly closed upon gray throngs of peasants.

Breathing deeply, the best man began a measured procession behind his ruler and friend.

The bride reached the central altar to Paladine. She stopped before the white-and-gold robed priests. Half of the emperor’s black watch stood at grim attention behind the priests, and the other half lined the aisle where Emann walked.

With such protections, what assassin could possibly succeed tonight?

At last, the emperor stepped up beside his bride. Before them stood the greatest priests and warriors of Ergoth. Behind stood senators and nobles and a handful of peasants. The processional hymn ended. Trumpet, pipe, drum, and voice ceased. Only a strident echo kept on, rolling in heady waves through the temple.

*

Underchancellor Vinas Solamnus struggled to keep his hands from his ears. The din rattled away. A toneless rumble replaced it – the distant thunder of an approaching storm. The smell of rain filled the air. It was a cold, changing wind.

Vinas shivered, despite the weight of his robe and the warmth of the long walk. A wife for this ruthless politician would mean children, sons – a dynasty, perhaps. All of it would rest on that tiny little girl, who visibly trembled beside the warlord. Vinas felt cold and sick.

The Bishop of Daltigoth motioned for the people to sit. He began a sonorous homily, the sound of which would certainly die away before it reached the peasants.

Vinas sighed. As always, the peasants would be denied... or spared. Vinas himself lost track of the homily. He glanced at Titus. The giant stood forward on the balls of his feet, nodding empathetically. There would be no commiserating with him after the ceremony. Vinas blinked and focused on his father, who looked old and very weary.

A flash of none-too-distant lightning shone in the northern windows. It lit up the bride in a blue glow, but cast the emperor in shadow. Vinas waited for the thunder. The bishop spoke on until it came crashing, like the war drum of Kiri-Jolith himself. The bride swayed. Instead of reaching out to steady her, the emperor glanced up at her in irritation.

Even Vinas’s father seemed shaken. He patted a panel of his tabard, as he had done five times already since the bishop’s drone had begun. This time, though, he reached into his robes and drew out something – what was it?

A lightning strike glinted on the bejeweled rings. As though fearing the very thunder would steal the jewels, Adrenas slipped the rings onto his fingers. The bride’s ring was clutched on the second knuckle of his pinky finger, and the emperor’s ring was jammed down on his middle finger.

Look at him, thought Vinas in concern. He can hardly stand there behind the emperor. He wavers like a child before the gallows. The old noble seemed almost to be falling asleep.

Adrenas glanced down at his hand and lifted it to inspect it. A thin ribbon of blood showed beneath the emperor’s ring.

Blood? Vinas wondered at that. Was his father so nervous as to have wounded himself with a ring?

It didn’t matter. The bishop had just requested the rings. Adrenas gingerly worked the things off his fingers, wiped the blood away on his tabard, and lifted both rings toward the bishop. The high cleric had no sooner received the bands than Vinas’s father swooned and crumpled to the ground. A murmur ran through the throng. The bishop, too, paused. The same irritation that the emperor had cast toward his wife he now directed toward the fallen old man.

Vinas broke ranks and hurried to his father. He knelt. A thin stream of blood flowed where the man’s forehead had struck the stairs.

Black watchmen converged. They studied the crowd for signs of attack. A contingent slipped, silent as shadows, around father and son.

Vinas rolled his father over. The man still breathed, but very shallowly and very rapidly. “Father, Father,” he said, lightly stroking the man’s cheek with the back of his hand.

Adrenas did not stir.

“Vinas, we need to take him from the temple. We need to let the wedding resume.”

Vinas looked up at the sound of that voice. He saw a familiar face, oddly shaved. “Gaias! Help me, here.”

“Let’s go, Vinas,” said Gaias. He and his companions hoisted Adrenas from the ground and began bearing him swiftly away. “Come along. I’m sure he will be fine once he gets some air.”

Vinas nodded, following. Behind them, the bishop resumed his speech.

“Vinas,” came a raspy whisper. “Vinas, it is the ring.”

“Father, rest,” Vinas said. The group shuffled toward Mishakal’s gate. “The bishop has them now.”

“It’s enchanted, or poisoned, somehow,” Adrenas gasped. His eyes were watery. “If Emann puts it on, he, too, will die.”

“Poisoned?” Vinas wondered aloud. The moment he voiced the thought, he remembered the priestess and her supposed blessing. “The emperor...”

“I’m dying, son,” Adrenas said. “I can feel it. Cold mud in my bones.”

Gaias looked grave, though one of his companions sneered, “You’re not dying, old man. We’ll get you out in the rain, and you’ll be dancing all night at the royal ball.”

“Father, I’ll stay with you.”

“Go, Son,” Adrenas said as they bore him through an antechamber that led to the garden. “Do not disobey me in this one last request.”

A thin moan rose in Vinas’s throat. “Good-bye, Father.”

“Good-bye, Vinas.”

Vinas turned and ran back through the antechamber. A black-garbed figure appeared beside the archway leading to the sanctuary – Gaias.

“I’ll tell my men to let us through,” Gaias said urgently.

Vinas nodded, striding into the sanctuary and rushing across the floor.

“Let us pass,” hissed Gaias to his black watch comrades.

Just as Vinas reached the line of bodyguards, lightning flashed on both sides of the temple. A simultaneous thunderclap rattled the very foundation stones.

Vinas fought his way past the guards. They tried to pursue him but were held back by Gaias. As he barked commands, three more lightning strikes shook the building. They showed Vinas making great strides, halfway to the emperor... beside the emperor... wrenching the ring free from that untouchable hand. Without pause, Vinas plunged into the stunned and immobile ranks of priests.

One of the clerics turned away. Vinas bounded after her, knocking over a few of his compatriots. A priest grabbed him, but Vinas knocked him away with an elbow to the face. Vinas had almost caught up with the retreating cleric when someone grabbed his robe.

Vinas lunged. His free hand wrapped around a child-thin ankle in white. He held tight as he crashed to the ground.

His was only the first body to fall. The priestess followed. Then a soft and grunting form dropped atop Vinas and seized the hand that held the emperor’s ring. Someone else clambered over his legs, pinning him to the ground. More weight. Panicked priests piled on to insure that he would not get away.

None of that mattered. It mattered only that Vinas still held the woman’s ankle. She would not get away, this murderess and assassin. Perhaps she would even have an antidote that would save his father.

As the thunderstorm deepened, the pile of priests lightened. Gaias and the other black watchmen had arrived and were pulling clerics off Vinas. As the priests were lifted away and sorted out, the circle of guards surrounded Vinas and the woman. Gaias stood over the assassin, his sword tip resting on her young throat.

Then, entering like a god amid rolling thunder, the emperor himself reached the top of the dais and pushed past the wall of watchmen.

“By Sargonnas, what is this, Solamnus?” the emperor growled.

Breathless, still tangled up with a priest or two, Vinas said, “This woman is... an assassin.” No other word could so quickly silence a crowd. Vinas went on to explain to the shocked emperor, “She poisoned your ring. Father put it on. He is outside, dying.”

The emperor’s cold gaze turned on the priestess. “Speak, woman, but do so quickly. Your death will be as long and public as your confession.”

She looked down. The facade of innocence peeled from her face like dead flesh from a skull. “Tell this man to release me.”

Solamnus merely tightened his grip. “I will not.”

The emperor drew his ornamental sword, strode to the woman’s side, and aimed its tip at her right eye. “Speak, woman!”

“Yes,” she shouted. “I am an assassin. I planned your death here, at your wedding, before even the consummating kiss. Yes, by now this man’s father is dead. Yes, you will kill me for my crimes, and do so brutally and slowly, but not until this confession of mine is done.”

Vinas stared at the woman, hearing little after the pronouncement of his father’s death. He bowed his head, realizing she spoke the truth.

So Adrenas Solamnus was gone. His father had been right about so many things – right all along. There would no longer be anyone in all the world to save Vinas from his follies.

He glimpsed movement above him. Directly above.

The gold dragon hung there in glory. The statue swayed slowly on its chain. Why would it be swaying?

“The man was messing about in the dome. He said he’d almost caught a saboteur. I sent an architect up to check the dome, but never heard back from him.”

As Titus’s words echoed in Vinas’s head, the statue’s sway deepened, and it shuddered. No one else saw it. No one else heard it. It was a moment of fate. It was an irreversible moment that would shape the rest of Vinas Solamnus’s life.

Paladine began to fall. Vinas Solamnus released his father’s killer. In one swift motion, he rolled onto his feet. His shoulder caught the emperor in the gut, knocking him to one side.

“Paladine is falling!” was all he could think to scream.

The dragon descended.

Its gold tail struck in the spot where the emperor had just stood – where the assassin had, too, though she was fleeing past watchmen. The tail cracked against the marble dais. Welds failed, and razor-sharp triangles of metal leapt away, catching watchmen in throats, stomachs, and faces.

Vinas ran amid stumbling, colliding, dying men.

The tail crumpled so quickly it seemed to be plunging into water rather than striking stone. It drew the rest of the massive dragon downward, tipping it out toward the congregation. As if the dragon lived and had its own willpower, one of its hind claws arced down toward Vinas and the emperor. Its knife-edge ripped open Vinas’s shoulder and would have dragged him down had it not sliced away his vestments.

Vinas did not tarry. He rushed away from the shadow of that descending claw, down the dais stairs. Behind him, the dragon limb struck sparks on the marble steps. Tiny jags of metal exploded from the statue and jabbed into Vinas’s back. Still he ran.

He reached the center aisle, choked now with fleeing, screaming, trampling senators. He bulled into them, and was dragged down by the churning bodies. Trying not to fall, Vinas flung the emperor forward, over the heads of the panicked crowd.

Then came a blunt weight that smashed him to the floor among the other bodies. The shriek and roar of crashing metal echoed violently through the great temple, mixed with the cries and screams of the people. Those crushed beneath the fallen statue made little noise for lack of breath. It was, rather, the gore-splattered senators just one step beyond, who screamed.

Vinas heard all of this where he lay trapped, bleeding, beneath the horned head of Paladine, god of good. He watched as the terrified senators fled back toward the nobles, and they in the direction of the peasants. He saw a ragged and bloodied contingent of the black watch, led by Gaias, escort a limping emperor away. His bride-to-be tended the man. Priests moved among the wounded, laying healing hands on them.

Despite a makeshift sling on one arm, Titus was putting his gargantuan strength to use, lifting sections of sculpture to release victims. In time, the rescuers would reach Vinas, too. He wondered if he would live long enough.

It didn’t matter. Let him share his father’s death day – Vinas, who had done nothing for his family or his nation, and Adrenas, who had done everything.

Then, there was a face near his, and soft words. Vinas suddenly, very desperately, wanted to live.

“Hello, Luce. It’s good to see you.”

Meus Pater

He knelt in the cold, dripping undercroft of the temple. Its massive pillars and thick-muscled vaults seemed deep, dank mockeries of the bright clean temple.

It is an honor for Father to be buried here, Vinas told himself, here among monks and heroes and kings.

“Hello, Father,” Vinas said quietly. He coughed, his lungs still mending.” You were right. You saved the emperor, saved the empire. Emann himself has said so. He was pleased with your sacrifice.”

Words failed Vinas for a moment. He gazed up into the gritty stone vault. “He was pleased with me, too. He’s reconsidered my actions at Solanthus, in the light of my having saved him. He seems to think a colonel with the morality of a priest would make a good commander of the imperial guard. I told him I would have been a better commander if I’d captured the assassins, not just scared them off.” Vinas shrugged. “The emperor said it’s all the more reason to have me around, to catch them the next time.”

“I guess I’ll like the position. It’s military, at least, and it will keep me close to the estate, now that I must run it. Gaias will be my second. I told you about him. Oh, and guess who was appointed the new underchancellor? Yes, Titus. He’ll do far better than I did.

“By the way, Luccia is back,” he continued. “I’m glad. A foolish dreamer such as I needs his friends around, to catch him when he falls. I’ll try to get her a spot in the mounted guard.

He paused, thinking back through his own words. “I suppose I’m telling you all of this because I want you to know I have others to help me now. Thank you for all the guidance you gave me. While you were alive, I seemed to ignore your wisdom, but now I savor every piece of it. Some day, I’ll even heed it.

“Thank you, Father, for everything. I’d better get back. The guard won’t run itself.” He rose, dusting the dirt from his knees. The tamped mound where his father lay seemed too small to hold a man who had been all the world to him. Vinas dropped a single red rose on the spot.

“Good-bye.”

Part II

TEMPERANCE

Interlude

Five Years Hence, 14 Phoenix, 1193 Age of Light

The young empress sat in the tower window, breath coming and going in rapid bursts. She looked white and frail on the sill.

Behind her, the sorcerer Caitiff moved among his occult instruments. His smooth elven voice circled in dark mutterings.

Empress Phrygia did not listen. The words were not for her. She came here not for the wizard’s company, but for the solitude. This was the only chamber her husband hesitated to enter.

Panting, she turned outward, toward Daltigoth. The wintry city was huge and hard, built up of quarried limestone and scoured by sleet and snow. Its people picked their ways along the streets. Their ragged shawls could not block the sharp jab of winter winds or even the sharper pokes of guardsmen’s harassing halberds.

Daltigoth was nothing like her small, warm home – Redroth. There, she had been everything to everyone: darling daughter to the duke, desire of every baron’s son, friend of orphans, maiden of the fields. She had thought marrying the emperor would make her everything in Ergoth, too.

It should have. But the emperor treated his people like chickens. He kept them penned and cooped, guarded from wild foxes, but ever ready for the farmer’s axe. If she was anything to the people, she was a stuffed game cock mounted over the mantel – the dead symbol of their enslavement. She was not a wife, but a trophy, not an empress, but a living corpse.

Even now in his private chambers, her so-called husband lavished warm attentions on a conquest more exotic than she.

Phrygia shook her head, flushing in rage beneath her freckles. Anger had always been her ally. Through anger, she had cowed her father and impressed her people. It had made her ruler of Redroth. But what good was her anger in a place like this?

Phrygia spat. The spittle struck an invisible ward of magic, spun in fragments, and sizzled away.

“... and I was the one who chose you, not Emann...” the elven warlock muttered to himself.

“You what?” she asked, turning. Her eyes were hard above her red cheeks.

The sorcerer raised his black-cowled head. He never removed the obscuring hood, even indoors, and as often as she had struggled to see beneath it, she had only glimpsed feverish eyes and a smile that glinted like quicksilver. “You heard that, then, did you, Empress?” Caitiff asked. “It is, perhaps, the first time you have heard anything I have said these five years.”

Phrygia crossed arms over her chest and stared into the blackness of the man’s face. “All this time I blamed Emann for my plight, but it was you.... You brought me here.”

“What plight?” demanded the sorcerer. “I put you in line to become the most powerful woman in Ansalon.”

“Most powerful?” she said with a laugh. “I’m a figurehead, strapped to the front of a rat-riddled, bilge-flooded ship.”

“I didn’t say you were the most powerful, but that you were in line to be the most powerful,” he said. “I chose you because you had a passion for manipulation. You wanted more than anything else to rule. But you have disappointed me, time and again.”

“Disappointed you? I care nothing for what you want or think,” Phrygia replied haughtily. She then became defensive. “Besides, I have no power. The emperor keeps me hostage.”

“The emperor is a lecherous fool,” Caitiff shouted virulently.

Suddenly, the warlock dropped the cowl from his head. Fabric fell away from a face that was not merely ancient, but, in fact, necrotic. Where eyes should have been were only two vacant pits, red motes of unholy fire circling within them. Elven ears had worn away to nubs. Cheekbones jutted yellow and foul through rawhide flesh. Lips had broken away, leaving chiseled teeth to smile in eerie array. “Emann is a fool. I did not defeat death only to in turn be defeated by an incompetent, mincing fool.”

Phrygia gasped, drawing back. She looked at the man’s hands, which had always seemed old, but never skeletal. With the removal of the cowl, all of the lich’s wards had fallen. She smelled him. She saw the maggots writhe. She heard the dry grind of bone on bone as he slowly stalked toward her, “You – you monster....” she said, gagging. “When the emperor learns of this...”

“He knows,” said the dead thing. “He chose me, not I him. I am the reason he rules this continent. Had the Silvanesti or Qualinesti kings honored me, they would rule Ansalon. Instead, I have given the power of ancient elven black arts to your unelven husband. He, though, has proven unworthy to wield them.”

She retreated to the wall. It damply pressed against her back. “What do you want from me?”

“Don’t act so coy,” Caitiff said. “You ruled Redroth with winks and temper tantrums. It’s taken you five years to learn that such things are insufficient for ruling Daltigoth. You wish to rule all Ergoth, but haven’t had sufficient sorcerous might... until now.”

He was very close. Her every fearful breath drew his grave-stench into her throat. “What, and sit on a throne beside a dead thing?”

The corpse’s head shook slowly. Vertebrae ground like chalk. “You would do anything to rule, even sit beside me. Lucky for both of us, it won’t come to that.

“I know of your true desires. There is an ambitious warrior that you lust for. Once corrupted, he would make a far greater emperor than I.”

Phrygia’s heart leapt in her breast. That desire – it was lust, truly, not love – was a secret spoken to no one. This lich could strum her heart as if it were a lyre.

Phrygia suddenly saw him, the armor-bedecked young warrior. His image had formed from the red motes in the eye sockets of the lich.

Phrygia whispered, “Vinas Solamnus.”

IV

Six Years Hence, 23 Corij, 1199 Age of Light

High atop a tower in Castle Daltigoth, Vinas Solamnus, commander of the Ergothian Imperial Guard, watched the late-setting sun of summer. This vantage point was the best in all Daltigoth. Though the sun had already abandoned the rest of the city – the rest of western Ansalon, even – it still shone atop the wizard’s tower. Vinas breathed deeply as purple shadows of twilight welled up like cold water in the stone streets below.

The cool hush of night was approaching. The summer day had been all sweat and grit and hard work. The summer night, caressing his bathed and liveried flesh, promised to be a cool spectacle of vibrant stars.

Here, above the bustling dangers of the city, Vinas always felt contentment and peace. He imagined he could hear the sighs of citizens in their chambers. Perhaps the breath from their mouths became breezes that wafted among the trees and banished the hot air of daytime. Here, above it all, he could see the pattern of city streets – villas, shops, hovels.

He felt rejuvenated by the sight. This high loft gave him a view into the ways humans organized themselves, both in creation and destruction. He saw how their roofs shed rain, how their walls kept out strangers, how their streets followed the ancient terrain. In short, he saw how humans lived.

Such insight and foresight had made him the most recognized and respected soldier in all the emperor’s armies. Single-handedly, Vinas Solamnus had foiled twelve different assassination attempts. On each occasion except the first, he had captured the perpetrators, turned them over for interrogation, and seen their dead forms tossed into the buzzard yard – as befitted traitors.

In all cases except the first. He still sought that scarfaced man and his childlike accomplice. The trail was a decade cold, but someday he would track them down.

He had grown into his position. The scaffolding of youth had been filled in with large, strong muscles. His bulk made him appear taller than most folk, his bulk and the cocky tilt of his head. He had slain enough men, now, for his eyes to honestly smolder beneath his dark brows, and a decade’s worth of teeth-clenching battle had only strengthened an already prominent jawline. The very cut of his figure was dashing, elegant, and deadly, like the sharp curl of a scimitar.

“Ah, Daltigoth – Ergoth, I have grown to love you,” Vinas said wistfully as the sun at last quit the sky and slid behind the distant purple hills.

“Is that all you soldiers love,” asked a suggestive voice, “cities and empires?”

Vinas turned about to see the empress standing at the trapdoor behind him. She was no longer the frail girl the emperor had married, but a slim, strong, beautiful woman. Not that the emperor noticed. He cared little for his “speckle-bellied pony,” as he still called her. After two years in ardent pursuit of pregnancy, the emperor had declared his wife sterile, and adopted a bevy of official concubines. With them, he had already sired thirteen children, seven of whom were boys in line for his throne. The king despised his wife and had made her an outcast in her own castle. She, thus, confided more often in Commander Solamnus than in her own husband.

“Empress Phrygia,” said Vinas in surprise, dropping to one knee in a formal bow, “it is a long climb up here after so hot a day.”

Only a glow in her freckled cheeks betrayed any sign of exertion. The heavy cape and cowl she wore were as crisp and dry as if just donned. As Vinas rose from his knee, she said, “You haven’t answered my question, Commander. Is that all you love – cities and empires?”

Vinas flushed, uncomfortable at the teasing. “There are other things, milady.” The moment the words were spoken he realized how stiff they sounded. With a little smile, he elaborated, “We like swords and battles, too.”

Phrygia laughed. It was a laugh unsullied by this decade at court, still the laugh of a country lass. “Forgive me, Commander. I should know better than to treat you the way I treat Emann’s generals. After all, you can recognize sarcasm.”

“Can I?” Vinas replied, then added, “Or, I should say, may I?”

The empress laughed again and then nodded seriously. “Commander, you may.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said informally. Turning back toward the darkening sky, he commented, “I was just enjoying the sunset. I am afraid you arrived a moment too late.”

“Isn’t that always the way with me?” the empress said, walking up to stand beside him. “After all, I met you just a moment after I was married to Emann....”

“Is that sarcasm, Majesty?” asked Vinas, hoping to dismiss the implication. He was certainly not blind to the empress’s interest in him, nor was the attraction one-sided. But she was still the emperor’s wife. Emann would not take cuckolding lightly.

The smile on Phrygia’s face waned just slightly. “No, not sarcasm. Sarcasm is saying the opposite of what you mean. That was not sarcasm, but irony – when an action meant to secure one end in fact secures its opposite.”

“I see. Thank you for the lesson, Empress,” Vinas said stiffly. “I’ll never again lose a battle due to irony.”

The royal lady’s bearing seemed to slip a little. For a moment even her regal clothes could not hide her vulnerable humanity. “Oh, you will. If my experience holds any truth, you most certainly will.”

Vinas stared out at the rolling gray clouds of twilight, pleased at how distant and orderly their turmoil seemed. “You don’t need to worry, Majesty. I’ve purged this land of assassins. I’ve cleansed this place of madmen. You have nothing to fear from dissident peasants or scheming senators. You are safe.”

“Safe,” she spat hatefully. She turned toward him, seeming at first to be shivering from the cold, but in fact trembling with unshed tears. “Is that it, then? Is that what my life is to be – safe? Safe and empty?”

“You are a woman,” said Vinas softly, trying to comfort her. “The world is a brutal place for women. Safety is no small thing in such a place.”

Now tears were streaming down her cheeks. With desperation, she looked into his eyes. “Do you remember my wedding day? Do you remember how terrified I was, just from the black watchmen marching? And then, assassins on the dais and assassins in the ceiling. On that night, I thought I would never be safe again. But I didn’t mind. With the responsibility and romance and power of being empress, there would be danger, I thought. I was wrong. Emann never gave me any responsibility, any power, outside of bearing him heirs. When I failed in that, I failed in everything. Meanwhile you took away the one last thing I had. You took away the danger, made me safe. Well, I don’t want to be safe anymore. You know how I feel, and I know you feel the same —”

“Your Majesty,” Vinas interrupted gently, “how many times have we talked about this? What we feel doesn’t matter. You must continue to be his wife, even though he does not love you, and I must continue to be his commander, even though I often despise the laws I enforce. There is a greater good here, something bigger than either of us, or our feelings. Bigger than Emann, even. Your husband is not simply a man; he is the empire.”

“Don’t you see, Vinas? We are the same, you and I. We’re both trapped. You were once a young dreamer, marching through a blizzard to deliver bread to starving peasants. Now, those are the same people you hunt down as traitors. I was once a young noble flower, dancing among the quaking aspens of Redroth. Now I’m a husk, a dried up thing without any vitality, without petals for my thorns. He took us as we were and made us what we never wanted to be.”

Vinas shook his head, his hands settling on the empress’s arms. “I have always wanted to be a warrior. I have become the finest warrior in all of Daltigoth. You have always wanted to be a beautiful woman, and look, you have no equal in Ergoth.”

She cast an accusing gesture out into the deepening gloom, toward the wall of Castle Daltigoth, where torches were winking to light as guards walked among them. “Look. They see us here. They see you touch my arms. Do you think they are blind? Do you think they do not talk about us?”

“Garrison chatter is just that,” Vinas said. “The only defense we have against it is that it is false.”

“Let’s escape from here, Vinas. Let’s go somewhere beyond the reach of Emann and his cursed empire.”

“Nothing is beyond his reach,” said the commander. “Nothing.”

She studied his face. “You really do believe that, don’t you?”

He nodded. “With every fiber of my being.”

She approached the battlements and gazed down into the castle yard. “Do you see that garden, Vinas?”

He didn’t move, didn’t look down. “I have seen it every day for ten years, as I marched out in service to your husband.”

“When I came, it was untended, unloved. I planted flowers, every color and kind I could lay hands on. It became a riotous place, peasantlike and disorganized, with daisies beside lilies beside tulips.”

“I remember,” he said with quiet appreciation.

“It was chaotic and wild, but it fit me,” she continued. “It was a happy place. But after three years of infertility, I was too upset to tend the place anymore. It went to the weeds. So did the Emperor. He went to the weeds, to the bronze-skinned whores – to the Gates of Daltigoth, as they are called, because every man in the place has been through them. Do you remember my garden then? I burned the weeds and planted white lilies. I was mourning them, you see – not just the children I couldn’t have, but the ones that the other women did have.”

“It was white lilies for three years,” commented Vinas soberly. “But for the past two years, it has been red roses.”

“Yes. Tradition requires of a widowed empress only one year of mourning. And that’s what I am, a widowed empress. I observed not one year of mourning but three. And then, I let love find root in me, again.”

“Please,” Vinas said, “please. I am as trapped as you are.”

“Do you know what happens when red roses are left untended, Vinas? They return to the wild. They forget how to bloom, and they become only a mangled mass of thorns.”

“Please, Empress – there is nothing I can do. It would be both our deaths —”

Before she could argue further, a sudden rush of wind battered against them from above. Out of the crystal-black heavens dropped a great, taloned, winged beast – a griffon. It stood twice the height of a man, with its eagle head peering sharply in the night. Its wings were easily thirty feet in span. It set to the stones atop the tower, and its rider saluted Vinas from the saddle.

“Well, Commander,” said Luccia to Vinas, “are you ready for your nighttime reconnaissance?”

“Nighttime reconnaissance,” whispered Phrygia darkly.

“Excuse me, Majesty,” said Vinas to her, dropping again to his knee. “I agree with everything you have said, but see no ready solution to our problem. But now, duty calls, and I must answer.”

“As must I,” said Phrygia blankly. “May Paladine guard your wings.”

Vinas smiled, dipped his head, and then climbed up behind Luccia. Her lean muscularity felt reassuring; her bundled hair was silken with natural oils. With a nudge from her heels and a tug on the reins, the eagle-headed lion leapt from the battlements into the empty air above the castle’s bailey.

For one heart-wrenching moment, they plunged. Then the wings spread wide, found purchase in the air, and their descent was slowed. Two more powerful surges of those tightly strung muscles, and the mount began to rise into the night.

Foreboding might have been Vinas’s word for the night. The western sky was a bruised blue, and pinpricks of light punctured the black east.

But Luccia felt none of that ominous anxiety. “You’re flirting with the empress again?” she asked as the griffon soared out past the dry moat and above the candle-winking shops and houses beyond.

“I do not flirt with the empress, Colonel Luccia,” said Vinas uncomfortably.

“Oh, come now, Commander Vinas. Don’t tell me she walked up those dank stairs, past the lab of that brimstone mage, just to take in the night airs,” parried Luccia.

He shook his head bitterly. “I don’t know why she came up,” he lied. “Now, take us out over the vulture pits. There are supposed to be two more executions tonight, and I want to make sure nothing is amiss.”

Luccia trilled a command to the griffon. The beast gave an answering shriek and banked. It climbed above the ruin of the old city walls, built in the time of the Quevalins. Its massive wings again came into play and sent them shooting toward the heavens. Roofs of thatch sped by below. Some leaked firelight into the starry sky. In four surging flaps of its great wings, the eagle-lion tore past the slums and into the tile-roofed quarter. It flew past the town houses and walled gardens where the artisans and petty nobles lived. Hard beside them lay a shantytown, built in the midden between the estates and the new wall. Riders and mount rushed out over the wall, heading toward the refuse pit that had become a killing ground for enemies of the state.

“You and your executions,” grumbled Luccia, beginning to sense her friend’s foul temper.

Vinas laughed. “Sometimes you just feel in the mood to see a guilty person die.”

Luccia frowned. “Don’t tell me we’re in for another moody month from the commander.”

“It may be a whole year this time.”

Her tone changed. “Vinas, what’s wrong? Friend to friend, not commander to colonel.”

“I can’t...” he said, shaking his head. “It’s an issue of national security.”

“You’ve always confided in me, and I’ve never told a single one of your secrets, have I?”

Whether it was her tone of voice, the stern set of her shoulders, or the months of badgering, Vinas at last spoke: “The emperor does not love his wife.”

Luccia laughed a single burst of surprise. “This is a state secret?”

“Nor she him. She has, for some time now, made certain... feelings clear to me.”

“Well she can’t have you,” said Luccia with sudden decisiveness. As though embarrassed, she quickly amended her statement. “You’re the commander of her husband’s imperial guard. How safe would Emperor Emann be if his chief bodyguard was his wife’s lover?”

“The problem is,” Vinas felt forced to reply, “I want her at least as much as she me. Oh, Luce, what am I supposed to do? I’ve fallen in love with someone I can never have.”

Luccia said nothing for a long time.

“What is it?” asked Vinas.

She lifted a hand from the reins and touched her face, then seemed to fling a thought away. “Why don’t you kill Emann and become the new emperor?”

“I’m serious,” said Vinas. “This is hard enough to talk about, let alone experience. I —”

“I’m sorry,” responded Luccia. “I understand what you’re going through.”

“Then, what should I do?” he asked.

“How should I know?” Luccia asked. She shrugged, guiding the griffon down toward a torchlit plot of ground. As they descended, the scent of detritus and rotting flesh struck them. “Most people in your position just hang on in silent suffering and pine away after their unreachable loves forever until one or the other dies.”

Vinas’s voice was wry. “Some solution.”

“Yes.” That said, she drove the griffon downward in a steep-bellied dive and landed it on the lip of the vulture pit. The carrion birds that had given the place its name started up and flew away from inert, humanlike forms, which lay among old broken tiles and mounds of smoldering rubbish. The griffon had hardly touched the ground before Luccia leapt from the saddle and headed toward the executioners, who were clustered like black-hooded buzzards on the edge of the pit.

“Wait for me, Luce,” called Vinas.

She muttered to herself, “Sometimes you just want to see a guilty person die.”

*

Late that night, Vinas walked through the tall double door of the emperor’s drawing room, and saw the white-haired man relaxing by a fire, a snifter of brandy in one hand and a comely, dark concubine at his side. The velvet-robed emperor did not rise at Vinas’s entrance, lifting only his eyebrows in weary greeting.

“You asked to see me, Emperor?” Vinas said, standing just inside the doorway.

“Yes,” Emann replied, his voice inflectionless. “Come in.”

As Vinas approached, the brown beauty leaned toward a white-tufted ear and whispered some seductive joke. They laughed indolently.

Vinas halted again, near enough to see that the woman’s clothing was not all that propriety would have demanded.

The emperor looked up, still laughing, though his eyes were black and humorless. “That is far enough. Commander Solamnus, there is an uprising in the east.”

“Solanthus?” Vinas asked.

“Farther,” said the emperor. “Vingaard itself. And this is no petty peasant bread war, like the one we crushed so many years back.”

Vinas refused to flinch at that lie. Facts mattered little – the emperor paid the historians, after all. “If it is not a bread war, what could it possibly be?”

“Open rebellion,” said the emperor. “Treason, pure and simple.”

“You needn’t worry. I have scoured Daltigoth of discontents. There will be no uprisings here, nor any assassins.”

The first sign of emotion showed on the emperor’s face, a kind of cruel glee. “True enough. In fact, you have done your job only too well. The only one in three hundred leagues capable of assassinating me would be you, Commander. True?”

It was the sort of question that had no safe answer. “True, Your Majesty.”

The emperor nodded. “Which is, perhaps, the best reason to send you away to put down the rebellion. There are two other reasons, though. First, you are my best, most trustworthy, and most charismatic commander; Vingaard must be brought to heel. If Vingaard goes, how many others?”

“All of the others,” replied Vinas, stating the obvious.

“Yes. So, Vinas, you must succeed, or all is lost,” the emperor said. “But there is one last reason: my wife has requested it.”

Vinas could feel his blood draining. “Empress Phrygia?”

A sharp-toothed smile came from the emperor. “What other? You see, she heard of the uprising at the same time as I. You and,.. Lindas here, are the third and fourth people in Daltigoth to hear of it. My wife came to me an hour ago, shortly after having had a meeting with you atop the wizard’s tower. She said she had been secretly interviewing you to determine if you should lead our armies. Her conclusion was that you should, on the grounds of your expertise.”

“Thank the empress for her faith in my abilities.”

The emperor was not fooled. “I think she harbors another reason. I think the poor girl is in love with you and cannot bear to have you here, always just beyond her reach.”

Vinas tried to act dismissive. “I’m sure Empress Phrygia would not give over an emperor for a guardsman.”

“I’m sure she would,” replied the emperor coldly. “I do not begrudge her a wandering eye, especially given that official business has kept my attentions... elsewhere.” He glanced significantly at Lindas. “Besides, it is the right of emperors and empresses to toy with their subjects and to have a few playthings among them. On the other hand, any man who would indulge a similar desire for my wife would be, of course, castrated and hanged.”

“Of course,” replied Vinas as evenly as he could.

“Suffice it to say, you have many reasons to go to Vingaard, and you and your troops will crush this rebellion, or die in the attempt.”

“Yes, Emperor. And about those troops —”

“You will have the main share of Ergoth’s army. Three divisions, with three companies of heavy horse cavalry and one of light cavalry, a unit of scouts, a company of war wizards, a unit of elite escalade forces, and the rest – infantry.”

“Is the selection of these divisions up to me?”

“The decisions have already been made,” replied the emperor tersely. “Sealed sets of orders will be dispatched at dawn. I want your army assembled, provisioned, and marching by week’s end.”

“I request also the aid of VI Daltigoth, the elite griffon company,” said Vinas.

“What the devil for?” roared the ruler. “You’re going to have four hundred horses with you. Add a hundred horseflesh-eating griffons, and you wind up with no horses and sluggish, well-fed griffons.”

“I’ll keep them separated. I need the griffon riders for advance aerial scouting and air attack during escalade.”

Red with irritation, the emperor said, “Granted.”

“And I want to assemble my own staff – my personal guard and retainers,” said Vinas.

“Done,” said Emann, “but not for you – for Ergoth. Vingaard must be crushed. For that you are lucky. Otherwise you would, even now, be hanged from the scaffold for your impertinence.”

Meus Pater

“They are sending me away, Father,” Vinas said. His troops were already gathering in the growing dawn outside. The crypt, though, was utterly dark, utterly still, so that even pious whispers seemed impious shouts. “Perhaps forever. It is why I have brought these roses to you – one for each day of the year that I will be away. Perhaps the cold and dark will keep them longer than air and sunlight.

He let the huge thorny bundle fall from his scarred arms, onto the sunken patch of moist soil where his father lay. Vinas stared at those fresh-cut blooms, doomed to die. “I expect you’ll come with me. I can use your counsel on the march.”

There came no reply. He had not expected one. “Well, I have to go and make preparations. We’ll be leaving the castle by week’s end.”

V

Six Days Hence, 29 Corij, 1199 Age of Light

Morning dawned brightly over the martial esplanade of Castle Daltigoth. Pennants snapped in the breeze. Already, Commander Vinas Solamnus’s elite troops – heavy horse, escalade forces, heavy infantry, standard bearers and drum corps – stood ranked on the very paving stones where he and Luccia had first sought to join the divisions of Daltigoth. The two of them marched at the head of Vinas’s forces.

Only three thousand of Vinas’s troops – one sixth of his larger force – were mustered for the march out of Daltigoth. The commander had already dispatched two of his divisions to begin the long trek to Vingaard.

The first of these divisions, II Redroth, was to march from its staging ground on the western edge of Hylo. They would march through kender country and then capture and hold a high pass in the Rimrange Mountains. Leaving a contingent to guard the pass, II Redroth would converge upon Vingaard Keep from the west.

The second division, III Caergoth, was even now marching eastward from its muster point, heading for the northern tip of Qualinesti. From there, the division would move into the central plains of Ansalon. After a semicircular march through the grasslands and along the northern Khalkists, III Caergoth would descend on Vingaard from the northeast.

Meanwhile, the three thousand troops now arrayed at the castle gates would march the Solanthus road and be augmented to a full complement along the route. Once past Solanthus and at full strength, Vinas’s army would advance down the rebels’ throats and flush out any ambush. Though this division would take the shortest route, theirs would be a way paved with swords and skulls. Vinas’s heavy troops might be slow-moving and conspicuous, but they were also utterly ruthless. Their every battle would be calculated to be audacious and brutal, so that news of Vinas’s division would draw attention from the main share of his forces. This force would purge the belly of Ergoth and terrify Vingaard with tales of its deeds. Then, two months hence, when Vinas descended upon Vingaard, it would be with three dread divisions instead of one, and on three fronts.

Of course, Vinas’s scouts were already deep in rebel territory.

The first battle that any of the divisions would have to fight would be in Daltigoth. It was a popular battle, a war of perceptions and allegiances. The three thousand elite forces that Vinas had mustered on the ankle-breaking parade grounds could, in their march down the King’s Way, muster another twenty-five thousand souls – the citizens of Daltigoth.

Vinas stood in the saddle and raised his sword before him. “Forward!” He nudged his black charger, Courage. The beast gave an eager jerk and trotted into motion. Behind Vinas, his personal staff cantered. Among them rode Chancellor Titus, astride a burly plow horse easily twice the size of the other mounts.

The drumsmen began their bright march cadence – unhurried, measured, and violent. Then came a regiment of infantry, escalade forces, and heavy horse.

To win this war of hearts and hopes, the soldiers would have to get the people’s attention. Vinas had garbed his troops in polished armor and bleached livery. Bright banners waved in challenge above the grim, hard faces of the soldiers. Their boots were harsh on the stones, turning the very cobbles into myriad drumheads.

Vinas had drilled the troops for twelve hours each of the last three days, making certain their turns snapped, their knees rose in perfect alignment, their rows formed diagonals and semidiagonals. Vinas wanted the people to believe this was no desperately gathered and fielded mob, but a faultless and fail-safe machine of war.

But flash and roar and precision were not enough. Awe was not enough. These soldiers had to seem like young, courageous men marching into great danger. And so, the night before the march, Vinas had dressed in his full uniform and taken a carriage of flowers through the streets of the city. Whenever he spied a woman – young or old, beautiful or ugly, noble or peasant – he would drive up beside her and give her a luck-flower.

“It is free, dear,” he would say gallantly. “A gift from Commander Vinas Solamnus. Let this flower comfort you this night, before the great march.” When she began to thank him, he would move on, then would stop as if remembering something. “Oh, and if you give the flower to a soldier in tomorrow’s march, your family will be blessed, and the soldier will be guarded by Lady Branchala of the Flowers.” It had been so small and simple a bribe.

It was working charmingly. As the polished and sternfaced soldiers made their way down the thronging King’s Way, women would, at intervals, dart or hobble out to one of them with a flower. Some would even take the time to stick the stem in a lapel hole, or pause to kiss a cool, proud cheek. Such encounters made the soldiers flush in embarrassment. The women giggled and flirted. The rest of the citizenry gawked in amazement and talked of how the city loved her soldiery.

That was that. Flash, roar, precision, pride, courage, and flowers. Those petals changed the soldiers as commands and calisthenics could not have. They changed, too, the people who clung to the parade as it swept down the streets, laughing and weeping, and lingering for a long, stunned, tearful silence at the gate of the city.

*

Phrygia stood atop the wizard’s tower and looked down at Vinas’s army – a patient centipede crawling out the Solanthus Road Gate. He was at the head of that segmented monster, she knew, giving pace to its legs and pulse to its blood. How tiny was he at the head of that horde. How insignificant was that horde in the belly of wide Daltigoth, and was Daltigoth in the heart of Ergoth. Ergoth itself was the dead dry skin of the world. It seemed ludicrous that such a small cluster of men could make any difference at all in the great wash of time.

How could the inconsequential commander of that army change anything at all?

But he was everything. Phrygia had decided long ago to take possession of him, and truly she and Caitiff had done much to corrupt the man, already. Commander Vinas Solamnus was now as ruthless as he was moral. He had slain for the good of a wicked imperial family. He had been true to an unholy pact.

Somehow, through all of it, Vinas had taken possession of Phrygia rather than the other way around. She could think of no one else, nothing else.

It was absurd. She was empress of the greatest nation in. the world. Her afternoon shadow, cast down from the height of the tower, was gigantic, a black shroud covering half of Vinas’s army. What was one small man to her?

Everything.

The Vingaard Uprising had come at the perfect time.

Caitiff had suggested she send Vinas away – to shape him into a man who could slay Emann and take the throne. In truth, Caitiff knew that Phrygia had been trapped in the commander’s eyes and arms. Until Vinas left, Phrygia would make a useless conspirator. She had agreed that sending Vinas away would save them both.

That was her gravest mistake, she now knew. Caitiff was wrong; neither of them could be saved. At least, if damned, they should be together.

Phrygia shivered. The city somehow seemed colder already, emptier. How could he simply march away like that, with no word of farewell? How could he so simply and passively submit to this banishment? Half of Phrygia, perhaps all of Phrygia, had hoped, had half-expected that he would rail against the orders, would rise up and slay her husband and take his place. The people would have welcomed Vinas. They would have worshiped him. And she, at his side, would have been the happiest, most powerful woman in the world.

No. He did none of this. Instead of dragging a knife across the emperor’s throat and tossing his body into the vulture pit, Vinas had knelt before the man. He willingly, happily, paraded his way out of Daltigoth, away from Phrygia.

She considered her shadow again. Vinas was not the only one who could cast the world in a black pall.

The last of the soldiers marched through the archway. Idiot women called after them and wept and threw flowers in their wake.

Phrygia took her shadow with her down the stairs... to the laboratory of the court mage. Caitiff might be wrong – having conquered death, all liches are incurable optimists – but he was still powerful. A few well-placed and wicked spells could make Vinas Solamnus hers.

*

Luccia watched the small shadow of her griffon flit among the dusk-red trees below. The wind was cold. The griffon struggled wearily to hold himself in the sky. His golden pelt bunched against the chill. His down feathers stood beneath the slick plumes of his wings.

“Easy, Terraton,” she said, patting the creature’s eagle neck. “Just one more stop. Then we’ll fly to the rest of the pride and bed down.”

The creature gave no sardonic shriek as an answer. He truly was tired.

Colonel Luccia had sent her captain, and the rest of her mounted company, wheeling north to scout out the grasslands. They were to slay any bandits or other menaces, and then prepare an infantry camp ten miles northeast of Daltigoth. Vinas and his ground forces would spend the night there.

Meanwhile, Luccia had flown Terraton on a long, sweeping rearward path. They had searched for hostile forces in two hundred miles of land and fifty miles of ocean. It would not do to empty Daltigoth of its divisions only to have the city taken from the icy southeast. She had found no signs of armies, only spooked ice barbarians, shambling walrus men, and the occasional yeti. Such creatures had no use for cities, nor any means to capture one.

During the past three hours, Luccia and Terraton had been bearing eastward. They hoped to find the army just as it finished setting camp. Behind them, the sun was abandoning the sky. The orb took with it the warm updrafts that had kept Terraton aloft all day. Soon, whether they found the army camp or not, the griffon and his rider would have to quit the sky.

There, on what looked like the impossible rim of the world, she saw the dim, smoky glow of bivouacs.

“There, Terraton, get us there, and you can rest a bit.”

The griffon bore her onward, past a granite escarpment and a long, greenish lake. Before them, the flames grew to pillars that could have been spotted a hundred miles away.

Vinas had already begun his campaign of audacity.

Every aspect of his march was to be legendary in scale – bivouacs the size of bonfires, horses as massive as elephants, daytime battles and nighttime revels.... Vinas would orchestrate a march so bold that no historian, let alone any living man, could ignore him.

With aching wings, Terraton topped a final strip of forest. He soared levelly toward the hilltop encampment. The sentries near the forest edge waved them on, lowering short bows from the sky. As Terraton glided above the heads of soldiers, bustling among the fires, the warriors began to notice the griffon’s approach. They fell a step or two to either side, like water parting before a landing heron. Horses shied and screamed as the silhouette of their ancient enemy flashed past in the darkening sky.

Terraton was too tired even to mock them. He let the winds from the fires buoy him along until he neared the hilltop. There, the command tent was pitched. He glided to a landing.

Luccia swung from the saddle and found her own legs sore from the long ride. She crouched for a moment, letting the aches stretch themselves out, then stood and patted Terraton on the neck. “Thanks, friend. Rest now a bit. I’ve a report to make. Then it’s one more mile to the griffon camp.”

The eagle-lion did not answer except with a nip.

The shriek of a horse brought Luccia’s attention to the main tent. Beside it, a black charger reared. It spun deadly hooves at the griffon. From the tent charged a powerfully built man, who gripped the charger’s reins and, by strength and soothing words, brought it back to ground.

“What the devil is spooking Courage?” the man roared darkly.

“Commander Solamnus, I have a report,” Luccia said.

He smiled in recognition. “Yes, Colonel Luccia. What is your report?”

She cleared her throat. “I circled the land and sea south of Daltigoth, and found no sign of enemy movement.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” replied Vinas casually. He pivoted and led his horse back to the far side of the command tent.

Luccia gaped. Was that a dismissal? She started to turn toward her own mount, then spun on her heel and stalked after the commander. She found him at the back of the tent, hobbling the charger out of sight of the griffon. “That’s it, then? ‘Glad to hear it, Colonel’? Back to work, Colonel?” she asked.

He finished with the horse and patted its shoulder. “Well, I guess so,” he replied with an apologetic shrug. “Good work. Get some rest.” He walked around her, heading for the tent flaps.

“Wait a moment,” she said, pursuing him over the trampled grass. “My orders said you asked for me and my company. They said you wanted me, specifically”

He paused at the mouth of the tent. “Right. You’re the one I want. I’m sorry, Luce. I’m just a little distracted. Would you like to step inside?” he asked, pulling back the tent flap and motioning her inside.

She tried not to drop her scowl. “Of course, I would.” She ducked, entering the flap, and nearly sprawled over the lantern-lit and paper-strewn table that occupied the center of the tent.

“Oh!” she said as she caught her balance.

Underchancellor Titus sat on one side of the field table, his back pressed against the sloping roof of the tent. He waved in greeting. “Hello, Luce. It’s good to see your lovely face.”

Before she could reply, Colonel Gaias added, “Greetings, Colonel.” He smiled through his gray beard.

She was still blinking in surprise when Vinas barged in behind her and sent her sprawling a second time. He quickly backed away, red-faced. With a sheepish smile, he took a stool at the cleric’s side.

Luccia stared at them, amazed. They looked like three boys in a tree house, savoring the novelty of their surroundings. Finding an empty stool, Luccia sat down, cradling her chin in her hands. “So, which one of you is going to show me the club handshake?”

Ignoring her comment, Vinas spoke. “We’ve been working out the wording of my speech tonight. We’ve almost finished, but there are a few rough spots you could help us smooth out.”

Vinas drew the pages toward himself and straightened them with fidgety motions of his hands. “For instance, here, where I want to establish a connection with the soldiers, the text currently reads: ‘Some of you have sisters you didn’t like much, but surely you defended them. You defended their honor. Will you not, then, defend Daltigoth, your sister?’”

Luccia looked thoughtful for a moment. “It sounds too tentative, too speculative. And what’s this about comparing the city to an unpopular sister?”

Vinas bit his lip. “Well, some of these troops hate Daltigoth. I don’t want to distance them by assuming they all love the city.”

“Instead, you want to distance those who truly love the city and wish to defend it?” asked Luccia.

Vinas shuffled through the pages. “I thought it would be easier to arouse hatred of Vingaard than love of Daltigoth. Listen to this: ‘We will scatter their bones so that not even the vultures can find all the pieces. We will bash their children’s heads against rocks —’”

“Wait a moment,” interrupted Luccia. “If you plan on asking me to bash children’s heads against rocks, you’ll have to find a new griffon colonel.”

He cocked his head. “Of course I’m not going to ask that. This is all rhetoric, meant to stir emotions.”

“It’s lies, in other words?”

Vinas nodded reluctantly. “Yes, I suppose, but they are expedient, harmless lies.”

“Harmless?” said Luccia. “If one of your soldiers takes you literally and smashes a child’s head against a stone, that is certainly not harmless.”

“Right,” he said, nodding. “I’ll take that part out. And I’ll spice up the business about the sister. What we need are moving but harmless lies, then – something more symbolic and motivational. If we’re going to win this war, we need a thorough mythology to inspire it.”

“Is that all you care about,” asked Luccia, “winning the war? What about the old days, Vinas? What about starving people and obese nobles? You used to right wrongs, not defend them.”

Vinas looked chastened for a moment. “Look, I was young then. We can’t change the world. The best we can do is fight the momentary battles – and win.”

“I’m not sure I would go that far,” said Titus. He felt an inspiration and started scribbling out some fresh words. “I’ve got an idea!”

Luce nodded toward the door. “I’ll be outside, taking Terraton to the water troughs. You boys seem to know what you’re doing.”

Meus Pater

This is what I said to them, Father, to the three thousand souls I led up and out of Daltigoth:

Hear me, colonels and soldiers. Hear me, lieutenants and horsemen, war wizards and griffon riders. Hear me, heart of Ergoth.

We camp here, on a road that joins two great cities. The one we just left, Daltigoth, is nursing mother to most of us, is sister to some of us, is daughter, even, to a few.

This city raised me, and many of you. Her proud people, bustling plazas, broad roads, and vine-overgrown villas have been aunts and uncles to us – the watchful, tolerant guardians of our youth. But look no farther than yourself for proof of that fine lineage. From this parent city of ours has marched today the most glorious army ever assembled beneath sun or moons.

They liked that part, and cheered in their multitude. For a moment, the grassy hillside was a shouting, crashing sea. Then they were calmed. I spoke on.

Daltigoth has been sister to me, and to many of you. She was the beloved sibling against whom I strived, and battled, and took my measure. She was worthy, and I often found myself falling short of her wisdom or strength, her beauty or fortitude. Always, though, whether infighting her or defending her, I loved her and learned from her.

How many of you were wished well on your way by sisters – whether by blood or patriotism – and their fragile fear, fear that you, their brothers, might not return from this war?

The moan that circled among the warriors then was quieter than their first cheer, but more deeply felt.

And, Daltigoth, my daughter. Many of you have daughters and sons, I know. My own daughter, this day, told me she would wait and watch until I returned. I told her I might be a long while on the road, perhaps a year or more. I told her she could not possibly stay awake until I returned. She said simply, ‘Then I will open my eyes very wide, so that I will never lose sight of you.’

Ah, Father, now I had them. Their hearts were laid open to me as to a long sword. It made me wish I did indeed have a daughter.

I march for her, for my Dalla girl. We march for daughter Daltigoth and sister Daltigoth and mother Daltigoth, all. We defend their honor, their very lives. And upon their honest hope and constant faith in us, let us swear to keep our eyes wide open, that we never lose sight of them.

What pernicious poetry, aye, Father? I had roused their deepest selves with the goad of family and the imperative of peril. Now, I had only to channel the welling fear and hatred.

We march down the very throat of hell. We march to that second great city whose men have reviled their mothers and pillaged their sisters and left their daughters, heel-bound and bare, to die in the freezing rain. Their city is called Vingaard, for they jealously guard their grapes and lavish care on their wine. But it is poison. They drink it to numb wits and knuckles before they return home to beat their wives. They crush beneath their bloody feet the sweet souls of their mothers, making the vinegar of ingratitude, and the sweet minds of their sisters, making the heady burgundy of brutality, and the sweet hearts of their daughters, making the debauched brandy of incest.

I see you cringe, you riders of heavy horses, you bearers of lances and spell-slaying mages. I see you, who have slain in multitudes, shying from the horrid crimes of our horrid foes. And well you should. I would have spared you such descriptions, but I feared that if you were not duly prepared for the monstrosities you face upon the battlefield, you might pity them.

There is no pity for such men, no pity but to slay them quickly and tread upon their still-breathing bodies in your haste to slay their companions!

The roar returned. This time it was not shouts of joy, but of anger, of vengeance. The air was full of fists and swords and axes. I was glad there were no hapless foes around for such fury to be spent upon. No, I wanted it preserved, wrapped around those three thousand hearts. I wanted the soldiers to nurture their hatred as a mother suckles a babe. By the time we actually strode into battle, the enmity would be fully formed, and each man would fight like two men. Each would be beside himself with rage.

Heroes of Daltigoth! Hear me, heroes! Hear me! Our work here, on this road, and there, in distant Vingaard, will be the stuff of legends. I am not the hero of that legend. Each of you is. Let this march be told not in a great epic, but in a thousand great epics. We stand on the terrible threshold of history. Now, let us cross to destiny!

It was a good speech, Father, wouldn’t you say? The crowd certainly thought so. Chancellor Titus wrote the whole thing down, and sealed it in a steel case, and sent it back to the emperor. He thought it worthy of history.

I’ll deliver a new one each night. By the time we are within sight of Vingaard Keep, my men will be rabid for rebel blood.

I wonder why Luce flew away in the middle of it.

VI

Eight Days Hence, 7 Argon, 1199 Age of Light

The first attackers struck like falcons.

With only half a day’s march remaining before Caergoth, the army had headed into a narrow gorge, where the road sided a dry river. The only other path would have added two days to their journey, and provided other opportunities for ambush. If this had been hostile country, Commander Solamnus would never have led his army into that cliff-flanked pass. But this was the heartland of Ergoth.

Commander Solamnus had assiduously sent advance forces to scour the countryside. Not a griffon had seen the archers. Not a war dog had sniffed them out. Not a scout had flushed them from cover, nor had any magic spell detected their whispers.

The Ergothians were even singing an old marching song when the first arrows whined in among them.

Twelve infantrymen slumped to the ground. Two of the soldiers went limp as dolls, arrows sticking comically from their ears. The others flopped a bit. One, stumbling, got up, only to fall on the shaft in his chest and drive it out his back.

The song died. It had taken a heartbeat for everyone to realize this was not some pantomime on this bright, safe afternoon. In the sudden silence, more arrows sang. Another dozen men went down. This time, three horses pranced with shafts jutting, half-buried, from their flanks.

Then – commands, shouts, spells, oaths.

“Get those horses out of here!” Vinas shouted to the cavalrymen while Courage wheeled and stamped. “Mages, infantry, archers – take cover! Fire at will!”

The commands were being obeyed even before Vinas formulated a plan. These were well-picked men. They knew what to do.

Commander Solamnus spurred Courage toward a cleft in the base of the cliff wall. Arrows pelted down in a deadly hail all around. He charged past a scowling Ergothian war wizard, who squinted up through a sphere of Vermillion energy that shimmered around him. Dust rolled in Courage’s wake as steed and warrior plunged into the narrow gap. Of his own accord, Courage halted and spun about to face the action.

Vinas leapt from the saddle, taking with him his short bow and a raw, sweet fury. Courage shrieked and reared, lashing out with his hooves.

Vinas spared the spirited animal a glance, and saw fletchings had made a shallow wound in the horse’s stifle. The shot had come from the rear. Courage’s legs kicked into a thornbush. The plant broke loose from the wall and tumbled down to the ground, and in the process it transformed into a man in the green and black livery of an Ergothian scout.

Vinas stared in amazement at the crumpled man. Courage meanwhile kicked the body one last time, just for spite. Vinas turned, seeing a similar thornbush on a ledge up the opposite cliff. Nocking an arrow, he let fly. The shaft flashed into the bush, which shuddered and transformed into a gasping female archer. The woman clutched an arrow in her chest and leaned back to die against the black stone.

Vinas glanced down the valley, where arrows leapt from similar thistles.

“Aim for the bushes!” Vinas shouted to his men. “They’re hiding in the bushes!”

His command was shouted down the line, and shafts rose from the ground in thick swarms, more than answering those that rained down from above. Now they were slumping, falling, thrashing – those damned archers. Vinas himself drilled four in the next moments, letting one of his victims gasp a long while in agony before he plugged her a second time through the skull.

“And all because of Courage,” he told himself, spitting grit from his mouth. He determined he would tend to his beloved mount as soon as the battle was won.

The end was not long in coming. Arrows flew up the sides of the canyon, nicking white scars into the black rock. The enemies left long streaks of red as they plunged down the cliff face or clung and bled to death.

Vinas emerged from the cleft in the cliff wall. The scene of carnage was disturbing: twenty-three soldiers and four horses down in the first three seconds, and since then two more soldiers. Twenty-five casualties to Vinas’s three thousand men – a paltry loss.

Worse for the ambushers. Every last one of their two hundred were dead or wounded. Many of the wounded were even now being finished off by casual fire from below.

“Surrender, and live,” shouted Vinas to the few that clung defiantly to their perches.

One of the archers, a young man whose leg was pinned to a twisted stump of tree, called out, “We cannot. We have orders to fight to the death.” His voice had not yet matured, and he spoke each statement like an inflected question. A Daltigoth east-ender.

“Orders from whom?” called out the commander. “Find Colonel Hellas’s body. He’s the one with the note.”

Hellas, thought Vinas with irritation. Old Hellas of the Solanthian troubles. He had been restationed to Caergoth. These two companies must have marched with him from there.

“It’s a note for you, Commander Solamnus,” supplied the young archer.

For me? Vinas thought.

While his troops went after the rest of the men, Vinas shouted up to the young archer, “I’ll find his body more easily with your help. It’s been a while since I’ve seen the old bastard. His face might have gotten ruined in the fall.” He grabbed a goggle-eyed priest, rushing back and forth between the wounded, and asked the man to find Titus to heal Courage. Then, Vinas climbed up the sloped face of the cliff, using rocky crevices as handholds. “I’m coming up, son.”

“I’m not your son, Commander,” the youth shouted back. His red hair stood stiff and glossy around his head, like a halo in copper. “And I haven’t given up yet, either. I’ll shoot you if you come closer,” he warned.

“No, you won’t,” said Vinas confidently, gaining a low shelf of stone and sidling along it to the next level. “You’re too young to die, and you know it. If you even try to shoot me, one of my war wizards will make your head leap off of your body.”

“I have orders not to surrender,” the youth said. “I have orders to fight to the death.”

Vinas had almost reached the lad, and saw a frecklefaced young man, white with pain and terror, and gingerly wiggling a bloody shaft in his leg. The boy indeed did not look more than thirteen. “Since when do the orders of a colonel take precedence over the orders of the imperial high commander?”

“They’re not from Colonel Hellas,” the lad said, at last losing his resolve. He arched his back, pulling frantically at the arrow. “They’re from the empress, herself.”

Vinas climbed onto the ledge. He studied the boy’s wound, and then said, “I’ll get that arrow out if you take me to Hellas.”

A teary nod was all the youngster could muster.

*

The young man, whose name was Barnabas, perked up considerably when Anistas, a beautiful priestess, knelt down to tend his arrow wound. Vinas left them to their idle talk – the same youthful dialect that he and Luccia had once spoken – and went over to the body of Hellas.

The commander stood above the dirty and misshapen form, which lay facedown atop a broken shaft. He remembered what the captain had looked like on that blizzard night so many years ago, and had little interest in seeing what the ravages of time had done to him. Still, he wanted that note from Hellas’s pocket.

An iron-edged toe hooked beneath the man’s bloody shoulder. Vinas flipped him over. It was a good thing Barnabas could identify Hellas – the captain had left the better half of his face on the cliff side. Not looking too closely, Vinas reached into the tabard and pulled forth the note. He broke the wax seal, unfolded the page, and read:

High Commander Solamnus:

How cruel of you to prune these last two hundred red roses. They are dead because of you. Now the bush cannot help going wild, ending all in thorns and brambles.

Expect worse, here on out.

Your Beloved,

Empress Phrygia

He looked up from the note, which trembled ever so slightly in his hand. Vinas would not reveal the note to the emperor. It implicated him in a liaison. Such a note could easily have been forged; how much simpler to believe in the treachery of a career-stalled colonel than that of an empress.

“Wicked woman,” Vinas whispered to himself. “Wicked, wicked woman.”

*

Three Days Hence, 10 Argon, 1199 Age of Light

Twenty-five biers accompanied the procession of soldiers that reached a nighttime Caergoth. The biers bore the honored dead of Ergoth. The dishonored dead were present only in the shale dust and blood caked beneath the fingernails of the living.

It had taken an army of three thousand the worse part of two days to pile up and sanctify the cairns of two hundred rebels. Not rebels – men following imperial orders, against other men following imperial orders.

Barnabas, the injured young archer and the only survivor among the ambushers, rode in bleak-faced silence beside Anistas. He needed no armed escort. There were just short of three thousand warriors to run him down should he try to flee. He looked a natural enough partner to the young cleric woman, and their silence was companionable, if uncomfortable.

“Those weren’t the only orders from the empress,” he had said ominously. He had seen other packets given to various colonels stationed at Caergoth. As to what was in them, he didn’t know.

Yes, the ambush in the gorge had been a horrible surprise. But a worse one waited in Caergoth.

Something dreadful had happened here. Empress Phrygia’s letter guaranteed it. The darkness of the ramparts and palisades confirmed it. Whatever it was, it had happened after Vinas’s advanced scouts had passed here, days before.

When they had first arrived and seen the darkness of the place, Vinas had sent the griffon riders out to fly over Caergoth. He had ordered them not to land, not to spring whatever trap was set. Now, as the army waited within a few hundred yards of the gates, the griffon squad returned with the news.

A black form fluttered down from the deepening darkness. It was Luccia, astride her griffon – what was his name? Tear along?

Courage, injured and walking beside Commander Solamnus, started and snorted, but let Vinas’s tight grip on the reins hold him to ground.

Luccia dismounted calmly instead of leaping from the saddle with her typical aplomb. Her face was grave as she approached her commander.

“Greetings, Luce,” Vinas said. His voice was casual, tired. “What have you to report?”

“Hello, Commander,” she replied. “None of us could see much. The fortress looked deserted. The village nearby, too. Not a candle lit anywhere. No one moving about the street. No one. The place stinks of death.”

“What of the troop levy? What about the thousand reinforcements?” Vinas asked. “Any sign of them?”

At last, Luccia’s eyes came to bear on him. “They might be hiding inside, waiting to ambush.”

“Judging from their compatriots, that is a definite possibility.” Vinas cast an angry look at the young archer silently sitting astride his horse.

Luccia said, “There’s no sign of military movement in the hundred square leagues around the fortress.”

Vinas nodded. “Gaias, come here, please.”

Gaias quickly obliged.

“Gaias, pass word among the soldiers to take extra caution. Tell them to anticipate taking up a defensive pattern if we come under attack from the fortification.”

“Yes, Commander,” said Gaias, turning to go.

“And, Gaias,” Vinas added, “ask Titus and his acolytes to pray.”

*

Gaias pulled back from the doorway of the hovel. His eyes were watering, and not from just the stench.

The young soldier beside him pushed the door closed. “Three in there,” he reported. “Throats cut. Soldiers’ footprints. Just like the others.”

The old colonel nodded, sketching a shaky X over the house on the hand-drawn map. That left only two shacks without X’s.

“Oh, gods! Oh Kiri-Jolith of the sword, why?” came a call from the soldier at the door of one of the two remaining shacks. A similar call came from the direction of the other. Without waiting for particulars, Gaias marked X’s on the last two huts. He stared for a moment at the page, then wadded the thing and dropped it to the ground.

“Gather up,” he said quietly. The young soldier beside him cupped hands to relay the order.

Gaias led his men back toward the main corps that waited in hushed uneasiness in the dark clearing beyond the village. Gaias’s weary and sickened soldiers staggered behind him. The sentries ahead, posted at the edge of the army, raised their bows.

“It’s us,” the colonel called out. “It’s no walking dead.”

That terse explanation sent a ripple of nervous laughter through the distant ranks.

To help his men shake off their terror, and to help keep it from spreading to the others, Gaias called out, “Double time.” He and his troops started a jog back to the others. Some of the younger soldiers, apparently spooked by the dead darkness, broke into a sprint to rejoin their living comrades.

Let them go, thought Gaias. This isn’t running from battle. This is running from butchery.

Gaias reached the commander, paused to catch his breath, and began his report. “All dead. Throats slit.”

Vinas winced. “Plainsmen?”

“Soldiers,” Gaias replied. “It was orderly, as if soldiers went house by house, knocked politely and were let in the door, then slit the peasants’ throats.”

Vinas spat as he looked away into the forest gloom. He shook his head. “Where do they think the armies come from? From the people, that’s where.”

Gaias watched his commander, those last words echoing meaninglessly in his mind. “What should we do?”

“What else?” replied Vinas with sudden anger. “On to the fortress. We won’t solve this riddle without more atrocities. I can see that now. The wicked woman has made sure of that.”

Still uncertain, Gaias nodded. “I’ll give the order, and tell my men to keep mum about what they saw. No need to spook everyone.”

“You do that,” said Vinas cursorily.

There came a rushing motion in the darkness. The commander had mounted his black charger. He turned the beast and moved off, leaving his shadowy army behind.

Gaias issued orders to his lieutenants, then mounted up and cried, “Move out! Double time!”

He led the army in the wake of its commander. The din of horse hooves and iron-shod men filled the blackness.

The fortress, a palisade of sharpened log ends and jointed wood towers, loomed in front of the commander. Soon, its darkness swallowed him up. Still, the thunder of Courage sounded on the plain. Vinas rode forward.

A distant thud like the kick of a boot, and the lightless, unhinged gate swung inward. For a moment Vinas, astride his steed, was dimly silhouetted in the moonlit gate. Then he was gone.

Gaias’s first duty was to the men who served him. But Commander Solamnus was not merely a superior; he was a friend.

“Follow, at best speed!” Gaias commanded. He spurred his horse toward the gateway where Vinas had disappeared.

Gaias’s mount ate up ground. He crouched low over the beast’s tossing mane. The old colonel held the reins loosely, letting the horse find its way through the blackness.

“Commander,” Gaias called into the ghost-gray yard beyond. He awaited no response, drawing his sword and thrusting the door back from the path. It swung inward, nearly out of the way, before catching on some heavy, soft bulk. Gaias gritted his teeth and urged the horse forward, muscling through the gap. He kicked at the door. There came a dead groan from behind it, putrid air from rotting lungs.

The horse tried to wheel. Gaias held it steady and drove it on through.

The inner bailey, a wide stockaded fort with several outposts and a central lookout, was a charnel house. In the gray of night, five gibbeted bodies swayed with the unmistakable motion of stiff weight. They hung in clear dry air beneath a fat timber, like drying meat. So had death come to the five colonels.

The soldiers were less well disposed of. Some squatted in shambled rot beside posts or in comers. Others lay in lines and arrays, as though the dead from one execution were not even dragged away before the next batch were lined up. There were hundreds of bodies, yes, but certainly not thousands.

And no sign of Commander Solamnus.

Gaias rode forward through a swarm of flies that were buzzing even though it was night.

The door to the command bunker hung open. Vinas would have gone there. Yes, Courage stood beside the door, his black tail flashing.

Gaias edged his mount across the yard of death. He let the horse find its footing. The bunker was a low-lying redoubt roofed in beams as thick as the gibbet. Halfway there, Gaias saw a faint light. The light seemed to flicker, and then swell radiantly. It revealed a cellar doorway. Its twin covers were drawn upward like wings. Glowing stairs led down the bunker’s throat.

Flies shimmered in the air before him. A small kick sent his horse prancing gingerly over the last bodies. Gaias leapt from the saddle, letting his horse trot to Courage and nuzzle the beast.

The old colonel virtually flung himself down the stairs. He had almost reached the bottom when a feeble call came from within. “Gaias. I need you.”

He entered the subterranean chamber. It was a military command post with a map table illuminated by a single lantern. The walls had been done up with tapestries, and the floor was thick with rugs. The chamber was ringed with fat chairs. In one sat a man who cradled a crossbow in his arms. He appeared at first to be surprised by Gaias’s arrival, his mouth wide open and his eyes staring in disbelief. Then Gaias saw a fly crawling across one of those open eyes. The butt end of a quarrel stuck like a serpent’s tongue from the man’s mouth.

“Over here,” came the voice.

The commander was slumped in a similar position. In place of the crossbow, there was a much-tattered, hand-oiled book, lying open.

“You have fought a hundred wars. Tell me how to fight one such as this,” the commander said. He wearily handed over the book.

Gaias took it, looking for a moment into the despairing eyes of his friend. Then, leaning toward the light, he squinted and began to read.

Meus Pater

Father, I am glad to be away from that place of death. We have marched a mile north of Caergoth, off the main road and upwind. It is a dreary night. I have ordered great bonfires and doubled the ration of wine. I have even given a speech for courage.

Such things do little to banish the atrocities we’ve seen.

This book – the log of General Fineas Tragarus, commander of the fortress – tells it all:

27 Corij, 1199

The emperor has sent orders that I play host to Commander Vinas Solamnus and his half-division on the evening of 9 Bran. Solamnus will be taking away with him a levy of five hundred men to help fight in Vingaard.

The imperial missive also orders that I send a unit of two hundred men back to Daltigoth. Apparently, since the departure of Solamnus, the empress has grown hysterical with worry about assassins.

I will send Hellas’s unit. With their departure, the loss of five hundred more men to Solanthus in the east, and Solamnus’s own levy, I will be reduced to seven hundred fifty men. My forces will not match those of Commander Solamnus when he arrives.

Argon, 1199

This afternoon, word came of a great atrocity. In some communal madness, a company of men sneaked into Caergate and slew every man, woman, and child. While I was out, searching through the carnage, Colonel Desidras discovered his own men, bloody to the elbows, and bragging of the murders. With the aid of his six colonel comrades, Desidras marshaled his company. He took twenty-five men at a time, lined them up against the wall, and brought them down with bow fire.

Upon returning from the village, I was amazed to learn of this slaughter. Though he had ordered the execution of his men, Desidras was undone by it. He took the murders on himself, said he himself had slain them all, even the villagers. The other colonels told me of the blood on Desidras’s men, and how they bragged about what they had done.

I got Desidras good and drunk in hopes he would sleep... and in fear that he might decide to take his own life. Late this night – the next morning, really – he was found dead in a pool of bloody vomit.

Argon, 1199

What outrages! What madness!

In the night, the company of Terras Ditrivus slew the sleeping men of three other companies before they were, to a man, killed. The other five colonels stabbed Terras to death, and cast lots for his belongings. All of this killing happened as though in the heat of battle, justice meted out upon the moment. I stumbled on the scene only with the tumble of the dice, as the five divided the madman’s possessions. I would not let them profit from such evil dealings, and took all the items to be locked away as evidence.

There is one item among them, though, too precious to be entrusted to a vault of steel and stone – a pendant, set with a ruby the size of a child’s heart. I donned it even as I marched out to the two remaining companies and ordered them to bury or bum the dead.

Argon, 1199

They are all traitors. I know that now. I found among the articles of Colonel Desidras’s captain, Octavias, a letter from the empress. She charged Octavias to find the rebels among the villagers, and said the enclosed enchanted pendant – the very pendant I now wear – would aid his search. The pendant, the size and color of a child’s heart, lets its wearer see the true heart of every man. It would show the heart of traitors as utter blackness.

That is why Octavias slew the villagers, to a man. Every last one fomented rebellion in their hearts.

It seems, though, the peasant treasons have infected the soldiers. Once Octavias was slain, the pendant was pillaged by Terras Ditrivus, who ordered his men to slay three hundred sleepers. Why cruel fate made him miss the five colonels, I cannot guess, but the black-hearted villains killed Terras, and almost gained the pendant.

I wear it now. I saw the evil in the final fifty men. Yes, one hundred fifty of the conspirators fled during the night, no doubt believing I would hunt them out. They won’t escape.

Neither did the fifty. I myself slew those who slept, then walked the stockade and stuck a knife in every throat there. The last seventeen I ordered to bring their five commanders to the gallows, if they wished their own lives spared. Then, even as the gibbet fell, I slew five more men by knife, ten by sword. The last two I hunted down through the fortress and strangled with my own fingers.

The account ended there. We found Fineas Tragarus wearing the pendant and clutching a crossbow to his chest, a bolt through his brain. I can deduce only that in writing the account yesterday morning, he had cause to glance down at his own heart, blacker than all the others.

It’s all the work of Phrygia. The ruby was rose-cut, rose-red. It was set in tarnished silver worked to look like thorny rose branches and woven into a crown – Phrygia’s crown. It’s her rose heart gone to thorns and evil.

A thousand men dead, and for what?

If such continues, Phrygia will have defeated me before I even reach Vingaard. How many foes am I to face in this campaign? When emperor and empress themselves want me to fail, whom am I fighting for?

The pendant is undone. The moment I puzzled all this out, I hunted up a warhammer, ripped the stone from Tragarus’s neck, and shattered the gem. A queer black smoke hissed from the shattered thing and rose, curdling, in the air. My men took that as a bad sign. I did not forbid them to mention it.

With all these losses, I hate to do without even two of my men. But the emperor must know what his wife has wrought. The two I sent, seasoned scouts, have orders to deliver my missive anonymously. I do not want two worthy warriors slain as the bearers of bad – perhaps even treasonous – tidings. The communication will bear my signet stamp. Let whatever transpires fall on my neck, and mine alone.

VII

One Day Hence, 11 Argon, 1199 Age of Light

They marched. There was nothing better for spooked and bedeviled soldiers to do than march. Resting would only make the phantasms come to terrifying life. Discussion would only spread the fears of one man, feverlike, among the others. Inaction would be worst of all. No, fighting was the best salve for any soldier’s soul, and when that was not possible, marching would do.

The men had slept little the night before, but they certainly would tonight, after fifty miles of forced marching upon the rutted dirt track that led from Caergoth to Thelgaard. The horrors of spinning minds would be blotted out by the red haze of bone-bruised heels and aching backs and flesh as hot and loose as roast beef. Tonight they would sleep, and wake up only two days from Thelgaard.

It wasn’t that Commander Solamnus thought his army and its train of provisions could march with enough speed to beat Phrygia’s agents to Thelgaard. Her plotting would race four days ahead of him, but four was better than eight. If the empress planned further attacks on Vinas and his men, her troops would have less time to dig in. If she schemed up another slaughterhouse, there would be less time for maggots and vultures.

Vinas himself led the march on foot. Courage was reined to Gaias’s mount. The commander set the grueling pace. Each hour he paused momentarily to fall back among the lines and shout commands and encouragements to the soldiers. The march had changed their haunted faces. Now they were red, and dotted with sweat and exertion.

Luccia, meanwhile, led her griffon cavalry in a sweep of the lands ahead and behind. Scouts filled the woods, running with short-nocked bows and slaying anything that might raise a hand or claw against the army. There would be no ambushes this day, nor any day before they arrived at Thelgaard.

Nor would there be surprises waiting there. This very night, once the sentries watched and the soldiers slept, Luccia and Commander Solamnus would ride her griffon northeast to Thelgaard.

*

The old war wizard bunched up the sleeves of his red robe, baring thin, hairy arms. From his fingertips, flashes of magic whirled. White jolts of energy struck the coin bag, lifting it from the camp table. The small leather satchel glistened with power. Tracers of magic shot through the sack, outlining each of the silver pieces within.

Eyes glowing, Vinas Solamnus watched the sorcerer do his work.

Titus stood beside the commander. Despite the flares of sorcerous power, the chancellor’s features were dark. “To win them over, Commander, you must do more than delude them,” he admonished.

Vinas’s look was equally dark. “I’m not the one deluding them. Phrygia has already done that. These coins will only deepen their delusions – push them past the point of opposing us to the point of fearing us.”

Titus shook his head. “You’re playing her game. You’ve already lost if you play her game.”

Vinas’s smile disappeared. The final threads of magic spun themselves into the floating bag and sank into the metal. The commander snatched the bag from the air and tied the string to his belt.

He turned for a moment to Titus and growled, “I will defeat that monster, even if I must become a monster myself.”

*

Lunitari shone upon the weary griffon’s wings. Its moonlight painted them all red – the wings, the young woman who held the beast’s reins, and the brawny man who rode behind her. Luccia perched comfortably on the saddle, now and then whispering encouragements in the creature’s ear slits. Vinas glanced down at the pine trees glowing red, like row upon row of bloody fangs.

“I’ve been marching too long,” Vinas said to himself.

“What?” Luccia asked, turning toward him.

He felt her warmth, her back arched and taut above the straining wings of Terraton.

“Nothing,” he replied. “I think I see Thelgaard up ahead.”

In the distance, a pale glow lit the underbelly of a low cloud. The light came from a small break in the trees. As Terraton neared the spot, torchlight glowed from palisades and stockades.

“That’s it,” said Luccia. She nudged Terraton. Squawking, he banked down to fly just above the treetops. “We’ll stay low, keep out of sight until the last moment.”

“Whatever you think,” Vinas replied, his trust sounding like disinterest. He knew that if anyone could fly a griffon into an armed fortification in the middle of the night, it would be Luccia. As to what exactly to say and do after they touched down – that would be Vinas’s job. His mind sifted through the possibilities.

Thelgaard was commanded by Colonel Maslas Quisling, the emperor’s underachieving third cousin. Because Maslas was a Quisling, he would have to be treated well, and would not tolerate accusations against the empress. He would not tolerate the truth. That was the whole reason Vinas had brought along the enchanted bribe money.

His ruminations ceased as the last bloody teeth of forest dropped away. Terraton swooped into the dark midden between forest and palisade. Vinas caught a reflection of Terraton in a stagnant moat as they passed over. The griffon’s wings jabbed outward into air and launched the three of them up toward the top of the wall.

A humming twang announced the hasty flight of a bolt. Another flew, punching into a tree trunk at the verge of the forest.

Luccia stood in the stirrups and drove heels home. Wings dug in. A flash of white feather and gold fur... With massive grace, Terraton set claws to ground.

The two guards who had gotten off shots were already whooping their warnings, and other soldiers had come running. Soldiers gathered around, bringing out blades and crossbows.

Deeming it better to fight on his own two feet, Vinas leapt down beside the mount and drew his sword. “Hold! I come in the name of Emperor Quisling. I am Commander Vinas Solamnus.”

A door flew open. From it emerged smoke and a massive man. His silks streamed with gray tendrils, and his eyes fairly glowed. He belligerently descended the stairs.

“Commander Solamnus,” the man said with heavy emphasis. “Where is your slaying army?”

“My slaying army, Maslas?” answered Vinas without pause.

The man’s face darkened. Just outside of sword range, he halted his approach. “I know what you did in Caergoth. You will not do the same here.”

“Perhaps not,” Vinas admitted casually. He looked around with a shrug. “Then again, the night is young. At the moment, your men are still alive.”

“Don’t toy with me, Commander. The empress’s own envoy brought word that, just yesterday, you slaughtered everyone in Caergoth.”

Vinas hissed a humorless laugh. “Envoys are paid messengers. To them, truth is the message that carries the most money.” He sheathed his sword and puffed his chest, as though daring Maslas or one of his men to attack him. “But I, too, can speak that language.

“Let’s say that these envoys spoke the truth. Let us say I have the power to single-handedly destroy a fortress. Perhaps I am spell-trapped so that if a single arrow or blade strikes me, you will begin to burn from the insides out, your stomachs catching fire and burning long and hot, despite the buckets of water you pour down your throats, and your fat lighting like tallow as your very hearts cook while they are still beating.”

Vinas paused. Sword tips edged back from him. A single bead of sweat traced a gray line from Maslas’s temple to his jawline.

In the silence, Vinas continued. “Perhaps I am in truth no man at all, but a red dragon. Perhaps I am toying with you now, waiting for one of you to volunteer to be my first meal.” He had spoken to the whole fortress, but now cast an aside toward Maslas. “In fact, I am famished.”

He reached down to the leather money bag tied to his waist and loosed it from his belt. “Or, perhaps it has all been blown out of proportion. Perhaps this money – bonus money I brought to pay the brave soldiers of Ergoth – was thought to be a bribe by Colonel Hellas. Perhaps, when he absconded with it, his soldiers rebelled, and to a man, they wiped themselves out. Perhaps...” He extended the bag to Maslas. “Here is a bonus for your payroll. That bag holds a platinum piece for every one of your soldiers.”

Reluctantly, Maslas received the bag. He cast a wary glare at his troops. Their weapons were still trained on the commander, but their eyes were fixed on the colonel and the bag. Gingerly, Maslas pulled open the drawstring and gazed down at the coins.

“These are silver pieces, not platinum,” he said suspiciously.

“Oh, no,” said Vinas. “They’re platinum. Bring one into the light.”

Maslas stared levelly at him.

“Colonel, the men want their bonus,” warned Vinas. “Don’t think about keeping those platinum pieces for yourself. Remember what happened at Caergoth.”

The man’s face creased. His eyes sparkled with hatred. Even so, he reached into the bag to draw forth a coin. The moment his hand touched one of the silver pieces, his expression changed. Distrust deepened to dread. Resistance became revulsion. Suspicion gave way to horrible certainty.

“See? Platinum,” Vinas said lightly. Hand the bag around. Let each soldier have his due.”

Hand trembling, Maslas passed the bag to his lieutenant. The soldier’s drawn sword dipped for a moment as he fished a coin from the bag. When the blade rose again, it wavered nervously. Sweat drenched the second’s face.

“Keep it going, keep it going,” Vinas urged, an edge of irritation in his voice. “You don’t want your soldiers to die of starvation before they get their bonuses!”

The bag moved more quickly, hand to hand. As it went, the silence deepened. The air bristled. The sense of terror and doom hung heavily over all the warriors.

Even Luccia shifted uneasily. She watched the bag make its circuit, her eyes twitching as the magic transformed each soldier. One by one, their suspicions unmanned them. Not a one would dare oppose Vinas now.

He was the only one at ease in the fortress. He seemed in fact to be enjoying the terror of the men.

It was none too soon, then, when Vinas motioned her to fly back to camp, leaving him among his new friends. She would guide the rest of his army to Thelgaard the next day.

As Luccia mounted up, Vinas dramatically lifted her hand and kissed it, wishing her a safe journey. He did not look at her as he did so, instead gazing with satisfaction at the terrified men around him.

Luccia drew her hand away and tapped Terraton’s flanks. As the beast leapt into the starry night sky, Luccia could not help noticing that Vinas’s kiss had felt ice cold.

Meus Pater

Well, Father, I have turned the tide on Phrygia tonight. I have entered her game of treachery and played it better than she.

You would not be pleased with the man I have become. I am not pleased either. The old Vinas – the young, starry-eyed boy – would have marched doggedly and predictably into every trap Phrygia laid in my path. Before, I would have sent thousands upon thousands of soldiers to their graves, and considered the deaths noble and valorous, the justifiable sacrifice of good.

The new Vinas is unimpressed by good. Good does not balance out against lost lives. If being evil means more comrades will live to share my campfire tonight, evil I shall gladly be.

We have traded roles, you and I. I have become the pragmatist and you the dreamer. I suppose that is because hope comes easier to youths and deadmen.

VIII

Five Days Hence, 16 Argon, 1199 Age of Light

The day was waning as Commander Vinas Solamnus, still afoot, led his dusty column toward the ramparts of Solanthus. The fortification had doubled in size since the time of Colonel Hellas. Wooden stockades had given way in piecemeal fashion to masonry, and the forest that had once verged a hundred strides from the fence had now been burned back to a thousand paces.

The fortification had grown, that was sure. The roadside guardpost had become barracks, then staging fortification, and at last, castle. The nearby villages, too, had grown. A shantytown of artisans and merchants and tinkers had sprung up beside the fort. The place looked prosperous and stable, bustling with soldiers, peasants, and visiting dignitaries. The atmosphere was almost cheerful.

“Standard bearers, to the front!” called Vinas. The signal was conveyed down the line.

In moments, the family crest of Solamnus – a white kingfisher on a blue field – was joined by a red dragon rampant on yellow, a green arrow on gold, and a host of other symbols. Some of Vinas’s colonels and captains would have friends or brothers stationed here. A good three thousand of the troops within had imperial orders to join Vinas’s army. The sight of familiar standards would at least make these friends, brothers, and comrades think twice before shooting.

If the empress had not already deemed things otherwise.

Luccia and her griffon squads had reported no sign of trouble ahead. Perhaps, at last, they had outrun Phrygia’s madness.

A contingent of cavalry passed under the castle’s stone gateway. They flew the standards of Ergoth, Solanthus, and House Maximus. They rode great black beasts that shone as though they were obsidian statues. The mounts ate up the road in a fast, fierce gallop. The head of the cavalry stood in his stirrups as he approached. He reined in his eager, prancing steed, as did the others behind him. Hooves kneaded the dirt.

“Greetings, Commander Solamnus!” cried the lead rider. He had a dark mustache and goatee. “I trust you are well?”

Vinas strode forth and reached up, clasping the man’s arm in a hearty salute. “Well enough for a welcome such as this,” he said with heartfelt conviction.

The dark-bearded man smiled. “Well enough to accompany us on a salvo against rebel raiders?”

At last, countrymen who were allies instead of enemies. Vinas drew in that realization as though it were a breath of spring air. “We are too many to keep up with you. Besides, it has been fifty miles afoot today. I would have my own mutiny if I dared another fifty miles.”

“I do wish you could join us,” said the man, his eyes gleaming. “Your first taste of traitor’s blood, and all that.”

Vinas cast a capricious glance over his shoulder. Gaias sat his horse with all the weight of a statue. He, almost imperceptibly, shook his head.

Turning back, Vinas stroked his chin, as though he had an invisible goatee to match the lead horseman’s. “This wouldn’t be a salvo ordered by the empress herself, would it?”

“The empress?” asked the man, his brow furrowing. “Since when does she give a damn what the divisions of Ergoth do?”

The comment brought red to Vinas’s dusty cheeks. “Right, then. I’ll join you, and add to your complement twelve of my own finest horsemen, as well as the colonel of my griffon cavalry, bringing along whomever she chooses. My second, Gaias, will get the troops settled here, and see about mustering up a festival to celebrate our arrival.”

“No need,” said the cavalryman, gesturing to colored tents being set up within the castle courtyard. “Commander Maximus is already seeing to it personally.”

“Better yet,” said Vinas. He proceeded to unfasten Courage’s lead line.

Gaias turned and calmly said to him, “It may be another trap....”

“Don’t worry. I’ll outnumber them on the ground and in the air,” Vinas said, as though soothing a fretful parent. “If you like, you can have a war wizard track us.” He led Courage toward the cavalry.

Then in a martial tone, Vinas added, “Gaias, take the army, minus your twelve best riders, into the fort. Give Commander Maximus my regrets for being detained. I’ll make it up to him on my return.” He checked the saddle cinch and mounted Courage.

“Yes, Commander,” said Gaias.

*

Courage eagerly plunged along the forest path. He seemed happy to abandon the slow march. Vinas crouched low over the stallion’s neck, ducking away from the reaching branches along the trail. The other warriors followed.

Vinas knew their quarry. A peasant mob had attacked a three-man outpost, run off the guards, and taken the store of weapons. The outpost stood at the far eastern edge of Ergoth. Its official role was to protect the nearby villages, but its true purpose was to watch the west trade road, tax anyone who passed by, and harass anyone who defied its authority. Whenever three men proved not enough, they would send one of their pet crows off to Solanthus for aid. This time, the message tied to the crow’s talon read: “Peasant attack. Overrun. Send Erghas and cavalry.”

Captain Erghas was the black-bearded cavalry officer who had met Vinas, and now rode close at his heels.

Night was falling, quick and hard. Cold came with it. The riders saw the world as only cavalrymen do, charging in a dusty mass through a dark and silent plain that trembles beneath them.

“Ahead!” cried Erghas. He was pointing – must have been – but Vinas could not see the direction. He saw little but the fast-bobbing head of Courage, the mane whipping his face and the tumbled ground below.

There it was. The forest opened up ahead, giving way to parchment-colored plains. A few trees clung to the land in ragged groves, but otherwise it was a place of low-sloping hills and grass and horizons.... Except for one harsh vertically, which jutted with indifference up from the rolling land. The outpost was like a sore, a blemish. Tiny black creatures milled around its base, seeming to talk or sleep or picnic there. The rebel mob encircling its prize.

Vinas’s heels did not even touch Courage’s flanks, but the steed redoubled its pace and pulled away. Vinas whooped excitedly, but stayed low beside the horse’s whipping mane. The mob either felt the tremor of vengeful hooves or heard Vinas’s cry, or both. The figures along the base of the tower slowly began to move, shifting toward the tower, drifting away, or breaking apart to run for a nearby copse. Vinas headed Courage toward those in flight. He would give Erghas the glory of recapturing the tower. That was his right, at least. Vinas would round up the stragglers.

He drew his sword and directed Courage off the beaten trail and across the sea of grass. The heads of grain cracked loudly. Courage rose up a round-hipped hill, plunged down into a creek belly, and shot up the other side. He gained speed as he leapt from peak to peak across the rippling plain.

The rebel figures materialized as frantically fleeing peasants. Though they retreated in terror, their arms still clutched the spoils of their riot – axes, clubs, swords, bows, quivers.

Vinas passed the first rebel, then charged by two more. Courage would be alongside the main group in moments. Vinas guided the stallion out in a long, hooking movement to encircle the front line.

The tatter-clothed brigands either stopped running to stand and fight, or turned around to flee the other way. None dared cross the path of Courage. They seemed to think him a magical creature whose very hoofprints were dangerous.

Vinas, sword brandished high and ready to strike, came closer to the mob and shouted, “Halt where you are, and you will not be hurt.”

A man-sized blur rushed Courage’s shoulder, a club raised.

Vinas whirled and, between heartbeats, struck the man’s head from his shoulders. The body slid wetly down to the ground. The hooves of the stallion trampled it underfoot. Vinas brought Courage under control. More in shock than anger, he shouted, “Down, to your knees, or the same will come to you!” The other rebels knelt as one, so quickly and so heavily that the dry ground shook.

Off in the distance, Vinas could see with satisfaction that Erghas’s forces had easily captured the tower. No horses were down. The cavalry was circling the tower, rounding up the mob.

Things were well in hand. Vinas, heart still hammering in his throat, lowered his dripping sword and took a moment to wipe his blood-drizzled face. He looked down at the trampled body. It looked more like a boneless effigy, old clothes stuffed with straw.

“What a waste,” Vinas cursed. He spit red into the twilight. He nudged Courage toward the spot where the man’s head and club lay. But it wasn’t a club. It was a loaf of bread, long and baked in a hard crust.

A loaf of bread? thought Vinas. Why would lawless rebels wield bread instead of weapons?

Courage planted his hooves. Vinas dismounted and went over to examine the red-speckled loaf. He kicked it irritably, and its crust shattered as it rolled away. “Dead for stealing bread,” he hissed.

His boot tapped the victim’s head. When the gaunt, old thing rolled over, he saw and knew the eyes. It was Festas.

“Thank you, Sir Warrior. Festas and his poor family bless your name.”

It was the old man, the first person to whom Vinas brought provisions that blizzard night so long ago. Festas had been stealing the bread that had been taken as tax from him. He had been bringing back food to his family’s mouths.

Vinas backed numbly away.

Where were all the young dreamers? Where were the soldiers decked out like plainsmen? Where were the young Vinas Solamnuses?

They are dead, came the thought to his mind. They are all grown up and dead.

His bitter reverie was interrupted by the roar of hooves. He looked up and saw them falling, the peasants who knelt for him. They clutched bread and jerky and wine bottles to their breasts and looked toward him with abject resignation as the black horses rushed past and the gray steel sheared off their heads.

*

“She could have struck no worse blow to me, Gaias,” said Commander Solamnus.

Vinas slumped in a velvet chair beside the roaring fire of his suite. The silent company of his comrades, his friends, surrounded him. Luccia, Titus, and Gaias, all watched their commander and struggled for something to say that might appease him.

The grime of the road and the stink of blood had been washed away in hot baths. Now instead of scarred armor, they wore robes of silk and vests of brocade. There had even been a boy who came in to trim and file the commander’s nails, to carefully pry away the last flecks of blood from his fingers.

Vinas angrily looked at his soft, clean nails. “It was an ambush all right. But she didn’t hide assassins in the brush, or marksmen, or monsters. She hid only me out there. The old me. The one she had fallen in... the young believer who would have betrayed any allegiance for truth, for love. Well, here’s the truth. I am the champion of a brutal, corrupt empire that I once opposed with every fiber of my being.”

Gaias watched his commander and, behind the gray mask of his beard, blinked inscrutably.

Luccia tried to smile, but she looked wan and defeated. “Surely she could not have touched off a peasant uprising.”

“Yes,” spat Vinas. “First it was a military attack, but that we could defeat easily. That is what armies are meant for. Then, she sent armies of ghosts and lies against our minds. She made us walk through a slaughterhouse at Caergoth and march into a viper’s den of deception at Thelgaard. When we defeated even those attacks, she came against me to wound my very soul.”

“You are tired, Vinas, and rightly so,” rumbled Titus. Of its own accord, his hand strayed to the flask of rejuvenant he had mixed and blessed for Vinas, although the commander himself had turned it down. “Perhaps you should beg off the festival tonight and get some rest.”

Vinas eyed his friends, one at a time. “You don’t believe me, do you? You all think I’m overwrought.”

“Overtired,” Titus corrected, his head slightly cocked.

Luccia broke in, “I can see how the empress might send scouts against us. Might even use lies and magic to destroy fortresses. But how could she make you cut off someone’s head?”

Vinas snorted. “She only had to assemble the mob. I did the rest. How am I to fight this war? Every time my sword strikes, I will not see a traitor, a rebel, but a starving peasant. She’s stolen my very soul. How can a commander command, lead, fight, without a soul?”

“We do it every day,” mused Gaias, more to himself than to Vinas. “It’s an easy enough thing. You grip your sword; you cut a neck. It is no more complicated than that.”

“It used to be,” Vinas muttered.

Luccia said, “Well, if you aren’t going to get some rest, you may as well go to the festival. You are the guest of honor, after all.”

Vinas was suddenly on his feet, his muscular frame a whirl of fine clothes. “Let’s go. Killing gives me an appetite.” He reached the chamber door, flung it wide, and shouldered his way through the too-small frame.

The night beyond was cold and bright, cold with a wind out of Qualinesti and bright with bonfires and magelight. The artisans, traveling prestidigitators, and shysters had been invited into the castle courtyard to entertain the soldiers. The shantytown people glittered in clothing designed for nighttime revelry.

The fine clothes of Vinas and his companions drew a host of beggars. A juggler drifted near, a set of tin begging cups whirling before his black, waxed mustache. Whenever a cup landed in his left hand, he held it out, pleading for donations. Each cup already held plenty of coins that rattled as they tumbled through the air, but did not spill forth. Vinas saw little of the clever act. He noted only the man’s solid frame, soft with eating.

Beggars do better in this empire than do honest peasants, he thought. Then, peremptorily, he said, “No,” and distractedly pushed the man away.

The push made the man’s three cups clatter to the cobblestone, gold and silver raining to the ground. That accident proved beneficial to Vinas. The loose coins provided diversion for other night vermin whose injuries and deformities seemed less than debilitating as they swarmed across the courtyard. They clustered over the coins, thick as maggots. The spill also made shysters give the grumbling commander a wide berth, lest they lose their night’s take.

“Maybe the poor aren’t such innocents,” said Vinas, sucking in a breath of the cold air. “I feel better already.”

Gaias’s eyes looked concerned. “That’s the spirit.”

Vinas did not seem to hear. “It’s war, damn it. Someone has to die. If people are too stupid to get out of the way of a swordsman on a charging horse —”

“Just so,” said Gaias exhaustedly.

“Better,” Vinas said to himself. “I feel much better.”

The group walked. The clamor of beggars faded away behind voices, laughter, and audacious claims from painted mouths. It was a carnival of flesh. There were smoking meats and frothy ales, glass baubles that pleased the eye, smooth-hipped women whose leggings revealed all too much to hungry eyes, sword swallowers and fire-eaters, private grotesqueries for public viewing....

“There are no innocents,” Vinas continued. This was not a discussion but a soliloquy. Gaias offered no response. “The only innocents are the young dreamers, as I once was. They usually make matters worse, not better. How many evils have been done by those who try to force the realm of ideas onto the world of reality? Many, many evils.”

He shook his head bitterly. “They hadn’t taken just bread, just food. They’d taken weapons. And I’m sure they would have used them on me to get away. It’s war. Pure and simple.”

“Simple, at least,” said Gaias quietly.

Vinas paused, then looked up as though noticing Gaias for the first time. “Let’s go. I want none of these foul diversions. I just want food and drink and sleep. Off to the great hall.”

*

“Attention, please. Attention,” called Captain Erghas of the cavalry unit.

He stepped up on his table. His voice barely succeeded in breaking through the din of the hall and its long tables crowded with soldiers. The shouts and guffaws were silenced by a two-fingered whistle.

“Thank you for your attention. I have something of an extended toast to make. You all have no doubt heard of Commander Solamnus’s fighting prowess and courage —”

Hearty and genuine applause answered.

Vinas, warmed by the applause and by brandy, stood and bowed in thanks. The ovation grew all the louder. Caught up in the mood, Vinas said, “Yes, my courage. My horse Courage couldn’t be here tonight, for the kitchen was all out of oats —”

Roars and “hear, hears!” followed him as he sat down.

Erghas waved away the noise. “We have all heard stories, but today I saw the courage and prowess —”

“And Courage!” someone shouted amid laughter.

“I saw the courage and prowess in action. I saw the man who will save the empire. No less than that While the rest of us rushed in to take the tower, to win the share of glory, this man rode out to bring home the stragglers. Oh, he was no gentle shepherd, coddling his wayward flock. No. He meted out summary justice, killing the first one who tried to win by him, and thereby cowing the rest.”

The captain’s voice echoed in the hall, no longer fighting murmurs and chuckles.

“And though killing is the quickest and surest and greatest of a soldier’s rights on the battlefield – especially when dealing with traitorous vermin – this man spared nearly half of the criminals.”

A murmur went through the crowd.

“Patience, friends. Yes, the rabble deserved death for what they had done, and I said so to the. commander. But he replied to me, ‘What good is making this ground a graveyard, if there is no one left to go back and tell the others the tale?’”

As applause rang through the hall, Vinas turned in consternation to Titus and Gaias and hissed, “I said no such thing!”

The wise Gaias said, “History will say otherwise.”

“And so,” finished Erghas, “I toast our commander, who will not only wade into the slaughter of Vingaard, but will also curb those who struggle, and round them up for the empire.”

The crowd stood. The roar of their voices was matched only by the pounding of boots. Even Gaias got to his feet and added his applause and hoots to the ovation.

Only Vinas Solamnus was left sitting. He listened in mute dread to what he heard.

These men would slay anyone I ask them to, he thought miserably. Even the emperor himself.

Meus Pater

I have come to personify everything that is wrong with this empire. My followers invent fictions about me to fill the gap between what I am and what I ought to be.

Just today, a murder I committed was recast by my followers as swift and righteous vengeance. Even in the act of lying to themselves and each other, they believed the lie. Only I – and perhaps Gaias – remember the truth. The murder.

What have I become?

For so long, Father, I considered you a weak man. You were once a believer, but in time settled into the posture of constant contradiction and compromise. What I did not understand is that no posture could be more difficult. The man who can bargain with corruption and death on all sides and yet remain committed to something higher, that man is truly great.

Part III

JUSTICE

Interlude

One Month Hence, 14 Sirrimont, 1199 Age of Light

Naked, Phrygia huddled in the lich’s scrying cauldron. Her living flesh and bone and blood would be the conduits for Caitiff’s darkest, most powerful casting yet.

He stood above her, stripped of robe and magical guises. Even his dead flesh was gone. Only bones remained. His skeletal form pulsed with bright red fire. Words of ancient necromancy were hissed from his fleshless teeth. The flames that danced across his bones deepened from scarlet to crimson to azure. They gathered, swirled around his pelvis, rose up his spine and ribs, and spun in a sorcerous crown around his skull.

His incantation became an ecstatic shout. With each word, a tongue of fire formed in his mouth, shot through his maggot-scoured teeth, and lashed out at the empress.

The flames darted into her eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Phrygia cried out in shock and pain. A pulse of lavender fire awakened in her chest. More flames struck and the lavender light grew brighter. It shone from her heart.

It was her passion that would send this evil spell across the miles to Vinas. It was her lust to corrupt him and dominate him utterly that would at last accomplish the task. Empowered by an ancient elvish lich, she would convert him to her side and together they would rule all of Ansalon, all of Krynn.

When the casting was complete, sorcerous power would rush out from Phrygia and vault halfway across Ansalon. It would enter the heart of a commander who had already been seduced by evil. This moment of ecstasy would transform him forever, making him an instrument of evil. It would make Vinas Solamnus forever hers.

And he would not even realize the change had occurred.

IX

That Night, 14 Sirrimont, 1199 Age of Light

“We will crush them,” Commander Solamnus predicted.

He loomed over the map table. His shadow fell across the schematic of Vingaard Keep and all of northern Ansalon. His eyes narrowed to slits. “It is the only humane thing. If I came upon a dog in as wretched a state as we have heard is the case in Vingaard, I hope to the gods I would have the compassion and nerve to stamp its skull into the ground.”

He looked around the room at the grim faces of his colonels and the captains of his special forces. No one replied.

“We will crush them with one terrific blow. Then, if there remains anything to save – anything or anyone – we will save it,” Vinas said. He raised the amber liquid in the glass before him and flung back the drink.

“Weren’t we to bring them back into Ergoth, Commander?” asked Chancellor Titus.

“Let their deaths be the price of saving all the other border states that are poised to break away. If we destroy Vingaard, the rest will fall in line.”

While he spoke, Vinas’s eyes were fastened, unblinking, on the jagged red schematic where the map depicted Vingaard Keep. At last he looked levelly into the eyes of the priest. “Does the Temple of Paladine object to my plan?”

Titus looked like a wounded boy. “No, Commander.”

“Good,” replied Vinas. “This action will be merciful only if it is swift and sure. Genocide cannot suffer doubts or half measures; otherwise it is only cruelty and torture.” He paused to suck in a breath. The room was so silent that everyone there heard the deep, long inhalation. “I have heard many of you boast about the army here in Solanthus, as well you should. These companies – heavy horse, griffon cavalry, heavy infantry, war wizardry – form the most formidable single army Ansalon has seen in a thousand years. But, even though this army comprises sixty elite companies, it is only one third the force under my command.”

He paused, waiting for the whistles of admiration to taper off.

“That is a secret that, until now, was known only by the emperor and myself, as well as the commanders of my two other divisions. I share the secret with you, trusting you to keep it. Tell anyone beyond this room, and I will hang you on the curtain wall of Vingaard Keep.”

The amazed murmuring stopped. Vinas continued. “We want Vingaard to watch us, to be terrorized by our audacious advance. We want them to be certain that this division can and will slay them, drink their blood, and grind their bones into meal – all in the space of days.”

Chancellor Titus spoke up again. “Won’t that convince them they have nothing to lose, make them fight to the death?”

“No,” replied Vinas sternly. “Only dreamers fight to the death. There are only a handful of such fools in the world. All others surrender and hope they will not be beaten too often by their new masters.”

The chuckles that greeted that dark assessment were nervous and dry.

“I have tried your way, Paladine’s way, Chancellor. It leads only to greater suffering and longer war. Every foe we defeat with rumor and terror we will not have to defeat with the sword. Let them learn to love us once we are standing on their necks.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts. “My other two armies have been busy. Let me tell you what mischief they are up to....”

*

General Ventrus hunkered down beside a tree trunk. The man’s Qualinesti cloak blended into the twilight grays of the bark. Behind him, his platoon similarly blended in. He thought he had seen something ahead. Gray-grizzled eyebrows lowered over intense eyes of blue. He blinked. He had seen something: the edge of the Hylo Forest.

Ventrus smiled grimly. His jaw clenched. This had been the worst hundred miles he’d marched. The forest was rotten with kender. The curious little critters were like mosquitoes – always buzzing nearby, ready to stick it to you, suck you dry, and flit away. Perhaps that explained the stern orders from Commander Solamnus: “Pass through Hylo, but avoid kender contact at all cost.”

Thankfully, Ventrus’s platoon hadn’t run afoul of any of the creatures. He’d taken every precaution to avoid that possibility. His army of six thousand soldiers – II Redroth – had been broken down into platoons of twenty, each of which moved separately and stealthily through the woods. They all wore Qualinesti cloaks, dampened their armor with balled-up rags, and even donned soft leather shoes. If the other platoons had done as well as Ventrus’s, the kender were completely unaware of their passage. Now, they were almost out of kender country.

Ventrus scanned the area ahead. The coast seemed clear. He rose from his crouch and stalked slowly toward the forest’s edge. In two hundred more paces, he would no longer need to concern himself with the second half of Commander Solamnus’s orders....

“What ya got there?” piped a shrill voice behind him.

Ventrus jumped straight up, and whirled around. In the dark, he saw a pair of avid, childlike eyes hovering above a keen little smile and a lithe form.

“You’ve been walking for three days and never touched it,” the kender observed. He pointed beneath the general’s cloak, where a short length of steel cable dangled from his belt. Wooden handles hung at either end of the cable. “What is it? What’s it for? May I take a look-see? Maybe it’s loose.”

The second half of the orders from Commander Solamnus...

The general reached for the garrotte, but discovered it absent from his belt, already in the hands of the young kender. He took a quick swipe at it, but the creature yanked the weapon away.

“You dropped it,” the kender said in defense. “What’s it called? What’s it for? Is this a spare? It looks like one I once had. I just can’t remember what it’s called.”

“It’s... it’s a magic collar,” the general said, coughing into his hand. “You wear it around your neck.”

“Oh, yes. A magic collar. I had a whole bag of these once.” The kender flipped the thing over the back of his neck and held onto the handles. “You wear it like this, right?”

General Ventrus shook his head. He reached toward the kender. “No. Here, let me show you.”

With all the trust of a child, the kender let go of the handles. General Ventrus gently took hold of them and pivoted around behind him.

“Oh, so you wear the cable across the front of your neck —” began the kender. His breath was suddenly cut off. He struggled, but was no match for the muscular man.

*

The ogres ran directly into the swarms of arrows. Already their huge gray forms bristled with shafts. Still they came. Their eyes shone with a dazed blue light, a glow not of frenzy but of sorcerous enslavement. Someone was driving these brutes into a hail of Solanthian arrows.

But who?

There was no time for such questions. Already the defenders’ quivers were nearly empty. Already the archers’ fingers bled.

Then the ogres gained the hilltop where the Solanthian scouts had decided to make their stand. The monsters were gigantic. Their gray limbs swung enormously.

They clambered fearlessly over the granite outcrop. They smashed human heads to puddings or struck them clear of their shoulders. Solanthian livery turned scarlet beneath stomping ogre feet. None would survive. None.

And who drove these mad ogres?

*

“So, there is no chance for the kender to report to Redroth, nor any possibility of Solanthian scouts surviving the tide of ogres sweeping their way. The six thousand soldiers of III Caergoth are advancing behind that tide of mesmerized ogres,” Commander Solamnus concluded. “Colonel Luccia, tell the council what you have told me of the positions of our troops and our enemies.”

Luccia nodded. She, like all the others, wore her full dress uniform for this war council. In it she looked as proud and lethal as a falcon. “Vingaard is digging in, all along the main road. They show no sign of additional earthworks or stockades to the west or east. It is apparent they hope for a battle of attrition, whittling our army down as we approach the keep, and then trusting in the moat, curtain wall, and magical defenses to keep us at bay once we have arrived.

“The first major trench work is at the ford of the Vingaard River fifty miles north of here. It is rocky and shallow, but has rapids that rise over a man’s head during spring runoff. We will arrive there in the first of Argon. By then, the deepest points should be only three feet. The crossing is wide and chilly, and the wagons will need to be lashed fore and aft to mounted escorts. We will be sitting targets while we make that crossing, and the rebels know it. They are building catapults and ballistae, and have been logging heavily in the woods upstream.”

“Log jams,” said Gaias at a whisper. “They’re going to try to sweep us away.”

Luccia went on. “They will make us pay for each forward stride. Then they will fall back to trenches in the granite hills beyond and drop us from hiding.”

Vinas watched the soldiers and advisors, looking for hints of fear or weakness. These were the brutal facts of the march ahead. Anyone who would flinch at them without hearing his strategies was a person of ill judgment. So far, none had blinked.

“Once we win past that point, we will be fighting a running battle for the next forty miles, all the while climbing a shallow grade toward the uplands just south of Vingaard. There, the ground becomes impassibly wet, and the road descends into a gorge carved by the Vingaard River. It is in this rock sarcophagus that the second line of redoubts will be.”

A young officer rose, and straightened his jacket. “How many troops does Vingaard have?”

Luccia looked up at him. “Troops? They have very few trained troops, only about fifteen hundred. But they have mustered every farmhand and fishwife in a thousand miles, for a rabble army close to twenty thousand.”

Gaias looked grave. “Twenty thousand, double entrenchments, and a castle,” he said, considering. “Too bad for them they do not have Vinas Solamnus.”

For the first time in hours, the commander smiled. It was not his old, cocksure grin, though. This smile was more like a determined gritting of teeth.

“Yes, Gaias. Too bad for them. And now, let me tell you why....”

*

Sixteen Days Hence, 1 Reorxmont, 1199 Age of Light

On the brow of a short hill that overlooked the Vingaard River, Vinas reined Courage to a halt. His personal guard drew up beside him.

Gaias was nearest to hand, as always these days. He sat his battle-armored roan like the grizzled ghost of every second who ever quietly followed his commander unto doom.

Titus, beside him, stood. He had walked most of the four hundred miles from Daltigoth. He said it was because his legs were as long as any horse’s and at least as strong. Of course, the inspiring vision of a ten-foot-tall man of Paladine walking on his own two feet might have influenced his decision, too.

Luccia guided Terraton to the hilltop. The griffon folded his wings and headed for a jutting rock on one side of the summit. There, he crouched, elevated and separated from the others, but in a fine pounce position in case any of the skittish and delicious horses came near. The rest of Luccia’s voracious cavalry had already been dispatched with orders. If she had read the sun right, they would have already crossed the river. They would be digging beaks and talons into flesh even now.

The Vingaard River was wide, shallow, and fast-running. On any other day, its expanse would have mesmerized the soldiers. The jabbering conversation of water over rocks, or of wind through vallenwoods, would have made any listener feel a sudden longing for wild and lonely places.

Today, though, the river would be anything but lonely. In addition to six thousand imperial troops, four hundred horses, and a provision train of eighty-three wagons, there would be spears, ballista shots, boulders, and rapids-borne logs. Once the soldiers fought past those, they would enter the deep forest where those attacks had originated and meet the hands that sent the deadly barrage their way.

Torrential water was the worst battlefield. Not only did it grab at the feet and clothing and numb the legs, but anyone who fell in the crossing – whether from arrow or slippery stone – would be swept away immediately. Armor and currents would conspire to take such soldiers to the blackest depths. There they would thrash until the river buried them.

Luccia looked up from the rolling rapids and into the face of the imperial commander. His flesh was cold and drawn, as though somewhere along the line he had already drowned in the icy depths.

“Are the war wizards in place?” Vinas asked blankly.

Gaias nodded. “Yes. They begin on your mark, Commander.”

“Mark,” said Vinas softly, still looking at the river.

Gaias made a small hand sign that was relayed down the silent line of soldiers and out to the mages poised on the river bank.

There came no fireworks, no hum or crackle of power. Nothing seemed to change.

“Wait here for me,” Vinas said quietly. It was a command to all of them, though after he spoke it, he turned and stared pointedly at Luccia.

With a nudge of his heels, he started Courage forward at a casual trot. The horse pranced for a moment as Vinas’s stern hand on the reins kept the creature firmly and smoothly under control. Sitting bolt upright, Vinas rode down into the river. Black hooves sent up white ridges of foam. Soon, the river rose above fetlocks to hocks to finally slap coldly along the horse’s flanks. Vinas’s boots were submerged.

“He’s almost within bow shot,” Luccia murmured to herself.

Gaias overheard and nodded solemnly.

Titus, whose muttered devotions had begun the moment Courage had entered the river, now dropped to one knee. In that posture, he was still almost the same height as the rest of the army.

The commander rode onward. Courage’s legs churned the white flood. Vinas took a long, deep breath and began to speak. The words, as they left his lips, roared outward. His voice had been magically augmented by Titus to be heard clearly five miles in any direction. Courage shied for a moment from the deafening noise, but Vinas held him steady.

“I am Commander Vinas Solamnus of Daltigoth. Surrender to me, or die. You are fairly warned.”

A slim figure emerged from the woods, an elven long-bowman. His green-gray tunic and breeches made him seem to wink in and out of the tree line. He nocked an arrow and sighted directly, levelly, at Vinas. Then he drew back the string and loosed.

The arrow darted faster than Vinas’s eye could follow. He heard the thrum of the bowstring only an instant before the razor head struck his eye. He felt nothing, neither the punch of the blade through the socket and into his brain, nor even the jolt of impact.

It was as though his eye were diamond-hard. The arrow pinged off, fluttered weakly away, and plunged into the torrid tide. Vinas allowed himself a small sigh of relief, though the magical amplification made it sound like an irritated snort. Just as well. The defensive enchantments had worked. Now he would test the offensive ones.

“You were warned,” Vinas said, his voice booming.

Vinas raised a hand toward the stunned, unmoving elf and splayed his fingers as if casting a spell. An illusory orange light gathered at his fingertips and then arced between him and the elf.

The archer was struck. His bow jolted from suddenly nerveless hands. His faced seemed to glow, and then his hair and clothes spontaneously caught fire. He appeared to deflate, becoming at last only gray cinders that sifted down from his vacant form like sand through an hourglass.

Just as suddenly, it was over. Only the ceaseless river remained. The magic had worked flawlessly. Nothing could harm the commander or his mount.

A deep rumble sounded in the forest beyond the river. Foliage crackled violently. A ballista bolt, large as a small tree, climbed free of the branches and soared up into the sky. It dragged along a severed twig of leaves that flapped in the wind.

Vinas held Courage steady beneath him and, as the bolt reached the apex of its flight and began descending directly toward them, he managed to proclaim, “Surrender to me, or die.”

The bolt hit, taking Vinas firmly in the chest. The sharpened end of the log splintered on impact and peeled back in whimsical curls. The bolt seemed to hover there a moment before splashing to the water.

Again Vinas lifted his hand and spread his fingers, almost casually this time. Orange sparks coalesced and sped outward, tracing the exact arc of the ballista bolt back to its source. The energy disappeared for a moment in the thick woodlands. Then came a pop and a roar. Flames leapt up above the treetops, flinging one hapless engineer from the ballista he had manned. The man plunged back to earth, burning, and crashed to the ground, among other flaming forms.

On marched Courage. A boulder was the next item to take flight. It turned, slow and massive, in its tumbling path, before it struck Vinas, and rolled easily off his back. Even as the water splashed up over him, Vinas flung his hand forward, and the magic of the sorcerers in the woods destroyed another war instrument.

The scatter shot flung from another catapult missed entirely. Either the engineers had not enough time to test the range, or they were terrified by the approaching commander. Vinas proudly thought it the latter. The point was moot as they and their machine burst into consuming fire.

Vinas was almost across now – one man and one horse routing the entrenched rebels. They gave away their positions with each frantic response. Their attacks were in vain. Each was answered by deadly magefire.

Courage climbed patiently up the rocky bed, rising until only his hooves were still in the water. Cold water sheeted off the horse’s sides. Feeling his own boots slosh, Vinas wondered how he would ever get the eighty-three wagons across. First things first.

Courage climbed the bank, snorting happily to be out of the frigid waters. Two more arrows flashed toward Vinas, only to ping off the horse’s hide and flip away harmlessly. The bowmen responsible were soon exterminated.

“I say again, surrender to me or die. You have seen I cannot be harmed, and that I can certainly harm. Heed my words and live!”

Another archer decided otherwise, and didn’t have time to regret his choice. He blazed away into nothingness.

As Courage trotted up among the trees, Vinas had to remind himself he was not truly invincible. The moment he was beyond the sight of the war wizards, they could no longer work their magic through him. And, as soon as he actually struck with sword or fist, his protections would be gone. He was a straw hero, as it were, intended merely to scare the daylights out of the attackers and flush them from hiding.

Vinas reined Courage to a halt, still within sight of the opposite bank. With an unconcerned air, he stood in the saddle and looked about. This invitation brought more attacks, as he had hoped. To each he raised a hand. Soon, the blazing rebel victims lit the underside of the forest.

Vinas knew he could not flush them all out. His ploy depended upon deception and fear. He must keep moving. Clenching his jaw, he rode forward. The last lines of sight between Vinas and his wizards disappeared.

“How many of you must I kill today?” It was the signal for the rest of the army to begin crossing, but Vinas spoke the words with true regret. Now, though, was no time for regrets.

“Surrender, all of you, or today you will die.”

*

“... must I kill today?”

Luccia turned to Gaias. “There’s the signal,” she said. “Good luck.”

Without another word, she touched Terraton’s flank. He lifted in a soundless rush into the crisp wind above the rapids. A second surge of wings, a third, and the tawny blur of muscle and feather climbed above the treetops, into an achingly bright sky

A sudden storm of arrows pelted past her. Feathers flew. Squawking, Terraton reeled higher. Luccia glimpsed a pair of secondary wing feathers tumbling toward the waters. The wound was not severe. Even now Terraton struggled against the wind and rose above the black hail that peppered the water below.

Gaias would not have an easy time of it, not with elven archers lining the bank. Vinas may have destroyed the war machines, but the elves could reek havoc with the army.

Shrieking defiantly, Terraton topped the rise. Well above bow shot, he flew over the forest.

Luccia looked straight down among the trees. She saw, beneath the thin leaves of summer, the running rebels. They were as thick and busy as ants.

No, Gaias would not have an easy time of it. Not at all.

She tugged on Terraton’s reins, directing him upstream. A mile north of the crossing, the main share of the griffon cavalry would be swooping on its prey. She intended to join them.

Luccia sent the griffon down in a long, soaring dive. His speed doubled and redoubled until the treetops flashed past. Miles were meaningless for creatures that could cross half of a realm in a day.

The clearing lay just ahead. The rebels had felled plenty of trees to make their logjam; they had razed a patch of forest large enough to construct a castle. Finding the spot had been easy for Luccia. It was pinpointed by Terraton hours before the Ergothian army had reached the riverbank.

The present task was proving equally easy. Scores of griffons and their riders dived into the clearing and rose again with talons holding wriggling, wingless forms – elves and men. The rebels were borne high into the air before being dropped. They hit the ground amid the stumps and rocks and bodies that littered the clearing. The griffons then dived again. When they came up, their wings shed red mists, a blood baptism that united their new victims with their old ones.

Anticipation riffled Terraton’s golden hide. He needlessly pumped his wings twice more before he went literally screaming into the fray.

The rim of trees rushed past as Terraton plunged.

Luccia had but a moment to glimpse the clearing – tangled bodies, crossbows glinting from cover, halfchopped trees, axes and saws spotted with blood, eagle-lions slamming to the ground and rending with beaks and claws.

Terraton snatched up a loose log and dropped it atop one archer. His hooked beak snapped the neck of a second. A maiming and a kill.

Eagle wings carried them in pursuit of a third soldier, fleeing. Talons gripped the man’s head. Terraton rose, the soldier thrashing below.

Luccia slapped the creature’s side. “Quick, not cruel,” she admonished. Her words were answered by a crunching sound, and stillness below. The griffon dived after another victim.

Victim, yes, Luccia realized. That’s what they are. Victims, not warriors.

She banished the thought. Vinas had forbidden such ideas. As Terraton dipped to snag another rebel, Luccia realized that victory over Vingaard could well cost all of them their souls.

*

Another flock of black-fletched arrows vaulted into the sky.

Gaias watched them come. He rode midstream with the fording forces. There was a moment left to glare toward the war wizards. Would they summon the flaming cloud in time? The shafts cut through gray air, turned, and rained down toward the laboring army. As the arrows began to descend, Gaias raised his shield and gritted his teeth.

“Shields!” shouted the veteran. “Shields!”

Overhead, a blue flash of lightning lit the sky. Orange motes in the blue field marked spots where arrows struck and sizzled away. As before, though, white-hot arrowheads tumbled through the field and hailed onto the troops. Above even the roar of the rapids came the sharp spack and hiss of hot rock against wet metal.

Most of the arrowheads bounced to one side or traced black brands along a horse’s stifle before plunging to dance in the turgid waters. Some, though, squarely struck flesh and burned inward, steaming blood away as they penetrated.

Damned mages, thought Gaias. Worthless protections, craven cowards, striking from safety.

As the sheet of lightning vanished and the last arrowheads cracked against shields, three more horses fell. They dragged their riders off the ford and into the depths. A cavalryman slumped from his horse. The triangular hole in his temple steamed as he plunged into the white waters. Another rider had fallen and gotten tangled in his stirrups. The man’s horse galloped frantically toward the far side, dragging the limp doll that had been its rider.

That horse had the idea. The sooner the first wave of cavalry struck land, the sooner they could bring steel against those fey archers.

“Forward, full-out!” cried Gaias.

He dropped his shield to his side and urged his mount to a trot. The others needed no encouragement. All of them wanted out of the icy sluice. The trot quickened as the bed grew shallow and the company of riders galloped toward the far shore.

More arrows leapt toward them. More sheets of lightning magic flashed into existence. The riders paid these little mind. One horse lost its footing and slid into a churning bowl of water. Two others fell to arrowheads or lucky shafts. Gaias’s squad was still ninety-some strong, though, and the main body climbed the far bank.

The mounts gratefully charged up the bank and away from the water. They fanned out into the dense brush. Cavalrymen hacked their swords through brush and elves alike. The bow fire faltered. Shafts darted among the trees, striking as many rebels as imperial soldiers.

“Cleanse the banks!” cried Gaias as his sword plunged among the trees. He hardly knew whether a given swipe slew an elf or struck a bush. The forest was too thick, and the archers’s disguises too expert. Moans and shouts and gouts of blood told him he crippled or killed plenty.

The other soldiers were doing at least as well. As elves fell dead to the ground, they became visible. Already they lay as numerous as boughs blown down in a storm.

Gaias felt a sting in his shoulder. He whirled, his blade cutting in half a rebel warrior who had stabbed him from behind. Silent in defeat, the climber crumpled beside Gaias’s horse. Gaias looked about, seeing other forms as sinewy as snakes making their way up the trees.

“They are climbing! Beware the trees!” shouted Gaias as he finished off another rebel.

His latest foe crashed to the ground and thrashed there, a leaf-shaped dagger clutched in his hand. The elf could have hamstrung his horse in the fall – Gaias would have – but elves respected horses... nature in general.

Gaias blinked grimly. They did not try to hobble the horses. He wondered, not for the first or last time, why in hell he fought for Ergoth.

Vinas had been right about such thoughts. Pointless. Destructive.

Jabbing another two elves, Gaias wheeled his steed to see how the infantry fared. Between the black-boled hawthorns, he glimpsed wave upon wave of foot soldiers, grimacing as they labored through the waist-deep, algid current. They dragged their shields beside them, unharried by further bow fire.

Gaias whirled away as he felt a slash to the jaw. It would have opened his throat if he had not glimpsed the blade in time to feint. His spiked elbow piece caught the elf’s face and sent him spinning flat toward the ground. Gaias cursed and spat, taking a moment to tamp his beard into the wound. Once this fight was done, he’d better shave.

At least we’ve stopped the bow fire, he thought as his horse stomped atop the crawling undergrowth. The infantry will arrive at any moment. They’ll take these bastards hand to hand, and free us to sweep inward, after Commander Solamnus.

The thought made him suddenly wonder what had become of their leader.

With a rattling crack, a ballista bolt tore through the canopy above. Gaias watched its arc. It trailed leaves as it plunged into the wading ranks of foot soldiers. The wide shaft impaled two men, and swept three others with them into the unforgiving current.

Gaias didn’t know where the commander was now, but knew where he would soon be.

*

In fury, Vinas dug his heels into Courage. The stallion trampled the man who had triggered the ballista. The spell of invulnerability would be gone from him now, but he no longer cared. Vinas leapt from the saddle onto the second rebel there. His sword flashed. It caught the man in the gut and pushed out the other side.

Rage welling, Vinas lifted the impaled rebel above his head and shouted, “I said kneel in surrender, or die!”

The four other rebel soldiers dropped immediately to their knees. Their blood-smudged faces implored Vinas. They stared with horror at the limp man who hung on his upraised sword.

This might have been just another calculated audacity, but Vinas knew it was not. He held the man aloft not to cow the rebels before him, but for the cruel pleasure of it. That realization disgusted him.

Vinas flung his arm downward. The rebel slid from his crimson blade and flopped on the ground. One of the survivors bent to retch. Vinas had to stay his sword from tasting that man’s flesh, too.

Before he could gather his thoughts to issue commands, the forest around was alive with stamping and snorting horses. Vinas blinked. It took him two breaths to recognize the blood-drenched livery of Ergoth. After a third, he noticed Gaias reining in before him.

Vinas planted the bloody tip of his blade in the ground and asked, “What news, Gaias?”

“All good, Commander,” said the veteran. One scarlet hand clutched a long wound along his jaw. “The infantry have taken the shoreline and are poking their swords into anything that moves. There will not be an elf left alive in fifty miles once this is done.”

“What of the losses?”

“Forty-some men, at my last count, and twelve horses. Of course I cannot guess how Luccia fares.”

“Well enough, I’m sure,” said Vinas. “Have these four taken prisoner and held for questioning. Then you and your best men come with me. We’ve a roadway to secure.”

“I need to oversee the rest of the crossing.”

“Yes,” agreed Vinas, “but let me have your best men.”

Gaias nodded. “The griffons should be freed up soon to bring the mages over.”

Vinas dragged his befouled blade across the ground as he returned to Courage. He mounted up. “Luce and hers will be there. Don’t worry.”

*

Luccia was sick to death of the slaughter. The rebels had had no chance. Yes, five griffons lay dead, and twice that many riders, but the rebel dead numbered in the hundreds.

She glanced one last time at the killing grounds. The only movement came from the sixty griffons perched among the bodies, waiting for her next orders. Some had been feeding at the end of the battle, but Luccia quickly stopped that. These were rebels, yes, but countrymen – humans and elves – all the same.

The battle was over.

“Colonel!” came a shout from the edge of the clearing.

Luccia turned to see a cavalryman struggling to keep his rearing, foaming horse from throwing him to the ground. “The enemy is in rout. Commander Solamnus orders you to pursue those who flee.”

“Pursue, or engage?” she shouted.

The horse wheeled, trying to bolt, but the man wrenched brutally on the reins, turning it in frantic circles. “Harry them. Kill half of them mercilessly. Let the others witness your deeds.”

“That’s what he said?” she asked in amazement.

“Word for word!” the man replied. He let his mount flee from the squadron of horse-eating monsters.

Luccia spat virulently, then shouted to her griffon-riders. “You heard what he said. Follow me. The killing’s not done yet.”

*

Erasmas lay wedged among the logs. He was numb from the chest down. Broken back, he realized calmly.

He hadn’t expected it to be like this – death, that is. He had thought it would be quick and hot and glorious. He had not thought he would lie among the frigid tide, one more useless log. Death was proving to be a terrific disappointment.

But war was worse. Much worse. He thought there would be honor in it. He thought he would stand with his side on one end of a field and await the enemy. He thought the two opponents would rush together almost as if to embrace, but instead to engage each other hand to hand, sword to sword. It was not supposed to be like this – chopping trees and hiding like plainsmen and getting tossed about by a bunch of eagle-lions.

He had believed in war, but father was right. War was nothing to be believed in.

There was the rebellion, too, of course. He’d believed in that once, hadn’t he?

Now, it was all gone. Now he’d die here in the shallows, cold and alone, among these logs. He hadn’t been afraid to die, but not this way, not without meaning.

Then he saw the wedge that held the logs in place. If that wedge were pulled out, he would be crushed by tons of wood as it rolled into the river.

But what of the damned imperials? What would happen to them?

*

In the center of the river, Gaias sat his horse. Beside him, the main share of the army’s eighty-three provisions wagons labored tediously across the stream.

The wagons were up to their buckboards in the white-devil flow. Some of the lighter ones had actually begun to float between the horse teams that anchored them. The progress was jolting and unnerving. Rocks that the horses stepped over would tip a wagon onto two wheels. If the handlers weren’t watchful, the wagon would capsize. They’d already lost three that way, eleven horses and four men with them.

“At this rate,” Gaias muttered to himself as he studied the chalky glow of the dying day, “the last wagons’ll roll through after dark.”

There was no threat now but the river itself. The woods had been purged of elves. The human rebels had been slaughtered except for some fifty, spared to regale their comrades with stories of Commander Solamnus’s horrific methods. Only the river and the failing day held any threat.

“What’s that – in the water?” shouted someone over the din of the current. “Oh, no! Move, damned horses! Move!”

Gaias wearily glanced toward the speaker. He followed the fingers pointing upstream. A school of large black fish bobbed excitedly among the rapids. Gaias blinked as he realized what the black fish truly were.

“Double time! Move!” he shouted to the teams in the center of the stream. Then he turned toward the southern bank. “Back! Get back!”

The words were needless. Many of the drivers had already seen the logs that rushed toward them. They lashed reins in the water and shouted harangues to their horse teams or to the other wagons blocking their way.

The first log lanced in, fast as a missile. It punched through the side of a wagon. The conveyance flipped. Its driver and cargo went with it. The wagon disappeared, but wrenched the log up out of the flood. Horses screamed, dragged down by their traces. Hooves churned in the froth. Only the log itself showed above the water. Then it, too, slid downstream into a deep spiral and was gone.

Gaias spurred his mount toward the spot, but was too late.

More logs crashed into the wagons, into the horses. Shrieks and thrashings, splintered wood and bone, wagons and men.... A wagon turned up on end, burying its driver before it flipped atop the lead horse team. A set of hooves rolled over in the tumbling waters. A log surged and struck the head from a man, then rested on his vacant shoulders.

All was suddenly cold and white. Gaias’s mount dropped beneath him. He went under.

Gaias gasped, sucking in a mouthful of water. His boots snagged the bottom, and he thrust himself up. The horse struggled against a tangle of wood and leather. A log swiped the beast sideways and flung it away.

Gaias stood. The water flowed past him as though he were some monolith. He held his own and watched as the main host of Ergoth’s supply train was smashed beneath a thousand hammer blows and borne away in splinters and broken bodies.

His own log came, finally. He knew it would. There was no escaping this terrible onslaught. It caught him in the side. He felt his ribs snap as it drove him into the rolling rapids.

He no longer fought against his fate. He watched the white bubbles float around him like sprites in some vast, innocuous dance. Even when the light gave way to deeps and darknesses, the bubbles did not seem malicious, only capricious. Great logs jumbled above him.

The bubbles tickled his broken ribs and his old fish belly. He let his last breath go in a hearty laugh.

Meus Pater

I obliterated them today, Father. Historians will look back at the Crossing, as it will henceforward be known, and recount how the elves lay like humus across the forest floor and the human rebels fled like hares before a pack of dogs. They will say that two thousand traitors were slain today, ten times the honored dead of Ergoth. I have learned enough about how histories are written to know what they will say.

Even my greatest loss – sixty-four of my eighty-three supply wagons – will be seen as a necessary chastening of the young Ergothian commander. It will be told how Vinas Solamnus addressed his division, saying he had not accepted the loss of the wagons and had decided it was their duty to take back from the land of Vingaard tenfold what that land had stolen from them.

That’s what the histories will say. They will speak of the glorious victory at the Crossing.

These small losses have given me the tool by which to turn my division into a gods-justified pillaging machine. We will despoil Vingaard and bring it to its knees before the castle walls are even in sight.

But what of that which has been lost? What of nobility and purpose? What of honest valor and innocence?

I impaled a man today and held him aloft on the end of my sword. I enjoyed watching him die.

How silly of me to think I would need to exaggerate the brutality of this force and its commander. If Vingaard learns only a quarter of our true depravity, they will surrender immediately.

I have lost everything in this victory. Even Gaias lies in a half-drowned stupor among the other wounded. Had Luccia not recognized his tunic, floating among the jam of logs, he would have been lost entirely. Titus does not know if the colonel will ever awaken.

Now, all that remains for me is the empty hope that I can end this brutal business as quickly as possible. I pray the slaughter will be atrocious enough that it will not be allowed to continue, one way or another.

My soul aches to lie in the grave, or if not that, to defeat these people so that then, under the auspices of victory and civil government, we can save them.

And save ourselves.

X

One Month Hence, 9 Hiddumont, 1199 Age of Light

They moved like a locust plague across the land. The fruits of summer were tom from tender branches. Bean pods were snatched up by handfuls. Cabbage heads were crunched raw or stowed in sacks or merely kicked loose to provide a moment’s diversion along the road. Corralled pigs were shot with Ergoth’s finest arrows, gutted and cleaned on the spot, and hung to swing beneath bending poles.

Vinas let the soldiers provision themselves – “glean” as the senators in Daltigoth would call it – but he didn’t let them turn into a mob. He kept them marching twenty abreast, letting them reap the adjacent farm fields without breaking ranks. The longer, more difficult tasks such as slaughtering livestock or securing “tributes” of bread and jerkied meats from farmers, were assigned to select teams. Vinas also made certain that the village women gathered were willing and well paid for their services. No one was personally harmed – Vinas saw to that.

As to their livelihoods, well... the army was a lethal monster, and monsters must be fed, must be mollified until it is time again to fight.

In fact, his army had never stopped fighting. Each mile of this nowhere place gave them a new fight. After a three-week encampment while those who would heal did, the army had set out. They had marched more for lack of supplies than for any pressing need to advance. The advance had come slowly and with cost.

Not five miles north of the Crossing, which now saw little daylight owing to the clouds of carrion creatures that filled the sky, a platoon of scouts had run afoul of a hobgoblin nation. The scouts were in stew pots before Ergoth’s main army had reached the camp. Vinas had razed it to the ground. Some of the men now carried purses made of bugbear ears.

There had also been skirmishes at each town. Pitchfork militias would capture an outrider and ask questions and demand answers until the ground started shaking with twelve thousand feet. Those tongues that once wagged in rebellion now greeted the Ergothians gladly. The gifts of food and wine were readily accepted, along with the wagons the gifts had come in, and the horses that drew the wagons.

Occasionally, too, scouts would encounter the works of true rebels. Trees had been felled across the road. Slogans and threats had been scratched into the sides of barns. Traps had been hidden in potholes. For each handful the scouts caught and hanged along the way, there were many more making havoc ahead.

So went the petty battles of the advance. Sixteen soldiers lost their lives, as well as one horse maimed by a trap. The attrition was acceptable, given the decimated hobgoblin nation and the crowded gibbets that dotted the land.

Such were not really battles. The time for true fighting was coming again.

“Gather up,” Vinas said quietly as he directed Courage back onto the dirt track that served as a road.

Gaias, beside him, did not relay the message. His voice was still raspy from his near drowning. Another colonel nearby called out, “Gather up!”

The columns sharpened, moving out of the fields and onto the road. The whole snaking procession – two hundred rows of infantry with outriders to either side and scouts sweeping the land in a broad crescent – stretched for a mile.

Vinas looked ahead. The sloping farmlands gave way suddenly to gray thrusts of eroded stone. Ahead lay a canyon, where the second great battle would be fought.

“Gaias,” Commander Solamnus said softly.

“Yes, Commander,” Gaias rasped.

“I will ride ahead to that ridge. Bring the men to me there. Bring them to the bowl of land beneath the ridge. I want to speak to them.”

He did not wait for acknowledgment of his orders, knowing it would come, but would likely be too strangled to be understood. Instead, Vinas slapped the reins once against Courage’s neck and charged away like a comet of dust.

*

Afternoon had graduated to evening before the whole division of Daltigoth could be gathered in the bowl to hear Vinas. He would need to speak quickly, forcefully, and then get them up from that death trap to the high, defensible ground.

The men looked savage in their strictly ordered ranks on the desolate bowl of land. They looked like a newly needled tattoo in a concavity of dying flesh. The sun westered behind the army, already beginning its veil-dance of setting. Gossamer garments and ribbons of fuchsia and lavender spun slowly about its swollen heat. Behind Vinas, a curtain of indigo rose to fill the sky. Not a star showed in it.

Vinas drew a deep breath. He stepped to the edge of the precipice. Behind him, Gaias tensed. There came the subtle stirrings of magic as a war wizard cast the spell for vocal augmentation.

Ergoth, I speak to you. You – soldiers and cavalrymen, griffon-riders and scouts, war wizards and colonels – you are Ergoth. We are Ergoth. We are the best and bravest. We are the fighting arm of our nation. Before us is the task of defending, of avenging, the mind and heart of Ergoth. If we fail in this terrific task, whether we fail in might or nerve, our Ergoth will fail. If, though, we triumph, Ergoth will triumph.

The nation lies not in Daltigoth, not in the heartlands or the plains beside the Turbidus Sea. Ergoth stands before me.

A cheer went up, signaled by Chancellor Titus, who directed the six-thousand-throated cry like a trumpet marshal signaling heralds. As quickly as it had started, the cheer died. For some time, its ghost echoed down the canyon.

And Ergoth faces its greatest threat yet. It lies there, ahead of us.

He gestured to the dark rift. The Vingaard River had carved it through stone over the millennia. Vinas considered how old that desolate place was, how the basin where his division stood was, some centuries ago, the bottom of an inland sea.

The scouts who went in on foot have not returned. The griffon scouts that flew above the rift say it is miles and miles long, that no other way leads through these badlands, and that the vermin of Vingaard could hide like goblins in a thousand thousand bolt holes.

And they do hide. It is not law or civilization that they champion. It is chaos and squalid tribalism. They disdain the blind eyes and fair hands of Justice, preferring despotism and the tyranny of tiny men.

There is no more heavy infantry, light infantry. There is no more infantry and cavalry. There is no more horse and griffon. There is only Ergoth. No more shall we fight as separate weapons in separate hands, but now as a single weapons master.

Ergoth will march through this death trap, we, all together. The scouts will march atop the plateaus, watching for enemies. If danger approaches, they will shoot a flaming arrow straight into the air to warn us all.

The griffon-riders and war wizards will patrol the rims, within sight of the scouts and the army below. Should attack come from the plateau or from the caves, the griffon-mounted wizards will rain fire and lightning down upon the heads of our enemy.

The cavalry will surround the infantry, marching at the head and tail and flanks of the division. Where possible, they will ride up the foothills of the canyon and cleanse the caves there of man or beast.

The infantry will march in the center of the company, shields ready and swords sheathed.

And when they bring us this fight, which surely they shall, we will fight like Ergothians, and they will die like dogs.

Titus did not need to direct the ovation that answered that proclamation, and if any rebels were encamped within the deceptive folds of that canyon, they no doubt heard the stirring words.

*

That night, Vinas summoned his advisors to the command tent. By turns, they arrived out of the watchful darkness of sleeping soldiers and bivouacs. Each advisor arrived sober-faced and sleepy, wondering what new gravity awaited them. Each was met at the tent flap by a giddy young man whom, only after blinking a couple of times, they recognized as their commander.

“Come in, come in,” Vinas said to each newcomer.

Instead of the road-stale armor, Ergothian tunic and tabard, he now wore a clean white tunic and homespun breeches. These were the greatest of extravagances on the road, especially given that most of the spare clothes had been swept away with the wagons.

“What are you doing, crusted in dirt and wearing your armor?” he asked, incredulous. “I’ve called you here to celebrate!”

“Celebrate what?” they each had responded.

“Celebrate the end of all things,” he replied, his voice loud and joyous. “When, tomorrow, we march through that cleft, we will either be slain – each last one of us – or we will emerge from the other side, victorious. Either way, all the old things will be gone!”

After listening to Vinas’s litany, Gaias blinked uncomprehendingly at his commander and said, “You, Sir, are drunk.”

Titus asked jovially, “You’ve been hiding brandy from the priesthood again, haven’t you? Where is it?”

Vinas gave his greeting to the perpetually befuddled war wizard Duece, and the man responded, “What sort of nonsense is this for the middle of the night?”

The scout Destrias merely shrugged and said, “I couldn’t sleep, anyway.”

Even Barnabas and Anistas, the young man from Hellas’s ill-fated troop and the healer who had set him aright, were invited. “We thought we heard a party,” they said in unison.

And, finally Vinas greeted Luccia, who only looked in stunned puzzlement at him.

“Here,” he said to her, “let me help you with that armor.”

His hands, large yet always dexterous, worked free a shoulder guard, revealing a line of brown grit across the freckled shoulder beneath. He studied the line, then drew a finger across it, leaving a bare streak of skin.

“Luce! No wonder I didn’t recognize you,” he said, gazing into her eyes, “you looked so tan.” Laughter came from the other revelers, who were readily sampling the commander’s private stock of libations.

Luccia ignored them. She returned Vinas’s searching look, though her eyes were not lit with the same merriment. “I’ve had trouble recognizing you, too, of late.”

Vinas nodded once and smiled thinly.

He broke contact and drifted back among the others. His figure was as lithe and graceful as it had been eighteen years before, in the alley behind his father’s estate. With his tousled hair, twinkling eyes, and insistent smile, this older Vinas was looking much like the younger one.

“Join us, Colonel,” he said to Luccia. “We were just trying to decide whether to invite the rebels in for a drink.”

She lifted the shoulder guard and began to fasten it back in place. “I’m glad to be just ahead of them on the guest list,” she said.

Vinas gestured her toward a seat that, right then, did look clean and comfortable. Precious little looked that way anymore.

As she passed him and took the proffered camp chair, Vinas said, “We are trying to decide whether it would be faster and less expensive to lure Vingaard back with festivals, or smash it with arms.”

Titus, who looked a bit unpriestly with his red nose and wet smile, lifted a partially drained glass. “I lean toward the festivals,” the gigantic priest said. “To pay eighteen thousand men, or the widows and families of eighteen thousand men, is no small expense. Wouldn’t the money be better spent on a great celebration? And we are not just paying these men, but clothing them and feeding them and provisioning them. Take that money and use it to make Ergoth the loveliest empire in Ansalon, not the cruelest, and Vingaard and everyone else will be climbing over each other to join.” The word “loveliest” was said a little too lushly, and it brought a laugh from the other guests. “So, if you agree with me – if you smile like me instead of frowning like our more warmongering companions – come sit here and help me argue.”

Luccia regarded the grand man of the church. Titus looked now more like a tame bear than ever before. “Your argument is at least pleasant,” she observed, not moving from her seat.

Barnabas, the sniper youth rescued from Hellas’s band, said, “Don’t be fooled by his simpleton smirk. The fact is that Ergoth feeds and clothes and pays and provisions these men whether or not they fight. The money is not sitting there for this world festival of his. The emperor would have to dismiss us all and dissolve his armies to hold such a feast.”

“Not all his armies,” objected Titus loudly, then added under his breath, “not those of us who can cook.”

More laughter. It was a musical sound on that savage plateau.

Even laconic Gaias was getting into the spirit; the spirits reciprocated. “A festival would reward treachery.”

The others turned to him.

Vinas, reflective behind a chalice, said, “How do you mean?”

Gaias swallowed. “Vingaard has rebelled. If you throw a feast for anyone who rebels, everyone will.”

Titus responded, “Perhaps. Perhaps it is too late for Vingaard. But if the empire were a wondrous thing to belong to, who would ever leave it?”

“In other words, who willingly stays in a prison?” Vinas said. “And who willingly leaves a feast?”

“Precisely,” said Titus, raising his glass to toast Vinas’s words. “And I would imagine it takes more money to guard, feed, clothe, and shelter prisoners than it would to throw a feast for the same folk.”

“And no one gets killed at a feast,” said Luccia quietly.

“Well,” Anistas observed, “not if the food is good.”

Amidst the chuckling, Gaias said, “But Vingaard has committed treason. We must be punitive. If we do not punish them for leaving, others will follow.”

“And who could blame them?” burst Titus. “Daltigoth is five hundred miles away on foot, two thousand miles by sea and five hundred thousand as far as any peasant can determine. They are taxed into starvation, into extinction; their food is stolen from them and sold back to them at a dear ransom; the senate and the emperor are deaf to their pleas; and ogres and bugbears only cease their pillaging when tax armies come marching by. We – the rich and priestly elite – have harvested the peasants as though they were wheat, whacking off their heads with the certainty that more will grow back to replace the ones we eat, and we dare call it treason when they stand up and say, ‘No more’?”

Titus had said too much. He knew it and so did everyone else. The silence in the wake of his rant was broken only when the priest himself swallowed the last of his spirits. He struggled to stand. “Well, I suppose I should be going. I don’t want to ruin the night for the rest of you.” He wobbled toward the tent flap, stopping only long enough to lay a massive hand on Vinas’s shoulder. “Lovely party, Commander. We’ll have to have another one like it in Vingaard Keep.”

Then, the giant was out of the tent.

The forced lightheartedness had left with the bombastic priest. Even Vinas Solamnus looked old again, his shoulders perceptibly sunken. His skin was lined and dull in the lantern light.

The others departed soon after, more sober than when they had arrived. At last it was only Luccia and Vinas, sitting silently across from each other, staring into distances far beyond the tent’s walls.

Luccia said, “I should be going. It’s an early start tomorrow.”

“Don’t,” said Vinas simply, his gaze lifting to meet her eyes for the first time since she had entered. “Not yet. Sit awhile more.”

Her brow beetled. “We aren’t even talking, Vinas.”

“I know,” he said with a nod. “But stay, anyway, Luce, for old times.”

*

After the night of whimsy came a grim morning. Rank on rank, the soldiers filed down into the basin and took their posts. Colonels and captains rode among the soldiers and gave orders. Spells, arrows, rocks, even bodies would be raining down upon them soon.

Banners snapping, the army was arrayed. Cavalry formed a long, thin envelope around the infantry. Beyond the cavalry, griffons flexed their wings, orange and flame-bright in the early morning air. Half the scouts were already in place, atop the eastern ridges and plotting their trail across the broken and forbidding terrain. The other half were climbing up the eastern edge of the canyon. They would no sooner top the rise than they would set out at a run to keep pace with the advancing lines.

As usual, Commander Solamnus had asked Chancellor Titus to bear his standard, and Colonel Luccia to remain close at hand, ostensibly to relay his orders.

“He wants you here to save him,” Chancellor Titus joked with Luccia as she mounted her steed next to him.

“If I know Vinas,” she returned, “he wants me here so he can save me.”

“Or, perhaps, kiss you,” the priest replied.

It was just then that Vinas rode up. Courage shifted nervously beneath him. The commander’s eyes were sharp, staring into the distance, checking his troops. Something caught his eye. Just before he charged away, he said, “If we reach the other side today, Titus, I’d kiss even you.”

Then with a rumble of hooves, he and Courage sped away. In a breath, the horse was kicking up dust along a distant line of infantry, and Vinas was barking orders.

“He does love you,” Titus murmured.

“What?” asked Luccia irritably.

“He does love you,” the priest repeated. “He’s just become too much of a warrior to know how to show it.”

She breathed deeply, untangling the reins from Terraton’s mane. “He’ll have to learn,” she replied, then nudged the griffon’s side with her heels. There was a great surge of wings, and they lifted away.

The swirling dust had not yet settled when Vinas, all clanking armor, halted Courage next to Titus. Through gritted teeth, the commander asked, “Where’s Luce? I ordered her to stay close.”

“Ah,” said Titus, gently mocking, “so that’s the problem.”

Vinas glared at his longtime friend and said, “The road has certainly loosened your tongue, Priest.”

“Yes,” agreed Titus. “Strange that it has tightened yours.”

Instead of responding, Vinas tilted his head back and shaded his eyes from the robin’s egg sky. He glimpsed Luccia, a darting flame of orange in the distance.

“She’ll be back. I’ve no time to wait.”

Under his breath, Titus said, “That seems to be the problem in a nutshell.”

“Forward!” commanded Vinas.

“Forward!” cried Gaias, his voice ragged.

“Forward!” The shout rang down the lines. The wide and anxious eyes of the men then drew into determined slits as they took their first steps into the chasm.

*

Luccia had not returned. She had not reported in. She had sent other griffon riders periodically down to tell Vinas what they had encountered – nothing – but she had not bothered to come herself.

It riled Vinas. Perhaps she was fulfilling the letter of his order – to provide him with updates from the ridge – but he had meant that she do it personally, not send lackeys. Already, the division had marched three miles into the chasm. No attacks had come in that nail-biting hour, but every soldier was on edge, especially the commander.

“Another five miles to go, Commander,” said the latest lad dispatched by Luccia. He looked no older than fourteen as he sat astride his flapping steed. “I’m pleased to report we have sighted none of the enemy.”

“Thank you,” said Vinas distractedly.

The lad kept his griffon hovering beside a fidgeting Courage.

Vinas barked, “Well, away with you!”

No sooner had the messenger arrowed steeply away than Vinas rounded a comer to see an army.

The army of Vingaard.

They were a mile ahead, a slowly marching rabble in mismatched and filthy armor. Their war-horses were little more than plow pullers, but they were there, and by the thousands.

“You see them, don’t you?” Vinas hissed to Gaias and Titus as he signaled a halt.

The soundless signal passed back among the ranks, and the war worm slowly compressed to a stop.

Gaias said, “Preserve me, but I do.”

Titus shook his head in disbelief. “Why didn’t the scouts see them?”

“Enemy war wizards,” Gaias offered, “I suspect.”

“What are they doing here in such force? On the march? Why aren’t they dug in?” Vinas wondered aloud.

“They’re invading,” Gaias answered quietly.

Vinas was dumbfounded. “Invading? They have the gall to break away from Ergoth and then send an invasion force across the border?”

“So it would seem,” Gaias commented.

“Heavy horses – bring them,” Vinas ordered a young colonel beside him. “Bring a company of them. I will lead them myself.”

The colonel spurred his steed to rush back among the lines.

“Let the colonel lead,” Titus said. “We’re still weeks out of Vingaard Keep. There’ll be more important charges.”

“No, friend,” Vinas responded. “This time you are wrong. If we lose this battle, we lose the war. If we lose, they will march straight to Daltigoth. Besides, I’ve a feeling a determined corps of lancers could smash through them as though they were made of paper.”

“Remember our straw man attack at the Crossing?” Titus asked. “This could be the same trap.”

Vinas laughed. “You give them too much credit. Ah, here are my lancers now.”

He rode Courage out to meet the heavy horse company that thundered up between the main army and the river. Vinas reined in, staring at them with excitement in his eyes.

“There they are, men,” he said. “The warriors of Vingaard. I’d not thought we’d ever get a true charge of heavy horse. I thought they’d be hiding in caves or in the keep itself, but here they are and here we are.

“A lance!” he called. One of the riders handed his over. Vinas tested its heft, looked at it admiringly, and set its butt against his hip. “I myself will lead you in this charge. We’ll rip the belly out of that division with the first blow. Drive in with lances and continue on with swords. The infantry will follow at a run. We’ll not stop until we tear through their ranks.”

A cheer went up. Vinas wheeled Courage about and gave a bloodcurdling whoop. Courage leapt into the charge and the other mounts responded in kind. Dust rose thick behind the company. The horses formed into a V-shaped line of attack. At the apex of that wedge, Commander Solamnus drove Courage.

The cavalry crossed beds of packed earth, clattered over shelves of shale scree, splashed through little black pools, and vaulted the brush that clung here and there to the shadowed stones. Hooves sparking, the horses dropped down again onto an embankment of packed ground that was flat between the sheer wall and the tumbling Vingaard River.

An enemy charge was lumbering out to meet them. Shoeless horses thumped beneath toothless bumpkins. Half of them wielded flails and rakes instead of spears or lances.

They will splinter and drift away on the wind, these scarecrow soldiers, thought Vinas, his heart drumming in his chest.

He lowered his lance. The other riders followed suit.

Genocide. Quick, not cruel. That was the kindest way to describe it.

An orange comet roared by overhead. Vinas looked up just in time to see Luccia and Terraton dive to attack the infantry. Good. Her cavalry would harass them from the skies, too.

No more time for watching. One heartbeat, two... The ranks closed.

Impact. Vinas’s lance caught a man in the chest, ripped through him, and flung him backward atop a farmer. Vinas loosed the cracked wood, won free, and drew steel.

Before his sword cleared its scabbard, more lances struck home. One impaled a man’s head like a plump melon. Another slid beneath a horse’s barding and cut a wide, messy hole through its shoulder and into its flank. With every lance, there came a scream from man or beast, a splintering crack from the lance, and the inevitable throes of death.

All Vinas’s men were still mounted. All had forsaken lances for swords. All waded in, hacking and hewing. Limbs and heads flew, bodies fountained, torsos flopped to the ground. The shouts of the Ergothians and screams of their foes mixed in a high, haunting skirl, like the devil song of pipes.

Vinas had downed three already – yokels, these. His sword sliced through the haft of an axe meant for him. The axe head spun past like a taloned bird. He split the man down the middle. Giving no quarter, Vinas drove Courage into the man’s brown plow horse, shouldered past the panicked beast, and knocked a dying farmer to the ground.

Beyond were more potential victims. The whole swale was packed with them, from the dispassionate cliffs to the turbid Vin. They had come to die. They had come, these amateurs, against overwhelming forces and weapons, and why? Why? Because Vinas was invading their home.

He brought his sword clattering down. It met a blade. The notch-toothed warrior who wielded the weapon had muscle to him, bulk and power. Vinas parried a well-aimed attack, the first time he had needed to exert himself in this battle. Sword met sword and ground together like troubled teeth. Three more blows and blocks. Vinas saw the tide of rebel footmen – the treasonous vermin – sweeping in behind the thinning line of cavalry. He glanced in the other direction and saw his own troops arriving at perhaps twice the pace.

He felt a sting at his neck and with it the warmth of blood. Vinas whirled in a fury and lopped the warrior’s bearded head from his shoulders.

Gaias will be here in moments, he thought, and waded into the crimson fray.

*

Gaias cantered his mount, leading the infantry toward the fight. They came down a slope of shattered shale, heading for the hoof-marked flats where the two sides clashed. Soon, the foot soldiers would meet, too, and the fighting would be man-to-man.

It seemed strange to the old soldier to ride into battle rather than walk. Stranger still – to ride so slowly.

He led the charge because Vinas was already lost in the fighting. The commander was forever placing himself in the greatest danger, and leaving his colonels and lieutenants to make sure of the troops. It was bad leadership, Gaias would have said, except that it had always worked. Vinas was the greatest leader he had ever known.

They came upon a portion of packed ground and jogged on toward the hoof-torn soil of the cavalry fight.

“Charge!” shouted Gaias, raising his sword in the air.

Those men who had not yet drawn steel did so now. The six thousand upraised swords gleamed like cold, blue stars fallen from heaven. The charge neared the battle line. Gaias wished he was standing on his own feet. Too late for regrets.

With a racket like the blows of a thousand hammers on a thousand anvils, the warriors converged.

Gaias and his mount lunged among the trampled dead and the similarly trampled living. At first, the only work to be done was pushing past the milling remnants of cavalry battle. Gaias charged among the thin crop of whirling Ergothian swords, ducked beneath a broken lance wedged in a fallen horse, vaulted the central midden and shattered bone and blood where the first and most had fallen. Then he was among the rabble soldiers.

The horse struck ground atop a mob, killing two with hooves alone. But those two had their revenge. A crack came, like splitting wood. The horse shrieked and toppled over its broken leg, bearing Gaias atop it.

He was flung from the saddle and bowled into the putrid mob. He landed, and slew two beneath him as he levered himself to his feet. He had enough presence of mind to clamber over his foundering, rolling horse. His blade swept a silver arc, and the beast stilled atop crushed warriors.

Gaias whirled. He chopped a wedge from one blond-haired wretch. As his sword pulled free of the falling form and he set his feet to repel another foe, Gaias thought, I should not be given a third horse.

*

Griffons shrieked through the skies. They flew down to engage the aerial squads of Vingaard.

Vingaard’s armored, black-swathed villains sat astride red, flying fiends. The fiend bodies were the size of a man’s, but their arms were spread in wings of skin that could easily shadow a dozen horses. The heads of the creatures were birdlike, with scaly craniums that reached back in long spikes toward their riders. Their attenuated, toothy beaks released the most otherworldly and bone-chilling cries the riders had ever heard.

“Pteradons” was the name one man had muttered.

Bodies rained down from the sky battle – tawny eagle-lions, black-robed pteradon-riders, reeling Ergothians, and the unholy red flesh of the monstrosities, too. And when bodies fell, they landed on more bodies, dead or otherwise.

The canyon was quickly becoming a slaughterhouse. It seemed not a soul would survive.

*

“Come over here,” insisted Jerome, a young, red-robed apprentice. “The ground over here sounds hollow.” He stamped his foot again on the rocky escarpment.

“You ever heard of hollow granite?” chided one of his companions, a mage with at least six month’s seniority. He stood a stone’s throw away. He and the other war wizards avidly showered the enemy with lightning bolts, magic missiles, and whatever else they could conjure. “There’s a full-scale battle going on down there, and you’re worried about hollow rocks.”

Jerome waited until his companion had turned around before sneering. He was worried about the battle. Granite wasn’t hollow, but this ground was. So, this ground obviously wasn’t granite. If it wasn’t granite, what was it?

Jerome had very few spells but he knew one that could dispel magic and might just do the trick. Cracking his knuckles, Jerome made the requisite gestures, directed his casting toward the hollow-seeming ground, and spoke a word of power. In a flash, the cloaking spell vanished. Granite disappeared beneath him. A chasm opened up in its place – a deep chasm that intersected the one where the battle was taking place. Its bottom was lined with white-robed mages.

Mages!

That was all Jerome had time to see before he tumbled, head over heels. He let out a scream. His featherfall spell kicked in, and he went from plummeting to wafting. A very nice spell. As well as saving his life, it gave him a chance to see what the white-robed wizards were doing.

They were linked together in a long chain, their arms intertwined. Mouths moved in a rhythmic chant, and something that looked like quicksilver sweated from their pores. The liquid flowed over their bodies, streaming toward the main chasm. Halfway down the line, the wizards were completely covered in the liquid so that they looked like polished statues instead of men. Three quarters of the way down the line, the mercuric magic streamed up from the mages, forming into a wall that cut across the canyon.

“A mirror,” Jerome realized suddenly. “Some kind of magic mirror.” He wasn’t sure what the mirror had to do with the battle, but he knew what he ought to do to get rid of it: break the mages’ concentration. He began the gestures of a spell.

They’d not laugh at Jerome when they found out he single-handedly won the battle of the chasm by his clever use of a stinking cloud. Oh, the ribbing he’d received for learning that one!

*

Vinas had just driven his sword into the heart of a pitchfork-swinging farmer when the man transformed before his eyes. Where once there had been ratty, befouled sackcloth, now there was a tabard bearing the insignia of Ergoth. Where once there had been a bloated, stubbled face, now there was a young, beardless visage with dead eyes so blue they seemed to be white.

Vinas stared in surprise and drew back. Courage trampled bodies beneath. Those bodies, too, wore the livery of Ergoth’s army. He spun in the saddle, eyes sweeping across the battlefield. Not a Solanthian was in sight. Ergothian fought Ergothian, each swinging blindly, savagely, at the other.

Then, in an all-too-slow wave, the fighting faltered and stopped. The survivors stood, still and silent. They gaped at the ruin of their comrades, at the piled bodies of Ergoth’s dead. Pteradons had transformed into griffons, Solanthian colors into the red and black of Ergoth, slain foes into murdered friends.

As though slain himself, Vinas slumped from Courage and fell among the dead.

Meus Pater

I know her hand was in this – Phrygia’s hand. I know somehow she contrived, between the royal mage of Ergoth and some rebel sorcerer, to make my army destroy itself. Even so, the blame is not hers. The blame is all ours, all mine.

We battled only ourselves. How apt.

Whom do I fight for? The people of Ergoth? Certainly not. They are starving. They are suffocating beneath the boot on their necks, my boot. All the people of Ergoth wish for is the deliverance that Vingaard has claimed for itself, a deliverance I will be taking away from them.

I do not fight for the people of Ergoth, but for the Quisling Imperial Dynasty. No, not even that. The empress herself fights against me.

So, all that is left is Emann Quisling himself. That is who I fight for. Once I fought against him, in the bread troubles of Solanthus. Once I saved him from assassins. Had I only been slower that day, there would have been no battle today.

Two thousand men died today. Another two thousand are wounded, and why? Because they fight for Emann, one man against the people of Ansalon.

How strange that we war and die in a dispute that could be ended by one quick, sharp blade....

I do not pray to any god. Still, this night, as we survivors camp just beyond the rift, I have found myself over and over imploring Chemosh that those assassins might return and finish what they failed to do so many years ago. Such things would be so easy for the gods.

Still, while Emann lives, I serve him.

We will remain here as long as the scouts call it safe. We will repair and heal and muster. Then, it will be time to advance to the walls of Vingaard – not just this division of four thousand, but II Redroth’s six thousand and III Caergoth’s six thousand.

We will take Vingaard however it proves necessary – whole, if it surrenders, or in fragments of soot and bone and dust if it does not.

Father, I trust myself now to the pragmatism that served you so well. I only hope that at the end of this road of skulls, I will find one tenth the wisdom you had.

XI

Two Weeks Hence, 23 Hiddumont, 1199. Age of Light

The healing was done, and Vinas’s army marched north toward Vingaard Keep. No enemies had been sighted since the mirror battle. The scouts espied only farmers and millers, priests and children. For a land under attack by three separate armies from the most powerful empire in the world, Vingaard looked strangely oblivious. Bucolic, even.

Even in these northern climes, though, summer was ending. That was as much a reason for marching as any. There was no more time for napping in indolent heat and tramping to the nearby lake to fish and swim. Already, such pastimes had softened the soldiers, made them more like farm boys than conquerors.

Vinas led Courage along the straight, flat rows of wheat, letting the proud steed occasionally snap a few grains to crunch as they passed. Gaias limped along next to him without a mount. Despite a wounded hamstring, the man refused to ride a horse – unwilling to “condemn another noble beast to death.” Nor would he quit the front ranks to ride in a wagon. He wanted to remain beside his commander, providing counsel.

“I don’t like it,” muttered Vinas. He gestured about at the countryside of early autumn.

“What don’t you like about it?” Gaias asked, a twinkle beneath gray eyebrows. “Are the fields too lush? Is the sky too blue? Is the sun too bright?”

Vinas glanced upward at the cloudless sky, occupied by only a friendly summer sun and the flocks of Ergothian griffons, watching for enemies.

“All of that, and more,” Vinas said. “I feel like we’ve passed into some fairy realm. We are being lulled by a beautiful and lethal dream. Look at the men. Look at them!”

Gaias didn’t – he was too busy hobbling along – but Vinas did.

The soldiers did not march in columns or rows, but in an undisciplined mass. One of the colonels with a gifted voice had started leading his boys in marching songs. When those ran out, he had switched to tavern tunes, and the company careered across the road as if drunk. Others whistled. Half the men had stems of grass hanging from their teeth. Some even walked barefoot on the soft, cool grass.

Vinas snarled, “They aren’t ready to fight. Not one of them has got a killing heart left.”

“Well,” volunteered Titus unhelpfully, strolling along behind the warriors, “it’s your job to put hatred and fear in them. Go back and take one of the barefoot ones, one of the singers and one of the whistlers, and hang them. That’ll whip the others into line.”

Vinas shook his head. “Exactly. That’s what I’d have to do.”

Titus strode up beside them, taking one step for each of their two. “Why whip them in line? There’s not an army between here and the castle. Let them stroll awhile. We’ll have plenty of fear and hatred up the road a little.”

“Even if there was a less drastic way, I’m not sure I’d do anything right now,” Vinas said, “I just don’t have the heart for it anymore....”

“Or, maybe, you do have the heart, once again,” Titus observed.

As they neared the end of a tall field of wheat, Vinas noticed a farmer leaning on a fieldstone wall. The man smoked a pipe and squinted at them in the bright sun. He seemed to be interested in the army, amused even, but not the slightest bit afraid.

“Ho, there!” Vinas called, his hand ready beside his sword. “What news?”

The farmer’s face, the color and texture of supple leather, quirked for a moment. He thoughtfully spit and said, “Wheat’s done good this year.”

Vinas and Gaias traded incredulous glances. They had almost reached the man, whose gray-streaked black hair looked glossy like a horse’s tail. Vinas said, “Do you know who we are?”

The farmer tapped out the bowl of his pipe and used a chestnut-colored fingertip to tamp some more tobacco in place. “I suspect you’re that army everybody’s been saying is coming.”

With a hand signal, Vinas halted the army. The soldiers, singing or talking or chewing, were slow to respond. They bunched up as though all four thousand of them were listening in on the conversation.

“We’re from Ergoth,” Vinas explained. “We’ve come to take back the keep.”

The farmer spent a moment relighting his pipe, then said, “I figured you boys’d be coming. Too good to last.”

Seizing on this first hint of animosity, if not treason, Vinas said, “So, you would rather we’d stayed away?”

The farmer blinked as he pondered that statement. He let out two big bluish puffs of smoke, and said, “If you mean would I rather feed my family than starve them, yes, I suppose I would.”

Despite a warning look from Gaias, and despite the strong sense that in fact all four thousand men were listening, Vinas pressed, “And the other farmers hereabouts – they also would rather be ruled from Vingaard than from Daltigoth?”

“Look, Captain —”

“Commander,” Vinas corrected.

“— we don’t care who’s ruling us as long as we get a fair shake, as long as we aren’t getting robbed and cheated and sold and taxed and stomped every which way to Gileadai. I don’t know nothing about rulers and armies and all that. I know just about raising wheat and pigs and sons and daughters, and all I know is this season, ever since the ones in the castle said we’re free, all that raising has been going lots better.”

The response poised on Vinas’s tongue dissolved away into a bitter powder. He only stood there, mouth hanging open.

“Now, you’re the one who knows about rulers and armies, which is why you’re here, and why you’re going to take back that keep. That’s all fine. You’ve got to do what you know about. All I’m saying is I hope when it’s you on that throne or whatever they have in there, that my wheat’s not going to be burned away or stolen from me and my kids aren’t going to be out poaching on royal lands and shot to death just because they are tired of being hungry all the time. That’s all.”

Vinas was barely able to prevent himself from doing a double take in front of his men. That, in some small way, was a victory. So was closing his mouth with a little dignity. Without another word, he signaled his army to proceed with the march.

As the troops filed quietly by, more than one of the soldiers gave the farmer a polite nod. He, stolidly smoking his pipe, returned the gesture.

*

One Week Hence, 30 Hiddumont, 1199 Age of Light

One fine, cold autumn morning, the three armies of Ergoth marched onto the plains that surrounded Vingaard Keep.

There had been a few scuffles en route; not all the residents were as obliging as the first farmer. The attacks, though, had amounted to no more than sporadic ambushes by tiny militia groups. These “patriots” now adorned gibbets on the river roads leading to the keep.

The fortification was more than a single keep. It included a garrison of one thousand men; the oldest chapel to Mishakal in western Ansalon; the largest grain mill in the area; a stockyard, abattoir, and smokehouse (which locals claimed held one hundred and fifty sides of beef and two hundred head of living cattle); a winery; and the palace residence of Vingaard’s current ruler – Antonias Leprus, scion of a long and unremarkable senatorial family. Put simply, the place was well-defended, and even better stocked.

“King” Antonias had apparently decided against sending even a single one of his thousand warriors out to parley with Commander Solamnus and his sixteen thousand. It was just as well. Ergoth would accept nothing short of unconditional surrender, and Commander Solamnus felt in the mood for a good execution. Antonias seemed to sense all of this. Though not a military man, he knew enough to let his walls keep the enemy out, while his own men were safely sequestered within.

The futile annoyance of militia attacks ceased once the castle was in sight. From there on, the soldiers had marched in grim, silent menace down the main thoroughfares, past shuttered windows and barred and bolted doors. In keeping with the old saying, each man in Vingaard treated his home as a castle. As long as the keep stood, the houses – public and private – would need to be captured one by one.

There would be time for that. Vinas planned a siege, not a storming. Not yet. He would send word to Daltigoth that the rebels were surrounded, and ask whether to starve them out, assault the defenses, or both. Until he had verifiable word back from the emperor, he would only wait. As he had said to Gaias, he had the heart for nothing else. As Gaias did not say back, neither did his men.

In time, the armies entirely encircled the keep, save for the rivers, of course, which were lined with marksmen. It was then that Antonias chose to address Vinas from the wall.

“Greetings, Countryman!” shouted the rebel lord, as though in welcome. He had long, dark hair that fell in ringlets about his head and a chiseled mustache and beard, worn in the style of the distant Istarians. He was a freethinking dandy, a rebel in more ways than one. “What brings you to Vingaard?”

“High treason,” Vinas responded.

“Oh,” said Antonias, and he paused for a sip from the wineglass he held, “that.”

“Yes, that, Senator,” Vinas said evenly.

Antonias smiled. “I always liked the sound of that title – senator. It’s so republican. Still, lately the folk hereabouts have been calling me king.”

“That, too, will be corrected,” Vinas said ominously.

Antonias sniffed. “It’s going to be a siege, then, is it?”

“Until men are coming up from holes in your cellars and climbing ladders over your battlements and rushing through breaches caused by siege engines – yes, until then, you can consider this a siege.”

“Well, then,” Antonias said, resuming his former tone of cheer, “settle in. You’ll find this a gracious land, not nearly as frigid in winter as your Daltigoth. If you ask nicely and promise to pay the standard fares, you may even coax some of the better pubs and inns to open. I’m afraid all the ransomable persons are already in the castle, here, along with the very best drama and dance troupes in Ansalon. The town of Vingaard, however, has plenty of folk musicians who might entertain —”

“The keep of Vingaard has plenty of gall to act so unconcerned in the face of sixteen thousand troops, including a company of griffon riders and another of war wizards, as well as an elite division of escalade forces —”

“It is no act,” interrupted Antonias lightly. “We are unconcerned. We have enough provisions to keep us comfortable for five years. We have our own war wizards, whose spells will keep you and your eagle-lions well enough away for that same period of time. And sapping into granite is hard work, I assure you. You see, we have more than enough time to wait for you to decide that the conquest on which you are bent is ill-considered, at best, and perhaps even demonic.”

He paused for a response, but Vinas said nothing.

“Thank you for this parley,” said Antonias. “I must admit I have heard some amazing stories about the ruthless brutality of the great Vinas Solamnus, and so far, you have lived up to my expectations.”

With that, the so-called king turned and disappeared among the battlements, leaving Vinas standing and staring toward a darkening sky.

*

That night, Commander Solamnus did not host a lighthearted gathering of his advisors. His staffers did not assemble to discuss the imperial favors sure to be granted.

Despite the hubbub among the fighting men, the tent of Commander Solamnus was quiet. The only sound in it came from the scratch of a pen on vellum. The commander himself sat beside the map table and labored over a message to the emperor.

Vinas glanced away from the page and the twisted black lines that coiled across it. He seemed to stare straight through the slowly wafting canvas of the tent, eyes focused on some distant, unattainable object.

The camp chair creaked as he leaned heavily back into it. Lifting the letter up to his eyes, he read what he had written so far:

From Vinas Solamnus,

Commander of the Armies of Ergoth,

To His Majesty, Emann Quisling,

Emperor of Ergoth.

Greetings,

We have them. I write to you from our encampment surrounding Vingaard Keep. We have won this position with the loss of two thousand of our troops. The remaining sixteen thousand will be more than enough to hold this siege, even to win a storming escalade of the walls. Given the possibility of the latter, I will assign teams of engineers to build siege engines. I await your orders to attack.

That’s where he had stopped writing. He did not need orders to attack. Vinas had been granted full discretion with the army. If he had commanded it, his armies would have thrown themselves against the walls the moment they gained the Vingaard plains. Perhaps this very night then, he would have been writing a very different letter from the blood-drenched throne of the self-styled king. It would have been a costly offensive, but by sheer force of numbers he could have taken the keep.

Such a precipitous attack would have been very wasteful of men. It was a good enough excuse to delay. In fact, Commander Solamnus hoped not to attack now or ever.

A sudden memory took hold of him:

He sat in the velvet safety of his father’s lap, a gilded storybook lying open on his own knees. Father’s voice, deep and mystical, tolled like a carillon in his ears. He heard no words, only felt the deep resonances of the illuminated manuscript: gold, red, blue, and green figures climbing the trellis of sentences.

There, in a margin the exact width of his father’s thumb, was a whole forest. The forest held a noble huntsman in a rose-colored cape. He stood, his feet pinned by the thumb, his hands patiently and expertly fitting a final arrow into his bow.

The rest of the huntsman’s arrows were deep in a wild boar. The beast was cornered at last. He could barely stand to charge. The huntsman had chased him through a riot of pages already, a trail Vinas saw again with a mere riffle of his child’s hand.

The boy’s other hand clamped down over his father’s thumb. “Enough,” Vinas said.

This was where the story ended. Only once had his father read what followed, how the boar with his last breath revealed himself to be the Enchanter of Gherigoth, the sorcerer whose spells had guarded the wondrous city of old; how the huntsman stayed his last arrow for a moment before knowing pity for the dying sorcerer; how the last arrow met the last breath and the boar perished, taking enchanted Gherigoth down into the underworld.

Vinas clutched his father’s thumb. The tolling of words faded away to silence. The boy drew the page closed.

The child wondered again, as he had so many times before, how a great huntsman could slay the ancient sorcerer. “How can a man so quickly and accidentally become a villain?”

“The fact that you even wonder means you are not a villain,” came a voice. The sound was so gentle and familiar, so natural, it seemed a part of Vinas’s remembrance.

Suddenly, he noticed Luccia sitting across the table from him. Her freckled face was mud-smudged and young in the dim glow of his lantern, as it had looked when first they had tried to join this damnable army. “At least not yet, Commander.” Luccia tried out a smile, but the truth of these last words soured her expression.

“Would you like to come in, Colonel Luccia?” he chided.

“When does the victory celebration begin?” she asked uncomfortably.

He tossed the vellum aside. “As soon as we have won,” he replied. “Perhaps never.”

At that, she laughed, a genuine laugh. “You’re Vinas Solamnus. You can’t help winning this battle.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. I will win, even if it costs me everything.”

Luccia breathed deeply. “I didn’t come here to talk about Vingaard —”

“Then, what?” he asked. “What else is there?”

She looked down, and seemed about to leave. After a visible exertion of will, she said, “There is one long siege you have never chosen to end, one fortress you have always held but never stormed.” She looked meaningfully at him. “And, I must say, you’ve starved me out. I’d like to discuss terms of surrender.”

He didn’t seem to hear. His sight was again upon that distant, unattainable goal.

Luccia shrugged, her confession bringing a flush to her face. Hoping to chase the embarrassment away, she bluffed, “I just thought seeing as we suddenly have so much time on our hands —”

“Luce, I’m sorry,” Vinas broke in distractedly. “I’m not going to be good company tonight. I guess I’d just rather be alone right now.”

She nodded, pursed her lips, then nodded again.

“You can be alone as long as you want. Perhaps forever.”

And she was gone.

*

Four Months Hence, 12 Rannmont, 1200 Age of Light

The scene was nearly the same. Commander Solamnus was slouched in the same camp chair, before the same map table. In the depths of the snowy winter, he wore a wolf pelt bunched up around cold-reddened ears. Vinas’s breath ghosted out golden from his full brown beard.

That golden mist merged with Luccia’s breaths. She sat beside him now, for sake of warmth.

The letter Vinas perused this time was not his own, but came from the emperor:

From His Highness, Emann Quisling,

Emperor of Ergoth,

To Vinas Solamnus,

Commander of the Armies of Ergoth.

Greetings,

I am pleased with the progress of the siege. With two feet of snow and frost down to three feet, I’m sure the buggers have no idea you are so near to sapping beneath the moat. The war wizard spells should make quick work of the granite bedrock. The towers should do well crossing the frozen moat. Your planning has been perfect to the last detail.

Be sure to bring me the head of that traitorous “King Antonias.” Have one of the wizards preserve it. Perhaps, it could even be kept magically alive. I’ve planned to have it stuffed and mounted among my other hunting trophies, but how much more fun if it is alive and gagged for eternity, eyes darting hatefully at me whenever I enter the room!

As to provisions, you’ve had more than enough. Let the men buy their own food in the taverns. Which brings me to the latest pay caravan. I’ve sent full pay only to the engineers, sappers, and officers. They are the only ones working. If the rest haven’t enough money to buy food, let them wash dishes for it. They’ve got the time to.

On a related note, do not discourage the rank and file from getting children with these Vingaard wenches. A woman can rule a man if all that joins them is their mutual appetite. Once a child is made, though, it is the man that rules. Then the woman needs him. What better way to win the peasants back to the empire than by plowing their women with our seed?

Keep your colonels, officers, and staff away from the native breeding stock, though. Among them, one strong-minded woman could mean treason.

“The pig,” said Luccia vehemently.

“I sense Phrygia’s hand in this, too,” Vinas said. He gazed for a moment at the closing lines of the letter, then folded it and shoved it into a satchel containing five other such uncompromising missives.

Luccia touched Vinas’s bearded chin and turned his face toward her. “You give too much thought to her. It makes me jealous.”

“Jealous of what?” asked Vinas. “I hate that woman. I hate her with a passion.”

“Passion, yes,” she replied. “You have more passion for her than for anyone else. What about me?”

Vinas stood and moved around the table to a small stove that smoldered in the corner of the tent. He rubbed his hands before the weak heat. “I don’t have to be obsessed with you. We’re friends. I’m sure of you.”

She crouched behind him, her hands on his shoulders. “Are you? Are you so sure?” she asked. “Let’s put it this way: when will you finally know this land is yours?”

He paused, an animal sensing a trap but unable to resist the bait. “When I sit in Antonias’s throne and watch the axeman behead him.”

“If you do that, this land will never be yours. You may rule it by might and law, but you will never command the heart of its people. They will rise again. They will eventually put you to the block. You might conquer the land, but you’d never own it.”

He turned, his cheeks reddened by the warmth of the stove. “What has this to do with my being sure of you?”

“Do you really know my heart? Do you really know your own heart?” she asked. She leaned swiftly in, kissed his lips, then drew back, her eyes studying his. “Well?”

Vinas’s face was red from more than just the fire. “You kissed me,” he said stupidly.

Luccia’s eyes were wide beneath a wry expression. “Recognition. It’s a start.” She kissed him again, more slowly, more passionately. “Is this what you are so sure of from me?”

“I’m s-suddenly not sure of anything,” he stammered.

She laughed. “You’re not even sure how it makes you feel?”

“My feelings and I are not on speaking terms. How else could I march up here to kill a —”

Luccia tenderly cradled his jaw. He leaned gently toward her, and their lips met. The third kiss was the longest.

When it was done, Vinas drew back from her and, with a solemnity that was almost comical, said, “I’ve always loved you. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, sliding against the warmth of his chest and wrapping arms around him. “Yes, I did. It’s about time you figured that out, too.”

*

One Month Hence, 15 Mishamont, 1200 Age of Light

When the ground was still frozen but the snow had thinned, the scene again was almost the same: same camp chair, same map table, same wolfskin – though now it wrapped both Vinas and Luccia.

The letter was not from Vinas or the emperor, but from Antonias, “king” of Vingaard. The note had arrived via an arrow shot from the battlements. It read, simply:

Let us parley, Vinas Solamnus. I invite you and ten of those you trust to dine with me this night in the keep. I, of course, swear upon my honor and the honor and soul o, f Vingaard that you and yours will be safe. If ýou accept this invitation, I will take it to mean that you swear likewise.

Tonight, at sixth watch, approach the castle along the southern road. Bring your ten and whatever personal weaponry you feel you must. Dinner will be served as soon as you arrive.

The letter was signed in the florid hand of Antonias, and it bore the seal of Vingaard. When the note was arrowed to him, Antonias himself had been standing upon the battlements, flanked by a pair of trumpeters, smiling.

Vinas’s arm went tighter around Luccia as he placed the vellum before them on the table.

It settled atop an elevation map that showed where the four sets of sappers had dug to within ten feet of breaking into the castle. Beside the note were other scraps of parchment – sketches of the nine siege towers waiting just out of view on each of the three roads that converged on the keep. There were also estimates of what damage had been done by the catapults and trebuchets that had been battering the curtain wall and smashing buildings within. Now, amid all that attack and destruction lay a simple invitation to dinner.

“I don’t know,” said Luccia, pressing up against Vinas. “He must know how close we are to breaking through, so he might hope to surrender without more casualties... or he might hope to kill you outright to delay the escalade.”

Vinas shook his head. A slow smile was creeping across his face. He’d shaved his beard except for a long, drooping mustache. “Killing me would delay nothing. He knows that. Gaias would be all the more ruthless in storming the place.”

“A ransom, though,” Luccia speculated, “that would make sense.”

Vinas shrugged. It would make sense, yes, but in the last month, he had become reacquainted with his deeper instincts. Luccia was the reason for that. He had learned to trust his gut feelings over any logical argument. “I’m going. It feels right. Emperor Emann would cut the throat of a guest, yes, but not this man. Not Antonias.”

“Are you sure?”

“You said it yourself. I’ll not win the hearts of Vingaard by smashing their chosen lord to the floor. I might, however, win them over by dining with them.” He sighed and shook his head ruefully, remembering once again the story of the noble huntsman sinking his final arrow into the magic boar. “How was it, Luce, that we so quickly became the villains in this war?”

Meus Pater

Father, you used to read me a story about a noble huntsman and a boar. Let me now tell you a story.

Once there was a young man who inherited three treasures from his father – three treasures in three locked chests.

The first chest was large and very heavy. It was marked “TALENTS,” and it was filled with gold and platinum and electrum coins, a fortune that could buy him the world.

The second chest was larger and heavier still. It was marked “COMPASSION,” and it was filled with countless magic rings. Each ring let the wearer feel the emotions of one person or creature in the world.

The third chest was the largest and heaviest of all. It was marked “HONOR,” and what it held, not even the young man knew.

You see, the young man had two keys, one for the box marked “TALENTS,” and the other for the box marked “COMPASSION.” But his father had not given him a key to the box marked “HONOR.” His father had said that talents were meant to be used, and compassion was something meant always to be at hand and available in plenty. But honor was a thing too easily squandered. To have it, the young man must find his own key to open the box.

The young man took the large, heavy treasure chest of talents and carefully, wisely, spent it. For each talent he spent, he received title to a man’s parcel of land. In so doing, he came to possess the world.

Then, the young man took the larger, heavier chest of compassion. One at a time, he placed each ring upon his finger so he could understand the hopes and fears of all the people and creatures in his world. When he was done, he loved them all, and became a great ruler, a champion of justice.

He went out into his world, then, taking the final box with him and searching for a key to open it. Wherever he went, he commanded his people to bring every key they had and to try each in the lock. Many people offered to break the box open for him, but the young man refused, for violence could not be the key to honor. In ten years, he crossed the whole world but did not find the key to honor.

He thought, they are hiding it from me. I will find it yet.

He went out into his world again, this time taking also his chest of compassion. When his people brought to him more keys, he found a ring for each person and slipped it on his finger, searching their hearts to see if they hid a special key from him. Many offered again to break the box open, but the aging man refused. In twenty years, he crossed his whole world twice but he did not find the key to honor.

He thought, I own the world, and I own the hearts of all who dwell in it, and still I cannot find the key to honor? How can a man with no honor rule a world and all its hearts?

So he went out into his world again, this time taking along also his chest of talents, full of deeds. He called his people to him, one by one, and gave each of them the deed to a parcel of land and the ring to each of their hearts. And he said to them, “I have not found the key to honor, and I cannot rule this world or the hearts of her people if I have no honor.” Many offered again to break the box open, but the old man refused. In forty years, he had gone through all the world three times, and by now was a very, very old man. Now, he had only the three chests, two of which were empty, and the other, which could not be opened.

He thought, once the world was mine, and all the creatures in it. Now, my talents are gone, my compassion spent, and I have nothing to give my son except this box I cannot open.

But when his hand touched the box it sprung open, and he saw that it held two locked chests, one marked “TALENTS” and the other “COMPASSION,” and a key for each chest.

He thought, now I understand. Honor is not something to be spent or used, but to be kept. The key to honor is to keep it, always, and pass it on as a heritage to one’s son. How glad I am I never tired of the burden and broke the chest open!

He carefully lifted out the large, heavy chest marked “TALENTS” and the larger, heavier chest marked “COMPASSION,” so that the largest chest of all, “HONOR,” was empty and terribly light. But when he closed the lid and locked it again, the chest was once again the heaviest of them all.

Then he called his son and said to him, “Son, I am very old, and I want you to have these three treasures....”

XII

That Night, 15 Mishamont, 1200 Age of Light

Vinas and Luccia, side by side, led a mounted procession up the road toward the castle.

The two wore their finest silks and brocades, with chain mail secreted beneath. Their long capes of red velvet gathered snowflakes as the evening sky gathered stars. They wore also their normal complement of weapons – a sword, a belt knife, and a boot dagger.

Behind them rode five others, including two bodyguards, whom Luccia had insisted on. The guards were garbed in the black of their station. They bore an arsenal of weaponry, though Vinas had instructed them not to draw first blood. He had also insisted they wash any poisons from their blades.

Behind the two guards rode Chancellor Titus and his highly regarded acolyte, Anistas. Last of all was Anistas’s beloved, Barnabas, who had been among the attackers outside Caergoth. Vinas had invited the young man because he could attest to the commander’s strict but fair treatment of the vanquished.

Seven was a large enough company for Vinas, though he could have brought ten.

“We’ll get to eat the others’ portions,” Titus had said in approval.

The seven rode in silence. Their horses seemed the only solid things in a world of snow, twinkling starlight, and lazy, distant campfires. The castle ahead was the gray-blue shade of twilight, and it seemed to recede into the night. The portcullis hung open, just high enough that the riders wouldn’t have to duck or dismount to pass within. The huge double door beyond was also open. Ten guardsmen stood on either side of the gate, their faces grave in the fierce light of their torches.

Vinas thought briefly of crossbow fire, target holes, and boiling water, but dismissed such things. There would be a million ways to die tonight. Already the sharpshooters could have killed them all. If Antonias had planned death for them, it would come later.

The Ergothians trotted onto a very solid drawbridge, and on across to the short platform where the warriors stood. Without slowing, Vinas and Luccia passed among the soldiers.

“Good evening, warriors. We are here for a dinner parley.”

The guard captain needlessly waved them through. The moment the visitors were within, the guards withdrew into the arched gate, and the portcullis began its rattling descent.

Vinas rode on through the open doors and into a stony courtyard. The small space, edged with guard houses and a curved stable, would have been quaint except for the signs of recent bombardment. What had once been a livery beside the stable was now a mess of splintered and charred wood. The boulder that had destroyed the spot lay shattered atop the remains. Another strike had pulverized the ancient mosaic set in the center of the courtyard.

“May I take your horses?” asked a stableman.

“Certainly,” Vinas replied, pulling Courage to a halt and dismounting while the rest of his party did likewise.

Vinas studied the castle, it was as the maps had depicted it. A huge central keep dominated the site. The keep was sided by barracks and practice grounds. The armory lay beneath the castle.

There were five other towers. The shortest and shabbiest was the abode of the archwizard, a structure huddling in eccentric disrepair near the keep. The other four stood along the curtain, marking the cardinal directions. The dark, long shed behind the keep was the winery, and the ancient chapel of Mishakal should stand right...

There. A pile of snow-choked rubble lay in the spot that should have held the oldest chapel to Mishakal in western Ansalon.

Vinas had a bitter taste in his mouth as he said to the stableman, “Show us where we might find Antonias Leprus.”

“You have found him,” said the man.

Only then did Vinas look over to see that the smallish, black-haired man was in fact the traitor, himself. After a moment’s shocked stare, Vinas recovered, saying, “Forgive me —”

“We don’t stand on ceremony here, Commander Solamnus,” said Antonias, “much the reason I was glad to be cast out of the senate and made duke of this fringe land.”

“Duke? I thought you would prefer to call yourself king,” said Vinas, sounding more combative than he felt.

The black-bearded man shrugged in dismissal. “We do not stand on ceremony. Call me Antonias.”

“Well,” Vinas replied, “as long as we are giving introductions, this is Colonel Luccia —”

“Ah, yes,” said Antonias, “of the famed Ergothian griffon company.” He shook her hand, equal to equal. “We detected your scouts only a month before your ground forces arrived. I imagine they were here much sooner.”

She colored slightly. When he dropped her hand, she curtsied before she could restrain herself. “Thank you for the compliment.”

Antonias was not finished, “And this must be Chancellor Titus, who helped you foil that assassination all those years ago.”

Titus took the man’s hand and heartily shook it. Standing this close, Titus could almost stare straight down at the man. “So good to meet the one man in Ansalon who would stand against Emperor Emann!”

Vinas coughed into his hand, and said, “Priests of Paladine are forgiven treason more easily than us.”

Antonias laughed at that. He reached up and slapped Titus on the side – he couldn’t stretch to reach the giant’s back. “Perhaps I should convert.”

Titus laughed heartily, too, as though he and the self-styled king were longtime friends.

Vinas, unsettled by the turn of events, introduced Anistas and Barnabas and his bodyguards. He then glanced at the dark sky. “Now, what about this famous Castle Vingaard fare? I must admit to being famished.”

“Follow me,” said Antonias. He turned his back upon the armed company. It occurred to Vinas that the man had no personal guard with him, and that his nearest soldiers were a good thirty paces away.

If I were a certain sort of man, Vinas thought, I might have harvested that dark head. He smiled to himself. Until about a month ago, until a certain kiss from a certain longtime friend, I was in danger of becoming that sort of man.

He walked up beside Antonias. “What sort of kingdom are you running here? You rebel against the most powerful empire the world has ever known, and yet you put up little fight when we march in to surround your castle. You then tell us to make ourselves at home and avail ourselves of the local pubs and inns. Last of all, you invite us into your own castle, meet us as if you were a stableman, and turn your back on our daggers and swords.”

Antonias didn’t even turn around. He continued leading the group toward the keep. “I suppose I don’t know what kind of kingdom this is, or what kind of king I am,” he confessed. “I suppose I thought that if my people were happy, I wouldn’t need to work so hard to keep them from harming each other.”

“True,” Vinas said, “but you forgot about all the unhappy people from all the unhappy nations in the rest of this unhappy world. Can you afford not to safeguard yourself when you live in a world of violence and evil?”

Antonias came to an arched door in the side of the keep. He turned a key in the large, iron lock, and swung the door wide to reveal a stairway. “You seem to forget. I tried the killing way at the battle of the Crossing. All that got me was a field of dead countrymen and slain elven allies. Oh, and, yes, a months-long poisoning of these very waters with the dead horses of your wagons. It was a grave, grave error for us to try to equal Ergoth in killing might. That is why I withdrew my troops from the canyon. That is why we did not resist you as you came down our roads and killed our pigs and stripped our orchards.”

Vinas followed the king up a long, winding set of stairs. “So, you chose not to fight. But what of your beautiful kingdom? Ergoth has already taken back every inch of it, except this castle.”

Sadly, Antonias said, “‘The peaceable kingdom will be taken by violent men, and the violent bear it away.’”

“Exactly,” Vinas echoed. “You can’t remain forever locked away in this citadel. Your mill will run out of grains to grind, your winery will be depleted of grapes, your stockyards of cattle, your men of patience. Perhaps tomorrow I will order it all expropriate and all of your followers slain and every wall razed so that not a stone stands upon another, so that all those who ever pass this spot will shake their heads and know the folly of defying Ergoth.”

The black-haired man paused in his ascent. Vinas had been goading him, taking Antonias’s measure before any true bargaining would begin. What the king said next showed that Vinas had utterly underestimated the man.

“It is never folly to defy evil. If you must rape and kill and destroy, then nothing I do can change what will inevitably happen.”

Antonias strode up the last few steps to another door and swung it open. Beyond lay a high, beautiful great hall filled with wide windows. The sky glittered with stars, and the land with fangs of fire.

“Let us not ruin our wonderful meal with such brutal talk.”

Antonias ushered them in and offered them seats at a long table resplendent with silver and porcelain and candles.

Luccia took an ornately carved chair. “What a beautiful place. You must feel like you are dining in heaven, up here among the stars.”

“Thank you,” said Antonias genuinely.

He gestured the others to their seats, and then moved around the table to the head position. Beside it stood a young warrior who wore armor that gleamed as brightly as the silverware. The young man had a clean-shaven face in the Ergothian style, and short brown hair. He stood, statuesque and stern, until the others took their seats. Then he himself was seated, at the right hand of Antonias.

No sooner had the chairs finished scudding on the smooth stone floor, than a flock of servants in white appeared. They drifted weightlessly along with their silver platters, breadbaskets, and trenchers, like doves among stars. Each new item set upon the table steamed mysteriously beneath a shining cover or caught firelight in cut crystal. Moments later, the meal was fully set, and the silent servants were gone.

Antonias looked up from his bare plate. “Chancellor Titus, I believe you are the ranking priest here. Would you provide us with a blessing on the occasion of this repast, and favorably anoint the discussion that will come with it?”

“Certainly,” said Titus broadly. He stood, extended his arms, and intoned, “Great Paladine, Father of Good and Master of Law, bless this feast set before us and guide the hearts here to an accord that will bring true peace to our lands. So let it be.”

“So let it be,” chorused the others.

As Titus sat, there came a sigh from all of them. Then two stewards began serving the items brought to the banquet table. In silent anticipation, guests and hosts alike watched the succulent roasted pheasant and miniature potatoes, the fat leeks and buttery rolls and peach preserves finding their way to the plates.

Vinas was first to break the silence. “We were invited tonight to parley,” he said matter-of-factly. An edge of menace showed through his smile. “Parley typically means a discussion leading to surrender.”

Antonias allowed Vinas’s words to drift away like smoke. At last, he answered.

“You are a hard man, Commander Solamnus. It has not always been so.” His remarks ceased. He seemed only then to hear and respond to Vinas’s earlier comment. “Yes, I suppose if this evening goes well, resolution of our differences is possible.”

Vinas took his napkin, unfolded it, and laid it disinterestedly across his lap. “It would be unfair for me to lead you astray. The empire will accept no terms but unconditional surrender, with you marched off in chains to Daltigoth.”

“Oh, Vinas,” said Luccia reprovingly. “Don’t be a boor. Let’s hear what he has to say.”

Without acknowledging either of their remarks, Antonias went on. “There was a time when you and I were very much alike, Commander. Perhaps you do not remember me – meek junior senator in Daltigoth – but I remember you. Everyone remembers you. Even your dear father, bless him – who should have been famous for his philanthropy – became infamous because of his audacious son. You were a living folk hero for some of us young nobles.”

Vinas, at long last, was speechless. Titus, to one side of him, and Luccia to the other, gave him identical curious glances.

Antonias continued. “I was there that day at the proving grounds, when you and Luccia climbed the standing tree, a hundred feet up, with only a shirt and a couple of belts. I saw when you were impaled, and hung there, and let Luccia escape to ground.”

Luccia drew her eyes away from Vinas’s and dropped her head at the sudden painful memory.

“That day changed my life,” said Antonias. “It defined our generation: dreamers who would choose sacrifice over social status. It showed me that I could make and dwell in a perfect world, but to do so I must not bargain with evil, or vulgarity, or death.”

Vinas shook his head bitterly. “I have learned the opposite, that to live – to even draw breath – is to bargain with evil, vulgarity, and death. Dreamers don’t live very long.”

Antonias looked him square in the eye. “What about the bread riots – when you dressed as a plainsman to take food through a blizzard to starving people?”

“My father saved me then. He saved me too many times,” Vinas broke in. “The last time, it cost him his life. He was poisoned instead of Emperor Emann.”

“Yes. A dreamer at heart. Do you see what I mean? It is in your blood, Vinas. Your father gave it to you. No matter how you deny it or oppose it, that spirit of sacrifice is with you.”

A snort came from the commander. “We came here to talk about terms of surrender, not about my life story.”

The touch of Luccia’s small hand on his wrist stayed him. “Listen to him,” she implored, her eyes searching his. “Listen.”

Antonias raised a glass of ruby-red wine. “So, I toast you, Vinas Solamnus. It was because I followed your early example that I was thrown out of the senate and assigned a troubled border state. It was because I believed in your example of vision and sacrifice that I could make this land the envy of all Ergoth. It is because of you, sir, that we sit here now in pleasant parley.” He swung his glass, ringing it against that of the brooding soldier to his right.

“Hear, hear,” responded the others, Titus most heartily of all.

The king closed his eyes, savoring the flavor of the wine, and eased back in his chair. “Strange the things fate has in store for each of us. Anyone who had seen our youths would think that you would have wound up the rebel pariah, and I the great general of the empire.”

“Yes,” said Vinas. “Well, I suppose one of us outgrew childhood fancies.” Beneath the table, Luccia dealt his knee an indignant slap.

“Please,” said Antonias, gesturing, “eat, and enjoy.”

The next moments were filled with the scrape of knives and forks against ceramic, the murmur of diners uncertain about Vingaard etiquette, and the first sounds of savor, most notably from Titus. Luccia put in a good effort at enjoying her food, making the first compliments on the pheasant.

Wanting to take another stab at serious discussion, Vinas tried a different approach. “Antonias, you seem well acquainted with my life’s story, and I yours, but we have yet to meet your bodyguard,” he said, indicating the brown-haired young man.

Antonias hurried to swallow the food he was chewing. “Forgive me. My mind is elsewhere. This is Iohas, not so much a bodyguard – though he has saved my skin countless times – but a longtime friend.”

Titus lifted his glass. “Good friends are the anchors of a wayward soul!”

He delivered the toast with such verve that Vinas nodded, clinked his glass, and sipped his wine before he realized whose soul, by implication, had gone wayward.

“Look,” Vinas said evenly, “though once I was ruled by bright visions, I quickly learned that the world is hostile to such whimsy. My father sheltered me from the cruelties of life, and I grew up to believe that castles could float in the air, and cities could be built without need of prisons or cemeteries. Well, once my father died, I found out they can’t. I was wrong.

“You are wrong, too. You’ve been sheltered from realities here in your dining chamber among the stars. It is my less-than-pleasant task to bring reality into your heaven. No matter how happy your peasants are, no matter how luscious your wine, no matter how diverting your plays, this land belongs to the empire. You have stolen it. You are no better than any other pillager, who takes what is not his and fritters it away in a great, long orgy of appetites. The dream is ending, Antonias. One way or another, I will wake you and this entire land from its delusional slumber. At least let me try to make the waking less jarring, less brutal.”

Antonias blinked at his wine, then nodded. “You speak bluntly, as though there were no hope for my people, for the beautiful, peaceable kingdom we have here. Tell me, what must I do to save them?”

“As of tonight, I take control of your rule; I sit in your seat; I command your castle; I rule your people.” Vinas listed his demands flatly.

Antonias breathed. That soft sound seemed to fill the great chamber. “Knowing the man your father was, and the man you once were and still must be, I could choose no foe I would rather have sitting my seat.”

“You will pen proclamations to be copied and posted throughout the castle and the town, saying you have willingly turned over full power to me, and that it is your wish that those once loyal to you should now be loyal to the empire.”

“You may not believe this,” said Antonias, “but I have already done so, and the copies are already made.”

“Your personal staff and officers, as well as your thousand men, will be stripped of weaponry and imprisoned in their own barracks until such time as they may be marched to Daltigoth, where they will face charges of treason.”

“They were not the treasonous ones,” Antonias objected. “They obeyed their duke, as they were trained to do.”

Vinas shook his head. “I can grant no conditions to you. Your officers and soldiers will be disciplined for their crimes against the empire.”

For the first time that night, Antonias looked resolute, almost angry. “This I will not agree to. If you want to shackle my men and march them into Daltigoth to endure gauntlets, mock trials, and torturous public executions, you will do so at the cost of thousands of your own men. Just see how many can crawl up through your tunnels when burning oil is poured down them. Just see how many men fall, spine-broken, as my defenders fling back the escalade teams. And, even then, you will take no one alive, for every one will fight to the death.”

Vinas grinned sharkishly. “So much for your being above killing. So much for your moral superiority to us warriors.”

Antonias replied, “I did not claim to be above killing, only above the ruthless, heartless, honorless killing you represent. I would fight and kill for this heavenly place, yes, with my last breath.”

“Perhaps there is another way to placate the emperor,” said Vinas. “Perhaps we might even win the disarmed, disbarred freedom of your troops.”

“How? Whatever the way, I will do it.”

“The emperor wants your head delivered to him. If he had that one plaything, he might forget about other spoils.” This time Vinas ignored the nudges from Luccia. “There, you have it. Dreamer, awake.”

Antonias looked down at the half-finished feast set before him. He seemed almost to be sleeping, slumped there. Breath stole slowly in and out of his lungs. A deathly silence entered the chamber among the stars, and no one, not even Vinas, ventured a word. At last, Antonias looked up at the vault above, his eyes roaming across the white ribs of stone.

He spoke in a whisper. “If I am delivered up, my soldiers may be spared?”

Vinas spoke, his eyes clear and bright. “I will do all that is in my power to assure it.”

Without looking down, the black-bearded monarch nodded. It was as if he stood in a deep pit, and was straining to see the small circle of light at the top. He closed his eyes and slowly rose. “Then, we have an agreement. You will sit upon my throne, command my castle, rule my people, and do all that is in your power to shield my officers and soldiers and folk from the emperor’s wrath. In return, I will surrender to you all of these things without a fight. You may have my head, as requested.”

Vinas stood, his face almost ashen in its solemnity. The other diners watched, as though they were artists intent on memorizing every shadow and nuance of the moment.

“Yes,” said Commander Solamnus. “It is agreed.”

In a rush of silk and kingly robes, Antonias Leprus strode across the chamber to Vinas and clasped his forearm. More slowly, Antonias’s bodyguard and friend moved up behind his king. Tears formed in the warrior’s eyes.

Luccia likewise rose to stand behind Vinas. She, too, felt tears materialize – tears of relief.

King and commander stood face to face, staring into each others’ eyes. “Believe it or not, I had anticipated this very resolution,” said Antonias guilelessly. “I am glad it has come to pass.”

“I believe you,” said Vinas. “I, too, am glad.”

“And so,” Antonias said with a joyous smile, “I ask my dear friend Iohas here, to be the first soldier dedicated to the new peace in our lands.”

Iohas, his cheeks now streaming with tears, lifted his left hand in a greeting, and then laced his fingers in the black curls of his king. His right hand flashed. There was a glint of starlight.

Vinas and Luccia recoiled instinctually as the brown-haired man brought his blade singing through the neck of his friend, the once-king of Vingaard.

Meus Pater

I think you would have liked Antonias, Father. He was the man I was supposed to be.

Part IV

WISDOM

Interlude

One Day Hence, 16 Mishamont, 1200 Age of Light

Phrygia gloated as she examined herself in her vanity mirror. It was done. Vinas Solamnus had spurned her, had marched away from her, thinking he would be free. Instead, he fell for trap after trap that she had set, became the man she wanted him to be, and even captured far Vingaard on her behalf.

Now, she needed merely to bring him back.

Phrygia leaned over the vanity and clutched a small, enameled jewel box. It held the broken fragments of the five soul-gems Caitiff had hidden around the palace. Twenty years of searching had turned up every last one. She’d gathered them and crushed them herself. The fragments remained in the box. She shook it brusquely.

“Oh, Caitiff. Wake up. I have a job for you,” she purred.

There came a sullen stirring in the urn beside the vanity. A thousand tiny rattles sounded as the old lich assembled himself from bone chips and ash.

How satisfying it had been to bum his bones and pour them into that vase!

In moments, a rickety skeleton stood before her, its once-proud elven skull bowing in pathetic subservience. “Yes, my lady. What is your bidding?”

“Vinas Solamnus has succeeded. It is time to bring him back.”

“Shall I teleport him here?” the skeleton asked.

“No,” she replied. “He must fight for every inch of his return. How else will I know he loves me? And at the end of the fight, he must slay my husband, to be worthy to share my bed.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the skeleton hissed, “but what is your bidding?”

“You will raise for me an army that will make Vinas Solamnus’s return a great triumph, indeed.”

For the first time in months, the skeleton seemed pleased with the task set before him.

*

Phrygia was little concerned that these two assassins had once tried to kill her husband. Nor did she care that the man who had saved her husband was the very man she now paid them to kill.

“Kill him or die in the attempt. He must overcome both of you before he proves himself worthy of my love,” she said. The coin bag landed heavily on the table. “There. Five more of those when he is dead.”

XIII

Three Months Hence, 10 Corij, 1200 Age of Light

All had been accomplished.

Vinas sat upon the throne of Vingaard. A thousand of his handpicked troops occupied the castle. The head of Antonias was on its way to Daltigoth, along with a message telling of Vingaard’s unconditional surrender. This parcel was borne by an elite messenger accompanied by thirty heavy cavalry units.

As to the warriors and officers of Antonias, they were officially dead.

Thrice a day for a month, Vinas had summarily tried and convicted them, sent them marching to the dungeon, and proclaimed their execution and cremation. The foul black smoke that rose morning, noon, and night from the dungeon’s huge incinerator was actually produced by wood, coal, and cow remains. Meanwhile, Gaias gave the men aliases and new clothes and led them out the longest siege tunnel into a nearby forest. The men went their separate ways and then gradually returned to their elated families and friends – whether in the town of Vingaard or one of the hundred nearby villages. According to Gaias’s instructions, they swore their loved ones to secrecy about the Ergothian lord’s “Vingaard sympathies.”

Among the townsfolk, the “executions” had become an open lie. The peasants enjoyed amplifying the story. Some engaged in maudlin displays of grief each time black smoke rose from the castle. Qthers told of harrowing visitations by the ghosts of their lost loves. A few even had gravestones carved and placed conspicuously in their gardens, saying things such as:

Though Jacobas went away,

We’ll meet again some better day.

Vinas was no small benefactor of this death campaign. He had written to Emperor Emann, describing in loving detail the ruthless trials, executions, and cremations, as well as the despondency of the people. The emperor would doubtless applaud his zeal, even if he would have preferred to keep the officers alive for questioning.

These “executions” were enacted before the emperor could object – no bodies were left for his necromancers. Vinas thus had won the emperor’s favor with the same act that made him popular with the people.

Vingaard had been returned to the empire, the rebels had been shielded, and Vinas had even requested to permanently oversee the border state. Despite his better sense, he hoped he and his friends could continue the charade that made this impossible paradise possible.

Vinas sat alone in his chambers. He could no longer think of these rooms, this castle, or this country as Antonias’s, Although the castle’s appointments – the otherworldly paintings and tapestries of dragons, the mahogany furnishings and bronze fixtures – were just as they had been when Antonias lived, Vinas felt they were his, that he had always lived in Vingaard Keep.

Only the doorknob exposed that lie. It bore a bright left-handprint of the former king. Already, though, the print was tarnishing green, replaced by Vinas’s larger, right-hand mark. In half a year, even that vestige of Antonias would be gone.

In all ways, Vinas was inheriting the life of this other man. He sat in Antonias’s seat, slept in his bed, ate at his table, commanded his people... all of it felt natural to Vinas. All of it had a rightness.

It is this way with fate, he thought as he had every hour of the last month. I made the wrong choice when I agreed to take the appointment as head of the imperial guard. Since then, I have been defending all the wrong things and have been shaped by the evil I defended. This life, here, among these good people, this is what was destined for me. Fate made another man live through the part of my life I have thrown away, and then brought me here to take Antonias’s place.

Taking Antonias’s place... even now, he felt a fraud. How could Vinas, a warrior, ever take the place of Antonias, a visionary, a man of peace?

A knock came at the door. Vinas did not stir from the desk, but only said, “Come in.”

The door swung inward. It was followed by a thin, tousle-haired young man in the impeccable livery of the emperor. “A message to you, Commander, from His Highness, Emperor Emann Quisling of Ergoth.”

Without turning around, Vinas signaled for the document. His fingertips tingled in anticipation. It was light – mere paper – though he knew what was written on that paper had the weight of the empire behind it:

From His Highness, Emann Quisling,

Emperor of Ergoth,

To Vinas Solamnus,

Commander of the Armies of Ergoth.

Greetings,

I am pleased with the head of “King” Antonias Leprus. Your mage did a fine job preserving it, eyes open in that beatific attitude. I do wish it had still been animate, but because you had to behead him during a treaty talk, I understand. By the way, what a stroke of brilliance, to fool him into letting you into the keep to parley!

I am pleased also by your executions of his men. Your thorough and unflinching actions are to be commended. I will remind you that Antonias likely had agents among the townsfolk. Immediately upon receiving this missive, begin an inquisition among the villagers. I expect you’ll have to schedule another thousand executions in the next month, and a few hundred more before your replacement arrives.

I regret I must deny your request to be permanently assigned the post. As my darling Phrygia pointed out, now that the uprising is crushed, we need you back in Daltigoth to end other local insurrections.

Don’t worry, Vingaard will be in excellent hands. I am sending my grand nephew, Terriatas. He is more than your match in ruthless cruelty, and he has a perverse twist as well. Those you executed will seem lucky once Terriatas takes over. He has a few last matters to conclude before he will be available, but should arrive in two springs.

Until then, keep up the iron grip. I’m still waiting for last year’s back taxes, as well as those of this year, and the double punitive assessment. You’ve four months to gather them. Think of these taxes as another weapon, it’ll break the backs of the honest folk and flush the last rebels out of hiding.

I’m counting on you. Excellent work.

The messenger was gone, the door closed, when Vinas let the missive drift down from his hand and come to rest upon the bronze bootjack Antonias had used every night to remove... the very boots Vinas now wore.

*

One Month Hence, 14 Argon, 1200 Age of Light

In the upper dining hall, among the stars, Vinas met with Gaias, Luccia, Titus, and the sixteen division generals of his armies in Vingaard. They filled the ornate table, and were in good humor, as victors always are. One of the sixteen unknowingly sat where Antonias’s body had fallen. The blood had been scrubbed meticulously away.

It was the same dining hall among the blue stars, except that the ghosts of old Vingaard seemed forever banished from the place. Ergothian banners filled the air. The candelabra bore medallions of the empire. The servant whites had been replaced by the black garb of Ergothian domesticity. The war was irrevocably concluded, and the victors feasted on the food of the fallen, in the very seats where their predecessors reigned.

Vinas rose to address the group. He was white-faced and grave. “Friends, I have decided a new course for Vingaard. An old course, actually.” He focused a smoldering gaze on the group before him, searching their hearts. “I plan to renew the treason of Antonias.”

Someone guffawed before realizing the commander was not jesting.

Vinas was kind enough not to look at the man, and continued, “You all have realized we are the villains here. You can see there is nothing to gain in taxing this prosperous place into poverty. It is sheer wickedness to slay anyone else in the name of the empire.”

He paused, brooding. “Here are the emperor’s orders. Read them for yourselves.” He tossed the seal-broken paper onto the table. None dared snatch it up. “It talks of an inquisition among the peasants. It talks of another thousand slain this next month, and more thereafter. It talks of Vingaard being given to Terriatas, grand-nephew to Emann and a man both ruthless and cruel. I must either follow these dictates or defy them.”

A general muttered through his auburn beard, “What folly!”

Vinas turned toward him. “It is never folly to defy evil.” The words felt so natural coming from his mouth; they seemed his own. “To defend what is right and good, reform what is corrupt, and destroy what is evil.... That is my intention.”

“Commander,” interrupted a mustachioed general, “the rebellion is crushed. Let it remain so.”

“What has been crushed?” Vinas shot back. “Not a rebellion, but rebels. People have been crushed.” Color was returning to his face. “The folk of Vingaard have been and continue to be crushed – beneath the boot of Ergoth and her corrupt rulers. I have seen the wickedness of that oppression. I have embodied it, myself, embodied it and advanced it. I can do so no longer. If I must fight, I choose the better fight.”

“This is madness,” hissed the man with the auburn beard. “You are only one man.”

“Emann, too, is only one man. All this while, the battle was between two men, Emann and Antonias,” Vinas said quietly. “Now I have taken up Antonias’s sword.

“Antonias fell, but he withdrew from the fight. I will not. I will fight on the principles of courage, temperance, justice, and wisdom – the four corners of honor. They were the hallmarks of my father, and of Antonias. They will be mine. I, and however many soldiers will rally to me, will march under the banner of honor.”

“Commander,” the mustachioed man said, “all warriors say they fight with honor. What is different about you?”

“My soldiers and I will convert those we can and slay only those we must. We will fight bravely and wisely. We will fight justly, sword to sword and dagger to dagger. We will grant quarter whenever it is asked. We will heal when we are able. We will save Vingaard and all other people who cleave to these ideals.”

“Yes, ideals,” said the bearded man. “That is all they are – fluffy words floating around, meaningless. Wars are not won with ideals, but with soldiers and savageries.”

“I am a soldier,” said Luccia, standing, “and I will fight for these ideals.”

“I, as well,” came Gaias’s calm voice.

Titus stood, too, his massive figure outlined against the stars. “I am not a warrior, but I will fight beside you. Let me say, I for one am glad to see your old, reckless, starry-eyed self back in the land of the living!”

Amid the nervous laughter that followed, two other men and three women stood, adding their assent.

“Before you join me,” Vinas said, “know what awaits you. We will face deprivation, starvation, ostracization. I will not pillage the countryside for shelter and food. We will only accept what is freely given to us. There will be ten foes for each one of us, ten who will fight with cruelty and self-serving brutality. We will be fighting the sorts of warriors we ourselves have been these past years. This will be no quick affair, either, but will take the patient work of the main portion of our lives.”

Three more soldiers pledged themselves.

“Do not fear to refuse this battle. I will not harm those who wish to return to Daltigoth and fight for the empire. They will be allowed to go.”

Six more added their assent, and the only two who remained were the warrior with the auburn beard and the mustachioed man.

The first of these said, “I will not fight for you. You are the worst traitor of all.”

The second, more quietly, said, “I will resign my post. It has been a privilege to serve under you.”

“You both are welcome to leave,” Vinas said, gesturing toward the door. “You have my word of honor, you will not be harmed if you leave now, quickly and quietly.”

The mustachioed man drew the pin of office from his cloak, laid it on the table, and walked from the room. The other man watched him suspiciously, and when he heard no sounds of struggle on the stairs outside, did likewise.

When they were gone, Luccia asked, “Commander, don’t you fear they will make trouble among the troops?”

“There will be no time for that,”, Vinas replied. “In moments, the horns will sound, and I will address the armies, myself. They will each have the same choice you have had.” He looked around the table.

Luccia was fearful but smiling. Gaias looked grim and determined. Titus beamed proudly. The others wore looks of hopeful resolve.

“A fine group of officers, I have,” he said. He raised a wine goblet to them. “Here is to the rebirth of honor in Ansalon. Here’s to a free Vingaard!”

The shouts of “Hear! hear!” echoed among the stars.

Meus Pater

How strange it is, Father, to stand before three armies of gathered warriors – whose lives and deaths have been in your hands – and tell them you were wrong.

The priests of Gilean tell us that all our deeds and misdeeds are written in one great book that shall be read to all creatures at the end of the world. Perhaps.

Stranger, though, is the forgiveness of the people. It is as though, in my admitting my error, I have at last become one of them. Perhaps, before, I had the power to command them. Now, when they know what failings I myself must overcome, now I can inspire them.

XIV

Five Months Hence, 14 Phoenix, 1200 Age of Light

The midday sky was a blue-black depth charged with gray swarms of ice. Snow came down thickly on the bundled backs of the laboring wagons. It mounded on the horses’ croups and withers, occasionally sloughing to the ground in sheets.

A mantle of cold gray snow draped Titus’s shoulders. The drivers followed his dim, lumbering figure as though pursuing a shade through the underworld.

“It should be up here, soon enough,” Titus shouted back through the blizzard.

He paused in his march, waving the first wagon past. Rubbing ice out of his eyebrows, he unfolded a crumpled, amateurishly rendered map. Its lines were indistinguishable from the folds. He rubbed the side of the wagon passing him, clearing snow from the emblem painted on it: a plainsman with a golden halo of wheat.

Stuffing the scrap back into his vest, Titus bounded to the head of the line, telling the lead driver, “I could have sworn it would be here.”

“Who’s out there?” came a suspicious voice from the storm.

Titus looked about, seeing no speaker. He shouted into the blizzard, “Chancellor Titus, priest of Paladine.”

“We don’t need any blessings,” the craggy words came.

Titus laughed deeply, a sound that sent the snow cascading from his back. “Not even the blessing of bread? Of food?”

Only the anxious wind answered for some time, and then, “Who sent you? The emperor?”

Again the laugh. “Oh, no. If we were from the emperor, we would be extorting bread out of you. No, we represent Commander Solamnus.”

“Commander Solamnus? Vinas Solamnus?”

“The same. Though you might not recognize him these days. He’s grown a great drooping mustache and has ceased dressing like a plainsman when he wants to dole out food.”

In the darkness, a sliver of light grew up to the height of a man – a door opening. From it emerged a frail creature, sexless and ageless. As that withered figure approached, she – for it was a woman – grew in solidity. She seemed to be packed together out of the snow. Two more forms appeared in the open doorway, small bodies with eyes that glowed wide with the queer light of the storm.

“Get back in there!” the old woman shouted, head turned over her shoulder. The children vanished into the golden glow. “And close the door.” That, too, was done.

When she turned back around, she paused, eyes level with Titus’s belt buckle. Without the slightest hint of fear, she leaned her head back until she could see the black bulk of Titus’s head, high above. “How can Commander Solamnus afford to feed you and still dole out bread?”

He knelt, bringing his toothy smile even with her face. “He’s a dreamer. Dreamers can do anything.”

She spat into the storm. “You men are going to die in this storm, tonight.”

“No, ma’am,” Titus replied. “We’ve strict orders against it. We don’t want to be dead without leave.”

She nodded seriously and turned, strolling toward the shadows of the food wagon. Flipping back a loose corner of tarp, she saw open-topped boxes full of venison, hard breads, jerkied beef, frozen haunches of pork, bottles of wine. “What other miracles does this Vinas Solamnus have planned?” she asked.

Without moving from the front of the line, Titus said, “Well, currently he’s marching with a ragtag army of volunteers, hoping to conquer Ergoth. He seems to think it would be better for everyone involved if peasants could actually feed themselves with the food they raise, could actually clothe and shelter themselves. Taxes, currently, make that virtually impossible. I know, I know, it sounds unrealistic...”

“It sounds ideal,” the woman said. With no apparent effort, she hoisted a frozen ham to her shoulder and began walking back to her hovel. “We’ll tell the neighbors once I get my pick. Oh, and, Chancellor, see if you can’t grab a few loaves of rye and a bottle of wine.”

*

Four Months Hence, 2 Mishamont, 1201 Age of Light

Luccia banked atop Terraton. The griffon’s claws brushed the naked crown of a vallenwood tree. Luccia glanced back, seeing the fast-flitting shadows of her company flying low above the treetops. The beasts were silent as falcons at the hunt, their feathers mere flashes of spring gold in the wind-stirred forest. Their wings followed the contour of the trees, aerial valleys and rills.

“Just a bit lower,” Luccia urged Terraton. The spirited beast slipped down a narrow cleft that led to a clearing, where smoke rose in jagged columns.

“That’s it.”

One more nudge from her heels and Terraton shot from the cleft into the sparkling air above a small Ergothian outpost. The others followed. Terraton released a fierce griffon scream as he ripped past the stockaded wall of the fortress. The rest of the cavalry voiced their own shrieks.

The horrifying cacophony... the lightning-fast silhouettes... the flaming arrows that pelted down onto walls and guard towers and set them alight... the claws that ripped mounted crossbows from the walls and could do worse to bones and flesh... all of it convinced the ten defenders to heed the better part of valor.

They ran.

As Luccia and her cavalry sped by overhead, she cried, “Tell Emann that justice is coming!”

She and her riders pursued the fleeing troops awhile before doubling back to the fortress. This time they approached casualty. The ground team had reached the fortress. Even now, five horsemen were dismounting and stood with hands placed on hips, appraising their new station.

“Do you need us any longer, lieutenants?” Luccia called down to them as Terraton made a long, looping pass around the perimeter of the clearing.

“No, Colonel. Thanks,” said a young man, waving them onward. “I think I hear your next team.”

Just then, five more horsemen plunged at a gallop into and out of the clearing. Marking their speed and direction, Luccia sent Terraton roaring out after them.

Twelve remote Ergothian fortresses had been captured so far this month, each of them bloodlessly. Twenty-eight more, and the road to Solanthus would be secured, ready for the main force.

There would be blood at Solanthus. That much was a certainty. There would be a long siege and, at last, blood.

Luccia’s jaw clamped grimly. She guided Terraton toward the next columns of smoke rising on the far horizon.

*

Two Months Hence, 24 Bran, 1201 Age of Light

Gaias marched through long green grass, lifting his boots high to keep from getting tangled.

The kender weren’t being so careful. They seemed to enjoy falling down. The novelty first had been discovered by Pitty Stingtail, who had been strumming his whippik and singing when he went down. His whoop of surprise and the boooiiing sound of the whippik as he landed made interesting improvisations in the song. The thirty-some others laughed heartily, and then joined in singing, taking every opportunity to fall on their instruments to see what new sounds would be made.

“Noisiest invasion I ever led,” Gaias grumbled to himself.

The Qualinesti Forest stood just ahead. They would have heard the party from twenty miles back and seen them from ten. It was just as well. Harmless, hapless, and apparently happy kender were a fearsome invasion force, to be sure, but not one that elves would shoot on sight. Dwarves, on the other hand...

The kender, on a long wanderlust, had run across the armies of Solamnus just north of the Crossing. Despite Vinas’s misgivings, the kender had cleaved to the army, wanting desperately “to help.”

After two weeks of kender help, when many useful items had gone missing and many useless items appeared in their places, Commander Solamnus devised a way in which their help couldn’t hurt. They were named First-Class Ambassadors to the Elves of Qualinesti with a Special Emphasis upon Remote Operations. Simply put, they were assigned to stay far away.

It was more than that. Otherwise Gaias would not be along. Vinas truly hoped the band of ambassadors could establish an alliance with the elves – at least a pact of nonaggression, though perhaps even a pledge of elven aid and free movement through elven territories.

“Stop!” came a voice from the woods. Whether the imperative was meant to stop Gaias from advancing or to stop the kender from singing, it accomplished both. Gaias was grateful for the latter, at least. The voice warned, “Enter the realm of elves at your peril!”

Gaias squinted toward the woods, his eyes darting among the gray trunks and the slowly swaying boughs. He saw no sign of the speaker. Raising a hand to shield his eyes, Gaias called out, “We are ambassadors to your sovereign kingdom.”

“Ambassadors from where?” came the suspicious reply.

“We are from Vingaard, patriots of the true Ergoth. We still honor the Swordsheath Scroll,” Gaias responded. “We have come to speak with your king. We seek alliance.”

“Alliance to what end?”

Gaias grimaced, dropping his hand. He’d had this speech worked out on a scrap of paper. He fished through his pockets, his hands coming up empty

“Look what I found!” piped a voice beside him. “We, the patriots of Ergoth —”

“Give me that!” Gaias growled, trying to snatch the rumpled paper from the kender’s intractable grasp.

“You dropped it. I found it. It’s mine,” the kender reasoned.

The tearing sound that quickly followed demonstrated that it was no one’s anymore. Gaias stared in a rage at the tattered fragment. The kender, triumphant, began reciting his half of the page:

“We, the patriots of /

terrible atrocities /

abjure the elves to /

evil purposes. In our /

world domination, we /

torment you. If we can —”

The kender got no further. Gaias snatched that fragment, too, and tore both halves of the speech to shreds.

“Forgive us, sir elf. Our cause is good. Ask anybody but the tyrant, Emperor Emann. Alliance between us would strengthen both of our nations.”

Still the elf did not reveal himself. “Turn back. You are forbidden entry.”

Gaias put his hands out to his sides and slowly stepped forward. “I trust to your fair treatment of peaceful ambassadors. You will not shoot me in cold blood.”

“You are forbidden entry,” the voice responded worriedly.

Gaias kept walking. The kender tiptoed close behind him. “You will have to take us prisoners, for we will not stop.”

“I won’t take you prisoners!” the elf replied, indignant. “You have kender with you.”

“Then take us to Qualinost and your king,” said Gaias. “Better for you to escort us into your land than have us wander on our own.”

With a sigh, the elf appeared, separating himself from one green-black trunk and waving them forward. A shaft was nocked on his short bow. “If you must come, come, but be quick,” he said impatiently.

*

Three Months Hence, 4 Sirrimont, 1201 Age of Light

“He’s doing what?” Emperor Emann asked, incredulous, as he paced before the roaring blaze of his stateroom’s hearth.

Commander Julias Erasmus, acting head of the imperial war council in the absence of Commander Solamnus, said, “He’s sent kender to the Qualinesti. Something about renegotiating the Swordsheath Scroll.”

The emperor’s expression deepened into a scowl. “Renegotiate. Clever. He is as audacious and unorthodox as he is cunning.”

Julias frowned, running a fidgety hand through his gray hair. “I don’t understand. Kender wouldn’t be capable of convincing a rock to lie still. Why do you think the elves will listen?”

“The Swordsheath Scroll is a fragile enough peace. Any tampering will likely shatter it, bringing the elves out in a regular holy war,” Emann said.

“That is not all,” said Julias. “He has been distributing food among the peasants ever since the winter set in.”

“Bribing them. He’s made a duke’s power struggle into a full-blown peasant rebellion.”

“The peasants of Vingaard are under the impression that this has been their struggle from the beginning,” Julius pointed out. “Our spies say that sentiment for Vinas Solamnus is strong in the lower classes – not just in Vingaard, but everywhere.”

The emperor glared at his chief advisor. “All this is prelude to telling me we cannot send more troops to Solanthus?”

“With all due respect, Your Highness, Vinas Solamnus commands half of Ergoth’s armies – the better half. The men are already triple-bunked inside Solanthus, sleeping in strict shifts. To have so many men in a castle about to be besieged —”

“If Solanthus stands, Ergoth stands.”

“— not to mention the hundreds of loyal warriors that are sifting in from Vingaard and the plains outposts – the stocks will be depleted in months instead of years,” Julius said. “Of course, if you sent even two thirds of those men out to meet Vinas in the field, they would last only hours, not days or months or years.”

“If he has only half of our forces,” the emperor wondered aloud, counting armies on his fingers, “why can he field a force in excess of three armies – counting the bread crews and kender – while all we can scrape up are three thousand?”

Julias had always responded poorly to whining. “How many of your hundred-person black watch would you spare. Fifty? Seventy-five? Add those to the hundred men you could barely afford to pull from the elven border lands, the thanoi tundra, the pirate coast of Turbidus, the gnome-riddled island of Sancrist, the edge of kender county in the north, and you’ve a total of six or seven hundred soldiers. Then, perhaps we should thin by half the home guards of every province in an empire on the brink of popular rebellion, and we could add, say, four thousand men. Perhaps by some miracle, five thousand newly gathered troops could stand with the three thousand at Solanthus, making a force almost half of Solamnus’s. Perhaps we could hold Solanthus, but surely then the outlying provinces would rebel. Then we would have a war with ten fronts instead of one.”

Emann had long since slumped into a soft chair. “Why must you be so bleak?”

“Better that I deceive you?”

Emann’s jaw flexed beneath stringy flesh. “Conscript more.”

“The imperial treasury couldn’t pay them for longer than a year, and it will take months to gather, train, and equip them.”

“Do it,” Emann ordered bitterly. “Deplete the treasury. If we lose the battle of Solanthus, we lose everything, and the empty treasury will be someone else’s worry” He paused, glancing toward the shadowed ceiling.

“Adrenas, your son seems intent on bringing me down.”

*

Five Months Hence, 17 Aelmont, 1202 Age of Light

Solanthus was ready and waiting. They had made good use of the year it took Vinas to marshall his volunteer forces and make careful, bloodless headway down from Vingaard.

Ergoth had fully stocked Solanthus and garrisoned it with three thousand troops. Captain Erghas had received a field promotion to become General Erghas, which placed him in charge of the castle. He had stepped up the refortification, which was now nearly complete. Despite the early snows this year, war wizards had kept the quarries thawed, kept the stone coming for the curtain wall.

The army of Vingaard Keep approached.

Even as Vinas marched his freezing troops along the roadway, they followed a sporadic trail of stones dumped from sledges only an hour before. The freshly cut cubes lay like toppled ruins in the desolation of snow.

Beyond, light gray and solid in the brilliant daylight, the castle stood. It’s curtain was complete, save for a course without battlements. The tops of the walls bristled with guardsmen and war wizards, staring in anger and apprehension at the long snake of Vinas’s army.

Fourteen thousand soldiers followed Vinas in this main company. Twelve of those fourteen wore polished Ergothian livery and bore the banner of Vinas Solamnus. They styled themselves patriots, fighting for the liberation of their homeland from dictatorial rule. Roughly two thousand more wore the tabards and chemises of Antonias’s army and bore his banners. Many of these were from the one thousand warriors “executed” by Vinas. The remainder were young enlistees with three months of training and not a minute of experience in battle. Whatever their stripe and color, they marched in a glorious panoply, bright as a feathered serpent against the bleak snow.

But these troops were only part of Vinas’s force. He also had a company of peasant envoys – common folk of Vingaard and the plains of eastern Ergoth. Originally, this group of twenty-six hundred had sought to join the fighting army, bringing pitchforks and scythes with them. Not wanting hapless innocents underfoot in battle, Vinas had created a civilian corps, placed Titus at its head, and charged them with relief measures for the beleaguered poor. Under Titus’s tireless guidance, the corps only grew in manpower. As happened with all people, noble or peasant – where the stomach led, the heart and mind followed.

There was also a kender contingent, thirty-some of them. After deciding to join the army, they had proved to be unshakably committed. The kender were tenacious, and their leader, Pitty Stingtail, at last convinced Vinas to let them stay by pointing out that the nation of Hylo wanted “to be as liberated as everybody else.”

The kender corps of diplomats to Qualinesti had settled the issue. Gaias had bravely taken the role of lead envoy, and apparently was meeting with some success – at least in keeping the kender away from the main army.

And last, of course, were the griffon cavalry and the scouts. Luccia and her eagle-lion riders had cleared imperial forces from all strongholds north and east of Solanthus, as well as those within twenty five miles south and west. She and her cavalry carried war wizards to harry reinforcement troops, driving them away from points of siege. The work was not hard, for the best and brightest of Ergoth’s army were stationed in Solanthus, and the winter made further muster impractical if not impossible.

If Solanthus stood, Ergoth stood. If Solanthus fell, Vinas and his troops would sweep Thelgaard away as though it were deserted, then push past the ghost-haunted Caergoth, and lay siege to Daltigoth, itself.

Vinas sat tall in the saddle. Courage stomped snow from his hooves as he led the way. A terrible loneliness had settled over him. His companions – Luccia, Gaias, Titus – were for the first time missing from his side as he marched into grave jeopardy. Those he had so often turned to were scattered across half of Ansalon. They led others in battle. They, too, fought for the first time without him.

There would be no battle today, he knew. General Erghas was a skilled leader. He would not have worked so hard to complete the curtain wall if he meant merely to sally forth into the teeth of a fresh army. No, today the armies would play the game of surrounding the fortress, setting pickets, and shouting threats. Perhaps a few bows would be fired to set ranges, but that was all.

Vinas drew in the icy air, sharp and sweet in his lungs. This would be a hard victory for a pragmatic commander, harder still for a dreamer, and hardest of all for the empire’s favorite son returned as rebel.

As he began the circling maneuver, a magic-augmented voice came to Vinas from the walls: So, the peasants you once slew, you now champion, Vinas Solamnus? And the nobles you once served, you now betray?

The voice of General Erghas. From the puzzled, startled look on the faces of his troops, Vinas knew that they all heard it. Every last one.

I hear you have traded self-serving treachery for effete honor. I applaud such improvements. However, I have yet to see your virtues in action. Your griffon-riders raid our outposts, your priests bribe the peasants with bread, your second even leads kender into Qualinost to stir up dissention and trouble, to break the ancient peace of the Swordsheath Scroll. Strange that you make peace when it suits you, and, otherwise, war.

As Vinas continued the maneuver around the castle, he cast a glare back at his wizard corps, who, in their sleds, struggled to nullify the voice spell. Vinas faced forward and rode stolidly onward, listening to the ravings of his foe.

He thought of Luccia, and wondered if he would live to see her again. A single tear came, whether from sun or wind or cold or dread, he could not say. It streamed down his cheek and fell from his jawline, turning to ice before it struck his cloak.

“How long?” he asked himself beneath his breath, “how long will this war of ice tears last?”

He had circled half of the fortress before, at last, the wizards were able to negate the spell. The unsettled expressions of Vinas’s troops were obvious. His own face looked no different.

Let them doubt, he thought. Let me doubt, too. I will not answer Erghas in kind, nastily and prematurely.

He had fully circled the fortress and drawn his noose of warriors, just as sun and horizon merged into twilight. Only then did he signal the war wizards to reverse the spell, sending his quiet voice to everyone within the castle.

Hello, Compatriots. I am Commander Vinas Solamnus. My folk and I have yon safely contained. Call it a siege, if you wish, though you will soon enough see how inaccurate that term is.

In a siege, an army surrounds a fortification and seeks surrender of those within, using starvation, dehydration, restlessness, and madness to win their ends.

I do not wish such things on my worst enemies. You, warriors of Solanthus – you are my countrymen. We isolate you not to deprive you of anything you need, but to give you time to heal, to think. We isolate you to protect the rest of Ergoth from the violent delusions you are under.

Every day, therefore, we will send to you a provisions wagon, of the exact variety we provide to the deprived villages in the countryside all around. The wagon will hold enough food to feed all your troops for a day.

Also, I have taken the liberty of asking a war wizard of mine to cast a spell of plenty on your wells, so you should not want for water. Both the food and the water will have been blessed by priests of Paladine, so they will fortify not only bodies but also souls. The water may be used as holy water, for purposes of purification and ritual.

Nor am I forgetting the needs of the mind. My war wizards have created some splendid devices to this end. We have ten enchanted chess boards that, when set up among my men, will appear mystically at points along your wall. Your men will discover they can touch the pieces and move them. It is harmless and wholesome entertainment for soldiers who must spend long hours watching an army that has no intention of attacking.

Also, the evening hours will feature the most-acclaimed bards and balladeers, singing and reciting to you. Some nights, troupes of jugglers, acrobats, dancers, and actors will perform on an enchanted stage. Their images will appear in the center of your courtyard. You shall not want for fine entertainment and pleasant diversion.

Do not fear. None of these diversions will be calculated to distract guards from their duties or cause any other harm. We have no attention of attacking, and will fight only if attacked. Otherwise, enjoy the best we have to offer in food, drink, and diversion.

The reason for this siege, as I have said before, is to give you time to heal and think, all the while keeping the rest of Ergoth safe from you. Yes, you are patients of a sort, in an enforced convalescence. I must admit, my motives are not purely altruistic. I want you whole and hale because I know, in time, you will be healed, and then I would like the aid of your strong minds and backs and stomachs, to help in our cause.

When I say I want you whole, I mean not only your physical, mental, and spiritual health, but also your social health. I neither welcome nor will accept deserters from your ranks. General Erghas is an honorable warrior, and deserves your loyalty. I will win none of you over until I win all of you over, until General Erghas himself decides to join me in this cause.

And what is that cause? Freedom and justice for all the people of Ergoth!

Meus Pater

Father, the treasure of honor you bore was at least this heavy, I know. Still, it is only now that I realize it is the very weight of the burden that makes laughter and grace so necessary. Otherwise, honor could crush a man alive.

You would be pleased with what my army is doing now. We have Solanthus surrounded, and yet we treat those within as honored guests instead of dishonored foes. I wonder how they will oppose such charity. It is, quite honestly, the most powerful weapon I can imagine – not slaying foes but transforming them into friends.

XV

One Day Hence, 18 Aelmont, 1202 Age of Light

Vinas stood beside the loaded provisions wagon. Its wheels were caked with snow. He looked to the young warrior sitting atop the buckboard, slim wrists extending from the fat sleeves of his cloak as he clutched the horse’s reins.

“Are you sure, Barnabas?” Vinas asked. “This is the most dangerous detail in the army.”

“Therefore the most glorious,” said the cocky soldier. “Just think, all eyes in both armies will be on me.”

Vinas crossed arms over his chest and leaned back. “The eyes of Anistas, too. She knows you volunteered, right?”

He smiled brightly. “She’s the reason I volunteered.”

A deep sigh. Vinas said, “I’m sure we could get the wizards to figure a way of getting the wagon to the gate without a driver. Or perhaps they could cast a globe of protection around you.”

Barnabas waved away those ideas. “Then it would seem we didn’t trust them. This gesture is important – a single, unarmed driver bridging the no-man’s-land between us.”

Vinas’s mouth flattened into a hard, determined line. “I can learn something from your courage.”

Barnabas shrugged. “I’m getting cold. I’d like to get this over with so I can head back to the fire.”

Vinas only nodded.

Barnabas slapped the reins against, the horses’ flanks, and the snow-choked wheels lurched into motion. He gave one last wave, then confidently guided the horses onto the road that led toward Solanthus’s gate.

Commander Solamnus was suddenly acutely aware that the whole plain had gone silent. He looked down the uneven clusters of soldiers. Conversations had died away, reports had been cut short, jokes had stopped in mid-telling and laughs had been choked to silence. It was the same way on the walls above. Guards watched warily as the wagon pulled within arrow range. The Ergothians moved in slow, black clumps toward the gate.

There was a war wizard near Vinas, and he snagged the woman’s thick robe. “Augment my voice. I want them to hear me on the wall.” With a gesture, it was done, and Vinas addressed the whole silent throng, inside the castle and out.

We send the first provisions wagon. The driver is unarmed. The wagon is full of food and drink. Please, give safe passage to this soldier, and enjoy what he brings you.

Puffs of gray breath drifted up from the horses as they labored, drawing Barnabas and the food after them. The guards on the wall did not raise their bows, but only stood and stared at the strange spectacle.

“Who’s the brave soul?” came a voice beside Vinas.

He turned and saw it was the priestess Anistas.

To his look of surprise, she responded, “I know, I know. It’s colder than I like out here, but Barnabas asked me to meet him here. He said it was important.”

Vinas took hold of her shoulders and stared solemnly into her eyes. “Anistas, that is Barnabas.”

Her face went as white as the snow, and he tried to steady her. She pulled free and pushed past him, onto the road. Vinas pursued, grabbing her arm and holding her back.

“Stay here. If you go, too, the Ergothians will wonder what trick we’re up to, and Barnabas would be in even greater danger.”

Anistas struggled to break free, but couldn’t. She turned her head to stare down the road.

Barnabas was halfway to the castle, well within range for even a mediocre marksman. Still, the guards made no move to stop him. The wind swirled in white eddies, like ghosts dancing on a cloud. As the horses drew closer, the wagon looked small against the massive wall.

“I thought they just might accept the token,” Vinas muttered to himself with a cautious smile. “If they wanted to attack, they would have done so by now.”

The horses had reached the moat. Barnabas reined them to a stop. He stared forward at the thick, iron-banded drawbridge that tightly sealed the entrance to the castle. The underside of the bridge was draped with dead moss that had accumulated over the years when the bridge was rarely if ever lifted.

For a moment, Vinas’s heart caught in his throat. If they won’t lower the bridge, he thought, they won’t take the supplies, and if they don’t take the supplies, Barnabas is a deadman.

Suddenly, the drawbridge lurched downward. It caught short, then spooled slowly toward the ground. The clangor of metal links rolling from the capstan came a moment later, a sound so welcome that it brought a great, spontaneous cheer from the troops of Vingaard.

The drawbridge set to ground. Barnabas waved his thanks to the men on the wall, who returned the gesture. Barnabas flapped the reins, and the wagon shuddered into motion. The bridge was little wider than the wagon, and it held no rails to prevent a fifty-foot plunge into a moat of ice. Barnabas guided the wagon slowly out along the bridge, at last reaching the closed portcullis.

There came another moment of anxiety. Then the portcullis began its clanking path upward. The army cheered again, and festival songs broke out here and there among Vinas’s men.

The portcullis rose the height of the wagon rails and stopped. From beneath it came ten armored men, who walked warily to the wagon. The officer of the group stopped to talk to Barnabas while the rest lined up beside the wagon, pulling back the tarp, and gazing within. When they seemed satisfied, they went to the opposite side of the conveyance, checking what lay there. As heads began to nod in satisfaction beside the wagon, the officer finished his conversation with Barnabas and joined the others.

Vinas’s hold on Anistas eased. He then let go of her entirely. “You see? They are accepting the token.”

No sooner had he said this than the ten men heaved on the side of the wagon. The wagon rolled off the drawbridge, taking Barnabas and the horses with it. His shriek came first, and then the horrible sound of horse screams, the clatter of hooves and knees on frozen wood, and a terrific crash as food, wagon, driver, and horses impacted upon the ice below.

Vinas reached out to grab Anistas and hold her, but already she was running up the road, already almost within arrow range. He bolted after her. If only she would slip and stumble, he found himself thinking. If only she would not cross that line.

It was too late. Vinas himself had already crossed into arrow range. What looked like a flock of starlings took flight from the castle. But they flew too fast, too straight, to be birds. The first black arrow caught her thigh and felled her. By the time Vinas reached her, the first shafts were spent, four of them embedded in Anistas. Yet she still breathed.

Vinas tenderly lifted her into his arms, turned around, and walked out of range. The twang of another set of missiles came behind them, but Vinas did not hurry. He walked slowly, reverently, back toward his armies as arrows struck the ground all around them, breaking midshaft upon the frozen earth.

“For pity’s sake —” Vinas shouted to his troops “— for honor’s sake, bring a priest!”

The word honor left a bitter, bitter taste in his mouth.

*

Four Months Hence, 2 Bran, 1202 Age of Light

“How goes it?” came a resonant voice on the grassy hillside.

Crouched intently over a rock that held one of the enchanted chessboards, Jerome started and sat straight up atop his camp stool. “Paladine’s puke! You scared me, sneaking up like that.”

He glanced irritably over his shoulder and saw the large, silhouette of Commander Solamnus. The soldier leapt to his feet, upsetting the camp stool and almost wiping clean the chess board.

The commander himself reached down and steadied the board. “Are you coaxing anyone into playing?”

Jerome was too busy standing at attention to realize he needed to respond.

“I said – relax, soldier – have you gotten anyone to play?”

“No, sir,” said Jerome nervously. “Not any response for quite a while. At first all they would do was knock the pieces off the board every time I set it up. Now, they’re just ignoring it.”

Commander Solamnus stooped, righted the man’s chair, and gestured him into it. Stiffly, Jerome took the seat. The commander said, “It’s the same story down the line. They must have been ordered not to touch the boards. But it looks to me like you’ve got a good game going.”

The man shrugged, reddening beneath his salt-and-pepper hair. “Once they stopped clearing the boards, I figured it wouldn’t do any harm for me to play a match – both sides, I mean.”

Vinas nodded. “It’s a good idea. Even if they’ve been ordered not to touch the boards, they could still watch a game. It’s a start. Good thinking.”

“Oh, ah, yes. Thanks,” said Jerome.

The commander nodded toward the pieces. “Continue.”

“Yes, sir,” Jerome replied, as though it had been an order. He reached out slowly, then drew his hand back from the white queen. “I was just trying to make sure of a checkmate. White will have the game if I move the queen to bishop four – if she can’t be taken there.” He and the commander studied the board in silence for a moment, looking for jeopardy for the queen. Then, without either of them lifting a hand, the white queen moved into position.

Jerome stared in disbelief. “Someone’s playing. Someone’s finally playing!”

Commander Solamnus peered toward the wall. “Good work, soldier. Continue.”

*

Six Months Hence, 28 H’rarmont, 1202 Age of Light

Titus was standing beside the half-empty wagon, lashing down its tarp, when he felt something on his back – something even sharper than the early winter wind. Actually, the sword tip poked at him from somewhere lower than his back.

Raising his hands to his sides, the giant slowly pivoted to see who threatened him. He looked down to see a boy who could have been no more than twelve.

The kid’s helmet was a few sizes too large, and he had to crane his neck back to keep it from sliding down over his eyes. His shoulder guards stood out from his neck like the fronds of a palm. With both arms over his head, he held up a very grown-up sword.

“Hold still, or I’ll stick you through the heart,” said the kid.

“That’s the long way to the heart,” Titus observed, but he held dutifully still.

“I congratulate this wagon for the army of Daltigoth,” the boy declared.

Another voice came, this one craggy and old, but no more imposing than the child’s. “That’s confiscate, not congratulate,” an old man said.

Despite the warning, Titus decided his heart was out of immediate danger. He twisted around to see the boy’s comrade. The old man had a three-day stubble, with a gray mustache and eyebrows that stood out like cat whiskers. His chest was even narrower than the boy’s, though his potbelly made up for the deficiency. His legs were birdlike – scrawny and covered in ragged scale mail.

“Let the arse of that priest alone, son,” the old man advised. “Paladine’s posterior ain’t a good thing to be poking.”

“I captured him and his cart,” the boy explained, not moving the sword.

Two more voices, young and savage, came in the distance. They both talked excitedly, neither heeding the other. As the speakers reached a ring of winter-bare trees at the edge of the clearing, their duologue suddenly stopped and they broke into a run.

“A priest, finally!” one of the young men said. “Run!”

They both skidded to a halt beside Titus. They were filthy as polecats living in a chimney. Their eyes blinked brightly in their dirty faces.

The nearer one said, “I got a wart that won’t go away even if I cut at it, and last time I cut at it I had to walk funny for a week, which is how I got this blister beside the wart” – he slipped off one ragged boot and lifted a bad-smelling foot above his head to show his wart and blister – “and so I want both healed.”

With a single motion of one hand, Titus pushed the noisome foot away and healed it. “Who are you people?”

There came the sound of three young chests puffing out with pride – and that of one decidedly older chest just plain puffing. The boy with the sword said, “We’re the new recruits for Ergoth’s army.”

Titus could no longer help it. He stepped away from the sword. Its tip unsupported, the sword clattered to the ground. The noise startled the group, which leapt back like frightened rabbits.

“Look out!” one of the grubby fellows said, “he’s got a sword!”

“Way to go, Filbas,” the other piped.

“Forget swords,” the old man said, his eyes wide, “look at those hands. He could smash our heads like grapes.” He made a comical pretense of dodging blows.

“Filbert can have his sword back,” said Titus, kicking the blade back to them. They leapt away from it. “I just want answers to some questions.”

“Whatever he asks, don’t answer, or he won’t need you anymore, and he’ll kill you,” advised the one whose foot had been healed.

“Shut up,” advised the other.

Titus ignored them. “Are you really soldiers for Ergoth?”

“Of course we are,” they chorused, indignant.

“Why aren’t you in Solanthus, then?”

Filbas answered, “I said we’re new recruits. And what we’re doing here is getting ready to attack the rebels.”

“You four are going to attack Vinas Solamnus’s eighteen thousand?” Titus asked, incredulous.

“We’re building up to it.” Filbas quirked his mouth.

“We used to be in a company, but the colonel had a bad cough and, well, he didn’t make it. So, we split up. Besides, there’s more than four.”

As though these last words were a signal, another twenty-five ragtag soldiers came over the hill. Their eyes lit with excitement as they saw the wagon and the prisoner, and they ran to help surround Titus.

“Looks like the shoe is on the other foot, priest!” sneered Wart. “Now we ask the questions. Who are you?”

“I am Chancellor Titus, priest of Paladine, and one of the rebel leaders,” said Titus without pause.

“Whoa! Without even trying we nabbed a big one!” said the other grubber.

“I was trying,” Filbas put in.

“I say we torture war secrets out of him,” suggested Wart.

“You won’t have to torture me,” Titus said. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Commander Solamnus has no war secrets.”

“If the priest ain’t got secrets, let’s hang him,” said the other grubber. A cheer went up from the scrofulous crowd. “At least we could have some fun.”

The speaker suddenly had a very similar experience to the one Titus had had moments before: he felt a jab in his back. Not one, actually, but four.

He turned his head to see a severe-looking farmer pressing a severe-looking pitchfork against his back. “You’ll do no such thing. Now, you brigands be running along.”

Spitting venom, the grubber said, “Who’s going to make us. You and what army?”

“This army,” said the farmer.

The surrounders were now surrounded by a hundred villagers who now had full pantries, thanks to Titus.

The farmer said, “I’m sorry you had to run into this lot, Titus. We’ve been trying to keep them out of your hair, but they’re as thick as fleas in these woods. Thick as fleas, but no more dangerous.”

Titus waved away the apology. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

“As far as we’re concerned,” the farmer said matter-of-factly, “these folk are the invaders. We’re part of Solamnia.”

*

Sixteen Months Hence, 13 Chislmont, 1204 Age of Light

After Barnabas’s death, every provisions wagon sent to the castle was propelled by magical means – without horses or driver. The safety measures proved wise. For the first three months of the siege, every wagon that rolled to the drawbridge of the castle was flung unceremoniously into the moat.

The armies of Solamnus had been grieved to see such waste – ninety-two wagons before it was done, and tons of food wasted. So much lay in the moat at the end of those three months that it was said an attack could be made across a bridge of pork shanks and flank steaks. Many advisors had begged Vinas to end the daily ritual, but he had been adamant.

On the thirteenth of Chislmont, though, two years back, the first wagon was accepted into the castle. Since that time, not a single wagon had been tossed away, and one year ago to the day, the wagons had started coming back empty, to be reused. Vinas’s overworked wheelwrights had breathed a sigh of relief at that.

Commander Solamnus had made it known to his troops that on the anniversary of the auspicious date, he wanted to send another horse team and rider, and was looking for volunteers. Though he had many to choose from, one volunteer was especially insistent.

“Are you certain about this, Anistas?” Vinas asked her, standing in the very spot where he had once asked Barnabas the same question.

She nodded, fingers twisting the reins of her horses.

“Just the way he did it. I want it all to be the same.”

“All but the ending,” Vinas said, his voice a mixture of concern and reproof.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “Of course.”

“Well,” Vinas said, “I need someone to brave this path for all of us. You are among the bravest folk I know.”

She nodded, her eyes already steely and fixed on the castle looming ahead.

“Paladine be with you,” said Vinas.

With that, she touched a spot beside her heart, where an arrow had once nearly taken her life. It was a gesture that always gave her strength.

She slapped the reins. The horses pulled forward. The wagon jolted onto the road.

The huge ring of Vingaard’s warriors – grown to twenty-five thousand over these two years – fell silent.

Despite the slow trot of the horses, Anistas felt an impulse to leap off the wagon, as though it were careening out of control toward a cliff. She squelched the desire, purposefully keeping the reins loose and even in her grip.

The road curved muddily away behind her. The horses trudged up an embankment greening with spring. Anistas sat straight and tall. The augmented voice of Commander Solamnus rose all around her.

I am sending in an unarmed woman with a wagon of provisions. Please let this priestess arrive unharmed, and receive the gift she offers.

She was in arrow range now, but no shafts took to the air. They hadn’t fired at Barnabas, either – and he was dead, all the same.

The castle loomed ahead, growing impossibly large. Anistas realized she hadn’t breathed in what felt like minutes. What if this is my last moment? she wondered. What if this blue-gray sky and these tender first shoots of grass are the last things I ever see?

Before she knew it, she reined the horses to a stop at the moat. There, she waited. The guards atop the wall stared down at her, but as yet their weapons were not raised.

A loud clatter began. Anistas started. The guards laughed. She saw that the drawbridge had begun its descent, heavy chain unspooling from capstans high above. The massive bridge cranked downward slowly, patiently, and finally settled into place.

Taking a deep breath, Anistas urged the horses forward, across the bridge. The wheels moaned, as though in terror of what was to come. She guided the wagon along the narrow drawbridge and to the closed portcullis. Again, she waited.

More clanking was heard as the portcullis rose slowly upward. When it had cleared the height of the wagon rails, nine soldiers emerged. They were haggard and drawn, their faces hard. They did not look at Anistas, only filed past her, going to one side of the wagon and flipping back the tarp to examine the cargo. Anistas held her breath, refusing to look over her shoulder, trying to convince herself it would be better to be dragged into the pit than to be captured by these heartless men.

“Mmmm,” one of them said, his voice raspy, “dates.”

The men had begun shifting over to the other side of the wagon when Anistas caught sight of a sinister figure lurking in the shadowy arch beyond the raised portcullis.

Not lurking, but approaching.

Light fell on the face of the man. He had a haunted look to him. The flesh of his face clung to his skull, showing its sockets and cavities. The man’s eyes were keen, as though he had spent the last two years honing them like a pair of knives.

General Erghas.

He edged toward Anistas. She did not move. He stopped beside her and set one thin hand upon the rein hitch and the other on the buckboard. He spoke in a soft, intense voice.

“Do you have a good memory?” he asked.

Anistas was puzzled as well as startled. She replied, “Yes.”

“Good,” he said. “I hadn’t time to write this down. I want you to take a message to Commander Solamnus.”

She nodded.

“Listen carefully: Commander, you have fed my men and I longer than the emperor has. Were it not for your blasted honor, we would have been starved out two years ago. Thank you, also, for the entertainments, the games, the songs. All have helped us pass the time in this infuriating stalemate. You have proved your honor to be more than dreamy chatter, and proved Emann’s tyranny to be less than omnipotent.

“Even so, I am still his man. I will not turn traitor. Therefore, let us end this stalemate with a battle of knights. I will have a document drawn up for us to sign and seal, that you and I will engage in an honorable duel, sword to sword and dagger to dagger, as you are so fond of putting it. The winner will take over the loser’s troops and provisions, to do with as he will. The loser, of course, will be forfeit his life.”

He blinked and looked down. “Do you have that all?”

“I think so,” said Anistas, nodding. “I know I do.”

“Good,” the man said again.

Suddenly there was in his hand a sword that Anistas had not seen him draw. She flinched away as he brought it whirring down. With one neat stroke, he sliced one of the horses free from the wagon, and brought it around by its severed reins.

“Here,” he said gruffly, though his gesture was graceful, “let this noble beast speed you on your return.”

Anistas sat for a moment, then leapt from the buck-board to the bare back of the mount. She made a clicking sound and eased the horse past the wagon.

As she did so, one of the soldiers asked General Erghas what he planned to do with the other horse. She did not wait for the reply, kicking her mount to a gallop. But some corner of her mind thought she had heard the words, “Eat it.”

Meus Pater

At last, Father, this long, dreary siege is ending. Had I inflicted starvation and madness in order to gain surrender, this siege would have been done long ago. But such ends are not honorable for warriors to suffer, and less so for warriors to inflict.

This siege has been long because I conducted it honorably. I refused to be drawn into a brawl. I refused to pile ten soldiers atop every two of the foe. My patience at last has paid off. An honorable fight has been granted me. Best of all, this clash of armies will be resolved with a single death instead of a multitude of them.

It has been so long since I have killed in cold blood. I wonder if I am still able.

XVI

Two Weeks Hence, 27 Chislmont, 1204 Age of Light

The day of the duel dawned with a carnival atmosphere, Colorful tents luffed on opposite ends of the parade ground. Bright pennons snapped above them, and the standards of Vinas and Erghas marked out the opposing camps.

The field to the east of the castle had been converted into a jousting yard, complete with guide poles and packed-sand lanes. The black earth also held a sand circle for wrestling, should things progress that far, and on the castle side of the field loomed a gallows, where the loser would be hanged on display.

Under a temporary truce, the three thousand soldiers of Ergoth were free to mingle with the twenty-five thousand of Vingaard stationed at the site. Mingle they did. Armies liveried in Vinas’s blue and white or Antonias’s gray and green were mixed with those in Erghas’s red and orange, Ergoth’s black and red, and other divisional combinations. The only obvious difference between the rebels and the imperials was the thinness of the latter. Clearly, Erghas’s troops had not received the wagons until they had absolutely needed them.

Chess partners and tournament players met, clasped arms, and exchanged words. Ergothian chefs sought out the hunters and curers among Vinas’s troops. Ergothian sentries spoke with the bards and actors that had kept them entertained on their long, late watches atop the tower.

The soldiery slowly sifted into spectator ranks – sitting, kneeling or standing along either side of the field. Even then, they mingled. It seemed to all of them that they had little quarrel. The war was not theirs, but their leaders’.

Just now, those two men sat in separate tents on separate ends of the field. They donned the last of their armor, drew whetstones one final time across their swords, and finished the round of charms and prayers their priests had forced upon them.

Titus leaned on a pile of pillows near one wall of the commander’s small tent. Sitting down, he was still as tall as Luccia and Vinas, who were in the center of the tent struggling with a broken shoulder strap.

In the attitude of an Istarian pasha, Titus dictated to Vinas a cycle of prayer. “One last time, recite the warrior’s dedication: Unto Paladine – the Dragon’s Lord, Father of Good, and Master of Law – I dedicate my heart. Unto his first son Kiri-Jolith – Sword of Justice, Heart of Honor, and Bringer of Righteous War – I dedicate the weapons of my hands. And unto his younger brother, Habbakuk – Fisher King —”

“I hope he is lord of shoulder straps,” interrupted Vinas irritably, flinging the loose epaulet away.

Luccia watched him, concerned, “Why don’t you wear your regular armor? This dress stuff is hardly broken in.”

“I must shine today,” Vinas said. “I must look worthy to be the avatar of justice, honor, and rebirth. I must shine.”

“You must survive,” Luccia said reprovingly. “You’d do better at that with familiar and proven armor.”

“You’d do better at that with a few more prayers under your belt,” added Titus.

Vinas lifted his gaze from the scattered mess of armor polish and rags around him. He fixed on his beloved with a look, and then turned to his best friend. “If I’d wanted to survive, I’d have given up Vingaard to the emperor and returned to be his under table dog. I can’t go into this battle with survival as my first goal. If I survive through unfair advantage, dishonorable blow, or aid from friends in the stands, thousands will die today – thousands instead of one.”

Luccia and Titus both stared a long while at Vinas before the giant said, “You’re right. You’ve got more creed than ten priests – and more honor than a hundred.” He smiled sadly. “Hand me the shoulder strap.”

Luccia did, and the priest began fiddling with it.

Vinas asked, “How’s Courage doing?”

“Fine,” Luccia assured. “The barding is already in place. The stableman’s gotten a girl to do the final tail brushing. Courage will shine just like you.”

*

As she brushed out its tail, the young, doll-eyed woman cooed softly to the great black horse. “You are going to run fast and smooth for the commander, aren’t you? Fast and smooth. You must, or he will not win.” She looked about her, but no one was near the stall. “Fast, like you are running on a field of fire,” she said, lifting one of Courage’s rear hoofs and pouring a thin liquid from a small vial onto the frog of the foot. “And smooth, like you’re running on butter.” She lifted the other rear hoof and let liquid fail onto the flesh.

As she moved to the front of the horse, intent on repeating the process, she said, “It’s not fire or butter, really, but a kind of poison. Once it sinks in, you’ll be ready to run like fire. But just like fire, you’ll burn up fast, and your muscles will melt into butter —”

A boy rounded the comer, a bucket of water in either hand. He smiled a greeting at the young woman with the tail comb, then sloshed the contents of the buckets into a trough at Courage’s head. “One last drink before the joust!” he said excitedly.

“Yes,” the childlike woman replied as she slipped away. “One last drink.”

*

Fully armored, General Erghas sat alone in his small, flapping tent. He looked like an old raven, gray with years, gaunt, patient, and wise. He had heard that Commander Solamnus was doing his best to look the white knight. Such charades did not impress Erghas. He wanted his people and the rebels – particularly the rebels – to see him as he was: fierce, embittered, practical, fearless. Vinas’s white raiments wouldn’t look so splendid when he bled through them.

“Your sword, Sir,” said a middle-aged man at the tent flap. He extended the sword, hilt first, toward the general. “It’s sharpened and ready.”

“Good work,” General Erghas said dispassionately. He gestured for the weaponsmith or blacksmith – or whatever the man was – to lean the scabbarded sword near the tent flap and go.

“The tip is especially sharp,” the man said, rubbing his forehead, which was crossed by a deep, nasty-looking scar. “Strike with it, and the kill is sure. But don’t cut yourself with it.”

The man was gone before Erghas could get a second look at him.

*

Waiting statuelike, General Erghas sat his gray mare. Only the pennon at the tip of his lance moved in the spring breeze.

The crowds had cheered the general when he first appeared. Oblivious, he had mounted up and sat still. The throng had watched him closely for the first long minutes. When he did no more, only sat with lance cradled, their eyes began to wander the parade grounds in search of Commander Solamnus.

He was there, behind a line of tents at the other end of the field. Erghas recognized Solamnus’s pennon, dangling from an upright lance. The crowd watched that slender banner, too, uncertain if it was borne by a squire or by the man himself.

Erghas knew it was he, Vinas Solamnus. The flag moved less with the fickle breeze than with the stamping and prancing of the stallion he rode – what was its name? Stoutheart?

With a sudden violent motion, the lance edged slightly forward and bounded along the tent top. It brought after it the magnificent black stallion, draped in dazzling white. But the silken beast was dull compared to Solamnus. He was resplendent in silver, as though clothed in lightning.

A thunderous ovation followed his appearance.

The black stallion stomped and pranced, but the commander himself was still. He too did not acknowledge the applause. When Vinas stood in his stirrups, it was to touch a fist to his chest in salute of his opponent. General Erghas stood and returned the gesture. The gestures only raised the cries from the soldiers.

The shouts and cheers were still building when the opponents guided their mounts to the heads of the jousting lanes. There, they solemnly lowered their helmet visors. The sound of the crowd collapsed in upon itself, ending in a troubled hush.

Then came the eager thuds of hooves, digging into the hard-packed sand of the lane. Rectangles of bone and sinew leaned into triangles of motion, and from triangles into streaking shafts. The terrific acceleration stretched time, as though such mass could not so quickly achieve such speed.

The horses thundered toward each other. The lances tilted forward and leveled. Caught between the flash of steel and the roar of hoof, the two men rushed toward impact.

General Erghas smiled within his helmet. That triangle, there, between the commander’s shield and his arm – that’s where his heart is.

They came together with the speed of falcons. Erghas’s lance tip held steady. A muscle in his arm pulled. The tip moved a fraction of an inch and dove toward the triangle.

Solamnus’s shield was suddenly there. The lance glanced off it, raking the shield up over the commander’s shoulder.

Erghas felt the tearing of leather, perhaps tendon – and, surely, muscle. Where had Solamnus’s lance tip struck him? He could not feel it.

He felt all the weight of the world crashing into his back and flipping him, bruisingly, end over end. The lance followed him for one of those turns before it slipped from where it had been lodged. Sand and blood traced circles in the air. Erghas tumbled over and over. At last, the world ceased its spinning, and he was still.

There, on the edge of Erghas’s sight, Vinas Solamnus drifted, placid and unhurt, atop that midnight steed of his. On the other side of the knife-thin world, there were thrashing forms rushing up – two eager squires.

Squires, Erghas thought irritably, and he sat up before they could reach him. The first arrived, smocked and shawled in red and black, and tried to ease Erghas back down.

“Give yourself a moment, General,” he said.

With one arm, Erghas flung the young man aside and rose to a knee. “If I lie down,” he hissed, “Ergoth lies down.”

The other squire was smart enough to learn from his companion, and endeavored to help the general stand. Only then, as deafening applause rose from both armies, did Erghas realize that the roar he had heard before was blood in his ears.

Erghas gave an understated wave to his warriors. He took a moment to glance at the inward-splayed belly armor, and the dark blood that oozed from it.

“Let’s plug this up,” he rasped to the squire. He hobbled toward Solamnus’s fallen lance, bent stiffly, ripped the Solamnian pennon from its end, and jammed the rag into his own belly wound.

With a flippant gesture toward the lance, he told the squire, “Give it back to the commander.”

The young man complied.

Erghas whistled for his horse. She came. He patted her fondly and vaulted up into the saddle. The mare bowed her head, tossed her mane, and cantered proudly toward the far end of the jousting grounds. Good. She had not been injured. The straps that would have kept him in the saddle were torn now, loose flaps on his legs and the horse’s gear. No matter.

Erghas reached his starting marker and turned the mare, her hooves stamping in the same marks she had made only moments before. He allowed himself to lift the visor and spit a glob of blood into the sand, then made sure it got trampled well in.

The squire who had been upbraided dragged Erghas’s lance through the sand toward him. Solamnus – damn him – already sat with his own lance, tall and steady. That black stallion of his stomped and fidgeted, as though a carnivore eager for blood.

“Here, General,” the squire said, handing him the end of the lance and helping him set it in the hilt cradle.

Erghas suddenly remembered his own days as a squire, and he said to the shaken lad, “Get ready to help the commander lie down this time.”

The young man flashed a smile, but then seemed to think it inappropriate and wiped it into a solemn expression. “Yes, General.”

Had the boy not known enough to withdraw then, Erghas would have kicked him away. Luckily for him, the squire got clear. Vinas was standing and making his silly salute. Not interested in standing again – not for about three days – Erghas merely lowered his visor and charged.

Vinas Solamnus came on, too. That horse of his had a devil glow in its red eyes. Its hooves tore at the ground as though it was digging a trench as it passed. A trench or a grave.

Erghas leveled his lance and tried to steady the bouncing point of it. His arm wouldn’t do what he wanted it to. He shouted, feeling sinews tear near his elbow as he brought the wicked end to bear on the black comet soaring toward him.

Then suddenly, Vinas’s stallion dove headfirst to ground. Courage – Courage was his name. The ebony head of the beast dropped to the sand, dragging Solamnus down. Courage rolled over. There came a cracking of bone and a shrieking moan of armor plates. Then Solamnus, too, was gone, borne beneath the vast black bulk of the horse.

Erghas flashed past. Just before he turned his mare outward, he glimpsed the broken forelegs of Courage, flopping pitifully against the sand as the stallion rolled off of Vinas Solamnus.

Erghas brought his mount around and cantered toward the strange sight. He let the lance fall from his grip. There would be no more jousting, not on a leg-broken horse.

It was as though Courage had been tripped by a wire. Never had Erghas seen a mount of such breeding and training go down like that. He rode toward the spot, wondering if he would need to dispatch the suffering creature.

Impossibly, though, Vinas rose from the blood-sand that caked him. The man moved as though in great pain, but did not stagger. He walked with sure step to the horse, drew his sword, and brought it down through the beast’s neck. Then he dropped to his knees, yanked off his helmet, and embraced Courage, as though mourning a longtime friend.

So, thought General Erghas. It is to be swords.

He swung down from the saddle and smacked his mare on the rump, sending her away. Then he drew steel. Solamnus had sword in hand. Erghas tossed his helmet aside so that they were equally armored. It was just as well. Boarshead helmets were more harm than good in a close sword fight.

He approached the fallen horse and the kneeling rider. Erghas regretted the provisions that forbade backstabs and slaying a man who was down. He regretted them if only because he could otherwise end this now. His every muscle demanded that he sit down. The regret was only momentary, though. Solamnus was nothing if not a soldier of honor. He deserved an honorable fight and an honorable death.

“Ready for another go?” Erghas asked, his voice sounding more hearty than he felt.

The commander rose to his feet. The man was imposingly tall. He turned slowly, his light-blue eyes all the more dazzling over blood-painted cheeks. Vinas nodded.

“Clean your sword,” Erghas said. It was not a suggestion. “If I’ve got to die today, I don’t want to do it with horse blood in me.”

Solamnus looked down at the crimson blade. He carefully drew the flat of it across the shoulder of his mount. After wiping both sides, he lifted the blade, showing it to be clean.

“He was a good horse,” the commander said.

“I imagine,” replied Erghas.

He backed away to a wide spot of dry grass with solid footing. His feet planted in preparation. His knees and lower back ached, but he held the posture all the same. Solamnus arrived, saluted once more, and assumed a similar stance.

The rebel lunged first, huge like a charging bull, sword poised to block or thrust. Erghas stepped into the charge. Steel clashed on steel. The weight behind that first lunge was deadly. Erghas deflected the sword and spun away, letting Solamnus barge past him. The blades scraped loose, each notched by its counterpart. Erghas made a weak backlash to the head. The man, though, was out of reach, stomping upon the grass and pivoting, teeth bared, for the next attack.

It came from Erghas. He danced in lightly. His blade darted to the right, then shifted in tight beneath the man’s sword arm and nicked armor. Vinas was surprised by that move. He tried to fall back, to regroup. Erghas pressed, bringing the blade hammerlike onto one shoulder. The silver epaulet dented beneath the strike and slid sullenly off.

Erghas disengaged, breathing hard, considering the next attack. The man had weight and speed, but he was not graceful with a sword. He’d learned to butcher with it, but never to finesse it, to be its lover. Erghas had him in that. A worse weakness, though, was the man’s heart. It was as large as a bam door, and just as red.

No more time for thought, only retreat as Vinas pushed him back. The force of each strike, once again, was incredible, though the blows were sloppy. Erghas deflected each with a well-angled blade and much less energy. The commander would not relent, the attack would not cease. Erghas at last sidestepped the thrusts, once again letting Solamnus plunge past him.

This time, Erghas’s whirling strike to the head caught flesh – but only just. The tip clipped Vinas’s earlobe and drew a thin line on it. Erghas remembered the weapon-smith’s words: “The tip is especially sharp. Strike with it, and the kill is sure.”

Not when I strike the earlobe, he thought irritably.

Solamnus whirled, pressing again. His blade flashed. Sparks flew where it struck. The rebel’s sword this time seemed a spell field around him. The razor edge was in three places at once, flinging Erghas’s blade aside.

It was as though that tiny earlobe scratch had enraged Solamnus.

Sword edges grated, rang, looped, crashed, hammered. At last, a shallow strike got through. The tip of the commander’s blade reached out of the cloud of steel. Erghas felt the jab like a bee sting. There was suddenly warm blood on his leg and on the sword tip before him.

Erghas fell off a step as he sliced with his sword, driving Vinas back.

He glanced down at the wound – shallow, not into gut, but it was bleeding. He would need to end this quickly, or the blood loss might prove lethal.

Erghas looked toward his foe. The big man stood unevenly, as though he had been made dizzy by his own furious assault. He staggered a moment before lifting his sword and rushing the general.

Erghas easily sidestepped this drunken charge and tripped Solamnus as he went by. The man flopped roughly to the ground, the wind knocked from him. He rolled over, panting, and struggled to his feet.

Simple fatigue? Erghas wondered. Or injury? Having a horse roll over his head might have done it. When Solamnus charged again, Erghas stepped toward him, knocked his sword free, and stabbed him in the side.

Vinas collapsed to the ground.

What was happening? Erghas walked up to stand victorious over the panting man. The wound to the side couldn’t have done this, and certainly not the cut on the ear.

Vinas Solamnus was not dead, judging by the spasms of his body, but neither would he be fighting anymore. Once again, Erghas regretted that he could not end his downed opponent’s misery

Two squires were suddenly on the scene – a girl and a middle-aged man. They bore with them a noose, which they slipped around the commander’s head and tightened. Then, smiling to each other, the man and woman dragged the fallen Commander across the field, toward the gallows.

Erghas stood, stunned, watching them go. He could sit down now. He should sit down now.

Solamnus’s boots bounced roughly over tufts of grass. He was limp, his face red. Occasionally he gave out a gasp of pain when some stump or rock scraped across his body.

Erghas walked slowly in the wake of the man, not even thinking to sheath his sword. He heard the rumble of the soldiers, all suddenly on their feet and rushing after him, toward the gibbet. In moments, they would pass Erghas. Still, walking was the only thing he could do.

I’ve won, Erghas thought. I have won this war. His troops are now sworn to me. Those blue and white tabards flashing past – those are my people. Vingaard is defenseless.

All of it rang emptily in his ears. There was something else here – a stumbling war-horse... an unmade commander?

The two squires had reached the gibbet. They flung the end of the noose over the hangman’s arm and unceremoniously hoisted the commander aloft.

Hanging, Erghas remembered vaguely, that’s what we said would happen to the loser.

Erghas lurched up to the gallows. Only when he stood just beneath the uplifted figure did Erghas stop. He looked at the warrior, massive in his armor and hanging by his neck. The commander’s face was blue. His hands swelled with blood.

I’ve won, Erghas repeated to himself. The thought only made him sick.

“You’ve cut yourself, General,” said the squire with the hatchet-scar on his brow.

Erghas looked down and saw that he had. The tip of his sword had jabbed the soft flesh just above his ankle.

Then it all came together – the hatchet-scar, the tip that would surely kill, the horse that pranced in a hot rage just before falling —

A similar rage was welling in Erghas. He lifted the sword that had poisoned Solamnus and then himself, and thrust it – tip and shaft – into the belly of the hatchet man.

The assassin’s mouth became a red fountain.

In a haze from the poison, Erghas saw his own foot lift to the man’s chest. He kicked the assassin off his sword and whirled.

The female assassin began to scream. Steel intervened. Her head popped free of her body. The two fell grotesquely side by side.

As the crowd recoiled from the mad general, Erghas launched himself for the gibbet and shimmied up the post. The soldiers flooded forward, grabbing for his heels. Already he was too high for them to reach. His sword flashed once more, severing the rope that held Solamnus in the air. The commander fell onto the uplifted hands of the confused crowd.

“Don’t just gape!” shouted Erghas from above. The energy was suddenly leaving him. His limbs were turning to butter. He tossed his sword away. Just before he lost hold and fell, he cried, “Get a priest! We’ve been poisoned!”

Meus Pater

We were almost killed, both of us, Father. The assassins had been sent for me expressly – that was confirmed by the priests, who reached into death to interrogate them. If their poison had not accidentally infected Erghas as well, I would be dead now, and the rebellion over.

These two – Hatchet-Head and Lissel – were the same two who killed you and tried to kill the emperor. Their latest employer was Empress Phrygia at Daltigoth.

Though Erghas could easily have claimed victory, he said he was sick to death of defending a royal family as treacherous and weak as the Quislings. He threw his lot in with ours.

Now, as we lie in adjacent infirmary cots, our colonels and lieutenants are melding our forces into one great army.

Gaias, too, has sent word from Qualinesti. He will return in a month or so, bringing with him some pleasant additions to our armies.

It will take time for Erghas and I to mend. Once we do, though, we will march to Thelgaard to speak with Maslas. I have a feeling he will want to join this party.

There is much to do, and little time for all of it. Before the end of the year, I hope to be marching upon Daltigoth itself.

XVII

One Month Hence, 4 Corij, 1204 Age of Light

Empress Phrygia glared at the floor beneath her pacing feet. Across the drawing room her husband sat, staring at her in bleak hopelessness.

“I should have known better,” Phrygia raged. “Those buffoons couldn’t kill you. How could they ever kill Vinas Solamnus?”

Emperor Emann looked up, hurt. “You speak as though he is a god.”

“Isn’t he?” she growled. She stopped pacing and stood in the orange glare of the hearth fire. “Isn’t he? He leads a thousand men out the east road and returns with thirty thousand. He does not slay his enemies, but converts them. Don’t you see? He rules the heart of anyone he desires.”

Emann had turned into a weak drunkard since the War of Ice Tears had begun, four years back. But the duller his eyes, the sharper his tongue. “He rules the hearts even of those he doesn’t desire.”

“Get out!” snarled Phrygia. “Worthless lush. You have lost the empire already, an empire that couldn’t be lost by generation upon generation of your perverse, idiotic and inbred lineage. You lost it by giving it to a real man. Out!”

When he was slow to respond, she snatched up a cut-crystal brandy bottle and hurled it at him. The emperor scurried away.

Phrygia fingered the locket at her neck, summoning Caitiff. She ruled this empire now, letting her sot of a husband remain as a figurehead just to avoid the irritation of an overt coup.

The mage – a foul gray cloud of ash and bone chips – arrived swiftly. He assembled himself and stood before the impatient empress.

“My lady,” the skeleton said, bowing low, “what service —?”

“Vinas Solamnus. His twenty-five thousand men are even now marching toward Daltigoth,” interrupted Phrygia.

“Unpleasant,” noted the mage.

“Worse than unpleasant. General Erghas not only surrendered to Solamnus, but actually joined the man. He adds three thousand to the total.”

“Foul business.”

“And Vinas’s second has marshaled a company of elven archers and dwarven sappers to break the Sword-sheath Scroll with Ergoth and join the march on our city.”

“Deplorable.”

She began again to pace. “What, then? What do we do? Solamnus has every available Ergothian soldier at his command, has won the sympathies of every peasant in the empire, and marches with elves, dwarves, and kender. Who could we even send against them?”

The skeleton seemed to shrug. “How about an army of the dead?”

“Yes,” Phrygia replied with quiet resolve. “Let the honored dead of Ergoth defend their empire.

“It will take time,” the skeleton noted. “Time, and the talents of the best – and darkest – mages of the realm.”

“Of course, dear Caitiff. Of course.”

*

Six Months Hence, 25 Phoenix, 1204 Age of Light

Commander Vinas Solamnus had dealt with the likes of the empress enough times to know how she thought, what she would do next.

So he wasn’t surprised by the undead. She raised the very warriors she had slain at Caergoth.

For three weeks, Vinas’s army had been ready to march, but he had held them back, suspecting just this sort of shambling attack. He had waited for a solid ground freeze so that the graves would be sealed for the season.

The empress was too canny for that, though. Word came to Daltigoth that Vinas and his Swordsheath Army – Vingaardians, Ergothians (including Maslas and his troops), kender, elves, and dwarves – were on their way south from their staging grounds at Solanthus. She then ordered every grave piled with wood and set ablaze.

The ground thawed. The necromancers worked their foul arts. Phrygia’s ghastly armies rose from grave soil and ashes. Caergoth, itself a graveyard, burned on the western horizon that morning. Its hellish flames forged a second sun there.

Silhouetted against that sun were atrocities of flesh and bone, rising and swelling. The ground sprouted them as thickly as a field sprouts com.

Many were long dead. Time and worms had gnawed them to mere skeletons, rigid and hoary.

Others were ancient dead. Their bones had been so masticated by flesh-eating earth that their bodies were merely mud puddles charged with flakes of bone and muscle. Men of clay They oozed up from the ground and formed putrid bodies of men and women, ogres and hobgoblins. At times, they merged with each other into titanic monstrosities – giants, hydras, remorhaz, dragons.

Most, though were the recent dead. Pallid skin... eyes rippled or shrunk to raisins in decaying sockets... mud-caked clothing... skin splotched with lividity... the reek of rot... the roil of maggots hard at work. In most who died violently, the cause of death was writ on their wretched forms – immolated skulls, lacerated throats, cleft brains, punctured lungs, dangling viscera, slashed wrists, crushed pelvises, lopped-off legs.

All of the dead erupted from the burning and wounded ground and began a furious march toward the army of Commander Solamnus.

He was ready.

Titus and his unit of priests led the forces of life. The chancellor, at the head of the wedge of holy men, lifted high a staff. The walking stick held no especial power, but the wielder certainly did.

“Paladine, Father of Good, Master of Law, Dragon’s Lord – I call you today. I do not merely call upon you, merely invoke your aid, but I call you, evoke you to march with us now, strike with our arms, and lay the dead again to rest! Bless these weapons of ours. We raise them high to you!”

On that command, the thirty thousand souls of Vinas’s army raised their swords and maces and clubs overhead. From a cerulean sky came a flash of lightning that rolled down like an uncoiling spring. With a shout of thunder, blue power struck that simple wooden staff of Titus’s. A sparkling wave of godfire flowed back from it. Wherever that wave struck an upraised weapon or fist, power engulfed it and scintillated along it and blessed it to strike the armies of death.

Then, with a roar born in the instant of thunder, the army of Vinas Solamnus rushed to meet the onslaught of the dead.

As the lines converged, priests raised aspergillums of holy water and whirled them overhead like bullroarers. The water flung a sacred mist around them.

The first staggering wretch lunged toward Titus, but when the mist struck, it seared through pus and rot and bone.

A tusked horror and three bow-legged hobgoblins were next to attack. Their claws and fangs reached out for soft necks. None landed a blow. Claws splintered on the holy cloud as though it were steel. Bones ground away into gray dust.

Other priests hurled blasts of red power into the horrid fray. Each crimson bolt struck a corpse where its heart had once been, cooked whatever organ remained in its place, and dropped the dead body to death once more. If the power was not used up in consuming one creature, the bolt would arc to another, and another.

Some of Titus’s priests were armed only with sacred texts. They strode fearlessly into battle, reading in a great, stentorian chorus. The dead dropped in heaps before them. With each word from each chanting mouth, a spirit sword emerged. These swords cut through the living without harm, but unmade the dead.

Despite their blessings and fantastical powers, the priests were falling, too.

A rapacious ooze had materialized beneath the holy cloud. It now took enormous shape – a twenty-armed kraken. The mud creature rose amid the ranks and absorbed a dozen acolytes. Their thrashing hands and feet jabbed from within the muscular body of the thing. In another moment, twelve more priests were gone, caught up in tentacular arms... then seventeen more.

The warriors charging behind the beast hewed and hacked its awful limbs. With each strike of a blessed weapon, rotten flesh dropped to the ground and stayed there. With each attack of a normal weapon, the severed flesh slid, quicksilver quick, to join again with the main body.

Priests turned on the creature. Some flung their half-full aspergillums at the grappling, man-eating beast. Where the pierced metal landed and seeped holy water, the creature was dissolved away. It shrieked and flailed, pinned to ground by the holy implements sinking through its flesh.

Elsewhere, a pair of hobgoblin dead hammered priest heads into red pulps. The bodies mounded up around them – seven, eight, nine.

A soldier snatched up the ceramic aspergillum of a fallen priest. He laved the water over his spear and hurled it at the hobgoblins. The spear bit through one maggot-riddled gut, tore out the creature’s back, and into the belly of the next one. They fought on, transfixed, though the spear hissed in their flesh and sent up white steam. In moments, it cut through their pelvises, and the two went down, hammers still swinging.

Nearby, a clutch of skeletons – warriors with tattered armor that hung like tarnished bones on their shoulders – engaged Vinas. He fought afoot. Since Courage’s death, he’d not had the heart to ride another horse. Now he paid for it, pressed on all sides by the skeletal warriors.

With one great swipe, he leveled three of them. Their spines cracked like dry twigs, and they fell in piles of metal and bone. Four more surged in atop their remains.

Vinas jabbed. His sword jammed in an eye socket. Struggling to pull the blade free, he wrenched the skull from its neck. With no time to clear his blade, he flung the cranium around to knock the head from his other attacker.

A sword caught him between his shoulder and back plates. He whirled, dislodging the point of the blade and facing down three new skeletons. One held a sword tipped with blood – his blood.

That one first.

Vinas’s steel lanced out. His sword slid harmlessly between ribs. If the thing had had a heart, it would have been dead then. He twisted the blade. It caught in the ribs. Then, with one hand, he lifted the warrior over his head and smashed him down atop another undead monster. Both disintegrated.

Three more scrambled into the fray

I am the scorpion who will be pulled apart by a swarm of ants, thought Vinas.

His sword lashed into the cluster of skeletons. Now there were five, and now six, crowding-past each other to tangle their swords with his.

And then, none. The center pair were crushed beneath the golden breast of a descending griffon. The next two were skull-shattered by the griffon’s blessed talons. The final two were unmade by its wings. All this happened in a breath.

The six skeletons were replaced by Terraton, who flapped his massive wings out of reach of singing steel. Luccia’s beautiful face appeared over his shoulder.

She shouted to him, “Get on! We’ve found the necromancers controlling them!” Despite the stem rage on her features, she was, indeed, a beautiful sight.

Bounding up behind her, Vinas said, “I could kiss you!”

“Do,” she commanded.

As he complied, bending to her slender neck, she set heels to the eagle-lion’s flanks. Terraton launched them up into the roaring sky.

His wings surged. A flight of red-fletched arrows – Qualinesti standards – streaked narrowly past. They sank into a rising mound of animate mud and deflated it. Shrieking an imprecation at the elves, Terraton climbed higher. With each massive stroke of his wings, the fetid weight of death and battle slipped below.

Terraton banked above the treetops and flung himself along a frozen creek bed.

“Up there,” said Luccia, pointing.

Vinas looked. He first saw only flashes of gold as the rest of her twenty-five fliers dropped from the skies into formation beside her. Then, beyond the auric band, he saw a bald-topped knoll, rising just above the frost-glistening treetops. Upon the outcrop, black-robed figures swarmed. Their hands gesticulated downward, and fingers of magic rooted up the dead.

“Good work, Luce,” Vinas shouted, kissing her without warning or command. “What’s your plan?”

He felt her brief laugh but could not hear it for the wind. “Kill them.”

A blue-white bolt of lightning arced out from the knoll and danced along the treetops. The incandescent surge made its jagged way toward the riders.

“Up, Terraton!” cried Luccia, urging him higher. “Up!”

The griffon wasted no time. Terraton wrenched his way straight up. Had Luccia and Vinas not already been clinging tightly to the creature, they would have been flung away.

The other riders followed in tight formation. The wind from their combined wing movement battered the treetops. The blue bolt cracked deafeningly below them, and then shot upward.

In a mordant flash, the trailing griffon and rider were transfixed on the jagged shaft of power. For a moment, its wings were outlined in scintillating lightning. Then, rider and beast were gone. White smoke hung in their place, and then came a rain of black soot.

Vinas turned his eyes away. He felt a tightness in Luccia’s stomach – she was shouting something. “... have to go back to get our own wizards. We can’t get any closer.”

“No,” said Vinas. “Not enough time. Down. Take us down.”

“What? Into that spell storm?”

“There!” he said, pointing to a deadfall of large white boulders.

She knew immediately what he intended, and sent Terraton banking toward the spot.

Below, the wizards glared upward with dark satisfaction to see their foes turning in retreat.

A ring of treetops slid past. Terraton dropped into the rockfall. His talons raked over the embankment. He sought a certain size and weight of stone.

“This’ll help,” said Vinas.

He leapt off the griffon’s back and raced to a boulder. “What are you doing?” Luccia asked in disbelief. Terraton began to work it free. “The woods are full of wizards.”

“I’m just increasing Terraton’s payload by about fourteen stone. As to the wizards, we’ll see how many are left when we’re done.”

The boulder rocked a little. Vinas gave orders to Terraton. “Get. You’ve got stones to throw. I’ll do what I can down here.” He whacked the eagle-lion’s golden flank.

With a warning snarl, it leapt into the air, dragging the boulder in its talons. Luccia looked small and frustrated atop the griffon. Her face was hidden in a rush of shimmering wings as Terraton labored upward.

Vinas watched them disappear. He allowed himself a cocky smile and a brief prayer for her safety. Turning, he hurried across the rocky incline toward the summit of the hill. He clambered from the rockfall into a thick stand of pine. He reached a bald hilltop and, through the trees of a narrow valley, saw the necromancers moving on the adjacent hill.

Already, flecks of gold circled above the scene, out of spell reach. Already their white boulders hailed downward from the sky onto the heads of the wizards. Shouts and confused roars came from the mages.

“Good, but not enough,” Vinas said to himself.

He darted down between the trees, edging sideways to keep from slipping on the carpet of dry needles. At the bottom of the steep valley ran a small stream. He vaulted it and climbed up the hillside beyond.

Incantations and shouts sifted down from the hilltop. In moments, Vinas saw the black robes, white hands gesticulating in foul spells, red blood spattering the tree trunks – The mages were distracted by the assaults from above. They were too busy to notice one out-of-place man.

Vinas reached the hilltop and studied the spectacle.

Many sorcerers lay dead beneath shattered boulders. Many more contrived to chant, their hair standing wildly on end and their bones dancing weirdly around their feet. Some of these enchanters were long dead – liches with husk-dry flesh and rot-riddled fingers. Even as Vinas watched, a lich that had been crushed by a boulder struggled free, its body a mere jangle of bone fragments. In retribution, it conjured a fireball, which it sent roaring up into the welkin heights.

Vinas noticed six warlocks standing in a circle at the center of the clearing. From their upraised fingertips, a green-gray field of magic formed a vault. When a boulder plunged from the sky and cracked against this magical umbrella, the shield proved adamantine. The boulder splintered and fell in fragments to the ground. One large chunk, he noted with satisfaction, crashed atop an unwatchful sorcerer.

What is the shield protecting? Vinas wondered.

Then he saw it: an obsidian sphere held aloft by a tall pedestal. The orb emitted some sort of power, its invisible waves of energy pushing the robes of the six mages outward from it.

It’s powering their spells, Vinas realized, channeling or synchronizing them somehow. It is the heart of this undead army.

He glanced toward the sky, seeing another cascade of stones coming. The huge stones crushed several warlocks. This was his chance. No more stones would fall for the next several seconds.

He rose and entered the chaotic circle. His sword remained scabbarded. He didn’t even make a swipe at the astonished warlocks. In five bold strides, he penetrated the inner ring of warlocks. In seven, he reached the pedestal, and gave it a mighty shove.

It tipped with slow, massive motion. The orb stuck obstinately atop the tipping tower. With unstoppable grace, the pillar and orb tilted and crashed to the ground.

The sphere imploded. With a blinding flash, it vanished. The mystical hole that remained sucked chunks of pillar and bone and flesh into it.

Vinas felt his robe whip around his legs, drawn toward the implosion. Even as he fell back, two more boulders cracked against the sorcerous vault overhead. The debris was drawn quickly and violently down into the vacuum.

The overhead shield faded and fizzled. Vinas was momentarily stunned. A stone struck near him and buried itself completely. Turning, Vinas lurched away.

Boulders and warlocks fell all around him. Hands flailed in hopeless final spells or in the last throes of terror.

As he walked in a daze, Vinas drew his sword and cleaved the head of a lich. The head fell away like the halves of a chopped cabbage. The dead thing, tumbleweed-light, rolled back toward the depthless hole.

By the time Vinas gained the first line of trees, the force of the hole had become a howling wind – four howling winds, converging from the corners of the world. He had to pull himself into the woods and struggle down the hillside as the trees tossed furiously.

It must be a gate to some evil place, some place of negative energies, he thought in the dim recesses of his consciousness. He clutched a tangle of roots and pulled himself down toward the misting stream. The Pit, perhaps, or the Infernal Realms – bottomless places in the Abyss. Perhaps, with one simple push, I’ve destroyed all of Ergoth. Destroyed it while trying to save it.

The ground grew wet. He looked down to see water running in rivulets uphill past him.

Hold on. Hold on, then. That was all there was to do as the world turned upside down and the sky drew him up to its inexorable brightness. Hold on.

Then with a shivering thunder-crack, it was done. The hillside seemed to shrug and sigh. The trees groaned tiredly as they ceased swaying. The rivulets that had flowed up now turned and trickled down his leggings. He tumbled, head over heels, into the slowly filling banks of the stream.

All the world emitted a long breath of relief. In that moment, Vinas knew the undead monsters were settling to putrid ruin atop their own footprints. He knew his army would live to fight again.

As if in confirmation of his thoughts, he heard the distant, ferocious roar of twenty-five thousand defiant throats.

*

Six Months Hence, 5 Corij, 1205 Age of Light

The army surrounded Daltigoth in a day. They marched unopposed. The emperor fielded not so much as a war dog on the plains around the city. It was like Vingaard all over again.

Except that this walled city was seventeen times the size of Vingaard. Despite its size, Emann had scrounged up enough guards to blacken the battlements.

“I didn’t think there were that many people in the city,” Gaias observed laconically. He stood with Commander Solamnus atop an observation platform.

Vinas said, “There aren’t.”

“What are you talking about?” asked the grizzled old warrior. “I see them with my own eyes.”

“More undead. Luccia’s scouts say so,” Vinas replied flatly. “Emann’s lost all his living warriors to our side.

Only the dead will defend him now.”

Both men spent some moments staring toward the city. It was truly a necropolis.

At last, Gaias broke the silence. “Commander, perhaps I should have asked this sooner, but how do we starve out an army of the dead?”

Meus Pater

Well, Father, I am laying siege to Daltigoth, our city, our home. How strange to return to these familiar walls, an enemy to all that raised me.

No, not to all. Not to you, Father.

It is time that Daltigoth got ‘sieged and sacked. I think we both know that. We also both know this will be no easy victory. My priests could, perhaps, turn one sixth of Emann’s undead army, while those left tear my men apart.

I hope only that you are not among those he raised.

XVIII

One Year Hence, 23 Corîj, 1206 Age of Light

“This note was recovered by a scout,” said Gaias. He stood at the mouth of Vinas’s tent.

“I said come in,” Vinas repeated. He was studying maps of Daltigoth. Seven black lines showed where sappers had burrowed to within fifty feet of the walls. Another year, and they would be under. As Gaias entered the tent, Vinas shook his head to clear his senses. “What do you mean, it was recovered?”

“It was tied to an arrow shot into no-man’s-land,” Gaias replied.

Vinas looked up, curiosity breaking through the grim mask he wore during this long, grueling siege. “The last time we got such a thing, it was an invitation to dinner.”

“This is no such hospitable gesture.” Gaias passed the wrinkled paper to his commander, who flattened it as best he could and held it up to lantern light. It read:

To the noble Commander Vinas Solamnus,

From the people of Daltigoth.

Greetings,

We thank you for your efforts on our behalf. We know you mean only to free us from the tyranny of Emperor Emann and Empress Phrygia. Even here, word reaches us of the freedom you have won for the rest of the empire.

But your siege does not kill Emann. It kills us. We are his hostages. The emperor keeps all the food in Daltigoth in the royal storehouses. Once our personal pantries were emptied, we began to starve. We can buy food only from black marketeers, who sell a loaf of bread for the price of a home, a cut of meat for the price of a man’s life. And whenever one of us dies, whether from starvation or from black marketeers or from the emperor’s diligence patrols, the body is raised by Emann’s necromancers to fight for him.

So, we implore you, end this siege. It only slays us and makes Emann’s army all the stronger.

Vinas looked up from the page, which rattled faintly in his trembling grasp. He breathed once deeply. “Gather up my advisors. Immediately.”

Gaias blinked. “You aren’t considering surrender?”

“No,” said the commander. His face held an iron-hard expression that verged on a smile. “I want to discuss the possibility of another bread war.”

*

One Week Hence, 1 Argon, 1206 Age of Light

It was deep night, just past second watch, when Commander Solamnus’s escalade forces landed beside the Ergothian Royal Granary.

The warriors arrived in squadrons of ten. Each squad was flown into position by five silent griffons draped in black, and therefore was invisible against the night sky. They had flown to great heights before passing over the city walls, and then spiraling downward in tight, dizzy circles. One by one, they came to land beside the granary.

As yet, no alarm had been sounded.

Before the strike teams and wagon teams set to ground in alleys below, the two roof squads descended. They had the unenviable task of landing on the gabled and iron-festooned roof of the granary and silencing the twenty guards there.

Vinas and Luccia were part of this crew. Beneath them, Terraton glided downward, a harsh black silhouette against the glowing windows of the city.

“Is your crossbow ready?” asked Vinas over Luccia’s shoulder.

“For the third time, yes,” she whispered.

“On the next circle, then,” he said.

She nodded, and lifted her crossbow to one side of the griffon. Vinas raised his to the other side. They steadied their weapons, waiting for the griffon to bank along the southern gables where they would land. First, of course, they would have to clear the landing spot.

“Now,” Vinas said quietly.

Two thrumming sounds followed as they triggered the crossbows. Bolts hissed away and thudded in quick succession into victims. From shadowed nooks beside two of the gables, bodies tumbled limply onto the iron balustrade that sided the roof.

Terraton glided swiftly into the vacated position and clamped claws into place. Vinas and Luccia dismounted and crouched beside the panting beast. They listened for any other sounds – other guards falling, or the attack teams landing.

“Four more, six more...” – Vinas counted them – “that’s ten... there’s sixteen...” The cracks and groans and thuds made too much commotion, though.

“Alert! Invaders! Alert!” came a cry.

The warning was cut off by the shriek of a griffon as it landed with a heavy thump. More crossbows fired. The last guards stumbling from hiding went down screaming as they fell to the street.

“Go, Terraton,” Luccia said, slapping the beast’s flank. The griffon shrieked as it launched itself into the air.

So did the thirty-nine other eagle-lions. They took wing in a flight calculated to draw all eyes upward. Let them look at the pretty birds. Let them look away from the gray-garbed warriors converging around the granary.

Dying cries of surprise at the building’s base testified to the success of this tactic. After these sounds came the clatter of wagons rolling to the main doors.

“Let’s go,” said Luccia. She pulled the grating from the gable where they stood and uncoiled a rope down among the dark crates.

“Go ahead,” Vinas said. “I have already fought my bread war.”

“What are you talking about?” Luccia asked. Beyond her shoulder, the forms of other warriors slid down ropes into the granary. “We go together.”

“I have a score to settle,” said Vinas gravely.

“Then I go with you,” Luccia replied.

He set a hand on her shoulder, restraining her. “No. This is a personal matter, a fool’s errand.”

“Just as I said, we go togeth —”

“No, I order you to see this action through. I order you to survive this night and fly on out of here with the rest of the warriors.”

“And what about you?” she asked, her scowl visible even in the darkness. “Who can order you to survive?”

“No one,” he responded evenly. Then he kissed her, a gentle farewell.

“Do not come looking for me,” he said, and he slipped away over the rooftop.

She stared after him, stunned and fearful. To the night, with its crashes and shouts and rolling wheels, she said, “I will always come looking for you.”

Treading lightly as a cat, she padded in his wake, up over the rooftop.

*

The empress lay abed when Vinas swung lightly through her open window.

Her apartments were, of course, opulent. Carved plaster adorned the ceilings. Tapestries covered the walls. Silks lined the windows and bed. The rooms were not shared by her philandering husband. In early days, this was at his insistence; now it was at her command.

Vinas landed softly on the thick carpet. He crouched, listening for her breathing. He needn’t have bothered.

Phrygia sat up in bed and let her legs drop over the side. Her feet slid into narrow slippers on the floor. With deliberate calm, she stood and drew a robe over her shoulders, as though she hadn’t noticed Vinas’s presence.

That possibility was dismissed moments later when she walked from her bedside and straight toward Vinas. A flick of her hand awoke magical fire atop a candle she had picked up. The red wax immediately flowed down the shaft to dribble on her small, pale fingers.

“Hello, Vinas,” she said in a low voice. “I have been waiting for you... all these years.”

Those years had not been kind to her. Instead of youthful, country-girl charm, she now had an icy, embittered mien. Her eyes were wide and humorless. Her mouth was a thin scar that had never quite healed.

“Hello, Phrygia.” He gestured toward the candle. “I see your warlock has taught you a few trifles of magic.”

“I hear,” she countered, “my husband has taught you a few trifles of warfare.” Her eyes narrowed to hateful slits. “It seems both roses have gone to thorns.”

“Oh, no, Your Majesty,” Vinas replied. “War has taught me many things: courage, temperance, justice, and wisdom – the foundation stones of honor. What has magic taught you: self-pity, betrayal, bitterness, spite?”

“I would gladly pit my trifles against yours,” Phrygia said, “in a duel unto death.”

“That’s precisely what I had in mind.” Vinas drew his sword. “Challenge gladly accepted.” He backed up, assuming a defensive posture.

Phrygia regally ran a hand up her form. A green, sparkling screen rose to envelope her. “There,” she said. “Until I attack you, I am protected by this magic. Do your damnedest with that sword of yours.”

Vinas watched her, waiting for whatever trick she had in mind. “I will not attack an unarmed woman.”

She spread her hands. “You make a grave mistake to think me unarmed. I am a pupil of magic – trained by a lich. That is what you have made me. I could kill you with a single thought, should I so desire. But there are better desires than murderous revenge.”

Phrygia strolled languidly toward him.

“Back, or I will strike,” warned Vinas.

She did not slow. “I learned this from you. Embrace your foe to death. Isn’t that what you did to Antonias, to Erghas? Isn’t that what you would do to Emann, to me?”

He brought his blade down. The sword bounced away, ringing.

She was almost upon him. “How about your bread wars? The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. You used bread to seduce Ergoth away from my husband. Very wise. You’re more lover than warrior, aren’t you?”

Vinas stepped back, and tried to strike again. His sword rebounded. He staggered against the wall. “How like a Quisling to think feeding the hungry is a seduction.”

Phrygia lunged. Vinas jammed the sword into the scintillating field of energy. The magic repelled the blade, flinging his arm violently to one side.

She pressed him to the wall. Her hands grappled his face. Her lips vengefully sought his....

*

Luccia crept to the window where Vinas had disappeared. There was noise from within. She looked past the sill.

Heart catching in her throat, Luccia drew back.

“A personal matter... don’t seek me out....”

It all made sense.

Her tears caused the world to blur as she staggered back from the window and across the treacherous rooftop.

*

With one hand, Vinas managed to thrust her away. Phrygia’s fingernails traced scratches across his jaw as she fell back. With the other, he brought his sword up against the magic shield.

Only it wasn’t there. The blade sank through Phrygia as though through water, and tore its way out the back of her robes. She slumped to the floor, the look on her face not one of pain or dread, but of triumph. “You said... you would not strike... an unarmed woman.”

Vinas was white as he fell to his knees before her. “But the shield. What of the shield?”

“I told you... it would remain... until I attacked.”

He tried to pull the sword out of her, but she clutched the hilt, her hands bloodying his.

“Let me draw out the sword,” he said.

“No,” she said. “I wanted you.... Now I have you.

We are united...

“But I can heal you.”

“No,” she replied. Blood rimmed her lips. “Only paladins can heal. You are no such thing... anymore.”

“Why?” he asked. “Why have you done this?”

“I go before you to prepare a place.... I will bring you... to be with me... at my right hand. If you think me powerful now... wait until I rise... until we rise. The deathless rulers... of a deathless empire!”

Stunned, Vinas sat back on his heels. For a moment, he could see only the lacings of blood across his fingers. Then, in the comer of his eye, he saw motion.

An figure stood in the doorway, guards flanking him. “You have murdered her. You have murdered my wife!”

*

Six Months Hence, 1 Aelmont, 1207 Age of Light

With the “aid” of the court mage, Caitiff, Emperor Emann Quisling personally handled the prosecution of Commander Vinas Solamnus.

The emperor was acting according to the detailed instructions left by his wife. Emann followed her instructions to the letter, orchestrating a public trial of the traitor, six months of ritualistic torture, and a brutal execution.

The public trial had occupied the first month. With Emperor Emann as judge and Caitiff as prosecuting counsel, the trial was a regular festival. In addition to treason and murder, Vinas Solamnus was charged with three hundred and thirteen other crimes, including disturbing the peace, cruelty to animals, vandalism, populism, landing without permit, and blasphemy. On his head, too, were heaped false accusations against his father and the house of Solamnus.

The black-robed and prune-fingered Caitiff provided plenty of witnesses, of course. Many were inspired by cold, hard silver. A few others were reanimated from the dead and coached through their roles in the proceedings. The most damning witness was Adrenas Solamnus, dredged up from the crypt of Paladine’s temple. Though the old noble tried to resist, Caitiff did elicit one phrase, which he made Adrenas repeat over and over:

“You would be dead. You would be hanged....

“You would be dead. You would be hanged....

“You would be dead. You would be hanged....”

Ever clever, Caitiff impelled Adrenas Solamnus to deliver his own son’s sentence.

Vinas was found guilty on all counts. He was condemned to be executed on the first of the year. He would run the gauntlet to the gibbet and there would be hanged. According to Phrygia’s directions, Judge Emann ordered that until that time, the traitor should undergo five months of “purifications.”

Among the cleansing rites prescribed by the late empress were conventional methods such as the scourge, the brand, the salt bath, the rack, and the bone maul. Her instructions referred to such tortures as “preparing the body.” As to what Phrygia was preparing the body for, she did not say – and Emann feared to dispute. Phrygia also had left explicit directions for preparing the traitor’s soul. He was to be burned alive while wearing a collar of regeneration, to be eaten from the inside by his kidneys magically transformed into rats, and to be slowly solidified by sorcery that changed his blood into stone. Whenever these tortures threatened to kill the traitor – and that happened at least twice a day – he was brought back from the brink of death by the sorceries of Caitiff.

Never did Vinas cry for mercy Never did he renounce the cause of revolution or betray secrets of the rebellion.

Nor did his army betray him. During those six terrible months, they had made a number of rescue attempts, none of which could win past the vast protections Caitiff had placed around the dungeon. The armies had also stormed the walls five times. Beneath rains of arrows and boiling water, they died in their thousands. Their dead, then, were scavenged by Emann’s “recruiters” – necromancers in search of fresh meat. With each failed attack, the rebels grew weaker and Daltigoth stronger. In time, the attacks ceased. All the world held its breath for the first of the year.

*

On 1 Aelmont, 1207 Age of Light, a living skeleton stumbled from the dungeon into that bright winter day. He bore little resemblance to the man who had once been commander of the armies of Ergoth. He wore only a loincloth, despite the ice-choked streets and snow-clogged windows. His flesh was covered with wounds and scars, and it was grayer than that of the dead.

A comparison was close at hand. The dead lined both sides of the King’s Way. They swayed stupidly on their decaying legs and goggled at him with dull, staring sockets. Each scabrous hand bore a maul or club or flail. Each throat let out a putrid bellow of excitement.

Behind the dead crowded the living, the red-chafed faces that had been fed by Vinas’s bread war, six months back. They were peasants, mostly, the people he had always championed. They stood now in mute witness behind the lines of the dead.

At the end of the street stood the gallows. There, he would die. And what had Phrygia planned for him afterward?

Vinas staggered in the brightness and dropped to his knees. He could barely feel the pebbly ground under him. Perhaps he would barely feel the clubs and mauls and flails.

With that realization, fear sloughed from him like a cape. Emann and his brutal empire might kill Vinas’s flesh, but they would not destroy his honor. They would not end his rebellion and the hope he had given the world.

Hot, fleshy fingers took hold of Vinas’s atrophied arms and lifted him back to his feet.

“Get going!” one of the guards growled.

Cold, withered, and naked, Vinas was thrust out between the lines of dead. He took a step, a second, a third.

The nearest deadman reached a hoary claw out toward him and swiped clumsily at the air. Vinas instinctually shied away. A sound like laughter came from the throats of the dead. The lumbering clumsiness of their own kind amused even them. Vinas took the moment to plod forward, his own legs feeling as dry and brittle as sticks.

Ducking more artless blows, he proceeded toward the gibbet.

Perhaps when I am hanged, Luccia will descend from the sky and whisk me away....

A great block of wood smashed his chest and sent him sprawling back – back the five steps he had managed. He landed on shoulder blades and elbows, and for a moment the bright sky was dark.

When his sight returned, one of the dead loomed over him. Half its skull had been sheared away. The rest of the face drew up in a graveyard grin. A bloodied block hung from a chain in its skeletal hand, and a long, punctured wheeze came from its dry lungs. It waited, waited with the others for its frail quarry to rise again and walk.

Vinas breathed once, twice. He would rise. He would be slain today, yes, but not in such a manner.

The block whirled and came down again. Ribs snapped beneath its weight and flesh tore free. They were not Vinas’s ribs or his flesh, for the block whirled in a different hand.

Luccia swung the maul again. The rest of the dead man’s head snapped sideways and hung limply from a tom neck.

She had sneaked in among the peasants. She had come to die with him.

Vinas tried to grab an axe held by a dead man. The axe clattered to the ground before he could grasp it, and it was soon buried beneath the unmade form of its bearer.

Vinas looked up to see Gaias draw back a sword from the pile of bone and flesh. The commander was about to say something when a giant erupted from a nearby curtain, his brazen voice quelling the cries of the crowd.

In the name of Paladine, begone to your graves, dead ones!

The dead could not fall fast enough. Bones and flesh became ashy soot and crumbled to the cobbles. Where moments before had stood two rows of dead there now lay twin trails of ash.

But living soldiers quickly took their places, surrounding Luccia, Gaias, Titus, and Vinas. The commander’s three friends held their weapons out, keeping at bay the growing crowd of soldiers. There would be no escaping this.

Then, the mob of soldiers began to thin....

With inexpressible joy, Vinas saw the peasants converging. Their canes and rolling pins brought down the soldiers. The people of Daltigoth were climbing the city walls, too, and tearing to pieces the black tangle of dead. Ergoth was breaking through the unholy armies that had kept it captive these hundred years.

Red peasant faces. They had been red with more than cold. They had been red with hope and excitement.

The war was ending. The forces of the emperor were falling. The dead were dispersing, in the mouths of the victorious people rose a chant that, like a word of unprecedented power, drove back the armies of darkness.

“Solamnus... Solamnus... Solamnus!”

*

Two Months Hence, 1 Mishamont, 1207 Age of Light

In the two months following the peasant uprising, an exhausted Vinas Solamnus did his best to bring about a calm and beneficial close to the tumultuous events that had nearly destroyed the city.

The emperor (as always, fearing for his life) had temporarily fled Daltigoth, and Vinas negotiated for Emann’s surrender. Many felt such arbitration was unnecessary, given that Vinas was now residing in Castle Daltigoth. It was indeed a comfortable position from which to make demands, but Vinas knew that Ergoth would remain a sovereign entity and that there would be many more emperors to come. He intended to use his advantage to secure the right of self-determination for each province (in order that each could choose to assert their independence or remain loyal to the empire) and wanted to do so in the most honorable and civil manner possible.

Of course, Vinas couldn’t help but make a few “improvements” during the emperor’s conspicuous absence.

First, the dead were buried again, with proper rites that would keep them from rising. Caitiff was singled out for special disposal, his shattered soul-gems, bones, and ashes ground to a fine dust that was stirred into holy water. With his dissolution, Phrygia, too, would not rise. Just to be certain, though, Titus and his platoon of priests made the rounds of the castle and the city, casting out any additional evil spirits that lingered in the place. The harsh and haunted air of the city was dispersed with that housecleaning, and Vinas sent out a proclamation of sorts that asked that such a priestly sweep be made again each year.

Having laid the dead to rest, Vinas also took compassionate measures. The commander dispatched a corps to burn the gibbets in the city and eventually, those across the land. Bread wagons began to depart regularly from the castle. Luccia, Titus and Gaias combed the streets and the nearby countryside to ensure that inhabitants’ basic needs were being met and when, inevitably, they were not, Vinas received a written report. Though the stacks of vellum grew in size and number, the commander insisted on reading each one. He often had to be creative when it came to requests for provisions – more than one shivering farm lad found himself suddenly swathed in an opulent yet functional used Ergothian Empire soldier’s uniform.

Commander Vinas Solamnus had done much, and he was justifiably tired.

Sitting at a window in the tower where Caitiff had once kept his evil laboratory, Vinas gazed out at Daltigoth. He had worked ceaselessly for years for the good of all folk in the empire. Now, he needed to work for his own good. There were certain matters he wished to attend to....

The knock at the door was brief – small knuckles on hard wood.

“Come in, my love,” Vinas said without turning.

Luccia entered, gliding quietly up behind him. She waited, sensing his thoughtful mood. She knew him so well.

He turned to face her. She wore a look of concern. “This came,” she said softly, handing him a folded dispatch.

Vinas looked at it darkly. The seal, whatever it had been, was broken. “You opened it?”

“It was the seal of Emperor Emann,” she said. “I didn’t want to bother you with it if it was some ruse.”

“It is not a ruse?” Vinas asked, turning the letter over.

“Read it,” Luccia replied.

He did:

To the Usurper, Vinas Solamnus,

Greetings,

I send you this missive in order to hasten your departure from my empire. I sue for peace, that my head no longer be hunted for bounty, and I surrender, that my land be returned to me. The other provinces can have their independence, but I assure you that many of those close to Daltigoth will remain loyal to the empire. The northeastern nations and blasted Hylo are free to destroy themselves.

The fact that you and your rabble have ensconced yourselves in my castle is of no import. You, sir, know nothing of being an emperor and are ill-equipped to handle the political machinations of the job, to say nothing of the breeding required. When you depart Daltigoth, take the formerly royal linens with you. Anything you have touched will be burned, and I suspect you will be in need of charity soon.

Emann Quisling Emperor of Ergoth

“Our countryfolk will be sleeping on the emperor’s sheets,” said Vinas, smiling. His face suddenly grew grave. “Is this his signature?” he asked Luccia.

“Yes,” said Luccia. “I’ve had it verified three times.”

He sighed. She thought of everything. His mind was whirling. The emperor had surrendered and Vinas had won freedom for his people, after all of this time. “What do I do now?” he wondered aloud.

“Before we leave, we’ll need to eat. Dinner is ready Come down, or it will be cold,” said Luccia.

He smiled at her. She had a way of making things so simple. “You’ll be there, won’t you?” he asked, trying to make eye contact with her as she took him by the hand and led him toward the door.

“It’s getting cold,” she repeated. There was a mock sternness in her voice. He could see the corner of her mouth turning up in a smile.

“Whatever I do next, you’ll be there, won’t you?” he asked, leaning back, using his weight to slow their progress toward the door.

“No,” Luccia said. She let go of his hand, and Vinas almost fell backward onto the floor. She turned to face him, hands on hips. “Whatever we do next....”

Vinas laughed aloud. His heart felt suddenly light. Luccia’s hand, small and insistent, grasped his once again as she pulled him through the door of the chamber and onto the stairs. He said, “Luce, spring is a nice time of year for a wedding —”

The door closed on his joyous words.

Meus Pater

I never thought I would say this, but I am glad you are here, in this dank crypt beneath the temple. I’m glad we’ve laid you to rest again. It is my bath that while I live, Father, you will remain here in a long, deserved rest.

All of us, at one time or another, stand above a grave and wish we could bring back the one who lies within it. We are fools. Why bring back a body ravaged by the cold ground?

It is better to meet you in memory and honor, to embrace not the corruptible flesh but the incorruptible spirit. It is the greatest inheritance a father can provide.

Postlude

Sixteen Years Hence, 2,3 Corij, 1225 Age of Light

Vinas Solamnus, praetor emeritus of eastern and northern central Ansalon, was far from his home. He was lost and starving. He looked as ragged and worn as the storm-torn island around him.

The old commander fetched up beside a monolith of black granite – a strange, strange rock. It had seemed strange the first day he had arrived, and it seemed even stranger now, three nights later.

Three days and nights of fasting and prayer.

“I never was good at praying,” he muttered. His stomach rumbled. “Nor fasting, either.”

Vinas clutched the rock. He had no more breath for prayers. He panted into the stiff wind.

The sky above was clearing for the first time since he had arrived. The constellations watched him with bemusement. Beneath them the wind roared like a ravenous beast.

Vinas rested until he had drawn enough breath to laugh. Then he did laugh – not at the wind or the constellations, but at himself. His father had once said that all great men can laugh at themselves. If that was true, Vinas was great, indeed.

He had spent sixteen years struggling to be the best ruler and husband and father he could be. Perhaps he had not succeeded in these tilings, but he had developed one of the best senses of humor in Ansalon.

His son, Elias Solamnus, had in that time become a man. He waved a sword at anything that moved. Waved was not the right word, for Elias had become the finest swordsman in Solamnia. Still, he was only sixteen, and was the son of the old commander – a true handicap. Elias was neither the right age nor the right cut for the general infantry, but darn it if that kid hadn’t tried to enlist three times already. Like father, like son.

That expression came very close to summing up why Vinas Solamnus was out here on Sancrist Isle, wind-tossed and wayward. He wanted to find a way to pass honor to his son, and to his grandson, and to his great grandson.

The Quest for Honor was what Vinas had called it when, in simple clothes, he had donned a rucksack and set out from Vingaard Keep. Luccia shook her head after him and clucked. She would be worrying every night, too.

Vinas looked down at his tattered clothes and mud-filthy body, and he laughed again. She had every reason to worry.

“What kind of damned idealistic flaw brought me out here?” he wondered aloud. He chastened himself. This was a holy place, this weird wedge of black granite, and he ought to keep a reverent —

And then, from a clear sky, lightning flashed. Vinas ducked instinctually.

High overhead, three constellations shone brightly down upon him – the Dragon’s Lord, Paladine; the bison-headed Kiri-Jolith; and the kingfisher of Habbakuk. They glared at him. In his head he heard ethereal music.

He heard the grand justice of Paladine in well-ordered chords, the unflagging courage of Kiri-Jolith in enduring themes, and the temperance of Habbakuk in balanced counterpoint.

Then he heard wisdom – wisdom resonating in his own soul.

A knighthood. He would establish a knighthood to embody honor, to live it day by day. There would be three orders, the highest for Paladine, championing justice. The second for Kiri-Jolith, preserving courage. And the third for temperate Habbakuk, personifying loyalty and obedience.

“Knights of the Rose... of the Sword... of the Crown,” whispered Vinas in awe. “They will preserve honor, and pass it, unsullied, generation to generation.”

Suddenly, the great lights of the heavens glowed in the very stone beneath his fingers. The black granite had been transformed into white crystal, and it shone like a chunk of star grounded on Ansalon.

“Honor,” said Vinas. “They shall live and die by honor. My own Elias will do so. And so will I.

“My honor is my life.”

The Dargonesti

(1793 PC)

Chapter 1

A RESCUE MISSION

Tall columns of smoke, bent by the southern wind, rose above the thick forests at the mouth of the Greenthorn River. Even more telling than the smoke was the debris filling the river delta and the Gulf of Ergoth: wrecked wagons, burnt timbers, and the bodies of men and horses. The civil war in Ergoth was moving ever nearer this once-peaceful coast.

High up in the crow’s nest of the Qualinesti ship Evenstar, Princess Vixa Ambrodel watched with concern the evidence of distant devastation. Her uncle, Speaker of the Sun Silveran, had dispatched her to this spot on Ergoth’s southeastern shore to rescue certain important Qualinesti elves fleeing the strife in that country. For two days she and Evenstar had waited in the sunny waters of the gulf. Of Ambassador Quenavalen, his family, and his entourage, there was as yet no sign.

“How now, lady? What can you see?” called a white-haired, older elf from the deck.

“The fires are on both sides of the river,” Vixa replied, squinting her eyes against the sun’s glare.

“General Solamnus is moving fast. No sign of Quenavalen’s party I take it.”

“There’s nothing on the river but wreckage. Watch out, Colonel. I’m coming down.”

Vixa swung her mailed legs over the rope rail of the crow’s nest and climbed down the shroud lines. She jumped from the lines, dropping the final four feet to the deck. Climbing in armor was never easy, but in this heat and humidity it approached torture. Vixa was puffing with exertion.

Evenstar’s mostly human crew lolled on deck, trying to keep cool. Not so the elves in Vixa’s party, twenty hand-picked Qualinesti from the city garrison. They’d been girded for battle for two days, eating and sleeping in their armor since Evenstar had dropped anchor. They were restless, eager for action. The smoke of far-off battles drifting over the ship only heightened their anticipation.

A cluster of fishing smacks, canoes, and flat-bottomed river craft dotted the water around the Qualinesti ship. Most of these were laden with refugees fleeing the advance of the army of General Vinas Solamnus. The Imperial Army of Ergoth was in disarray, unable to offer Solamnus open resistance. Instead, they continued to retreat, harassing the enemy at every opportunity. The fires along the Greenthorn had been set by the retreating troops as they burned crops and storehouses to deny supplies to Solamnus’s men.

Every hour brought to the river mouth more wretched refugees, desperate for passage away from the fighting. Most were simple farmers or foresters who had been caught up in events. They welcomed the overthrow of their mad emperor, but no one was prepared for the cost – in homes destroyed, crops burned, and family members killed or injured – of such an uprising.

Vixa relieved Colonel Armantaro of her polished silver helmet, but did not don it. The slight breeze felt good on her face, ruffling through her short blond hair. At six feet, the princess was two inches taller than her colonel. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, scanning the distant shore. Their silent watch was interrupted by Harmanutis, corporal of the city guard, who came to Vixa and saluted.

“Lady, we would like to know, how long are we to stay here?” he asked, standing at stiff attention.

Armantaro frowned. “As long as it takes, Corporal.”

“He has a right to know,” Vixa conceded. “Corporal, if the ambassador is not here by midday, we’ll have to act.” Harmanutis saluted once more and departed to share this word with the others.

Alone with his princess, the old colonel allowed himself a slight smile. “Just what does that mean, lady?”

“I’ll let you know when I do.” A smile eased the lines of worry on her face.

To a human, Vixa would appear to be eighteen or twenty years old. But elves aged much more slowly than humans, and her actual age was sixty-five. She had served in the army of Qualinesti for six years, mainly under the tutelage of her warrior mother, Lady Verhanna Kanan, daughter of the great Kith-Kanan, first Speaker of the Sun. In spite of her proud lineage, Vixa had come up through the ranks on merit and hard work. Her mother had seen to that. This mission was her first independent command.

A commotion on shore brought everyone to the port rail. A mob of Ergothians was swarming down the banks to the water. Though burdened with rolls of clothing and valuables, they ran down the sandy slope and waded into the river. The slow and the weak fell, were trodden upon, but no one stopped to help them.

Soon the elves saw the cause of the panic. Emerging from the trees on the south bank of the river was a band of mounted humans. The men, who wore remnants of Ergothian uniforms and carried lances, swooped down on the unarmed refugees.

“Is that the army of Ergoth?” asked Vanthanoris, another of Vixa’s soldiers.

“No,” replied Armantaro. “They’re deserters – brigands – I’ll wager.”

The elves watched in mounting anger as the lancers rode down the defenseless folk, trampling them in the shallows, spearing them on the riverbank. Several of the brigands dismounted and tore through the refugees’ sad bundles. There was obviously precious little to steal.

“Scum,” Armantaro was heard to mutter. Vixa put a hand on the old warrior’s shoulder.

“You know, Colonel, those scavengers pose a grave threat to Ambassador Quenavalen’s safety,” she said slowly. “It would never do to let His Excellency or his family be inconvenienced by such as they, would it?”

Armantaro’s blue eyes widened. “No indeed, lady. It would not do at all.”

She nodded once. The colonel turned away from the rail and hailed Evenstar’s captain. “Break out your longboats, Captain Esquelamar! Soldiers, stand to arms! Leave your helms and bucklers behind. I want swords and bows only!”

Evenstar’s deck boiled with activity. Vixa set down her helmet next to her embossed shield. She stepped into her stubby recurved bow and bent it against her thigh, stringing it. By the time she had shouldered her quiver, the Qualinesti contingent was mustered in the ship’s waist. Elven sailors lowered two longboats, one on each side of the ship. Armantaro took command of one boat and ten warriors, Vixa the other.

The sea was glassy calm. Sailors bent to their oars, and the longboats soon reached the tiny island at the mouth of the Greenthorn. Some of the Ergothian refugees had sought the supposed safety of this sandy spit of land. When they beheld armed elves coming ashore, they screamed and started back into the river.

“Hold!” Vixa cried. “We’ve come to protect you!”

Warily the exhausted men and women trickled back. Armantaro asked one sturdy fellow, a blacksmith by the look of him, where he had come from.

“The village of Piney Brook, m’lord,” said the man, eyeing the colonel’s sparkling armor.

“Did you follow the river downstream?” asked Vixa.

“Aye, lady, for forty miles or more.”

“Did you see any elves along the way? Well dressed perhaps, a group of some twenty-five?”

The smith nodded. “Oh, aye. I seen folk like yourselves four or five miles back on the north bank,” he said.

“When did you see them?” Vixa pressed.

“Yesterday it was, lady.”

Just then the brigands, who had finished looting the bodies of those they’d killed on the riverbank, formed up and shouted threats at the refugees across the way. The Qualinesti soldiers stepped out in front of the unarmed Ergothians, bows ready.

The sight of the small party of elves failed to intimidate the mounted deserters. They held up stolen trinkets, taunted the Qualinesti.

“Go home while you can, Long Ears!” screamed one bandit.

Vixa’s brown eyes narrowed. “Amend their manners,” she said calmly. The elves nocked arrows, and soon a hard rain was falling over the brigands. Half a dozen saddles were emptied when the arrows landed. The bandits ceased their shouting, wheeled their plunging horses, and fled into the woods.

“That was simple enough,” Armantaro remarked.

“And I was hoping for a good fight,” complained Harmanutis.

Vixa glanced at him. “You may yet get your wish, Corporal.”

She ordered the sailors to take one longboat and ferry the Ergothians off the spit. They would have to be distributed among the various boats in the gulf. The other longboat, with all twenty warriors and Colonel Armantaro, Vixa took to the north shore.

It was nearly noon, and the heat bore down like the blast from a Thorbardin forge. The still air was darkened by smoke. Nosing through the smoldering wreckage that drifted downstream, Vixa’s longboat made for the far shore. The oily river water seemed to cling to the oars, hampering their progress.

“Strange,” Vixa mused. “The air feels heavy, but there’s not a cloud in the sky.”

One warrior, Paladithel by name, looked up from his rowing. Sweat streamed down his face. “More’s the pity,” he muttered.

Vixa nodded absently. Where in the name of the Abyss were Quenavalen and his party? The priests and mages in the service of the Speaker of the Sun were certainly working all manner of spells in order to send word to the ambassador that rescue was coming.

The longboat’s prow bumped sand. Vixa and several warriors leapt overboard and steadied the boat, and the rest of the soldiers clambered out, dragging the craft ashore.

“Follow the shoreline,” Armantaro advised as the warriors readied their weapons. “Watch the trees. I don’t want to walk into an ambush.”

Strung out in single file, the elves moved along the shore. More signs of war floated down the Greenthorn: broken and smoking rafts, their occupants lying slain upon them, casks and boxes, smashed canoes. In the distance, faintly, came the sound of shouting voices. Far-off trumpets blared, and every elf paused, alert and worried. Trumpets almost certainly meant the advance guard of Vinas Solamnus’s army.

A crashing in the trees caused Armantaro to bark quick orders. The warriors formed a hollow square on a wide stretch of sand. The colonel and Vixa took up positions inside the center of the square just as a group of horsemen galloped into the open.

“Bows ready!” Armantaro called. Twenty bows rose as one. “Steady, lads. No one is to loose until the command is given.”

The riders approached on thundering hooves. They were Imperial cavalry all right, but once they cleared the trees, Vixa and her warriors could see that most of the horsemen were unarmed. Their faces were bloody, their cloaks torn; only a few retained armor.

More and more horsemen appeared. Those in the lead slowed and milled about in confusion, clearly unsure how to proceed now that they’d left Solamnus’s army behind. They were still some thirty yards away and had not yet noticed the Qualinesti. Soon a hundred or more riders filled the clearing.

At last they saw the elves. A cry of “Infantry! Solamnic infantry!” went up. Horsemen tightened into a thick column and charged straight for the tiny band of elves.

“Target the leading riders!” hissed Armantaro. “Ready! Loose!”

Arrows peppered the horsemen. Those in front fell, tripping those behind. A ghastly pileup began, with elven arrows pouring death on the screaming mass. For a time, the elves held the cavalry back. Then the arrows ran out.

“Draw swords!” Vixa shouted. Twenty bows dropped to the sand. The remaining Ergothians rode wide of their fallen comrades and charged again. The horsemen weren’t properly armed – most had no weapons save their horses – but the twenty-two Qualinesti were greatly outnumbered. The elven square broke into isolated pairs and trios. Swords flashed as they battled for their lives.

Vixa found herself paired with Vanthanoris, an elf of Kagonesti ancestry and the best sword fighter in Qualinost. He spun, lunged, dodged a stream of terrified horses. The Ergothians spurred their mounts. Vanthanoris emptied four saddles with graceful leaping thrusts, but the fifth trooper bowled him down in a flurry of iron-shod hooves. Vixa stood over her fallen comrade, trying to protect him.

Like a wild thunderstorm, the fight was over quickly. The Ergothian cavalry vanished downriver, leaving half its number dead or wounded. Vixa’s small command was also cut in half, ten elves down with broken heads or limbs. Vanthanoris rose from the sand, bruised and winded.

“I am in your debt, lady,” he said, pushing his silvery white hair from his eyes and bowing.

“Nonsense,” she replied, grateful the battle was over.

The elves held a hasty conference at the river’s edge. Most of the warriors were for pressing on to find the ambassador, but Vixa was none too sanguine about their chances.

“Another encounter like this, and my mother will have one less child to bully,” she noted wryly.

“Lady Vixa is right,” agreed Armantaro. “We’d best return to Evenstar – for now.”

Carrying their wounded, the elves made their way back to the longboat. Evenstar rose like a hawk amid the lesser river craft. The banner of Qualinost – green tree and golden sun – fluttered from the mainmast.

As her troopers launched the longboat, Vixa noticed an odd sight. A wall of pale clouds was rapidly approaching the cluster of ships assembled at the river’s mouth. The cloud was white as snow and so thick as to appear solid. At a word from Vixa, the elves rowed harder.

“What can it be?” the princess wondered. “Smoke?”

Armantaro shaded his face against the sun, staring at the enormous cloud. “It’s not natural, lady, that’s for sure. See how the land breeze carries the smoke from Ergoth over our heads and out to the bay? Yet that cloud is coming up fast from the opposite direction!”

Then, half a mile from Evenstar, the cloud appeared to stop. Its edges swirled and billowed, but it did not advance farther. The delay allowed the longboat to reach the Qualinesti ship. Vixa was the last of her company to regain the deck.

“Raise anchor!” bawled Captain Esquelamar, as soon as she was aboard. “Stand by the mainsail, lads!”

The princess protested. “What are you doing, Captain? We are to wait here for Ambassador Quenavalen. Our orders come from the Speaker of the Sun himself!”

“Lady, there’s magic afoot in that unnatural cloud, and I’ll not risk my ship for an elf who may already be dead,” Esquelamar replied bluntly.

Sailors on the capstan wound the anchor up from the gulf’s muddy bottom. The sound of clanking chain echoed over the water. Other small boats and rafts that had been hovering near Evenstar slipped their anchors and raised sail. Some resorted to oars, for the light wind had ceased to blow.

“Here it comes!” shouted a sailor in the rigging. The cloud was moving once more, churning and billowing toward them.

“Starboard helm – unfurl the mainsail! Stand by the mizzen and the spritsail!”

With maddening slowness, Evenstar made a turn to the right. Vixa and Armantaro watched, transfixed, as the wall of white engulfed a pair of smacks and a white-hulled ketch. The smaller vessels vanished inside of it without a trace.

Every square inch of canvas Evenstar carried was spread, but to no avail. The sails hung uselessly from their yards. All the wind was gone.

The strange cloud continued moving rapidly toward Evenstar, though no breath of wind stirred the air. The oppressiveness that Vixa had felt earlier, as though a storm were brewing, was even more pronounced now. A sense of dread swept over her, and she heard Armantaro whisper, “May the gods have mercy.”

Hull creaking, the Qualinesti ship met the oncoming cloud stern-first. The wall of white swallowed it.

Vixa flinched as the vapor flowed over her. It was cold, finger-numbing cold. One instant she was bathed in the glaring heat of the sun, the next, an icy chill dried the sweat on her face and penetrated her baking chain mail.

Everyone had braced for catastrophe, but the fog’s main effect was to make teeth chatter. Sailors and warriors stood and compared reactions to the bizarre mist enveloping them. No one felt ill, or unusual in any way, only very cold.

“What do you make of this, Captain?” Armantaro asked Esquelamar.

The elven sailor waved a hand through the cloud. “Feels like a sea mist such as mariners find off the cape of Kharolis,” he said. “But it moves and holds its shape like no natural mist. It’s an enchantment, I’d say.”

“I agree,” Vixa said. “Perhaps it was called up by the emperor’s sorcerers to screen his failing army from General Solamnus.”

“Damned uncomfortable, if you ask me,” grumbled Harmanutis, stepping out of the white cloud.

Shivering sailors and soldiers wrapped themselves in their cloaks. The captain called up to the crow’s nest, asking the lookout if he could see anything.

“Nay, Captain. It’s like trying to peer through milk.”

“Come down then, before you freeze.”

The captain, the princess, and Armantaro went to the rail. Esquelamar knelt in the scupper, thrust his head over the side. “Can’t see a damn thing,” he muttered. “Not even water, nothing!”

“It feels as if we’re moving,” Vixa offered.

She was right. Although the sails hung slack, the creak of the hull and a slight rolling of the deck caused them to sway on their feet.

“The emperor of Ergoth does not command such power,” Armantaro stated.

Evenstar was mysteriously adrift, her crew and passengers unable to rescue their ambassador – unable, even, to rescue themselves.

Chapter 2

THE TEEMING SEA

It was impossible to measure the passage of time. Sailors collected in small groups and whispered fearfully to each other. They called out long and hard, but received no answering hails from any of the smaller craft that had dotted the waters of the gulf. Captain Esquelamar resolved to curb the growing terror. He assembled his mariners before the mainmast. On the quarterdeck, Vixa and her company stood listening.

“Now, lads, there’s no reason to fear,” the captain said firmly. “We’ve seen fogs before. And we’ve been in much worse situations than this. Why, remember that time off Sancrist Isle? We thought we were goners then, didn’t we, lads? And yet, here we are. Evenstar is a strong ship, the finest of her size in Qualinost, and she’ll come through this.”

“But this is an evil spell,” one sailor insisted.

“We don’t know that, Pellanis,” Esquelamar replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Nothing so ill has befallen us yet, has it? In fact, this could be a good sign. Mayhap the gods called down this mist to protect us.”

“Do you believe that, lady?” Armantaro whispered.

Vixa shrugged. “I never studied sorcery,” she replied. “But Esquelamar is right about one thing: neither we nor the ship has been injured by the fog. I prefer to know where we’re going, and I don’t like being taken away from my proper duty.”

Captain Esquelamar dismissed his crew. The sailors went to their posts looking less fearful, though some still fingered lucky talismans. The captain climbed the steps to the quarterdeck.

“A good speech, Captain. Do you believe it yourself?” asked Vixa.

“I have to, lady. Those lads look to me for their safety.”

The crew and passengers of Evenstar settled into a state of uneasy watchfulness. Despite their initial dread, as time passed with no untoward occurrences, they gradually grew accustomed to the silent, impenetrable cloud that enveloped them. The captain kept his sailors busy with all the usual shipboard tasks: swabbing decks, mending sails, and polishing the brightwork. Vixa kept her contingent on the quarterdeck, where they would be out of the way. Time passed.

When their stomachs told them it was time to eat, the elves did so. Then Paladithel broke out his pipes. He wasn’t much of a player, knowing only one song, “When We’re Coming Home Again.” He played this mournful tune eight times in a row and would’ve launched a ninth, but his comrades protested. Suddenly there was a shout from the bow.

“Ahoy, Captain!”

“What is it, lad?” called Esquelamar, emerging from his cabin. A napkin was tucked under his pointed chin.

“Dead ahead, sir! A break! A hole in the fog!”

A cheer went up from every throat. “Two points to starboard, Manneto!” the captain barked.

The helmsman tried to comply, but the whipstaff refused to budge an inch. With both hands and a shoulder braced against the tall lever, Manneto struggled to turn the ship. Esquelamar joined him, grunting and groaning as they hauled on the whipstaff.

The dark spot ahead was a welcome change from the monotony of cold, white cloud. It was featureless and black, like a doorway into night, and grew larger all the while. Either they were drawing nearer to it, or it was approaching them.

The two elves continued to struggle with the whipstaff. At last, Esquelamar and Manneto stepped back from the helm in defeat. The helmsman cursed eloquently in three languages, then remembered who was listening.

“Begging your pardon, lady,” he said.

“I thought my mother could curse, but helmsman, you are a master.”

In any event, they were heading straight for the opening in the cloud. The mist thinned to gently billowing streams. Warmer air washed over the ship, filling the sails and offering a respite from the biting cold. In spite of the head wind and the straining sails, Evenstar ploughed onward, against the wind. The hole grew taller and wider.

“Stars! I see stars!” cried the sailor in the bow.

Remnants of the fog peeled away from the ship like petals dropping from a flower. The dark spot was simply the night sky, clear and star-spangled. Once Evenstar was free of the last tendrils of mist, her sails rippled and caught a cross breeze. The ship heeled under a sudden gust as the sails bellied full. Without having to be ordered, sailors scaled the masts and trimmed the sails. Manneto saw the whipstaff lever flopping from side to side. He grabbed it and turned Evenstar against the wind. The ship came about smartly, turning a half circle in the open sea.

“It’s gone!” Armantaro cried, pointing. The odd cloud had vanished behind them. As soon as the ship was free of it, the fog had disappeared without a trace.

Esquelamar called for his sextant. The princess and Armantaro stood at the captain’s elbow as he aligned his instrument with the stars. Within minutes he had their position.

“Charts – fetch my charts!” he ordered. A nimble sailor scampered into the captain’s cabin and returned with an armful of rolled maps. Esquelamar scrutinized the writing on the sleeve of each, handing back those he didn’t want. The fifth chart he unrolled. Squinting in the flickering light of a lantern, he found their position according to Krynn’s stars.

“By the Blue Phoenix!” he exclaimed.

“Where are we?” Vixa demanded. She peered over his shoulder, her mouth falling open in astonishment. Esquelamar’s long finger rested on a spot at least a hundred leagues east of Cape Kharolis – some three hundred leagues east of their original position at the mouth of the Greenthorn River!

“It can’t be,” said Armantaro, dazed. As word filtered back to the soldiers and sailors, they echoed his sentiments.

“Hard about!” Esquelamar shouted. “Bring us to a new course: due west!”

Lanterns were lit, hung from the bow and stern. Corporal Harmanutis pointed out that as far as elven eyes could see, they were alone on the sea. Vixa ordered her warriors to serve as extra lookouts.

To Armantaro, she confided, “I fear for Ambassador Quenavalen. Our absence may cost him and his party their lives. How long do you think it will take us to get back to the Greenthorn?”

The colonel put this question to the captain, who replied, “With fair wind and no ill magic, we should enter the Gulf of Ergoth in eleven days.”

“By Astra! That long?” Vixa exclaimed.

“Lady, three hundred leagues is nine hundred land miles,” Esquelamar explained. “Evenstar cannot cover such a stretch overnight.”

“And yet she just did,” Armantaro observed dryly.

*

Solinari, the white moon, rose from the sea and shone brightly on the lonely ship. The brisk westward wind continued.

Vixa, Armantaro, and Captain Esquelamar were alone on the quarterdeck. The old colonel, his white hair shining in the moonlight, was swapping stories with the captain, nearest of all aboard to his own age. Vixa listened with interest for a time, but the gentle rocking of the ship and the rushing of water by the hull soon conspired to make her eyelids heavy. She sat down on deck, leaning against the starboard rail. Once the drawstrings at the throat of her mail shirt were untied, she luxuriated in the feel of the warm breeze washing over her. She slept, her sheathed sword lying across her knees.

Perhaps it was the sound of the rushing water or the motion of the ship, but in her dreams, Vixa found herself swimming in a black ocean. Silver shapes darted around her. They were fish. Enchanted, Vixa tried to reach out and touch them, but they managed to elude her and were swallowed by the darkness. Then she heard the faraway skirling of pipes. It was strange, remote music, tuneless yet lyrical. The black water coursed by her face, as if she were hurtling at great speed through the dark sea. A roar of crashing waves filled her ears.

“Your Highness! Lady Vixa!” Armantaro was calling. Vixa’s eyes opened, and she sat up, blinking in confusion.

“What?” she said. “What is it, Colonel?”

“Look at the sea, lady!”

Unsteadily, she hoisted herself to her feet. The strong wind of the night before had diminished. Though the sun had not yet risen, the predawn light was sufficient to show a marvelous sight. The sea surrounding Evenstar was alive with fish. Fingerlings, cod, perch, mackerel, and hundreds Vixa could not name leapt and swam across the ocean’s surface, heading away from the Qualinesti ship. They scrambled up from the depths and kept going, swimming over each other. Fish that normally would have feasted on each other ignored each other in their mad haste.

Now dolphins appeared, arcing in and out of the water. They raced ahead of the sailing ship, zigzagging across Evenstar’s bow. Vixa was amazed at their speed and grace. She ran forward along the railing, trying to keep the dolphins in sight. After them came pilot whales and black-fish – dark-skinned animals twice the size of the dolphins. Then, most astonishing of all, several whales breached. Huge gray backs broke the surface, water and other fish cascading over the smooth hides. The whales were mottled with barnacles. Flukes as wide as the ship’s waist waved in the air and plunged down again, sending surges of water against the hull. Vixa braced herself as Evenstar rolled in the whales’ wake.

The tumult brought all the sailors up from their hammocks. Some of them seized the opportunity to drop nets over the side. Laughing, they hauled nets full of bluegill and sea trout aboard, spilling the flopping fish over the deck. The noise also roused the Qualinesti soldiers. Rubbing their eyes, the warriors joined the others on deck.

“Have you ever seen the like, Captain?” Vixa shouted over the splash of fish.

“No, lady, and I wish I weren’t seeing it now!”

“How so? It’s a splendid sight.”

“’Tis not natural. All those creatures do not commune together. Something has disturbed them – frightened them into flight.”

“What can frighten a whale?” she wondered, watching a massive gray head break the surface.

Esquelamar’s worried eyes scanned the teeming ocean. “I don’t know, my lady,” he replied, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

The furious activity lessened. The dolphins wheeled about the ship like cavalry and departed. Whales submerged and did not return. Within half an hour of Vixa’s awakening, all the commotion had ceased. On the main deck, sailors busied themselves with cleaning and salting their bounty.

Esquelamar leaned over the rail, staring at the empty waves. His high brow creased in a frown. “Bosun! Where’s that laggard of a bosun?”

A lean, barefoot elf with carroty hair ran to the captain’s side. “Aye, sir?” he said.

“There’s mud in the water. It could’ve been stirred up by the fish, or we could be in uncharted shallows. Take the lead line forward and sound. Be quick!”

The lead line was a length of twine with a lead weight tied to one end. At certain points along the line knots were made, indicating various depths. The bosun took the lead line and climbed out on the ship’s beak. He let the weight drop into the water, paying out line as it sank. When the weight hit bottom, his sharp eyes read the mark at the ocean’s surface below.

“Three fathoms and a half!” he sang out.

“Twenty-one feet,” Armantaro advised his princess.

“In the open sea? Sound again,” ordered the captain.

The bosun hauled in his lead and dropped it overboard again. “Two fathoms, even!”

“What! There should be more than forty fathoms under us,” Esquelamar insisted. “Reef in all sails!”

Sailors clambered aloft and gathered in the sails. The captain mounted the rigging. “Damn it,” he mumbled. “There’s mud everywhere. Sound again, bosun!”

In seconds the reply came back: “Ten fathoms and a quarter!”

“What?” roared the captain. He swung around to the elves at the capstan, who were preparing to heave the anchor overboard. “Belay the anchor, lads.”

“Captain!” The young bosun’s voice was full of astonishment. “Full forty fathoms!”

“This is madness,” Esquelamar said, shaking his head.

“Not so, good Captain,” Vixa called. She descended the steps from the quarterdeck and made her way to where the captain clung to the rigging.

“There are accounts of such upheavals happening all over Ansalon,” she continued. “The sages taught me that the skin of the world is not unyielding. It flexes every day, rising in some places and falling in others. Such are the circumstances of earthquakes.”

“I never heard this,” he said gruffly.

“Her Highness is correct.” Armantaro stated. “I myself have read of these earthquakes and volcanoes, where the gods shake the ground, great buildings topple, and people are swallowed by new fissures in the land.”

“Have the gods cursed us?” cried a sailor overhearing this exchange.

“Belay that! If the learned lady and the colonel say these things happen naturally, then we’re not the object of the gods’ disfavor,” declared the captain loudly. The light of the rising sun showed his lean face shiny with sweat, but he managed a smile. “Raise sail, lads! Let us begone from these strange waters!”

Evenstar wallowed westward under renewed sail.

*

Vixa shed the last of her armor and dressed herself in a plain leather jerkin, baggy cavalry pants, and boots. Despite her highborn status, she had little use for fine clothes, expensive jewelry, and courtly manners. Her father, Lord Kemian Ambrodel, despaired of her ever becoming a refined princess. He had to content himself with the fact that at least his youngest daughter had inherited his love of learning. In her rooms in the palace, books and scrolls vied for space with swords, armor, maces, and bows. Vixa’s mother, Lady Verhanna, commander of the armies of Qualinost, wholeheartedly endorsed Vixa’s military bent. “There are thousands of delicate elfmaidens,” she was fond of saying, “but shockingly few good warriors.”

Verhanna had nicknamed her youngest child “the scholar.” She believed bookishness to be a waste of time for a warrior. However, as it didn’t diminish Vixa’s fighting skills or detract from her duties as a royal princess, Verhanna kept her views to herself. Most of the time. After all, she reasoned, the child’s father was also bookish and it hadn’t kept him from proving to be a fine general.

Vixa made her way forward between decks to the galley to collect her breakfast. The only open fire allowed on the wooden ship was kept in the brick oven abaft the mainmast. Evenstar’s cook was also her healer, a Kagonesti named Barbalthin. He greeted the princess cheerfully and gave her a trencher laden with griddlecakes and a cup of mulled nectar. She bit into the crispy cake. Ah! There were no bakers in the royal household who could match Barbalthin’s griddlecakes. Vixa raised the pewter cup of nectar to her lips —

— and suddenly the entire contents splashed in her face as the ship lurched sharply. The nectar stung her eyes as the deck canted beneath her feet. She and Barbalthin collided with the brick hearth, fell, and rolled to the starboard wall. Glowing coals spilled from the firebox onto the wooden deck. Barbalthin scrambled against the tilt, dousing the embers.

Evenstar held its starboard list. The stout hull groaned, and a distinct grinding sound filled the ship.

“Now what?” groaned Vixa.

A chorus of shouts and the sound of tramping feet resounded overhead. Vixa made for the ladder and climbed up. Sailors scrambled fore and aft, cursing every god in the heavens. Vixa slid down the deck on her hips and heels until she collided with a red-faced Captain Esquelamar.

“We’re aground!” he said fiercely. “A hundred leagues from land, and we’re aground!”

“Are we wrecked?” she wanted to know.

“Never fear, lady. Evenstar will not sink.”

A sailor popped out of the same hatch Vixa had emerged from. “She’s tight below, Captain! No water in the hold!”

“Thank the gods for that,” Esquelamar breathed.

The world heaved again as the ship rolled back upright. Esquelamar bounced to his feet like an acrobat. Vixa got up more slowly and saw Armantaro trying to stand, hampered by his armor. Vixa found herself wondering if the old colonel slept in his armor, too.

“On your feet, Colonel,” she said genially.

“Now I know why I never served in the Speaker’s navy,” Armantaro muttered. “At least land doesn’t trip a soldier at every opportunity.”

The ship appeared to be surrounded by yellow mud – land where nothing had been seconds before. To the southwest, the low peak of an island was just visible in the early morning light. Esquelamar ordered a sailor over the side to see if the bar they were on was shifting. As his fellows held his legs, the elf stabbed a boat hook into the swirling, muddy water. It was only ten inches deep.

“We’re fast aground,” Esquelamar reported, his expression grim. “This shoal is not on any of my charts!”

“Can we lower a boat?” asked Armantaro. “Kedge off the bar?”

“Nay, the water’s too shallow, even for the longboat.”

The sun rose higher, and the island to the southwest stood out more clearly. It was a large, flat expanse of sand, with a single high dune in the center.

Knowing elves have to eat even in the direst of situations, Barbalthin came on deck with some food. He brought griddlecakes for the landlubbers, kippers for the sailors. Armantaro picked up a flat cake and was about to bite into it when an idea struck him.

“What about a raft, Captain?”

“Eh?” said Esquelamar.

“Why not build a raft? We could pole it ashore,” said the colonel.

“To what end, sir? There’s nothing out there but a hill of sand.”

Armantaro pointed. “It is the tallest spot around, is it not? From there we should be able to spot open water.”

“Aye. I see your meaning. Perhaps we can lighten the ship and float free of this bar.” Esquelamar cupped a hand to his lips. “Manneto! Heronimas! Collect all free hands and assemble on the foredeck. And break out the carpenter’s tools. We’re going to build a raft!”

Empty water casks were dragged up from the hold, sawn in half, and lashed together. A makeshift deck of planks was hammered in place across their cut sides. Oars and oarlocks from the ship’s longboats were attached, and the crude raft was hoisted over the side.

Vixa looked down at the newly made raft. “Who else is coming?”

“Lady, you would be safer on the ship,” Armantaro ventured to suggest.

Vixa frowned. The obvious concern in the old colonel’s face caused her to swallow her sharp retort. Clapping him on the shoulder instead, she said lightly, “Fear not, old friend. I doubt if the mosquitoes on that island are very dangerous.”

A party of eight was chosen to explore the island: Captain Esquelamar and three of his sailors, Vixa, Armantaro, Harmanutis, and Vanthanoris. Manneto was left in charge of the ship, and Paladithel put in command of the remaining warrior contingent.

Although Armantaro and the other two warriors in the landing party had donned full battle dress, Vixa demurred, saying, “I’m only going to climb a hill, not fight a battle. Why should I wear armor in this heat?” She did, however, take along her fine Qualinesti sword.

A section of the ship’s rail was removed, and supplies for the landing party lowered by rope to the raft. Vanthanoris and two sailors went down first, holding the raft steady by its mooring lines. The others followed. Below the waterline the hull was studded with razor-sharp barnacles. Deprived of water, the creatures made eerie clicking sounds as they gasped in the air.

From the deck, Manneto called down, “How long will you be, Captain?”

Esquelamar shaded his eyes, checking the position of the sun. It was perhaps two hours after dawn. “We’ll be back before sundown,” he called back.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

With the captain at the raft’s plank rudder and the sailors and warriors on the oars, they set off for the unknown island that had risen from the bottom of the sea. And Vixa said a silent prayer to the Blue Phoenix, lord of the sea.

Chapter 3

MAROONED

The glare off the still water was harsh, though the sun was hours yet from its highest position. Gulls and other seabirds wheeled overhead, screeching in the steamy air. To shield her head, Vixa made a sort of short burnoose with her kerchief and a length of thong.

The going was slow, as almost every dip of the oars struck bottom. Lurching from side to side, the raft made its way. Twenty paces from the shoreline, the raft ran aground. Captain Esquelamar pulled in the steering oar and called, “From here on, mates, we walk.”

They piled out. The footing was firm. From their vantage point, they could see Evenstar high and dry, looking like a child’s toy left on the bank of a pond. Esquelamar shaded his eyes and scanned the low line of dunes left and right.

“From the look of these ridges, I’d say the water drains off from a central point. There, I think,” he said, indicating the highest point on the island.

They set off, Esquelamar and Vanthanoris leading. It was not a pleasant walk. The hollows between the sand ridges were full of stagnant pools, seaweed, and other debris. A foul stench rose up from this soupy mess. There was no way around it, only through.

Vanthanoris drew farther and farther ahead of the rest of them. Suddenly, at the top of a ridge, he drew his sword and flung up his free hand.

“Hold!” Vixa ordered. She, the colonel, and Harmanutis each dropped to one knee. Confused, Esquelamar and the sailors stood and stared.

“Get down!” hissed Armantaro. They did so at last.

Vanthanoris disappeared over the hill, sunlight flashing off his naked blade. A few tense minutes passed, then he came jogging back to his worried companions.

“I saw movement,” he whispered. “To the northeast, yonder. Whatever it was, it disappeared behind some dunes. I ran forward, but all I found were tracks.”

“What kind of tracks?” Vixa demanded.

“Hard to tell. This ground doesn’t hold them well. Maybe a four-legged animal of some kind. Big, too,” Vanthanoris replied.

“How big were the tracks?” Esquelamar asked.

The elf warrior held his hands apart about sixteen inches.

“Show us the trail,” Armantaro said, rising. In a flash, the agile Vanthanoris was loping up the hill. The others struggled through the sand after him.

On the lee side of the ridge, they saw a line of prints starting on the left, southeast, and moving in a curve, paralleling the contour of the ridge.

Harmanutis dropped on his stomach and sniffed the prints. “Saltwater,” he reported. “Whatever it is, it came out of the sea.”

“A sea turtle?” suggested one of the sailors in a hopeful tone.

“Nay,” Esquelamar said, dismissing the suggestion with a wave of his hand. “A turtle’s got flippers. This creature leaves a distinctive trail.”

“Well, it went that way,” Vanthanoris said and started off again. His long legs covered the ground rapidly. The rest of the party hurried along in his wake.

They headed right, following the gully’s curve. Vanthanoris, his hunting blood up, forged ahead. Vixa and Harmanutis jogged after him, panting with exertion. The fetid sea-stench grew stronger.

Suddenly, Harmanutis lost his footing and slid down the slope. Vixa, one hand on her sheathed sword, went after him. About the time she reached the bottom of the slope, a shout split the air. It was Vanthanoris from above – calling for help.

Vixa was still several steps away from Harmanutis. Struggling to his feet in the stinking bog, Harmanutis called to her, “Go, lady! I’m with you!”

The princess ran splashing along the bottom of the gully, scanning the landscape for sight of Vanthanoris. She caught a glimpse of movement at the top of the next ridge. Then she froze in place. Harmanutis, coming up behind her, likewise halted. A tall, upright figure was silhouetted against the bright sky. All she could make out was a dark figure. It was not shaped like the stocky, muscular Vanthanoris, but it seemed to be a person, definitely not a four-legged animal.

“You there!” she shouted. The dark figure turned away, disappeared over the hill.

“Go help Van!” Vixa ordered Harmanutis. Out came her sword. She charged up the slope.

By the time she reached the top of the hill, Vixa was puffing. Her labor went unrewarded. There was no sign of the dark figure, only more undulating ridges of sand. She stood for a moment, scanning left and right. Still nothing.

Vixa turned right, strode along the rim of this dune until she saw the rest of her group collected in the bottom of the gully. Esquelamar and the sailors had caught up at last. She called down to them, “Hello! How’s Van?”

Armantaro and Harmanutis moved apart, revealing the young warrior. Vanthanoris waved to the princess. Vixa skidded down the dune. When closer, she saw that Vanthanoris had a gash on his forehead.

“What happened, Van?” she asked.

“I was hard on the trail, lady. As I rounded the bend there, I caught a glimpse of something green moving. I challenged it, and it split in two!”

“Split in two?”

“Yes, Highness! What we thought was one four-legged animal turned out to be two two-legged people, walking in step together.”

Vixa looked back at the ridge top. “I saw one of them,” she said. “Did you get a close look?”

“No, my lady. I couldn’t see them well. But they were covered with this.” He held out a hand. In it was a swatch of green material. “They were lying in wait for me as I rounded the bend. When they attacked, I managed to tear this off one of them.”

Vixa took the green material from the warrior’s outstretched hand. It was damp. “Looks like seaweed.”

Esquelamar examined it. “The fisherfolk call it eelweed,” he told them. “Comes from the deepest parts of the ocean. Most people see it only when it gets caught in a fishing net.”

The stems of the weed were woven together, like cloth. There even appeared to be threadlike strands of green sewn through the seaweed, for all the world as though it were a square of cloth. This was no bit of camouflage picked up at random. Someone had taken time and trouble to fashion the fronds of seaweed into a leafy covering.

“Well, these two brigands were draped in it,” Vanthanoris stated. “They saw me, jumped apart, and one of them thrust a short spear at me. I ducked, but it grazed me. That’s when I gave the call. One ran over the hill, that way. The other one ran down the draw.”

Armantaro was nodding. “This changes everything,” he said. “If there are armed foes about, the ship may be in danger.”

The sailors were all for turning back right away. Esquelamar glared at them until they subsided into silence. “There’s no need to panic,” he said calmly. “Some other boat has fetched up on this unforeseen land, that’s all. Vanthanoris ran into another scouting party. He startled them, so they attacked and ran away. There were two of them – if they’d wanted to kill him, why didn’t they?”

“But the seaweed —” objected Harmanutis.

“There’s probably several hundredweight of eelweed lying around here. This sand heap rose up from the depths, did it not? It must have brought the eelweed with it,” was the captain’s reasonable response.

“I agree with the captain,” Vixa said. She tucked the swatch of eelweed into her belt. Esquelamar was probably right in his reading of events, but the woven eelweed was certainly one more peculiar detail in an increasingly odd situation. “We should finish what we came here for.”

A bandage was tied around Vanthanoris’s head. With Harmanutis in the lead, the small band continued their march toward the center of the island. The hills got higher, and the ravines between them got deeper. Here and there were more tracks in the sand, pairs of deep indentations, but they saw no more figures, weed-draped or otherwise. They plodded up hill and down dale, sweat-drenched, until Harmanutis topped the final rise and cried out, “I see smoke!”

The rest of the party slogged up the ridge to join the corporal. “Smoke means people,” Esquelamar said.

One of his sailors muttered, “What is there to burn on this sand pile?”

Standing alongside Harmanutis, they saw the white smoke soaring skyward from a distant point. The smoke did not rise in long plumes, but in distinct, rolling puffs.

“How odd,” Vixa said. “Is someone signaling?”

“That’s not smoke,” said Armantaro. “See how it disperses so quickly? That’s steam, by Astra! There must be a geyser behind that hill.” The old colonel allowed himself a smile. “No wonder this island is not on the charts. It must have been created by a recent upheaval of the subterranean regions.”

The elves hurried on. Vixa and the younger soldiers arrived first at the pinnacle. As they had hoped, the view was spectacular. Looking back the way they had come, they could see Evenstar, surrounded by muddy water. A considerable distance to the west, a strip of brilliant blue revealed open water. However, it was a long, long way from the stranded ship.

A fresh billow of steam erupted below them. As the wind whipped the steam away, the source of the eruptions was revealed. Two large openings marred the hillside below.

“This I must see,” announced the captain. He started down the hill.

“Keep clear, Captain,” Armantaro called. “The steam can scald you.” The master of Evenstar, acknowledging the warning with a wave of his hand, kept going, followed by his crew.

The warriors lingered atop the sandy hill, discussing how best to move the ship to that tantalizing stretch of blue ocean. A flurry of action interrupted their debate. Just as Esquelamar and the three sailors reached the closest steam vent, three large, weed-draped figures burst out of the cavelike hole, brandishing short-handled spears.

“Out swords!” Vixa ordered. “Charge!”

The elves ran down the hill, shouting Qualinesti war cries. The attackers had seized Esquelamar. His sailors tried to free him, and one received a spear in the chest.

Vixa raised her blade in a high overhand swing and brought it down on the closest foe. Keen elven steel sliced through the eelweed cape, and a broad section fell away, revealing some type of shiny green armor.

The attacker let go of Esquelamar and turned to face Vixa. He towered over her by at least a foot, though she herself was six feet tall. He jabbed his short spear at her. She batted it away with her sword. The head of the spear was a reddish, glassy material, barbed like a fishing hook.

The other Qualinesti warriors poured into the fight. Vanthanoris ran up behind the enemy and grabbed one of them, spinning him around and slashing hard across his opponent’s chest. Eelweed fell away, revealing a cuirass of bright green. The elf dodged a spear thrust, lunged, and felt his sword tip strike home. His moment of triumph was short-lived, though. His tall opponent grasped the blade and wrenched it from Vanthanoris’s grip. He then brought up his own spear, willing to continue the battle with a sword in his side. The now weaponless Vanthanoris hastily withdrew from this display of fortitude.

The other two weed-robed figures were retreating. They had abandoned Esquelamar and dashed back into the steam vent, bowling over Harmanutis, who tried to block their way. The third antagonist staggered toward the other steam vent. After wrenching Vanthanoris’s blade from his body, he plunged into the cave.

Vanthanoris and Harmanutis gave a shout and started after the fleeing foe. Armantaro called them back. The old colonel and Esquelamar were kneeling by the dead sailor.

“Sir! The enemy escapes!” Vanthanoris exclaimed. The bandage on his forehead had slipped, and blood trickled down his face.

“Stand your ground, soldier!” snapped Armantaro. “Will you charge blindly into a dark cave, like some wild kender? Retrieve your weapon and stand guard at the mouths of those caves, both of you.”

Vixa went over to the spot where one of the strange creatures had been wounded by Vanthanoris. Drops of greenish liquid were soaking into the sand. She touched the colored spots and raised her fingers to her nose. It was blood – of a completely alien shade, but blood nonetheless. She showed the others the odd bloodstains, saying, “I know of no race on Krynn with green blood in their veins.”

“Do we go after them?” the colonel asked her.

“Yes,” was her grim reply. “I want them alive, to question.”

She led them to the mouth of one of the caves, guarded by Vanthanoris, who was cleaning green stains from his sword with his kerchief. The opening had an arch to it and looked to be made of some smooth stone. Esquelamar scratched the rock. “Limestone,” he reported.

“Two of our marauders went in here,” Vixa said. “We’ll go after them. Captain, you and your lads should stay and guard the entrance.”

“Nay, lady,” Esquelamar contradicted. “It’s my comrade who lies dead. I want a hand in catching his killers.” The captain ordered his two sailors to remain on guard, then the elves entered the cave. The sudden change from bright sunlight to damp darkness left them all temporarily blind. They paused inside, allowing their eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. The sound of their footfalls echoed in the tunnel.

The floor tilted downward. Harmanutis and Vanthanoris lost their footing, slid down the slippery slope, and fetched up in a heap at its bottom. They called warnings to their companions, but too late. Vixa, Armantaro, and Esquelamar joined the pile.

“Your pardon, lady,” Armantaro said, untangling himself from Vixa’s long legs.

“Think nothing of it.” Vixa stifled a chuckle at his unfailing politeness, then grunted as something dug into her ribs. “Mind that elbow, Captain.”

“Beg – oof – your pardon, lady,” Esquelamar puffed. They managed to separate and get to their feet, all except Vanthanoris. He remained crouched on the floor, feeling with his long, sensitive fingers.

“What is it, Van?” asked the princess, straightening her clothing.

“The floor is ridged,” he replied, curiosity in his voice. “The gap between the ridges is filled with something soft.” Vanthanoris drew his dagger. “I’ll nip out a piece, and we can examine it.”

As soon as his dagger penetrated the soft layer in the floor, the island convulsed. The floor rose up under their feet, then dropped away, knocking them all down.

“Earthquake!” yelled Harmanutis.

It was no ordinary earthquake. A great inrush of air howled through the cave, tearing at their clothes and ripping the burnoose from Vixa’s head. Sand, sucked in from outside, stung their skin. Then the rush of air reversed direction, bellowing out as hard as it had previously roared in. Thick steam came with the outward flow, soaking them to the skin.

“We must get out!” Esquelamar cried.

Vanthanoris and Harmanutis cupped their hands, and Esquelamar placed his feet in them. The soldiers boosted him to the top of the slope.

“Gods preserve us!” Esquelamar shouted over the screeching wind. “The cave is closing!”

He offered his hands to Harmanutis. After the two of them pulled the rest of the party up, they all ran in a body for the shrinking exit.

Indeed, the walls of the cave mouth were closing together. The faint light that penetrated the cave was fading fast. Creases appeared in the floor, and the whole tunnel seemed to be folding in on itself like a concertina. Air shrieked inward once more, blowing Vixa and Vanthanoris off their feet and back into the others. When they regained their footing, they saw that the opening was sealed tight. They were trapped.

Before they could take in what had happened, the floor dropped out from under them once more. A mighty rushing sound filled their ears, as though the entire ocean roared around them. Vixa shouted for her comrades. If they replied, she couldn’t be sure, but a hand reached out from the darkness and clasped her own. She would know those knobby fingers anywhere. Armantaro.

The floor continued to rise and shake, throwing them about like pebbles tumbling in a gourd. In spite of the thundering sound of water, no torrent breached the cave.

The walls of the cave had begun to glow a dark red.

“Armantaro,” Vixa gasped, “what is happening?”

“The fires of the deep underground,” he replied, drawing her closer. “Don’t look, Your Highness. Turn away.”

She could not resist a glance. By the ruddy light, she saw the warriors and Esquelamar huddled on the floor. The walls and the ceiling of the cave seemed to be shifting. Was the cave collapsing?

With loud wheezes and gulps, they fought for breath. Sweat broke out on their faces. The temperature was rising.

They would be crushed, if the heat and pressure didn’t kill them first. Clumsily, her chest heaving, Vixa drew her sword. It had been presented to her on her last birthday by her mother. Ten ingots of dwarven iron forged by the finest smith in Qualinost into a single blade. The hilt was finely wrought with leaves and twining branches, forming a lattice handguard set with a large topaz.

Vixa was determined that if this was her time to die, then Astra and E’li, the highest gods of her people, would find her with sword in hand when they came to collect her soul. She would face death as befitted the granddaughter of Kith-Kanan, as befitted the daughter of her mother.

The air, compressed by the closing walls, battered the companions into oblivion. Esquelamar and Harmanutis lost consciousness first, and Armantaro felt himself joining them. Vixa tried to reach out to the colonel, but before she could do more than contemplate the action, her sword dropped from her nerveless hand. Van had likewise drawn steel. But finally, even the stalwart Vanthanoris, skilled hunter and warrior, could fight for breath no longer. His sword fell from fingers suddenly gone numb, and he knew no more.

Chapter 4

THE DEADLY DEPTHS

Vixa was very surprised to open her eyes and find herself alive.

Her head pounded as if all the smiths of Thorbardin were busy inside, and with a groan, she sat up. Captain Esquelamar and the warriors remained unconscious, scattered around the shrunken cavern. The walls still glowed a dull red. Vixa massaged her aching temples.

Armantaro stirred. He sat up slowly, clutching his head. A smear of blood stained his upper lip.

“Ahhh,” he moaned. “My head feels as if I drank a barrel of nectar.” He winced, and added, “Very bad nectar.”

“Your nose bleeds, Colonel.”

He dabbed at it, and they spoke in whispers because the throbbing in their heads wouldn’t allow anything louder. This strained quiet was suddenly shattered by a skull-piercing roar. Captain Esquelamar had fought his way to consciousness with a great bellow.

“For mercy’s sake, Captain!” Vixa hissed. “Be quiet!”

“Astra have mercy, I’m dying!” he roared, heedless of her entreaties. He thumped his head with the heel of one hand. The captain cried, “I’d give my right arm for a beaker of nectar!”

Armantaro muttered, “I’d give mine if you’d lower your voice.”

Esquelamar stood, reeled about, and blundered against the glowing wall. Vixa expected him to cry out, but he did not.

Armantaro asked softly, “Captain! Are you not burned?”

“Burned?” The captain lifted one eyelid and took in his surroundings. Frowning, he stepped back from the wall and said, “Nay, nay.’Tis no warmer than a maiden’s cheek.”

Vixa regained her feet slowly, waited a moment while her knees trembled, then walked carefully to the wall. She placed one hand against it. Esquelamar was right. It was only mildly warm, but yielded to her touch, like living flesh.

Harmanutis and Vanthanoris awoke at nearly the same instant. The corporal croaked for water, but they had none to give him. The small store of food and water they’d brought with them had been swept away in the tumult of the earthquake.

To take her mind off her own thirst, Vixa studied their prison. She dropped to one knee and scraped away debris. Soon, she had exposed more of the odd ridges they’d seen deeper in the cave. Between the ridges was the softer material Vanthanoris had described. Like the walls, it was spongy and gave easily to her touch. Suddenly, the myriad thoughts chasing around her aching head coalesced into a single idea – an idea so startling, she gasped aloud.

“Your Highness?” Vanthanoris had come to see what she scrutinized so carefully on the floor. He dropped to one knee beside her.

“This is not a cave!” Vixa exclaimed.

Vanthanoris and the others regarded her blankly. “What, lady?” whispered Armantaro.

“This is not a cave,” she repeated slowly and carefully. “I believe – I believe we are inside a living creature!”

All their faces registered puzzlement. The colonel frowned, trying to marshal his scattered wits. “What?” he demanded in a low voice.

Vixa looked at each of them in turn. “This island is no island,” she stated, forcing her voice to remain calm. “It is some sort of creature.”

“Your Highness has injured her head,” Harmanutis blurted.

“Mind your tongue, Corporal,” Armantaro said absently. “Lady Vixa, how do you know this?”

“Captain,” she replied, “the other night, when we saw the fish fleeing on the surface – had you ever seen such behavior before, in all your years at sea?”

“No, lady. Never.”

“And the soundings that changed, deep then shallow then deep again – ever experienced that before?”

“No.”

“The sea was stained with mud for miles, right in our path, yes? And Evenstar fetched up on a shoal no one had ever charted.” They still regarded her with skepticism. “Don’t you see? This creature rose from the bottom of the sea. It frightened the fish, and they fled before it. It swam under the ship, and that’s why the bosun got different soundings. When at last it arrived at the surface, we ran into it, thinking it was an island!”

During her recital, doubt had crept into the faces of the other elves. When she finished, worry appeared, as the logic of her words sank in.

“How can it be?” asked Vanthanoris, standing by Vixa. “The monster would be more than a mile wide. How can the gods permit such a creature to exist?”

Armantaro shook his head, dazed. “The gods do as they see fit.”

“This cave,” Vixa continued, “must be inside the creature. The walls are made of flesh. That’s why they’re so soft and warm.”

Vanthanoris’s head snapped around, and he stared at her in horror. “I roused it,” he whispered. “When I dug into the floor with my dagger, I roused it from its slumber!”

Silence reigned for long minutes as each of them digested the implications. They contemplated their surroundings, trying to recognize this place as the inside of a living beast and not a natural rock formation. A cave that was no cave.

“What shall we do?” Harmanutis asked at last. “Will we ever see dry land and sunshine again?”

Vixa straightened her shoulders staunchly. “There must be hope. We don’t seem to have been devoured. In fact, judging from the wind that tore through here just before the beast went under, I’d say we’re in the creature’s nose or spout-hole. The principle danger, as I see it, may occur when the beast next draws breath.”

“We could get out then,” Vanthanoris said, hope dawning in his hazel eyes.

“If it breathes only air, yes. But if it breathes water —” Vixa’s voice trailed off.

Captain Esquelamar ran his hands through his long, sand-colored hair. “I forced the guards to stay on duty,” he said softly. “I left them out there. When this monster submerged, they must have —” Armantaro put a hand on his arm. However, there was no comfort to give. When the sea creature had submerged, certainly the elves left outside on guard must have drowned.

“But the ship is probably all right, Captain,” offered Vixa, as much for her own comfort as for his. After all, she’d left her own soldiers aboard the vessel.

Esquelamar forced a smile, saying, “Aye, lady, she’s a good ship. The best I ever served on.” The smile vanished. He swallowed hard.

“There’s a legend I heard once,” he murmured, “a long time ago, when I was a lad not yet gone to sea. It told of a creature called a kraken, a beast so huge it could drag down a ship entwined in its tentacles. Now and then a ship would be lost in fair weather, or on an easy run to Hylo or Balifor, and the old salts would say, ‘They’re food for the kraken now.’”

This vignette did little to lift their spirits. Armantaro finally stood and declared, “We’ll never get out by sitting here. We should explore farther down the passage. Perhaps there is another way out.”

“Don’t forget, the ones who attacked the captain and killed Theleran must be in here with us,” Vanthanoris reminded them.

“If we meet them, we must offer a truce,” Vixa decided. “It would be folly to fight each other in a situation like this.”

The younger warriors drew swords and made for the slippery slope. The others trailed, picking footholds with care. The air grew moister and warmer as they descended the passage. Out front, Harmanutis murmured, “I don’t fancy this.” His and Vanthanoris’s faces seemed bloodied by the lambent red glow from the walls. “I feel like a worm in a bird’s gullet.”

Vixa followed close on their heels. She found herself growing curious about the kraken – for a kraken it must be – in spite of her fears. “How would you classify this creature, Captain?” she asked. “Among other sea beasts, I mean?”

“Hard to say, lady,” replied Esquelamar, ducking his head under a flap of leathery flesh hanging from the ceiling. “It vented like a whale.”

“That would be fortunate. Whales breathe air as we do. When next this one surfaces to breathe, we could escape.”

“Even if that’s so, we’ve no way of knowing how often it needs to breathe,” Esquelamar said. “It could be hours or – considering this beast’s size – even days.”

The gently sloped passage leveled off and ended at what looked like a pair of doors, each half-round.

They scrutinized the barrier. Vixa poked one of the doors with her fingers. The surface was soft and rubbery. At her touch, the doors parted slightly, and a foul, fishy smell assaulted them.

“Phew! That must lead to the monster’s gut!” Esquelamar gasped.

They certainly didn’t want to investigate that chamber. As there was no other way to go, they turned and retraced their steps, stopping just inside the closed nostril.

“The only way out is the way we came in,” Vixa stated, gesturing at the sealed entrance.

Vanthanoris ran a hand through his silvery hair. “I wonder what happened to those two spearmen? The ones who led us in here.”

“Maybe they fell into the kraken’s stomach,” Harmanutis said flatly. “Good riddance, I say.”

“It’s all very odd,” Armantaro mused. “They didn’t appear to be shipwrecked mariners. Yet, if they were not, then how did they get on the island – er, on the kraken?”

The princess had her mind on more practical matters. “We’ve no way of knowing when this creature will next draw breath,” she announced. “We cannot hope to survive for long without food or water, so we must devise a way to escape. Suggestions?”

The warriors were out of their element. With charging armies, they could cope. With a monstrous sea beast, they were at a loss. A long minute passed, and no one spoke.

“Captain?” Vixa said, turning to that elf. “Any notions?”

The mariner folded his hard, tawny arms and replied, “I can’t tell if we’re moving or not. We might be lolling back on the surface, or lying on the bottom forty fathoms deep. As you said, lady, we have no option but to try to escape. As to the how —” Esquelamar smiled. “Kraken or no, if an animal gets something up its nose, it usually sneezes it out.”

Vixa’s own smile brightened her grimy face. “It does indeed. A splendid idea, Captain.”

They resolved to get as close as possible to the opening through which they’d entered, then jab the kraken with their swords. With luck and the gods’ intercession, the monster would expel them on the surface, or at a depth from which they could swim to the surface.

Armantaro, Harmanutis, and Vanthanoris shed their mail and heavy boots. Esquelamar pulled off his own footwear – beautiful, hand-tooled boots that reached to his knees. Vixa stripped to her smallclothes, which caused the old colonel some embarrassment.

“My lady, this is – this isn’t seemly,” he said haltingly.

“I won’t risk drowning for the sake of modesty, Colonel. My clothes will weigh me down if we must swim,” she pointed out.

The younger soldiers followed her example, stripping to their breechcloths. Armantaro stubbornly refused to remove his shirt and trousers, and the captain retained his emerald green corduroys as well.

“They’re new,” he said simply.

The elves drew their weapons. On Vixa’s signal, they began to jab the leathery walls of their prison. The kraken’s hide was tough. None of their thrusts drew blood or seemed to discommode the creature in the least.

Frustrated, Vixa raised her silver blade and stabbed it into the ceiling. This proved more tender than the walls. A twitching shudder rippled through the tunnel.

“Everyone! Concentrate on the ceiling!” Armantaro ordered.

All four elven blades were driven deeply into the ceiling, over and over. A violent quaking knocked them down. Two swords fell out of the ceiling. The other two – belonging to Vixa and Vanthanoris – hung quivering, embedded in the soft flesh.

The arched opening parted slightly. Water spewed in. “We must be underwater!” Esquelamar cried.

The beast shook itself again, rattling them helplessly.

Vixa was determined to reclaim her treasured sword. With the floor lurching and the ceiling swaying, this was not a simple task. She made two fruitless attempts, her hand missing completely. She finally grabbed the hilt on her third try.

At that moment, the nostril opened fully, and a wall of water smashed in. They were blasted back down the passage.

Vixa struggled frantically for a handhold. She knew they could be washed to destruction in the kraken’s gullet. Water dark as ink roared over her. She couldn’t see a thing.

The torrent slammed them against a barrier that buckled under the impact. This must be the “door,” to the monster’s gullet. They squirmed against the membrane, but the rush of water held them pinned in place.

Suddenly, they were rocketing in the opposite direction, back up the passage. The mad torrent of seawater had reversed itself as the kraken exhaled. Vixa hurtled on, battered by the water, debris, and the bodies of her friends. A stunning blow landed across her back as she shot through the nostril opening, then all was darkness and cold, swirling water. She was spinning free, weightless.

Her lungs were burning. Frantically, she began to swim. Was she heading for the surface? She couldn’t tell. The buffeting of the water had knocked nearly all the air out of her. She had to breathe! Vixa put out her hands, groping for her comrades. Nothing.

Something streaked past her, brushing her outstretched arm. The kraken? There was a face staring at her. A strange, un-elven face. Smiling.

It was a dolphin. She’d never seen a dolphin this close before, and now that she had, she was nearly dead. She simply had to breathe. Her lips parted. Before the water could fill her mouth, something hard was shoved against her lips.

Air! Not cold seawater, but air flowed into her starving lungs. The dolphin had pushed a hard, white object against her face. With both hands, she pressed it to her mouth. It looked like a big seashell, but it held air – sweet, delicious air!

The dolphin bumped her right arm with its dorsal fin. On its second pass, she grabbed the dark gray fin and held on tight. The dolphin’s powerful flukes propelled her through the inky depths.

Water rushed over her face, and she gripped the precious airshell even more tightly. Casting a look behind, she saw other undulating forms that were probably more dolphins. Had her friends been rescued as well? She sent up a silent prayer to Astra to keep them safe.

They swam for many minutes; then Vixa noticed a faint yellowish glow ahead and below. The dolphin changed direction, swimming toward the yellow light. They entered a zone of warmer water. A cherry-red glimmer beneath them told Vixa there were volcanic vents here. Columns of water warmed by the vents streamed upward.

The dolphin took her between two spires of stone. One, she noticed, passing just a foot away, was carved with geometric shapes and strange glyphs. Between the bases of the spires ran a long, white ribbon. It looked astonishingly like a road. A road on the bottom of the sea!

The dolphin slowed, fell in with a school of other dolphins. To Vixa they all looked very much alike – nine feet long, gray backs and flanks, lighter bellies. The school swam above the surface of the white road.

The water was brighter than before, suffused with a warm yellow light. Once more she looked over her shoulder. Vixa could make out the shapes of her friends, likewise being towed by dolphins. They all had shells clasped to their mouths, as she did. The number was wrong though. Her three comrades from Qualinost were there, but of Captain Esquelamar she saw no sign. Still, the sight of her friends cheered her tremendously.

She faced ahead again just as her slowly swimming dolphin reached another pair of stone spires. These were carved to resemble giant squids. The road rose, then dipped. Beyond was a sight that almost caused Vixa to drop her breathing shell.

It was a city.

This was the source of the golden light that brightened the depths. A vast structure rose from the seafloor in a swirling curve. Light shone through arched doorways. Vixa could see white shapes that resembled towers and buildings. Dolphins passed in and out of the lower reaches of the framework. She could only guess at the height of the peak. It was far beyond the limit of her blurry sight. The Tower of the Sun in Qualinost was over six hundred feet tall, yet this structure seemed much taller.

Her dolphin dove down to the lowest levels. Vixa could see beings walking on two legs near one of the structure’s openings. Were there people down there?

The dolphin slowed and sank until its belly rested on the white marble road. He shook himself violently, and Vixa let go of his fin. Her rescuer darted off, leaving her alone.

As she floated there, pondering her next move, Vixa became aware that the water was filled with the sound of odd clicks and whistles. The dolphins bearing her friends drew up beside her, depositing the rest of the party on the road. Armantaro grasped her arm. She nodded vigorously to assure him she was unharmed.

Harmanutis tugged at the colonel’s arm and pointed. Silhouetted against the city light came six very tall figures. The elves closed together.

The six strangers were the tallest beings Vixa had ever seen, easily a head taller than herself. Their skin was deep blue. It appeared they wore green-enameled armor, helmets, and short kilts. The water blurred her sight too much for her to make out details. What they bore in their hands was easily recognizable: short-handled spears. These were the beings draped in eelweed cloaks whom the elves had followed into the nostril of the kraken.

The blue-skinned strangers surrounded them. Vixa felt a pang of regret as her sword and scabbard were taken from her. Regret turned to surprise as she got a close look at the hand that gripped her sword; the fingers were unnaturally long, with a thin webbing of skin connecting them to each other.

The strangers herded them toward the city. It was awkward for the elves, half-walking and half-swimming, but Vixa had to admire the grace of their guards’ movements.

As she drew closer, Vixa saw that the delicate-seeming city structure was actually made of pink granite. The walls of the lowest course were extremely thick. The group passed into a tunnel twelve paces deep, hollowed out with many side passages. Light came from pumpkin-sized globes attached at intervals to the overhead stonework.

The road forked, and the guards guided the elves to the left. The road inclined upward. They swam up the ramp and emerged into a large, air-filled chamber, twenty paces long and ten wide. The ceiling was dappled with waves of light reflected off the water. Vixa removed the shell from her mouth. The air here smelled sweet enough, and it was pure bliss to be able to breathe freely once more.

At the top of the ramp was a stone pier in the style of a seaside quay. Assembled on this pier were more tall, blue-skinned strangers. These wore silky robes of pale green, sweeping cloaks of mauve, and elaborate headdresses of shells and gemstones. Their hair ranged from apple green to deepest jade and was cut to shoulder length. At the center of the group was the most striking water-dweller of all. His short green hair was fixed in ringlets around his face, and he wore no headdress. Numerous necklaces of shells and gems covered his smooth chest. As she drew closer, Vixa saw that his nose was long and straight, his cheekbones high. Large violet eyes dominated his face. She pushed her sodden hair from her eyes, and something else attracted her notice. Astonished, she halted in her tracks.

The water-dweller’s ears were upswept like Vixa’s own. He was an elf. All the blue-skinned water-dwellers were elves.

“Greetings,” he said in excellent Elvish. “I am Coryphene. Welcome to the city of Urione.”

Chapter 5

PROTECTOR OF URIONE

No one spoke for several long seconds. The Qualinesti remained standing on the ramp, shivering in calf-deep water. None of the richly dressed strangers smiled or spoke. Clad as she was in only her sodden smallclothes, Vixa found their expressionless stares most unnerving.

“We had n-no idea you or your city existed,” the princess finally stammered through chattering teeth. “It’s lucky for us you found us.”

At that, Coryphene smiled. “Has the landed race so soon forgotten their brothers, the Dargonesti?”

Dargonesti. Here was a race thought extinct for more than a thousand years. As Vixa, Armantaro, and the two warriors exchanged silent glances of wonder, one of the sea elf soldiers held out Vixa’s confiscated sword to Coryphene. He examined it closely, testing the heft and workmanship. Turning to Armantaro, Coryphene asked, “Who are you?”

The colonel, evidently taken for the leader because of his age, introduced everyone. He carefully omitted Vixa’s title. No sense stirring up ideas of ransom.

“Your wife?” Coryphene inquired.

“My … niece.” Armantaro smoothed the wet hair from his face and forced his shivering body to stand more erect. “There was another elf with us, named Esquelamar. Do you know if he was saved as well?”

Coryphene made a dismissive gesture. “My heralds told me of only your arrival.” One of the Dargonesti leaned closer and spoke softly to Coryphene. He nodded once, then said, “It is possible your companion was brought in through another portal.”

As he said this, a powerful gray dolphin burst from the water onto the quay. The Qualinesti flinched from this sudden intrusion. The creature landed in front of Coryphene. Its wide flukes flailed, splashing everyone on the dock.

“Is this how you present yourself, Naxos?” Coryphene’s tone was as chilly as the water.

The dolphin uttered a shrill whistle. Its back arched, and a violent shudder ran through its muscular body. The Qualinesti stared in stunned amazement as two sinewy arms appeared from the animal’s sides, arms as gray as the dolphin’s flesh. With a sharp sucking sound, the tail split down its length, becoming a pair of long gray legs. The snout shrank to a rather prominent nose. In less than twenty heartbeats, the dolphin had transformed into a lean, hard-muscled elf with short, greenish blue hair. His gray coloring faded, first from his extremities, and the usual blue skin tone of the Dargonesti washed over him.

The transformed elf knelt before Coryphene, his body glistening with seawater. “Forgive me, Excellence,” he murmured, though his expression was more amused than contrite.

“Is everything in order?”

“Ma’el is put to bed, Excellence.” The elf called Naxos glanced at the Qualinesti shivering on the quay.

“Was another drylander found, Naxos?” Coryphene asked.

“A fifth was discovered, Excellence. He had drowned.”

Vixa and Armantaro exchanged an unhappy look. Coryphene gestured at the two of them, saying, “You shall remain. Naxos, have the other two taken to the grotto.”

More dolphins appeared in the pool, blowing and whistling. Armantaro had to shout to be heard. “Your Excellency! These are my retainers. I wish to keep them with me.”

“You have no need of retainers here. Come.”

The newly arrived dolphins began transforming just as Naxos had. Vixa watched in rapt wonder as, one by one, they became tall, yellow-eyed Dargonesti elves.

Armantaro, thinking it unwise to annoy their host, tugged at her elbow. He spoke briefly to Harmanutis and Vanthanoris, and the warriors reluctantly allowed themselves to be separated from their commander.

Vixa and Armantaro followed Coryphene. The entourage stood aside to let the Qualinesti pass. Up close, Vixa saw that these sea elves were more than mere officials or courtiers. Under their mauve cloaks they wore breastplates of green tortoise-shell. Short scabbards hung from their belts. Vixa thought longingly of her own treasured sword and took hold of Armantaro’s arm.

“Why do I feel less rescued than captured?” she whispered.

He gave her an encouraging smile, but couldn’t hide the worry in his own eyes.

Coryphene had donned a tall headdress made with dangling shells and gemstones. His guard closed in behind them. A wide stone staircase led upward through the pale pink ceiling of this level, emerging in a busy street. Hundreds of Dargonesti bustled about in what appeared to be a marketplace. Fish of a dozen varieties lay piled in gigantic seashells or baskets of woven seaweed. Vendors trundled two-wheeled barrows back and forth. The air was heavy with damp and the smell of the sea.

Everyone made way for Coryphene. The common folk, who wore gray leather vests over knee-length green or yellow kilts, bowed deeply as he passed. Striding through the respectful crowd, Coryphene looked neither left nor right. His escort was similarly sober. Once the Dargonesti lord had passed by, the sea elves turned their gazes upon Vixa and Armantaro. The looks the two received were less friendly.

“No one seems happy to see us,” Vixa remarked softly.

“No, they don’t. We’d get a warmer greeting in Silvanost, I’ll wager.”

“Speaking of warm —” Vixa tugged at her skimpy clothing.

Armantaro frowned. He lengthened his stride.

“Your Excellence,” he said, catching up to the Dargonesti lord. “My niece is cold. Could we borrow a cloak for her?”

Coryphene glanced back at Vixa, shrugged, and gestured to a passerby. In moments, Vixa was wrapped in a blue cloak made of some surprisingly soft material. Warmer now, the Qualinesti princess looked about her with more interest.

Another vaulted ceiling topped this market, with many light globes strung about. In some places, on pillars or bare stretches of wall, stone spouts protruded. Formed to resemble sea horses or squid, these spouts poured forth streams of water into stone basins. They seemed too numerous to be drinking fountains. The mystery was solved when Vixa saw a Dargonesti set aside the basket of fish he carried and duck his head into one of the streams. It was then she realized that below each ear, on the sides of his neck, the sea elf had a semicircle of lacy gill. She commented on this to Armantaro.

“I see,” he said, nodding. “They seem to breathe both water and air. Perhaps they must keep their gills wet when not in the water.”

As they neared the far edge of the market, Coryphene stopped. An elaborate open sedan chair, borne by four helmeted elves, arrived. The bearers lowered the chair to the floor, and Coryphene stepped in.

Vixa looked around for another conveyance. None appeared. “Looks as if we walk,” she said with a sigh. Her feet, bare and damp, felt like twin ice blocks. None of the Dargonesti were shod, so she’d probably have trouble securing new boots here.

At a shout, the bearers hoisted Coryphene’s chair to their shoulders. The Dargonesti formed a line on each side. He clapped his hands, and the bearers were off at a trot. The Qualinesti were obliged to jog just to keep up.

The Dargonesti guards drew swords and held them up as they ran. The lead soldier, ahead of Coryphene’s chair, began to chant in a very deep voice. The guards echoed his words. To Vixa it sounded like nonsensical singsong.

“Look at their swords,” Armantaro puffed.

Coryphene’s escort was armed with an assortment of edged weapons – Ergothian sabers, dwarven short swords, sailors’ cutlasses. It was clear that these were salvaged pieces, probably from shipwrecks. Why would this elite guard be armed with such a random mix of blades?

A lustrous marble path wound tightly around an enormous pink granite pillar, most likely the central support of the city’s outer shell. The grade was rather steep, but the long-legged sea elves maintained their exhausting pace with no sign of discomfort.

As they trotted around the broad sweep of the ramp, Vixa looked up. The central shaft reached all the way to the city’s apex. She swallowed hard and looked away from the sheer, dizzying height of it.

Round and round they went, passing every level in Urione. Some levels were air-filled and contained houses and shops. Others, walled off from the spiral ramp by panes of quartz, were open to the ocean. Dolphins coursed through the passages – or perhaps they were Dargonesti in dolphin form, for these animals wore necklaces of shells and gems. On other flooded levels were gardens of waving sea plants, schools of trout and tuna that surged from wall to wall with the restless energy of the wild sea, and pens teeming with crabs.

They passed a level with especially high ceilings. Roads, inlaid with alternating bands of black basalt and mother-of-pearl, radiated from the central ramp to a complex of wedge-shaped temples constructed in the finest style. Elaborate, brightly colored bas-reliefs on the buildings displayed a variety of sea life – octopi, starfish, sea horses, and fish of every shape and hue. An odd odor, similar to the sweet incense used in Qualinesti temples, yet strangely different, permeated this level of the city, leaving a sickening aftertaste. Then, as Coryphene’s sedan chair swung around the ramp ahead of them, Vixa and Armantaro beheld a sight that froze the blood in their veins.

In a plaza between two brilliant temples stood an enormous statue, easily thirty feet wide and about half as high. It portrayed a creature shaped like an upside down bowl, with myriad tentacles hanging from its underside. A vast mouth opened on the side of the thing, and two onyx eyes were buried in the dull white flesh above the mouth. This was horrible enough, but scattered across the broad back of the monster were tiny carved models of ships. They listed this way and that, their sails slack and useless. Stranded ships, just like Evenstar.

“Ma’el is put to bed,” the shapeshifter Naxos had said to Coryphene. And what had Captain Esquelamar told them when they were first trapped inside the sea monster? He’d spoken of the kraken, a creature so huge it could drag down a ship entwined in its tentacles.

Their pace faltered. Lines of Dargonesti warriors surged past.

In front of the grotesque statue was an altar of white coral. Several Dargonesti, clad in red and mauve robes that swept the floor, stood before the altar. In their hands they held seashell bowls. As each passed the statue, he poured liquid from his bowl onto the altar. The Qualinesti saw oil, sand, and a dark substance they feared was blood dribbled onto the flawless white coral.

Someone shoved them from behind. Vixa whirled, fists at the ready. Armantaro squared off as well.

“Move on!” barked one of the Dargonesti guards who had dropped back from the rest to ensure the Qualinesti kept up. “The Lord Protector awaits!”

Vixa frowned. “I am weary of being dragged around by these people,” she stated. “I say we go at our own pace.”

“An excellent suggestion, Niece.”

The Dargonesti advanced, both aiming for Armantaro. They obviously regarded Vixa as no threat. Vixa lashed out with her foot at the soldier nearest her. Hooking her adversary’s knee, she brought him down hard on his back. This distracted the other guard. Armantaro grasped his right fist with his left hand and drove his elbow into the Dargonesti’s side. The blow propelled the sea elf into his fallen comrade, and both ended in a tangle on the floor. With a grim chuckle, Vixa shoved the flailing warriors. They rolled, like a pair of blue logs, down the steep ramp. The soldiers disappeared around the bend, and the sound of a loud crash reached Vixa’s ears.

Dusting her hands, the Qualinesti princess asked, “Shall we continue?”

“After you, noble niece.” The colonel was smiling.

They went up the ramp at a more leisurely pace. Around the curve, they came upon the rest of Coryphene’s guards, waiting with swords drawn. Coryphene had left his sedan chair and stood tapping one foot impatiently.

“You must not leave my protection,” he told them. “The people of Urione are not accustomed to strangers. You endanger your own lives.”

“I don’t feel all that safe with you,” Vixa muttered.

Coryphene stood aside, gesturing for the Qualinesti to precede him. The bearers walked two paces behind.

The roof of the city was nearer now, the ramp narrowing to meet it. With no word of warning, the Dargonesti warriors suddenly halted in close ranks. When Vixa and Armantaro stopped as well, Coryphene ordered them to continue. It was then that the Qualinesti found themselves engulfed in a blazing white light.

Vixa threw up an arm to protect her eyes. Heat washed over her. In seconds she was dry and warm for the first time in what seemed like days. The sensation lasted perhaps five seconds; then the light disappeared. Vixa stood blinking in the dimness. When she could see once more, she realized that Coryphene was gone. She and Armantaro were alone.

“Colonel?” she said softly. “What happened?”

“I have no idea. At least I’m not so cold now.” Armantaro rubbed his eyes and looked around, adding, “But where are we?”

Above their heads, the thick stone arches that made up the framework of the city beneath the sea had ended, revealing a transparent dome composed of millions of quartz crystals, fitted together with supreme skill. Beyond this clear barrier could be seen the deep blue of the ocean depths. Schools of fish swam overhead, the reflected light from the city flashing off their silver bodies.

Vixa and Armantaro stood in the center of a large disk of white marble situated in the center of a great round plaza. At the plaza’s perimeter rose a colonnade, supporting a palatial building made of green stone. Though the building’s facade was pierced by hundreds of unglazed windows, none of these openings showed any light. The only illumination was a subdued, shifting, greenish glow.

“Magnificent,” Vixa sighed, turning round and round. “Really quite beautiful.”

Armantaro was frowning. “Where is everyone? And where in the name of the Abyss is the entrance?” Try as he might, he could find no trace of the spiral ramp, only the smooth disk of white in the middle of the green-paved plaza. The old colonel slipped a hand under his battered shirt. Vixa saw the hard gleam of a dagger hilt.

“Put that away,” she hissed. He made no reply but tucked the slim knife back inside his clothing.

The faint sound of footsteps reached their ears. Out of the shadows of the colonnade to their right came a tall figure carrying a glowing yellow globe. It was Coryphene. The light beneath his chin cast weird shadows across his sharp features.

“I know that landed folk require a great deal more light than we Dargonesti,” said Coryphene, his voice echoing in the stillness. He stopped several paces away. Armantaro’s fingers touched the dagger hilt through his shirt. There were no guards in sight. If he could take Coryphene hostage, they might be able to force the Dargonesti to release them.

Coryphene threw the glowing globe into the air. It rose to twice his height and vanished in a silent yellow burst. Instantly the plaza was filled with the tawny golden illumination of a summer evening in Qualinost.

“You’re a sorcerer,” Vixa stated.

“I have some skill in the art of magic. Another example.” He pointed a webbed blue finger at Armantaro. To the colonel’s surprise, he felt the blade of his hidden dagger growing warm. He tried to ignore it, keeping his face impassive, but the blade grew hotter and hotter, until it burned like a branding iron. With a yelp, Armantaro snatched the dagger out and flung it away. He put his scorched fingers into his mouth.

Coryphene picked up the dagger. He tested its edge with his thumb and slapped the flat of the blade against his palm. With a nod, he slipped the knife into his own belt.

Vixa spoke up quickly. “Are you the ruler of this place? Are you Speaker of the sea elves?” she inquired.

Coryphene’s violet eyes narrowed. “I am Protector of my people and First Servant of our divine queen.” He clapped his hands twice, and a troop of servants appeared from the shadows of the colonnade. For Coryphene, they brought a chair carved from a single concretion of blood coral. Two large, flat-topped sponges were set in place to serve as stools for the Qualinesti. Two lackeys carried a hamper of woven seaweed. It was evidently quite heavy.

“Sit,” Coryphene said, the word more a command than an invitation. “Refresh yourselves.”

Supporting his chin with folded hands, he rested his elbows on the arms of his scarlet chair. Armantaro and Vixa sank gratefully to the stools, glad to rest their tired feet. Eagerly, the princess opened the hamper.

“Our food may seem strange to you, but I am certain you will find it superior to any you have ever eaten.”

Vixa hesitated. Was it possible this odd elf wished to poison them? She glanced at Armantaro, who was likewise uncertain, then she looked at Coryphene.

A frown was gathering on the Protector’s face. He was clearly ready to take offense if they refused his hospitality. Shrugging fatalistically, the Qualinesti helped themselves.

The food was indeed strange. There were planks of dried, spiced fish; greenish cakes made of seaweed; a smoky, strongly flavored meat paste; and cups of sweet relish that might have been animal or vegetable. Servants handed them goblets made of bell mussel shells and filled with a light, fermented beverage rather like the nectar of Qualinost.

Coryphene waited until the edge was off their hunger before asking, “What ship were you sailing on?”

“Evenstar, out of Qualinesti,” Vixa answered, seeing no reason to lie.

“I have heard of that place. What was your destination?”

“The Gulf of Ergoth, specifically the Greenthorn River,” replied Armantaro. “If it please you, my lord, may I ask how it is you know of our country, when we know nothing of yours?”

“Do none of the ancient race remember the Dargonesti?”

Vixa swallowed a mouthful of nectar. “I’ve heard legends that tell of sea-dwelling elves, but I always thought they were stories for children – tall tales passed around the fireside. I never honestly believed such a race existed.”

For some reason, this answer pleased Coryphene. He smiled and ordered the servants to bring him a cup of nectar.

“For thirteen hundred years my kind has dwelt in the depths,” he told them. “The Graystone transformed us, and we were able to escape the unfair rule of Silvanos by taking to the sea. Untouched by landed folk and their bloody wars, we perfected all the arts and sciences. The Quoowahb, or Dargonesti, are the most perfect of all the races created by the gods.”

Vixa, trying to maintain an attitude of polite interest, nearly choked at this calm statement of superiority. Armantaro thumped her on the back. Unconcerned, the Protector of Urione went on.

“From time to time, the ships of the landed folk fall into our domain. I have seen many of the land races: humans, dwarves, kender. Thus have I learned of your cities and nations.” He handed his empty cup to a hovering servant. “What rank are you and your niece?”

The swift change of subject caught Armantaro by surprise. “I am freeborn, Excellence, a subject of the Speaker of the Sun in Qualinost. My niece is an orphan, so I have adopted her as my own child.”

“Qualinost is ruled by Silveran, son of the mighty Kith-Kanan, yes?”

“Why, yes. You know of Kith-Kanan?”

Coryphene stared off into space. “The birds of the air and the wind above the waves have spoken the name of Kith-Kanan,” he murmured. His gaze returned to them, and he next inquired, “Are the nobles of your country required to bear arms?”

“Ah, no. No one is compelled to serve,” Vixa replied warily.

“What is the size of Speaker Silveran’s army?”

Armantaro placed a hand upon Vixa’s wrist, but the warning wasn’t necessary. The princess had no intention of giving this arrogant fellow such important information. She opened her mouth to deliver an evasive answer, and suddenly the air was split by a loud chorus of bleating notes. Coryphene leapt to his feet, knocking aside his cup of nectar. Vixa and Armantaro exchanged a baffled look as the plaza erupted into furious activity.

Servants came running and cleared away the food and chairs, practically dumping the Qualinesti from their seats. Four Dargonesti sped from the colonnade bearing a suit of exotic armor and arms. As Coryphene stood with feet apart and arms held out, the servants girded their master as though for battle.

“What is it?” Vixa demanded. “What’s happening?”

“An attack,” Coryphene said tersely.

The bleating grew louder, and Vixa spotted the source of the terrible racket. A trio of white-robed Dargonesti had appeared as if by magic on the disk of marble in the center of the plaza. The three sea elves stood blowing on large conch shells, their sonorous notes reverberating through the area.

Coryphene was now fully armed and armored. He turned a grim look on his captives and said, “Come. You may understand things better if you see the peril we face.”

Vixa and Armantaro had little choice in the matter. A phalanx of at least one hundred soldiers formed around them and the lord of Urione. With the sound of conch shells bellowing all around them, they marched to the disk of white marble. A flash of light blazed. Vixa felt the heat once more through her borrowed cloak. When the light faded, they were heading down the great spiral ramp. Urionans lined the way ahead, shouting, waving, and blowing conch shells.

The din was bewildering to the Qualinesti. It appeared they were to be sent into battle – completely unarmed – to fight the-gods-knew-what type of enemy.

The sea elves were chanting. The cacophony of voices coalesced into a single word, repeated over and over.

“Chilkit!” cried the sea elves. “Chilkit! Chilkit!”

Chapter 6

NISSIA GROTTO

Harmanutis and Vanthanoris were taken by Dargonesti soldiers outside the city, given two whelk shells filled with air, and fitted with belts of sharkskin to which flat stone disks were attached. The weight of these belts helped them move better underwater, anchoring their feet more firmly.

The eight guards walked ahead, apparently unconcerned whether their charges kept up. It wasn’t difficult to figure out why. The air in the shells was not infinite, and once it was gone the two Qualinesti would drown. They were imprisoned as surely as if bound with manacles and chains.

Underwater, the sea elves conversed in clicks and whistles, much like the noises the dolphins made. Gills bloomed from behind their ears as they moved through the dark water. Vanthanoris and Harmanutis trudged after them, watching everything, trying to figure out some way to escape this underwater city.

Once outside the city shell, they found themselves in an area of coral formations. The coral grew in branching, treelike shapes in a variety of sizes – some only knee-high and others towering twenty or thirty feet. There was the more common red coral, but also white and a faintly luminous yellow. The two Qualinesti could see several Dargonesti swimming in and around the coral, tending it as if it were a garden.

Twenty paces from the city, the coral gardens ended. A paved road, as wide as four soldiers marching abreast, led away into the shadowy depths. In several places, sand had drifted over the paving stones. Brightly striped fish followed the Qualinesti, darting through the streams of bubbles emitted by the whelk shells. Vanthanoris swatted at them, and the curious little fish swam away.

In the distance, a dark shape loomed. It took a while before Harmanutis realized that this was a gigantic underwater mountain, hundreds – if not thousands – of feet high. The road ran straight as an arrow to it.

Pillars appeared on each side of the road. These bore inscriptions in an angular script. As the Qualinesti drew nearer the mountain, they discovered that some of the pillars evinced a sinister purpose. Corpses in every state of deterioration were chained to them. Some of the bodies plainly showed signs of the predations of sharks; others were little more than skeletons. Harmanutis recognized most as human remains – the heavy bones and wide skulls made this plain. Now and then a smaller body could be seen, perhaps a dwarf or kender. In all, they counted forty-seven corpses lashed to pillars along the road. None elven.

Just then, Vanthanoris’s air began to give out. He tried harder to inhale, but still there was nothing. He threw a startled look to Harmanutis and saw that the corporal was having the same difficulty. The guards walked on, oblivious to their captives’ plight. The Qualinesti quickened their pace, catching up with the guards and making their distress plain. The guards merely prodded them to continue.

The road led to a cave entrance dressed with a pediment and columns. Vanthanoris hurried inside. Above him, ripples betokened a surface. There were stone steps ahead, and he fairly flew up them. On the ninth step, his head broke into open air. He tore the empty shell from his blue lips and gulped down huge draughts of chill, damp air.

Harmanutis surfaced beside him, likewise gasping. The Dargonesti soldiers rose with supreme indifference and herded the pair onto a rough stone landing. Vanthanoris staggered and fell. Harmanutis didn’t bother trying to rise, merely crawled where he was bidden. While he lay inhaling and exhaling gratefully, he studied his surroundings.

Beyond the landing was a long, wide tunnel that ran straight back into the mountain. A few lighting globes were stuck high on the walls, but they were dim compared to those they’d seen in the city. Along both walls were piles of seaweed, scraps of leather, blankets, hanks of rope, and chests salvaged from sunken ships. An aisle passed down the center of the tunnel. Harmanutis realized he was looking at a prison for dryland captives.

One of the sea elves collected the exhausted whelk shells, and without a word, the eight Dargonesti submerged and departed.

Harmanutis helped Vanthanoris stand. “Is this our new home?” the latter asked hoarsely.

“Not for long, my friend. Trust our good lady and the colonel to find a way out for all of us,” Harmanutis replied.

“We must be a mile or more from the city. Too far to swim without air. No wonder they don’t need bars or locks to make this the perfect dungeon. Try to escape, and you would surely drown!”

“We’ll escape, Van. I don’t plan on dying a prisoner of these blue-skinned barbarians!”

Name boards of ships long sunk and forgotten were attached to the walls: Sinar’s Pride, Sea Dragon, Balifor Star. Craft from all over Ansalon had ended their days here.

“I wonder if Evenstar survived,” Harm said quietly.

“Poor Paladithel,” murmured Van. “How he hated fish.”

The cave stretched on and on. If every squalid pile of bedding denoted one prisoner, then there were hundreds of captives in Dargonesti hands. Why? Why did the sea elves hold so many land-dwellers?

A huge pile of debris blocked the end of the cave, leaving only a narrow space between it and one wall. It divided the inhabited section from the empty darkness beyond. In this moldering heap of debris were yards of rope, mounds of sailcloth, lengths of rusted and broken chain, clay pots, amphorae, and smashed wooden boxes – the detritus of centuries of shipwrecks, yet nothing that would help them get out of here.

Harmanutis kicked the nearest object, an empty flour barrel lying on its side.

“Oof!” said the barrel.

Harmanutis froze, his foot still in the air. “Did you hear that?” he hissed.

In reply, Vanthanoris kicked the barrel himself, saying sternly, “Come out. We know you’re in there.”

A pale, craggy face, framed by matted hair and a black beard, popped out of the barrel.

“A dwarf!” Vanthanoris exclaimed.

“You’re not blueskins!” said the dwarf, crawling out of the barrel. Drawing himself up to his full height – just over four feet – he added, “You’re Qualinesti, aren’t you? Well, that’s new. My name’s Gundabyr.”

Harmanutis introduced himself and Vanthanoris. “Are there any other elves down here?” he asked.

“Nope. No elves at all except the blue-skinned variety. I guess the Quoowahb don’t care that you fellas are cousins, eh?”

“Quoowahb?

“The blueskins. That’s what they call themselves.” Gundabyr pulled up a battered sea chest and hauled himself up onto it. His feet dangled above the floor. A stick of some whitish stuff protruded from his vest pocket. He pulled it out and gnawed on it.

“Dried cod,” he explained. “That’s about all we get to eat around here.” He looked them up and down, noted their abbreviated attire, and sighed. “It’s a pity you fellas aren’t carrying some ale on you.”

“How did you get here, Gundabyr?” Harmanutis asked. “How long have you been a prisoner?”

“Nobody’s a prisoner here. We’re slaves.” The dwarf shrugged in reply to their stunned expressions. “I was forgemaster for the Ironmongers Guild in Thorbardin. We hired a ship, Sea Queen, in Tarsis to carry a load of copper and iron ingots to Balifor. Me and my brother Garnath got stuck with the chore of tagging along with the ship to sell the ingots. Garnath said the ship’s name would bring us luck, and it did – all bad. Sea Queen ran into fog off the Silvanesti coast, and when it cleared, we were a hundred leagues off course.”

Vanthanoris smiled sardonically. “I know that fog,” he said, then went on to describe Evenstar’s encounter with the mysterious wall of cloud.

“Sounds familiar,” Gundabyr agreed. “Well, next thing we knew, Sea Queen was aground on the biggest sandbar Reorx ever created. Me and Garnath took a work party ashore to try to dig a trench under the ship to refloat it, but the whole filthy sandbar sank under us.” A mighty frown creased his face. “Me and Garnath went down like anvils.”

“The kraken.” Harmanutis felt the heat of anger wash over him, despite the coolness of the cave. “It’s no coincidence then. These Quoowahb use the monster to sink ships!”

“Yep, they do.” Gundabyr finished his strip of cod. “Dolphins carried me and Garnath and a handful of other survivors down here. We’ve been in this hole for —” He looked up at the stone wall, on whose surface were drawn a number of white chalk lines. “— Um, forty-eight days.”

Harmanutis related the story of their own arrival in Urione, including the fact that Princess Vixa and Colonel Armantaro were getting “special treatment” in the city, at least as far as they knew. Gundabyr rubbed his hairy cheek when he heard that.

“Hmm. Wonder what they want with your lady and the colonel?”

“Ransom?” Vanthanoris suggested.

Harmanutis shook his head. “Not unless Her Highness reveals her true status. I’ll wager this Coryphene is questioning them about Qualinost, since we seem to be the first land elves they’ve captured.”

Vanthanoris paced between the piles of wreckage. He turned suddenly to the seated dwarf. “Slaves? We’re to be slaves, you say?” Gundabyr belched and nodded. “What sort of work are we supposed to do?”

“They’re building a wall,” explained the dwarf. “A very high wall across the Mortas Trench, from this mountain to the next.”

“Why?” asked Harmanutis, curious.

“To keep the chilkit out.”

Vanthanoris planted his fists on his hips. “And what, by Astra, are chilkit?”

“More like ‘who’ than ‘what.’ The chilkit are the mortal enemies of the Quoowahb. Now and then they come down the valley and attack the blueskins.”

Harmanutis’s blue eyes gleamed. “So the sea elves have enemies, do they? This may be our opening. Could we treat with these chilkit, Gundabyr? Would they help us get away from the blueskins?”

“Nope. The chilkit aren’t people at all. They’re monsters. Big, ugly crab-things. They eat any Quoowahb that they capture. We might be a different flavor, but they’d surely eat us too.”

“Nonetheless,” said the corporal, hanging on to hope, “our best chance may be to make our escape when the blueskins are distracted by their enemies. If we —”

The cave filled with the sound of churning water. “Work parties returning,” Gundabyr said quickly. “I hafta hide from the guards!” In a flash he was back in the barrel.

“Wait! Gundabyr?”

“Go away! Don’t let on I’m in here!”

Puzzled, the two Qualinesti left the dwarf and walked toward the pool. A troop of wet, semi-naked prisoners was rising from the water. Armed sea elves made a double line through which the captives passed. The last pair of Dargonesti held woven bags. As the prisoners went by, they deposited their used airshells in the bags.

The first slaves, emaciated humans with long beards, passed the Qualinesti without a second glance. There was more recognition from some dwarven captives – eye contact and slight nods. Then, to the elves’ astonishment, Gundabyr came marching out of the cavern pool at the rear of the line.

“Eh?” Vanthanoris said, looking back toward the flour barrel. “What’s this?”

Harmanutis jabbed him with an elbow. “His brother, remember? Must be his twin brother.”

In a flash the Qualinesti warriors understood the dwarves’ trick. Because they were twins, one of the brothers could hide from the Dargonesti guards, while the other went out to work. By alternating days off, the dwarves spared themselves half the work, along with half the jeopardy.

They followed Gundabyr’s twin, Garnath, as he trudged to the rear of the cave and flopped heavily onto the hard stone floor. Water trickled off him, pooling in the low places in the rock. He became aware that someone was standing over him and opened his eyes.

“Whaddya want?” Garnath rumbled.

After performing introductions, Harmanutis dropped hints of their meeting with Gundabyr.

“I’m Gundabyr,” said the sodden dwarf. “My brother, Garnath, succumbed to an ague weeks ago.”

“Of course. My condolences,” Harmanutis murmured.

“He was a fine dwarf,” said Garnath mournfully.

“And a good forgemaster,” put in a voice from inside the flour barrel.

“Salt of the earth,” Garnath added.

“You can come out now,” Harmanutis told the flour barrel.

Gundabyr worked his head and shoulders out of the barrel. Garnath sat up, and the dwarf twins shook hands.

“Your turn tomorrow, Brother,” Garnath said with an exhausted sigh.

“Yup.” Gundabyr brought out more strips of dried cod for his brother, and the two dwarves sat side by side, chewing noisily. Harmanutis asked again about the chilkit.

“Don’t expect help from them,” Garnath said, echoing his brother’s earlier advice. “They have some intelligence, but not even the blueskins can talk to them. They come down the valley now and then and attack anything in their path. They’re bigger than Quoowahb are, and pretty damn tough.”

Next Harmanutis asked about the airshells.

“Nope, can’t use them,” Gundabyr stated, dashing yet another hope.

“Why not?” Vanthanoris demanded.

“The Quoowahb count every one they bring in and every one they take out. And even if you could get your hands on one, there’s no knowing how much air’s in it.”

“And the sea brothers would get you anyway,” put in Garnath.

Vanthanoris dropped his head into his hands, his brain reeling with all this unhappy news. “And who are the sea brothers?” he asked despondently.

“Shapeshifters. You must’ve seen them – the dolphins who rescued you.”

Harmanutis remembered them well. “Can all the Quoowahb become dolphins?”

“Nope, just the sea brothers. They live outside the city. A fella called Naxos is their chief, but he takes his orders from Coryphene,” Garnath explained.

“So Coryphene is Speaker of these elves?”

“Him?” Gundabyr spat. “He’s a veritable butcher, but he’s not the leader.”

Vanthanoris swore, which caused the dwarves to smile. Harmanutis motioned for him to be still and asked, “Then who does rule in Urione?”

“Her Divine Majesty, Queen Uriona,” said the dwarf twins in unison. Gundabyr added wryly, “Uriona the Mad, that is. They say she’s been touched by the gods. ‘Touched’ is right.”

A distinct clack-clack rang down the tunnel. Gundabyr vanished into the barrel again. Garnath jumped to his feet, crying, “The blueskins are coming back! Whatever the reason, it can’t be good!”

The clacking noise had been made by one of the other dwarves. He’d seen a disturbance in the water and had signaled his fellow slaves by beating the floor with a rock. Seconds after his alarm sounded, a troop of Dargonesti warriors burst out of the pool, weapons in hand. One, with a golden sand dollar on the front of his helmet, boomed out, “All prisoners line up! Take a shell and proceed outside!”

Slowly the tired slaves rose. When they didn’t move fast enough to suit their captors, a squad of sea elves came down the aisle, prodding the laggards with spear points. Harmanutis and Vanthanoris glared at the seven-foot-tall Dargonesti. Garnath straightened his soggy shirt and muttered, “Twice in one day! You owe me, Brother!” A muffled grunt from the barrel was the only reply.

The Qualinesti stood shoulder to shoulder, their proud bearing in marked contrast to the ragtag look of the rest of the slaves. When he reached the water’s edge, Harmanutis addressed the Dargonesti who wore the decorated helmet, who he assumed was an officer.

“What’s happening?” he asked. “Where are we going?”

“No talking!” snapped the Dargonesti.

With no other option, the two Qualinesti fit their airshell mouthpieces into place. They were still wearing their weighted belts as they walked down the steps and into the cold water. As soon as their ears were submerged, they heard a riot of strange noises. It almost sounded like … a battle?

The Dargonesti soldiers drove the mass of prisoners forward. They quickly left the road to the city and turned toward the great mountain. Dark gray shapes hurtled overhead. The chorus of clicks and bubbling beeps revealed that these were dolphins, all heading in the same direction.

Suddenly, the Qualinesti saw a wall looming over them. Made of great blocks of stone, the wall rose sixty feet from the seafloor. There was a gate in the center, and four unfinished stumps of towers at the top. Unused blocks of stone were piled here and there. Crowded among the waiting blocks were hundreds of armed sea elves, facing the wall.

Floating aimlessly in the water above the Dargonesti were the injured and the dead. Some were missing arms or legs. Some were missing heads. Dolphins circled around, tugging Dargonesti wounded away from the battle and fending off prowling sharks. Blood drifted like smoke, coloring the water ahead.

Atop the wall, between the centermost towers, Dargonesti were fighting. The inside gate on the wall was open, and the Quoowahb were herding the slave workers into the breach.

As the Qualinesti, who were at the rear of the line of prisoners, reached the blocks lying on the seafloor at the base of the wall, something dropped among them from above. The prisoners scattered. Mud swirled around the Qualinesti warriors, and Harmanutis was knocked backward and trampled on. Once he got clear of the stampede, he saw what had caused even the sea elves to flee so frantically.

A chilkit had landed in their midst.

The creature reared eight feet tall, fiery red armor on top of pale gray flesh. Four jointed legs stood out from its thick, barrel-shaped body. A torso encased in a crimson carapace was attached forward of the legs, and the torso had two pairs of arms. The lower pair ended in articulated fingers sporting sharp talons. The upper pair was even more fearsome. A massive set of scissorlike claws tipped each of these arms. The chilkit’s head was hard to discern – its torso simply came to a blunt point. Whip antennae sprouted from this point, and four wide-set black eyes protruded on flexible stalks below the antennae. Lastly, a vertical mouth, surrounded by horny palps, opened and shut as the chilkit forced seawater through its gills.

Harmanutis backed away. He feared no normal enemy, but this was a monster indeed, and he had no weapon. The chilkit scuttled forward, attacking the nearest man. The human scrambled madly, grasping the sandy bottom with both hands. The monster strode over him, its hideous claws upraised. Harmanutis watched in horror as the chilkit seized the man in both claws. The terrible pincers closed, cutting the slave in half.

Vanthanoris, also scrambling away, found himself atop a massive block of cut stone. Other prisoners followed, until they were spilling off the sides. The chilkit advanced toward the block and swept a dozen slaves from the side with a backward swipe of its claw.

Vanthanoris heard the staccato call of the dolphins, and a school thirty strong rushed in. Like a fleet of battering rams, the dolphins bore into the chilkit. Van lifted his head in time to see that the animals were wearing special helmets studded with shards of rock crystal. The chilkit backed away, slashing and grasping at the dolphins. The racing creatures eluded it and drove their spiked helmets into the monster’s armored hide. Now it was chilkit blood that darkened the water.

From behind, Harmanutis heard an especially loud, trilling whistle. He saw a powerful dolphin ram full-tilt into the chilkit’s chest. Armored claws closed around the muscular gray flanks; then all was lost in a welter of churning sand and blood.

Something nudged Harmanutis. He turned and saw a dolphin hovering behind him. Why did they always look like they were smiling? It nudged him again with its snout, then sank to the sand by his feet. The Qualinesti warrior got the message. He widened his stance, and the dolphin glided between his knees. The animal gave a warning shake, so Harmanutis held on to its dorsal fin. The sleek creature shot away with a few strokes of its powerful flukes.

From above, the struggle with the chilkit was easier to see. The monster that had dropped among the prisoners lay on its back, dead. Sharks tugged at its lifeless limbs. Harmanutis’s mount swam higher, and he saw a wedge-shaped formation of Dargonesti warriors pushing chilkit back to the wall. The blue-skinned sea elves made a startling contrast to the bold red chilkit. One by one the attackers were isolated and battered to death by Dargonesti wielding stone-headed maces.

One group of chilkit held fast, and they got behind a building block and used it to ram a phalanx of sea elves aside. Harmanutis’s dolphin mount saw this and nosed sharply down. The corporal almost lost his seat, but held on to the dorsal fin with both hands. The dolphin twisted and bore in for a ramming attack on the back of the chilkit nearest them. That was enough for Harmanutis. He let go, and the weighted belt he wore caused him to drop slowly to the seafloor.

He was on his feet promptly as he touched bottom, for to his astonishment he had seen whom the chilkit was attacking. A small knot of sea elves stood between the monster and two smaller figures. These two had airshells in their mouths.

Princess Vixa and Colonel Armantaro!

Harmanutis tried to shout a war cry, but the only result was a gurgle of bubbles past the mouthpiece of his airshell. He lost his footing and pitched down on his face.

The chilkit grabbed the shaft of a sea elf’s spear and hoisted up the unlucky fellow. The warrior held his grip for an instant too long and toppled forward, into the monster’s claws. The chilkit tossed the lacerated foe aside to face the next soldier, who used his shield to fend off the monster’s talons. Undaunted, the chilkit bored in, bowling the elf over by sheer bulk. Now, only one fighter stood between the towering chilkit and the two Qualinesti elves.

This sea elf carried no buckler, but wielded his short-handled spear in one hand, like a dueling sword. He jabbed at the chilkit’s eyes, and the creature backed off warily. The Dargonesti advanced quickly, thrusting with both hands. His opponent tried to snag the spear with its claws, but the warrior shifted his aim only slightly, deftly avoiding the claws. The needle-sharp tip of his spear pierced the chilkit through a chink in its body armor. A strangely emotionless cry broke from the monster. It gave ground. The Dargonesti shoved his weapon farther in. Talons reached for him, but found only water. The sea elf twisted hard on his spear shaft until there was a distinct crack as the spear tore into the creature’s vitals. Its arms dropped and it toppled over. The victorious fighter recovered his spear.

Harmanutis had at last fought his way through the mud and blood and reached his princess’s side. Vixa clapped him on the shoulder. Her eyes and Armantaro’s spoke eloquently. The corporal pointed to the milling mass of slaves and soldiers still fighting at the base of the wall, the last place he’d seen Vanthanoris.

The three Qualinesti started toward that spot, but before they’d taken more than two steps, Vixa’s wrist was seized. She was yanked around, and found herself face-to-face with the Dargonesti who’d single-handedly defeated the chilkit. Harmanutis charged to her defense, but the Dargonesti leveled his spear point at the corporal’s chest, bringing him up short. They could see the fierce face inside the helmet. It was none other than Coryphene.

Coryphene’s throat worked, and a loud series of clicks rang through the ocean. Soldiers and dolphins not otherwise engaged gathered around him. He gave Vixa over to four warriors, then bade the rest accompany Harmanutis and Armantaro. The Qualinesti were tempted to resist this separation, but Coryphene placed a proprietary hand on Vixa’s airshell. The two veteran warriors subsided immediately and were herded back to the other prisoners.

The battle was over. No living chilkit remained in the area. The three started back to the cave, but armed Dargonesti stopped them, sending them back toward the wall. It seemed they were to join in repairing the breach.

Though they were bursting with questions for each other, and anxious over their princess’s fate, the Qualinesti had to content themselves with working in silence. The airshells in their mouths, and the vigilance of their guards, made any type of conversation impossible.

Armantaro joined the gang that was busy fitting a heavy net around a dislodged stone block. Bladders inflated with air were used to lift the massive block to the parapet of the wall. As the colonel watched, Dargonesti in civilian dress filled the bladders from airshells heaped in a litter borne by other sea elves and closely guarded by soldiers. He counted four large bladders filled from one whelk shell.

The problem, he mused to himself, is to get several of those shells secretly. Perhaps with enough air, the Qualinesti could walk to land.

The colonel paused in his work and stared with a worried frown toward the city, where his princess had been taken. Of course, even if they had airshells, they still faced the dangers of ocean predators and the Dargonesti themselves, not to mention …

Which way was land?

Chapter 7

DIVINE QUEEN

Coryphene conferred with his lieutenants in their odd, clicking language. In a studied display of nonchalance, Vixa waited, leaning against an ornate pillar by the road. The battle had frightened off all the sea life around the city, except the sharks. Packs of wary dolphins cruised above, chasing predators away from the wounded and the dying.

Coryphene rapped on the road with the butt of his spear. Vixa came out of her reverie and saw him motion for her to follow him back to the city. Bone-weary, she obliged.

Large crowds greeted the victorious warriors on their return. The quays were jammed with Dargonesti of every rank, cheering the repulse of the chilkit. When Vixa and Coryphene emerged from the water, a roar went up. The Protector of Urione removed his helmet but did not acknowledge the acclaim.

Over the enthusiastic cheering, Vixa said, “Your people appear to love you.”

He pointedly took the airshell from her hands. “I am one of them,” he said simply. “And they will love me only so long as I win battles.”

He climbed the ramp. Soldiers with mismatched iron swords appeared, parting the crowd. Coryphene’s personal guard drew up for review as their commander passed by. One soldier, his armor dented from the fierce fighting, barred Vixa’s path for a moment – just long enough to put some distance between her and Coryphene. It would not do for an outsider to intrude upon the Protector’s moment of triumph. The Qualinesti princess, her borrowed cloak lost, stood shivering and dripping, while all around her the sea elves went wild.

An elderly sea elf, clad in a simple silver robe, stood at the end of the guard ranks, his bearing proud. Coryphene halted a few paces from this elderly fellow and raised one hand. Loudly, he intoned, “Greetings, Voice of Her Divine Majesty!”

The elf bowed his head slightly. Vixa was astonished at how quickly the cheering and screeching died down. One minute there were thunderous cries, the next, virtual silence.

The elderly sea elf replied in Old Elvish: “Greetings to thee, great Coryphene, terror of the enemies of Urione. Her Divine Grace desires thou to attend upon her instantly.”

“I would like to make myself more presentable, noble Kytheron.”

“As thou wishes, great Protector. Her Divine Grace desires thee to bring the maiden from the landed race as well.”

Vixa was startled, but Coryphene merely nodded.

The Protector strode away, and Vixa was forced to jog after him.

“My uncle is leader of our party,” she said. “You should send for him. I’m sure the queen would rather meet Armantaro than me.”

Coryphene looked down at her disdainfully. “All must obey Her Divine Majesty. Refusal brings death. Remember that.”

*

Vixa was shown to a room where the only furniture was a table upon which was a pitcher of fresh water, a fishbone comb, and a small pile of clothing. The Qualinesti princess washed her hands and face, relieved to remove at least a few layers of the grime and accumulated salt. Her hair – kept short because of her warrior status – she rinsed as best she could, then combed back from her face.

A pile of clean garments awaited her. There were several articles that were obviously undergarments and a flowing, ankle-length robe. Everything was made of a strange fabric. It didn’t feel like cloth at all – more like tissue-thin leather, if there could be such a thing. Quickly, she peeled off her salt-stiffened smallclothes, doused herself with the remaining water, and donned the clean clothing. The robe was white and had a wide red stripe winding from hem to neck. It was astonishingly comfortable. Material such as this, soft as silk yet tough as leather, would fetch a handsome price in any market on Krynn. Around her waist she fastened an elaborate girdle of tiny white coral beads. She had to wrap its free ends twice about her, otherwise they would have dragged on the floor.

Coryphene entered unexpectedly. Vixa whirled, her hands still occupied with tying the belt. “Don’t you believe in knocking?” she snapped.

“Her Majesty awaits. Come,” was all he said.

He was resplendent in a long purple cape and jeweled torque. On his head was an elaborate headdress of shells and gemstones. Coral beads hung down in long streams across his bare chest. His fresh kilt was held up by a heavy, braided gold sash. Wide ankle bracelets completed his outfit.

They walked out of the barracks and down the narrow street to the ramp. An honor guard of twelve Dargonesti in silver robes met them. On the way, Coryphene advised Vixa on protocol.

“Do not speak unless you are spoken to,” he told her. “Answer fully all questions put to you. Her Divinity has the gift of sight, and can see far more than ordinary mortals. Lastly, do not look Her Divinity in the face.”

Vixa couldn’t resist. “Why not?”

“To do so means death.”

They ascended the spiral ramp and passed through the magical portal. After the flash of light and heat, Vixa was once more standing in the palace plaza. The honor guard had drawn off a short distance and donned silver hoods. Coryphene straightened his shoulders and walked firmly ahead.

He led Vixa to a pair of enormous doors, set just under the colonnade on the far side of the plaza. The doors were made of quartz crystals the size of logs, bolted together with rods of the same material. The shadows of servants could be seen on the other side, hauling the doors open. Once inside, Coryphene paused to remove his headdress. He tucked it under his arm before continuing.

The corridor was illuminated by greenish light from the domed ceiling. The odd color of the light came from the filtering effect of many fathoms of seawater. The sun’s rays barely penetrated to this depth. Incense, its sweet-sour smell like that in the temple complex, filled the long passage. Vixa spied censers located between the pearl-inlaid columns lining the hall. Dargonesti women in scarlet robes tended these braziers, feeding them small pellets of some waxy substance.

The passage wound around the curve of the upper level of the city and ended at an antechamber. Tall, gaunt sea elves in priestly garb stood to each side of the chamber, conversing quietly among themselves. They fell silent when Coryphene entered, and bowed to him.

“I come in answer to Her Divinity’s summons,” the Protector announced.

“She awaits within,” replied a shell-bedecked priest.

Coryphene nodded to the servants at the inner doors. One struck a hanging assembly of pink shells, which rang sweetly in a cascade of bell tones. The priests and the honor guard turned their backs to the door as it opened.

“Remember!” Coryphene hissed. “Avert your eyes!”

Vixa lowered her gaze to her bare feet. Fine treatment for a member of the royal house of Qualinost, she silently fumed. The blood of Kith-Kanan and Silvanos ran in her veins. Why could she not look on this petty undersea queen?

The audience chamber was lit by a shifting greenish light. The Protector dropped to one knee, signaling for Vixa to do likewise by tugging on her hand.

“Divine Queen, your servant Coryphene has come as you commanded,” he said. Vixa resisted his pull. A princess of the Qualinesti kneels to none but the Speaker, after all. Coryphene gave a stronger yank, and she lost her balance, dropping unceremoniously to her knees.

A light voice, low in timbre, replied, “Is this the dryland maiden of whom I have heard?”

“Yes, Divinity.”

“There were others with her, were there not?”

“Yes, Divinity. There were five in all. One drowned, and the other three are lodged in Nissia Grotto, to work on the wall.”

A moment of silence. Vixa could hear the queen’s light breathing. At last, the queen said, “You are small. Are you a child?”

Coryphene nudged her. “Answer,” he whispered.

“I am not a child, Your Majesty,” Vixa said. She felt silly staring at the floor while she spoke. “In my land I am counted as unusually tall.”

“I see that we Dargonesti have surpassed the landed race in height and strength,” observed the mild voice. “Just as we have in wisdom and divine favor.”

That rankled. Vixa was about to offer her opinion of Dargonesti superiority when the queen commanded, “Approach.”

Coryphene stood up, hauling her to her feet. They went forward six steps and knelt again. This time there was a large segment of polished basalt in the floor in front of Vixa. It displayed the queen’s reflection faintly. Vixa squinted at it, trying to make out the woman’s features.

“Who reigns in your country, girl?”

“Speaker of the Sun Silveran, Majesty.”

“And who was his father?”

“The great Kith-Kanan. His mother was a Kagonesti named Anaya, who transformed into a tree while pregnant and delivered her son many, many years later.”

There was a brief pause, then the low voice asked, “What is a tree?”

Vixa was so startled by the question she nearly raised her head to stare at the queen of Urione. She checked herself, explaining as briefly as she could what trees were.

“I see. Rather like our coral gardens. Tell me what you know of Silvanesti.”

Again the abrupt change of subject disconcerted the Qualinesti princess. Coryphene nudged her, and she responded, “I’ve never been there, Majesty. The elves of Silvanost have little to do with those of Qualinost.”

“Why?”

Vixa explained about the Kinslayer War and the schism between Kith-Kanan and his twin brother, Speaker of the Stars Sithas. It was slow going, because she hadn’t studied history in some years, and it was by any reckoning a long and complicated narration. She stammered her way through the story, and her account seemed to satisfy the queen. Vixa gathered her nerve and asked a question of her own.

“Your Majesty, when may I and my companions return home?” she inquired.

Without warning, a stunning blow landed on the side of Vixa’s head, making her ears ring and sending her sprawling. Her belt broke when she landed, and the tiny coral beads went flying.

“It is not your place to ask questions!” Coryphene growled. His fury was plain, though his voice remained low.

This was too much for Vixa. She had followed their ridiculous rules, crawling about on the floor like a commoner, and had only asked one simple, polite question. Immediately, she sprang at Coryphene, knocked him down, and aimed a kick at his ribs. It landed solidly; then many hands seized her and dragged her away from the Protector. She struggled against the grip of at least three Dargonesti, but they forced her to her knees and shoved her facedown on the cold, hard floor.

“Enough,” said the queen, her voice still low and unruffled.

Coryphene tried to recover his wounded dignity, but this was a difficult proposition as he had to remain upon his knees, head bowed, before his monarch. The guards released Vixa at the queen’s order, and the Qualinesti princess slowly sat up. She kept her gaze averted, though she was now filled with a burning desire to stare directly into the eyes of the queen.

“Though you are of the ancient race, it is apparent that our kindred have fallen into barbarism,” observed the queen. “Your behavior demonstrates this. As the gods have told me, the time has come to unite our ancient peoples into one great nation.”

Surprised, Vixa blurted, “What?”

“Know this, girl, I am Uriona, chosen of the gods and queen of this my city,” the queen said. “Five hundred years ago the gods Abbaku and Kisla came to me in my dreams and bade me leave the deep lands of Watermere and found this city. Since then, I have dreamed many times of a shining tower, reaching far up into the dry air. The gods have given me this promise: when I am crowned in the Tower of the Stars, all those of elven blood will bow down and swear fealty to me.”

Vixa was taken aback. The Silvanesti would never permit Uriona to set foot in the sacred Tower of the Stars in Silvanost, much less be crowned ruler of all elves. Did she think they would allow her to defile the purity of their city with her presence?

The queen was still speaking, saying that once she and her armies had marched to Silvanost she would be installed as the ruler of all the elven nations. She spoke as if accomplishing this would be the merest trifle. Vixa shifted position slightly and felt the cold tip of a spear digging into the thin material of her robe.

The princess’s mind was racing. Not only did she desire freedom for herself and her friends, she had a duty to warn the Silvanesti about Uriona’s crazed scheme. But how to escape? And how to warn the Silvanesti? She had about as much chance of getting into Silvanost as this crazy sea elf.

The chamber’s odd, greenish lighting was constantly shifting. Momentarily it brightened, and Vixa caught her first clear glimpse of the image of Queen Uriona in the polished black surface of the floor tile before her.

The sea queen was seated on a bench whose wide, flat seat curved up slightly at each end. She was robed in some bright material – probably the same silver mesh her guards wore. The Dargonesti queen had a dark blue complexion and large eyes. Her hair, unlike that of her subjects, was shining white. It swept back slightly from her face but fell in a loose cascade over her shoulders and into her lap. Her age was impossible to determine from the fuzzy reflection, and her voice sounded neither old nor young.

A pinpoint of green gleamed in Uriona’s reflected eyes. Vixa thought this was a trick of the shifting light, but it happened a second and then a third time.

“Impudent girl,” murmured the queen.

A dazzling flash of green light erupted from the queen’s eyes. The flare seemed to rebound from the floor and strike Vixa full in the face. She had no time to shield her eyes, and agony filled her head. She cried out, toppled to the floor. The glare was replaced by darkness as she dropped into oblivion.

*

Once the break in the top of the wall was repaired, the guards marched the slaves back to Nissia Grotto. The work had taken several hours. Harmanutis and Vanthanoris staggered to the rear of the cave, collapsing on piles of tattered sailcloth. Armantaro, more than twice their age, seemed to have held up better, but then he had the advantage of a decent meal, courtesy of Coryphene.

Garnath walked up to the flour barrel housing his twin and kicked it smartly. A snort erupted, but no dwarf appeared. Grimacing, Garnath pounded the staves with his thick fist.

“Wake up, Brother!” he bellowed. “Wake up!”

Gundabyr rolled out, dazed. “What? What is it?”

“I want the barrel,” said Garnath. “You owe me two days’ work now.”

Gundabyr yawned. “By Reorx! Couldn’t you have waited till morning to tell me that?”

“It is morning.” Garnath shouldered his twin aside. “Good night!”

Gundabyr sighed and surveyed the long, dim tunnel. The unhappy slaves slept where they dropped. The grotto resembled a battlefield, with bodies strewn all about.

The only other person still awake in the entire cave was Armantaro. He tried to assemble a decent pallet from the assortment of junk littering the cave floor. Gundabyr yawned once more, stretched, and ambled over to the elf.

“Hail, friend. My name’s Gundabyr.”

Armantaro nodded and said, “Yes, so I heard. Your brother has an excellent set of lungs.”

“Yup, he got that way shouting over the forge hammers in Thorbardin. I can’t convince him not to shout here.”

The old colonel reclined stiffly, pillowing his head on one arm. He told the dwarf his name and rank, and how he’d ended up in this wretched place after his visit to the city.

“I figured as much,” said Gundabyr. He aimed a thumb at the inert forms of Harmanutis and Vanthanoris. “They told me you were down here. Ain’t there a lady with you?”

“Yes, indeed, and I fear for her. Coryphene has kept her.”

Gundabyr tugged at his black beard. “He’s never done that before. The blueskins don’t give a fig for any of us drylanders, you know.”

“I’m certain he has designs on her. He may suspect she is something other than my niece. A princess of the house of Kith-Kanan would be quite a prize for an ambitious warlord.” In spite of his worried tone, Armantaro’s eyelids were drooping. His breathing slowed. As his eyelids finally closed, he added, “He’ll get more than he bargained for with Lady Vixa, though. One unguarded moment, and she’ll split him … wide open.”

Armantaro was asleep. Shrugging, the dwarf got up and went back to a pile of wreckage behind the flour barrel. This seemingly worthless collection of rubbish was his tool kit. During his free days, and in the wee hours while Garnath slept, the restless Gundabyr spent his time exploring the recesses of Nissia Grotto. He’d fashioned some crude tools from bits of wood, bent nails, and loose rocks. Far back in the remote areas of the cave, he kept his collection of mineral samples. The grotto had not been formed by the slow process of erosion. Instead, it had been created by an ancient volcano. As a result, the interior was rich in minerals such as sulfur, niter, and bitumen, which oozed out of crevices in the lowest regions of the cave system.

Gundabyr slipped his tools into his ragged pockets and walked off into the darkness. His greatest wish, aside from freedom, was for a light he could take along on his explorations. The Dargonesti globes were fastened to the walls, and any attempt to remove them always ended badly. The dwarf carried out his research by touch and smell, often bringing back samples to the inhabited portion of the cave for final identification.

He’d gone only a few hundred paces into the deep cavern when he noticed a strange noise. Holding very still, Gundabyr heard it again. A sort of scratching, or maybe a scraping sound, coming from far away. The prisoners were all fast asleep, and there was no one else in the grotto. Gundabyr took his homemade pick, fashioned from a long ship’s nail driven through a length of decking, and scraped the cave wall in front of him. He listened hard, but the noise had stopped. He did not hear it again.

Chapter 8

A GIFT OF FIRE

Vixa was dreaming.

She was trapped in a clear crystal globe surrounded by water. The water was filled with sea elves, all staring at her and pointing long, blue, webbed fingers. They never spoke, but only stared and pointed. It became extremely annoying.

“Stop it!” she shouted at them. “I am Princess Vixa Ambrodel, daughter of the house of Kith-Kanan! Begone, I say!”

They showed no sign of hearing her, but continued to stare with blank faces. Their eyes glowed. Furious, Vixa struck the walls of her crystal prison with her fists. The blow stung her knuckles. It also caused cracks to appear in the glass. The fractures radiated outward from the point of impact, and water began to seep into the globe. Anger turned to horror as Vixa realized what she’d done. If the water got in, she would drown!

The cracks raced around the glass, spreading faster and faster. The water rose up to her ankles. A blink of her eyes, and the water had touched her knees. In seconds, she was neck-deep and had to tread water to keep her face above the icy flow. What was she to do?

Vixa flung out a hand and felt the roof over her head. Silver fissures met and crossed above her. Water closed over her head. She pounded at the domed ceiling.

“I – will – not – die!”

With a gasp, Vixa sat up. She was on a flat couch in a dimly lit room. From the green color of the walls and floor, she surmised that she was somewhere in the palace.

Her legs were tangled in her Dargonesti robe. She freed them and swung her feet to the floor. The room tilted slightly; she put a hand to her head. In a few seconds the dizziness passed. A small sound behind her brought her to her feet, whirling to face whatever threat might come. The room was divided by translucent curtains, and behind these she could see a seated figure.

“Who’s there?” she demanded. “Show yourself!”

The figure rose and stepped forward, parting the curtains. It was Naxos, the shapeshifter, Coryphene’s dolphin-herald.

“Forgive me,” he said, though his tone was far from contrite. “I came to see if you were all right. Don’t give me away, will you?”

“Give you away?”

“To Coryphene. I’m not supposed to be here.”

He was dressed in a simple shark-leather kilt. His aquamarine hair was held away from his face by a headband carved from blood coral. His powerful physique, insolent manner, and daunting height made him an unsettling presence. Vixa, accustomed to looming over most people, found herself taking a step back, so as not to have to tilt her head to see him.

“What happened to me?” she asked.

“You’ve been unconscious a full day. I wanted to see if you survived your audience with Uriona.”

“I guess I did – barely.”

Naxos grinned. His smile was infectious, and Vixa found herself smiling back.

“You don’t speak of your queen the way Coryphene does. Don’t you consider her divine?”

“I’ve known Uriona since she was this high.” He held a hand level with Vixa’s forehead and grinned again, adding, “She’s hardly ever divine.”

“She seems … distracted,” Vixa said carefully.

“She’s mad,” was his blunt rejoinder. Naxos sat on the couch, leaning back on one hand. “Since no one else will tell you the tale, I suppose I’ll have to.

“Uriona is the fourth daughter of Kedurach Takalurion, Speaker of the Moon and ruler of Watermere. As such, she had few prospects in life other than marriage to some noble whose support the Speaker desired. She was not content with this fate and turned to the study of sorcery and high thaumaturgy. Whatever else it did for her, her magic frightened off half-hearted suitors. By the end of her first century, Uriona was one of the most powerful magic-users in Watermere.”

Vixa, remembering the effect of the queen’s glance, had no trouble believing him.

“The increase of her power affected her reason,” Naxos continued. “She decided she was chosen by the god Abbaku to reunite all those of elven blood into one nation. This message had an appeal to other ambitious Quoowahb, who were tired of the boredom and constraint of life in Watermere.”

“Others such as Coryphene?”

“Yes, and my humble self as well. When I was younger I craved adventure. I wanted to visit distant seas and walk upon dry land, where the sun scorches the air.” His face twisted in self-mockery. “I pledged myself to Uriona’s cause. Many hundreds of Quoowahb believed in her, and two centuries past, she led us out of Watermere to found a new kingdom.”

Naxos gave Vixa a sidelong glance, as if to gauge her reaction to his next words. “She has visions, you know. One of them was of a great city protected by walls of fire. My sea brothers and I scouted for such a place, finding it in this valley between two volcanoes. And here we are, in the city of Urione.”

Vixa sat down beside him. “You no longer believe in her,” she said.

“Her dream has become evil,” he explained. “It’s Coryphene’s doing. He hungers for conquest, for power of his own. He sees himself as the guarantor of Uriona’s dream – and her dynasty.”

Her brown eyes widened. “Does he love her?”

This time his smile was savage. “Desperately! But she listens only to her visions, not to his attempts to woo her.” He leaned close, and Vixa felt herself tense. He had an aura that was palpable – an aura of what? Physical power? Magic? She couldn’t define it.

Naxos lowered his voice to a whisper. “She foresaw your coming, little dryfoot. ‘Elves from the ancient land will come to Urione,’ she prophesied. And then you did.”

“With the help of your kraken!” she exclaimed indignantly.

“Ma’el? Yes, Uriona’s pet. Only she can control it. Our enemy the chilkit are creatures of the sea, but are less adept at swimming than even we Quoowahb. When Coryphene demanded workers to build the wall across the Mortas Trench to stop their predations, the queen sent Ma’el to drag down the ships of the land-dwellers.”

“If you think she’s so evil, why do you follow her?”

“I have sworn it.”

Vixa folded her arms. “You don’t strike me as an elf who would betray his conscience for the sake of an oath to a mad monarch!”

He shrugged and spread his webbed hands. “My brothers and I remain for the most part outside the air-filled city. Soon, we will swim away, and Urione will know us no more.”

“Then help me!” she urged, taking hold of his arm. “You and your sea brothers can help us get away from here!”

He shook off her grip. “I can’t do that – at least not yet. We’re not strong enough to elude Coryphene’s soldiers and defy Uriona’s magic. The time will come when both are stretched to their limits. Then the sea brothers will depart. Only then.”

“But I can help you! In Qualinost I have powerful friends, friends who will shield you and your comrades.” Vixa glanced around cautiously, though the room was quite empty. In a conspiratorial whisper, she said, “I am a princess of the house of Kith-Kanan. My uncle is the Speaker of the Sun!”

“I know.”

She recoiled from his words and his aggravating grin. “What? How?”

“Uriona read it in your mind while you were unconscious. Coryphene is very angry, by the way, because you lied to him. He wanted to send you to the grotto, but the queen ordered you held here. She has some plan for you, I daresay.”

Fear gripped Vixa’s heart. Uriona had read her mind!

“Just how deeply did the queen intrude on my mind?” the princess asked, striving for a nonchalant tone.

His eyes still danced, but Naxos said quite seriously, “Don’t worry, Princess. She only used the lightest and quickest of probes. Anything else would require greater effort – and its intensity might leave you quite useless to her.”

Footsteps echoed beyond the thin curtains. Naxos was on his feet in a flash. “Be brave, Princess. Nothing is done until it is done.”

With these singularly unhelpful words, he ducked through the curtains. Vixa lay down on the couch and closed her eyes. Her heart hammered, but she wasn’t sure if it was because someone was coming, or because the infuriating Naxos had just left.

Coryphene swept the curtain aside. “Awaken, Princess Vixa!” He pronounced her title with venom. She feigned sleepiness and dawdled at rising.

“I didn’t expect to wake again,” she told him, yawning widely.

“No other drylander has dared look upon Her Divine Majesty and been allowed to live. It is only because our divine queen saw through your feeble deception that you still breathe. She would not kill the blood kin of Kith-Kanan,” he declared.

“My feeble deception fooled you well enough.”

Coryphene’s fingers flexed around the pommel of the dagger in his belt. It was Armantaro’s weapon, Vixa realized. “Take her out!” Coryphene snapped to the soldiers accompanying him. The towering warriors ringed Vixa.

The Qualinesti princess itched to launch into them, but she didn’t feel like being beaten senseless. Coryphene would need very little provocation to thrash her. She was determined not to give him any. She rose coolly, straightened her robe. Coryphene stalked out, followed by Vixa and the guards.

Coryphene led her through a series of archways into the palace plaza. The whole of his private guard, some five hundred warriors, were drawn up in formation. Vixa entered the square of soldiers. At the center had been erected a table – a huge slice of mica supported by white coral legs. The hide of some large sea beast, tanned and whitened, was spread over the tabletop. Coryphene went to one side, while Vixa stood on the other.

On the hide was drawn a crude map. The seafloor around Urione was rendered in fine detail, but the farther regions were vague. Along one edge, Vixa saw a thin line drawn. It took her a moment to realize that this represented the southern coastline of Ansalon.

“Indicate on this map where Qualinost is,” Coryphene said.

Vixa folded her arms across her chest and said nothing.

“We know Silvanost lies on the Thon-Thalas – how far inland is the city?” She only stared at him, lips pressed tightly together. “How deep is the Thon-Thalas?”

He might as well have asked a statue. The blue color of his face deepened to indigo. They stared at each other for a full minute, she with pale face set and impassive, he with ever darkening countenance.

“I can have you flayed alive!” he shouted at last.

“I will tell you nothing,” Vixa said evenly.

He whipped out Armantaro’s dagger and raised it high. For a heart-stopping moment, Vixa was certain he was going to plunge it into her. But the weapon’s downswing ended with the dagger embedded in the middle of the map. Coryphene drove it in with such force that it stuck in the mica tabletop. He released it, and it stood there, quivering.

The Protector’s color returned to normal. In a much calmer tone, he stated, “I know your kind, lady. Brute force only reminds you of your duty. Very well. Let us see how stiff your neck is after a few days in the Nissia Grotto.” He spat a command, and eight warriors ringed the Qualinesti princess.

“To the grotto with her. Let her work alongside her servants. If the cold and damp don’t soften her pride, perhaps the close proximity of the chilkit will.”

A hood was dropped over Vixa’s head, and her hands bound behind her back. Blinded, she stumbled along, guided by the shoves of her guards. Having been up and down the city’s central ramp several times, she tried to visualize her path. She recognized the incense of the temple level and the noise and odors of the nearby fish market. When at last the hood was dragged from her head, she saw she was at a quayside pool identical to the one by which she’d first entered the city. Dolphins coursed through the water, and for an instant she thought Naxos had come to rescue her.

But only for an instant. As the bonds were removed from her wrists, she shook herself mentally. She couldn’t depend upon outside help to rescue her and her friends. They would have to save themselves.

Coryphene’s guards tied a weighted belt around her waist, handed her an airshell, and shoved her down the ramp. With one last glance at the dolphins swimming around her, Vixa walked into the pool. The chilly water closed over her head.

*

Sleep time in the grotto was always punctuated by the coughing and moans of the prisoners. The cold and damp constantly sapped their strength. Many were already sick with ague and consumption. The others were only waiting to get sick. The Dargonesti didn’t know (or didn’t care) that their land-dwelling captives needed warmth to survive.

Armantaro had slept curled up on his pile of bedding, teeth chattering all night. His first day as a slave had been more difficult than he would admit. The backbreaking labor on the wall combined with his constant anxiety over the welfare of Vixa Ambrodel gave him a very difficult time. His dreams this night were filled with visions of his tower room in Qualinost: book-lined, with a high ceiling and tall, narrow windows he left open on summer nights. His family always complained that the room was too drafty. In memory, it seemed like paradise.

The vision of home was interrupted by a tantalizing smell. A wonderful, mouth-watering aroma invaded his sleep and finally woke him. He opened his eyes, expecting the smell to vanish with his dreams; instead it grew stronger. It was the unmistakable odor of frying fish!

Flickering light cast grotesque shadows on the cave walls. Armantaro sat up, looking for Harmanutis and Vanthanoris. Their pallets were empty. He walked to the great heap of rubbish that divided the inhabited section of the grotto from the dark depths. On the other side were his companions. They were gathered around a campfire!

Vanthanoris was holding a plank to the flame. Pegged to the plank was a white fillet of fish. Harmanutis noticed the old colonel and greeted him.

“Where did the fire come from?” Armantaro demanded, hurrying to the welcoming light.

“Gundabyr did it,” said Vanthanoris. “But it’s not like any fire I ever saw.”

Armantaro knelt and held his hands out to the heat. The dwarf had piled loose stones into a rough hearth. In the midst of the stones sat a seething cauldron of yellow liquid. It gave off only a little smoke, but a great deal of warmth. Armantaro noticed there was no wood or flame beneath the pot. The yellow liquid boiled on its own.

“What is that?”

“Gnomefire,” replied Vanthanoris. “Gundabyr explained it to us, but all I got was the name.”

Beyond the circle of light the dwarf appeared, his arms laden with old clay pots. Harmanutis helped him unload his burden. Gundabyr’s clothes were dusted with ores of various colors. He looked as if he’d fallen in some lunatic flour mill.

Armantaro asked about the bubbling pot. Dusting off his hands, Gundabyr said, “Gnomefire is a compound often used by the folk of Sancrist Isle. There isn’t much wood on the slopes of Mt. Nevermind, so some gnome invented this mixture, which burns without need for wood. I learned to make it in my younger days, when I traveled often to gnome country. Garnath used to say nothing useful ever came from a gnome’s mind, but this stuff just might make the difference between living and dying down here.”

“Gnomefire,” Vanthanoris murmured. “Can you imagine the failures its inventor had before he hit on the right formula?” The gnomes of Sancrist Isle were known throughout Ansalon for their weird (and nearly always useless) experiments and inventions.

“It’s wonderful. What’s it made of?” Armantaro wanted to know.

“Sulfur and quicklime and bitumen and niter, plus a pinch of this and a scrap of that. I’d thought about making it before, but hadn’t found enough bitumen until last night. By Reorx, there’s tons of the stuff in the lower galleries!”

“How did you ignite it? None of us has a flint.”

The dwarf’s blue eyes gleamed. “That’s the special secret. All it takes —”

Vanthanoris jumped to his feet. “We have company,” he warned.

Scores of prisoners had awakened to the smell of cooking. Bearded, haggard faces stared with longing at the flickering bowl of light. The sight of the steaming fish caused mouths to drop open and tongues to move over cracked lips. So intent were they upon the fire and food, the prisoners overcame their habitual lethargy and crowded round the elves.

“Is there enough for all?” Armantaro asked Gundabyr.

“There’s enough for the whole Daewar clan.”

“Wait. Won’t a lot of fires exhaust our air?” Harmanutis cautioned.

The dwarf shook his head. “Nope, I don’t think so. There’s over three hundred people in this cave, but unless I’m wrong, the blueskins are supplying us with fresh air somehow.”

Even so, it was decided to limit the number of fires to five, just to be safe. Eager men clawed rocks from the floor and walls and built hasty firepits. Gundabyr went from one to the next, mixing powders into pots in just the right proportions, then stirring in thick bitumen to bind the ingredients together. Finally, he asked for water from the pool. As soon as the water was dribbled onto the black-and-yellow paste, a plume of smoke hissed upward. The mixture burst into flame with a soft whuff!

On first seeing this, one of the humans exclaimed, “You’re a wizard!”

“I’m a forgemaster of Thorbardin, which is better,” Gundabyr shot back.

Soon Nissia Grotto was warmer and lighter than it had ever been. Men crowded around the fires, warming stiff limbs and cooking their fish rations. They praised Gundabyr’s brilliance. For the first time, Armantaro heard laughter.

Vanthanoris voiced a worry. “What will the Dargonesti say?” he wondered.

“I doubt they’ll object too much,” Armantaro replied. “After all, warmth and cooked food can only keep their slaves alive longer, right?”

The elves sat back to watch their fellow prisoners enjoy Gundabyr’s gnomefire. They conversed softly about the battle of the day before.

“The chilkit bungled their attack yesterday,” stated Harmanutis. “Had they scaled the wall in more than one place, the Dargonesti could not have stopped them.”

“Let us be grateful you weren’t leading them,” Vanthanoris said dryly.

“Coryphene is no tactician, that’s certain,” put in Armantaro. “He simply met force with force. He didn’t maneuver his warriors at all. His greatest advantage lies in his store of captured metal weapons.” The old colonel frowned, etching deep lines in his thin face. “One of which is my own dagger.”

“Have the blueskins no metal of their own?” asked Harmanutis.

“None but some gold and silver trinkets. Oh, and some copper buttons.”

Gundabyr returned from his fire-starting and dropped heavily to the floor. “Phew! That’s work! Any of that baked cod left, Van?”

“I saved you the best cut.”

“Ah, many thanks, friend elf.” The dwarf tore into the fish with gusto.

“Should we rouse your brother?”

“No indeed. Let him sleep. He groused so much about working a double shift, I don’t want to hear him grumble about being disturbed again, even if it is for hot food.”

While Gundabyr ate, Armantaro asked him why the Dargonesti set such store by the iron and steel blades they found.

“Because they’ve got no forges, that’s why. You can’t smelt iron underwater.”

“But they do have gold and copper.”

“Huh! You can work them with no more than a candle flame.” More thoughtfully, he added, “Those volcanic vents would smelt soft metals, I bet. Maybe the blueskins use them.”

Armantaro ran a hand over the hard black surface of the wall behind him. “Didn’t you say this tunnel was part of an old volcano?” Gundabyr nodded, his mouth full of cod. “Well, that might be our way out!”

“How so, my lord?” Harmanutis inquired.

“Volcanoes by their nature tend to rise to the surface of the sea. If we can find a vent that goes all the way up —”

“Sorry, Colonel, but it ain’t likely,” interrupted the dwarf. “The blueskins wouldn’t make it that easy. You can be sure they’ve checked this cave. It has only one opening, and that’s it.” He jabbed a thick thumb toward the pool.

The Qualinesti lapsed into discouraged silence. Gundabyr was about to finish his meal when the ringing of rock on rock signaled that the lookout had spotted activity in the pool. The men and elves hastily smothered their gnomefires with dirt, as Gundabyr had taught them.

Just as the cave was dim and quiet again, sea elf warriors emerged from the pool. Behind them came Princess Vixa. Armantaro jumped to his feet and ran to greet her. Harmanutis and Vanthanoris quickly followed.

“My dear niece!” Armantaro exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

A guard took Vixa’s airshell. “There’s no longer any need for that deception, Colonel,” said Vixa. “They know who and what I am.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“No. I did meet their queen, though. She used magic to see the truth in my mind.”

Armantaro glanced at her guards, who were standing impassively to one side. “If they know you’re a princess of Qualinost, why did they bring you here?”

“Queen Uriona imagines she can become ruler of all the elven nations. Coryphene tried to make me tell them about the armies of Qualinost and of the Silvanesti, but I refused. For that I was sent here.” Her nose wrinkled as she sniffed the air. “You know, I could swear I smell baked fish.”

“Ah, come this way, Your Highness,” Vanthanoris said quickly. “We’ll make a place for you.”

Vixa lifted the hem of her Dargonesti robe to climb out of the pool. Only minutes after leaving the water the silver cloth would be dry. The sea elf in charge of her blocked Vixa’s path.

“Prisoners will form for work parties immediately,” he ordered.

“Now?” exclaimed Vixa. “I just got here.”

The lanky Dargonesti ignored her. “On your feet! Prisoners will report for the day’s work!”

The slaves were slower than usual in leaving their pallets. While his comrades rounded up the captives, the leader did something odd with Vixa’s airshell. Around his neck, the Dargonesti wore a pendant made from a large aquamarine crystal. This by itself was not unusual. The sea elves loved to festoon themselves with all manner of shells and gems. However, he touched the pendant to the mouthpiece of the airshell he’d taken from Vixa. Wide-eyed, the princess saw the bright blue-green gem fade, becoming pale and lackluster. After several seconds, the Dargonesti let the pendant fall to his chest.

As Vixa stood pondering the significance of this new information, other Dargonesti appeared in the pool. They brought hampers of airshells. The weary captives each took a shell and trudged into the water. Vixa held back and drew Armantaro to her side.

“Did you see, Colonel?” she whispered, gesturing to the Dargonesti wearing the pendant.

“Yes, lady. If we could get a necklace like that —”

Gundabyr, impersonating his twin, finally joined the line. Harmanutis introduced him to the princess. As they made their way closer to the basket of shells, Vixa said, “If Coryphene thinks he can break me by putting me to work, he’s grossly mistaken. I don’t know what Dargonesti princesses do with their days, but I’m no stranger to hardship.”

One of the guards commanded her to be silent. She and Armantaro took their airshells. The line of slaves entered the pool. As they waited to submerge, the colonel touched his princess’s arm and whispered, “It might be a good idea not to trumpet your resolve too loudly. After all, we’re more likely to be kept alive and well if Coryphene thinks we’ll be useful to him.”

Vixa nodded thoughtfully and murmured, “You may be right, Colonel. But I wonder if the chilkit will stand by long enough for Uriona to put her mad dreams of conquest to the test.”

Chapter 9

HARD LABOR

Beneath the crystal roof of the city, Queen Uriona was surrounded by mirrors, light globes piled around her. The queen sat in the midst of a bright glare, her eyes covered by a sharkskin mask.

Outside the circle of mirrors, Coryphene waited. The queen’s handmaids and her court of priestly advisors stood to one side, shielding their faces from the light seeping between the mirrored panels.

“You know I never question your actions, Divine One,” Coryphene said carefully. “But how can I prepare for an invasion of the land when we are not yet free of the chilkit?”

“The creatures from the depths will be overcome. I have seen it. The elves of the sun will help bring this about.” As she spoke, Uriona turned her masked face until she directly faced the gap in the mirrors behind which Coryphene stood. Her perception was unnerving.

“How will they do this, Divine Queen?”

“The method is unimportant. It will happen.”

“Will it be soon? Should I muster the army?”

“You will do the right thing when the time comes, Lord Protector. The gods and I shall guide you.”

Her conviction eased his doubts, save one nagging problem. “What if the Qualinesti woman won’t talk? I must know the strength of the enemy.”

“Patience, Lord Protector. She will provide what we need to know. In the meantime, send Naxos and the heralds to the coast of Silvanesti. They may learn something of importance by observation.”

“Yes, Divine Queen. We will miss their reconnaissance against the chilkit, though.”

“When the chilkit attack again, you shall destroy them utterly. This will be the first step toward our impending victory over the land-dwelling elves. Send Naxos away. Today.”

He couldn’t miss the agitation in her voice. Coryphene wondered if there was some hidden agenda associated with Naxos and his sea brothers. He’d long suspected the leader of the shapeshifters of disloyalty. Coryphene sometimes wished his queen-goddess would make her warnings a bit more plain.

“Open the mirrors. I am done for now.”

Coryphene gave a command. The servants dashed forward to remove the encircling wall of mirrors. They did so with eyes tightly shut and faces averted – from the bright light and forbidden face of their queen. The standing panels were taken away, leaving only the queen and the piles of glowing globes in the center of the audience hall.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” Coryphene asked gently. He alone was permitted to gaze upon her countenance and, as always after one of these sessions, she was bathed in sweat and nearly fainting. “Why torment yourself with this light?”

“If I am someday to sit upon my throne in the Tower of the Stars, I must be able to bear the light of the sun.” She removed her mask, her hand trembling.

He stepped closer. “I cannot bear to see you suffer.”

“It is nothing.”

Coryphene took the mask from her, allowing his hand to rest on her fingers. Her eyes fluttered at the unexpected contact, but she didn’t draw her hand away. “Will Naxos betray us, Divine One?” he murmured. Uriona’s languid gaze faltered. Her body went limp on the throne. Coryphene stepped in, kept her from collapsing onto the floor. The maidservants and priests closed around, looking anxiously at the Protector.

“Get back,” he said scornfully. “Our divine lady endures much for our sakes. Go and prepare her bedchamber; I will bring her there.”

The servants hurried to do his bidding. Coryphene lifted the unconscious queen in his long arms. The priests protested, scandalized by his familiarity, but the warrior lord carried his queen tenderly to the door of the audience hall.

“Chamberlain? Chamberlain!” he called.

“Yes, my lord?” Uriona’s chamberlain, fresh from a dousing in seawater, appeared smoothly at Coryphene’s elbow.

“Have Naxos of the sea brothers brought to me at once. This is the command of Her Divine Majesty.” The chamberlain bowed, dripping seawater onto the mosaic floor.

“It shall be done, great Protector.”

*

The line of prisoners trudged toward their day’s work. The weighted belts they wore kept their feet on the path. The sea had lightened to a clear emerald green, and by Dargonesti standards it was a bright day. As the captives left the mouth of the grotto behind, Vixa could see a chain of peaks stretching away from the city. The mountain containing Nissia Grotto was the last in this long line. Some of the mountains were low and flat-topped. Others had sharp, jagged tips, thrusting toward the surface. Vixa wondered just how near the surface they reached.

They entered a wide ravine, whose mouth had been quarried for stone and cleared of coral, leaving it a flat, hard plain. All around, prisoners had taken up mauls and stone wedges and were pounding blocks of stone into rectangular shapes. When the blocks were finished, they were laid in nets spread out on the ground. At the four corners of each net were fish bladders sewn together and filled with air. These bladders floated the blocks up to the top of the wall, where other slaves wrestled them into place. No mortar was used, so the blocks had to fit together precisely.

Harmanutis and Vanthanoris were put to work dragging rough stones to the carvers for dressing. Armantaro was added to the gang that hauled blocks to the nets and attached the inflated fish bladders. Vixa was sent to the top of the wall to work with the stonelayers.

She started to remove her belt, so she could swim to the parapet. A guard stopped her, pointing to an opening in the base of the wall. She headed toward this opening. Before she went inside, a prisoner smeared her arms with a sticky paste that glowed greenish white. Vixa was surprised, but once she went inside she was glad of the glowing substance. The interior of the wall here was hollow and black as pitch.

Like ghosts, the phosphorescent shapes of other workers moved ahead of her. It was impossible to ask questions with the airshell in her mouth, so she just followed those in front of her. She stumbled against a stair step and started up. It was eerie, moving in the inky stairwell with only a faint glow of light. The steps reversed direction several times, and continued higher and higher. The wall had to be close to sixty feet tall.

She emerged in open water at the top. The area was thick with busy workers shoving stones into place. Someone grabbed her arm and tugged her to the edge. From there she could see the city of Urione shimmering in the distance.

A rush of water hit her, sweeping her off her feet. Vixa fell backward, slipping over the side of the wall. Automatically, she grabbed the parapet edge to stop her fall. No one came to her aid. As she hauled herself back up, she saw what had caused her fall: a block of stone had arrived, buoyed by its net and air-filled bladders, rocking the water with concussive force.

Workers pulled in the swaying net and levered the six-by-four-foot mass of rock onto the wall. Vixa tried to help, but her bare feet gave her little purchase on the smooth parapet. None down here were shod, but the other captives were more experienced underwater, and the Dargonesti’s feet were obviously adapted for just this environment. Like their fingers, their toes were long and webbed.

The block thudded into place. The buoyant net rose a few feet over the workers’ heads and hung there, tethered to the ocean floor by a long strand of woven seaweed.

The image of the net tugging at the line intrigued Vixa. She gazed up at the swaying net and thought again about the distance to the surface.

She wasn’t the only one having such thoughts. A skinny human elbowed his way through the horde of workers, untied his weighted belt, and leapt from the parapet. He hit the seaweed net and clung to it. He had a sharp shard of stone in his hand and began to saw away furiously at the rope below him.

All at once soldiers were among them, battering prisoners with shields and spear shafts. The human managed to hack through the seaweed rope, and the net began to rise swiftly upward. The human clung to it desperately. Vixa wanted to scream encouragement, but she dared not remove her airshell.

A Dargonesti cast a spear at the escaping man. It missed. Another raised a conch shell to his lips and blew. Bubbles and a bleating call sounded in the sea.

Shrill whistles filled Vixa’s ears. The ocean was immediately alive with dolphins, wheeling and diving. They raced after the escaping human. Fast as they were, they couldn’t catch the rising net. The human rose upward with remarkable speed.

Sunshine filtered down from the world above. Against this backdrop, the man and the rising net were black shapes, shrinking rapidly. Suddenly, there was a violent explosion, and the man and the net dissolved in a mass of silver bubbles. In all, four separate eruptions were heard as each bladder exploded.

Slowly, the human came sinking down, enmeshed in the net. The dolphin sentinels circled the body, whining in mournful tones. The net passed Vixa, and she recoiled in shock at what she saw.

The thing that descended five feet in front of her no longer looked human. Blood oozed from his mouth and ears. His entire body was contorted as though in pain, arms and legs twisted and bent, head thrown back, mouth gaping wide. Vixa couldn’t take her eyes from the dreadful sight until the Dargonesti guards cuffed the prisoners and shoved them back to work.

Vixa gripped a block, straining her muscles to help shift it. All the while her mind was working furiously. What had happened to the man? He was almost free. The dolphins were nowhere near him. Had someone used magic? She’d heard mutterings among the slaves about a death that could reach out and strike any air-breather who dared attempt to escape. Up to now, she hadn’t given their talk any credence.

The day’s work went on without pause. All the prisoners were racked by thirst, an ironic agony for people immersed in water. Their hands and feet swelled. Vixa found herself grateful for her Dargonesti robe. It didn’t split or bind after hours underwater. She also discovered that her swollen feet gave her a better grip on the parapet stones.

A sea elf beat a crystal chime to signal the end of the day’s work. Slack and drooping, the workers trooped down to the seabed to join their comrades. About the only thought Vixa’s tired brain could manage was a mild amazement that her shell still had air, though she’d been using it for hours.

The dim grotto was a welcome sight as the Qualinesti walked out of the pool into the air. Armantaro waited for Vixa and offered her his arm, but she refused his aid. He seemed worse off than she.

Food was their first concern. Not only was the labor difficult, but the drag of the water seemed to double the effort necessary for even the simplest tasks. Their appetites were tremendous. The guards collected every airshell, dumped freshly caught fish on the floor, and departed. The elves collapsed on their bedding. Gundabyr set about preparing their fireplace with loose stones.

Garnath crawled out of his hiding place looking rested. “How did it go today?” he asked cheerfully. Gundabyr gave him a murderous look.

“This is no life for a warrior.” Harmanutis sighed wearily. His hands were cracked and bleeding. “I don’t think I could grip a sword even if I possessed one.”

“This is no life for anyone,” Gundabyr growled.

“I hate fish,” Vanthanoris murmured. “Oh, for a roasted squab and a cup of steaming nectar, and maybe some thick, hot soup with plenty of …” His voice trailed off into soft snoring.

Armantaro just sat, silent and trembling. Vixa watched him and worried. He was too old for this mistreatment. His face was so pale, she feared he was ill.

Gundabyr was busy lighting fires around the grotto. His twin fell to cleaning the fish provided by their captors.

“Garnath,” Vixa said, “why would a float explode going up to the surface when no one was near enough to prick it?” She described the escape attempt she’d witnessed and its gruesome result.

“Hmph,” said the dwarf. “Sounds like the Law of Clouds to me.” Vixa gave him a blank look, and he explained. “The Law of Clouds states that air expands as it rises. I’d say that a buoy filled with air at the sea bottom would certainly burst long before it reached the surface. And a man, likewise filled with air at the seafloor, would also – er – explode, unless he exhaled as he rose.”

“But even if he exhaled properly, the bladders would still have burst,” put in Armantaro quietly.

“Nope, nope. Had he opened small holes in the floats, the air might have leaked out quickly enough to avoid bursting yet slowly enough to allow him to reach the surface.”

Vixa regarded him thoughtfully, rubbing her chin with one cracked hand. “But would he have enough breath to reach the surface?” she wondered. “Or would he exhale it all before getting there?”

Her musings were interrupted by an involuntary groan from Armantaro. Vixa dragged over a patch of sailcloth and used it to cover him, though he protested that he was perfectly fine. She pushed his shoulder gently until he lay down, his head resting on her leg.

“We must do something,” the princess stated flatly, smoothing wet hair from the colonel’s lined face. “Either by force or by guile, we’ve got to get out of this place.”

“There is no way out.” Gundabyr interrupted.

“No way at all,” his twin agreed.

“Of course there is,” she insisted. “We simply have to find it.”

Garnath shook his head. “It’s hopeless, lady. Me and Gundabyr’ve been working on the problem for weeks. I tell you, it’s hopeless.”

Angry, Vixa grabbed the nearest small object and threw it. It was a clay jar, which Gundabyr had filled with gnomefire paste. It smashed against the far wall, the sticky paste clinging to the black rock. Dew on the wall ignited the gnomefire.

“Hey!” Vanthanoris cried, scrambling to get out from under the dripping flames. A droplet of gnomefire fell on his pallet, which immediately caught fire. With much cursing and flinging of dirt, Vanthanoris and Harmanutis put out the small blaze.

“You must be careful, lady,” Gundabyr chided. “Once ignited, that stuff is very hard to control!”

Vixa stared at the smoking pallet.

“Gundabyr, can you make more of this stuff?” she asked unexpectedly.

The dwarf blinked his heavy-lidded eyes. I’ve already made half a hundredweight. How much do you need?”

“We need all you can make, my friend. All you can make, and more!”

*

Coryphene was waiting at the quay for Naxos. It was half an hour beyond the appointed time, and there was still no sign of the shapeshifter. Furious at the insult to his dignity, Coryphene ordered his personal guard to search for the insolent wretch.

“Bind him, if you must, but bring him to the palace at once!” he shouted. His troopers dove headfirst into the water to carry out their master’s order.

Coryphene stalked back to the palace, leaving the bearers of his sedan chair to puff along behind. He was oblivious to the praise called out to him by the common folk. Snarling a dismissal at his bearers, the Protector went through the magical barrier and swept into the palace plaza alone. There, lounging against one of the many green columns, was Naxos.

“You! You have earned my displeasure! How dare you keep me waiting!” stormed the warlord.

Naxos’s face showed nothing. “I, sir? Kept you waiting? I have been waiting here for you for some time.”

“What?”

“I was told to come to you, Excellence. Where else would I go but to the royal residence? I did not suppose you would come to the city quay to meet me.”

This reasonable explanation cooled Coryphene’s rage. He put a hand to his temple. His gills were dry, and his head had begun to ache. Seeing his leader’s discomfort, Naxos went to the nearest pump and filled a shell with water. By the time Coryphene had splashed the water over his head and shoulders, his fury had abated. He savored the touch of the life-giving fluid on his gills. After several moments, he was able to speak in a calmer tone.

“Her Divine Majesty has a task for you and the sea brothers,” he said.

“What’s that, Excellence?”

“You are to go to the coast of Silvanesti and survey the area for us.”

Naxos’s green-blue eyebrows rose. “May I ask why?”

“It is enough that Her Divinity wishes it done. Go at once.”

The shapeshifter bowed with a flourish that bordered on mockery. He whirled and took four long strides away, but stopped and turned back. “Does this perhaps concern the Qualinesti we captured, Excellence?” he inquired.

“You ask too many questions. Our Queen has ordered it. That is all you need to know.”

“I obey her divine will,” Naxos said smoothly. “I was just wondering – forgive me, Excellence – why the coast of Silvanesti interested Her Majesty, and not the waters off Qualinesti.”

Coryphene smiled. “As we have visitors from Qualinesti, it is not surprising that we don’t need your help in learning more about that land.”

Naxos’s smile was mirthless. “Ah, thank you for enlightening me. I am grateful for any scraps of wisdom Your Excellence deigns to bestow. I go, with all speed.”

The shapeshifter departed. Coryphene found his hands clenched around his sword hilt and dagger pommel. He forced his fingers to relax. Damn Naxos anyway! His insolence was infuriating. Every time they met, there was a battle of words, and Coryphene always found himself somehow coming off the worse.

As he walked into the palace, the Protector consoled himself with the thought that it was only a matter of time before the arrogant shapeshifter’s wit got him in deep trouble. That was something Coryphene would enjoy. Wholeheartedly.

Chapter 10

FIRE AND FLOOD

A strange thing happened on Vixa’s fourth day in Nissia Grotto. Morning arrived, what morning there was two hundred fathoms down, and no Dargonesti came to lead the captives to work. Men awoke and wiped their bloodshot eyes, yet no taskmasters broke out of the pool with airshells and brusque commands.

Hours passed, and still no one came.

“I don’t like it,” Harmanutis said. “Something’s amiss.”

“Obviously,” replied Armantaro. “But what?”

Gundabyr and Garnath returned from the depths of the cave, covered in all sorts of colored dust. Garnath announced they had the makings for a full hundredweight of gnomefire, but not enough pots and jars to hold it. Vixa had insisted the paste be divided into dozens and dozens of smaller containers, rather than concentrated in only a few larger ones. The dwarves and elves had scrounged up almost thirty pots. These lined the cave walls now, filled to their brims with sticky yellow goo.

Surveying the dusty twins, Armantaro asked, “Were you up all night? You must be exhausted.”

“I couldn’t sleep anyway. The quarrying kept me awake,” Gundabyr said. He looked around at the grotto. “Where are our morning visitors? Haven’t the Quoowahb come yet?”

“No, they haven’t,” Vanthanoris put in, yawning.

“You say the quarrying kept you awake – what quarrying?” Vixa wanted to know.

Garnath spoke. “The diggers working outside. I guess they found a new vein of limestone for the building blocks.”

The elves exchanged looks of surprise. “No one’s been working outside since yesterday,” Harmanutis said.

“What exactly did you hear?” Vixa asked.

Gundabyr tugged at his black beard. “I dunno, but they are still at it, I think.”

“Show us!”

They passed word to the other prisoners to cover for them should the Dargonesti appear. Then, pausing only to make a gnomefire lamp, the elves and the dwarf twins plunged into the deeper recesses of the cave. Twenty paces beyond the Qualinesti’s sleeping area, the tunnel was dark and dank, the floor irregular. Crystals glittered in the black lava walls. Thirty paces in, the passage opened into a high chamber where dew dripped from the ceiling in an unending shower. This was their main source of fresh water. To keep the other prisoners from meddling in their explorations, the dwarf twins had made it their practice to tend the many buckets and seashell basins kept here to collect the dew.

Garnath raised the lamp over his head. “Listen,” he hissed.

In the quiet, the elves heard a faint sound – tink, tink, tink – regular as a heartbeat. It sounded like sharp blows on rock, muffled by many feet of stone. Indeed, someone was digging on the mountain!

“The Dargonesti, do you think?” asked Vixa in a hushed voice.

“Why? They can come in through the pool anytime they want,” said Gundabyr.

“Yes, and if there was any kind of digging to be done, you can bet they’d have us doing it,” Vanthanoris commented.

Armantaro circled the large chamber. “It’s loudest here. What direction is that?” Harmanutis, Vanthanoris, and the dwarves had a brisk disagreement about this. Their voices rose.

“Quiet!” Vixa commanded. “That’s the direction of the Mortas Trench!”

The revelation hit them like a lightning bolt. No Dargonesti would dare stray into the trench. It was thoroughly infested by …

“The chilkit,” whispered Harmanutis.

“They’re digging through to flank Coryphene’s wall!” Vanthanoris exclaimed. In his shock, he backed away from the sound of digging and bumped into Gundabyr. The dwarf sat down hard in a deep puddle of water.

Vanthanoris apologized. Gundabyr started to complain loudly, but his remarks halted abruptly as he leaned down to sniff the puddle. Then he stuck a finger in the water.

“This isn’t dew,” he reported. “It’s seawater.”

The group ran back to the inhabited end of the grotto. Armantaro climbed up on an outcropping of rock and shouted for everyone’s attention.

“We’ve found signs that the chilkit are boring into this tunnel!” he reported. The prisoners erupted into terrified exclamations. Armantaro held up his hands for silence, but had to shout over the tumult. “Listen to me!” he cried. “We must throw up a barricade!”

“If they can dig through solid rock, how can we stop them with ships’ timbers and dunnage?” yelled a human.

“We need to buy time,” Vixa countered. “We’ll need airshells to get out of here. Someone will have to go out and tell the Dargonesti.”

“That’s suicide!”

“Better to drown than face the chilkit alone,” put in another slave.

“Who’s the best swimmer here?” Armantaro shouted. No one came forward. Finally, Vanthanoris stepped out of the crowd.

The old colonel regarded the youngest of the Qualinesti somberly. “You, Van?”

The elf shrugged. “Who else is there?”

“If the chilkit breach the mountain, this cave will probably flood,” Gundabyr warned.

Groans and lamentations filled the air.

Armantaro jumped down from his perch and led the prisoners in piling up all the wreckage they had – bolstered with rocks, gravel, even their meager bedrolls.

Gundabyr and Garnath ferried their newly made store of gnomefire behind the barrier. Vixa stood atop the growing barricade, staring into the depths of the cave.

“Keep some of those pots handy,” she said quietly to the dwarves. “We may need them to discourage the chilkit.”

While she spoke, a thin stream of water came rolling down the cave floor. Some of the captives saw this and let out screams of fright.

“Vanthanoris, stand ready,” Armantaro called. The young elf was poised by the edge of the pool.

There was a loud crash, and a cloud of dust spurted down the passage. A knee-deep surge of water followed, splashing against the foot of the hastily built barricade. Parts of the makeshift wall were swiftly washed away. Prisoners quickly armed themselves with stones or rude clubs made from ship timbers. Vixa stood atop a heap of flattened crates, heart pounding.

The mining noises ceased. The level of water slowly rose, seeping through the barrier. Then another, more sinister sound reached those on the barricade: the clicking of chilkit feet on stone. Vague shadowy forms appeared in the dark recesses of the cave.

“Astra, be with us,” Armantaro whispered. Then he yelled, “Go, Van!”

Vanthanoris dove into the pool.

The prisoners stood behind the debris barricade, straining every nerve to see the enemy. The clicking grew louder.

“Ah! There!”

All eyes went to where Vixa pointed. Clinging to the roof of the grotto was a chilkit. The sight sent panic through the slaves. Armantaro shouted for them to stand fast. The old colonel’s voice, long used to command, froze most of the fearful in their tracks.

Tentatively, the chilkit entered the illumination cast by the weak Dargonesti light globes. Its long antennae swept the air. It seemed confused and hesitant.

A second chilkit appeared, near the left wall. A third came slowly out of the darkness at floor level.

“Have at them!” Armantaro cried.

A barrage of stones hit the monster clinging to the ceiling, forcing it to back away. It waved one claw to ward off missiles, batted some aside. The chilkit on the wall rushed forward with startling speed and crashed into the pile of wreckage. Timber balks and broken yardarms fell apart, trapping several men underneath. The crates Vixa stood on slid sideways, throwing her off. She splashed down into six inches of water and rolled to a stop against something hard.

A chilkit’s legs. She’d landed on the wrong side of the barricade, at the feet of the monster who’d advanced across the floor. For an endless second the creature regarded her with inky eyes. An antenna flicked lightly across her face. Vixa had a fleeting notion that the creature might not be hostile – until it raised a claw over her. The sharp inner edges were hard and white, in contrast to the bright red of the rest of the claw.

She wriggled between the monster’s legs until she was directly under it. The claw raked the stone floor just behind her feet. Vixa kept crawling, using her elbows and knees. The dripping wet belly of the chilkit was inches above her. Oh, for Armantaro’s dagger right now!

The chilkit did a fast turn, stepping over and uncovering Vixa. One of its spiny-fingered hands closed around her ankle. She yelled and kicked at it.

A red-bearded man darted in and hammered the chilkit with a club. After the third blow, his waterlogged weapon snapped. The monster thrust forward a closed claw, spearing the human in the chest. The chilkit easily lifted its victim off his feet and threw him back across the barricade.

By this time the grotto was a perfect riot of noise: shouts, screams, the smash and splinter of wood, the clatter of stone on flesh and stone. Vixa was still flailing in the shallow water, trying to free herself from the chilkit’s grip when the burly Garnath approached. With a rock weighing as much as Vixa herself, the dwarf smashed the monster’s arm, right on the joint. The crimson shell splintered and pink flesh tore. Vixa pulled away, the chilkit’s four-fingered hand still locked around her leg.

Brave Garnath did not long survive that mighty blow. Stuttering in pain, the chilkit swung a massive claw sideways at the dwarf. It connected with a solid thud. Amazingly, Garnath kept his feet, though blood flowed from his lips. Vixa grabbed the first thing she could find: the stump of an oar. She whacked at the chilkit, but to no effect. The monster opened its claw around Garnath’s neck. The dwarf threw up his arms to hold the deadly pincers apart, but the scissor claw closed with a hideous crunch. The gallant dwarf’s head was severed from his body.

Vixa shouted a torrent of obscenity, yanking the chilkit hand from her leg. She climbed over the barricade, snatching up one of Gundabyr’s pots of gnomefire paste. Her aim was true. The pot hit the chilkit that had slain Garnath, splattering sticky liquid over its armored chest.

The steady hail of rocks and missiles dislodged the chilkit clinging to the ceiling. It fell with a crash and lay squirming on its back. The other monster climbing along the left-hand wall was pushing through the tumbledown barrier, slaying anyone within claw-reach.

Blinking back tears of rage and sadness, Vixa climbed atop the remnants of the barricade. The now one-handed chilkit she’d hit with gnomefire paste was busy trying to drag Garnath’s body back into the shadows. The yellow paste ran in slow streams down its front pair of legs. Several yards back into the darkness, the level of the steadily rising water reached the paste and ignited it.

The monster released Garnath’s body and whirled frantically, trying to scrape off the flaming mess. This only spread the flames to the rest of its body. Then the chilkit lowered itself into the water, trying to wash the gnomefire away. This fanned the blaze farther. The burning monster made strange bubbling sounds. The other two chilkit stopped their attacks and went to their comrade’s aid.

“Hit them with the gnomefire!” Vixa cried. “Seawater ignites it! Throw the pots!”

Armantaro and Harmanutis led the charge. All of Gundabyr’s supply of gnomefire was on their side of the barrier, so they had ample ammunition. Harmanutis proved to have a strong arm and good aim. He hit the nearest chilkit twice in succession. Flames roared in the tight passage, the heat driving the prisoners back. The chilkit collapsed, his body blazing. The one-handed monster, grievously burned, staggered backward. When it was nearly out of range, a pot smashed into the wall above it, and paste rained down on its head. The chilkit turned and fled, and the gnomefire burst into flame. The last chilkit beat a fast retreat, leaving its two fellows blazing.

The grotto resounded with cheers. Some of the men waded out from behind the barricade and battered the dead monsters with their clubs.

“Come back! Come back!” Armantaro called. “The water is still rising! We must get to higher ground!”

The immediate danger from the chilkit was over, but the more insidious peril of drowning was growing stronger. Despite Armantaro’s urging, there wasn’t really any higher ground in the grotto – the entire cave sloped downward to the pool entrance. All the prisoners collected by the pool. Water was streaming from the rear of the cave. Pots and jars of gnomefire floated everywhere. Gundabyr, his face bloody, reminded them of the danger. If the gnomefire got wet …

“Where are the Quoowahb?” someone shouted.

“Will they leave us to drown?” cried another.

“Vanthanoris may not have gotten through,” Harmanutis said grimly. He was cradling his left arm against his chest. A chilkit had gashed him badly.

The gnomefires at the rear still burned. By this light, and the feeble illumination of the Dargonesti globes, three hundred prisoners stared at each other helplessly, clinging to floating debris, the rough walls, or each other.

“E’li save us! They’re back!”

Four more chilkit had appeared near the original barricade. They stayed where they were out of respect for the firepots, but busily demolished the wreckage that was damming the water coming in from their excavation.

“Now would be a good time for an idea,” Vixa said, bumping into Gundabyr.

“Don’t ask this dwarf. I’m stumped.” Gundabyr wiped blood and soot from his face. He looked around at the floating prisoners. “Where’s Garnath got to? Garnath! Hey, Brother!”

Vixa clamped a hand on his arm and shook her head. Her anguished expression told him more than he wanted to know.

The sight of the chilkit had spurred some of the prisoners into taking a desperate gamble. They drew in great breaths of air and then went under, heading for the open sea outside. They could only hope that the Dargonesti would find them before they drowned. Vixa remained where she was, treading water valiantly. She couldn’t wager her life on so slim a hope. Not yet, anyway.

The four chilkit, reinforced by three newcomers, were advancing cautiously down the tunnel toward them. More and more men vanished below the water, fleeing the grotto. A chittering cry echoed through the cave. One of the chilkit had bumped a pot of gnomefire. It tilted, dumping its cargo into the water. Flames enveloped the creature, and its six cohorts promptly fled.

Rising water and burning gnomefire were using up the precious air. “It’s getting harder to breathe,” Vixa gasped.

“My lady,” Armantaro wheezed, “it has been a privilege serving —”

“Save your breath, Colonel!”

The chilkit regrouped, this time advancing with timbers clutched in their claws. They gently pushed aside all floating containers. Their comrade had succumbed to the fire. Its charred body spiraled slowly down to the pool, trailing noxious smoke. The stench was overpowering.

Vixa was nearly blind. Smoke was making her eyes stream. “I think drowning is preferable to this!” she said, gagging.

Gundabyr, miserable over the loss of his twin, said nothing. Armantaro agreed with her. “We’ll have to risk it,” he said. “On three – one, two, three!”

Taking a deep breath of the fetid air, Vixa ducked under the dark water. Kicking and sweeping out with her hands, she soon cleared the grotto’s mouth, the last drylander out. The sea was full of people – swimming, fighting, drowning. What looked like the whole Dargonesti army was massed on the plain in front of Urione. Vixa looked toward the wall across the Mortas Trench. What she saw stunned her.

The entire center section of the wall had fallen, and the area was filled with red-shelled chilkit. Hundreds and hundreds of them.

She bumped into something. Turning in the water, she saw the lifeless form of one of her fellow prisoners. The man’s long dark hair drifted across his face like a shroud, waving in the ocean currents.

Pressure built in Vixa’s chest. She had no breath left. She searched frantically for Armantaro, Harmanutis, or Gundabyr, but couldn’t make out any individuals in the dimness of the depths. Her limbs burned. Movement became harder and harder. Vixa began to sink.

Soft mud cradled her fall, covering her like a blanket. It was warm, so very warm and comfortable. She opened her mouth and let cold seawater fill her lungs.

Chapter 11

TRANSFORMATION

“How could this have happened?” Coryphene raged. His watch captain, Telletinor, stood rigidly at attention. The warrior had several minor wounds, but he held his stance proudly, eyes fixed ahead.

“Well?” demanded Coryphene. “How did the enemy bring down my wall?”

“They mined under the foundation, Excellence. The first we knew of it was when the center span collapsed.”

“How many were lost?”

“Most of the Silverside regiment. The Sea Horse regiment and the Queen’s Killer Whales were far enough from the wall that they weren’t affected.”

“And no one saw them coming – because I sent Naxos and the sea brothers to some far-off coastline!” Coryphene grabbed his heavy helmet and pulled it on. “Muster all troops! I will lead the guard out myself. I —”

A lightly clad Dargonesti youth, green blood streaming from a gash on his forehead, stumbled up to Coryphene and his assembled officers.

“Excellence … the enemy … at Four Squids Quay!” he panted.

“Zura take them! They’re in the city!” fumed the Protector. He turned to another of his officers. “Kantren, muster the army in the kelp gardens. You are in command. I will take the guard and repel the enemy at Four Squids Quay.” The officer saluted and raced away.

Urione rang with conch shell alarms and the tramp of many feet. Coryphene assembled his iron-armed troops in the fish market square. Ordinary folk had vanished from sight, blocking their windows and doors. Just as five hundred of Coryphene’s personal guard gathered in place, a scream tore the air.

Coryphene spun around and saw a melee spilling into the square. A column of six chilkit were trying to force their way up the street. Blocking their path were a dozen Dargonesti warriors, some of them weaponless. An equal number of fisherfolk, armed with nets and gaffs, had taken up the defense of their homes. From windows facing the street, other Dargonesti bombarded the invaders with stones, pots, and endless torrents of oyster shells. The chilkit, ignoring the onslaught of rubbish, attacked.

“Forward!” Coryphene shouted. Out came five hundred scavenged iron and steel swords.

“Close up there!” he barked. “Bring your shields together! First rank, follow me! The rest, hold here!”

He led fifty warriors at a dead run across the square. The beleaguered defenders were fragmenting. The undisciplined civilians were suffering badly as the chilkit ran them down one at a time. Then Coryphene’s shock troop hit the scene.

The Protector of Urione did not shirk his place in the fore. He fended off a backhand blow by a chilkit claw and slashed at the monster with Vixa’s Qualinesti blade. His first strike cracked the chilkit’s armor shell. The creature gave ground, lashing at Coryphene’s face with its antennae, trying to scratch his eyes. With a quick overhand swipe, he managed to cut off the antennae. The chilkit staggered and collided with the creature on its right. It tried to wrest Coryphene’s shield away. Coryphene relinquished the shield and thrust straight at the monster’s upright torso. A crunch, and the shell gave. Roaring a war cry, Coryphene rammed the blade home and out the chilkit’s back. He put a foot to its chest and recovered his blade. The lifeless creature fell back, twitching in its death throes.

Looking over the scene, Coryphene realized that these six were the only foes in sight. A raiding party, he decided, to draw off his troops from the main attack. He had to get outside.

No sooner was his attention diverted than the chilkit mustered their resolve and resumed their furious attack. Two of them forced their way past the line of Dargonesti swords. The remaining three kept up the pressure on the front. Coryphene ordered his line to fall back.

“Excellence! Shall I summon the rest of the guard?” panted one of his lieutenants.

“For what reason? There are only five of them,” was the acid retort.

The chilkit attacked singly, first from one side, then the other. One Dargonesti was dragged out of place and harried. The other warriors, infuriated, charged on their own initiative. Two chilkit were trapped between the Dargonesti and the houses of the fisherfolk. It took three or four elves to handle one chilkit, but they separated the two monsters and hacked away at them. Coryphene cleaved one creature’s blunt head in two with his sword. Any warm-blooded foe would have dropped instantly, but the chilkit fought on, its actions violent and undirected. Two warriors were knocked down by its flailing limbs. Coryphene’s shield caught a blow that was so strong it bent the tortoise-shell double. Down went the Protector of Urione.

Across the square, Captain Telletinor saw his commander fall. “Close ranks!” he cried shrilly. “At the double, charge!”

A tide of blue-skinned fury blasted across the market to crush the remaining chilkit. Afterward, sorting through the carnage, Telletinor and his brother officers found Coryphene, bruised but undefeated. The chilkit’s last act before expiring had been to fall on top of him, and he had been pinned there, the monster’s corpse too heavy for him to lift.

Tired and dehydrated warriors were lining up at the water spouts to douse their gills. Coryphene walked among them, shouting, “Back in ranks! Back, I say! You’ll be wet soon enough!”

He led the guards to the quay and marched them out into the sea.

Behind him, the fisherfolk emerged from their houses to survey the scene of battle. A dozen Dargonesti lay dead in the square. They were tenderly taken up so the proper rites could be performed. Seawater was poured on the pavements to wash away the blood.

Axes appeared, and the fisherfolk set to lopping the limbs off the dead chilkit. The creatures were crustaceans, after all, just like crabs or lobsters. The sea elves always ate dead chilkit, just as the chilkit would have done to them.

*

A small spark lit the darkness that shrouded Vixa Ambrodel.

Tiny points of light, like the stars she gazed at from her window in the Speaker’s house, twinkled above her. She floated under a canopy of cold stars. A red disk appeared on the horizon, a great staring eye – no, it was the red moon, Lunitari.

She tried to move. Pain lanced through her chest. Vixa inhaled sharply, found cool air, and coughed seawater. She was on the surface of the ocean! How had she gotten here? The last thing she remembered was escaping from the flooded Nissia Grotto – and drowning! She had drowned!

“Be still. Breathe.”

Stiffly, Vixa turned her head. The face of Naxos hovered close by. His arms held her up, keeping her head above the sea swell.

“Naxos.” Her voice was a raspy croak.

“Be still,” he repeated softly. “You were nearly dead when I found you.”

She swallowed painfully. “Ar-Armantaro,” she hissed. “Where are my companions?”

He shook his head. “I do not know. You were the first one I saw. I used the magic of my necklace to bring you to the surface safely.”

It was strange to feel wind on her face again. The pain in her chest and head gradually faded, but she was so weary she let Naxos continue to support her. He was treading water effortlessly, his long legs scissoring in slow, powerful strokes.

“How goes the battle?” she asked.

“The battle is over, for now. The chilkit have breached the wall. Many hundreds of them occupy the plain around the city. Coryphene was able to keep them out of Urione proper, but he lacks the power to defeat them.”

“A siege.”

“Yes. You and I have our own problems, however.”

You and I. “What problems?”

“Coryphene sent the sea brothers to the coast of Silvanesti to search for a route for Uriona’s invasion. I was called back and arrived in time to see the chilkit on the plain, and all the land-dwellers fleeing the grotto. No wonder, with the chilkit on the loose and a volcano erupting.”

“Volcano? What volcano?”

“In the grotto. There was fire coming from the mouth of the grotto.”

Vixa blinked at him, uncomprehending. Then she remembered. “The gnomefire! Of course, it burns underwater! I’ll wager you’ve never seen fire like that before.”

“You would be right. By its light, I saw you lying on the bottom. Your soul had nearly left your body, so the only thing to do was take you to the surface.”

He was looking at her with an expression Vixa couldn’t read in the dim red moonlight. It disconcerted her. “You said we had problems.”

“Urione is too far away for you to reach without an airshell, and my necklace’s magic is depleted.”

“Couldn’t you change into a dolphin and tow me to land?”

“It’s two hundred leagues at least, but even if I could, would you leave your friends behind?”

He knew her that well at least. She couldn’t leave Armantaro and the rest. She had to know if they were all right.

“Then what can I do?” she asked, anguished.

The unreadable expression returned to his face. “There is a way you can return to Urione,” he said. The usual brash tone was gone from his voice. “It will require you to make a difficult choice, a choice you cannot go back on.”

Cool wind raised goosebumps on Vixa’s exposed skin. “What choice?” she finally asked.

“With my help, you could become a brother of the sea.” His insolent grin flashed for an instant. “Or I should say, a sister.”

“You mean, become a shapeshifter – with gills?”

“A shapeshifter, yes. But you would remain Qualinesti otherwise.”

Strange as the idea was, Vixa also found it surprisingly inviting. She pondered silently as they bobbed in the waves.

“The ability is permanent?” she asked.

“Once I make the spell, it will be with you always.”

“How do I control the transformation?”

“To assume dolphin shape you must be in the sea. Simply form in your mind the image of the dolphin. By concentrating on that image, you will change.”

“And how do I regain my elven body?”

“Call up a vision of yourself on two legs. Whether you are dry or wet, the change will reverse.”

It sounded simple enough, and what choice had she? Unable to return to Urione, unable to leave her friends. What else was there to do?

“I’ll do it.”

Naxos’s golden eyes bored into her brown ones. “Be certain! This is not like the choosing of a gown. This will change you forever.”

She bristled. “I’m a soldier and no stranger to hard decisions. I’ve made up my mind.”

“As you wish.”

From a pouch tied around his waist, Naxos took a small object. By the red moonlight, Vixa saw that it was the tiny image of a dolphin, carved from some lustrous white stone. Naxos told her to lie on her back in the water. She stretched out her legs as he supported her with his left hand under her back. Whispering words in the sea tongue, Naxos touched Vixa’s nose with the beak of the tiny carving. Reaching across her, he touched the side flipper to her right hand, and the other fin to her left. A shiver ran through her.

She stared up at the stars, pushing her fear aside. The tiny points of fire seemed to brighten. Water lapping in her ears carried sounds new and peculiar to her – grunts and wheezes she’d never heard before. Naxos’s voice dropped to a murmur as he continued to touch the ritual carving to Vixa’s body.

Her trembling ceased. Heat flowed through her blood, radiating outward from her heart. Vixa closed her eyes. Her muscles tensed. Her arms were pulled tight to her sides. She felt a moment of panic as she realized she couldn’t move them any longer, but Naxos continued to drone on and on. She grew dizzy, feeling as though she were falling, or perhaps sinking.

Vixa wanted to tell Naxos to steady her, to pull her upright, but instead of words, all that came out of her mouth was a raucous squeak.

Holy Astra! Vixa’s eyes flew open. The world had changed. The stars and moonlight were so bright – it was like daylight! Naxos was no longer treading water beside her. She rolled over, burying her face in the sea. A lean gray shape lolled in the ocean at her side. Naxos.

“Welcome to the sea,” he said. His mouth didn’t move at all, for he spoke in the clicks and whistles of the water-tongue. She understood him as though he were speaking Elvish.

“Naxos? Am I – am I changed?” Intuitively, she also spoke the strange language.

“Of course, silly dryfoot.”

Vixa couldn’t take it in. The change was too enormous. “You’re as powerful a mage as Uriona!” she exclaimed.

She could have sworn that Naxos’s dolphin face frowned at her. “No,” he said harshly. “It is a gift given to me as leader of the sea brothers. It has nothing to do with Uriona or her evil spellcasting.” He rolled sideways and commanded, “Take a deep breath and hold it. Now, follow me!”

Naxos dove. He aimed his long snout almost straight down and drove himself with long sweeps of his flukes. Vixa imitated his posture, awkwardly at first, but quickly discovered that her new body was far more graceful and powerful than her old. She sped into the depths. With her eyes rolled back, she could see her own tail flexing. Her back was black, her flanks and belly snow white.

Another dolphin joined them. “Kios!” Naxos called, “are the brothers back from Silvanesti?”

“We heard of the great battle and came home. Who is this?” asked the other dolphin.

“Vixa, of the land-dwelling elves. She is one of us now.”

Kios ducked under Naxos, coming up on Vixa’s other side. Though they were speeding through the water, Kios maneuvered with ease.

“A land-dweller, become a brother of the sea? Such has not happened in ten lifetimes!” he exclaimed.

“Where are the other brothers?” Naxos asked.

“In the sargasso fields, east of the city. The chilkit have surrounded the city. None of the city-dwellers have ventured out since yestereve.”

“Go there and bid them join me. Now may be the time to compel Coryphene to make concessions to us. The sea brothers are his best hope for defeating the enemy.”

Kios departed. Vixa heard him long after his shape was lost in the dark waters. The sea was a constant symphony of sounds.

Vixa concentrated on keeping up with the larger and faster Naxos. What a sensation it was to be a dolphin! She felt the depth of the water, cleaved it like an arrow. The one giant breath she’d taken at the surface still sustained her. The awful pressure, the burning need for air hadn’t come back. Could natural dolphins hold their breath this long? She would have to remember to ask Naxos.

Before she could, the glow of Urione appeared below them. Naxos slowed. Exuberant with her newfound mobility, Vixa circled the larger dolphin excitedly.

“What are you waiting for?” she chattered.

“I am thinking,” he replied. After a minute, while Vixa continued to swim around him, Naxos said firmly, “Coryphene must not know of your transformation. We might have need of this secret. You should enter the city unseen, in your true form. I will come later and face the Protector.”

“What do you plan to do?”

“If the chilkit are defeated – when the chilkit are defeated – I will lead the sea brothers against Coryphene and Uriona.”

They parted. Vixa swam slowly above the iridescent city shell, looking down on the horde of chilkit spread out around Urione. In the distance, the mouth of Nissia Grotto still belched flame. With all the gnomefire Gundabyr had made, the prison might burn for days.

The sight of the grotto brought back thoughts of her friends. Her excitement over her transformation gave way to fear that Armantaro and the others might not have survived. Immediately, she dove to the lowest level of the city and barreled through an open doorway. As her dolphin head broke the surface, she saw Dargonesti soldiers standing watch. No good. She tried another entrance. The pool there was even more crowded.

On her fifth try she found an empty quay. With two sweeps of her tail, Vixa leapt out of the water and onto the stone ramp. In an instant she felt the difference. The sea no longer buoyed her, no longer cooled her massive body. On land, her elegant dolphin form weighed her down, quickly became uncomfortably hot. Breathing was difficult. Red mist filled her vision. She struggled to follow Naxos’s instructions. Vixa imagined herself standing in front of a full-length mirror. She recreated in her mind an exact reflection of herself – a strong warrior’s body, short blond hair, and honey-brown eyes.

The heat was becoming unbearable. She gasped, forcing all thoughts from her mind except one. You are an elf, she admonished herself. You are Vixa Ambrodel, princess and warrior of the Qualinesti.

A sudden chill shook her, set her teeth to chattering. She stayed her aching jaw with one hand. Hand? She looked down at her arm. The dark shade of her dolphin skin faded as her normal coloring returned. She was elven again!

Vixa sat up. Before, the heat had been intensely painful, now all of a sudden she was freezing. She hugged her knees to her chest, shaking violently.

“You! Drylander! What are you doing?”

She looked up to see a Dargonesti soldier standing in an open archway leading into the city. He challenged her again.

“I c-came here from N-Nissia Gr-Grotto,” she said, forcing the words through rattling teeth.

“You can’t run loose in Urione, drylander. Come with me.”

“I-I’m fr-fr-freezing!” The sea elf gestured for her to get up, but she remained obstinately where she was.

The sea elf shook his head in disgust. He unclasped his cloak and dropped it unceremoniously over her head. Vixa wrapped it around herself, then got to her feet and followed him into the city.

She found herself in the fish market square, on the side opposite to where she and Armantaro had first entered. The square was carpeted with wounded Dargonesti. Sea elves in pale blue robes moved through the mass of injured, tending their hurts. She guessed them to be acolytes of Quen, the goddess of healing.

The warrior led her down a long line of wounded Dargonesti. There were not enough healers to tend them all. Dozens of warriors writhed in pain from claw wounds or lost limbs. She followed the guard until they came to a pavilion set up in the center of the square. Under this awning sat Coryphene, surrounded by warriors and priests. The crowd parted for her. When Vixa reached him, she saw that his cuirass was scarred by blows from chilkit claws. The Protector was being treated for a wound in his left forearm.

“The redshell cut right through my best shield,” he said, seeing the direction of her gaze. The wound went deep into both sides of his forearm. Another inch or so, Vixa overheard the attending priest say, and Coryphene’s arm would have been severed.

“Yes, yes,” was the Protector’s irritable response. To Vixa, he said, “I am surprised you are alive, lady.”

“So am I, Excellence. Is there news of my companions?”

Coryphene’s lips thinned in pain. The healer was dabbing at his wound with a bit of sponge. Steeling himself, he replied, “Few of them survived.”

Vixa’s face whitened. Fear twisted in her stomach. “Who lives?” she whispered.

“The two younger warriors are dead. The dark-haired one drowned. The other died fighting the enemy.”

Harmanutis and Vanthanoris, both gone. “What else?”

Coryphene winced as the healer applied a roll of damp brown seaweed to his arm. “Careful, wretch!” he hissed. The priest drew back in alarm. Coryphene mastered his anger, told the healer to proceed.

“The younger, white-haired warrior, what was his name?”

“Van —” She cleared her throat. “Vanthanoris.”

“He warned my left flank column that the chilkit were in the grotto. He was given an airshell, but would not return to the city. He took a spear from the battlefield and died fighting a chilkit. His warning allowed my army to withdraw to a safer position and prevented a rout. Your Vanthanoris died well. Is he typical of the warriors found in Qualinesti?”

Sunk in misery, she nodded.

“I see.” There was a pause; then Coryphene beckoned to one of his many aides. The Protector said a quick word in the elf’s ear, and the young Dargonesti departed on some errand.

The nervous healer now tried to tie the free ends of the seaweed bandage around Coryphene’s arm. Coryphene made a fist and stared at the healer’s hands while the knot was made fast.

“Enough. Begone!” The priest bowed and fled.

“Excellence,” Vixa said, her heart heavy. “Have you any word of my other companion, Armantaro?”

“He survived. He is in the House of Arms with the other drylanders.” A ray of happiness eased Vixa’s sorrow. Coryphene held out a goblet. One of the soldiers stepped up to fill it with a greenish fluid. Coryphene drank deeply. His face was flushed when he lowered the cup.

“What about you?” he asked suddenly. “How did you survive the chilkit and the sea for so long?”

“Someone helped me,” she said stiffly. “A Dargonesti gave me air. I had to hide in the open ocean until the battle ended.”

Coryphene picked at the ends of his bandage while she talked. When she paused, he asked, still staring at his arm, “Was it Naxos?”

She stiffened in surprise, but feigned ignorance, saying, “Naxos? Your herald? No, Excellence. It was not a dolphin.”

He nodded slowly, apparently satisfied. At that instant the young elf Coryphene had sent away returned. He bore in his arms several items of clothing. Coryphene made a quick gesture, and the elf handed the clothes to Vixa.

“What happened in the grotto?” the Protector asked. “That fire came from no volcano. Was it a chilkit weapon?”

Vixa couldn’t think of any reason to lie, and she was too weary to make an effort. “It was gnomefire, Excellence. A dwarven smith among the prisoners made it from minerals he found in the caverns. We slaves were using it to try to keep warm. Gnomefire burns when it meets water. We were able to kill several chilkit with it.”

“Can he make more, this dwarf?”

“I suppose so – if he’s still alive,” she finished sadly.

“Go to the House of Arms then. Find this dwarf for me. If he can make more of this fire, perhaps we can defeat our ancient enemy. Bear in mind, lady, if we defeat the chilkit, then we’ll have no more need for troublesome dryland labor.”

His words pierced her gloom. “No more need – you mean you’ll set us free?”

“Let us see what your dwarf friend can contrive, shall we?” He turned away and called to one of his soldiers. “Egriun.”

A sea elf with blue-streaked emerald hair stepped out of the pack of warriors. “Take her to the House of Arms,” Coryphene said. “Find the dwarf smith, and see that he gets what he needs to make this … this …”

“Gnomefire,” Vixa supplied.

Egriun gestured for Vixa to precede him. She walked out of the pavilion, and the two of them crossed the square to the central spiral ramp.

“What do you think, soldier?” she asked. “Can you defeat the chilkit?”

“One Dargonesti is worth ten redshells,” Egriun replied. He looked around at the wounded elves covering the square. “But there are fewer Dargonesti left to bear arms.”

“You should arm the citizenry.”

“That rabble? They have no stomach for battle!”

“If they were trained —”

“Might as well train a halibut before putting it on the table. The chilkit would devour them where they stood.”

Chapter 12

THE PROMISE

Vixa made use of an empty alley to change into the green vest and short kilt Coryphene had given her. Eight levels up from the fish market, Egriun led her off the ramp. They wound up at a squat, square building whose towers merged into the roof of this level. A gate of polished stone, cut in the shape of a disk ten feet wide, rolled closed behind Vixa and her escort. She knew a fortress when she saw one – a fortress, and a prison.

Egriun took her down a long straight passage, darker even than Nissia Grotto. The walls and floor were made of dark blue slate that absorbed whatever light fell on it. Somewhere not far away Vixa heard the ring of hammer on metal. It was very warm in this place. She started to sweat.

The passage ended at a circular room with other tunnels radiating out from it. The stone floor was covered with an inlay of rainbow-hued scales, the hide of some enormous sea beast. Leather banners studded with gems and shells hung from the walls. Suits of armor wrought from tortoiseshell, sharkskin, and bronze plates stood on frames around the room’s perimeter. Seated on the floor in this warriors’ chamber were the survivors from Nissia Grotto. There weren’t more than thirty.

Vixa immediately spotted Armantaro and broke from Egriun to greet him. “Hail, Colonel!” she cried.

“Highness!”

The princess threw her arms around the elder elf.

“I thought you were dead!” he exclaimed when they parted. “But you look well enough.”

“You look as if you’ve been wrestling a dragon.” It was true. The colonel’s clothes were scorched, and he had scores of shallow cuts and scrapes on his face and arms.

“I’m too old for this nonsense,” he said ruefully, his breath wheezing in his chest. “Two hundred years ago I could have knocked Coryphene from here to the Mortas Trench.”

Vixa’s smile was fleeting. Sobering, she said softly, “I heard about Harm and Van.”

“A lot of good folk died yesterday. These sea elves claim they had other worries and couldn’t take the time to check on their captives.” Armantaro’s voice was low and bitter.

Vixa tightened her grip on his arm. She had no comfort to give the colonel. And none for herself, either.

Slowly, afraid his answer might be more bad news, she asked, “Did Gundabyr survive?”

“Yes!” Armantaro turned to survey the room. “There he is,” said the colonel. Gundabyr lay by the far wall, his back to the room. “Poor fellow, he’s taken his twin’s death hard. Very hard.”

Vixa and Egriun went to the dwarf. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Wake up there. They need you at the forge.”

Gundabyr rolled his head back so he could see who spoke. “Hello, Princess,” he rumbled.

“Hello yourself, Gundabyr.”

The dwarf noticed Egriun looming behind her. He rubbed his face and sat up. “What’s this long drink of water here for?”

“Coryphene wants to see you,” Vixa explained. “He knows about the gnomefire. He wants you to make more, to use against the chilkit.”

The dwarf turned his bearded face to the wall. “Tell him to go and … soak his head.”

“Listen to me!” Vixa shook his shoulder hard. “You have a chance – we have a chance – to help ourselves as well as the Dargonesti. The chilkit have surrounded Urione. The siege must be broken. Gnomefire may be the only thing that can do it!”

“So what.” His voice was flat and emotionless. “Let the redshells have the city. We’ll never see the sun again, no matter who wins.”

Vixa yanked his arm, turning him to face her. She whispered fiercely, “I saw what happened to Garnath! Do you want the same fate for us all? If the gnomefire helps defeat the chilkit, Coryphene has hinted he’ll let us go. Our lives are in your hands, Gundabyr. Garnath saved my life. Can you save us all?” She stood and stared down at him. “Show the blueskins what a forgemaster of Thorbardin can do!”

Gundabyr stared at her for a long time. Suddenly, he exhaled sharply and hopped to his feet. He stalked past Vixa and the patient Egriun.

“Well,” he said to the sea elf, “what are you waiting for? Take me to your Protector. If he wants gnomefire, I’ll give him a crab boil he won’t soon forget!”

The dwarf’s proud words echoed through the chamber. When he and his escort had departed, Vixa allowed her trembling knees to bend at last. She sank to the ground. The terror and excitement of the past twenty-four hours had left her weak and wrung out. Her mind was filled with thoughts of Harmanutis and Vanthanoris, of Captain Esquelamar and all the others who’d been lost on this journey.

Her first command was supposed to have been a simple task: pick up the ambassador – what was his name? Quenavalen? – and take him safely home to Qualinost. She hadn’t thought of Quenavalen or the Ergothian civil war in many days.

How many days had it been? The lack of day and night made things extremely confusing. The weary princess occupied her mind for several moments trying to determine exactly how long she’d been in this city of sea elves. She guessed five days since they’d been brought here by the dolphin shapeshifters. It certainly seemed much longer.

She was so very tired. Vixa’s eyelids began to droop. Armantaro came to sit beside her. She dozed, leaning against his shoulder, while he watched the comings and goings of their captors. Racks of arms were dragged out and rapidly distributed to those who’d lost their weapons in the previous battle. Helmets were repaired or replaced. A single warrior casually stood watch over the former slaves. Even this guardian seemed unnecessary. None of the exhausted, bedraggled slaves appeared capable of making an escape, and even then they would have to get past the chilkit surrounding the city.

Vixa had been sleeping only a short time when the sound of Armantaro’s coughing roused her. “Are you ill?” she asked groggily.

“Not at all. I just swallowed more of the ocean than is prudent.”

She had to smile. “Adversity never wears you down, does it, Colonel?”

“So,” said Armantaro in a very low voice, “how did you survive in the sea, lady?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

He feigned amazement. “I? Doubt the word of my princess and commander?”

She sat up, stretching and yawning. “I thought I was dead,” she finally replied. “But someone took me up and restored me to life.” The colonel’s only reply was an upraised eyebrow. “Naxos, the dolphin herald,” she whispered.

“By Astra!”

“That’s not the half of it. There was no way for me to return to Urione, since I had no airshell, so Naxos offered me a solution.” She hesitated, now that the time had come to speak of it. Armantaro begged her to continue. “Naxos said I could become like him,” she finished.

The old colonel paled. “Like him? You mean, become a dolphin?”

Vixa nodded, watching the Dargonesti moving around them. “It was the only choice I could make.”

“But you’re an excellent swimmer, lady! You could have reached land!”

“Two hundred leagues? Besides, do you think I would leave you and the others behind? Is that what a Qualinesti officer does in time of danger?”

“No, lady. Forgive me. No child of Verhanna Kanan would abandon her troops.”

Armantaro’s mention of her mother brought that lady strongly to Vixa’s mind. The princess pondered what might be happening in Qualinost now. Did they even know she was missing? Somehow the bright, leafy beauty of her home didn’t seem real now. The only reality was Urione, the chilkit, and the life-and-death struggle being waged.

“Did I ever tell you about my son, Vintarellin?” Armantaro asked.

“No,” she replied, surprised. “I didn’t know you had a son.”

“My only child – he’s perhaps twenty years older than you. I was thinking of him just now. When he was very young, he came to me and asked permission to enter the priesthood of Astra. He had no interest in becoming a soldier, but wanted to learn the ways of leaf and vine.”

“An admirable ambition.”

Armantaro sighed heavily. “I didn’t think so at the time. The family of Ramantalus have always been fighters in their prime, and stewards of the Speaker in their old age. I told Vintarellin he would have to learn the duty of combat first.”

This harsh attitude seemed unlike the Armantaro Vixa knew. She asked, “And did he?”

“Oh, yes. I sent him off to a frontier post in northern Qualinesti. He became a remarkable archer and hunter. It was said my son could pierce the eye of a hawk on the wing. Unfortunately, blood and sport took control of him. He came to love the hunt, not as a necessary craft, but for the killing itself.”

Vixa didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry, Colonel,” she finally murmured.

“It’s a hard thing to say, but I despise my son. We haven’t spoken in over thirty years. He lives in the high forest, feared and hated by all – an outcast. It’s my fault, of course. I should have let him have his heart’s desire when he asked for it.”

“Maybe the blood lust was always in him. At least he expends it in the forest and not on his fellows.”

Armantaro said softly, “Parents complain when their children are foolish. They blame it on youth. I think it’s we who are foolish, because we’re old. We forget what it’s like to be young.”

Vixa patted his battle-scarred hand. “Parents and children always have problems. Look at my mother and me. I’m one of Qualinesti’s most acclaimed fighters, yet nothing I do is ever good enough for her,” she said ruefully. “I lack fire in my soul, she says. I’m sure she wonders if I am truly her daughter.”

It was the old colonel’s turn to comfort his princess. He spoke up quickly. “I believe the lyremaster set her straight on that score. As I recall, he told your mother in no uncertain terms that you were far too, ah, fiery for the arts.”

The memory surprised a chuckle from Vixa. She squeezed his hand and grinned. “You heard about that? Oh, he was a sour pickle, was Master Picalum.”

“No doubt he was, once you broke your lyre over his head. What had he done to anger you so?”

“He told me I had no rhythm in my fingers!” was the indignant response.

Armantaro laughed softly.

A troop of Dargonesti, their armor restored and refurbished, marched out of the House of Arms. New warriors straggled in, looking shocked and pale. From snatches of conversation that drifted their way, Vixa and Armantaro discerned that a sizable contingent of sea elves had been lured into a trap and slaughtered by the chilkit.

“This can’t go on,” Armantaro stated. “Coryphene will have to risk all in a final throw against them. If he sits tight, they’ll strangle this city and cut his troops apart, like gardeners pruning grapevines.”

Vixa agreed. Gundabyr had better hurry with the gnomefire.

*

A tense silence fell over the city of Urione. Within its graceful shell, a hundred thousand Dargonesti waited for the outcome of a strange race. Who would win, the dwarf or the chilkit?

No one was more uncertain than Vixa. She and Armantaro had remained in the House of Arms for a full day, not knowing what might be happening. Then a soldier had come, and they were taken to the Square of Artisans, where the dwarf toiled. Ostensibly they were there to help in the work, but the old colonel was of the opinion that their presence was more intended to keep the irascible dwarf calm and on the job.

In the Square of Artisans, where all the city’s workshops were concentrated, Gundabyr had the finest crafters beneath the sea at his disposal. They worked feverishly mixing the minerals the dwarf needed. Fortunately, the Dargonesti had supplies of each ingredient stockpiled in the city. They used the components for different purposes – for example, raw bitumen as the cement in their mosaic floors – so everything was on hand.

Making gnomefire itself was the simplest of Gundabyr’s tasks. How to deliver it, though? This question occupied the dwarf’s every waking moment. How could the Dargonesti spread the fire paste on the chilkit without spilling it on themselves?

“On land, I’d just tell’em to toss the jars,” Gundabyr grumbled.

“Underwater the jars wouldn’t hit hard enough to shatter,” Armantaro pointed out.

“Yes, I know,” said the dwarf sourly.

Vixa made a suggestion. “How about some type of catapult?”

Gundabyr scratched a few calculations on the white tabletop. A cadre of Dargonesti crafters craned their necks to follow Gundabyr’s odd markings. They shook their long blue faces, exchanged worried looks. The drylander was mad, utterly mad.

“Thunderation!” Gundabyr bellowed, smearing the numbers with the heel of his hand. “A catapult won’t work underwater either! No skein could keep tension when wet, and anyway, we’ve got no wood for the frame! Blast and thunderation!”

Vixa folded her arms. “The main difficulty is that water is much thicker than air, yes?”

“Yes, yes,” Gundabyr replied testily.

“Yet fish move freely in it.” She thought of her own recent experience. “And the dolphins practically fly through it. Why? Because they have fins and flukes, and muscles to power them.”

“Hmm. Perhaps we could strap firepots to the dolphins,” the dwarf mused.

Numerous blue faces registered shock as the Dargonesti protested this idea loudly. Vixa held up her hands for peace. “No,” she agreed. “That’s a terrible idea.”

Gundabyr scowled.

Armantaro had been sipping from a shell of fresh water. “We’re making this too complex,” he said. “Simple answers are usually the best. How would we fight the chilkit on land? We’d charge them with cavalry armed with lances!”

The old colonel grabbed the shard of coal from Gundabyr and began to sketch on the table. “If we were to use long shafts, thicker and stronger than the Dargonesti spears, attaching a pot of gnomefire to the ends —”

“We could ram the chilkit from a safe distance!” Gundabyr finished. He jotted down some figures. “The lance will be heavy, so we’ll put two soldiers on each one. Congratulations, Colonel, you’ve invented the firelance!”

The Dargonesti artisans quickly grasped the idea, and a basic model was made. Normally, the sea elves used a species of seaweed for their spearshafts. Dried and treated with certain minerals, the strands of seaweed became rigid and stayed that way, even in water. However, the strands weren’t thick enough for Armantaro’s firelance. This problem was easily solved by braiding a great many strands together before the hardening process.

“How much time do we have?” asked the colonel.

“It’s been two and a half days since the last chilkit attack,” Vixa said. “They’re still massing outside the city. There’s no time to lose.”

Virtually every artisan in Urione was drafted. Painters and house builders joined the shapers and toolmakers in turning out strong, thick shafts by the score.

Everyone worked that day, through the night, and all the next day as well. Armantaro caught snatches of sleep in the potters’ den. Here pots were fired over a volcanic vent. It was the warmest, driest place in the city. Gundabyr spent most of his time supervising the making of more gnomefire than had ever been concocted at one time. Vixa helped inspect the final products before they were assembled and the gnomefire added to the pots.

The pots themselves were cylindrical, with a socket on one end, a lid on the other. The shaft of the lance went into the socket, and a pair of bronze pins was inserted to hold everything together. The gnomefire paste was poured in, and the lid anchored with a sticky, waterproof jelly made from mashed kelp. The resulting firelance was twenty feet long, weighing almost one hundred pounds.

On the second night of work, Vixa was alone in the warehouse, counting pots and shafts. Coryphene arrived with only a single warrior as escort. The Protector of Urione watched the Qualinesti princess from the doorway until she turned and saw him. Vixa dipped her head in a brief salute.

“Excellence.”

“How many are there?” he asked.

“Four hundred twenty-seven. By daybreak, there will be five hundred.”

“That will have to do. The sea brothers report that the chilkit are plundering and murdering in our outlying domain. We have no more time. I must save my people!”

This last was said with such fierce conviction that Vixa gave him a quick, startled glance. During these last few days as the Dargonesti and the drylanders worked together, it had been all too easy to forget that she and her friends were prisoners, captives of Coryphene and his divine queen. Vixa thought she understood him a bit better now, understood his single-minded quest for power. Above all, Coryphene was a patriot.

“Are you certain the firelances will work?” he demanded. She nodded. With hard eyes, he looked over the array of cylindrical pots and lance shafts.

“I pray so, lady,” Coryphene said at last. “If we defeat the chilkit by this weapon of yours, you and all the drylanders shall be freed. I swear it.”

He walked away without looking back.

Chapter 13

EXTERMINATION

By morning, Coryphene had convened a council of war. His warrior chiefs and the priests of the great temples gathered to listen as the Protector and Queen Uriona laid out their plans.

The warriors filled the plaza in the center of the palace level. Their faces were hard and grim. There were gaps in their ranks. The priests and priestesses, on the other hand, prayed where they stood, calling on divine aid to save them from the chilkit. This annoyed the soldiers. Honor the gods, said the warriors, but listen to Coryphene Wallbuilder, Protector of Urione.

A dais ringed by curtains was set up for Queen Uriona. Her handmaids entered the plaza and flanked the dais. In unison they bowed their heads. The elves in the plaza did likewise as Uriona entered the enclosure. Coryphene, clad in his finest armor, appeared next.

The warrior chiefs raised both hands in salute and roared, “Coryphene! Quoowahb kadai!” which meant “The Dargonesti are with you!”

“Let there be silence,” Coryphene intoned. “We are in the presence of our divine ruler, the goddess among us, Uriona Firstborn!”

A pall of silence fell instantly over the hundreds assembled in the plaza. Uriona’s voice reached out from the veiled dais. Her words carried perfectly to every ear.

“My people,” she proclaimed, “we stand on the threshold of our destiny. Today, the hated enemy will fall to us. I have asked the gods to bring us a weapon by which the foe can be destroyed. As always, my brother gods have seen fit to do as I asked.”

Coryphene tipped a pot of gnomefire into a basin of seawater set up on the floor before the dais. It sputtered and burst into hissing flame. The priests recoiled, and many of the soldiers shifted uneasily away from a sight sea creatures had never beheld – naked flames.

“With this weapon, we cannot be defeated,” Uriona went on. “I have seen our victory, and it will be glorious.”

“Uriona!” Coryphene shouted. “Quoowahb kadai!”

The crowd took up and echoed his call over and over, until Coryphene raised a hand, signaling for silence. “The army will assemble on the plain of the kelp gardens,” ordered the Protector. “All the firelances will be distributed to the left and right wings. When the battle commences, the wing commanders will attack, forcing the chilkit back. The wings will advance until the enemy breaks, then they will join to enclose the center. None shall escape us. None shall be spared!”

Once more Coryphene had to silence their cheers before he could speak. “Keep clear of the lance heads,” he told them. “The yellow mixture inside burns when touched by water. If a pot bursts prematurely, the only way to put out the fire is to smother it with sand. Is that understood?” A clatter of weapons against shields signified the warriors’ approval. Coryphene raised his voice, the words ringing through the square. “You know your places, soldiers! To victory! To victory!”

“To victory!” they shouted in return. “Coryphene! Quoowahb kadai! Uriona! Quoowahb kadai!”

The chiefs marched out to join their units. The priests and priestesses waited until the fighters were gone, then bowed and filed out silently. Uriona called to her warlord.

“Coryphene.”

He went swiftly to the curtained enclosure. She seldom spoke his name. Hearing it now, feeling himself poised on the brink of his greatest victory, an intoxicating thrill went through his body. He knelt just outside the thin curtain.

“Yes, Divine Majesty?”

“Guard yourself, Coryphene. You are my instrument of destiny. Be valiant, but be careful as well.”

“With Your Divinity to watch over me, nothing can touch me.”

“Victory is assured. I have foreseen it. But —” The soft silhouette of the queen shifted on her ornate chair. “But our individual lives cannot be vouchsafed. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Divine Majesty, with all my heart.”

He rose. Before he could take his leave, Uriona spoke again. “After the battle, there is a task to do. Only you can be trusted to accomplish it, Coryphene.”

“You have only to name it, my queen.”

“The drylanders must die. All of them. If any survive, it will endanger our expedition to Silvanost.”

Coryphene, despite his absolute devotion to her, was shaken. “All of them? Even the princess of the Qualinesti?”

“Especially her. And the old colonel and the dwarf. They are a great danger to me, Coryphene. There is one other who must die. One of our own people.”

He had no trouble guessing. “Naxos,” he stated.

“Yes. He has already betrayed us to the drylanders. He plots with them to destroy us. To destroy me.”

“He will not survive the battle! I vow it, Majesty!”

“Be wary of him. My brother gods may try to protect him.”

“I fear no power but that of my divine queen,” Coryphene said fervently. To his amazement, Uriona extended her hand through the curtain and held it for him to kiss. He took the hand in his, gazing at it as though he would memorize every line. The skin was fine as musselbeard silk, the webbing between the long, elegant fingers a translucent turquoise. Slowly, with all possible deference, Coryphene touched his lips to the soft hand.

“I am Your Majesty’s slave,” he whispered.

The hand was withdrawn, and Uriona spoke no more. Coryphene rose and strode from the empty plaza. Purpose blazed in his heart. Today would be the day of reckoning. Today the Dargonesti would defeat their dread enemy.

*

Rank upon rank of Dargonesti soldiers marched through the market square on their way to battle. The common folk of Urione lined the way, waving and singing. Some tossed scented water on the passing troops, a sign of special favor. The warriors filed into the quays and marched into the pools.

Of all the dryland prisoners, only three were in the square watching the soldiers go to meet the chilkit invaders. Vixa, Armantaro, and Gundabyr stood together. The old colonel stood straight as a pikestaff while the Dargonesti marched by, as if he were reviewing the troops. Vixa leaned on one arm against a low wall and counted the ranks. In a quarter hour she noted five thousand Dargonesti warriors had passed her.

“And still they come,” she marveled. “Where does Coryphene get them?”

“Perhaps they’re marching out, reentering the city, and marching past again, in a loop,” Gundabyr wryly suggested. His bearded, craggy face was deeply shadowed from lack of sleep. “You know, to fool the hometown folks.”

“You’re wrong,” Armantaro said. “I’ve not seen a face repeat.” His martial stance and hawk-faced profile had attracted the attention of some of the Dargonesti soldiers. They’d begun to turn toward the Qualinesti colonel as they passed, giving a perfect “eyes left.”

“A lot of these lads are new to arms. Look at the fit of their equipment. They’re untried soldiers,” the colonel remarked.

Vixa looked more closely and had to agree with his assessment. The spears were not ported at a sharp angle, the way veterans would carry them. Helmets seemed either too big or too small. Some of the Dargonesti even had empty scabbards flapping at their sides, as there were not enough weapons to go around.

A contingent of firelancers marched by, the new weapons on their shoulders. These were the best of Coryphene’s troops, hand-picked for size and strength. Many had come from the ranks of the Protector’s own guard. Considering the ferocity and size of the enemy they were to meet, their numbers seemed terribly small.

The sight of the ill-prepared youngsters and the too-few veterans galvanized Vixa into action. “I’m going out, too,” she declared.

“What? Lady, you mustn’t!” Armantaro objected.

“Can I stand idly by while others fight for my life? No!”

“I can,” Gundabyr said calmly. “They took me prisoner, made me a slave, caused me to lose my brother. I made their damned gnomefire. Now it’s their fight, Highness. Let’em fight it.”

“If you fight, then I shall be at your side,” said the colonel.

Vixa clasped his arms. “No, my friend. Even if you won’t admit it, I must – you’re ill. That cough of yours gets worse daily.”

Even as she said this, Armantaro’s body shook as he smothered a cough. “It’s nothing,” he insisted.

“Stay here, Colonel. They’d never give you an airshell anyway.”

“What about you?” asked Gundabyr. “What’ll you do for air?”

“I have my own resources.” Vixa moved to fall in with the passing ranks of soldiers. Armantaro would have followed, but she put a hand on his chest to stop him. “I order you to remain, Colonel,” she said firmly. “As your commander and your princess.”

“But, Your Highness —”

“No, Colonel. It is my official order – and my private wish – that you stay in the city. If anything should happen to me, tell my mother …” She frowned, her voice trailing off.

He saluted. “I’ll tell her you died bravely, in battle.”

“You’ll do no such thing. Tell my family to visit the seaside every year on Midsummer’s Day. Tell them —” She smiled and departed without finishing the thought, merging into the column of tall sea elves. Armantaro quickly lost sight of her.

“What did she mean – visit the seashore?” asked Gundabyr.

“A joke, my friend.” But the colonel looked anything but amused. Suddenly, an attack of coughing seized him. He turned his back on the ranks of marching elves, leaning on the wall for support. Gundabyr saw blood flecking his lips as he gasped for air.

At the quayside, a Dargonesti officer was directing lines of warriors into the water. Vixa remained hidden among the slow-moving ranks until she drew near the officer.

“You! Drylander! What are you doing here?”

“Going out,” Vixa replied tersely.

“Are you mad? There’s going to be a battle!”

“I know.”

The lines of soldiery were walking down the ramp into the water. The rest of the pool was empty. Vixa spun, leapt, and hit the water in an arcing dive.

“Stupid drylander!” the officer yelled. “Where do you think you can go? You there – soldiers! Get her!”

Vixa swam hard for the passage leading into open water. She kicked furiously toward the archway. However, she felt hands seize her ankles. Three sea elves had caught her. She had no hope of shaking them off. The princess emptied her mind of everything but the memory of her dolphin body. The sleek black-and-white form filled her thoughts.

Heat flooded her body. The chill of the water was replaced by an expanding warmth. Vixa wanted to kick at the Dargonesti hands that held her ankles, but her legs had grown rigid. Of their own volition, her arms drew in tight against her sides. She knew an instant’s panic as she felt herself being hauled back by the Dargonesti. The world tilted crazily.

Her Dargonesti captors suddenly cried out and fell back in shock. The leg they had been holding had become a muscular dolphin’s tail. Though they were accustomed to the shapeshifters among their own people, this sudden transformation of a drylander took them completely by surprise.

Vixa fanned the water with her tail and shot out through the yawning arch. She turned up, gaining height over the sea bottom. The voices of her sea brethren were all around her.

“Hurry, hurry!” cried a dolphin voice. “The battle is joined!”

Vixa swam hard toward the sound. She sped through the water like a bird on the wing, passing schools of small fish. More dolphins gathered in the gloomy water. She fell in with a charging school of Dargonesti shapeshifters.

The ocean was filled with the sounds of battle. From below, the Dargonesti were calling every dolphin to come to their aid. Glancing back, Vixa saw hundreds streaming toward the scene of the conflict.

The chilkit were formed into a huge crescent, the horns of which threatened to close around Urione. The sea elves had sortied at four points and formed troops. The two center divisions of Dargonesti were being forced back under heavy chilkit attack. So far no gnomefire could be seen. Vixa prayed the formula would work. Everything had been prepared in such haste.

A dolphin hailed the princess. She didn’t recognize him until he told her his name. He was Kios, the shapeshifter she’d met before. Following him, Vixa angled down with a hundred other dolphins to join the fight. A square of Dargonesti, bristling with spears, had been backed into the coral gardens on this side of the city. The chilkit, fighting in close ranks, sometimes almost standing on top of each other, advanced on them. Sand churned up around the feet of a thousand fighters. Blood drifted in the water like smoky clouds.

Kios let out a high-pitched cry and rammed into the back of a chilkit. A half-second later, Vixa hit the next creature in line. The shock went through her from nose to tail, but she felt the red shell crack under the blow. Flexing her flukes, Vixa climbed out of reach of the chilkit’s claws, circled, and dove again. Another shapeshifter streaked by her and hit the same target. The chilkit met him head-on. The monster’s claws caught him on both flanks. Blood obscured them both for a moment, then Vixa saw the lifeless body of the shapeshifter sinking to the sandy bottom.

Shocked by his death and her own narrow escape, Vixa pointed her snout toward the surface. She raced upward in blind panic until her black-and-white head broke into the air in a blast of spray. Her thoughts whirled. The sun dazzled her.

Vixa rotated her body, scanning the horizon for possible landmarks. There was nothing to be seen but endless rolling waves. No hint of land marred the perfect line between sea and sky.

She knew she was somewhere in the great southern ocean called Turbidus. If she swam directly north she would find land eventually. Her dolphin form could make the trip with ease, no matter how long it took. Should she go? Didn’t she have a duty to escape, to warn the nations of Ansalon about the threat of the Dargonesti and – most especially – about Queen Uriona’s mad plan to conquer the elven nations?

What about her friends? Coryphene had sworn to free them if the battle was won. That was her first duty. She couldn’t simply leave them to their fates. Vixa took in a great breath and dove once more for the depths.

Descending toward the city, the princess circled the battle site. The underwater cries of the Dargonesti added to the cacophony. From her position, Vixa saw that the chilkit had fought through the coral garden to the base of Urione itself. The Dargonesti wings had held, so now the chilkit formation resembled a giant red horseshoe. What was Coryphene waiting for? It was time to use the gnomefire!

Throwing caution to the wind, she dove hard at the center of the Dargonesti position. Coryphene was easy to spot, in the front ranks surrounded by the remainder of his guard. His tall, decorated helmet stood up above the rest. Hurtling over his head, she shouted his name. The Protector was too busy battling a chilkit to reply. Vixa doubled back and rammed the chilkit he fought.

“You there! Sea brother!”

She cruised by him, regarding him with one bright eye. “Thank you for your aid,” he called in the water-tongue. “Do I know you?”

“Why have you not used the firelances?” she demanded.

“By the Abyss! Who are you to give me counsel?” Beneath his heavy helm, Coryphene’s brow knitted. Suddenly, the frown lifted, to be replaced by a look of astonishment. “I do know you! Vixa Ambrodel! What – what are you doing in this guise?”

She ignored the question. “You’ll be backed into your own plaza soon! Why don’t you bring up the firelances?”

Coryphene was hailed by several other sea brothers. They’d brought the same question from his flank commanders.

“You have so little faith in our queen’s genius,” he told them all darkly. “Very well,” the Protector said at last. “Bring forth the firelances! To the fore, all firelances!”

Vixa sped off to the left flank. She shouted Coryphene’s order in her dolphin voice. Her words carried far. By the time she reached the left flank, the long lances tipped with the pottery cylinders were hoisted and ready. The chilkit were obviously not impressed by the unusual weapons. They closed ranks and came on.

“Now!”

The first line of firelancers dashed their weapons into the foe. Seawater mixed with the paste as the pots shattered, and a hundred chilkit were immediately engulfed in flames. The front lines of both armies pulled back, leaving the burning creatures in a zone of fire.

Underwater, gnomefire burned fiercely, but there was no smoke. Instead, huge bubbles of combustive gases boiled out of the flaming paste. The bubbles hit like forge hammers, hot and hard, as the chilkit and dolphins found out. One struck Vixa a glancing blow in her belly, driving the wind from her body. She raced for the city shell and surfaced in one of the lower-level quays. After a moment to catch her breath, she returned once more to the fray.

On both flanks the chilkit line gave way. The firelancers pressed forward, backed by armed Dargonesti.

In the center, Coryphene called for his reserve corps. A thousand fresh sea elves sprang up from hollows in the sandy bottom. The chilkit line fragmented. Individual chilkit were easily mown down by the more numerous, faster-moving Dargonesti spear fighters. Wherever the chilkit managed to re-form to stand off the Dargonesti, firelancers were brought up. Hundreds of chilkit were consumed by fresh infernos.

Vixa swooped in and out of the fight, hammering chilkit, saving Dargonesti who were menaced or who had fallen to the enemy. Over the din of battle, she heard her name being called. She stiffened to alertness.

“Sea brothers, to me!” cried the voice. Vixa found herself turning to obey.

A larger dolphin blocked her path. “Kios?” A raucous dolphin chuckle told her she was wrong. “Naxos!” she exclaimed.

The chief of the shapeshifters bobbed his head in the affirmative. “How do you like battle, little dryfoot? Isn’t this better than sucking air from an old whelk shell?”

“Naxos – don’t you hear the call?”

“It’s only Coryphene. Ignore him.”

“I can’t,” she complained. “I am compelled!” It was true. The call acted like a powerful magnet drawing her toward its source.

Naxos circled her slowly. “It’s a sorcery he uses on the weak-minded. Resist it! You are freeborn.”

“Sea brothers! To me! I command you!” The pressure became stronger, pulling her away from Naxos.

“I must go!” she cried. Resistance seemed impossible. He followed, keeping pace with her.

A thick cloud of dolphins had formed over the center of the battlefield. Amid columns of coiling, bubbling water, Vixa maneuvered to reach Coryphene. The Protector and his personal guard were mounting the dolphins as though they were horses. Coryphene climbed onto a sea brother that Vixa recognized as Kios.

“They have broken!” Coryphene exulted in the water-tongue. “Now is the time to drive the chilkit back into the dark depths forever!”

The triumph in his voice and the victorious cries of the other Dargonesti – dolphin and elven alike – filled Vixa’s brain and set her blood tingling. She joined some of the riderless dolphins who were swooping and swirling around their Protector.

“I am with you!” Vixa chirped.

Coryphene threw down his shield. A warrior handed him three spears. Coryphene raised them in a bundle over his head. “Death to the enemies of Urione! No quarter! No quarter!” he roared.

Less than a thousand Dargonesti, mounted on dolphins, rose up from the battlefield and swept down on the retreating chilkit. Vixa and the other riderless dolphins surged ahead, harrying the fragmented enemy. The chilkit armor was thinner on top and vulnerable to spear thrusts. Coryphene killed six chilkit with his first spear before it broke. He grabbed a second weapon.

“Go on! Go on!” he commanded. “Let none survive!”

Vixa ploughed onward, turning this way and that, helping the sea brothers chase down any chilkit they saw moving. The ocean became so thick with chilkit blood, she no longer tasted the sea’s salt, only a sickening sweetness.

The broken wall at the mouth of the Mortas Trench appeared. Vixa rose and shot through the gap. Below, red-shelled creatures were pouring back down the dark slope, seeking escape from the vengeful sea elves.

Coryphene had no intention of letting them go. He rallied his scattered dolphin riders and ordered the last battalion of firelancers to follow them. Tired but exuberant Dargonesti cheered him and followed in his wake.

Vixa swam mechanically now. Exhaustion was sapping her will. The dolphins, with and without riders, sped deeper and deeper into the black water. A running fight ensued as individual chilkit turned to make their stand in the murky shadows. Their bravery surprised Vixa, who had grown used to thinking of them as cruel and mindless monsters. They were not. They helped their own wounded comrades, defending them from fresh attacks. But they were too scattered to offer an effective defense. Whenever four or five chilkit banded together, firelancers were called to put them to the torch. Soon the trench floor was lit by a dozen burning gnomefires.

Vixa left only once, taking in fresh air. Angling back down to the seafloor, she rounded a bend in the trench and saw a red glow that wasn’t gnomefire. Ripples of unpleasantly hot water washed by her. The floor of the trench had split open, and lava was oozing out of the seabed. The red snake of molten rock filled the rift for miles.

Suddenly, Naxos appeared at her side. “Coryphene means to slaughter them all!” he exclaimed.

“Why? The battle is won.”

“He is drunk with destruction. The chilkit are completely broken, yet still he wages war. Sea brothers are put in danger for no reason!”

“I’ll talk to him,” she said as she shot away from Naxos. She had no idea what she might say, but she had to try.

In the hot, weird waters of the trench, Vixa swam slowly along a line of Dargonesti foot soldiers. At their head she found the dolphin riders, led by Coryphene.

“The day is ours, Princess!” he exulted.

“You have defeated them utterly, Excellence. The battle is over.”

He shook his head. “None must survive. They will only threaten our children someday.”

“Talk to them then. Make peace with them. There’s no need for more Dargonesti lives to be lost.”

“Talk to monsters? You’ve seen them in battle – do they know anything of mercy?” She had no answer.

Vixa swam away. The last chilkit had their backs to the lava flow. Faced with gnomefire on the one hand and lava on the other, they charged the Dargonesti. Many sea elves died in that last charge, perishing in a battle they’d already won. Coryphene pressed the enemy with firelances. The remaining chilkit withdrew to a low mound. Lava flowed around the base and climbed its sides. Coryphene called his warriors back at last.

The chilkit stood fast, holding steady in the midst of the lava stream. Gradually, the lava reached them, and covered them. When the last chilkit was engulfed, Coryphene ordered a quick retreat, for the ocean was near to boiling.

The plain between the Mortas Trench and Urione presented a grisly scene. Thousands of Dargonesti were pouring out of the city now that the chilkit were defeated. They covered the plain, dispatching wounded chilkit with clubs, gaffs, even rocks. Chilkit claws were hacked off as edible trophies, and the bodies thrown on the still-burning gnomefires. Patrolling dolphins kept the sharks at bay while the carnage went on.

Coryphene was spotted as he returned from the trench. Ten thousand arms raised in salute. Ten thousand Dargonesti voices keened in triumph. The Protector accepted the adulation with a wave of his last spear.

The moment of victory was spoiled, however, as a single dolphin hurtled into view. Naxos brushed Coryphene with his powerful flukes, knocking the Protector from Kios’s back.

“Traitor!” Coryphene hissed. “Blasphemer!”

“Whom have I betrayed? You?”

“You have betrayed your lawful sovereign by consorting with the drylanders. You have blasphemed our divine queen, and shared our sacred mysteries with a land-dweller. There she is!”

He pointed to Vixa with his spear. Frightened and embarrassed, she glared at them both.

Coryphene’s loyal troops drew close around him. Naxos taunted, “Leave your guards, Excellence. Face the sea brothers on your own!”

Hundreds of Dargonesti warriors shouted insults and threats at the lone shapeshifter. To her consternation, Vixa realized that none of the sea brothers were coming to their chief’s defense. Not even Kios, his second-in-command, had a word to say for Naxos.

“Face the sea brothers, you say?” Coryphene jeered. “I see only a single traitor who has no brothers.”

Naxos had been swimming with studied nonchalance several fathoms above Coryphene. In a flash of gray, he dove at the Protector. Coryphene stood ready, spear lying in the crook of his right arm. A dolphin Naxos’s size could shatter the armor of a chilkit. If he rammed Coryphene, there was no way the Protector could survive.

Vixa had been so riveted by this interplay, she’d sacrificed vigilance. Several warriors seized her. She struggled, but was too exhausted and too outnumbered to escape.

Coryphene dropped his spear butt to the top of his right foot and, with one powerful kick, launched the weapon at Naxos. The shapeshifter twisted to avoid the flashing spear, but it caught him on the back, just behind his dorsal fin. Coryphene looked on impassively as Naxos thrashed and rolled, trying to dislodge the spear. Vixa heard the shaft snap. The head remained embedded. In a welter of sand and blood, Naxos sped away, inches off the ocean floor.

“Let him go,” Coryphene told his guard. “The sharks shall be his healers.”

The Protector glanced around. Kios and the other sea brothers had scattered. They were gone in the blink of an eye, their chance to support their chief likewise vanished. Coryphene Wallbuilder stood amid the scene of his greatest victory, uncontested master of Urione.

Chapter 14

TREACHERY

Four Dargonesti warriors towed Vixa back into the city. They heaved her out of the water and onto a quay. No sooner had her flukes left the water than she felt great heat wash over her. Concentrate, she told herself wearily. Visualize yourself as elven.

Without the water to cool her, the heat of her dolphin form continued to build. She shuddered and closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind of everything except the desire to be elven once more. She felt the strange stretching of her limbs as first arms, then legs returned. Instantly, cold flooded her elven body. Goosebumps rose on flesh that was still fading from dolphin-black to Qualinesti-pale. The quay upon which she lay felt like an ice floe.

Coryphene emerged from the pool. For the first time Vixa saw the many injuries he’d sustained in battle. Slashes, scratches, and violet bruises covered his bare torso and limbs. He beckoned to a waiting elf who held a long cloak of woven seaweed for the Protector. She was surprised when Coryphene had the cloak draped around her instead of himself. Then he helped her to stand.

Vixa’s teeth chattered uncontrollably. Her knees buckled, but Coryphene supported her with one arm.

“I’m ill,” she muttered through blue lips.

“Your body is not meant to take the shape of a sea brother,” Coryphene said.

She shrugged free of his arm. “What punishment do you have planned for me?”

Wiping his wet hair back from his face with one hand, he exhaled gustily. “I am tired, lady. I must bear tidings of our victory to Her Divine Majesty now.” Coryphene stepped away from her. Giving her a brief, unreadable look, he turned away. “I will consider your disposition later.”

“Will you keep your word, Protector of Urione?” she called to his back. “Will you free the dryland captives?”

He gave no sign that he heard, but went to where his guard had formed up, in the archway leading into the city. The narrow street beyond was jammed with hysterical Dargonesti, intoxicated by the defeat of their enemy. Coryphene visibly steeled himself, squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath, before plunging into the crowd.

He marched away with his warriors. Thousands cheered him as he passed.

The Qualinesti princess pulled the cloak more tightly around her shivering body and made her weary way toward the House of Arms.

*

The victory over the chilkit transformed the status of Gundabyr and the Qualinesti. No longer were they despised, for the population of Urione knew how the drylanders had contributed to the defeat of the enemy. Hostility turned to generosity. Armantaro and the dwarf could not show themselves in the street without being inundated with gifts and praise.

“If I eat any more, I’ll burst!” Gundabyr said. His vest buttons were straining to contain his protruding belly. Edible gifts filled the House of Arms – dried, seasoned fish, exotic sauces and jellies made from seaweed, live shrimp in tanks of water, Dargonesti nectar – on and on the list went. Armantaro divided the spoils among the remaining dryland captives. It was the best eating any of them had done in a long, long time.

Armantaro was staring into space, preoccupied with his own thoughts, so Gundabyr repeated his complaint.

“Then stop eating so much,” the colonel snapped. He’d eaten very little himself. The fiery sensation in his chest had killed his appetite. He spent his time worrying about his absent princess.

“What in the name of the Abyss has happened to her?” Armantaro demanded. It had been two days since they’d last seen Vixa. She had returned to the House of Arms after the final battle, wan, worn, and barely able to stand. After sleeping all that night and half the next day, Vixa had departed, refusing to tell even Armantaro where she was bound.

Any news the colonel and the dwarf had of the great battle, they’d gleaned from passing soldiers. Vixa had told them nothing. They knew she’d fought as a dolphin. They also knew that Naxos, the chief of the sea brothers, had crossed Coryphene and had been killed for his disloyalty.

“Maybe she’s with Coryphene,” suggested Gundabyr.

Armantaro stood up suddenly. “If he harms her …” the colonel rasped darkly.

“Why should he? She helped win the war, too.”

“If he trifles with her, he’ll wish the chilkit had taken him!” The vehemence of this statement surprised Gundabyr. He hadn’t realized the depth of fatherly feeling the old Qualinesti colonel had for his young commander.

“If she can fight off red-shelled monsters, she can probably handle one blueskin,” Gundabyr said dryly “She did pretty well as a dolphin.”

Armantaro frowned. That aspect of the situation did not please him either. The colonel felt Naxos had manipulated her into becoming a shapeshifter. The more he thought about it, the angrier it made him. He stalked away from the dwarf.

“Where are you going?” Gundabyr called.

“To find Princess Vixa.”

Gundabyr, opening a fresh pot of caviar, sighed. “You know how the blueskins are these days. You’ll be mobbed by adoring Quoowahb before you get five paces out the door.”

This was only too true. Armantaro rummaged through the gifts of clothing piled in the center of the great room. Among these was a fine sharkskin cape covered in silver scales. He whipped this around his neck and pulled the hood up.

“I’ll pass for one of them,” he said confidently. “They’ll leave me alone.”

“Oh, yes, a short albino Quoowahb – that’s you all right. You’re a stubborn cuss, you know that? Here the Dargonesti are finally beginning to make up for their treatment of us, and you want to go and antagonize their leader, a fellow with a temper the size of the whole southern sea. Don’t you remember Nissia, Colonel? Do you want to end up a prisoner again?”

“As far as I can tell, I still am a prisoner. Better fed and warmer, maybe, but a prisoner nonetheless.”

Armantaro swept from the room. No Dargonesti stood guard, so no one challenged him.

The victory celebrations had finally died down, and the streets were nearly deserted. Armantaro kept the hood close around his face. The House of Arms was some twenty levels below the palace. Climbing the wide ramp upward took most of Armantaro’s strength. More than once he had to sit down and gasp for breath. On the floor just below the palace, he left the central way. No sense barging right in – Coryphene’s magical barrier would warn him if anyone entered the palace by that means.

This level housed the armory, the barracks of the Protector’s guards, storehouses of food and drink for the royal residence, and the Dargonesti treasury. Armantaro avoided the well-guarded barracks and treasury, skulking instead beside the silent warehouses. There ought to be a back stair around here somewhere.

Sure enough, down an alley between a row of stone storage huts, Armantaro found steps leading up. From the wear on them, he guessed servants had been using them for many, many years. Cautiously, he climbed into the darkness.

He could smell cooking – most unusual, since the Dargonesti ate their food raw or dried.

The steps led up through a large slot cut in the thick granite floor. Armantaro had entered the palace larder. The only light came from an open doorway. A rattle of pottery and a few distant words came through the opening as well. He crept forward, peering through the doorway.

Two Dargonesti were dipping dirty plates in a kettle of water to clean them. Both were grimacing ferociously.

“What a stink!” said one of the sea elves. “What is the Protector doing out there?”

The other glared at the dishes, saying tartly, “Does His Excellence tell me his business? What an awful smell!”

Armantaro got to his hands and knees and crawled behind a long table laden with kitchen implements. The servants had their backs to him and never heard him pass. In the pantry beyond the kitchen, the colonel got shakily to his feet. Curtains wavered in the doorway. He peeked through, saw an empty corridor, and started down it.

When he drew near the far end, he saw to his right the audience hall used by Queen Uriona. Vixa had described in detail her meeting with the queen there, and he had no trouble recognizing the place. To his left was a smaller chamber, set up as a dining room. Coryphene stood by a waist-high brazier, atop which blazed a stone crucible filled with hissing gnomefire. Thin smoke rose from the fire. Coryphene laid a bit of white meat atop the crucible. A few paces from the brazier was a single small table, and seated at it was the queen herself.

Armantaro halted, momentarily taken aback. This was his first sight of Queen Uriona, and he had to admit the princess’s quick description of her had not done her justice. Her complexion was dark blue, her eyes large and lustrous violet, like twin amethysts. She had silver hair of a metallic sheen he’d never seen before. It was pulled back from her face in gentle waves, leaving her upswept ears free. Seated as she was, the thick braid of her hair – twined through with strands of shells and pearls – brushed the floor. Her cheekbones were high and prominent, her nose narrow and tilted slightly upward at the end. She appeared to be somewhere in her second century and certainly looked the part of a goddess. Her words, which came to Armantaro’s acute ears, were frighteningly at variance with her elegant beauty.

“— your cleansing of the chilkit vermin,” she was saying. “We could not afford to let a single beast live. They would certainly have returned to harass us someday.”

“It is possible that some still live on some far-off abyssal plain,” Coryphene reminded her.

She waved a slender hand. “They will not bother us again. As I look into the future, I see no chilkit to impede us.” Uriona lifted to her lips an exquisitely fashioned goblet of shell and silver inlay. “Put more on the fire, Coryphene,” she commanded.

The Protector dropped another bit of white meat on the gnomefire. “It smells terrible, Divine Queen,” he said, his face stony with disgust.

“If I am to rule on land, I must become accustomed to eating food burned by fire. Bring me more of the chilkit.”

With Armantaro’s own dagger, Coryphene speared a chunk of some slain chilkit – and transferred it to a scallop-shell plate. The meat was seared on the ends, but the middle was still pink. Though it smelled remarkably like crab, Armantaro felt his stomach twisting with nausea. A warrior did not eat his enemies – even if his enemy was a chilkit. It was nothing short of cannibalism.

Coryphene presented the dish to Uriona like a priest making an offering. She picked apart the meat with her long nails. Wordlessly, she ate a tiny tidbit.

“Divinity?”

“Yes?”

“Is it – is it necessary that the drylander girl be slain?”

The words speared Armantaro through the heart. He held his breath as Coryphene continued. “She has become one of the sea brothers. Now that Naxos is dead, Kios has given me his fealty. In time I believe Vixa Ambrodel will become your loyal servant, like the others.”

Uriona smiled. She really was remarkably beautiful. Yet the light that shone behind her startling eyes was not the light of wisdom, courage, or love. Armantaro saw only madness there.

“You admire her, don’t you?” she murmured. Coryphene’s blue coloring deepened. “Do you want her for your own?”

“Your Majesty knows I love only you! There is no other for me!” he said loudly. He returned to the sputtering fire. After a moment, he said more calmly, “Naxos was an insolent, traitorous wretch. I felt no pity at his death. The old dryland elf can die as well, but I feel it is unjust to slay the Qualinesti princess and the dwarf. It is because of them that we have our victory.”

Uriona’s customarily serene expression dissolved into a flash of anger. She stood abruptly and swept the table clean of implements. “Fool!” she cried. “Your victory is due to me, the divine queen of the sea! How dare you share my honor with mortal drylanders!”

Instantly, Coryphene went down on one knee, begging forgiveness, but Uriona turned away and stalked to the far end of the room, keeping her back to Coryphene. Armantaro ached to have his dagger in hand.

The Protector rose and went around the table. He stopped only a few feet from the angry queen.

“No one has served you better than I,” he said, his voice tight and low. “From the day I saw you in your father’s court in Watermere, I have loved you. Because of this love I have performed many difficult tasks for you – some shameful, some a stain on my warrior’s honor. You owe me a boon, Uriona.” He closed in, taking her by the shoulders. “Give me these two lives!”

“Release me!” she hissed, shocked at this liberty. Yet, he did not obey. She lifted one hand, palm facing the warlord. A surge of power shot out. Even from his hiding place, Armantaro felt it. It was like standing too near the open door of a dwarven blast furnace. Naked heat seared his body. He trembled. The Qualinesti colonel was amazed that Coryphene could withstand the queen’s magic at such close range.

“Strike me dead, if you choose,” the Protector said flatly, “but I will not be dissuaded.”

The need to cough finally became too much for Armantaro. Coughing exploded from his mouth. He reeled away, blundering against the wall. He’d gone only a few paces back toward the kitchen when strong hands seized him from behind.

“So! You dare spy on Her Divine Majesty?”

Coryphene dragged the weakened Armantaro into the room and hurled him to the floor. The Qualinesti couldn’t control his coughing, and blood from his spittle stained the white marble. Once the spasm had ended, Armantaro pushed himself up on his hands and knees.

“You see, Coryphene!” Uriona said triumphantly. “The drylanders invade my sacred precinct! And these are the people you would spare. We will never be safe from such as he.”

“Foolish drylander,” snarled Coryphene. The warlord hauled the old colonel to his feet, gripping him by the neck of the sharkskin cape. His words were as icy as the deep ocean. “Had you stayed in your place, I might have saved your princess. By your treachery you have condemned her to death as well.”

“Your designs cannot succeed,” Armantaro said hoarsely.

Coryphene drew the dagger from his waist. “No mortal hand can stop us. My queen rules all destiny. You brought the instrument of your own death with you. I give it back to you now.”

There was steel yet in the old colonel’s limbs. He’d hung limp in Coryphene’s grasp. Now he grabbed the dagger hilt in both hands, surprising the warlord and wrestling the weapon from him. The Protector’s reaction was that of a seasoned fighter: he threw himself back, out of Armantaro’s reach.

Without pause, the colonel thrust the knife at the unprotected queen. Uriona put out her hand – not to ward off his blow, but to deliver one of her own.

A blast of heat hit Armantaro in the chest. He was lifted off his feet and flung backward. The dagger hilt was still in his hand, but the blade was gone. Spatters of molten iron on the floor testified to the force of Uriona’s power.

“Finish him,” she said disdainfully. Coryphene took Armantaro by the throat and lifted him. His powerful webbed fingers closed around the Qualinesti’s neck. Blood thundered in Armantaro’s head, and a red haze closed in around him.

A servant ran in and prostrated himself on the floor, careful not to look upon the divine face of his queen. “Gracious goddess!” he cried. “Lord Kios of the sea brothers begs for an immediate audience with Lord Protector Coryphene!”

His fury distracted, Coryphene released his death grip on Armantaro. The colonel dropped to the floor, racked with gasping coughs. Coryphene took two deep breaths. His gills flared out and relaxed again behind his ears.

“It is not fitting for you to see death, Divine One,” he said to Uriona. “I will take the drylander out and dispose of him.”

He gestured to the servant, who dragged the helpless Armantaro into the audience hall. Coryphene strode out after them.

“I have not given you leave to go,” Uriona said sharply.

He turned. “I did not ask it. I will hear Kios and dispose of the drylander. Then I shall return, Majesty.”

He walked out, proud and fierce. Alone in the chamber, Uriona smiled. It had taken a long time, but she had finally provoked Coryphene into asserting himself. If he was to be her consort, as she fervently wished, he’d better learn to speak up and stop playing the toady.

*

Vixa swam slowly along the bottom, probing the gloom around her. The Mortas Trench was hardly an inviting place at the best of times. In the aftermath of the climactic battle, it was hellish. Moray eels, sharks, and other carnivores prowled the dark recesses, feeding on dead chilkit drifting in the current. Strange how they lost their vivid crimson color after death. The chilkit bodies had turned pure white.

For two days Vixa had searched for Naxos in the unfamiliar environs around Urione. She had been encouraged by not finding his body, but her hope was giving way to despair. There were no clues at all. The gardens of kelp and coral were empty. No trace of the sea brothers’ former chief could be found near the shrimp pens, the quarry, or the shell heaps where the Dargonesti discarded all the shellfish debris from the city. That left only one other place to search: Mortas.

Vixa had learned that as a dolphin her hearing was her greatest strength. Swimming slowly along the floor of the trench, she heard a constant background of noises, but nothing that sounded like the wounded Naxos.

She called to him. There was no response. She called more loudly. The only answer was the susurration of water lapping against the excavations made by the chilkit.

She cruised over to a large opening in the mountainside. This must be the tunnel the chilkit had made to enter Nissia Grotto. Cautiously, she swam inside the black pit. Small creatures scurried away as she approached. The sea was already claiming the tunnel for its own.

Ripples above her indicated a surface to the water. Her beak broke into air. She found herself in a small air pocket, perhaps ten paces wide. It was very cold in here. Mist jetted from Vixa’s open mouth. She swam quietly in a circle, surveying the walls of the cave. By the marks on the stone she could tell that this area had been carved out by the chilkit.

Suddenly, Vixa saw something protruding between the rocks. She moved closer. It was a foot. She reared up and nudged the foot with her beak. To her shock, it moved.

“Who’s there?” asked a weak voice, speaking Elvish.

She squeaked in response. A pale face appeared among the dark rocks. Naxos!

“Vixa Ambrodel, how nice to see you,” he said as casually as though they were meeting on the street.

She called up her human form. Though she’d transformed several times now, the sensation still astonished her. Her limbs stretched and the world changed. The dense muscularity of the dolphin was replaced by the tall litheness of the elf maiden. Soon she was treading water, her teeth chattering with the chill. She levered herself onto the narrow shelf of rock.

“Forgive me if I don’t rise,” Naxos whispered, gesturing to his injury. Coryphene’s spear had taken him in the hip. The wound was clean, but large.

“Praise Astra! You’re alive!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for you for days!”

“Looking for me?” His face twisted. “For Coryphene, I suppose.”

Her eyes flashed. “You say such a thing! Coryphene thinks you’re dead, you stupid blueskin!”

He smiled wanly. “I beg your pardon, Princess. Pain and hunger have taken away all my charm, I fear.”

He lay in a depression in the rock, with nothing to soothe his wound or make his berth comfortable. Vixa couldn’t believe he still lived after lying in this damp, cold place for three days. She knelt beside him.

“So Coryphene thinks me dead? Let us hope that mistake will prove fatal for him,” Naxos said softly. He winced as he shifted position.

“Kios has pledged his loyalty and that of the sea brothers to Coryphene and Uriona.”

“Ah, brotherhood,” Naxos sighed, but his heart wasn’t in the sarcasm.

Vixa said, more cheerfully, “Now that I’ve found you, we can all escape. You and I can carry Armantaro and Gundabyr to land.”

He gestured to his hip. “I’m not going anywhere like this. The muscle’s damaged, and if I start bleeding in the water, the sharks will finish what our Protector started.”

They looked at each other silently, pondering their predicament. Water dripped from overhead. “I’ll bring you food and find some medicine,” Vixa said firmly. “We’ll heal your wound, then we’ll escape.”

“No.”

“What?”

“Coryphene will notice your comings and goings. If he suspects I still live, he and that witch-queen of his will smell me out with their magic.”

Naxos sat up, aggravating his injury and causing him to give vent to a howl of pain and anger. His breath hissed between his teeth, and he went on more calmly, “Listen, Princess. Do you know the precinct of the temples, in the city?” She nodded. “In the temple of Zura you will find a cistern fed by fresh water pouring from the mouth of the god’s image. You must go there, fill an amphora with the water, and bring it back here to me.”

“Why? Will it heal you?”

“Yes. … Yes, it will.” There was a slight hesitancy to his words.

“And what else?” she asked suspiciously.

“Nothing that matters. Bring me the water, but be certain to seal the amphora before you swim out here. Don’t let the water of Zura mix with seawater.”

Vixa slid back into the pool and resumed dolphin form. She caught some small fish and brought them back for Naxos. The ravenous Dargonesti ate them with gusto. At his instruction, she brought him several long strands of kelp. These he made into a thick pad, pressing it to his wound.

“Bring back the water of Zura, Princess, and we will escape the same day!” he adjured her.

She bobbed her dolphin head vigorously in reply and sank beneath the water.

Chapter 15

WATER OF ZURA

As the days went by, the thirty or so slaves who’d survived the flooding of Nissia Grotto began to drift out of the House of Arms. Singly and in pairs, as boredom overcame their fear of the Dargonesti, they wandered out of the citadel and into the city.

What Gundabyr found strange was that he never saw any of them on his jaunts through the streets, and none of the former slaves ever returned to the House of Arms. Six days after the battle, only a handful of men remained in the headquarters of the Urionan army. These were drylanders too sick or too injured to be up and about.

Three days earlier Armantaro had stormed off to locate Vixa, and he’d not returned either. A messenger had come from the palace bringing word to Gundabyr that the colonel was remaining there, to be with his princess and because his cough needed treatment. Still, the dwarf felt a bit like the kender cavalry commander in the famous story. “Charge the foe!” cried the kender commander, and five hundred kender on ponies charged – back the way they’d come. The commander, oblivious to this fact, rode on to meet the enemy alone.

Gundabyr resolved to seek out Armantaro and Vixa. Anything had to be better than sitting on his rump in this citadel day after day with nothing to do and no one to do it with. He needed something to occupy his mind, other than sad thoughts of Garnath.

There was no disguising his squat dwarven frame in a city of seven-foot-tall people, so he didn’t try. The majority of the sea elves had finally moved on to other diversions, and the crowds that followed him now consisted mainly of children. Ten or twelve young sea elves, some of them as tall as adult Qualinesti, tried to tag along behind him as he mounted the central ramp. Their attentions were innocent, but Gundabyr had grown tired of being stared at. He whirled around and shouted, “Go home!” The startled children fled. Gundabyr stumped onward.

When he reached the top of the ramp, he was surprised to discover the magic barrier that usually concealed its entrance was no more. Beyond the ramp, he could see the green of the palace glimmering. There were no guards in sight. He entered the palace plaza and received another surprise.

The great courtyard was clogged with equipment: stands of spears by the thousands, sacks of provisions, armor, helmets, and most astonishing of all, enormous piles of cylindrical clay pots, just like the ones he’d designed to hold the gnomefire for the firelances. The Dargonesti were obviously stockpiling fresh supplies, but why? The chilkit menace was gone.

He could hear Dargonesti moving about in other parts of the plaza, but the heaps of goods screened his view. The dwarf made his way along an aisle that snaked through the military equipment. He soon came to a clearing in which stood a table. Kelp paper was strewn on the tabletop. He scanned the first document that came to hand. It was a map. Gundabyr couldn’t read the angular Dargonesti printing, but by the shape of the river delta and coastline, he guessed this was a chart of southern Silvanesti.

“You there! Drylander! Do not move!”

Gundabyr hadn’t been addressed in that tone for quite some time. A quartet of Dargonesti soldiers approached rapidly. Their leader snatched the map from the dwarf’s hand and shoved him backward.

“Remove this drylander from the royal residence,” said the officer in a nasty tone.

When the three Dargonesti soldiers advanced, Gundabyr clenched a fist the size of a nail keg and punched the Dargonesti officer in the stomach. The lightly built sea elf went over backward, air whooshing out of his mouth. He collided with his squad. All four went down like ninepins.

The sprawling Dargonesti made a most diverting sight, but the sound of marching feet told Gundabyr that reinforcements were coming. This was no place for a lone forgemaster! He grabbed the map of the Silvanesti coast, shoved it under his vest, then ran. The fact that they hadn’t wanted him to see the map told him it must be important.

The masses of arms and supplies had turned the formerly open plaza into a maze. Gundabyr went down one winding aisle after another, but he kept running into Dargonesti. He decided to make his own path. Kicking over a stand of spears, he bulled through the rows of equipment. Shouts echoed through the plaza. Someone cast a spear at him. It missed, clattering harmlessly against the hard floor. Gundabyr put his head down and stormed through a wall of shields. His stumpy legs got caught, and he tripped. The shields toppled over, covering him.

He lay still. The Dargonesti were searching nearby. When he heard their footfalls recede, he crawled slowly out from under the shields. He got about five yards before the way was blocked by a large bundle lying on the floor. The dwarf shoved, but the bundle was heavy. As he pushed against it, his hands felt its contents. It felt almost like —

Casting quick glances left and right, Gundabyr worked at the lacing on the brown seaweed covering. Sure enough, a knobby human hand poked out of the hole he made. Why was a dead human lying in the palace plaza?

He realized there were a number of bundles here, pretty much identical. Cold anger seized his heart. No wonder the slaves had never returned to the House of Arms. Coryphene had had them murdered!

A heavy stone had been placed in each makeshift shroud. The dwarf raged silently against Coryphene. After the drylanders had been instrumental in the defeat of the chilkit, the Protector couldn’t simply execute the prisoners. That might disrupt the victory atmosphere. No, he had let the slaves think they were going to be freed, then secretly had them killed! Reorx take his eyes, he had given his word!

One bundle was noticeably longer than the rest. Swallowing hard, Gundabyr inched toward its head and pulled the seaweed cloth apart.

Armantaro.

Now he was truly afraid. He hadn’t seen Princess Vixa in days. Perhaps she was dead as well. Aside from the few sick and injured humans in the House of Arms, Gundabyr might be the only drylander left in Urione.

“Things don’t look good for our young dwarf,” he murmured.

Reverently, he covered Armantaro’s face. The Qualinesti colonel had been a good fellow, a brave fighter, and a wise elf. Gundabyr said a little prayer to Reorx, asking him to put in a good word with Astra, highest god of the Qualinesti. When he was done, he said a second prayer for himself. He would need plenty of divine aid if he was going to get out of this predicament alive.

He crawled on, using his powerful arms to drag himself forward. He reached the line of columns that encircled the plaza. The clutter of goods did not extend into the colonnade, so Gundabyr stood. He could hear the clash and clatter as the soldiers combed the stockpile behind him. Now was the time to make his move.

Skulking along the shadowed wall, Gundabyr went as quietly as his bulky physique allowed. There were numerous doorways to cross, and he never knew, when he dashed from one side to the other, if someone in the passage would see him and raise the alarm. After six such heart-pounding crossings, he paused, flattening himself against the palace wall. There were voices ahead.

Coryphene and two soldiers had emerged from a corridor and were standing under the portico. “Join the search,” Coryphene told the soldiers. “Find the dwarf, immediately.”

“And the other prisoner?” asked one of the Quoowahb.

The Protector glanced back the way they’d come. “She is secure. Go.”

She! That could only be Vixa Ambrodel. She must still be alive! Gundabyr waited until Coryphene walked away before slipping into the corridor. There were several arched openings off this passage, and Gundabyr, with bated breath, crossed them all.

At the rear of the corridor he found a door whose surface was marred by a simple locking mechanism. The bolt had not been thrown home, but it was the first lock the dwarf had seen in Urione, and it made him curious. He put his ear against the cold granite. No sound came from within. He would have to chance it. He eased open the door.

Vixa was sitting in a heavy chair, her back to the door. She wore a green Dargonesti robe, but her short golden hair was unmistakable. Gundabyr slipped into the room.

“Release me, Coryphene!” Vixa cried, hearing the door close. “Is this how you repay those who help you?”

“Shh, lady, it’s me. Gundabyr Ironbender.”

“Gundabyr! Get me out of this!”

He came around the front of the chair and saw a bizarre sight. Vixa was not shackled or bound in any way. She was sitting bolt upright in the chair, facing the wall. Poised in midair, its barbed tip a hairbreadth from her chest, was a Dargonesti spear. Midway down the horizontal shaft, a gold ring glittered.

“What’s this?”

“Coryphene’s little joke, long since grown stale! He used that ring of his to set up this spell. If I move, the spear will impale me.”

“What if I remove the spear?”

“No! Don’t touch it! The only thing you can do is take off the ring. Slide it down the shaft to the butt, but don’t let it touch the spear. Once the ring’s off, the spell will be broken.”

Gundabyr grimaced. “Move the ring without letting it touch the spear? That’s a tall order, Princess. No wonder Coryphene felt no need to lock the door.”

“You can do it, Gundabyr. Your hands are skillful, and your nerve is like the iron you forge.”

“It’s not my skill or nerve I’m worried about. It’s these thick fingers of mine.”

“Do it, Gundabyr! You must! I’ve got us a way out of here, a way to get home!”

The dwarf nodded, rubbing his hands along the tops of his trousers. He held out his right hand, flexing his stubby fingers as they neared the floating ring. An inch away, he stopped, pulling his hand back.

“I can’t, lady! I’m too clumsy, I tell you! You’ll die if I try it.”

“We’ll both die if you don’t.”

Gundabyr sat back on his haunches to think. There had to be a way to move the ring without letting it touch the spear shaft. If only he had a feather, he could slip it between the floating ring and the spear. But he had no feather, no tools, nothing. He sighed.

His gust of breath made the floating ring quiver. Was that it?

He explained his idea to Vixa. Sweating profusely, the princess agreed he should try it. Gundabyr moved around behind her. Leaning forward over her shoulder, he blew against the ring. It quivered, but didn’t move. He blew harder. Coryphene’s ring skittered two inches toward the spear butt.

“Hurrah!” Vixa rejoiced. “You can do it!”

“It’s going to take a lot of wind.”

During Gundabyr’s many pauses for breath, Vixa told him about her explorations as a dolphin, the chilkit tunnel she’d found, and the discovery she’d made there. By which time, Gundabyr had moved the ring only half the distance necessary.

“So he’s alive.” The dwarf panted with exertion, his cheeks red. “Glad to hear it. Anything that thwarts Coryphene makes me happy.”

A few more minutes of huffing and puffing and the ring was only scant inches from the end of the spear shaft. Gundabyr took a short break and outlined what had been happening in the city since the battle. When he got to the part about finding their fellow prisoners dead and prepared for disposal at sea, Vixa blanched.

“And Armantaro?” she whispered. The dwarf nodded curtly, his eyes fixed on the ring. He started blowing again, faster and harder, looking down to avoid the tears glistening in Vixa’s eyes. “He was ill. Did he die of his cough or was it murder?”

“The others weren’t sick, lady, and they’re dead.”

“Coryphene gave his word! He promised he would free us!”

“He obviously changed his mind.”

Hatred welled up inside Vixa. Armantaro was dead. Like Harmanutis, Vanthanoris, Captain Esquelamar, and for all she knew, everyone she’d left on Evenstar. All gone. Murdered by Coryphene and his insane queen.

“Hold still, lady!” Gundabyr hissed. Vixa forced herself to relax, pushing away her grief. It would serve no purpose now. Almost inaudibly, she said, “I will kill them both.”

The icy coldness of her tone made Gundabyr stare at her. Her face, considered “humanlike” back in Qualinost because of her quarter-human ancestry, had worn thin under the hardships she’d endured. Poor food and privation had sharpened her features and bled most of the color from her skin. The dwarf could see the rage burning in her eyes.

“Princess, I’m about done,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“I am.”

He filled his cheeks, blew smartly. The ring flew off, ricocheting against the wall. No sooner had it left the shaft than the spear dropped harmlessly to the floor. Vixa was up in an instant, the weapon in her hands.

“Thank you, my friend! Let’s go.”

He restrained her with one hand. “Escape, Princess, yes? Revenge can’t be enjoyed when you’re dead.”

Before she could reply, they heard voices outside. Vixa sat back in the chair. Gundabyr scurried to the far corner and hid behind a stone column.

Coryphene entered, leaving a pair of guards in the corridor. “Hello, Princess,” he called out. “Still here, I see.” From his position he couldn’t tell that Vixa, rather than his spell, was holding the spear in place.

“When are you going to keep your word and release me?”

There was the slightest of pauses. “Soon,” he replied evenly. “Right now my warriors are looking for the dwarf Gundabyr. I thought he might have found his way in here.”

“No such fortune. Is Armantaro nearby? I’d like to speak to him.”

“That’s impossible. Her Divine Majesty has forbidden it.”

Vixa resisted a powerful urge to hurl the spear at him. She must remember that Gundabyr, too, would be endangered if the guards were to rush in.

“Where’s your honor, Coryphene? Don’t the Quoowahb believe in keeping their word?”

“You would be well advised not to provoke me. You’re alive now only —” He stopped abruptly.

“Yes? Go on, Coryphene. What truth were you about to let slip?”

He made a fist. “You’re alive because I have defied my divine queen! She has ordered your death, Vixa Ambrodel, but I have secreted you here instead!”

“How kind of you, but why?”

“Because the Protector of Urione does possess honor.”

Vixa’s arm, holding the spear by its head, was beginning to ache. “So, what’s to become of me?”

“After we take Silvanost and Uriona is crowned queen of all the elven nations, I will set you free. Perhaps you would make a good viceroy, to rule in Qualinost in Her Divine Majesty’s name.”

Astonishment momentarily left the princess bereft of speech. Coryphene must be as crazy as his queen, if he thought she would become the tool of a conqueror. How little he knew her!

“I believe that, in time, you will come to accept Her Divinity’s power,” the Protector went on. “My queen will reward me in the future for not killing you now.”

Vixa heard Coryphene’s footfalls as he moved from the doorway, coming farther into the room. If he drew too near, he would see his spell had been thwarted. Sweat trickled down her forehead.

“My lord!” A soldier had appeared in the doorway. “The watch reports a disturbance at the House of Arms.”

“What kind of disturbance?”

“A dispute – a riot between the surviving drylanders and the sea brothers.”

Smothering an oath, Coryphene hurried from the room. Gundabyr emerged from his hiding place, and Vixa, with a relieved gasp, let the spear drop.

“Damn him!” she fumed, rubbing her aching wrist. “Did you hear that? I would make a good viceroy to rule in Qualinost, he said. What kind of weak-minded simpleton does he take me for?”

“Lady, we must go,” insisted the dwarf.

Once outside under the colonnade, Vixa whispered, “We must hurry to the temple of Zura. Naxos needs water from the fountain there to heal his wound.”

They had to take the central ramp, at least part of the way. Vixa dropped down on her stomach and started crawling into the plaza. The war supplies hid them both from the remaining guards until they reached the entrance to the spiral ramp. Gundabyr rolled into the opening. Vixa ducked after him. The ramp was clear.

Noises drifted up to them from the lower levels. Creeping down the ramp, Vixa and Gundabyr speculated on what might be happening below.

“A riot? That doesn’t make sense,” Gundabyr mused. “The only drylanders left in the House of Arms are too sick and weak even to walk, much less riot.”

“Well, in any event, the timing was perfect.” Perhaps a little too perfect, Vixa added silently.

The thick scent of incense told them they were nearing the temple level. Farther on, and they could see robed priests and priestesses coming and going. It seemed impossible for Vixa and the dwarf to slip by unseen. Gundabyr, a practical soul, reached out from their hidden vantage point and grabbed an unsuspecting Dargonesti acolyte. A good solid blow to the back of his head, and the acolyte was in dreamland. Now they had a robe to wear.

“You’re too short to pass for a Dargonesti,” Vixa reminded him.

“Well, so are you, lady.”

Vixa chewed her lip for a moment, then a smile broke out on her face. She leaned over and whispered in Gundabyr’s ear. Soon he was grinning, too.

Moments later, a tall acolyte draped in a hooded gray robe joined the lines of worshipers in the courtyard outside Urione’s temple complex. The new acolyte surreptitiously studied the inscriptions at the entrance to the various sanctuaries.

“Can you read them?” said a low, strained voice from the vicinity of the acolyte’s waist.

“Shh, legs can’t talk. I’ll let you know.”

Sitting astride Gundabyr’s shoulders, Vixa tapped him with her left heel to steer him down a narrow lane. The usual Dargonesti script eluded Vixa’s understanding, but here in the temple precinct the priests still used Old Elvish, just as was written in Silvanost more than a millennium ago. It was awkward and archaic, but Vixa, always an avid reader, had at least a general comprehension. She puzzled her way past structures sacred to gods named El-ai, the Fisher, and Ke-en. She decided these were the Dargonesti equivalents of E’li, the Blue Phoenix, and Quen. Then they entered a smaller, circular courtyard, faced by three lesser temples. The names on these were Matheri, Estarin, and Zura.

“What’s the matter?” hissed Gundabyr in response to her soft exclamation.

“These Dargonesti are strange elves,” she replied. “I just figured out that these three temples are sacred to Mantis of the Rose, Astra, and Zeboim.” This last name amazed the dwarf. In Thorbardin this goddess was called Bhezomiax, but there were no shrines dedicated to her. What use had a mountain race for a sea goddess? Daughter of Takhisis, the queen of evil, Zeboim was known to be impetuous, temperamental, and very, very dangerous.

“You mean they worship evil gods alongside the good?” Gundabyr asked.

“So it seems. Now I understand Naxos’s nervousness about using the water of Zura.”

Gundabyr smothered a groan. “Lady, you’re no lightweight, you know. Do we go on?”

Vixa nodded curtly. “We have to. I don’t know what else to do.”

They walked up to the entrance of the temple of Zura. The building was a truncated pyramid made of alternating bands of jade and blood coral. Striking but gaudy, was Vixa’s opinion. Monstrous carvings decorated the outer walls, depicting all the destructive forces of the sea: waterspouts, tidal waves, and the like.

A pair of priests came into view. Each wore on a thong around his neck a jade medallion decorated with Zeboim’s – or rather Zura’s – sign, a sea turtle. Vixa flinched when they drew near enough for her to see their faces. Unlike the usual blue tone of the Dargonesti elves, the priests of Zura had deathly gray complexions. Their eyes were strangely dull and colorless – much like the flat, gray shade of the ocean on a cloudy day. They walked with small, shuffling steps, their arms hanging straight and unmoving by their sides. No notice was taken of the tall, unknown acolyte who fell in behind them.

The temple’s interior was damp and fetid. Smears of phosphorescent slime on the walls provided what little light there was. Ahead, the two priests ducked their heads periodically. At first Vixa thought they were observing some sort of ritual, then she felt a cold, fleeting contact on her forehead. Looking up, she noticed faint tendrils of smoke floating in the air, writhing like the tentacles of some phantom octopus. Vixa felt no pain at the contact, but a horrid smell of decay permeated her nostrils.

The priests disappeared down a side passage. Vixa and Gundabyr forged ahead. She watched for other tendrils and dodged them when they appeared. At last they reached the center of the pyramid. The main chamber mimicked the form of the outer structure, being a flat-topped pyramid itself. In the center, instead of an altar, there was a fountain. Water dribbled from the mouth of a statue of Zura, which was carved from a massive block of white onyx. Depicted in Quoowahb form, Zura wore an expression of pure malevolence. Her eyes were set with blue-green jade.

“I need a jar,” Vixa said. “Turn around, Gundabyr.” The dwarf swung her in a full circle. “Whoa! Not so fast! Again, more slowly.”

Deep niches were cut into the walls. Piled in the hollows were white clay amphorae. Vixa pulled one out. It was empty. Smaller than a Qualinesti wine jug, it would hold perhaps a quart of liquid. She hoped that was sufficient for Naxos’s purpose. A fitted stone stopper was set in the mouth with the same kind of sticky kelp paste they’d used to seal the gnomefire pots. It had a long, braided seaweed loop for a handle.

Gundabyr took her back to the fountain. Since no one was around, he hiked up the hem of the long robe and took a breath of air, as well as a look around. When he saw the statue, his mouth dropped in amazement. “I hope we don’t meet her while we’re here,” he said, aghast at the dreadful image.

“Shh! Bend over so I can fill the jug.”

He leaned forward, resting his hands on the rim of the pool. As Vixa held the amphora in the water, Gundabyr was able to see what was lying in the bottom of the pool. Skulls. A great many of them.

“Uh, Princess, I’m not sure this is a good idea. Look down here.”

Vixa glanced down, almost dropping the jug. “By Astra! Where did those come from?”

“Sacrifices, maybe? Or all that’s left of people who drank the water?”

She shuddered. “We’ve got to trust Naxos,” she said, finishing her task. “He said to bring him the water, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

She plugged the amphora, smeared the brown jelly around the stopper, then handed the jug to Gundabyr. He put its braided loop over his neck, and they rearranged the robe over him and his burden.

They garnered a few sidelong glances as they crossed the square and left the temple precinct, but no one challenged them. By the ramp, they discarded the robe, and Vixa recovered her hidden spear. Gundabyr and Vixa descended a few levels, then got off at a residential floor evidently reserved for Urione’s more affluent citizens. The houses were larger and fewer, and the level had the advantage of being nearly empty just now.

“There are side stairs and ramps all over,” Vixa said, rushing ahead. “As long as we keep going down, we’ll find our way to the sea.”

Puffing a little, the slender amphora cradled in his arms, the dwarf commented, “Not to be argumentative, but the sea’s everywhere outside, ain’t it?”

Vixa pulled up short, her face reddening. “You’re right. I would’ve dragged us through the whole city, just so we could leave the same way we came in!”

“We have another problem, lady.”

“What?”

“I know you shapeshifted dolphins can hold your breath from here to midnight. Me, I’m running out of wind on these stairways.”

She clapped a hand to her head. “We need an airshell!”

“Yup.”

Dejected, the pair crouched in an alley between two fine houses. Through open windows occupants of the buildings could be seen moving about. Faint music came from inside.

“Let’s consider this logically,” Vixa whispered. “All an airshell is, is a container for air. We never knew how much air any one of them would have. Right?”

“Right. So?”

“A container for air,” she repeated, her eyes distant with thought. “Gundabyr,” she said abruptly, “how many breaths do you take in a minute?”

“Hammer me if I know.”

She urged him to find out. Breathing normally, the dwarf counted his exhalations while Vixa counted off the seconds in a minute.

“Stop,” Vixa ordered.

Gundabyr reported he’d taken thirty-one breaths. “How does that help?” he asked.

“It will take me fourteen – no, better say fifteen – fifteen minutes to get from the city to Naxos’s cave, swimming flat out. All we need is enough air to last you —” With one finger, she scribbled on the dusty floor. “Four hundred sixty-five breaths!”

Vixa stood and tiptoed to the back of the dead-end alley. She explained that what she was looking for was a barrel or sack that could hold enough air to last him until they reached the cave where Naxos was hidden. Gundabyr could take sips of air from the barrel or sack, just as they had taken air from the airshells. The dwarf rolled his eyes.

The rear of the alley was piled with Dargonesti household rubbish. Some sacks were woven seaweed, useless as it was not airtight. Others turned out to be made of catfish skin. Not bad. Vixa pawed through several such sacks until she found one of the size she wanted. She emptied it of rubbish.

“It’ll do,” she pronounced. Gundabyr looked more than a little doubtful.

They stole back into the street. A few residents were out at the other end of the lane but didn’t notice the two drylanders skulking about. At the end of the street, they came to the pink granite wall that was the city’s outer shell, unbroken by the arched openings found on the upper floors.

Vixa snarled at the bad luck. Time was running out. She’d been worrying constantly about Naxos ever since Coryphene’s soldiers had captured her. What if he was already dead in that cold, wet cave?

“Over here, Princess!”

Just a few yards away, Gundabyr had found a staircase leading down to the next level. He descended; Vixa hurried after him. She could see the flicker of light reflecting off water at the bottom of the stairway.

When she reached bottom, a glad sight greeted her eyes. There were pools in the floor of this level every dozen feet or so. Vixa sat on the edge of one. Before she entered, she said, “You won’t understand me when I’m a dolphin, but I will understand you. Once I change, fill up the bag with air and get on my back.”

She slipped into the water, picturing her dolphin form. The black-and-white shape was becoming as familiar as her elven one. She no longer felt afraid as her body stiffened. The immobility would pass quickly. She sank beneath the surface. In seconds, she was two-legged no more, but when her dolphin head broke the surface she saw that the situation had changed dramatically. A squad of Dargonesti warriors was coming on the run toward the pool. They had their spears leveled.

Since escaping the grotto, Gundabyr had been quite happy to stay dry, having no fondness for the water. Now, however, he didn’t hesitate, but leapt into the pool. In a heartbeat, he was seated on Vixa’s muscular back, clinging tightly with his knees. He whirled the sack about his head, filling it with air.

“Go, go!” he shouted, thumping his heels against her flanks. She shook her head side to side, gesturing with her beak toward the amphora still sitting by the pool.

“Reorx save me,” groaned the dwarf. He snagged the braided handle of the jug, slipping it over his neck. The Dargonesti were only twenty paces away. Clutching his inflated sack in one hand, Gundabyr grabbed her dorsal fin with the other.

“Now, go!” he cried. Vixa submerged, taking him with her.

Behind her, the princess could hear loud splashes as the Dargonesti dove into the pool. Her course was erratic, as the unfamiliar weight of the dwarf on her back made it difficult for her to swim straight.

They swam through an archway into the open sea. Vixa heard numerous cries as the Dargonesti shouted for her to stop and called for sea brothers to intercept her. She headed toward the ruined wall across the Mortas Trench and thanked all the gods that the spears would not travel far underwater.

Gray dolphins flashed by her. Sea brothers! Vixa stubbornly stuck to her course. The big shapeshifted dolphins zoomed before and behind her. What were they playing at? she wondered. With their speed and power, they could ram her into submission easily. But they didn’t.

“What are you doing?” she demanded in the high-pitched water-tongue.

“No need to shout,” said a friendly voice close by. Vixa cocked an eye astern and saw Kios keeping pace with her.

“Are you chasing me or not?”

Kios surged ahead of her. “If we wanted to catch you, Sister, we would.”

“Then what’s your game?”

“This is a show, for Coryphene’s troopers. We’ll tell them you evaded us. For now, take me to Naxos.”

Her only response was to swim harder. Vixa didn’t trust Kios, but what could she do? With Gundabyr on her back, she knew she had no chance to outrun or outmaneuver the sea brothers.

Six dolphins blasted through the breach in the wall made by the chilkit – Vixa, Kios, and four more sea brothers. Vixa headed directly for the tunnel leading to Naxos’s hiding place, all the while praying she wasn’t bringing him his death.

As soon as Gundabyr’s head burst into the air, he gave a glad cry. Vixa carried him to the pool’s edge, by Naxos’s hiding place. The dwarf clambered out of the water. Vixa reverted to elven form and joined him. Kios also resumed his two-legged shape, though the other shapeshifters remained as they were.

Naxos appeared to be unconscious. Most of the color had drained from his skin, and he wasn’t moving. Vixa knelt by him.

“What’s in that jug?” asked Kios as Vixa unplugged the amphora.

“The water of Zura,” she said bluntly. “He said it would cure him.”

“Oh, it will cure his wound. But he will become undead, like the Shades of Zura.”

Appalled, Vixa shoved the plug back in the amphora. She remembered the bloodless, empty faces of the priests she’d seen in Zura’s temple. Naxos would become like them!

“What can we do?” she moaned.

Naxos stirred. “Vixa,” he murmured, “and the Firebringer. Who’s that with you?”

“It is I, Kios.”

“Come to finish me off, Brother?”

“I could. Coryphene would shower me with riches if I brought him your head.”

“Traitor.” The voice was weak, but the anger very apparent.

“Ah, the things you say. Where is your famous wit, Naxos? I thought you would trade quips with Death himself when the time came.”

“I’m too tired to trade anything. Kill me, or give me the water of Zura. I am weary of pain and cold.”

Kios took the amphora from Vixa. Without hesitation, he dashed the jug against the stone wall. Into the stunned silence, he said, “It wouldn’t do for the chief of the sea brothers to become undead.”

“Chief?” Naxos whispered. “Am I still?”

“You’ve never been anything else.” Kios went to the edge of the pool and gave orders to the remaining shapeshifters. The four dolphins submerged. When he returned, Kios brought back seawater in his cupped hands. He trickled this over Naxos’s drying gills. Vixa and Gundabyr rushed to follow his example.

“Look here, my brother,” Kios said, as the other two continued to minister to Naxos, “you confronted Coryphene in the middle of a battlefield, surrounded by thousands of his loyal soldiers. By the Fisher, Naxos, he’d just led them to victory over the chilkit! I had to profess loyalty to him on the spot. You should have done the same.”

“Coryphene has no confidence in my sincerity,” Naxos murmured.

“But he does in mine. If I had defied him, it would have meant civil war, then and there. The time was not right for us to resist, but it soon will be. Coryphene and the queen are leaving the city.”

“Leaving?” Naxos was stunned. “To go where?”

“They are marching on Silvanost,” Vixa supplied. “Uriona says she’s received a prophecy that if she is crowned in the Tower of the Stars, she will rule all the elven nations.”

“Hail, goddess Uriona,” mocked Naxos.

Kios shook his head. “Don’t be so certain of her madness. I have seen the preparations. They will take ten thousand warriors to the dry land and attack the city of our ancestors. Uriona has persuaded four thousand of the Shoal Dwellers to join the attack as well.”

Naxos snorted. “Dimernesti nomads can’t be trusted.”

“No, but they have been promised booty.”

“What sort of troops does Coryphene have?” asked Vixa.

“Six thousand spearcarriers, two thousand netcasters, a thousand firelancers, and a thousand picked troops armed with drylander swords. Those include Coryphene’s personal guard.”

“All infantry,” she mused. “Have they no cavalry?”

“In the old country, the Waveriders fought mounted on hippocampi, but none of them followed Uriona into exile. The army is all afoot. Except for the sea brothers.” Kios grinned. Weak as he was, Naxos returned the wicked smile.

“What do you find so amusing?” Vixa asked suspiciously.

“Coryphene relies on us to be his scouts,” Naxos said.

“And once he’s on the march, he’ll find that all the sea brothers have vanished,” concluded Kios. He rubbed his pale blue palms together. “We’ll double back and seize the city!”

“No,” said Naxos, shaking his head. “You can’t hope to hold the city against Coryphene’s army. Better to disperse, live wild in the sea.”

Gundabyr, who’d remained in the background during this discussion, finally spoke up. “Hey, what about us? How are we supposed to get home?”

“I sent my brothers for bandages and healing ointments for Naxos,” Kios told him. “They will bring an airshell for you, little fellow. Our sister can carry you to land.”

They helped Naxos to stand, Vixa supporting him on one side, Kios the other. The wounded shapeshifter felt heavy as oak to the Qualinesti princess. They got him upright, leaning on a boulder by the pool’s edge.

One of the sea brothers returned, carrying a whelk shell in a bag clutched in his mouth. Kios took Gundabyr aside to adjust the fit of the airshell’s mouthpiece. Vixa had a moment alone with Naxos.

“Will you be all right?” she asked softly.

“With my brothers’ help, I think so. You’ve saved more than my life, Vixa. You’ve saved the sea brothers from servitude to Coryphene and Uriona.” That said, he leaned forward and kissed her gently on the cheek, barely brushing her face with his lips.

Surprised, Vixa raised a hand to her cheek. Color invaded her face. “I-I only wish Armantaro and the others could have lived to escape with me,” she stammered.

“As do I, Princess.”

At that moment, the pool erupted as four sea brothers arrived – three sent by Kios to fetch medicines, and the healer they’d brought with them. The four changed to Dargonesti form and came to help Naxos.

“This airshell should last you two full days underwater,” Kios was saying to Gundabyr. “To be safe, our sister should carry you on the surface as much as possible.”

“My thanks, Master Kios,” Gundabyr said.

“For the Firebringer, it is nothing.”

It was time for them to go. Vixa slipped into the water. Before she transformed, Naxos called out to her.

“I shall see you again, Lady Dryfoot!” His golden eyes stared into her brown ones.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to return. My life is on land.”

Naxos smiled knowingly. It was not his usual arrogant grin, but more personal. “I shall see you again, Vixa Ambrodel.”

Vixa assumed dolphin form. With the airshell firmly clamped between his teeth, Gundabyr mounted her back and tapped her flanks to signal he was ready.

Naxos waved as the dolphin and the dwarf submerged.

Chapter 16

SISTER OF THE SEA

No sooner had Vixa and her escort emerged from the dark Mortas Trench than they saw a cloud of mud stirred up on the plain. The seafloor between the ruined wall and the city was alive with columns of Dargonesti, marching in formation. Vixa veered away from the massed ranks, angling up toward the surface.

From above she could see the Dargonesti were marching away from the city, parallel to Coryphene’s old wall. They were organized into companies of two hundred or so warriors, and there were many companies – a great many – strung out in a long line. Large numbers of dolphins cruised over their heads. Vixa and the sea brothers accompanying her blended in. A slower swimmer than the powerful shapeshifters, she was soon laboring along at the rear and falling behind.

A company of blueskins grounded their weapons and faced about. As Vixa looked back, other Dargonesti warriors sprang in unison from the seafloor and began swimming vigorously toward her. That was enough. She called ahead to her escorts.

“Brothers! I need you!”

There was no response. Vixa tore her frightened gaze from the advancing sea elves. Her escort had disappeared. No sea brothers were in sight.

Vixa swam upward as fast as she dared. The Dargonesti were surprisingly fast swimmers, considering they had only webbed hands and feet instead of flukes. This fact, added to the weight of Gundabyr that she carried on her back, meant that Vixa could maintain only a moderate lead. She had to stay ahead of her pursuers, but could not go so fast that Gundabyr would be in danger of exploding. Again, she called for the sea brothers.

All at once a storm of gray muscle and churning tails broke around her. Vixa heard the loud thumps as the shapeshifters rammed the swimming Dargonesti, knocking them out of the pursuit. The warriors were at a great disadvantage, having laid aside their spears in order to swim more rapidly. They were no match for the sea brothers, and dispersed toward the sea bottom. A knot of dolphins formed around Vixa as she raced for the surface. One dolphin broke from the screen and swam to Vixa’s side. It was Kios.

“Coryphene will hear of this,” she told him as they sped through the water. “He’ll realize you have betrayed him.”

“Do I care?” Kios replied.

She noticed Kios and the other dolphins were dipping and rising erratically. “What are you doing?” she called.

“Beware the netters!” Kios warned. “Beware the netters!”

Dargonesti soldiers were hovering in the water ahead. Between each pair was stretched a net. The sun’s rays, slanting into the depths, picked out the hooks and weights on the edges of the nets.

Gundabyr kicked his heels against her flanks. “I know! I see them!” she squeaked and swam harder.

“Away! Away!” Kios cried. The shield of dolphins broke up. Vixa automatically followed Kios. The Dargonesti netters, accustomed to hunting powerful game fish like tuna and marlin, wielded their nets with great skill. The sea brothers, however, were just as skilled at avoiding the nets, and lured the netters away from Vixa and Gundabyr.

The water was growing lighter as Vixa neared the surface. The green depths gave way to paler shades, full of the sun’s warmth. The bright orb drew her upward. She pounded the sea with her broad flukes, all thought of the netters gone.

Vixa broke the surface, leaping eight feet above the waves, with Gundabyr clinging to her for all he was worth. The sun was hot on her sleek wet hide. She uttered a high, shrill cry and crashed back into the tossing ocean.

The impact of landing jarred Gundabyr loose. He sailed into the waves, his airshell flying from his grip. Though he flailed the water frantically, he sank like a stone. He’d only dropped a few yards before a dark shape rose underneath him. He felt himself being lifted, and when Vixa vented, Gundabyr got a faceful of salty mist.

“Pah!” He mopped his face with his hand. He was sitting astride Vixa just behind her dorsal fin. “Watch where you do that!” he told her.

Vixa understood him just fine, but the only response he heard was a loud treble screech.

“Apology accepted,” said the dwarf, though Vixa had actually told him to stop complaining.

She put her tail to the wind, which made the waves break over Gundabyr’s back rather than his face. The drenched dwarf scanned the horizon, squinting into the sun.

“That way,” he stated firmly. Vixa spoke, but the dwarf shook his head. “It’s no good burping and squeaking at me. I don’t understand. Go that way. It’s north, so we’re bound to hit land eventually.”

She leapt forward. Gundabyr nearly toppled off. “Yow!” he yelled. He held on tight and squeezed with his knees. Vixa ducked under the surface, then burst into the air, arcing in and out of the water as though born to it. The poor dwarf simply clenched his eyes shut and held on.

The sun was high and hot, but it felt good to Vixa as she bounded from wave to wave. When her head was underwater, she heard a myriad of sounds: the swish of swimming fish, the click and clatter of crabs and shellfish, the distant booming songs of the great whales. She found she could taste differences in seawater, too. Down deep the water was cool and still. At the surface it was charged with light and life.

At one point a silver fingerling darted past her, and she dove after it. The fingerling swam desperately to evade her, but Vixa closed in as if pulled by an invisible line. With a sideways snap of her jaws, she swallowed the fish whole.

Heels thumped her sides. By Astra! She was three fathoms down, and she’d completely forgotten she had a passenger! She arrowed back to the surface.

“Will you please not do that!” the dwarf exploded as he gasped for breath.

This time the noises she made were apologetic.

For the rest of the day Vixa kept to the surface, her nose pointed north. When she tired and slowed, Gundabyr climbed off her back and held himself up by clutching her dorsal fin. This gave her some respite from his weight, but they couldn’t make much progress that way, so they kept such breaks to a minimum.

Late in the day they spied a ship, toiling under tack against the breeze. Vixa altered her course toward the wallowing two-master.

“Ahoy!” sang out Gundabyr.

A human sailor put his head over the high rail. “Ahoy! Who calls?”

“Down here!”

Vixa swam alongside the ship’s port side. The sailor gawked when he spotted the dwarf riding a big black-and-white dolphin.

“Blow me to Balifor!” he yelped. “What in Rann’s name are you doin’ down there, mate?”

“Riding a dolphin, of course. Slow down, Vixa. I want a word with this fellow.”

She complied, matching her speed to that of the creeping ship.

“Can you tell me where we are?” Gundabyr asked.

“We’re eight days out of Balifor city,” the sailor responded, his eyes starting from his head.

“Where’ll we make landfall if we keep heading due north?”

“Uh, Silvanesti – but you don’t want to go there, mate. They don’t allow visitors.”

“Did you hear that, Vixa? Silvanesti!”

She responded with a pleased affirmative.

“What did it say?” asked the sailor, awestruck.

“No idea,” Gundabyr replied with a shrug.

Someone on deck called out. “Haynar, you laggard! Who’re you talking to?”

The sailor turned away. “Captain! You won’t believe it, sir! There’s a dwarf in the water, ridin’ a —”

By that time Vixa had rounded the bow of the slow-moving vessel and was cruising up the starboard side. No one else caught a glimpse of them. Vixa could imagine the poor sailor trying to explain what he’d seen. A dolphin chuckle shook her.

It was late evening their third day at sea when the wind changed to easterly and blue-black clouds piled up on the horizon. The smell of fresh rain wafted to Vixa from miles away. Soon they could see bolts of lightning snapping from cloud to sea.

“Looks as if we’re in for it,” Vixa chirped wearily.

“Hmm, looks as if we’re in for it,” Gundabyr said.

The ocean was getting rougher by the minute. Wind blew in gusts of hot and cold air, and cool rain pattered over the tossing waves. Gundabyr raised his salt-crusted face and let fresh water fill his mouth. He swallowed repeatedly.

“Rain,” he sighed joyfully.

A thunderclap punctuated his sigh. The rain fell harder. Vixa found it more and more difficult to swim on the surface against the wind-driven waves. She bobbed her head and screeched to warn Gundabyr she was planning to submerge.

“What? What’re you saying?” he demanded. As the water level reached his chin, he finally understood. He took a great gulp of air and pinched his nose shut.

Vixa dove no more than two fathoms, swam hard for twenty heartbeats, then surfaced so Gundabyr could breathe. This wasn’t terribly successful. The wind was whipping the waves eight to ten feet high. Vixa struggled on, boring through the towering waves.

“Quite – a – storm!” Gundabyr shouted.

She agreed silently. She hadn’t eaten since earlier that day when a few small fish blundered into her path. The constant hard work of swimming was draining her strength. Her body felt like a longbow held too long at full draw – ready to snap. Doggedly, she pressed on through the howling squall.

Lightning struck nearby. It left a bitter smell that was quickly washed away by the pouring rain.

It was black as night now. The only things visible were the waves, thrown out in bold relief by each flash of lightning. Vixa had no idea which direction she was traveling. The churning ocean could have spun her to any point of the compass. When the storm had first struck, the wind had been easterly, hitting her on the right flank. She decided to keep the wind on her right.

After a time, the water took on a new taste. Mud. Vixa rolled onto her side and peered through the dark water. She couldn’t see the bottom, but there was a thick cloud of dirt in the water. Was it shallower here?

Each stroke of her flukes was like the blow of a lash. Vixa panted hard through her blowhole. Gundabyr was ominously quiet now. She could feel his heart beating, so she knew he was alive, and his hands were still clenched about her dorsal fin, but he hadn’t spoken in a very long time.

On a downstroke of her tail, Vixa felt her flukes drag against something. She arched her back and ran her snout through sand. Land! They must have made land! Unless – she hated even to think it – unless Coryphene had managed to summon the kraken again.

She drove ahead until her belly dragged in the sand. Waves washed against her and the dwarf. Spray lashed her eyes, but Vixa heaved herself out of the water and flopped forward. Another roller caught her and shoved her higher on the beach. Gundabyr was knocked from her back and taken away by the surf. Vixa had no strength left even to cry out to him.

Another wave hit her. She rolled over in the wet sand, coming to a stop against a pile of driftwood. By a vivid bolt of lightning, she saw trees some distance away. No trees grew on the kraken’s broad back. They had made it to land!

Vixa closed her eyes. She was so spent she could barely think, but had to will herself to transform. She filled her mind with her true form, envisioning legs, two arms, and her elven face. The change seemed to take an eternity. Exhaustion made concentration difficult. The heat of her dolphin blood was a growing agony. At last, she felt her skin crawl and her limbs stretching into place. Her dolphin squeal of triumph became the glad cry of an elf maiden. Now the cold knifed into her bones.

With her last ounce of strength, Vixa reached out her hand. Her fingers closed on a piece of slick driftwood lying nearby. Her eyelids fluttered down, and she lost consciousness.

The lightning flashed. The cool rain fell.

*

She awoke with the sun in her eyes and the squawk of wheeling sea gulls in her ears. Vixa turned her head and saw she was several yards from the hissing waves. She sat up slowly. The beach was wide and empty. The driftwood she had clung to was part of a shipwreck, sticking up from the sand.

Just as she’d begun to worry about Gundabyr, Vixa saw the dwarf’s vest lying on the beach next to her. At least, it used to be his vest. Now it was in two pieces. The cotton lining had been torn away from the outer woolen material. She picked it up and studied it. A smile slowly appeared on her face. Without further ado, Vixa donned the two garments.

Vixa saw bare footprints leading into the woods. The dwarf had obviously regained consciousness first and gone exploring. She hoped he’d find them something to eat. And drink. Vixa’s throat was parched. A long, cool drink of water would be paradise just now. That, and half a roasted ox.

As if on cue, Gundabyr appeared out of the trees, his thick arms laden with fruit. He nodded in response to her greeting, then dumped his load of plums, wild grapes, and thorn apples on the sand before her.

“If you’re as hungry as I was, dig in,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve had my fill already, so don’t be shy.”

Vixa took an apple in each hand and bit into them alternately. Juice ran down her chin. They were the finest apples she’d ever tasted.

“Yup, they’re good,” Gundabyr said, agreeing with her happy sigh.

She interrupted her chewing long enough to ask, “Do you know where we are?”

“The Silvanesti coast, I’d say. Or maybe Kharolis. I saw smoke over that way” – he pointed east – “so there may be a fisher’s hut there.”

Vixa ate all the apples, four plums, and most of the grapes before she ventured to stand. She still felt weak, but it was amazing how the fruit had restored her.

“Well, shall we introduce ourselves?” she said, gesturing eastward. They set off down the beach, and Vixa munched periodically on a handful of grapes.

It probably wasn’t the safest thing to do – two strangers walking up to the first signs of life they’d found on a foreign beach. If this was indeed Silvanesti territory, there wouldn’t be any brigands or slavers, but the Silvanesti themselves weren’t very hospitable to outsiders, especially dwarves and Qualinesti. Still, they had invaluable information for the Speaker of the Stars. Coryphene’s invasion force was probably only days behind them. Maybe only hours.

They’d spotted some dark objects on the beach ahead. As they drew nearer, Vixa recognized them as two small boats, keels up on the sand. The boats had the characteristic shape and decoration of elven craft. Between the upturned hulls a crude wooden rack had been set. Clean, gutted fish hung on the rack, drying in the hot sun. The smell of wood smoke, wafting from the trees nearby, was strong here.

“Hello?” Vixa called. “Anyone here?”

A tall figure emerged from the trees. Upswept ears marked him as elven, as did his long blond hair, drawn back in a queue. He shaded his eyes and saw Vixa and Gundabyr.

“Kenthrin!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Dannagel! Come here!”

Two more elves appeared out of the woods. They were definitely Silvanesti as well. All three had the fair skin, pale hair, and sharp features of eastern elves. They were dressed in white, knee-length robes.

“What in the name of the immortal gods is that?” exclaimed one of the newcomers.

“I believe it’s a girl,” said the other. “Or didn’t you notice, Kenthrin?”

The first Silvanesti jogged down the gentle slope, his cloak flapping. “Were you shipwrecked?” he asked, skidding to a stop. “Are you all right?”

“Nope,” said Gundabyr, just as Vixa replied, “Yes.”

The elf looked puzzled, but Vixa said, “Do you have any water?”

The Silvanesti unslung a waterskin from his shoulder and handed it over. Vixa drank deeply, then passed the skin to the dwarf.

The other two elves joined them. The one with the impudent eyes – Dannagel – smilingly appraised Vixa’s skimpy attire. Vixa’s face, reddened by the time she’d spent lying unconscious on the beach, took on an even deeper hue. The first elf frowned at his companion and unhooked his own red-bordered cloak. He draped this around Vixa’s shoulders.

“I am Samcadaris, son of Palindar,” he said. “These are my friends, Kenthrin and Dannagel.”

“Vixa Ambrodel.”

“Gundabyr, forgemaster of the clan —”

Dannagel broke in, saying, “Ambrodel? Did you say Ambrodel?” Vixa, in the midst of another drink, nodded. “Of the line of Tamanier Ambrodel?”

She swallowed the cool water. “He was my grandfather.”

“She’s Qualinesti!” Dannagel declared, surprise in every syllable.

“Just call me Gundabyr. Everyone does,” said the dwarf, irked at being ignored.

“It doesn’t matter who or what they are,” Samcadaris stated. “You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”

“That we are,” Gundabyr said fervently.

“I am the daughter of Kemian Ambrodel and Verhanna Kanan,” Vixa explained. “Master Gundabyr and I were on separate sea voyages when we were captured and held prisoner.”

The three Silvanesti waited. “Captured by whom?” prompted Kenthrin.

“The Dargonesti.”

The three elves exchanged bewildered looks. “The who?” said Samcadaris.

“The race of elves who live at the bottom of the ocean.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then Dannagel burst out laughing. “She’s mad! Daughter of the commander of the Qualinesti army indeed! Elves living in the ocean? Throw her back, my friends. She’s crazy.”

Kenthrin’s expression was more compassionate, but his words were not. “The Dargonesti are just an old legend. Tell us really, how came you here?”

“Listen to me,” Vixa pleaded. “I am of the royal house of Qualinost. If you help me, I’ll see that you are handsomely rewarded.”

“Gold is not required,” Samcadaris said firmly. “Contrary to appearances, we are not simple fishers. We are members of House Protector, and serve in the household guard of the Speaker of the Stars.”

“Then you must take me to Silvanost! I have urgent news for the Speaker!”

“What could you possibly have to say that would interest His Majesty?” Kenthrin asked.

“News of an impending attack! The Dargonesti mean to make war on you!”

Her pronouncement fell flat. Dannagel and Kenthrin were openly skeptical. Samcadaris gave no opinion, but told her and Gundabyr to come to their campsite. There, in the woods above the beach, the Silvanesti were smoking some of their catch over a hardwood fire. Samcadaris offered them a breakfast of fish.

Gundabyr paled. “None for me! I’ve been living on fish forever! Anything but that!”

Seated on logs around the small, smoky fire, Vixa and Gundabyr recounted their story. The Qualinesti princess held nothing back. She described the war with the chilkit, the invention of gnomefire, and the murder of Colonel Armantaro after Coryphene had promised to release his captives.

“So you’re saying you swam here in three days, in the form of a dolphin with the dwarf riding on your back?” Samcadaris tried not to sound incredulous.

“That’s right.”

“And ten thousand water-breathing elves equipped with firepots that burn under water are coming to conquer Silvanost?”

Vixa bit her lip. “Yes,” she said weakly. Put that way, it sounded foolish to her, too. She stared miserably into the fire.

“I will take you to Thonbec,” Samcadaris announced, surprising his companions as well as the Qualinesti princess. “The commander of the garrison there can decide whether the Speaker need be troubled with this fantastic tale.” His two friends objected, but he added, “Let Axarandes judge the truth or falsity of their story. Can we afford to ignore any hint of invasion? Let General Axarandes decide, I say.”

“They’re mad,” Dannagel insisted.

“Or Qualinesti spies,” suggested Kenthrin.

“In either case, our safest course is to take them to the fortress of Thonbec. Foreigners can’t be allowed to wander the countryside. If they’re spies, they can be held at the general’s pleasure. If they’re telling the truth …” Samcadaris left it to his friends to judge the consequences of that.

Samcadaris went to his knapsack and pulled out a spare robe for Vixa. She took it gratefully. “We’ll break camp immediately,” he told her. “We boated down the shore from the Thon-Thalas, and that’s how we’ll return.”

The Silvanesti packed their belongings and extinguished the fire. Vixa and Gundabyr sat on a log, watching them work. They passed Samcadaris’s waterskin back and forth until it was empty.

“What do you think, Princess?” asked the dwarf.

“There’s a chance,” she murmured. “At least we’re talking to warriors. Now all we have to do is convince this General Axarandes.”

“Can we do it?”

She squeezed his arm. “We must.”

Chapter 17

THONBEC

The three Silvanesti warriors loaded their gear into their boats and pushed them into the surf. Kenthrin, biggest of the trio, had a boat to himself. Vixa and Gundabyr rode with him.

The Silvanesti paddled out to smooth water just beyond the breakers. Dannagel and Samcadaris turned their boat’s prow east, and Kenthrin followed. They paddled for a while, then both boats stepped light masts and got underway by wind power.

An hour later, the mouth of the Thon-Thalas appeared. It was a broad delta, with many separate channels emptying into the ocean. The main channel was wider than the rest, and the Silvanesti sailed into it. The islands of the delta were high and covered with scrubby pines and cedars. Gradually, the sandy islets gave way to more solid land – dark earth and clay soil forested with thick stands of oak and ash.

On the right bank, the east side of the river, loomed a large gray citadel. After rounding several loops in the river, the boats drew in under the frowning fortress. Banners of Silvanost whipped from the tower tops.

“Thonbec,” Kenthrin announced.

“Is there no town nearby?” Vixa asked.

“The village of Brackenost lies on the other side of the fortress. The walls shield the fishers from sea squalls blowing up the river.”

A pair of massive stone piers jutted out into the river. Vixa thought them large enough to accommodate sizable war galleys, but no such ships were present this day. Aside from a few fishing dories, no craft at all plied the river.

Thonbec was very old, as evidenced by its design. Built by the famous kender general Balif, its walls were constructed of huge blocks of granite, fitted together without mortar, as was the fashion in earlier times. In shape the fortress was an oval – two squat round towers joined by two sections of wall. The main gate was set in the center of the riverside wall.

A few warriors were idling on the pier when the two boats docked. The appearance of the Qualinesti girl and the dwarf caused quite a stir. Samcadaris ordered a runner to notify General Axarandes of their arrival. Before they had finished unloading their gear from the boats, a squad of Silvanesti, twelve strong and in full armor, came jogging down the hill to the dock.

“Our commander, Axarandes Magiteleran, requires that you come with us at once,” said the sergeant leading the squad. Vixa gave Gundabyr a shrug.

“Lead on,” she told the sergeant. Samcadaris and his friends fell in behind.

With her soldier’s eye, Vixa could see the fortress had not been seriously tested in a long time. Shrubs had been allowed to grow close to the walls and would provide safe cover for an invading enemy. Arrow loops had been bricked up, no doubt to render tower rooms more snug in winter. The huge double gate of Thonbec had stood open so long moss had grown on the hinges. Only the soldiers themselves seemed ready and fit. Vixa took some comfort in that.

As they walked in the main gate, she noted with approval that the walls of the fortress were at least fifteen feet thick. The open bailey was dotted with wooden buildings, erected over the years as conveniences to the garrison. In the center of the grassy courtyard was a reviewing stand. A solitary Silvanesti was seated on it. His long hair had yellowed with age, but his blue eyes were piercing and alert.

The sergeant halted his squad. Gundabyr and Vixa kept going, mounting the steps to the platform. Vixa saluted, Qualinesti fashion, by placing her closed fist over her heart and bowing her head slightly. Gundabyr planted his hands on his hips and said, “Hello.”

“Well,” said General Axarandes. “It seems Samcadaris and his lads had quite a fishing trip. A rare catch indeed.”

“Sir,” Vixa began, “I am a princess of the royal house of Qualinost. My name is Vixa Ambrodel. I am the niece of the Speaker of the Sun.”

“So you say,” was the even reply. “Do you have any proof?”

She spread her hands. “Alas, no. I was held captive and all my belongings taken from me.”

“Who held you prisoner?”

“Blueskins,” Gundabyr said loudly. “Elves who live under the sea.”

There was a ripple of laughter among the guards. Axarandes’s arched eyebrows climbed a little higher. “Extraordinary!” he exclaimed. “Have you any proof of that?”

“We’re here telling you, aren’t we?” said Gundabyr belligerently.

“You might be here for any number of reasons, Master Dwarf. Silvanesti law does not permit outsiders within our borders. If you are who you say you are, lady, then you should know that.”

Nettled, Vixa’s voice rose. “Yes, I do know that! Look, General, we’re not spies, and we’re not lunatics. The Dargonesti elves are coming from a city called Urione, which lies two hundred leagues offshore, under the sea. Ten thousand soldiers, commanded by a warlord named Coryphene, are on their way right now to attack Silvanost!”

No one laughed now. Axarandes reacted decisively. “Very well,” he said. “I have been a soldier too long to ignore such a warning. Patrols will be sent out to investigate your claim. Dannagel?” The young elf stepped forward. “Form a cavalry troop. Scout the west bank as far as Point Zara. Kenthrin, lead a company east along the shore for the same purpose. Go no farther than Sandpiper Beach.”

Both elves saluted, and Samcadaris asked, “And I, sir?”

“You will muster the remaining garrison and drill them on the common in Brackenost. I want watchers on both towers night and day.” Axarandes stood.

“Is that all?” Vixa asked. “Aren’t you going to send a warning to Silvanost?”

“To what end, lady? We don’t know if this is a real invasion or not. I will not risk a reputation for five hundred years of common sense by sending a false report to His Majesty.”

Vixa traded a helpless look with Gundabyr. The dwarf scowled. “What about us?” he wanted to know.

“You will remain here, under guard.”

“As prisoners?”

“Until the truth of your story can be checked, you are foreigners on Silvanesti soil and must be detained.” In seconds the pair was surrounded by armed elves.

“That’s the thanks we get,” grumbled Gundabyr.

“I don’t wish to be harsh,” Axarandes replied decently. “But the law is the law.”

Vixa and Gundabyr were marched away. They were taken to a large room high up in the south tower. The thick door clanked shut, the bolt slid home, and they were captives once more.

“The luck is still with us,” Gundabyr said sourly, “and it’s still all bad. We shoulda just gone home.”

“No,” Vixa answered with a sigh. “This was the right thing to do. Coryphene and Uriona must be stopped.”

“Do you think this general fella can do it?”

“He’s taking precautions – that’s good. But he simply doesn’t understand who and what he’s dealing with.” She sighed again.

Gundabyr dragged a chair over to the high slit window. He climbed up and peered outside. The afternoon sun illuminated a narrow view of the Thon-Thalas delta and, in the distance, a blue strip of sea.

“I wonder how long it’ll be?” he mused. “How long before we see blueskins marching out of the water?”

Vixa shivered, though the day was quite hot. She drew the Silvanesti cloak closer about her and said nothing.

*

As prisons went, their room in Thonbec wasn’t too bad. The Silvanesti fed them regularly – no fish after the first meal, when Gundabyr’s anguished complaints rang through the stone fortress. The thick walls kept the room cool, despite the intense afternoon sun, and by night the stones had absorbed enough heat to maintain a pleasant temperature, though cool sea breezes whistled in the slit windows.

Two days after being shut in the tower, Vixa and Gundabyr had a visitor. It was Samcadaris, looking grim.

“Kenthrin and Dannagel have returned,” he reported. “They found no sign of an invading army. When did these Dargonesti supposedly start moving?”

“Five, six days ago,” Vixa estimated. “They’re all on foot, though. It will take them a while to march – or swim – here.”

“All infantry, you say? No cavalry?”

“Horses don’t fare too well forty fathoms down.” Samcadaris merely nodded at Gundabyr’s sarcastic comment. The grim look on his face didn’t alter.

“It may not mean much to you now,” the Silvanesti said, “but I agree with you that Silvanost should be warned. I don’t think we can afford not to believe you. However, the general has lost what little faith he had in you. I fear you may be consigned to the dungeon shortly.”

“But I am of the House of Kith-Kanan!” Vixa exploded.

“If that were true, we would treat you accordingly. But there seems to be no way you can prove what you say.”

Gundabyr smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I know what’ll show’em, Princess!” he said. He tugged her elbow, drawing her down to him. The dwarf whispered in her ear. Vixa smiled.

“I agree,” she said. “Captain Samcadaris, if you will conduct me down to the river, I will be able to demonstrate the truth of my tale.”

“The river? Do you think I can be fooled into allowing you to escape?”

Gundabyr threw up his hands, but Vixa said patiently, “I give you my word, I won’t attempt escape. Take me to the river, and I can prove myself. Gundabyr will remain with you as hostage. If I fail, you can always toss us back in here, and I won’t ask for another chance.”

Samcadaris hesitated a moment longer, but the calm of her demeanor decided him. He conducted them out of their tower room. It was several hours after the midday meal, and the fortress bailey was bustling with activity. The path down to the river was quiet. Through the trees, Vixa could see barges on the water, flying the banners of Silvanost. Troops rowed back and forth, searching for signs of an attack. Part of her almost wished the Dargonesti would hurry and get here, proving that she and Gundabyr weren’t lying. Or spies. Or crazy.

They walked out on the stone pier. Vixa kicked off her borrowed boots and pulled her robe over her head.

“What are you doing?” asked Samcadaris, mystified.

“I have to be in the water,” she said. “Just be patient.”

Clad only in her cotton shift, Vixa stepped off the dock. The water was neck-deep here. She closed her eyes and began the now-familiar process of visualizing her dolphin shape. The sleek black-and-white body filled her mind. She ignored everything except that one idea.

Nothing happened. Gundabyr cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said, “get to it.”

She glared up at him. “I’m trying!” Vixa closed her eyes again. Once more she concentrated. She remembered the sensation of hurtling through the water. She thought of the ease and grace her muscular form gave her, of the loops and circles she’d swum around Naxos during her first transformation. She remembered the exhilaration of leaping from wave to wave.

“Captain Samcadaris, what is the meaning of this?”

General Axarandes was striding across the dock. Samcadaris snapped to rigid attention and saluted.

“Sir! Lady Vixa said she had a way of proving the truth of her report, if I would bring her to the river —”

“Lady,” the general interrupted, “please come out of the water.”

“No,” she said, glaring up at him. “Not yet!”

“What’s wrong?” Gundabyr asked her.

She shook her head, at a loss to explain her failure. “I don’t know. I – wait a minute!” Vixa’s expression brightened. “Naxos said I had to be in the sea! Captain, take me to the sea! I can prove —”

The general’s voice was firm. “Lady, come out of the water. Now.”

Still protesting, Vixa did as he ordered. When she demanded again to be taken to the sea, Axarandes held up a hand for quiet.

“We have learned one thing here at least,” he said softly. Vixa’s confusion at his words turned to outrage as she saw that every elf wore the same expression – pity! They thought she was a lunatic, and they felt sorry for her!

“I’m not mad!” she shouted. “If you’ll just take me to the ocean —”

“There are learned elves in Silvanost who can help you, lady,” Axarandes said kindly. “Magic can be a great boon to a wandering mind.”

“My mind is not wandering! I tell you I can prove what I say!”

When the general signaled for two elves to take hold of her, Vixa’s patience ended. Planting her feet, she delivered a hard blow to the chest of the nearer warrior, sending him stumbling back. The second she seized by his tunic and flung into the river.

Axarandes sighed. “Take them,” he said wearily.

Gundabyr let out a yell of dwarven anger and lashed out with his fists. Two Silvanesti went sprawling, but the rest overcame him by sheer numbers and pinioned his arms and legs. Vixa evaded a rush by two more elves and grabbed for the hilt of the elderly Axarandes’s fine sword. Unfortunately, the old general was quicker and stronger than he looked. Her wrist was seized in an iron grip. He broke her hold on the hilt and reversed her arm. Gasping with pain, she spun involuntarily until he had her arm tight against her back.

“Do be calm, lady. I’ve no wish to hurt you,” he said. Vixa struggled, but she couldn’t escape his armlock.

“All right. This is getting us nowhere,” she said, relaxing.

Vixa and Gundabyr were surrounded by a phalanx of chagrined Silvanesti soldiers, all rubbing their jaws or nursing bruised knuckles. “Take them to the dungeon,” Axarandes ordered. “Separate them.”

Samcadaris had stood quietly by during this altercation, his face torn. Now, however, pity had replaced confusion. The girl’s mind was obviously unstable. Axarandes turned to him.

“Captain, call in the patrols. This farce has gone on long enough.”

His words horrified Vixa. “General, you must believe me! The Dargonesti are coming! You must be prepared!”

They marched back to Thonbec in disgrace. Along the way, Gundabyr muttered, “Well, that went fine, didn’t it? Now they’re certain we’re nuts – or at least you are. I’m just the idiot who believes you!”

“Oh, shut up,” she said crossly.

The rest of the journey was completed in angry silence. The Silvanesti locked them in separate cells in the fortress dungeon. The rooms were clean and dry, though far smaller than their previous tower chamber. The clanging of the bolt shooting home sounded like a death knell to Vixa.

The Qualinesti princess slumped against the wall and let her head rest heavily on her hands.

*

When she awoke, Vixa had no idea how much time had passed. The only light in her cell came from the small wicket in the oak door. She put her face next to the strips of black iron that barred the wicket and peered down the passage. Torches sputtered in wall sconces, but the low-ceilinged passage was empty. She called Gundabyr’s name several times. There was no response.

It was all so frustrating! She was certain she could transform if only these fools would take her to the ocean! That must be why she’d failed. She had to be in salt water.

But was that the problem? For all she knew, her ability was temporary. Naxos had said “forever” – but the shapeshifter could have lied. That thought stung almost as much as her failure.

Disgusted, Vixa let her head fall against the doorjamb. Immediately, she felt strange vibrations echoing through the cold stone. She pulled back in surprise, and the sensation went away. Vixa pressed an ear to the wall beside the cell door. The stones were vibrating. Was the entire garrison marching on the battlements? Perhaps a mighty storm lashed the fortress. In moments a sound broke the silence of the dungeon – the sound of running feet, growing louder.

Vixa pressed her face against the iron straps over the wicket. “Hello!” she called. “Who’s there? Let me out!”

Samcadaris rounded the far corner and raced toward her cell. She saw that he was dirty and spattered with blood.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“We’re under attack!” He threw back the bolt on her door. “An hour after sundown they came out of the river! Warriors, giants with blue skin, just as you said!”

“Has the fortress fallen?”

“No! Axarandes led a counterattack and saved the troops trapped outside the walls. They’ve taken Brackenost, though. The village is burning.”

She emerged from her cell. “Where’s Gundabyr? He must be freed.”

Samcadaris took her down the passage and around the corner. When Gundabyr was awakened and the situation explained to him, he got to his feet with a sigh, saying, “First they call us loonies, then they want us to fight for’em. I tell you, the luck’s still with us, and it’s —”

“All bad,” finished Vixa impatiently. “Captain, we need weapons.”

“You shall have them,” said Samcadaris. He led them down the passage and up the stairs, grabbing a torch as he went.

As they ran, the dwarf muttered, “I don’t s’pose there’s a decent axe around here. I can’t fight with these fancy elf weapons.”

They emerged in the ground floor chamber of the north tower, the fort’s armory. The torchlight was reflected by racks of pole weapons, swords, shields, and various other implements of battle. Shouts and the clangor of battle filtered through the thick stone walls.

“Help yourselves,” said the Silvanesti, stabbing the torch into a handy wall sconce. “I must return to the wall!”

Vixa chose a burnished bronze breastplate and helmet. There was no time to bother with greaves, vambraces, or the like. She tugged the helmet on and wriggled into the heavy cuirass. Gundabyr turned up his nose at the bronze armor – it was much too large for him anyway – and went straight to a rack of polearms. He took out a six-foot halberd and cut several feet of its shaft away. Now he had a large but serviceable hand axe.

“Let’s go!” Vixa shouted, hefting a borrowed sword.

“Right behind you, Princess.”

They dashed into the courtyard. The bailey was littered with wounded and dying Silvanesti. Long torches planted into the ground gave the scene an eerie, shifting illumination.

The walls teemed with fighting elves. Fires blazed on the far side of the walls, casting the parapets into sharp relief. Mixed in with the Silvanesti defenders were disturbing numbers of tall, blue-skinned Dargonesti. Now and then an elf toppled from the wall, trailing screams in the smoky air.

“The gate’s where the fight will be hardest,” Vixa shouted over the din. “That’s where I’m going!” She ran for the entrance, Gundabyr right behind. They had to weave through the piles of wounded and dead.

They reached the front gate just as the fight was turning in favor of the defenders. General Axarandes was there, directing his troops with cool efficiency. He had solidified the defense. Vixa and Gundabyr pitched in, helping to shove the massive oak doors shut. When Axarandes saw them, he simply nodded.

Locking bars, made from entire tree trunks, were slid into place to hold the portal secure. Axarandes called for water and bandages for the wounded. There were no healers in Thonbec. They were usually brought in from Brackenost to tend the garrison’s simple needs. Unfortunately, Brackenost had been conquered. The burning village brightly illuminated the eastern wall.

Vixa, Gundabyr, and the general climbed to the battlements. Vixa was furious that her warning had gone unheeded. Many of these deaths might have been prevented if only the Silvanesti had listened.

“After dark, the first of the enemy emerged from the river and seized the docks.” Axarandes said. “Half the garrison was outside the walls, patrolling or on relieved duty. Before the alarm could be raised, the enemy were in the streets of Brackenost. They have an incendiary liquid that is difficult to extinguish.”

“Gnomefire,” Gundabyr said ruefully. “I’m afraid I gave them that.”

“Captain Dannagel was in the village and mustered what warriors he could to resist the enemy attack. They came out of the river all along the bank, hundreds of them. Dannagel died defending the open gate. I brought his troops in, and only barely managed to keep the invaders out, as you saw for yourselves.”

The Qualinesti princess shook her head as she stared down at the burning village beyond the wall. Of course the Dargonesti had come from the river! She’d told the Silvanesti they were a water-breathing race. But she cast these resentments aside. The objective now had to be the defense of Thonbec and Silvanost.

“Have you sent word to the Speaker?” she asked. Axarandes shook his head, and she quickly added, “Silvanost is their objective, General, make no mistake. You must warn the Speaker of the Stars to prepare for the defense of the city.”

To her disbelief, he said, “You are too rash, lady. The enemy has not taken this fortress. In truth, now that their surprise attack has failed, I don’t see that we have much to fear. I regret my lack of faith in your warning, but we are prepared now. A force of ten thousand infantry cannot have a siege train of the size necessary to reduce Thonbec. They might as well return to the sea now and spare their own blood.”

“That’s an easy thing to say,” Gundabyr remarked. “But you don’t know these blueskins the way we do. Coryphene didn’t come all this way just to give up. Rest assured, he has some plan in mind for your fortress.”

Axarandes regarded them for a minute. His aquiline features glowed in the light from the burning city. “Very well,” he acquiesced. “A courier will be sent to Silvanost. Would you two like the job?”

Vixa’s response was prompt. “No, thank you, General. I doubt they’d believe us any more than you did.”

He nodded, turned away. Vixa and Gundabyr remained, watching the fire consume the last of Brackenost.

Chapter 18

THE FORTRESS DESTROYED

The night was not yet over.

After the fire in the village had burned itself out, bringing the darkness of a summer night back to the gray walls of Thonbec, Dargonesti crept out of the river again and massed on the riverbanks. Keen-eyed Silvanesti sentinels spotted them and sounded the call to arms on their trumpets.

First to the walls were the archers. The garrison of Thonbec consisted of fifteen hundred warriors, three hundred of whom were some of Silvanesti’s most skilled archers. Though night shrouded the lower slopes of the riverbank, the archers showered death on the attackers. Stung by the hail, a band of fifty Dargonesti tried to rush the gate. Only half made it to the top of the hill, and none made it to the gate. The survivors broke and fled back to the safety of the Thon-Thalas.

“Hurrah!” a young sentinel shouted from the parapet. “They can’t bear up under our arrows!”

“Not surprising,” Vixa said dryly. She was tired and cross, wanting to sleep but not daring to. “They’ve never faced arrows before.”

The sentinel said excitedly, “We should sortie and strike them! With a hundred swords we could —”

“— reduce the garrison by a hundred,” Samcadaris finished. “Back to your post, soldier.”

“The Dargonesti are just feeling out your defenses. They’ve never fought a land foe before,” Vixa explained.

Long after the moons set, mere hours before dawn, it became very quiet. Axarandes, fresh from a well-deserved rest, came to the battlements with the dispatch he’d prepared for the Speaker of the Stars. He asked Vixa to read it, to check for factual errors regarding the might of the Dargonesti. She approved it all, and he sealed it in a deerskin wallet. Axarandes called for a courier, the fastest runner in Thonbec. The importance of his mission was explained to him, and the courier was lowered by rope over the east wall. Silently, he raced away from the fort, vanishing in the trees.

“I hope he makes it,” Vixa murmured.

“I’ll send a second courier in a few hours,” Axarandes assured her. “And another at midday. One of them will get through.”

A lookout atop the south tower sang out, “Turn out! Turn out! Something is happening in the river!”

All hands rushed to the west wall. By the time Vixa and Gundabyr reached the parapet the place was so crowded the dwarf couldn’t see anything but elven posteriors.

“What is it? What do you see, Princess?” he demanded.

Vixa wasn’t sure what she was seeing. The dark waters of the Thon-Thalas were rising. The surge was coming from the delta, not upstream. Water rose over the two stone docks, inundated the banks, and crept slowly up the hill toward the fortress.

A cold sensation settled in Vixa’s stomach. “General,” she whispered, “you’d better clear the walls.”

“Why? What sorcery is this?” he wanted to know.

“Just clear the walls!” she repeated.

The rising water writhed, and a gelatinous mass appeared on the surface. To the Silvanesti, it looked like a swarm of giant snakes emerging from the river. One of the snakes rose into the air, as high as the walls of Thonbec. The elves gaped. The snake – or rather the tentacle – was six feet thick and studded with bright yellow suckers. Though she had never seen this part of the monster, Vixa knew what it was.

“They’ve called up the kraken.”

Her whispered statement fell like a lightning bolt upon Gundabyr. “That does it,” he said flatly, then turned and ran.

More of the monster humped out of the water. The boneless kraken filled the river from bank to bank. Its terrible tentacles reached out of the river, grasping tree trunks for support. More and more of its whitish, translucent bulk spilled out of the water.

The archers, unbidden, peppered the kraken with arrows. They might as well have blown kisses. The wooden shafts made no impression on the slick, rubbery hide of the massive creature. A tentacle touched the foot of the fortress wall, coiled around it, retracted again. Another came, feeling the stonework with a delicacy strange for so massive a limb. A third arm grasped the rim of the high wall, bowling over a dozen Silvanesti warriors as an elf brushes ants from his sleeve.

Vixa couldn’t move. The dreadful sight kept her rooted to the spot, staring in horrified fascination. In the center of the monstrous mass of tentacles and flesh a single eye appeared, black as the Abyss and twice as wide as the gate of Thonbec. It glistened in the starlight, then she saw the immense organ swivel in her direction.

Five tentacles leapt up and grasped the parapet. Silvanesti attacked with sword and halberd, to no effect. The kraken’s limbs knotted, drawing the monster farther out of the water.

Axarandes was shouting orders. Oil was brought from the towers and dumped onto the monster’s grasping tentacles. Torches were cast. Though weak flames hissed, the sodden flesh of the kraken was nearly impossible to ignite.

They could smell the beast now. The fetid odor brought to Vixa’s mind her horrible first encounter with the kraken. She shuddered violently, and her terrified paralysis ended abruptly. Vixa grabbed the general.

“You can’t fight it like this! It’s too big, too powerful! Sound retreat, General! Save the garrison!” she shouted into his face.

Already, stones on the parapet were breaking off under the kraken’s grip. A half-dozen Silvanesti were crushed in one swipe as a tentacle thrashed against the south tower. The monster was halfway up the hill now, more of its arms reaching out to the fortress. Vixa ducked; limbs eight feet thick and two hundred feet long swept over their heads. Huge blocks of granite tumbled as the kraken tugged on the wall.

Axarandes gave the command. Trumpets sounded “Reform and retreat.” Silvanesti spilled off the wall and formed ranks on the far side.

Vixa searched for Gundabyr. The monster was raking the courtyard. Warriors tried to hold ranks, but the threat was too great. The disciplined Silvanesti soldiers broke and ran for their lives. Hundreds of elves raced for the landside wall, to squeeze through the smaller postern gate there.

Masonry fell around Vixa. She was nearly crushed by a four-ton wall block. The sky was growing brighter as dawn approached, and against this purple background she saw the south tower of Thonbec in the kraken’s grip. Screeching came from the giant suckers as they gripped the smooth stones. Then the grinding thunder of collapse sounded. The south tower slid into ruin before her astonished eyes.

The air was filled with dust, the pounding of toppling granite, the shrieks of injured and frightened elves. Vixa, shielding her nose and mouth from the flying dirt, ran for the postern gate, midway along the eastern wall. A tentacle lay in her path. Steeling herself, she clambered over it. It was cold and soft, like a mound of damp leather. It didn’t stir as she dropped down on the other side, but a gruesome sight met her eyes: arms and legs of crushed Silvanesti protruded from underneath. Vixa looked away and resumed running.

The postern was partially blocked by rubble. The Qualinesti princess wormed through a tangle of stones. An elf lay dead under a large fragment of the gate arch. Bending low to crawl by the obstruction, she recognized the dead Silvanesti. It was Kenthrin, one of the first three she and Gundabyr had met on the beach.

Vixa crawled through a small gap, tearing her clothes and scratching her face and hands on sharp edges. The postern gate was standing open. Staggering to her feet, she dashed through. Outside, all she could see were the backs of many Silvanesti, running for the woods. Gundabyr was nowhere to be found.

The kraken turned its attention to the north tower. As Vixa stumbled away, she saw the same merciless grip enfolding that stout structure, with the same terrible result. Balif’s great fortress, built with skill and care a thousand years earlier, crumbled under the monster’s assault.

Vixa reached the line of trees, paused for breath, and looked back. Dargonesti warriors, their heads and shoulders sheathed in damp, turbanlike cloths, were marching up the hill, giving the kraken a wide berth. When they caught up with fleeing Silvanesti, they struck them down without mercy. Grinding her teeth in anger, the Qualinesti princess shucked off her cuirass and helmet. Alone, she couldn’t save those who were dying. All she could try to do was save herself. The heavy armor would only slow her now.

The forest east of Thonbec was an old one, of large, widely spaced oaks and yews. The way was clear for rapid movement. Vixa ran until her lungs were bursting. When she could run no farther, she leaned against a broad yew tree and gasped for breath. Shame rose hot in her breast, shame for her panicked retreat and for the ignominious defeat.

In the distance, the eastern sky brightened behind a tall cloud of gray dust, rising from the ruins of Thonbec.

*

Gundabyr’s early flight from the wall had been prompted not only by fear, but by his practical nature as well. He knew the power of the kraken. He knew there was nothing for a fellow to do in the face of such power but be elsewhere. Vowing to live to fight another day, the dwarf had fled.

When he reached the postern gate, he looked back. The tentacles of the kraken were gripping the riverside wall. Gundabyr was torn for a moment, wanting to go back for Vixa yet wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and that ocean-dwelling horror. He, like most dwarves, was a very poor swimmer because of his stocky body and heavy bones. The sight of the kraken had brought back all the old terror, when the monster had sunk his ship and he and Garnath had been captured.

The kraken’s tentacles swept the first elves from the battlement, and Gundabyr hesitated no longer. He ran down the east slope to the woods. The area was deserted. The Dargonesti hadn’t bothered to surround the landward side of Thonbec. They probably didn’t want to risk being cut off from the river.

Axe in hand, the dwarf plunged into the woods. His flight took him down this slope and up the next hill. As the eastern sky lightened to gold, he was forced to stop and catch his breath. On the bald crest of a hill, he turned to survey Thonbec. Nothing remained of the ancient fortress but an enormous mound of gray stone. A column of dust rose like smoke straight up in the still air. Real smoke from the sacked village of Brackenost made a thin plume next to the vast dust cloud.

Gundabyr leaned on his axe handle, chest heaving. He realized he couldn’t simply run away. He was too stubborn for that and, he had to admit it, he liked that young elf princess. She wasn’t nearly as stuck-up as most elves. Besides, if the Dargonesti were allowed to take over Silvanesti, no country on Krynn would be safe. He would have to go back. He had to find Vixa.

When his breathing came under control, he shouldered his weapon and started back down the hill. The return trip, not conducted at a blind run, was much slower. By the time Gundabyr reached the clearing where the east wall had stood, the morning sun was bathing the ruins of the fortress. There were no Dargonesti in sight. Many Silvanesti lay dead on the field, slain in flight by Dargonesti spears. He looked them over, thankful Vixa couldn’t be found among them.

The kraken was gone, presumably back into the sea, but its nasty smell still fouled the air. Gundabyr picked his way up the hill through the litter of broken stones and dead elves. He reached the top and could see a long distance in all directions. Nothing was stirring. No elves – of any nation – no sea monsters, not even any animals broke the unnatural quiet.

As the dwarf clambered down the north side of the ruins, all the while his mind was working. Where had the Dargonesti gone? They had taken the fort, or the kraken had, yet they’d left the site of their great victory.

The low sun blinded Gundabyr as he continued to search the ruins for Vixa. When he shielded his eyes against the glare, a thought came to him. Perhaps that was why the Dargonesti had departed so hastily. They wanted to avoid the sunlight. Taking this line of reasoning further, Gundabyr decided they were not likely to attack again until dusk at the least. Living in the ocean depths as they did, they were most likely unable to bear the direct heat and light of the sun. That could be a boon for the Silvanesti, and right now they needed any advantage.

He was satisfied that Vixa had not been killed at the fortress. Now, he just had to find her. His knowledge of Silvanesti geography was meager, but he knew the city of Silvanost lay upriver, on an island in the midst of the Thon-Thalas. Shouldering his axe, he started north, keeping a discreet distance from the water’s edge. No sense tempting the blueskins to try their luck during the day.

Near midday, when the sun was scorching his bare head, Gundabyr smelled smoke – a campfire, he thought. He slipped into the brush beside the river road and worked his way toward the source. Care was needed. He didn’t think the Dargonesti had taken to frying their fish these days, but he was a foreigner in Silvanesti territory and he’d seen enough elven prisons to last him several lifetimes.

Voices filtered through the foliage. He tightened his grip on his axe. The weight of it was comforting. Gundabyr caught a glimpse of movement in a clearing ahead. The odor of cooking was much stronger. It smelled like apples baking. His mouth watered.

“These will be ready soon,” said a familiar voice. Samcadaris?

“I hope so. The general is in a bad way. He needs food.”

Vixa! Popping out of a tangle of ivy, Gundabyr called, “Save an apple for me, Princess!”

The dwarf’s sudden appearance startled the group around the campfire. Vixa, Samcadaris, and four Silvanesti soldiers leapt to their feet. Gundabyr found arrows and swords aimed at his broad chest.

“Wait!” he cried, throwing up his arms. “It’s me!”

“Hold!” Vixa commanded. The warriors lowered their weapons. The Qualinesti princess shook her head. “Gundabyr, it’s good to see you, but it’s dangerous sneaking up like that.”

“My apologies!” He stepped out into the open. “I’m mighty glad to see you, too.”

“What happened to you?”

He briefly sketched his morning activities, including his return to Thonbec.

“And there was no one left alive?” Samcadaris asked grimly.

The dwarf shook his head. “Are you all that’s left?” he asked, gesturing around at the small group.

Vixa replied, “We scattered when the walls and towers came down around us. I found Samca here, and we picked up the others with General Axarandes.”

She cast a worried look upon the still figure that lay on a crude stretcher made from a cloak and two green saplings. A terrible wound showed on the general’s head. He’d been hit by falling masonry, Vixa explained.

“Will he live?” whispered Gundabyr.

“It’s very serious, but if we can get him to a healer soon —” Her voice trailed off, then she added, “Have you seen any Dargonesti?”

“Not this morning.” He told them his theory that the sea elves couldn’t bear direct sunlight. Vixa concurred.

“We’ve seen signs they’ve raided both sides of the river,” Samcadaris said. “We’ve encountered no farmers or fishers at all.”

They were camped on the outskirts of the extensive orchard country that surrounded Silvanost. Green apples, plucked from the trees, were all they could find to eat. The soldiers were cooking the fruit to make it more palatable. The little band crouched around the fire, digging browned apples from the ashes and eating the hot fruit gingerly.

Gundabyr watched Vixa for several minutes. She talked and even joked with the others, keeping their spirits up in the face of their crushing defeat. She herself looked surprisingly well, considering all that had happened. The dwarf commented on this.

“I’m on dry land,” she said simply. “It’s amazing what a difference that simple fact makes. Everything else can be dealt with.”

Samcadaris frowned. “I wish I shared your confidence, lady,” he said. “I’m not afraid of these blue-skinned warriors, but if they can command monsters of the deep, then all may be lost.”

Vixa swallowed a bite of warm apple. She pointed through the widely spaced trees to the river, visible as a sparkling ribbon at the bottom of the hill. “How wide would you say the river is here, Samca?”

“How wide? Maybe two hundred yards, two-fifty at most.”

“The kraken is more than a mile wide. I know. I walked on its back and mistook it for an island. I doubt it can drag itself this far from deep water. Even at Thonbec it was too large for the river channel and stayed in the much broader delta area. And once the sun came up, it went back to deep water with the sea elves. Silvanost is safe from it, I think.”

Samcadaris looked at the distant Thon-Thalas. “Thank Astarin for that, at least.”

“What we really need are horses,” Vixa said, rising. “We need to take a warning to Silvanost with all possible speed.”

The elf captain managed a smile. He stood and dusted his hands. “I can do something about that, lady.”

He went to General Axarandes. Vixa and Gundabyr followed. They could see the general’s thin chest rising and falling as he breathed. Samcadaris knelt by his commander, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Sir? My lord Axarandes?”

Under a bruised brow, the general’s eyes slowly opened. “Samca,” he rasped.

“Sir, we need horses. We must get to Silvanost as quickly as possible.”

“Sent … couriers.”

“Yes, sir, I know,” Samcadaris said patiently. “But we don’t know if they got through. And you, my lord, are in need of a healer. Your wound is very serious.”

“I should be dead. My citadel pulled down like a wattle hut, elves of Silvanesti fleeing in panic … you should have left me in the rubble.”

Vixa knelt on the general’s other side. “Look here, General. You’re alive and there’s a lot of fighting to be done yet. Will you give up on your country when it needs you most?”

He regarded her with bloodshot eyes. “Are you really a princess of the House of Kith-Kanan?”

Her back stiffened. She looked down on him with proud eyes. “I am Vixa Ambrodel, granddaughter of Kith-Kanan, first Speaker of the Sun.”

A tiny smile lifted Axarandes’s lips. “I’m sorry I doubted you, lady. You have the spirit, the carriage of a princess. I should have known it.”

“Don’t let it trouble you, sir. If I’d been in your shoes, I wouldn’t have believed me either.”

Samcadaris cleared his throat. “Sir, the horses?”

“Ah, yes.”

Axarandes raised a hand stiffly to his neck and groped in the folds of his tunic. He produced a small golden talisman, which hung around his neck on a thong. It was a horse rampant, beautifully worked. Closing his hand around the figurine, he began to speak, though no sound passed his lips.

Gundabyr leaned over Vixa’s shoulder and whispered loudly, “What’s up? Is he praying?”

“The general is summoning horses,” Samcadaris explained quietly. “Some elders of House Protector have the ability to call horses to them in times of emergency.”

It was a long spell Axarandes soundlessly chanted. When at last the talisman fell from his fingers, he lost consciousness from the exertion. Samcadaris and Vixa stood up.

“Is that it?” asked the dwarf, unimpressed.

“Wait,” said Samcadaris. “You must be patient.”

Gundabyr shrugged his broad shoulders and went back to the fire for another apple. He’d taken only a few bites when a distant thundering reached his ears. Soon, the sound was recognizable as the pounding of hooves. Gundabyr was happily surprised by the sight of ten horses cantering into the clearing. They were of all colors and sizes – from heavy farm animals still wearing leather collars around their necks to half-wild ponies with ragged coats and unshod hooves. As only eight mounts were needed, the elves sorted out the best of the lot and sent the remaining two on their way.

The soldiers made halters out of rawhide for each of the animals. General Axarandes’s makeshift stretcher was lashed behind one of the muscular farm horses. The travois wasn’t ideal, but he was in no condition to ride. Gundabyr was provided with a wicked-looking pony. It bared yellow teeth at him and pranced nervously when he approached. The dwarf put his face up close to the pony’s and bared his own yellow teeth. The fractious horse settled down after that. Gundabyr led it to convenient stump, and was soon mounted.

“Remarkable,” said Samcadaris. “I doubt that animal’s ever been ridden. How did you tame him so quickly?”

“Nothing to it. I just let him know that if he bites me, I’ll bite back!”

For the first time since arriving in Silvanesti, Vixa Ambrodel laughed.

Chapter 19

CITY OF THE STARS

The trip to Silvanost passed quickly. It was nearly sunset when they came in sight of the fabled capital of the eastern elven realm. Tired though she was, Vixa sat up straight as the first silver towers gleamed over the distant trees. No one she knew, not even Colonel Armantaro, had seen this ancient city. He had often spoken of his desire to see the city of their ancestors. Vixa’s excitement was tempered with sadness at the thought that he would never get his wish.

Unlike the buildings of Qualinost, which were formed from naturally occurring rose quartz, the spires of Silvanost were constructed of white marble. They soared to remarkable heights and were so slender and sharply peaked as to resemble giant inverted icicles or spikes of the purest white glass.

At least one of General Axarandes’s couriers must have gotten to Silvanost ahead of them. Samcadaris pointed out that the river was devoid of the usual collection of small water craft. Large, heavy barges, their sides lined with bronze shields, were anchored in midstream to bar the way to enemy ships. The warning had not been ignored completely.

Banners flew from every masthead and tower peak. The setting sun warmed the white walls of Silvanost, and against that majestic backdrop, Vixa saw troops moving along the lengthy battlements.

They left behind the orchards and neatly tended gardens and entered a grassy plain that rolled down to the river. At once they were surrounded and challenged by handsomely outfitted cavalry on snow-white horses.

“Stand!” called a rider in herald’s plumage. “Name yourselves!”

“Samcadaris, of House Protector. I have General Axarandes of Thonbec with me, gravely wounded. These are his warriors.”

“Who are the outlanders?”

Samcadaris nodded to Vixa and Gundabyr, indicating they should speak for themselves. Vixa drew herself up and said in a loud, clear voice, “Vixa Ambrodel, daughter of Verhanna Kanan and Kemian Ambrodel, niece of Silveran, Speaker of the Sun!”

The dwarf merely waved a hand and said tiredly, “Gundabyr. Forgemaster. Thorbardin.”

“You will come with me.” The herald reined his prancing horse and sent it galloping off toward the shore. Vixa, Samcadaris, and the rest thumped heels against their ragged mounts and followed.

At the water’s edge, a broad stone ramp slanted at a gentle angle into the river. The herald halted and put a golden horn to his lips. Two crystalline notes echoed across the Thon-Thalas. He sounded them once more.

“Now what?” rumbled Gundabyr. Vixa shrugged in reply.

In moments, they saw a stately barge of considerable size coming across the river toward them. At first she and Gundabyr couldn’t figure out how it was powered. It had no sails, oars, or sweeps. A pair of thick chains ran taut from the bow out into the water ahead of the vessel. Gundabyr asked about their purpose, but before anyone could reply, the answer rose to the surface. A vast green dome emerged from the river in front of the barge. It loomed higher and higher. Unconsciously, both newcomers edged their horses away from the shore.

The dome was jointed, made up of dozens of smaller plates. Vixa was astonished to realize that it was a creature of some sort. Its head, the size of a fishing dory, rose dripping from the water, and huge brown eyes stared impassively at her.

“It’s a turtle!” yelped Gundabyr. “The father of all turtles!”

“They are bred as tow beasts for the cross-river ferry.” Samcadaris was grinning.

“Fantastic,” Vixa breathed. “How do you control such a monster?”

“They are gentle as lambs, lady. Priests of the Blue Phoenix train them to work. I do not know what spells they use.”

It didn’t take long for the giant turtle to cross the Thon-Thalas. Soon it was hauling itself out of the water onto the stone ramp, laboriously turning the barge for the return trip. The vessel bumped along until the barge master whistled for the beast to halt. A gangplank was lowered, and two soldiers from Thonbec carried Axarandes aboard. Vixa, Gundabyr, and Samcadaris followed.

The barge was crammed with Silvanesti – by the look of them, river sailors hastily pressed into service as soldiers. Unlike the splendidly dressed cavalry, the barge marines were decked out in an assortment of ill-fitting cuirasses and helms. Like all the Silvanesti, they were tall and slender, with light eyes and hair. Vixa was used to the mixture of races found in Qualinost. Elves – many descended from the darker, stockier Kagonesti line – humans, some dwarves, and a few kender all called Qualinost home. The peaceful coexistence of the races was what her grandfather, Kith-Kanan, had envisioned for the city he founded. No such mixing of the races occurred in Silvanost.

Hundreds of years earlier, when Silvanesti was home to all elves, Speaker of the Stars Sithel had been slain by a party of humans hunting the fringes of Silvanesti territory. Though the humans insisted the death had been accidental, the outraged elves had set about ridding their land of all nonelves, especially humans, many of whom had intermarried with the ancient race. The humans resisted, and so was begun the Kinslayer War.

When the fighting was over, the elves withdrew into their country, disdaining any contact with those not of the – to their way of thinking – superior race. Their natural arrogance had blossomed into outright bigotry.

However, some elves chafed under the rigid traditions and rules that governed their land. They were championed by Kith-Kanan, son of former Speaker Sithel and twin brother of Speaker of the Stars Sithas. This rift widened until it brought about the sundering of the elven nation. Kith-Kanan led his followers west, to found a new country called Qualinesti, where all races would be welcome.

Only Silvanesti feet had trodden the streets of Silvanost these last four hundred years. Now the eastern elves were faced with not only a dwarven intruder, but a Qualinesti one as well. They had a deep mistrust of their western cousins, as some Qualinesti had sided with the humans during the Kinslayer War. The Silvanesti also believed that if elves had never married humans, bringing the humans into Silvanesti, the entire bloody conflict would never have happened. There were even those who worried that the exiles – as the eastern elves called the Qualinesti – would one day try to return to Silvanesti to take back their ancestral home by force.

Vixa had always stood out among the inhabitants of her own country, with her height, light coloring, and bright blond hair. Here, she blended into the crowd.

It was obvious the Silvanesti didn’t see it that way, however. Once Vixa and Gundabyr were on the barge, conversation among the crew quickly died. The dwarf and the Qualinesti girl were greeted with stares, some curious, but none welcoming.

“What’s the matter with them?” muttered Gundabyr.

“Nothing,” she replied just as softly. “They just don’t get many – any – strangers here.”

From his tower at the ferry’s prow, the barge master gave a whistle. The turtle lurched into motion again, heading down the muddy ramp into the water. The barge did a swift right turn, sending the landlubbers skittering to the port bulwark. When the ride smoothed out, Samcadaris cornered the herald.

“Has the enemy been seen near the city?” he asked.

“No. I’m not even sure who the enemy is,” the young herald replied. He eyed Vixa. “Are the Qualinesti attacking us?”

Vixa opened her mouth to protest, but Samcadaris intervened. “Indeed not,” the captain said. “These brave foreigners brought us warning of the coming invasion.”

The herald’s gaze lost some of its hostility, but he still looked skeptical. “How was General Axarandes wounded? In battle?”

“His fortress fell on him,” Gundabyr said bluntly. “When the kraken knocked it down.”

“The what?”

Samcadaris explained grimly. “Thonbec is no more. The enemy command a great sea monster, which tore the fortress apart as though it were made of parchment. Its tentacles —”

“Hadn’t you better save the report for the Speaker?” Vixa interrupted, noting the terrified looks Samcadaris’s words were generating among the others on the ferry.

One of the crew, fear draining the color from his face, blurted, “Sea monster, Captain?”

Another put in, “What sort of fearsome beast could destroy an entire fortress?”

“Don’t worry,” Gundabyr said in a loud, genial voice. “The kraken can swallow three-masters for breakfast and swamp cities with a single belch, but it won’t come to Silvanost.”

The elves stared at him, openmouthed. “Why not?” asked one.

“Your river’s too small. The kraken’s a mile across, after all.”

The Silvanesti did not look reassured.

They docked at an elegant white marble gatehouse, with raised drawbridge and arrow loops bristling with wary elven archers. The herald went ashore as soon as the bridge was lowered. The four soldiers from Thonbec bore their wounded general off the barge and took him away to be tended. Silvanesti from all over the quayside gathered to see the strange outlanders. As Vixa and Gundabyr awaited their turn to come ashore, quite a crowd collected.

“Make way! Make way! I am on the Speaker’s business!” cried the herald, clearing a path for them through the curious throng.

The Silvanesti parted for him, but did not disperse. They began to murmur and point as the two outsiders came down the gangplank. Vixa felt the heat of attention. After weeks of living underwater, then fighting and escaping from Thonbec, she hardly resembled the regal daughter of a neighboring kingdom. She would have preferred to visit fabled Silvanost under different circumstances. It was obvious Gundabyr was feeling much the same way, despite his studied nonchalance. He hardly earned much respect for Thorbardin by his scruffy appearance. Still, Vixa held her head high and strode purposefully behind the herald. She might not be dressed as a princess, but she could certainly act like one.

“Hey, is this … a race?” Gundabyr panted, jogging to keep up with her.

Vixa didn’t respond. The hostility of the Silvanesti was reminding her of her first sight of the common folk of Urione, when she and Armantaro had been taken through the streets to the palace. She was growing weary of such arrogant treatment. The fact she had come here only to save these ill-mannered elves made her angrier still.

After a few minutes the crowds thinned. Here the streets were wider as well, paved in white granite and spotlessly clean. Elaborate gardens peeped over the walls and roofs of private homes. White roses and lilac twined around doorways, giving off a heady scent. The air felt oddly charged, as though a thunderstorm had just passed, though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Gundabyr remarked upon it as well.

Samcadaris said, “We are used to it. Some sages say it is the presence of godly favor, bestowed upon us as the first race in the world. Others say it’s the collective auras of so many Silvanesti living in one place. Still another opinion is that the presence of the Speaker of the Stars causes it.”

“What do you believe?” Vixa asked.

He shrugged. “I am just a soldier, lady. I leave such mysteries for others to ponder.”

Vixa liked his answer. Instead of trying to impress her with mysticism, he told the simple truth.

From a quiet residential street the procession entered a marvelous thoroughfare, paved in marble and gold. Here they had a clear view of the mightiest spire in the city, the Tower of the Stars. Vixa caught her breath at its beauty. This was Uriona’s goal, the seat of power for the monarch of the first elven kingdom. Six hundred feet tall, made of the purest white marble, in the dimness of the twilit evening the Tower of the Stars glowed with its own light, shining like a beacon.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing that up close,” Gundabyr confided to Vixa.

The herald, overhearing, remarked, “No outsider has set foot inside the Tower since the beginning of the Kinslayer War.”

The very matter-of-factness of his tone caused Gundabyr to bristle. To forestall any argument, Vixa asked, “Who is Speaker now? Is it still Sithas, son of Sithel? News from Silvanost is hard to come by.”

“Great Sithas died two decades ago. His fourth son, Elendar, now holds the Throne of the Stars.”

A beautiful carriage of red maple inlaid with carnelian and drawn by a team of three black horses rolled past them. The herald hailed this vision. To Vixa’s delight, it proved to be for hire.

“Take us to Tower Protector,” the herald ordered. When everyone was aboard, the driver clucked his tongue, and the trio of horses trotted away.

Nestled in butter-soft leather cushions, Vixa and Gundabyr found themselves playing tourist. They pointed to striking buildings and quizzed Samcadaris and the herald (whose name, they learned, was Tiahmoro) to identify them. The Qualinesti princess was especially delighted to see the Temple of Astra – or Astarin, as the Bard King was known in Silvanesti. This was the great founding temple, more ancient than any other in the world. They saw the dwellings of the nobility, richly faced with gold and silver, surrounded by trees that had been magically formed into fantastic shapes.

The boulevard led them to a circular plaza. In its center stood a square building of yellow stone with a distinctly military flavor. Just behind it was a thick tower of white marble. The tower rose some seventy feet into the darkening sky. Next to it were several smaller towers, each only fifty feet tall. The carriage stopped. All four of them dismounted.

This, Vixa surmised, was the headquarters of the Speaker’s household guard, House Protector. They entered the square building through monumental front doors. Armed guards snapped to attention as they passed.

From her childhood lessons, Vixa knew that Silvanesti society was highly stratified, arranged in a rigid caste system. Every elf belonged to a certain house. There were many of these, from House Royal (the rulers descended from the first Speaker, Silvanos) through House Cleric, House Mason, and down to House Servitor. House Protector was the official army of Silvanost.

They wound through several corridors, ending at last in a central rotunda. This room, located in the main tower itself, rose seven stories to a massive dome. Diminished by these titanic proportions, Vixa and Gundabyr unconsciously inched closer together.

Samcadaris, unmoved by his familiar surroundings, strode through the echoing rotunda. He led them to a raised platform in the center of the great hall. An elderly elf in military garb sat at a high desk there.

“Ah, Samcadaris, son of Palindar, is it not? What have we here?” the old fellow said, his pale blue eyes fastening on Vixa.

“Sir, I wish to report the destruction of the citadel of Thonbec,” Samcadaris said calmly.

“What?” the ancient elf’s shocked exclamation caused heads to turn throughout the rotunda.

Samcadaris recited the story once more: how he and his friends had found the two outsiders on the beach, how they had warned General Axarandes of the Dargonesti invasion, how the invasion had come, and how the undersea kraken had destroyed the fortress. As he spoke, idle warriors gathered around, listening intently.

“Where is Axarandes?” asked the desk officer.

“In the arms of Quenesti Pah,” replied Samcadaris. “The goddess willing, he will live.”

The old officer took out a sheet of parchment and a stylus. He wrote for several seconds, then said, “Herald, you will go to the court. Here is your pass. Ask that the Speaker see these people as soon as possible.”

Many of the warriors in the rotunda protested his hasty decision. The old officer glowered and hammered on his desktop with the pommel of his dagger. The warriors fell silent. He finished writing, dusted the parchment with sand, and rolled it up. Tying it with a silken cord, he handed the scroll to Tiahmoro.

“You may wait here until the Speaker grants an audience, lady,” said the desk officer. “I will send word to those on watch.”

For the first time in many days, Vixa relaxed, at least a little. A flush of satisfaction warmed her tired body. She saluted smartly, saying, “Thank you, sir!”

The warriors dispersed, still arguing among themselves about the strange story. Tiahmoro departed, and Vixa lingered at the desk.

“Sir, may I make a request?” she asked softly.

“What is it?”

“If I am to meet the Speaker of the Stars, I would like to make myself more presentable. A bath and clean clothes would be most welcome.”

“Me, too,” grunted the dwarf.

The old elf eyed her torn and stained attire. “We have no female garments here, lady.”

“Soldier’s attire would suit me well, sir.”

He looked at her for a long, considering moment, seeing for the first time the warrior’s bearing beneath the privation and grime. He made up his mind. “Samcadaris,” he called. “See to their needs.”

The soldier led Vixa and Gundabyr away. The dwarf was taken to the soldiers’ common bathing room. Samcadaris escorted the Qualinesti princess to his own room. He called for a bath to be drawn, then departed. Servants brought fresh linen underclothes and an officer’s knee-length robe. Vixa washed the salt and dirt of many days from her sunburned skin. When she got out of the bath, she found the new clothes were an excellent fit. Sometimes her height was an advantage.

Half an hour after she’d left, Vixa was back in the rotunda, refreshed and ready to meet the Speaker of the Stars. Gundabyr was there as well, dressed in clean clothing. The elves had scrounged up leggings and a tunic for the dwarf. The hem dangled below his knees.

“Word has come back,” said the desk officer. “The Speaker of the Stars will see you this night. His Privy Councillors will be in attendance. Your audience will be in the Quinari Palace.”

Gundabyr grumbled at this. He’d hoped to see inside the Tower of the Stars.

The old Silvanesti went on, “Captain Samcadaris will accompany you. Herald Tiahmoro will conduct you.”

A short time later, Samcadaris and the herald reappeared. They had changed attire as well and were now clad in their finest dress uniforms: polished steel breastplates, greaves, and vambraces etched in gold with the monogram of the Speaker, and short red capes. Samcadaris’s helmet bore a plume from the rare golden peacock, the sacred bird of House Protector, indicating that he had distinguished himself greatly in battle.

An honor guard of forty warriors was drawn up in the street outside. Vixa and Gundabyr took their places in the center of the column. With Herald Tiahmoro in the lead, they marched away to the Quinari Palace. Idlers and couples strolling in the mild evening air stepped back and watched the glittering procession go by. They looked at Vixa and Gundabyr with surprise and unconcealed suspicion.

The cavalcade approached the gleaming facade of the palace down a long, ceremonial avenue lined with statues of former Speakers. Silvanos, in the guise of warrior, lawgiver, and father, was here. Next came Sithel, in similar poses, and then Sithas, the tragic Speaker who’d reigned through the Kinslayer War and the sundering of the elven nation.

The Quinari Palace was far larger than the residence of the Speaker of the Sun in Qualinost, and far more elaborate. Three three-story wings radiated out from a central tower. Three hundred feet tall, the tower was made of rose-veined marble. The wings were faced with colonnades of green marble, and each column had been formed by powerful magic into a graceful spiral, in imitation of a unicorn’s horn.

The honor guard halted and opened ranks. Samcadaris waved Vixa and Gundabyr forward. They mounted a long set of wide steps between double rows of fantastically clad warriors. At the top of the steps, two Silvanesti awaited them, one in armor, helmet, and the swinging gold cape of a marshal of the realm, the other richly robed in midnight blue and wearing a heavy necklace of star sapphires.

Samcadaris bowed to these two worthies. “My lord Druzenalis! My lord Agavenes! I and my charges beg leave to enter the palace of the Speaker of the Stars.”

The marshal, Druzenalis, held up his baton of command. “Enter, all. His Majesty awaits within,” he intoned. The civilian called Agavenes said nothing, but Gundabyr and Vixa felt his hard gaze raking over them as they passed.

The interior of the palace was cool and dimly lit. It gave off an essence of great age, and to the nervous Vixa, felt cold and forbidding. She still remembered running and playing with her cousins and siblings in the corridors of Speaker Silveran’s residence. She couldn’t imagine anyone rough-housing or talking above a whisper in this place. It was as solemn as a temple.

Courtiers gathered in side passages to stare at them. The Silvanesti ladies were all fabulously beautiful and fabulously dressed. Vixa tugged uncomfortably at the neck of her borrowed attire. One nervous hand combed her damp hair, which had a tendency to dry into unruly ringlets.

Stop it, she commanded herself. You’re behaving like a fool. How many of these delicate, ethereal beauties, in their robes of silver silk or tissue of ruby, have ever fought chilkit on the bottom of the ocean? These fine damsels in their gauzy trains wouldn’t know one end of a sword from the other. It was certain that none of them had raced through the ocean waves in the guise of a black-and-white dolphin. Vixa’s back straightened. The Silvanesti ladies were surprised to see a smile appear on the sun-reddened face of the tall Qualinesti girl.

Bronze doors two stories tall swung apart for them. The black polished floor beyond was like a mirror. A scarlet carpet led from the doorway deep into the throne room. Columns soared to the dark ceiling. Druzenalis and Agavenes entered first, bowed to the distant throne, stepped aside. Glancing right and left, Vixa saw that Tiahmoro and Samcadaris were as nervous as she. Their faces were frozen; their hands clenched the hilts of their ornamental swords. Only Gundabyr appeared relaxed in the face of this magnificence. Vixa envied him his composure.

They passed beneath living arches of ivy and vines laden with grapes. Off to one side, a band of musicians played a delicate tune on instruments made entirely of glass. Vixa could see a dais ahead, with the throne upon it. Like the Speaker of the Sun in Qualinost, the Speaker of the Stars used a chamber in his palace for the day-to-day running of his kingdom. The audience hall in the great Tower of the Stars was saved for more auspicious gatherings.

Vixa found herself squinting at the throne. It was occupied, but she couldn’t make out any details. It was as if fog veiled the throne dais. Gundabyr, too, rubbed his eyes.

The air around them shimmered. For a moment it seemed a magical illusion, but then they felt a light touch on their heads and faces. It was like a cobweb, no more substantial than that. Gundabyr put out his hand and snagged a wisp of something. The dwarf peered closely at the gossamer threads. Gold! Spun as fine as any spider’s web. Now he was impressed.

Three more wispy veils, and they could see the throne more clearly. The larger, taller seat was occupied, but the consort’s chair next to it was empty. Nobles of the realm stood in two lines on either side of the dais. About five paces from its base, the crimson runner ended. Vixa stopped there, and held Gundabyr back so he wouldn’t violate protocol by approaching too close.

The absolute ruler of the Silvanesti sat in an oddly casual posture – slouched down in his marble throne, one leg straight out in front of him, the other bent. A scroll lay across his lap. Its length spilled down his stretched leg and lay loosely coiled on the floor. The Speaker of the Stars appeared to be engrossed in his scroll. He didn’t even look up at his visitors’ approach.

Vixa cleared her throat. The Silvanesti lords glared at her. The Speaker looked up from his reading.

He was moderately young, less than two hundred years old, Vixa guessed. He had the hazel eyes and white-blond hair of the line of Silvanos, but Speaker Elendar’s face was surprisingly free of the haughty expression that seemed the norm for his courtiers. While Vixa and Gundabyr studied him, he studied them as well, peering through a gold wire frame in which was set a polished glass disk.

“A dwarf. I’ve never seen a dwarf before,” the Speaker said, his voice deep and resonant.

Quite devoid of self-consciousness, Gundabyr stumped forward and held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Your Majesty.” The air was filled with elven gasps. Gundabyr compounded his indiscretion by asking, “What is that thing you’re holding?”

“My crystal? Oh, I have a weakness in my eyes that keeps me from seeing clearly things that are more than an arm’s length away,” was the calm reply. The courtiers seethed with indignation at the dwarf’s informality, but the Speaker of the Stars seemed unconcerned. “It enlarges things. See?”

Gundabyr took the proffered object and held the two-inch-wide glass disk to his eye. “By Reorx!” Turning to Vixa, he exclaimed, “I want one of these things! All those late nights I spent at the forge, trying to read recipes from the Forgemaster’s Journal …”

Speaker Elendar regarded the dwarf with unconcealed amusement. “I shall have one made for you, Master Gundabyr. And you,” he said to Vixa, “are said to be my cousin. Is this true?”

She bowed as she would to her uncle, Speaker Silveran. “I am Vixa Ambrodel, Sire. Your father and my grandfather were brothers.”

“Yes, but not very good brothers.” There was no malice in his tone. He smiled at her and added, “And now you’ve had quite an adventure, haven’t you? Oh, yes, I’ve heard it all, Cousin. You lead an active life, like all those of the line of Kith-Kanan.” The Speaker sighed.

Vixa could have sworn that there was a wistful quality to his words, as though the Speaker of the Stars, for all his power and prestige, envied her.

Agavenes and Druzenalis had come up behind the others. The Speaker asked the marshal about the current military situation.

“Great Speaker, since the destruction of Thonbec, there has been little sign of the invaders. We have reports from farmers and fisherfolk of the enemy on both sides of the river, but none have been seen more than a league north of the fortress,” reported Druzenalis.

“And what do you make of that, Marshal?”

Druzenalis did not even glance at Vixa and Gundabyr. “I say it is a diversion, Majesty. It smells of Qualinesti duplicity,” he replied coldly.

Vixa was outraged. “What? How dare —”

“What sort of invasion is it that fails to follow up on a significant victory?” the marshal went on. “Thonbec has fallen – so where are the enemy? Had they struck within a day of the citadel’s fall, the element of surprise would have been on their side. I believe, if anything, this is a diversion from the true attack, which will come from the west.”

More shocking than the marshal’s accusation were the nods of agreement from the assembled Silvanesti nobility. Vixa exploded, “That’s ridiculous! The Speaker of the Sun is devoted to peace! Everyone knows that!”

“I have stated my opinion.” Druzenalis put a hand on the hilt of his short ceremonial sword. “Great Speaker, I think this girl is a spy and a deceiver. I say she should be thrown into prison. Let her ponder the unwisdom of trying to make fools of the Silvanesti.”

The Speaker leaned forward, his blond eyebrows rising. “It is strange the enemy has not invaded Silvanost yet. Have you an answer for that, Cousin?”

Vixa took a deep breath. Angry ranting would do her no good. She must make her case calmly, sensibly. “Majesty, the Dargonesti are used to living in the depths of the sea. I can think of many reasons why they have delayed – the sunlight blinds them, the fresh water of the river could be distasteful to them, their kraken may be unmanageable —”

“The outlander is delaying,” Druzenalis cut in. “Send her to prison, Sire. And the dwarf as well.”

Until now, Samcadaris had remained silent, intimidated by his surroundings. At last he found his tongue. “Great Speaker,” he said cautiously, “may one who witnessed the fall of Thonbec speak his mind?”

The Speaker nodded. “By our leave.”

“Everything Lady Vixa and Master Gundabyr told us at Thonbec proved to be true. The Dargonesti are real. I have seen them, fought them. Twice the warriors from the sea attacked the fort, but always by night. If I were their commander —” He glanced around nervously as if to gauge how far he could go. “If I were the Dargonesti commander, I would not have attacked yet either.”

“And why not?” sneered the marshal.

“Silvanost is an island. The surest way for a water-dwelling foe to lay siege to a city as large as ours is to envelop the island.”

“With ten thousand troops? It cannot be done,” Druzenalis snapped. “A hundred thousand, or more, would be required to encircle Fallan!”

“In conventional terms, yes, sir. But the Dargonesti have an advantage. They can attack us on land, but we can’t touch them under the water.”

Vixa saw what the captain was driving at. “Yes,” she said, nodding. “The Dargonesti don’t need to defend their lines against attack, therefore they don’t need thousands of troops. By strategically placing their forces around the island, they can attack at will. And they can always retreat to the safety of the river.”

The Speaker’s relaxed posture vanished in an instant. He turned an intense gaze upon Druzenalis. “Could this be true, Marshal?”

Druzenalis was looking disconcerted, but he tried to wave off his junior’s ideas. “Assuming these enemies even exist, then perhaps —”

“I saw them!” Samcadaris said with heat.

“Me too,” Gundabyr put in. “And an Ironbender doesn’t lie!”

Gundabyr and Vixa were glaring at the marshal. Druzenalis kept his eyes fixed on the Speaker. The growing tension was diffused by calm words from Speaker Elendar.

“It seems you have brought a timely warning, Cousin,” he said, smiling at Vixa. “You and Master Gundabyr will remain here in the palace as my guests. Captain Samcadaris, you have served your country bravely. You are dismissed as well, with our thanks.”

At a gesture from the Speaker, two servants stepped forward. Vixa and Gundabyr bowed to the throne, and the servants escorted them from the room. She sent Samcadaris a questioning look, but the Silvanesti captain only shrugged. Vixa sighed. They had delivered the warning. Now it was up to the Silvanesti.

As they were ushered out of the audience hall, the Qualinesti princess heard Druzenalis begin a haughty denunciation of her and her story. Lord Agavenes joined in, agreeing with the marshal. Vixa was surprised to find herself feeling a bit sorry for the Speaker. He seemed to have inherited retainers from his father’s reign. Like most old retainers, each thought he knew better than anyone else – better, even, than the Speaker of the Stars.

Chapter 20

THE SWORD OF BALIF

Under the wind-tossed waves near the mouth of the Thon-Thalas, the Dargonesti were gathering. Queen Uriona’s servants erected a seaweed canopy to protect their queen from the sun’s rays in the relatively shallow water. Uriona’s throne, laboriously borne here from the distant city, was set under the canopy. The throne itself was a low, four-legged, backless chair carved of blood coral and inlaid with precious stones. Its wide seat curved up slightly on each side into arms shaped to resemble leaping dolphins.

Coryphene escorted Uriona to the place prepared for her. The queen, her face covered by a soft silver mask, seated herself.

“When will you be ready to attack?” she asked in the shrill, clicking tones of the water-tongue.

“Soon, Divine One,” Coryphene replied. “The army even now moves to encircle Silvanost. Once I join them, we shall begin the assault.”

She nodded. Her lavender eyes – all that was visible beneath her mask – stared absently at the pearls stitched down the sleeve of her robe. After a moment, Uriona murmured, “I should be with you at the ancient capital. I should be ready to enter my city once the land-dwellers are defeated.”

“Majesty, we have discussed this. You must not be placed in danger unnecessarily. Wait, just a little while, until the enemy is conquered.”

“Are you so certain they will be overcome? Your army is few. The drylanders are many.”

“They cannot stand against us!”

“Perhaps,” she replied. “But it is well I have brought the Shades of Zura with me. If the fight proves too much for you, their magic can be brought to bear on the Silvanesti.”

“I have no need of them,” he said angrily. “I shall conquer by spear and lance, not by veils of clouds.”

All at once her abstracted expression vanished, and she turned a penetrating look upon him. “Victory is within our grasp, Coryphene,” she said softly. “I see the city in our hands. I hear Quoowahb cheers ringing through the Tower of the Stars as I am crowned queen of the ancient race. Go, Lord Protector. Liberate my city.”

“Silvanost will soon be yours, Divine One. I swear it on my life!”

Coryphene sprang up, his powerful legs sending him racing through the water. Once he was lost from sight, Uriona waved a hand, dismissing her hovering attendants. The mask moved slightly as the queen smiled.

“Soon, my brother gods, soon Uriona Firstborn will sit upon the most ancient throne of the elves,” she whispered. “Once I am crowned in the Tower of the Stars, my destiny will be complete. No power on Krynn will be able to oppose me. No power on Krynn!”

*

None of the Dargonesti had ever been in fresh water before, nor so close to land. A few were made ill, but the nausea and light-headedness passed quickly. The great majority found it exhilarating, like swimming through water churned up by a great storm. Coryphene was among the latter. The Protector of Urione, with a small escort, moved swiftly through the river. Once he had joined his troops, the battle for Silvanost would begin.

The sun was low in the western sky when Coryphene and his escort came within sight of the city. He was amazed by its beauty. Its very strangeness, glimmering in the dry air, caused him to beam with anticipation. Soon, he and his queen would walk its streets, explore its mysteries, and fulfill their destiny. She would be its ruler, and he its defender. It would be the first of many victories.

The Dargonesti of Urione had too long been isolated in their city. It was time for them to make their presence known. Coryphene, under the guidance of the divine Uriona, intended to remind the world that the sea was the true power on Krynn.

He swam to the eastern side of the city, which was already in deep shadow. He and his troops watched as night closed over Silvanost and sparkling points of light appeared in its windows. Once more he marveled at the soaring towers and the strange growths called trees.

The sight of the gracefully shaped trees brought to his mind the drylander girl, Vixa Ambrodel, who’d first explained them to Uriona. She’d been spotted among the defenders of Thonbec, and it was assumed she’d perished with them. The Protector found himself genuinely regretting her death. Brave and resourceful, she would’ve made a fine ally.

As he stared at the drylander city, Coryphene felt excitement building in him. Soon, very soon, the land-dwellers would know that the legends were true. They would see that the Dargonesti were very real. The power of the sea would again be respected – and feared.

*

Vixa and Gundabyr had been invited to dine this evening with the Speaker of the Stars. Unlike the usual state occasions, when as many as fifty might sit down with the ruler of the Silvanesti, only the three of them were present for this meal. In one of the palace’s smaller rooms a table, laden with food and drink, was set up. Three places were laid with gold plates and silken napkins.

The Qualinesti princess felt she had spent a very unfruitful day. She had slept until nearly noon and had absolutely no duties to occupy her time. Her requests for information on the progress of the city’s defenses were met with ignorance (from the servants) or unhelpful politeness (from everyone else). Lord Agavenes had sent a barely civil request that the Qualinesti girl and her dwarven companion remain within the palace, so as not to disrupt the citizens of Silvanost by wandering about the streets. Vixa had been furious, but Gundabyr – feeling he’d earned a respite – bluntly told her to stop her grumbling. He said they should take what rest they could, since once the Dargonesti got here there’d be no sleep for any of them.

The Speaker’s summons had been most welcome to Vixa. She assumed he would answer her many questions about the plans for Silvanost’s defense. She was wrong.

Speaker Elendar seated himself at the table and bade his guests do likewise. He was a charming host, and with his own hand filled three slender goblets with nectar. Once these were distributed, he dismissed his attendants so he and his guests could speak in private.

When Gundabyr tasted the nectar, his bushy black eyebrows rose. An excellent vintage. He’d never tasted better. He downed the entire contents of the goblet in one gulp, then held it out for more. Speaker Elendar smilingly refilled it. Once this amount was reduced by half, Gundabyr partook of some of the delicacies set before him. The food was a little light for his tastes, but certainly more than palatable. The dwarf gave the Speaker a puzzled look.

“Majesty, don’t get me wrong, but I thought you Silvanesti were all like Agavenes and Druzenalis, and didn’t care for outsiders.”

Elendar sipped his own nectar. He held the goblet in both hands, staring at the pattern of stars engraved on its slender bowl.

“I am my father’s fourth son,” he said by way of explanation. “The previous Speaker was the last of my brothers. When he died, most unexpectedly, none of his sons was old enough to rule, so I came to the throne.” Vixa and the dwarf regarded him blankly. He sipped his nectar and went on. “My point is, it was never expected that I would become Speaker, so I wasn’t trained for the role. As I had a bent for scholarship, I spent most of my early life with tutors. I know a great deal about Qualinesti and Thorbardin, but it has all come from books. Meeting you has been the most interesting thing to happen to me in ages.”

“Lately, my life’s been nothing but interesting,” Vixa said dryly.

“The end is in sight, lady,” was his serene rejoinder.

Gundabyr set his delicate goblet down so hard it rang against the tabletop. “You’re not thinking of surrendering?” he blurted.

“Of course not.”

“Sire, what plans have you made for the defense of the city?” Vixa asked.

“Last night an edict went out to every corner of the realm, summoning all freeborn males to our service. In a week, two hundred thousand Silvanesti will arrive to defend their capital. Of course, an enemy that breathes water is a formidable foe. I don’t know that the levies will be of much use against the Dargonesti.”

Vixa was silent, but her expression spoke eloquently of her inability to understand his calmness in the face of such a threat.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Cousin,” the Speaker added soothingly. “Coryphene cannot succeed. In a week, he will either be dead or captured and Silvanost will be saved.

This simple pronouncement was too much for the Qualinesti princess. She demanded, “How is this so, Majesty? You cannot do battle underwater!”

The Speaker broke a round loaf of bread into three portions, handing one to each of them. He took a bite of the sweet bread, chewed, and swallowed, then said, “Once we were warned of the sea elves’ advance, any chance they had to overwhelm us disappeared. Did this Coryphene and his queen imagine they could defeat a nation of one million Silvanesti with an army of ten thousand? Coryphene is bold, I’ll grant, and we have been burdened by old fools like Druzenalis and Agavenes for too long, but Silvanost is home to some of the greatest thaumaturges on Krynn.” He nodded slowly. “The fact that the Dargonesti will most likely surround the city works to our advantage – they will be spread thin. When the blow falls, Coryphene won’t be able to rally them.”

“What blow?” asked Gundabyr, mystified.

“My friends, you must be patient. I am not yet ready to reveal all.” The Speaker would say no more. Instead, he filled his plate from the bounty before them. Vixa and Gundabyr exchanged helpless looks, but had to content themselves with talking of other things. They answered the Speaker’s questions about their homelands and the other places they’d seen. A peaceful hour sped by.

At the conclusion of the meal, the Speaker of the Stars rose and offered his arm to Vixa – a great honor. “Would you like to see the Tower of the Stars?” he asked. “It’s always beautiful, but at night it is particularly so.”

They accepted with enthusiasm. Not even Vixa’s worry over the coming invasion could keep her from taking advantage of such a generous invitation. She might very well be the only living Qualinesti to enjoy such an opportunity.

The sun had set a short while before. As they crossed the plaza that separated the palace from the Tower of the Stars, Gundabyr kept up a steady stream of questions and comments. The dwarf fell silent once they entered the main hall in the Tower. The aura of power and majesty in the great structure made any noise at all seem sacrilegious.

The Tower of the Stars was basically a hollow shaft six hundred feet high. Three levels of small chambers ringed its base. Lines of window openings and precious jewels spiraled up the interior walls. This evening the jewels reflected the light of the red moon, Lunitari, and the white, Solinari, filling the interior with flashing rainbows. The Tower’s domed ceiling was dark and unadorned, pierced by a single opening that allowed a shaft of pearly moonlight to reach the floor far below.

Vixa and Gundabyr stared, their heads thrown back to take it all in. No columns supported the interior, and the vast open breadth of this central chamber was awe-inspiring. Vixa had thought the golden beauty of the Tower of the Sun in Qualinost could never be equaled, but this white and shining monument left her gasping.

Ahead of them, at the rear of the audience hall, seven steps led up to a raised platform. Three additional, wider steps led from this platform to the throne dais. The emerald Throne of the Stars sat in silent splendor on the dais.

The beauty of the Tower still moved the Speaker. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. “Behind the throne is a small door. It leads to a tightly spiraling stair that reaches to the battlements near the Tower’s apex.”

“Can we go up?” asked Gundabyr eagerly.

Before the Speaker could reply, an interruption occurred. “Sire, may I enter?” a voice called from the doorway.

They turned and saw an elf standing in the Tower’s main entrance. The Speaker told the newcomer to enter. When he stepped into the moonlight illuminating the hall, they saw he wore the green tabard of a herald. His clothing was muddied, and he obviously had been running hard. His breathing was labored.

“I beg to report attacks, Sire, the first attacks on the city!” he panted.

As these dreadful words rang out, a group of elves appeared in the entrance behind the courier. They crowded into the audience hall. In the group were Druzenalis, Agavenes, and several priests and warriors, Samcadaris among the latter.

Druzenalis boomed, “Majesty, I have received reports that the city is under attack!”

“I have just heard the same news,” the Speaker said dryly. “Herald, where is the enemy?”

“They have attacked from the east, Great Speaker, at the Gate of Astarin.” This was the point at which Vixa and Gundabyr had entered the city. “They have slain the sacred turtle that drew the eastern ferry, and stormed the gatehouse itself,” the herald replied.

The Speaker thrust a finger at Samcadaris. “You,” he said, “take half the royal guard and go to the Astarin Gate. Drive the enemy from our city.”

The young captain saluted crisply. “It shall be done, Great Speaker, or I will not return alive!”

“Sire? Cousin?” Vixa said quickly. “May I join the fight?”

Speaker Elendar smiled faintly. “By all means. I hear your parents are most formidable warriors – especially Lady Verhanna. I welcome her daughter to our ranks. But you cannot meet the enemy unarmed. Druzenalis, give her your sword.”

“Majesty!” The marshal was obviously taken aback. When Vixa had asked to join the battle, he hadn’t bothered to hide his displeasure. His Speaker’s command, however, caused Druzenalis’s pale face to flush. “You cannot mean it. Give up my sword to this … this outsider?”

The loathing in those words stung her. Vixa held out her hand. The marshal did not move.

One of the Speaker’s silver-white brows rose questioningly. In a calm voice, he said, “Loan my cousin your sword, Marshal. Oblige me.”

Druzenalis yanked the brilliant blade from its scabbard. It was only two feet long – obviously ceremonial. For a moment, Vixa thought she was going to receive it point-first. But he reversed his grip and handed the hilt to her.

“I promise to do it honor, my lord,” Vixa said gravely, though Druzenalis pointedly ignored her. She looked to Gundabyr, who was grinning. “How about you? Want to come?”

He winked. “I got nothin’ better to do right now.”

Vixa, Samcadaris, and the dwarf rushed from the Tower of the Stars, preceded by the mud-spattered herald. Vixa heard heated words flash between the Marshal of Silvanost and his Speaker.

Outdoors, an orange glow lit the night sky. A fire was burning, a big one, in the wooded park that covered much of the south end of the island. Silvanesti elves ran to and fro in the streets, clutching bundles and sometimes weapons. Nevertheless, it was remarkably orderly.

“If Thorbardin were under attack, every dwarf in the kingdom would be at his front door, yelling at the top of his lungs,” Gundabyr said.

“Why?” asked Samcadaris.

“For the enemy to come and face them, of course.”

The dwarf dashed into the palace to retrieve the axe he’d fashioned at Thonbec. A cadre of five hundred elves, the cream of the Silvanesti army, was drawn up and ready in the neighboring street. Samcadaris went to the center of the boulevard and called the subordinate commanders together. He apprised them of the situation, and told them what was expected. In minutes the royal guard was surging through the streets, heading for the embattled Astarin Gate. Gundabyr, axe in hand, ran by Vixa’s side.

They saw a small blaze burning outside the wall when they reached the gate, no doubt started by Gundabyr’s gift of gnomefire. Though it was full night, the glare of the fire made it easy for the oncoming warriors to see the swarm of figures crowded into the open gatehouse. The Dargonesti were easily distinguished by their greater height, and the firelight gave their blue skin an odd tint.

Vixa found herself elbowing past the Silvanesti warriors to get at the enemy first. She was finally going to meet her enslavers on dry land, with a sword in her hand.

Weapons of the fallen littered the street, and Vixa was able to add to her armament a shield. While she paused to take it up, Gundabyr rushed by her with a whoop, leaving the ordered ranks of elves behind.

From the gatehouse roof, a rain of arrows fell. Though the scene was a jumble of blue skin and white, the well-aimed arrows of the Silvanesti archers hit only enemy bodies. Their skill was marvelous to behold. The hail of missiles was all that kept the Dargonesti from breaking through the shelter of the gate and rampaging through the city streets.

Some of the sea elves formed a line of green shields across the open gate and held off the Silvanesti defenders as others started to climb the steps inside the gatehouse to get at the pesky archers on the roof. All the while, flames leapt up from the other side of the wall, bathing the scene in hellish, shifting light.

The royal guard charged, hacking at the opposing side with their swords. Vixa traded a few blows with a spear carrier. As she closed in, she realized that this sea elf looked different from those she’d encountered in Urione. Though still fully seven feet tall, his skin was a much lighter blue and his hair was silver, not green. It was bound in a thick braid that reached below his shoulder blades, the braid studded with dozens of tiny shells. A large pearl dangled from a tiny hole in his right earlobe. He and his compatriots must be the Dimernesti, or shoal elves, she’d heard were fighting alongside Coryphene’s troops.

Screams rang out above. Some of the Silvanesti archers tumbled from the gatehouse roof, thrown down by Dimernesti who’d gained the heights. Vixa saw quickly that the real battle was up there. She backed out of range and shouted to Gundabyr, “Can you climb?”

He saw the danger, too. “You bet. After you, Princess!”

She ran around to the side of the white marble gatehouse. Here, in the quiet shadows, the wounded had crawled away to suffer or die. There was no time to help them. The Qualinesti princess and the dwarf hurried to the foot of the gatehouse wall. The marble was smooth as glass, offering no handholds.

“That line of windows, up there!” Gundabyr said, pointing. “It must be a stairwell.”

Vixa made a stirrup of her hands. Shaking his head, the dwarf told her, “You may be a warrior-hero, Princess, but you couldn’t lift me. Climb on!”

He slapped his broad shoulders. Vixa wasted no time arguing. She placed one foot on his bent knee and clambered up to his shoulders. Gundabyr swayed and grunted, but he held. The added height allowed Vixa to reach the sill of the lowest window. She hauled herself up. The dwarf’s guess had been correct – she found herself in a dimly lit stairwell.

“Princess! Catch!” Vixa leaned out the window. Gundabyr extended a discarded spear. He climbed the shaft as she anchored it, throwing her weight against the pull of his. Weeks of slavery had thinned the stocky dwarf sufficiently that he was able, just barely, to squeeze into the narrow window opening.

Once they were both inside, the Qualinesti princess cried, “Let’s go!” They charged up the steps. The thumping of Gundabyr’s feet behind her was a reassuring sound. Above them, the noise of the fighting rose. As Vixa rounded the fourth bend in the stairwell, a body came tumbling down, nearly knocking her from her feet. The Silvanesti soldier slid to a lifeless stop against the curving wall.

There was a landing ahead, clogged with wounded and dead from both sides. From there, the steps passed through a narrow opening and wound in a tighter spiral to the roof. Vixa stepped carefully over the fallen fighters. Just as she did, a Dimernesti with a long silver braid of hair loomed out of the darkness. His eyes widened in surprise. He backed a step and brought up his barbed spear. Vixa batted it aside with the flat of her blade, pushing forward all the time. Gundabyr crouched nearby, waiting for an opening.

The shoal elf hefted his spear and hurled it at Vixa. She easily deflected it with her shield, but while she was busy doing so, the Dimernesti’s hands flashed to his waist. They came away with a weighted throwing net studded with gleaming fishhooks.

“Vixa! Look out!” roared the dwarf. The Dimernesti swung the net once and let fly. Instinctively, Vixa put up her shield. The weighted net wrapped around it and her. The fishhooks took hold. She tried to back away from her advancing foe, but tripped on the fallen warriors.

As the Dimernesti brought out a short-handled trident, Gundabyr bellowed a war cry and swung his axe. The nimble shoal elf leapt over the low swing. The dwarf’s intervention allowed Vixa to struggle to her knees. She tried to discard her encumbered shield, but the fishhooks had pierced her clothing and, quite painfully, her skin.

The Dimernesti closed in. He kicked at Vixa’s netted shield, and the blows sent her reeling once more. Her side exposed, he lunged with the trident. Vixa, flat on her back, flung up Druzenalis’s short sword. As she thrust it at her opponent, she felt a surge like lightning flow from the hilt and travel along the blade. A flash of light jumped from the blade tip. In the next instant, the astonished Dimernesti found himself impaled on the blade. The trident fell from his webbed fingers. He collapsed sideways, taking the sword with him.

Gundabyr was at her side. “Get this damn net off me!” she fumed. The dwarf wound the net around the trident, like noodles on a fork.

As he worked to untangle the barbed net, Gundabyr demanded, “What just happened? I’d swear that little sword of yours just reached out and – and grabbed him!”

“There is certainly some power in it,” she agreed, wincing from the pain of the fishhooks. “Trust the marshal of Silvanost to carry a magical weapon!” Her arm was free at last, and she impatiently flung her shield aside.

They ran up the last few turns of the stairs and emerged onto the roof. As Gundabyr was fond of saying, the luck was with them – and it was all bad. They faced eight Dimernesti, and no Silvanesti archers remained to help them.

“Uh, suggestions?” Vixa asked as the seven-foot-tall enemy turned to face them.

“Trust the gods and have at’em!” cried the dwarf, rushing forward.

Caught by surprise, she gathered herself and followed him. “Great plan!” she shouted as they raced across the rooftop.

The mercenaries were used to fighting elves of their own stature, and the axe-wielding dwarf was new to them. By the time they figured him out, Gundabyr had knocked two down with great sweeps of his axe. Vixa accounted for a third very quickly by rushing in and allowing her magical sword to do its stuff. In a flash, the opposition had shrunk from eight to five – a definite improvement.

The Dimernesti separated, trying to surround their attackers. Vixa and Gundabyr closed together, standing back to back. As their opponents sized them up, Vixa said to the dwarf, “I like this sword. Maybe I’ll keep it.”

“The marshal doesn’t strike me as the generous type,” commented Gundabyr, trying to keep a wary eye on two Dimernesti simultaneously.

With keening yells, the five shoal elves rushed them. Vixa parried one spear, thrust through the belly of the Dimernesti wielding it, snatched back her weapon, and parried her other opponent’s attack. Gundabyr, fighting three foes, shoved the axe head into one fellow’s chest, knocking him down. As he fell, another elf speared the dwarf in the shoulder. Roaring from pain and anger, Gundabyr chopped the spear off, and his attacker’s hands as well. The third elf swung his spear at the dwarf, catching him on the side of the head. The dwarf staggered forward, trying to ward off further attacks with wild swings of his axe.

“Vixa!” he cried, falling to his knees.

The Qualinesti princess was busy defending her own life. Her opponent jabbed his spear at her face and chest. Her sword tip flashed under his nose. He backed to the edge of the roof. Suddenly, he gave a cry and toppled. A Silvanesti arrow had sprouted from his back.

The last Dimernesti, realizing he was alone, ceased his attacks on Gundabyr and sprinted for the steps. Vixa let him go, rushing to where Gundabyr lay.

The tough dwarf was still breathing, but his shoulder was bleeding freely. Vixa tore a wide strip from the hem of her kilt and jammed it against Gundabyr’s wound.

“Aaah!” he moaned. “You’re killing me!”

“Shut up!” she said fiercely. She pressed the bleeding wound harder.

From below came scraping and vibration as the ponderous gates were swung shut. That told her that the Silvanesti had prevailed, and the gate was now secure. A few moments later, Samcadaris and a score of fresh archers spilled onto the roof of the gatehouse.

“Lady! Are you well?” he called. His lean face was blackened by soot and streaked with blood – green Dimernesti blood. His red cape was bloodied as well.

“I’m all right, but Gundabyr needs a healer,” she told him.

Samcadaris surveyed the carnage on the rooftop. “The sisters of Quenesti Pah are in the street below. Here, you two, take Master Gundabyr to them. Take him with all care and honor!”

Two elves carried the grumbling dwarf away. Vixa picked up Druzenalis’s magic sword and shoved it through her belt.

“That was magnificent,” Samcadaris told her when they were alone. “I never saw a finer fight. Two against eight – and they larger than you!”

“It was stupid,” she said flatly. “Barging up here, just me and Gundabyr. Suppose there had been twenty instead of eight? I’d’ve ended up on the pavement down there, like your brave archers. I might have anyway, if not for this sword.” She patted the pommel of the marshal’s weapon.

“Ah, yes, Balif’s sword. Longreacher.”

Vixa stared at him and then at the sword. “Balif? This weapon belonged to him?”

“Yes, indeed. Great Silvanos had it wrought specially for his friend. He wanted the kender general to have a weapon that would make up for his lack of height. The sword has always been carried by the first soldier of the realm, the marshal of Silvanost.”

Vixa withdrew it reverently from her belt and held it out to him. “I feel privileged to have held it, much less borne it into battle. But it’s not right. Druzenalis should have it.”

Samcadaris put his hand on the hilt, gently pushing it away. “Druzenalis has served the nation long and honorably. Of late, he has quarreled openly with the Speaker. His Majesty took the sword from him for good reason. He loaned it to you as a sign of favor.”

Before she could say anything, runners appeared in the street below, crying out a summons from the Speaker of the Stars. All warriors not engaged in active defense were commanded to gather back at the Quinari Palace immediately.

With weary steps, Samcadaris and Vixa left the rooftop. In the street, scores of Silvanesti were being treated by healers from the temple of Quenesti Pah. A small band of Dimernesti, looking sullen and dejected, were under guard by Samcadaris’s troops. Their gills were shriveled, and most of them swayed weakly where they stood.

“Better give those fellows water,” Vixa advised the captain. “They’ll perish in the dry air.”

Samcadaris ordered that water be brought for the captives, and he appointed half his contingent to remain at the gate for its defense. The rest, somewhat less than two hundred elves, would march back to the Quinari as ordered.

Vixa found Gundabyr sitting up on the pavement, his left arm in a sling. Though pale, he was lively enough to curse the pain as he struggled to his feet.

“Keep still,” she said genially.

He insisted on walking back to the palace with her, and Vixa was glad for his company. The fire in the south had gone out, and clouds obscured the stars. By the time they reached the front steps of the Quinari, the street was alive with torchbearers and armed elves, standing in eerily silent ranks.

“What’s going on?” muttered the dwarf.

Vixa replied out of the side of her mouth, “Nothing good, I’ll wager.”

Samcadaris and his warriors took their places in the ranks, leaving Vixa and Gundabyr at loose ends. Tired and aching, the dwarf lowered himself to sit on the fine stone steps.

“I must find Druzenalis and return his sword,” Vixa said.

“Do that. I’ll stay here and catch forty winks.” He lay down, pillowing his head on his good arm, and sighed. Vixa mounted the steps. She approached several Silvanesti officers and asked for the marshal. None of them said a word, but one pointed to the palace door.

Vixa went inside. She wandered back toward the audience chamber, and as she drew near, the sound of weeping reached her ears. At the entrance to the throne room, she realized that the weeping came from within. Something had happened. Someone important must be dead. An icy hand closed on her heart. Surely it wasn’t the Speaker of the Stars!

As Vixa hurried into the darkened audience hall, she could see shadowy figures standing around the room’s perimeter. Her eyes were drawn to the throne dais. A bier was set up on it, and a corpse laid out, covered by a shroud of blazing red silk. A single figure stood at the bier, with his back to Vixa. She slowed her hurried approach.

“My lord?” she said, her voice weak and uncertain.

The figure turned. It was Agavenes, the chamberlain.

“So, the Qualinesti princess. You live. Not surprising.”

“Who lies there?”

Without a word, Agavenes flicked back the shroud from the corpse’s face.

“Druzenalis!” Vixa exclaimed.

“Yes, the Marshal of Silvanost is dead.” Agavenes’s voice was icy.

“How did it happen?”

“After his humiliation by the Speaker, Druzenalis left the palace and placed himself at the head of his troops. They marched out of Red Rose Gate to confront the enemy in the southern forest. A fire was burning there, and Druzenalis wanted to extinguish it, lest it threaten the city. But it was a trap. The enemy attacked on three sides with fire and sword. Very few Silvanesti escaped.”

“Five thousand brave elves went out. Less than five hundred returned.”

Vixa was horrified. It was a terrible defeat, and it far outweighed their small success at Astarin Gate. She whispered, “Where is the Speaker?”

“With the army at Red Rose Gate. He has taken personal command.” Agavenes held out a skeletal hand. “The sword. Give it to me.”

Vixa drew Longreacher, then hesitated. “No,” she finally said. “I will return it to the Speaker.”

“Impudent girl! Isn’t it enough that you caused the marshal’s death? Or is that your purpose, to weaken and disunite us so that we fall to these barbarians? Are these water-breathing creatures part of some Qualinesti plot to overthrow Silvanost?”

Vixa shoved Longreacher back into her belt. “I have shed blood for your country,” she growled. “Do not trifle with me. I am a princess of the blood of Kith-Kanan. I did not ask for this sword, nor did I steal the marshal’s wits and send him into an obvious trap. This sword belongs to the Speaker of the Stars, and I will not soil it by placing it in your hands!”

She spun on her heel and strode away. Agavenes called after her. “You may have the favor of His Majesty, but this land will not tolerate mongrels and outlanders, no matter how noble some of their ancestors may have been. I will see the end of you, lady!”

Without looking back or raising her voice, Vixa replied, “You may try, Lord Chamberlain.”

*

Dawn broke, and the city settled into an uneasy rest as the sea elves withdrew into the Thon-Thalas.

Speaker Elendar held a council in the Tower of the Stars. Looking very tired, the Speaker sat, in full martial panoply, on his emerald throne. Clustered on the raised platform before him were clerics representing the great temples. The priests and priestesses wore golden headbands, white robes, and a sash in the color of their patron deity – silver for E’li, red for Matheri, sky-blue for Quenesti Pah, and so on. By ancient law they went unshod, so as to be closer to the sacred soil of Silvanesti. Gathered in the audience hall were high officers of the army, heads of the city guilds, servants, and courtiers. It was easy to see who’d been involved in the battle of the previous night. Gundabyr’s was not the only bandage in evidence.

The Speaker began to talk in a low, even voice. He’d been up all night, conferring with his warlords and sages. There were plans to save Silvanost, he said, but he was not yet ready to reveal the details.

Vixa stepped out of the crowd and asked permission to approach. The Speaker nodded. She drew Longreacher slowly.

“Great Speaker, I would like to return this sword. It is not mine to carry,” she said.

“I am told you acquitted yourself with honor at Astarin Gate, lady. Why shouldn’t you carry the sword of Balif?” he responded, weariness not lessening the deep tone of his voice.

Vixa shook her head firmly. Couldn’t he see the disapproval on the faces of his own people? Agavenes was positively livid.

“This is the blade of the marshal of Silvanost,” she insisted. “It should not be given to another.”

“Today there is no marshal.”

Agavenes spoke out. “Name one, Sire! Give us a new marshal!” Others around the circular chamber took up the cry. The various factions called out suggestions. As the noise increased, the Speaker leaned forward and spoke softly to Vixa.

“Why don’t you keep it, lady? I think you are as much a warrior as any other present. And you are of royal blood.”

“No, Sire!” she hissed fiercely. “Do you want a civil war? Choose a Silvanesti!”

“Who do you suggest?”

Vixa was furious with him for asking such an inappropriate question, for not acting as she thought a Speaker ought. Then she saw the twinkle in his eyes. He was teasing her! She went along with him, saying, “I know few of your officers, Great Speaker, but Captain Samcadaris seems both wise and brave.”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised perhaps that she had actually ventured a choice. However, he considered the idea with a thoughtful expression. “So? Captain to marshal in one bound? Agavenes will expire.” His hazel eyes danced.

The Speaker leaned back in his throne, held up a hand. The tumult in the Tower subsided. When all was quiet, Elendar declaimed, “Summon Captain Samcadaris to our presence!”

The captain entered, looking more than a little surprised. He’d been detailed to stand guard with the royal watch. The summons from the Speaker was most unexpected.

Elendar held out a hand to Vixa. Into it, she placed the hilt of Balif’s sword. She stepped back, and the Speaker bade Samcadaris approach. The captain complied.

“Accept this sword, sir, with my love and trust,” said the Speaker. “Bear it with honor and justice in my name.”

Samcadaris stiffened visibly, realizing what was being asked of him. He took Longreacher in a hand that trembled, then raised the sword in a salute. “I accept the honor and the responsibility, Great Speaker. I shall not fail you or my country,” he said, his voice breaking.

“Loyal subjects, I present to you the Marshal of Silvanost!”

Speaker Elendar had barely pronounced these words when Agavenes exploded into anger. Casting a look of pure hatred at Vixa, the chamberlain cried, “Do foreigners choose our leaders now? Is this girl to be our master? I would rather take my chances with the blue-skinned barbarians. At least they fight openly, elf to elf!”

“Shut up, Lord Chamberlain,” the Speaker said pleasantly. “You seem to forget you are addressing my blood cousin. And me.”

“I am of a house no less ancient and noble, Majesty. I will not be passed over, like an incompetent underling!”

“Lord Agavenes, none of your stratagems has worked. You convinced me Druzenalis could destroy the enemy – but he lost the better part of our army and his own life. You said the Dargonesti attack on Thonbec was a diversion, that the true threat would come from the west. You were wrong there as well. I cannot afford your mistakes, Agavenes. Go from my sight.”

All this was said in a patient, even voice, but to proud Agavenes it was as though the Speaker had slapped him. The color drained from his face, leaving him a waxen ghost. Jaw clenched in fury, the chamberlain whirled and stalked out of the Tower, his rich blue robes flapping. Several of the nobles went with him.

“They’re showing their true loyalties,” Samcadaris said angrily.

The Speaker stated, “Let them go. When this is over, there will be time to reckon with them.”

He stood to address the assembly. “An edict has been issued calling all freeborn Silvanesti males to the defense of the city. Until they arrive, we must maintain our vigilance. More precise orders will be issued later from Marshal Samcadaris.”

The elves began to file out. Gundabyr and Vixa shook hands with the new marshal, who was still reeling from his sudden elevation. Behind them, the Speaker, seated once more on his elegant throne, watched impassively. At last he commanded, “Go, Marshal, and see to the defenses. Remember, too, a great rise is sometimes followed by a great fall.”

Samcadaris exited with a low bow. The Qualinesti princess and the dwarf likewise bowed to the ruler of Silvanost and followed on the marshal’s heels.

Chapter 21

ESCALADE!

Queen Uriona impatiently drummed her long blue fingers on the arm of her throne. The seaweed canopy that shielded her during the day had just been removed. The sun was sinking beneath the western horizon. Despite the attentiveness of her loyal servants, Uriona was angry.

“Where is Lord Protector Coryphene?” she demanded for the fifth time in thirty minutes. “Why hasn’t he been summoned?”

“He has, Divine Majesty,” said one of the servants, patiently. He kept his eyes downcast.

More time dragged by. At last, a swirl of mud and sand in the water presaged the arrival of newcomers from the river. Coryphene swept into his queen’s presence. He bowed deeply.

“My eternal regret for keeping Your Divinity waiting,” he said.

“I summoned you hours ago.”

“Apologies, Majesty. The river is murky and strange to us. It is difficult to move quickly through it.”

The strain of the invasion showed on Coryphene’s face and in his posture. He’d fought all the night before in the dry forest south of the city, fought and slain a dozen foes single-handed. He had intended to launch another strike on the city this night. The peremptory summons from the queen had delayed the attack.

“When do you expect the city to fall?” Uriona asked.

“Soon, Beloved Goddess. Thousands of drylanders were lost in the forest and at the city gate last night. There cannot be many left to defend the walls. We were to attack again this evening, but —” He paused. “Our people need time to recover. Tomorrow, at dusk, we will resume the assault, this time most heavily from the west. The drylanders will expect us to charge their gatehouses again, but we will not. With the timbers we took from Brackenost, we have made scaling ladders. We shall storm the wall between their towers. There will not be enough defenders to meet us, and the city will be ours.”

“Be sure of it, Lord Protector! The tide of affairs is turning – I feel it. My fellow gods bestir themselves for our enemies’ sake. My destiny is to be crowned in the Tower of the Stars. I will achieve my destiny! Do you hear?”

“Perfectly, Divine Queen. May I return to the army?”

Uriona tapped her fingers on her throne. “Yes, very well, go.”

Before he turned away, he saw an expression of worry pass over her face. She raised one hand to her head.

“Are you well, Uriona?” he inquired.

His use of her name brought anger to her face. “Yes! Why do you tarry? Go back to your warriors, Lord Protector!”

He didn’t move, but continued to regard her with genuine concern. “Do you tire of this shelter in the shallow water? Why not come back with me in the river?”

“You said it wasn’t safe for me to enter the river!” she snapped.

“The enemy is less formidable than I supposed. They cannot reach us underwater and cannot defeat us when we fight on land.” He held out a hand to her. “Come, Divine Majesty. Come let me show you your future capital.”

Slowly, the anger faded from her face. Her expression took on a quality of yearning. “My capital,” she repeated softly. “My city.”

She took his hand and rose from her throne. Swimming together, they left the sea behind and entered the fresh water of the Thon-Thalas.

*

The night passed without incident in Silvanost. Vixa was surprised that the Dargonesti did not attack, but the time was not wasted. Fortifications were strengthened, weapons repaired, and myriad other tasks attended to.

The Speaker of the Stars had dined once more with his foreign guests. After the midday meal was finished, they strolled the halls of the Quinari Palace, ending up in one of the high western towers. From there, they could see nearly the whole of Fallan Island. The Speaker leaned on the alabaster windowsill and nodded at the sublime vista. “What do you see?” he asked them.

Gundabyr winced as he hoisted his bandaged arm up. “The city, the city wall, and the river.”

“What do you deduce from the river?”

Baffled, the Qualinesti princess stared hard. The Thon-Thalas seemed just the same as when she had arrived the day before yesterday. There were still no fishing craft on the water. The barges that had been deployed to impede enemy ships were gone as well. Vixa’s information had shown the Speaker that such a tactic was unnecessary. All the river craft were tied up on the north end of the island, tied to docks that stood long-legged out of the water, like so many herons. The fishing dories closer to shore had their prows buried in the mud. Vixa stiffened. Buried in the mud?

“The water level has receded!” Vixa exclaimed, seeing it at last.

“By Reorx! A good four feet, at least!” added Gundabyr.

“Closer to five,” corrected the Speaker. “It will go lower still.”

“But how? Why?”

Elendar’s voice took on a note of pride. “The clerics of Silvanost are second to none in the esteem of the gods. I commanded them to work a mighty conjuration – all of them. The entire college of priests and priestesses are at their altars, minds linked into one magnificent whole, performing a fantastic evocation.”

Vixa was stunned. “To lower the river?”

He nodded with satisfaction. “In two more days the Thon-Thalas will be half its normal depth. In six, it will be a muddy gutter. If the Dargonesti remain, they will dry in the sun like so many beached fish.”

Vixa felt light-headed. That such power was available to the Speaker of the Stars … she could only shake her head in wonder. It was incredible. That she was here to witness it was a blessing. The Qualinesti princess bowed her head. “Great Speaker, forgive me for doubting you,” she murmured.

He grinned at her. “Nonsense, Cousin. Would not the Speaker of the Sun do as much for Qualinost? Master Gundabyr, to what end would your High King go to deliver Thorbardin from danger?”

“Fight to the last axe and shed his very last drop of blood,” the dwarf said solemnly. He brightened. “But don’t I feel like a dolt! Here the princess and me were breaking our, uh, backs to come to your aid, and you have ol’ Coryphene in the palm of your hand!”

“Things are not quite that certain, my friend. This Coryphene is resourceful, and his army can still do great harm.”

Vixa knew the truth of that. She thought of how remorselessly Coryphene had pursued the chilkit, obsessed with exterminating them root and branch.

“When he realizes the river is falling, he will rethink his strategy,” she said. “I fear the worst may still be ahead of us.”

The Speaker rubbed his smooth cheek. “Do you think so? I would have thought that when things looked hopeless, he would retreat to save his own skin.”

“Any ordinary general would, but Coryphene has a heavy burden that prevents him from running away – that prevents rational thought,” she finished. The other two quizzed her with wordless looks.

“Uriona,” she said. “He is bound up in her visions, bound up in his love for her. He will never give up.”

*

The night watch roamed the quiet streets of Silvanost, as they had for more than a thousand years. This night, they were reinforced by bands of royal guards. Marshal Samcadaris knew he didn’t have enough warriors to guard the entire perimeter of the great city. Until the levies arrived, he was forced to rely on two methods of defense: all the towers and gatehouses were strongly fortified and garrisoned with archers, and the remaining foot soldiers and dismounted cavalry were formed into flying corps, which would rush to the scene of any attack. In the Speaker’s words, they would “plug holes in the Ship of State from the inside.”

The sky had just turned from indigo to deep purple when the sentries atop Red Rose Gate heard a commotion in the southern forest beyond the wall. The previous fire and subsequent battle had done great damage to the ornamental gardens located by the edge of the forest. More than enough trees remained, however, to screen Dargonesti movements from the sharp-eyed sentries.

A herald was dispatched to Marshal Samcadaris, who was standing at the head of a thousand warriors in a street next to the Quinari Palace. Word of the enemy activity filtered through the ranks. The Silvanesti stirred nervously.

Speaker Elendar, Vixa, and Gundabyr were with Samcadaris. The Speaker said, “What do you think, Marshal?”

“A few soldiers can make a lot of noise,” the young warrior replied. “I counsel that we wait.”

A few minutes later, a second courier came running from Red Rose Gate. “Sir! Enemy in sight!” he cried. The warriors in the neat ranks began to murmur softly.

“Wait. We must wait,” Samcadaris repeated, shaking his head slowly.

Back at the southern gate, the nervous Silvanesti defenders watched as a double line of Dargonesti elves, fresh from the river, marched forward in closed ranks. On their shoulders, they bore long poles, which the archers took to be scaling ladders. The cry of “Escalade!” went up among the Silvanesti. The archers lofted a few arrows at them, but the Dargonesti halted just out of range.

The air was alive with the sound of snapping wood. The Silvanesti looked on in confusion as a giant ball of tree limbs and brush appeared out of the trees. The ball was fully twenty feet across and was being pushed forward – straight to the gate – by gangs of captured Silvanesti.

At the palace, Vixa heard the report of this and said immediately, “Coryphene means to burn down the gate.” She explained that the long poles the archers had taken for ladders were probably firelances.

“You say water won’t put out this gnomefire?” Samcadaris said. Gundabyr nodded regretfully. “Well, what will extinguish it?”

“Only smothering will douse a gnomefire. Dirt, sand, that sort of thing,” said the dwarf.

Samcadaris gave orders that certain items be collected and taken to the gate. A few hundred warriors scattered to obey.

The archers atop the wall held their fire as the brush ball rolled slowly toward them. The Dargonesti were careful to keep behind it, beating their captives with sticks to ensure that the ball continued its forward momentum. Pairs of firelancers left the line and followed in the wake of the brush ball. Careless Quoowahb paid with their lives as the archers picked off any who strayed too far from the rolling shield.

Samcadaris’s troops, a hundred fifty strong, arrived at the threatened gate. The special items they’d brought were passed up to the defenders on the wall. Tense, the Silvanesti waited.

The ground sloped upward to the gate, so the last few yards were slow going for the captives pushing the brush ball. When the ball drew near enough that the Silvanesti archers at last had a shot at those behind it, they realized the only targets available were their own countrymen. The Dargonesti slashing at the captives with seaweed whips were protected by a wooden mantelet. This shield had been fashioned from house timbers, doors, and any other bits of wood scavenged from Brackenost and the surrounding forests.

The Silvanesti archers ground their teeth in anger at this sight. Samcadaris had sent word they were to hold their fire. The marshal had a plan, and killing the unfortunate captives was not part of it.

Amid much cursing and shouting from the Dargonesti, the huge mass of tinder was shoved up next to the oaken gate. Then the mantelet retreated, but only to provide cover to the advancing firelancers, who readied, then cast their heavy projectiles into the brush.

For land fighting, Coryphene’s armorers had modified Gundabyr’s original design. The pot containing the paste was divided in half, one side containing gnomefire paste, the other filled with water. When the pot shattered, the two mixed, the paste exploding into flame.

Smoke boiled out of the brush pile. Two, three, four firelances were hurled against it. Liquid flames ran down the green saplings in the ball and pooled on the ground.

From the gate roof, many Silvanesti voices shouted, “Now!”

Down came grappling hooks on ropes. This was the special equipment ordered by Samcadaris. The hooks easily snagged the tangled brush. The elves heaved on the long lines, raising the burning heap off the ground. Flames shot up over the battlements, forcing the archers back. Once the ball had sufficient height, the ropes were cut. The momentum of the falling brush ball caused it to roll down the slope away from the gate, directly toward the Dargonesti line. With the jeers of the defenders ringing in their ears, the sea elves scattered before the hurtling blaze.

Back at the palace, everyone enjoyed a good laugh when descriptions of the Battle of the Bush arrived. No one, however, believed the night’s fighting was over.

More wooden mantelets appeared from the woods. Behind these makeshift shields, gangs of Dargonesti crept toward the wall. Arrows immediately began dropping down on them, but the attackers pushed on. Nearly twenty mantelets, covering several hundred Quoowahb, reached the foot of the wall and Red Rose Gate. The tall, powerfully muscled sea elves cast spears up at the defenders as other Dargonesti, equipped with captured tools, attacked the gate. Chips flew, but the oak barrier was ten inches thick. Behind it stood another gate, this one of rock crystal, magically cast in the days of Silvanos. The defenders let the Dargonesti waste their time and energy chipping at the wooden gate, secure in the knowledge that the crystal barrier could not be breached. All the while, arrows, large stones, and hot oil were poured on the attackers.

“This is stupid,” Gundabyr remarked, when the latest report was brought back to the Quinari. “I thought the blueskins were smarter than this!”

“I don’t suppose they’ve ever attacked a walled city before,” Samcadaris mused.

“They’re getting a hard education,” the Speaker said grimly.

The attack continued for over an hour, during which the attention of every elf in Silvanost was fixed on Red Rose Gate, in the south.

Unbeknownst to them, Dargonesti warriors were stealing silently out of the muddy Thon-Thalas and gathering among the piers and docks on the city’s west side. Scaling ladders, knocked together from scavenged wood, were carried out of the water and readied at the base of the city wall. The army waited, poised for the signal. Coryphene’s point of attack was exactly halfway between two towers.

Coryphene himself surfaced, holding the hand of Queen Uriona. The sorceress monarch had never been above the water in her life, and she was fiercely excited by the experience. The air here was very different than what she breathed in her city every day. A myriad of strange smells filled her nostrils. She gripped Coryphene’s hand hard as she gazed up at the walls and towers of Silvanost.

“My city,” she whispered. “My capital!”

“Not yet, Divine One. Let me shed a little blood for you, then it shall be yours in truth,” he said.

She relinquished his hand. “Go! I will call on my powers to aid you!”

He slogged ashore. One thousand warriors, including his own sword-armed personal guard, were below the wall.

“Up ladders,” he said quietly. Brawny blue arms lifted the wooden structures. The movement of so many ladders could not escape notice. Sentries on the two flanking towers shouted alarms. Torches blazed from the battlement, exposing Coryphene’s troops.

“Up! Up!” he roared, waving his sword over his head. He still wielded Vixa Ambrodel’s Qualinesti blade. The topaz in its hilt flashed in the torchlight. “Now is the time! For Urione! For Uriona!”

“Urione! Uriona!” the Dargonesti shouted.

In moments, the alarm reached the Speaker and the others at the Quinari Palace. Samcadaris threw down his marshal’s baton.

“A feint! All that nonsense in the south is a feint!” He shouted quick commands, and the waiting warriors fell into three columns. Vixa and Gundabyr found places in the fore, the dwarf vowing to make Coryphene pay for the death of Garnath, his twin.

Speaker Elendar performed the ritual blessings, as the columns began to move off. Once the warriors were gone, the Speaker dismissed the priests and servants hovering nearby. The square between the Quinari and the Tower of the Stars was empty save for himself. He removed a plain helmet from beneath his cloak and pulled it on.

“I’ll not sit by while others fight for my city,” he murmured.

After a glance at the pearlescent beauty of the Tower of the Stars, a sight which never failed to strengthen his soul, Elendar, Speaker of the Stars, great-grandson of Silvanos, stepped into the night, tightening the chin strap of his helmet.

Chapter 22

VIXA FALLS

The ladders thumped against the parapet. Fewer than two hundred Silvanesti guarded this stretch of the wall. They sprang to arms and rushed to knock the ladders over. With sword and spear, the defenders pried one heavy ladder loose and shoved it backward. They cheered as Dargonesti went flying.

At that instant tiny globes of light appeared above each remaining ladder. These swelled rapidly until they were larger than an elf. When the Silvanesti tried to approach the ladders, an invisible force hurled them back. The light globes crackled and hissed. Other warriors shot arrows and cast spears into the fiery globes. These, too, were flung back at their owners, sometimes with fatal results.

When the first Dargonesti laid his hand atop the city wall, the globe protecting his ladder vanished with a thunderclap. He and his fellows poured onto the battlement and rushed the dazed defenders. In minutes all the globes were gone, clearing the way for the sea elves to gain the wall. Only one ladder had been upset. The other nine had done their jobs well, and the Dargonesti entered the city.

Uriona, standing on the shoulders of two of her servants, watched from midriver. She trembled violently beneath her mask, from emotion and the effort she had exerted to create the force spheres. Victory was hers – she could feel it!

Samcadaris’s columns were filing up the steps. Now and then bodies – blue-skinned and white – came hurtling back down. Vixa also pounded up the steps, Gundabyr on her heels. At the top of the long staircase, the wall was thick with fighting elves. The Silvanesti who’d been on the wall when Coryphene had first attacked had withdrawn to the two towers. The doors were shut and bolted. The Dargonesti had seized the wall; now could they hold it?

Vixa saw no Dimernesti this time. She faced only her old captors, and from the swords in their webbed hands, she knew they were part of Coryphene’s elite guard. Shoulder to shoulder with a dozen of Samcadaris’s fighters and the redoubtable Gundabyr, she would have taken on any foe. Like the dwarf, she had a debt to settle with the Lord Protector of Urione. He had taken too many lives – by this own hand and by his command.

There was no room for fancy swordplay. This was hack-and-slash fighting at its most brutal. Strength and stamina were what counted. Vixa traded cuts with a Dargonesti until his blade became entangled with that of the elf on her left. When he left himself open, Vixa ran him through. His place was taken by another warrior in green tortoiseshell armor. This one wielded a heavy Ergothian sword as easily as if it were a feather.

The Qualinesti princess gave ground. Gundabyr squeezed in and deflected the blue-skinned giant’s blows. The dwarf was not at his best. His wound made him stiff and clumsy. Vixa grabbed him by the collar, dragging him back.

“Thick-headed fool!” she yelled at him. “Your arm’s not sound! Get clear!”

“Don’t give me orders, your ladyship!” he shouted back. Their exchange was interrupted by the sea elf, making a renewed assault on Vixa. Gundabyr dropped his heavy axe and dove at the Dargonesti’s knees. Vixa leapt over the dwarf and whipped a roundhouse at the enemy. The sea elf, struggling with the dwarf, was unable to parry. He dropped down dead, his throat slashed by Vixa’s sword.

The Qualinesti girl felt herself fall as well. The parapet was slick with blood, and her foot slid out from under her. A forest of legs churned around her. Someone stomped on her hand, and she lost her grasp on her weapon. More blows, accidental and otherwise, rained on her ribs. She curled up to protect herself, spied Gundabyr’s axe, and snatched it up.

A stunning impact on her back rolled her over. Blearily, she saw a Dargonesti looming over her, sword upraised. She flung the axe at him. The flat of the blade took him in the face, and down he went. Vixa stood shakily. The Dargonesti, his face streaming green blood, was getting to his feet as well. Empty-handed, she ran at him and shoved. With a screech, he slid off the parapet, disappearing below.

Vixa had lost track of Gundabyr. A Dargonesti rushed her. She ducked under his sword arm, turned, and kicked his legs out from under him. Because of their height and unfamiliarity with dry land, the sea elves were somewhat clumsy. Their reflexes and balance were both affected.

She picked up the fallen sea elf’s sword. It was a sailor’s cutlass, streaked with rust. Just the thing for a mad melee like this! Yelling her war cry of family names, Vixa tore into the Dargonesti who were just getting off their scaling ladder. She slew one before he had time to defend himself, then felt a slash across her back. Her steel cuirass saved her life, but the end of the blade caught her shoulder. Stinging blood poured from her wound as she turned, seeing that the Dargonesti who’d struck her was still standing with his sword upraised. Before she could counter, he crumpled, an arrow sticking out of his back.

No order existed anywhere along the embattled wall. Unable to call upon their powerful mages, the Silvanesti were forced to deal with their foe in a primitive manner: they had set up siege engines on the flanking towers. These raked the scaling ladders with lead missiles and fist-sized stones. The flow of Dargonesti was nearly choked off.

Vixa got her bloodied back against the rear of the parapet so no one else could strike her from behind. The fight had lessened in intensity as the number of able warriors on both sides diminished. Panting for air, the Qualinesti princess scanned the scene. Something white caught her eye. She wiped sweat from her eyes, bringing the image into focus. It was a helmet decorated with shells and gemstones.

Coryphene.

“Hai! Ambrodel! Kanan!” Her war cries were lost in the general uproar. Vixa dashed back into the press, slashing right and left to clear a path. She bored through the disorganized battle until she was only a few paces from the helmeted figure.

“Coryphene!” she screamed.

He turned. “Princess! You did not die at Thonbec?”

“Stupid question!” She sprang forward, aiming a cut at his face. He parried it deftly. “You’ve lost, Coryphene! Everything!”

“The whine of the defeated!” Quick as lightning, he counterattacked. He moved with astonishing speed, though he didn’t reach her. Vixa edged toward the parapet on the city side of the wall and presented a formal fighting stance. Under his elaborately decorated helmet, Coryphene smiled.

“You are a brave fighter. I’m glad you escaped,” he said, saluting with his blade. Her blade, she fumed silently.

Vixa hissed, “My friends and the other slaves were not so fortunate!” The cutlass she held had a sharply curved blade, no good at all for thrusting. He held her off without even shifting his feet. “You murdered them,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Only the weak,” he replied coolly. He disengaged his blade from hers in a nimble riposte. His sword whispered close enough to her throat to leave a hairline cut. He laughed.

Fate, in the form of a Silvanesti catapult, played a hand in their duel. Catapulters on the more southern tower had aimed their engine and flung two hundred pounds of lead weights at the Dargonesti ladders still standing. The sea elves were trying to carry firelances to the battlement. The catapult missiles smashed the ladders and set the firelances crashing to the ground. Fire exploded among the ruined ladders and wounded Dargonesti.

A great gout of flame soared up behind Coryphene. The heat singed him, and he leapt to one side to avoid being burnt. Taking the advantage, Vixa took her cutlass in both hands and swung. The rude iron blade bit through his shell armor and into the flesh of his left arm.

With a howl, Coryphene dropped his sword and flung his right hand out. There was a flash, bright as the noonday sun, and Vixa found herself falling over the wall. One thought filled her astonished brain: I didn’t know he could do that!

Expecting to die on the paving stones of the street, Vixa felt herself hit, not hard marble, but a sloping roof. Breath whooshed from her lungs, and she rolled wildly down the incline. Then she was falling once more. Cold water slapped her back, and she was sinking. She fought her way to the surface, gasping for air. Hands seized her. She would’ve fought them as well, but had no strength left for the struggle. The hands dragged her out of the water.

She had landed in a fountain. The hands that held her belonged to two wide-eyed Silvanesti soldiers who’d been bathing their wounds in the fountain’s pool. They hoisted her to the side of the pool and stood by, regarding her with awe.

“That was – that was amazing!” one of them breathed. “You fell forty feet to that rooftop, rolled down, and dropped another twenty feet straight into the fountain!”

The Qualinesti princess tried to stand. Her legs buckled, and she fell, knocking her head against the rim of the fountain. The warriors, still with awestruck expressions, obligingly hauled her up again. The Qualinesti princess sat on the cold green stone of the pool rim, holding her throbbing head and groaning at the pain of her cut shoulder.

The blaze started by the gnomefire spread rapidly among the docks. The Dargonesti reeled away from the searing heat. The Silvanesti closed in on those remaining atop the wall.

Coryphene rallied his fighters, with Dargonesti fighting on two fronts, toward each of the guard towers. The Protector shouted encouragement, but even as the more powerful Dargonesti were pressing the Silvanesti back, the elves in the towers readjusted their siege machines to bear along the wall.

Whomp! A boulder flew in a high arc over the Silvanesti fighters and crashed down among the Dargonesti. For the first time since gaining the wall, they wavered. Coryphene commanded them to capture the catapult, but the mass of Silvanesti between them and the machine was a powerful dissuasion. The catapult hurled a second stone, which bounced along the parapet, wreaking fearful havoc among the closely packed ranks of Dargonesti.

At this juncture, a lone figure appeared on the roof of the southern tower, climbing onto the stout timber frame of the catapult. Cupping his hands to his mouth, the Speaker of the Stars yelled, “What are you waiting for? Take them, my brave Silvanesti!” His gold-bordered white cape whipped back from his shoulders, and the Crown of Stars on his head flashed in the torchlight.

A screaming cheer rose from the throats of the Silvanesti elves. They drove forward on two sides. The enemy from the sea fought stubbornly, but couldn’t hold out against deadly boulders, masses of patriotic warriors, and the runaway fire that threatened them from below.

The surviving sea elves, including Coryphene, fled down the remaining ladders. Even that did not save all of them, for when the defenders regained control of the wall, they pushed the heavily laden ladders over, sending scores of Dargonesti into the flames below.

By the first hour after midnight, the battle was over. The western waterfront was a smoking ruin. Hundreds of elves on both sides were dead or wounded. Vixa worked her way through the clogged streets to the southern tower; she’d been told the Speaker was there. She climbed the steps to the roof to see the catapult that had turned the tide of battle. Its crew was gathered in a tight group, and she called out praise to them. The elves said nothing, but stood aside, revealing a terrible sight.

The Speaker of the Stars lay by the catapult, a spear in his side. The dark gray slate around him was stained red with his blood.

“Great Speaker!” Vixa exclaimed, rushing to him.

“Cousin,” he said weakly. “What luck, eh? The battle won, and I stop a javelin.”

The spear stuck out below the ribs on his left side. A healer was working feverishly over him, but the Speaker’s pale face was waxen from loss of blood.

“You must live, Majesty,” Vixa said, pressing his cold hand. “Victory will be yours in a few days!”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he whispered. His eyes closed; his head lolled.

The young priestess pushed sweat-dampened hair from her face. “He will live,” she said tiredly. “He only sleeps from the potion I gave him, to spare him pain.”

Speaker Elendar was carried away on a litter to the temple of Quenesti Pah, goddess of healing. As the senior priestesses were still engaged in the great invocation to lower the Thon-Thalas, the younger healers would have to attend to him as best they could.

Vixa questioned the catapulters. “What happened? How did the Speaker of the Stars get wounded?”

The elves were in shock. One of them shook his head in bewilderment and tried to explain. “He climbed atop our machine to rally the warriors. As the last of the enemy was going down the wall, some of them cast spears at him. One struck.”

Vixa clapped the brave elf on the shoulder, then wearily made her way back to the palace.

Just a few more days, she told herself fiercely. Soon, Coryphene will have to know the river is falling. Already it was more than six feet below normal. The middle channel, the deepest part of the Thon-Thalas, now carried but fourteen feet of water.

*

Coryphene trudged into the river, heading away from the city. Most of his fighters had thrown themselves face first into the muddy water along the riverbank, so badly were their gills beset by smoke and heat. The Protector of Urione had too much dignity for that. He waded out some yards from shore and with great deliberation raised a handful of water to his face.

The battle was over, lost, but he did not despair. Somewhere on the miles-long perimeter of Silvanost there had to be a weak spot, a place not easily accessible to reinforcements or those infernal rock-throwing monsters. He would find that weak spot. He would find it for his queen.

He walked farther into the river and submerged himself. As the life-giving water flowed through his gills, Coryphene looked around at Silvanost. For the first time he noticed the condition of the city’s piers. Some of the shorter ones were surrounded by mud. The Protector of Urione frowned, bringing his head above water.

Queen Uriona had come forward from the deep channel, watching the survivors drift back, burned, dazed, gasping for water. Their suffering meant nothing to her. Only their failure was important. And where was Coryphene? She saw him now, standing there, staring as though dumbstruck.

“You live!” Uriona cried. Her relief was only momentary. Anger quickly displaced it. “You failed, Lord Protector! You are defeated!”

“Only in this battle, Divine One. The campaign is not over. Your Majesty must depart, however. There is great danger for you here.”

His words fueled her anger. “What danger? The drylanders cannot reach me here in the river. You said so yourself.”

“The river is shrinking,” he stated bluntly.

“What? How?”

“I don’t know. I know only that there is less water in the river than there was when we entered it. The level has declined during the battle and continues to dwindle even now.”

Uriona, standing hip-deep in the Thon-Thalas, stared at him. “Is this by natural means, or unnatural?”

“You would know better than I. Why don’t you ask your brother gods?” he said irritably. “I must see to my soldiers. There will be no more fighting this night.”

As he turned to leave, Uriona’s voice stopped him. “We cannot remain in the river if it dries up,” she said. “It is well I brought the Shades of Zura.”

The Protector turned back, his face drawing down into a frown. “The undead priests are not needed,” he insisted. “Once the army has rested for some hours, I intend to renew the attack by day.”

She looked at him as if he were demented. “But the sunlight! Our eyes cannot bear it!”

“My warriors can bear anything but defeat. The enemy thinks themselves safe during daylight. We will teach them otherwise. After dawn, I intend to throw the whole army against the western gate. It will be our final onslaught. We must carry the day or perish. In either case, Your Divinity must return to the sea. We cannot allow – I cannot allow – you to be trapped here, at any cost.”

Her expression softened. “What kind of goddess would I be if I abandoned my Protector at the hour of his glory? I shall remain.”

“Uriona —”

“Silence. My pavilion has been erected at the deepest point in the channel. I will be safe there. And with great Zura to aid our endeavors, I shall enter the city in triumph before the next sunset.”

To forestall further discussion, she left him and walked back to the depths of the river. Coryphene watched her go, the frown back on his face. Though an accomplished spell-caster, the Protector considered himself first a warrior, a soldier who preferred to win his battles by strength and cunning. However, he was also completely devoted to his queen. No matter his misgivings, he must bend himself to her divine will.

He called up his lieutenants and sent word to every company in his army to collect in the channel west of the city. The gathering of the Dargonesti was complete by sunrise, but since it took place underwater, no one in Silvanost had any inkling of it.

*

That morning, word of the Speaker’s grievous injury spread, casting a pall over the city. Despite their victory at the west wall, the Silvanesti had lost fully a third of their trained warriors. Barely two thousand fighters remained, though the ranks were being augmented by volunteers. These recruits were brave, but they were ill-matched against Coryphene’s veterans.

While Vixa slept, Gundabyr met with Marshal Samcadaris and other high-ranking Silvanesti officers. The marshal’s greatest fear was that the Dargonesti would launch serious attacks simultaneously at more than one point. He no longer had enough troops to cover multiple fronts.

“What about the levies?” asked the dwarf. “Shouldn’t they be close by now?”

“Some should. They were to gather at Ilist Glade,” said Samcadaris. “The levies from the nearer provinces should already be there.”

“Then let’s send word!”

“The city is surrounded,” objected a Silvanesti colonel named Eriscodera. “How can we get to the far shore without being attacked?”

“The blueskins don’t move during the day, remember? I say we send a small band across at high noon to find the waiting levies and bring them back, quicker than quicksilver.”

Samcadaris rubbed his pointed chin. “There is something in what Master Gundabyr proposes, only I would be even bolder than he. Go now, I say, and don’t wait for noon.”

He chose Colonel Eriscodera to lead the party. “Take twelve cavalry with you. Ride as though the Dragonqueen herself is after you, and bring back the levies that are already assembled.” He smote his thigh with his fist. “Make all the noise you want on your return. Let the Dargonesti think a mighty army is coming to terminate the siege of Silvanost!”

“May I go, too?” asked Gundabyr. “With this hurt wing of mine, I’m not much good in a fight, but I want to do whatever I can to stop the blueskins.”

“What do you say, Colonel?”

“An outlander riding with the cavalry of Silvanost?” said Eriscodera, eyeing the dwarf uncertainly. “I suppose it may serve to drive home how desperate things are.”

“Kind of you to say so,” Gundabyr remarked sourly.

“Master Gundabyr is brave and resourceful,” Samcadaris said. “And he knows the enemy better than any of us. I do you an honor, Colonel, by sending him with you.”

Eriscodera saluted smartly and departed with the dwarf. They went directly to the cavalry headquarters, Gundabyr not even taking time to have breakfast.

Chapter 23

BY SWORD AND SPELL

Ragged and bloodied, Vixa rested in a small chamber in the Quinari Palace. Once her shoulder had been bandaged, she simply found the nearest couch and dropped down on it. The Silvanesti quickly tired of whispering about her in the corridor. She slept, deeply and dreamlessly.

She awoke suddenly, sitting bolt upright on her couch. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep, but the sun was up, its rays slanting in the large windows on the palace’s east facade. All was silent. The usual sounds – servants’ soft voices, footsteps whispering on carpet – were absent. Yet, Vixa had the distinct impression she’d been awakened by a loud noise.

Slowly, her bandaged shoulder aching and stiff, Vixa got to her feet. Mud and blood had dried on her boots, flaking off with every step. She buckled on her borrowed sword and encountered no one as she walked through the sun-bright palace rooms. The audience hall was empty as well.

Where was everyone? she wondered. The streets outside the palace were vacant as well – not so much as a cat showed itself. The air fairly pulsed with power, the harnessed magic of the entire priesthood of Silvanost. It overlaid the city like a wooly blanket. And there was something more. A steady hum, like the sound of an enormous beehive, filled the air. It came from nowhere and everywhere. Vixa felt a pang of fear. She had to know what was happening.

She jogged away from the palace, toward Pine Tree Gate, which guarded the western entrance to the city. The humming grew louder, funneled through the high canyons of houses and towers. Disoriented, she made several wrong turns into dead-end streets, but the noise steadily increased as she made her way west.

In the square above Pine Tree Gate, Vixa ran smack into a mob of Silvanesti. They were ordinary folk, standing side by side and holding the hands of their neighbors. The elven chain looped back and forth through the square and disappeared down the many side streets. All the elves had their eyes closed, their lips parted slightly. They were humming.

“What is it?” Vixa demanded. “What’s happened?”

The elves did not answer, but held their places and hummed. Vixa grabbed the last one in line. As her hand closed around his arm, she felt a shock go through her. An image flashed across her mind’s eye: the Thon-Thalas, wrapped from shore to shore in dense, white cloud. The cloud billowed and roiled, and gray shapes stirred inside. Though vague, they were somehow threatening —

She yanked her hand free and staggered backward. Vixa knew immediately what she’d seen. Through the eyes of thousands of Silvanesti, the image of the cloud was vivid and terrifying. Coryphene, or Uriona, had summoned up the strange white fog that had first carried Evenstar away from land. But why? What would it do now? And why were the people of Silvanost behaving so oddly?

The Qualinesti princess shouldered through the lines, ducking under linked hands until she reached the base of the city wall near Pine Tree Gate. The sound of humming grated on her nerves and caused an ache in her head. Atop the wall she saw Silvanesti warriors moving about and hurried to join them. Two score young elves, newly pressed into the depleted ranks of the Speaker’s host, stood behind the crenelations that protected the parapet.

“Who commands here?” Vixa asked.

The elves were staring out toward the river. Without turning, a spear-armed youth replied, “Marshal Samcadaris, lady. He passed here an hour ago.”

Frowning, Vixa followed the direction of his rapt gaze. Her frown became an expression of shock. The shrinking Thon-Thalas was completely obscured by a sea of white cloud. The cloud stretched upstream and down as far as Vixa could see and overlapped the banks by several yards. The top of the cloud was level with the wall upon which she stood, and it looked as solid.

“When did this fog come up?” she demanded.

The spear-carrier replied, “At sunrise. It has been thickening steadily ever since.”

“Why do the people stand together humming?”

“It is the will of the Speaker, lady. The clerics of the high gods began to grow weak and fell as the mist closed in. The Speaker summoned the people to reinforce the magic.”

Vixa shook her head as she looked back toward the city, at the rows and rows of humming Silvanesti. Of course, they weren’t actually humming. The sound was in fact the rapid chanting of thousands upon thousands of Silvanesti voices. She shivered, and gooseflesh rose on her arms. The focused power of these eastern elves sent tingles racing along her spine.

Thunder rumbled overhead. Directly above the sea of snow-white cloud, a long serpent of blue-black thunder-heads coalesced rapidly in the still air. Lightning flashed inside the dark mass.

“Looks as though we’ll get wet today,” Vixa noted. The recruits divided their anxious gazes between the white fog bank and the gathering storm.

“Lady, what shall we do?” asked the spear-carrier, fear tingeing his words.

“Are you afraid?” He nodded, and the others echoed his gesture. Vixa said firmly, “Good. Fear will put iron in your arm and fire in your belly. Then we shall win.”

She walked on, past tired veterans and green recruits pressed into service to fill out their ranks. As she went by them, the Qualinesti princess offered low-voiced advice and encouragement in equal portions. Though not a Silvanesti, she still had two thousand years of royal blood in her veins. Her calm, expert manner garnered respect from the veterans and brought a measure of comfort to the frightened newcomers.

Vixa felt a fat raindrop strike her cheek. It ran down to the corner of her mouth, and she tasted salt. She stopped and looked up. The thunderclouds had expanded, filling the sky overhead. Several more drops landed on her face. They were salty as well.

The raindrops were made of seawater!

Hitching up her sword belt, she jogged to the tower ahead of her. On the open summit she found Samcadaris with most of his corps of dismounted cavalry.

“Marshal! It’s Vixa Ambrodel!”

He waved to his troopers to let her through. Rain was falling more regularly now. A boom of thunder rolled over the high tower. Samcadaris was standing on a wooden platform that allowed him to see over the crenelation. Vixa climbed up beside him.

“Where have you been?” he inquired.

“Asleep in the palace. I nearly missed everything!”

Thunder crashed once more, and the heavens opened up. A torrent of salty rain fell on Silvanost. “You may wish you had missed this!” Samcadaris shouted over the deluge and thunder.

“Coryphene summoned this rain to sustain his army!”

The marshal nodded. “I have only a few thousand regulars left. The rest are mere children, artisans, and idlers scraped up and given arms. I pray Eriscodera and your dwarven friend get back in time.”

“Gundabyr? Where’s he gone?”

“They sneaked across the river before dawn to round up what militia had already gathered. If reinforcements don’t arrive soon, I doubt we can hold the city.”

Weird bleating erupted from various points along the length of the white cloud obscuring the river. The Dargonesti were blowing on conch shells. The sound lifted the hairs at the nape of Vixa’s neck, but she realized the noise was probably meant to be practical rather than theatrical. It was likely that Coryphene’s warriors couldn’t see through the fog either. The noises were probably signals from the different commands.

A Silvanesti shouted from the wall. “They’re coming!”

“Stand to arms,” said Samcadaris sharply. Weapons rattled as the order was relayed along the city wall. “Archers, stand ready.”

“Sir,” said an officer at the marshal’s elbow, “the archers have only one quiver left per elf.”

“Then order them not to miss,” was the grim reply.

Vixa wiped salt rain from her eyes and asked, “Where do you want me, Marshal?”

“Royalty may choose their own ground, lady.” He smiled wanly. “And there are any number of weak areas on the wall. However, there” – he pointed at a spot farther along the battlement – “halfway between this watchtower and Pine Tree Gate, that’s our nearest weakness.”

She nodded briskly. “Give me twenty stout fighters, and I’ll hold the wall against all comers!”

He agreed. Vixa and her picked squad ran down the steps from the watchtower to the place he’d indicated on the battlement. Halfway between Samcadaris’s watchtower and Pine Tree Gate she halted her band. Salty rainwater pooled on the stone parapet, pouring off the wall through small openings in the crenelations. Vixa shucked her sodden cloak. The call of the Dargonesti conch shells abruptly ceased.

Despite the pounding rain, thick tentacles of white fog detached themselves from the main mass of cloud and crept up toward the battlements. Vixa found them uncomfortably similar to the massive limbs of the kraken, which had wrought such havoc on the fortress of Thonbec.

Under the astonished eyes of the Silvanesti, these foggy tentacles gripped the smooth stone walls just beneath the level of the parapet. They thickened and solidified. Now the rain splashed off their hardened surfaces and streamed down their inclined length. One elven warrior, smitten with curiosity, broke ranks and approached the odd growths. An instant later, he toppled from the wall, riddled with arrows.

Vixa cried out as more arrows flickered up from the fog bank. With shrill shouts, Dimernesti mercenaries, wielding captured Silvanesti bows, swarmed out of the mist. They ran up the solid tendril of fog to the top of the city wall.

“Lock shields!” Vixa commanded. Her band of hand-picked warriors obeyed just as a hail of arrows raked them. “Swords out! Attack!”

They rushed the lightly armed Dimernesti and in short order pushed them back over the crenelations. All along the wall, sea elves mounted to the parapet on pathways of solidified vapor.

“We must disrupt their assault,” Vixa said quickly. “All of you! If you can shoulder a spear or swing a sword, follow me!”

The Qualinesti princess swallowed hard and leapt through a crenel toward the magical fog ramp. She wondered if it would support anyone, or only Coryphene’s chosen. Her feet landed on a surface hard as marble. She looked back. Her twenty warriors were with her. The other Silvanesti stood watching.

“What are you waiting for? The enemy is gaining the wall! Come on!” She plunged down the ramp and into the fog below. The lack of visibility was disorienting, but Vixa found the going easier if she didn’t worry about where her feet fell. She concentrated on listening for the enemy and on the sounds of the Silvanesti behind her.

Soon the brown mud of the riverbank appeared ahead. Vixa was vastly relieved when her feet splashed in the diminished Thon-Thalas.

The warriors arrived behind her. “Where now, lady?” one asked.

She turned. The city above was lost in the wall of white cloud, and none of them could see more than a few feet in front of their noses. Not even elven eyes could penetrate this magical fog bank. However, Vixa quickly discovered that the fog, though it veiled their eyes, did not affect their ears. She could hear the battle going on behind and above them. Ahead, Dargonesti were running to the fight, their wide, bare feet slapping loudly in the mud. The fog also seemed to act as a shield against the deluge of rain. Only a few raindrops splashed against Vixa’s armor. She pointed with her sword to the right.

“That way,” she said firmly. “The enemy seems to be coming from that direction.”

They formed in a close column of twos. Some thirty volunteers had followed Vixa and her original band, making a total of fifty warriors under her command. Surrounded though they were by several thousand Dargonesti, Vixa was unafraid. The fog was a two-edged weapon. It would screen them from Coryphene’s warriors just as well as it hid the sea elves from the Silvanesti.

Silently, Vixa and the Silvanesti made their way through the mist. Now and then, small groups of Dargonesti ran past, unaware. They also came upon sea elves who had crawled away from the city and died. Even as they tried to follow the edge of the river, it dwindled before them. Vixa called a halt when an odd odor reached her nostrils. At first sweet, then somehow sour and disagreeable, the odor was amazingly familiar. Where had she smelled it before?

Incense! It was the sour-sweet scent that had filled the temple level of Urione. The Dargonesti priests responsible for the strange fog and salty rain must be near.

She led her contingent of Silvanesti forward at a slower pace. To the left she spied a group of tall figures, standing close together. Whipping her sword in a circle overhead, Vixa signaled the attack.

They charged the enemy. Instead of evil priests, they found a band of Dargonesti warriors trying to slake their thirst in the rapidly shrinking river. The sight of the attacking Silvanesti sent the sea elves leaping for their spears, which they’d left driven into the mud nearby.

A melee ensued. Vixa was unsure how many of the foe they’d flushed, but attack was their only option. The Silvanesti spread out, trying to envelope the sea elves. Unencumbered and unprotected by shield or helmet, Vixa eluded Dargonesti spear thrusts while striking home again and again with her sword. Panting from lack of water, the Dargonesti gave ground. In spite of the salt rain, the sea elves appeared to be in desperate straits.

Staggering with fatigue, one of the Dargonesti jabbed at Vixa. She dodged, spun, and drove her blade into his ribs. This exchange had taken her a short distance from the rest of her command, and when her opponent fell, she found herself looking at a circle of perhaps twenty gray-robed Dargonesti priests, facing inward, a seething cauldron in their midst. Sprigs of smoldering incense were woven into their long jade hair. The odor of incense was overwhelming, but above it rose the smell of death and decay. These were the undead priests of Zura.

“Silvanesti, to me!” Vixa shouted. “Slay the priests and break their spells!”

The fight was over in minutes. The mages were so engrossed in their incantation, they did not attempt to flee or fight back. Even when confronted by sword-wielding enemy, the faces of the Shades of Zura remained expressionless and devoid of life.

When the slaughter was done, Vixa stood with the remaining Silvanesti soldiers, panting with exertion.

“This is no work for warriors,” muttered one of the Silvanesti. “Slaying unarmed clerics!”

“They were armed more mightily than any of us,” Vixa retorted. She bent over, her hands resting on her knees, and panted. “By their spells Silvanost could be lost.”

From her bent position, Vixa saw the green Dargonesti blood staining the muddy water at her feet. She also noticed something else – she could see her own shadow. Vixa stood erect and looked at the sky. The mist was thinning. A freshening wind and the heat of the sun were shredding the evil fog. With the priests of Zura dead, their conjurations were being dispersed by the living force of Silvanost’s own clerics.

This was not altogether a positive occurrence from Vixa’s point of view. As the mist lifted and the salt rain ceased, she and her command found themselves a lonely island in a sea of Dargonesti. Hastily they formed a circle, every elf facing outward, sword and shield ready. Vixa sheathed her blade and recovered a Dargonesti spear from the mud. Without a shield of her own, she needed the reach of the longer weapon.

Several hundred enemy warriors formed a short distance away. Vixa paced inside the small circle of her soldiers, giving orders in what she hoped was a steadying voice. Now and then she glanced up at the city. A furious fight still raged atop the wall. She uttered a brief, silent prayer for Samcadaris. Then there was time for nothing but survival.

The Dargonesti rushed them from all sides. They had rags tied around their heads to keep their gills damp, but the sun was out now and the air was warming rapidly. Vixa could see the powerful blue-skinned warriors gasping even as they tried to squeeze the small circle of Silvanesti into oblivion. At least, she thought, the city will be saved. Destroying the spell of the evil priests was worth all their lives.

The press of bodies was overpowering. Vixa raced around the inside of the circle of warriors, stabbing her spear at encroaching sea elves. The weapon was finally wrenched from her grasp. Two Silvanesti in front of her were knocked down by the sheer weight of Dargonesti pushing in. Vixa tried to back away, but she fetched up against the backs of the Silvanesti behind her. There was no place left to go.

She grabbed a sword from the lifeless hand of one of her soldiers and dueled with a pair of spear-armed Dargonesti. Something hard rapped Vixa sharply on the side of her head. Stunned, she went down. A wounded Silvanesti fell across her legs. The river mud gripped her. She felt herself sinking into it.

A horn blared above the clash of war. With the shouts and screams of combat around her, Vixa couldn’t tell if it was a Dargonesti conch shell or Silvanesti brass. She struggled to rise. Her borrowed sword slipped away and was swallowed by the mud.

One of her soldiers cried out, “The silver moon banner of Eriscodera! It’s the militia!”

Vixa grappled with fallen friends and foes and staggered upright. She nearly wept with relief at the sight that met her eyes. On the far shore were thousands of Silvanesti, those called to arms by the Speaker’s edict. At their head was an auburn-haired elf on horseback. Silvanost was saved!

With a concerted shout, Eriscodera and his cavalry left the marching levies and charged down the dry, cracked riverbank onto the mud flats. The white-kilted infantry, armed with pikes and halberds, came after them to the music of elven pipes and drums. The music wafted across the narrow channel that was all that remained of the mighty Thon-Thalas. Vixa watched the cavalry flounder in the heavy mud, but they kept coming. They weren’t making for the western gate of Silvanost though, but for a cluster of poles and banners in the center of the river.

“Silvanesti, rally!” she shouted hoarsely. “On your feet!”

Barely a dozen warriors remained to answer her call. The Dargonesti had fallen back when Eriscodera’s trumpets had sounded. The sea elves seemed uncertain whether to finish off Vixa’s little band or form and meet the oncoming cavalry.

Atop the city wall, Coryphene also heard the blaring of the horns, and he saw disaster looming for his army. Three-quarters of his depleted host was engaged in a wild fight along the walls. When the priests of Zura had died, the magical ramps of solidified fog had vanished. Coryphene’s troops on the wall were trapped. The Protector was committed to this battle as the will of his queen, and he would not have ordered retreat even had the ramps still been in place. He was quite prepared to fight to the last elf. However, when he saw Eriscodera’s cavalry divert from the city to Queen Uriona’s pavilion in the river, his ambition failed him. His queen was alone and undefended but for her servants. The fact that she was still covered by seven feet of water didn’t seem to register in his frantic mind. Coryphene saw drylanders bearing down upon his divine mistress, and he acted. He threw down his weapons and leapt from the wall in a graceful, arcing dive.

No land dweller could have survived so great a fall, but Coryphene’s body, accustomed to the press of the ocean’s depths, absorbed the shock of impact. He hit the sun-dried ground, rolled down to the line of mud, and got shakily to his feet. The blood streaming from his face and the cries of his officers, still atop the wall, were all ignored as he hurried toward Uriona’s pavilion.

The remaining Dimernesti mercenaries had fled upon first sighting the levies. They were back in the Thon-Thalas heading for the sea even before Coryphene’s prodigious leap. When the Dargonesti on the wall saw their leader leave the field of battle, the fight went out of them as well. Word quickly spread through their ranks that the Lord Protector had deserted them. They drew back from their exhausted enemies and grounded their arms. Amazed, Samcadaris sent an emissary forward to discover their intentions. The Silvanesti officer came back with word that the sea elves wished to surrender.

The dazed marshal accepted with alacrity. With his lieutenants at his side, Samcadaris came down from the watchtower to accept the surrender of the Dargonesti army.

*

“Uriona! Uriona!” Coryphene shouted. He shed breastplate and armor as he ran, limping, then dove into the brown river. Born as he was to the water, still he couldn’t cover the distance in time to reach the queen before the Silvanesti cavalry did. They surrounded her pavilion and slew any servants who tried to do battle with them. Coryphene found himself hemmed in by lance-wielding soldiers long before he set eyes upon Uriona. He drew his dagger to die fighting. At that moment Eriscodera and Gundabyr arrived, the dwarf riding double with Eriscodera’s standard-bearer.

“Take him alive,” said the dwarf. “He’s their leader.”

Coryphene still struggled to reach his queen, flailing in the chest-deep water until he was exhausted. The Silvanesti cavalry barred him from getting any closer. Uriona was out of the water now and on her way, under heavy guard, to the west bank. At last, Coryphene ceased his struggles. He bowed his head.

“I-I yield to you,” he said, holding out his dagger hilt-first to Eriscodera.

The colonel took the proffered weapon. His troopers disarmed Coryphene and bound his hands with cord.

“Put Lord Coryphene on a horse,” the colonel ordered. “We will present him and his royal mistress to the Speaker of the Stars.”

Coryphene and his escort galloped to the city. Eriscodera and his herald, with Gundabyr riding pillion, returned to the west bank where Uriona was being held by the militia.

“Why does she wear that mask?” asked the colonel.

“No one is allowed to look on her face,” Gundabyr explained. “Those that dare are killed.”

“Shall we unmask her?” suggested a grinning soldier. Uriona stiffened visibly.

“Certainly not!” Eriscodera snapped. “You will show Her Majesty every courtesy! No one shall lay hands upon her until she is presented to the Speaker. Understood?” The soldier who’d spoken nodded quickly.

By the time Eriscodera’s party reached the gate at Silvanost, a transformation had occurred within the city. Where scarcely an hour earlier only soldiers could be found in the streets, now the avenues were crowded with delighted Silvanesti. From every window in the city, flowers were thrown, filling the air with sweet-smelling petals. Vixa and her tiny band entered the city first and were showered with joyous greetings.

The cavalry, muddy but triumphant, entered the city next with the captive Coryphene. He did not look at Vixa as he passed by. Instead he scowled fiercely at the cheering Silvanesti who waved and flung flowers over their victorious troops. He shook the smothering blossoms from his own head with a violent gesture.

Three phalanxes of militia infantry, who’d never even gotten to fight, swung jauntily into the city, smiling broadly at their reception. Then came Eriscodera, his herald, and a rough cart bearing the masked Uriona. The colonel had always been popular with the common folk of Silvanost, and they went wild as he came into view, breaking their orderly lines and mobbing his horse.

Vixa waved at Gundabyr, who slid down from the standard-bearer’s saddle and pushed his way through the throng to his friend’s side.

“Forgemaster,” she said simply, gripping his hand in hers. “What a change in fortune! Can you believe it?”

“Believe it, lady.” He showed her Coryphene’s dagger. “The blueskins are finished!”

The levies finally cleared a path for Eriscodera’s horse and Uriona’s cart. After the militia came the warriors who had defended the city until Eriscodera’s arrival. Marshal Samcadaris led his weary troops in a close column of fours, divided into two bands. Between the two came the captured Dargonesti soldiers, over three thousand of them. They were shackled or tied to each other, most of them staring at the street, ignoring the shameful downpour of flowers that rained upon their heads.

Vixa and Gundabyr joined Samcadaris in the impromptu victory parade. The marshal seemed disoriented. Vixa clapped him on the shoulder and asked him how he fared.

“I’m numb,” he replied. “I-I had faith in our ultimate victory, but I never dreamed it would be so near a thing, or that it would happen so quickly!”

Vixa noticed the enthusiasm of the crowd was not so marked for Samcadaris and his brave warriors as it had been for Eriscodera and the militia. Fickle people, she thought to herself. They award the victory to those who’d made such a grand and timely arrival, not to the soldiers who’d labored so hard right before their very eyes.

The captured Dargonesti were diverted and taken to Tower Protector. There they were placed under guard and given water. Samcadaris detailed half his remaining troops to accompany them. He and the rest went on to the Quinari.

When they arrived, the streets were packed with spectators. Speaker Elendar, seated in a silk-draped litter atop the steps, with the robes of Silvanos around his shoulders, was receiving a report from Eriscodera about the conclusion of the battle. The huge crowd parted for Samcadaris, Vixa, and Gundabyr. They crossed the palace plaza. At the foot of the steps stood Coryphene, arms pinioned. Beside him, still masked, stood Uriona. The cart that had borne her was being wheeled away.

They mounted the steps of the palace. The crowd gradually quieted. Samcadaris gave a terse account of the battle. Vixa, covered in soot, dirt, and the blood of friend and foe alike, gave the Speaker a flashing smile.

“How fares Your Majesty?” she asked.

“I’ve been told I can expect to live no more than four or five hundred more years,” he quipped. “What fine trophies my warriors have brought me. This is Coryphene, I presume, and the veiled lady his queen.”

“Uriona,” Vixa said. “The self-proclaimed goddess in mortal form.”

“So it is sacrilegious to see her face? Well, Marshal, remove her mask. Let all of Silvanost behold it.”

“Sire, I would not do that,” Vixa said quickly. “Defeated she may be, but Uriona is a powerful sorceress. Also, humiliating her publicly might provoke the captured Dargonesti.”

“Hmm, yes, I see what you mean. Very well. I shall retire to the Tower of the Stars. Bring them before me, one at a time.”

He raised his hand, and four bearers hoisted his litter. The Speaker was borne across the plaza to the Tower of the Stars. Samcadaris and Eriscodera went to escort the prisoners.

“Now what happens?” asked Gundabyr.

“I’m in the dark same as you, my friend,” Vixa replied. “Why doesn’t the Speaker just throw them in the dungeon and forget about them?”

Once the leaders departed, the crowd of Silvanesti began to disperse. There was some discussion of the momentous events of the day, but for the most part the elves went quietly about their business. Gundabyr and Vixa watched them, both shaking their heads at the strangeness of it all. Just when she’d begun to think the Silvanesti were not so different from her own people, Vixa was reminded anew how different the two halves of the elven nation really were.

Chapter 24

STRANGE JUSTICE

Speaker Elendar had taken his place on the emerald throne of Silvanesti. He was pale and drawn. White bandages were visible through the vents of his white and gold robe. An elven youth stood by with a silver ewer of nectar, ready to pour at the Speaker’s nod.

Of Uriona, there was no sign. Coryphene stood proudly on the raised platform below the throne dais. Someone had provided him with water, which trickled from his jade hair and over his battered armor. Samcadaris and Eriscodera stood at his sides, their hands on their sword hilts. Vixa and the dwarf circled around them, coming to a halt beside the nectar bearer.

“Hey, lad, pour me a spot of that,” Gundabyr whispered. The willowy youth turned a scandalized look upon his Speaker. Elendar nodded, his smile fleeting.

“So, Lord Coryphene, what have you to say for yourself?” the Speaker of the Stars asked.

“Nothing,” was the reply. “You have won. I have lost. There is nothing to say.”

“Good. I hate long, pointless speeches. Tell me, Cousin, what should I do with this worthy?”

Vixa had been pondering just that question. Her expression as she looked at the captive Dargonesti had nothing of pity in it. “He’s too dangerous to let go, Sire. I would have his head.”

“I’m with her,” said Gundabyr, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He held out his cup for more nectar.

“What do you say, Marshal of Silvanost?”

The weary Samcadaris inhaled slowly, carefully considering the question. “From what I know, Great Speaker, this one is but an instrument of our true enemy. As such, he deserves some mercy. I would commend him to imprisonment for life.”

“And you, Colonel? As his captor, your voice carries weight,” said the Speaker of the Stars.

Eriscodera spoke without hesitation. “I, Great Speaker, would parole him.” Vixa and Gundabyr started in surprise – the dwarf choking on his third cup of nectar.

“That’s ridiculous!” Vixa exclaimed. “Parole him for what reason?”

The Silvanesti colonel ignored her, addressing himself directly to the Speaker. “Majesty, as lord of a defeated army, Coryphene has no power left. If we send him home in disgrace, his own people will likely disown him. We will not have the keeping of him, and he will not trouble us again.”

There might have been something in what Eriscodera said, but Vixa couldn’t countenance letting Coryphene go. She enumerated his many crimes, from the sinking of unsuspecting ships with the kraken, to his enslavement of free elves and men, and his murder of many of those same prisoners. To that she added the destruction of Thonbec, and the wrongful deaths of many Silvanesti subjects. During her long, impassioned plea, Coryphene stood straighter, as if proud of the record she recited.

“Enough,” said the Speaker at last. “I am convinced of the villainy of Lord Coryphene. Hold him at our royal convenience until further notice.” Four guards came forward to claim the Dargonesti. Before he was led away, his eyes met Vixa’s. She flushed with fury at what she saw in them: an arrogance undiminished by his capture.

When Coryphene was gone, Speaker Elendar sagged back in his throne, his face growing paler. A healer came to him with a vial of yellowish fluid. The Speaker drank some of the nostrum. Coughing, he sat erect again and commanded, “Bring in Queen Uriona.”

Samcadaris and Eriscodera went to one of the Tower’s small side chambers and returned with the queen. Her silver gown had long since dried, the supple musselbeard cloth looking as fresh and unsullied as if Uriona had spent the day lounging on her throne. Her head was held high, the soft silver mask covering all but her violet eyes. She halted a few paces from the throne.

“So, lady, your plans are laid low,” the Speaker began. “What are we to do with you now?”

“You dare not interfere with me,” she intoned. “I am the divine queen of the sea.”

“I believe we have already interfered with you, lady. As for your divinity, well, you need only exercise it and take yourself away from here.” The Speaker paused, leaning forward. “Any time you wish.”

Vixa saw the tendons in Uriona’s throat tense and relax, but nothing happened. Titters of laughter circulated among the ladies of the court. Vixa – almost – felt sorry for Uriona.

“I see you have decided to stay with us,” the Speaker said. “If that is the case, you are my guest. Guests do not hide their faces from their hosts, so I’ll trouble you for your mask, lady.”

Vixa held her breath. Nothing happened for a long minute. Just as the Speaker was about to order her unmasked, Uriona moved. One long-fingered blue hand came up in a slow, steady motion and took the covering from her face.

Her finely sculpted features were expressionless. Lavender eyes, surrounded by thick silver lashes, regarded the Speaker of the Stars steadily, unblinking. Without a word, she let the mask drop from her fingers and put up her hands to take the tortoiseshell combs from her hair. Released, it fell in a thick, shimmering mass down to her knees. Sunlight, refracted by the jewels encrusting the Tower walls, sent rainbows dancing in the silver tresses. Speaker Elendar didn’t appear to notice that he had risen to his feet.

Uriona bowed her head, lifting a hand to her hair once more, as though ashamed of the display she was making. The webbing between her fingers appeared nearly transparent.

“Lady.” The Speaker cleared his throat and tried again. “Your pardon, lady, for any rudeness,” he murmured.

“As my conqueror, you have the right,” she said.

Beside her, Vixa heard Gundabyr sigh. Even the tough dwarf appeared affected by the loveliness of Uriona. The Qualinesti princess was not. She found herself trying to decipher the expression on the queen’s face. Was it contrition? Embarrassment? She doubted that Uriona was capable of either.

The Speaker sat down heavily, the pain of his injured side suddenly reminding him that rash movement was better avoided for now.

“The audience is at an end,” he announced, wincing. “Depart, all of you.”

Everyone bowed and began to file out. Samcadaris inquired, “Sire? What of the prisoner?”

“Take her – take her to Hermathya’s Tower. See to her comfort and security. See to it personally, Marshal.”

“It shall be done, Great Speaker.”

*

The priests and priestesses of Silvanost released the river from its magical constraints. The process had to be done carefully. All that night and through the next day, the Thon-Thalas rose slowly, gradually. By evening, the river was well on its way to filling its banks once more.

Vixa sat in her palace room by an open window, watching the river’s return. Bathed, fed, and dressed in clean clothing, she’d stayed by the window for hours. When the day ended, she didn’t rise to light any lamps, but let the growing darkness fill the room.

The first stars were beginning to glimmer in the purple sky when a soft knock came on her door.

“Enter.” She did not turn to see who came.

“Cousin?”

Vixa recognized the Speaker’s voice. “Your Majesty,” she said, rising quickly.

“Why, Cousin, I would not know you,” Elendar said, gently mocking. Vixa had forsaken her warrior’s garb for the admittedly more comfortable flowing gown of a highborn Silvanesti lady. The golden yellow robe was a luxury she felt she’d earned.

The Speaker entered, leaning on a staff and limping slightly. Vixa brought a chair for him, and he gratefully took it. He regarded her, merriment dancing in his almond eyes.

“The resemblance is even more pronounced now,” he murmured.

“What resemblance?”

“To your grandfather, Kith-Kanan. He and my father were twins, if you recall. You have the look of him.”

Vixa was mildly embarrassed. “I confess I don’t see it. My grandmother, Suzine, was human, and sometimes that’s all people see, all I see as well.” She offered him nectar, which he politely refused. She asked, “What brings you here, Great Speaker?”

Now it was his turn to be embarrassed. “I-I would like to know your mind about certain things.”

“Such as Queen Uriona?”

“Hmm, yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “What is your opinion of her?”

“She is mad, hungry for power, and should never be allowed her freedom again.”

“Yes, yes, but what do you think of her?”

She frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Cousin, is she not beautiful?”

Vixa felt her jaw dropping in surprise. So that was the way the wind was blowing. No answer came to her. Of course the Dargonesti queen was lovely to look at, but what had that to do with anything?

“You are well traveled, Cousin,” the Speaker went on. “You know the ways of the world. My counselors have been pressuring me to marry since I came to the throne. Marriage brings stability, they say. But I’ve never met any maid who interested me. The ladies of the court are all light laughter and mocking gossip. When you arrived, I considered asking you to be my wife —”

“Me!”

“Why not? You’re of royal blood, you’re brave and honest, and not bad to look at.”

“My thanks to Your Majesty,” Vixa said tartly.

He grinned, then turned serious once more. “It was only a fleeting thought. The nobles and priests would never accept a Qualinesti marriage for me. There’s too much bitterness remaining from the war, and the rivalry of Kith-Kanan and my father. Queen Uriona, however …” His voice trailed off.

This time Vixa could not conceal her astonishment. “Queen Uriona? You mean you want to marry her?” the Qualinesti princess’s voice was loud with shock.

“We cannot simply release her. What better way to keep watch on her? She’ll have no allies to plot with, no faction to support any policies of her own. She’s elven, she’s of royal lineage, and” – he shifted in his chair – “she is very beautiful. Why shouldn’t I think of marrying her?”

“Because she’s evil!” exclaimed Vixa, jumping to her feet. “Because she’s a powerful sorceress capable of any treachery!” The Speaker’s face reflected mild reproof, and Vixa struggled to rein in her temper. One did not screech at the Speaker of the Stars – even if he was talking blasted nonsense! She sat down again.

Elendar said calmly, “What better place to keep such a formidable opponent than here? There’ll be none to aid her, and the mages of Silvanost are more than a match for one Dargonesti queen.”

Vixa tried another approach. “What about the succession? The Silvanesti won’t want a half-Dargonesti as ruler after you, will they?”

“No offspring of mine will ever become Speaker – be they half Dargonesti or full Silvanesti. That was settled long ago. When my brother, the previous Speaker, died, I was asked to rule as regent for my eldest nephew, but I refused. Then the privy council offered me the throne as Speaker of the Stars, if I would designate my nephew as heir apparent, even above any children I might have later. I agreed.”

The complexities of Silvanesti politics were giving Vixa a headache. She could muster no argument to change his mind. He had obviously given this matter a great deal of consideration. Shrugging her shoulders, the Qualinesti princess said, “Sire, you must do as you see fit. As for Uriona, she will never love you, only herself. She may even try to murder you, thinking to capture the throne for herself. If you can live with that, then – well, it’s not my place to argue.”

The Speaker levered himself out of the chair. “I value your honesty, Cousin. Never doubt that my eyes are open to all Uriona’s faults. But I think I shall marry her. I will have the queen of my heart’s desire, foil the reactionary nobles, and live a long life to boot. Good night, lady!”

*

The next morning, the palace was abuzz with rumors that the Speaker of the Stars had made a marriage proposal to the Dargonesti queen. There were shocked mutterings, and several of the older courtiers were heard to say that such a thing would never have been allowed in the days of Speaker Sithas. However, since the succession was in no danger, the majority of the nobles supported their Speaker once the initial shock had worn off. The wedding would take place in a month’s time. Repairs had begun on the damaged portions of the city, and the entire capital, of stunning beauty already, would have to be made radiant for the coming nuptials. Everyone, citizen and noble alike, anticipated a grand celebration.

Gundabyr couldn’t believe his ears. “It’s time for me to go home,” he said morosely. “I’ve heard of some strange marriages in my time, but I never heard of a bride who gained her groom by besieging his city!”

Vixa agreed heartily. “I’ve no wish to remain and see Uriona achieve her dream. Maybe not queen of all the elves, but certainly queen of Silvanesti!”

They went to make their good-byes to the Speaker. He was downcast when he learned they intended to depart. “The wedding will be immense,” he promised. “Ten days of feasting! Actors, jugglers, and singers are being summoned. The clerics are building a chapel of glass under the river just for the ceremony! You should remain for that at least.”

Gundabyr was tempted. Ten days of food and drink was certainly something to consider. The presence of Uriona, however, was certain to turn the food to ashes and the nectar to vinegar. They both declined. The Speaker settled for showering his new friends with rich gifts of clothing and jewels, not forgetting the magnifying lens he had promised Gundabyr. He asked how they planned to get home.

“Walk?” said the dwarf.

“Ride,” said Vixa firmly. “If Your Majesty would loan us horses.”

“I shall do no such thing. You will have a griffon from the royal stable. You can fly home faster than the wind!”

He clasped hands with Gundabyr, and Vixa was surprised to find herself embraced. She returned the gesture warmly.

“May the gods favor you in all things, Cousin,” Elendar said sincerely. “Master Gundabyr, you and Lady Vixa are welcome in my realm at any time.”

They thanked him again and took their leave. Outside, the morning sun was promising a hot day. Vixa looked across the city to Tower Protector, a frown on her face.

“I have one more errand left,” she told Gundabyr. “I’ll meet you at the royal stable in an hour.”

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

Vixa walked to Tower Protector and entered without challenge. Though the nobles of Silvanost might disparage her for her heritage, the warriors respected her valor. She found Samcadaris and told him she desired a favor.

“Anything, lady,” he said simply.

“I want to talk to Coryphene.”

The marshal was surprised. “You’ll not harm him – he is in my charge.”

“I won’t touch him,” Vixa promised.

She climbed to the top floor of one of the smaller towers. There in the center of a round room a large glass box had been formed by magic, sealed tight but for some finger-sized holes along its top. The box was filled with water. It was Coryphene’s prison cell.

He stirred when she entered. He still wore his warrior’s clothing, though without armor. Vixa came close to the thin glass barrier.

“What do you want?” he asked, addressing her in Elvish. His voice was muffled by the water and the glass, but she could understand him.

“I’ve come to say good-bye. I’m going home.”

At her words his head came up, and he stared at her. “To Urione?”

“Qualinost,” she corrected. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“You are a sister of the sea now. The call will be irresistible.”

She laughed. “At Thonbec, when my freedom and credibility were at stake, it wasn’t so irresistible. I couldn’t even change into a dolphin.”

“Foolish drylander. Do dolphins live in rivers? Only seawater makes the change possible.”

“In any event, that’s not important. I came to pass along some news no one else may have bothered to share.”

“What news?”

“Uriona is marrying the Speaker of the Stars in one month’s time.”

If she had hit Coryphene with a club, she couldn’t have stunned him more. His arrested expression and sudden stillness were most gratifying.

“You lie,” he said at last. “You say so only to wound me. Uriona is mine.”

“In a month, you’ll be able to hear the marriage pipes from here,” Vixa said with a shrug. “Uriona never loved you. You were only a tool for her ambition. When greater power came her way, she grabbed it.” The Qualinesti princess stepped closer and raised one finger to tap the glass barrier that separated them. “Ponder that, Lord Protector. Think of Uriona in the palace with the Speaker of the Stars, as you live the rest of your days in this glass bowl.”

The angry flush had gone, leaving his face pallid and frozen. Vixa turned to leave, her mission accomplished. Nothing disturbed her enjoyment of the moment. She had only to remember Armantaro, Harmanutis, and Vanthanoris – none of them ever to return to Qualinesti soil – and all pangs of conscience vanished instantly. Let him sit alone in his crystal prison thinking of his love marrying another.

Vixa descended to say farewell to Samcadaris. Halfway down the long staircase, she heard a crash above, followed by the sound of rushing water. Rivulets flowed down the steps behind her. She stood immobile for an instant, then another sound filled the air. It was a scream, which stopped abruptly.

The Qualinesti princess’s face was blank. On the ground floor hall of the tower, she found the warriors rushing outside. She followed them. At the door stood Samcadaris.

“It’s Coryphene!” he exclaimed. “Somehow he erupted out of his cage and threw himself from the window!”

“Is he dead?” Samcadaris nodded, and she said flatly, “Good.”

He stared at her. “What did you say to him?” the marshal demanded.

“I only told him of the Speaker’s coming marriage.”

Samcadaris looked shocked. “You told him —”

“Coryphene chose his own path from Watermere to this tower,” she responded in a cold voice. “I will not grieve for him.”

The Marshal of Silvanost regarded her in silence for several seconds, then he did an odd thing. He saluted. Vixa returned the gesture. Her coldness melted, and she said warmly, “You are a fine elf, Samca. Thank you for believing in me back on that beach.”

They said their good-byes, and Vixa made her way to the royal stables. A fine, large griffon was saddled and ready. It had the magnificent head, neck, and wings of an eagle and the torso and hindquarters of a lion. A plumed lion’s tail fanned the air behind it. Panniers hung down on each flank, loaded with fine gifts and provisions. Gundabyr stood off to one side, regarding the beast dubiously.

“Are we supposed to ride this thing?” he asked. Since the high-backed saddle was even now being cinched on the griffon’s back, his question was obviously rhetorical.

Vixa smiled. “What’s the matter, afraid of flying?”

“So long as we stay dry, I can handle anything.” The dwarf climbed onto a tall mounting block and was assisted into the saddle. Vixa mounted in front of him. The great animal shifted under their weight, turning its fierce head to regard them silently. The handler gave Vixa the reins. There was no bit, of course. The reins were connected to a leather halter. The Qualinesti princess had never flown a griffon before, but she wasn’t about to let the Silvanesti know it. She took the reins confidently.

“What’s his name?” she asked the handler.

“Her name is Lionheart, lady,” was the smooth reply.

Vixa nodded as the handler stepped back. Looking over her shoulder, she said, “Ready, Gundabyr?” He grunted an affirmative, and Vixa snapped the reins. “Away, Lionheart!” she cried.

The beast spread its great wings, took a few steps forward, and leapt into the air.

Chapter 25

HOMECOMING

Vixa and Gundabyr flew straight to Thorbardin, where Lionheart landed at Northgate. Vixa tied the beast’s reins to a handy outcropping of rock, and she and Gundabyr descended into the underground city. At Gundabyr’s clan home in Daewar City, all of his family – and there were a lot of them – turned out to welcome him back and meet the Qualinesti princess. There was sadness, however, when Gundabyr relayed the news of his twin’s death.

The two friends parted on the best of terms, each promising to visit the other. Gundabyr’s multitudinous family all began planning a trip to Qualinost, hounding the poor fellow to give Vixa a firm date for the visit. Their attention grew so vexing, he drew Vixa aside and murmured, “Maybe I’ll just come visit you now – alone!”

Vixa laughed and bade them all farewell. She returned to the patient Lionheart. They ascended high over the mountains, flying northwest toward Qualinost. Their route took them directly over Pax Tharkas, the great fortress guarding the pass between Qualinesti and Thorbardin. It had been built jointly by the two countries to celebrate their peaceful coexistence. Vixa’s grandfather, the famous Kith-Kanan, had overseen its construction, and his tomb was deep inside it.

By the next morning, Vixa and Lionheart were circling Qualinost. The city was built on a plateau bounded by two rivers that flowed through deep gorges. The rivers merged at the northern point of the triangular plateau. Four silver-inlaid marble towers marked the cardinal points around the city. The towers were connected by arched bridges that encircled the city. The city’s buildings were built of rose quartz, which reflected the morning sun in a dazzling display. As Lionheart came to a gentle landing beside the golden Tower of the Sun, crowds of Qualinesti began to fill the city’s quartz-lined streets.

The last word any in Qualinost had received of Vixa and her party had been brought by Ambassador Quenavalen, who’d finally made it home himself only a week before. The ambassador, after speaking to Ergothian refugees at the mouth of the Greenthorn River, carried home the news that Evenstar had been lost, with all hands aboard, in a strange fog. Vixa was saddened to know the ship had never returned. It must have gone down when the kraken submerged beneath it.

Vixa walked up the grand steps and into the Speaker’s house, a huge, happy crowd trailing behind her. Kemian Ambrodel and Verhanna Kanan were waiting. Still in mourning for their youngest child and only daughter, they could barely credit her amazing arrival. The three had a joyous reunion. Speaker Silveran himself came out and greeted his niece, to the tumultuous cheers of the crowd.

Eventually the whole story was told. A banquet was given, and the celebrations lasted four days. Throngs of celebrants – highborn, lowborn, elven, human, dwarven – filled the feasting hall to hear Vixa relate her tale. Scribes took down every word, and copies were posted throughout the city for the benefit of those who didn’t hear the story firsthand.

When she finished recounting her adventures, Vixa was embraced by her mother. Tears sparkled in Verhanna’s dark brown eyes. “You were magnificent, Daughter! I’ll give you command of your own regiment – no, two regiments!”

“Thank you, Mother, but no.” Vixa sat down, holding out her goblet for more nectar. “I’ve seen enough war for a dozen lifetimes.”

“But, Vixa, you’ve proven yourself fit for higher command. The army —”

“Do you know what I really need, Mother?” Verhanna shook her head. “I need to disappear into a quiet forest glade for at least a month!”

Most of those assembled at the banquet laughed when they heard that, even the Speaker of the Sun, who was usually very solemn. Verhanna, however, was not at all amused. She returned to her place between the Speaker and her husband. For the rest of the evening she maintained an ominous silence.

Some time later, Vixa found herself alone in her old room. She was wandering around, reacquainting herself with her familiar possessions, when a knock came at the door.

“Enter,” she called.

The door opened to reveal her father. “Am I disturbing you?” he asked.

She smiled at him. “No, Father, please come in.”

Kemian Ambrodel was a handsome elf of some four hundred years. From him Vixa had inherited her fair coloring and her introspective nature. Verhanna was more likely responsible for Vixa’s temper and strong will.

Her father pulled up a chair and sat down. Without preamble, he stated, “I want you to make peace with your mother. She was nearly mad with grief when we thought you lost. She blamed herself for everything. When you came back, it was as though she lost a century off her age.” Kemian brushed a hand through his daughter’s fair hair. “She sees so much of herself in you, you know.”

Vixa took his hand. “I always wanted to be more like you.”

“After all you’ve been through, you can’t deny that you have your mother’s courage and passionate nature. She and I are very different, yet here we are, married all this time. No one thought it would work.”

“She married you after you bested her in a duel!” Vixa said indignantly. Kemian’s almond-shaped blue eyes twinkled, and she added, “Very well, Father. I’ll take what command she offers – but I need some time to rest and reflect.”

“That’s fine. Verhanna won’t object to that. It will be good to have you close to home for a while.”

Vixa slept in her own bed that night. Her dreams were filled with a kaleidoscope of images: Armantaro’s familiar face; the battle for Silvanost, fought side by side with Gundabyr; and most strongly of all, the endless sea. She dreamt she was racing through the waves in dolphin form. The sensation was so powerful that she awoke breathless. Coryphene’s words came back to her: “You are a sister of the sea now. The call will be irresistible.”

Rolling over to a more comfortable position, Vixa banished the ghostly echo from her mind. Sister of the sea? No longer. Not here in Qualinost.

*

Vixa spent the remainder of the summer in the city, home with her parents. Her sleep continued to be troubled by dreams of the sea. To divert herself, she composed a long letter to Samcadaris, which she sent by the simple expedient of tying it to Lionheart’s saddle and sending the griffon home.

Summer heat gave way to the gold-and-red chill of autumn. Vixa assumed command of the Wildrunners, the rangers of Kagonesti ancestry who’d served Kith-Kanan so well during the Kinslayer War. Her duties kept her in the northern woods for many weeks at a time. After her adventurous summer, she thought all she wanted was the peace and quiet of a remote outpost, yet she never felt at ease in the forest, not as she once had. Her nights were more disturbed now, the dreams of the sea frequently leaving her agitated and unable to sleep.

Winter was gray and silent, as woodland winters usually are. Vixa spent nearly a month sick with fever, hot bricks in her bed to ward off the chills. She talked wildly in her delirium, raving about Urione, Nissia Grotto, Naxos, and other things that confounded the healers. Her fever would lessen for a short time, but hope was dashed as the illness took hold of her once more. At times they despaired for her life, but she was young and strong, and by the time the snows melted, she was on her feet again, unusually thin, with dark hollows beneath her eyes.

The arrival of spring brought a courier from Qualinost. Among the other papers he carried was a strange letter addressed to Vixa. It had come, so the courier told her, when a griffon appeared over the city. The beast dropped a small scroll, upon which was written Vixa’s name. The letter had finally found its way to her, deep in the northern forest.

Vixa untied the silk cord that bound the scroll. Tiny, elegant Silvanesti script filled the page. The letter read:

To Her Royal Highness

Princess Vixa Ambrodel

Greetings:

I regret not being able to respond sooner to your letter, but my duties have kept me quite busy. I am no longer marshal of Silvanost. That honor has fallen to Eriscodera, whom you met as a colonel last summer. An unlikely alliance has grown up between Eriscodera, Lord Agavenes, and the Speaker’s wife, Lady Uriona. They have opposed the Speaker’s attempts to restore contact with Qualinost. I fear Silvanost grows ever more insular. The Speaker has told me he hopes to abdicate in favor of his nephew. Uriona will oppose that, of course.

I trust you are well, Princess. Though it saddens me to say it, I sometimes feel all our fighting was for naught, as we are ruled by Uriona anyway. At least the succession is assured and the line of Silvanos will continue. I remain

Your friend,

Samca

A shudder ran through the Qualinesti princess. Perhaps Uriona’s prophecy had been right all along – at least in part. She had indeed been crowned in the Tower of the Stars, and now occupied the most ancient elven throne in the world.

Vixa put a hand to her head, attempting to massage the ache from her temples. The pain would not go away. It had been with her, off and on, for a week.

She called her lieutenant. “I’m turning over command to you,” she told him, writing out her orders on a scrap of parchment. “As of today, you lead the Wildrunners.”

The Kagonesti was stunned. “By why, lady? Is your health still poor?” he asked.

“No, but I can’t stay here. If I do, I’ll go mad.”

She packed a single cloth bag with a few necessities, as Kerridar stood by helplessly, at a loss to explain his commander’s sudden departure. “What shall I tell the Speaker? What shall I tell your mother?” he asked weakly.

“I’ve left letters for them. They’ll understand.” She didn’t intend to bandy words with Kerridar all day. “I’ll probably return some day to visit, but I’ll never command the Wildrunners again. You’re a good soldier, Kerridar. I’ve been proud to serve with you.”

She gripped his hand, ignoring his bewilderment. Vixa tied her bag to her saddle and mounted. The chestnut horse fretted in a circle. “Good-bye, Kerridar,” she called.

“Fare you well, Lady Vixa. Astra go with you!”

She rode for days, stopping only for the horse’s sake. The rest periods had to be brief, because whenever she stopped, the ache in her head grew unbearable. Once she was moving again, the pain would subside. She avoided roads and villages, not wanting to meet anyone. By the evening of her third day of travel, she arrived at the ocean shore. There was nothing before her now but sand and rolling waves.

She unsaddled the horse and took the bridle from its head. “You’re free, too,” she said, giving the animal’s rump a slap. The chestnut cantered away, snorting and shaking its head at the unaccustomed lack of restraint.

Her headache had gone away, as she knew it would. In its place were unintelligible whispers. She couldn’t understand the words, but she knew what they signified. The voices wanted her to come into the water. Vixa dropped her bag on the sand and, like a sleepwalker, headed for the surf. As she went, she shed her clothing.

Though summer was more than a month away, the water felt warm and indescribably good. She dove headfirst into the waves, swimming out beyond the line of breakers. A last glance back at the beach, and she sank beneath the surface. She kicked her feet until they were feet no more. Never had the transformation been so effortless and so welcome. Faster and faster she coursed through the depths. Now she could understand the voices. They said, “Come, Sister. Come home. Come home.”

Before she’d gone half a dozen leagues, she was surrounded by dolphins. The sea brothers greeted her by name as they cavorted around her.

“Why did you call me?” she asked in the water-tongue.

“Our brother, our chief, commanded it,” they replied.

Her heartbeat quickened. “Naxos?”

“Naxos, yes. Our brother, our chief,” said one mottled gray dolphin. “He sent us to tell you that we have left the city. We have no home but the sea now. Come with us, Sister! Be consort to our brother, our chief!”

“What has become of the Quoowahb of Urione?”

“They have a new master, but we are free. Come with us, Vixa Dryfoot!”

The pain and fatigue of her journey dropped away like a soiled cloak. Happiness filled her heart. Naxos was calling her. She would be free to roam the oceans, to live in peace. She would not have to fight wars or serve any master but nature itself.

She turned her dolphin body away from the land. “Take me to Naxos,” she said to her brothers.

Night of Falling Stars

(ca. 1435 PC)

Everyone said that it wasn’t my fault, what happened when I was fifteen. No one said, “If Ryle had only been faster... if he’d only been stronger...” No one said that my father would be alive today if I’d seen the boar in time, if I’d shouted louder – if I’d not been fear-frozen and unable to draw bow and loose bolt in time. But I knew the truth. I’d had a long way home to Raven that hot summer’s night, riding one horse and leading the other, the little bay mare who carried my father’s torn and broken body. It had been a night of falling stars, bright bits of light streaking across the black sky, showering the darkness like tears fallen for the truth.

The boar had gored my father and mortally wounded him, but it was my fear that killed him.

When I grew up, people named me Ryle Sworder because, in the ten years since my father’s death, I’d honed my fighting skills as if they were teeth and claws, and then I put them up for sale. Likely you’ll say it’s bragging, but I’ll tell you anyway: There were few better swords for hire in this part of Krynn than mine. People said, “Never worry that Ryle Sworder will run away scared from robbers and freebooters. And he’s not afraid of goblins, either, nor of any beast in the forest.”

That was so, as far as it went. I wasn’t fearless, as folk said. The terror that haunted me was this: That someone would again die of my dread.

I chose my work in order to pit myself against the terror and defeat it, like a boy afraid of ghosts and eager to go whistling past every graveyard he can find, just to prove that he isn’t afraid at all. After a while, I began to believe that I’d done a good job of forgetting the old dread. There came a time when I didn’t think I was whistling past graveyards when they paid me to escort tender virgins and their dear dowries through the forest to the wedding feast, or to shepherd wealthy old men down the river past lurking robbers to kin. After a while, I thought I was just doing an honest job of work. I didn’t know that fear isn’t laid to rest until it is forgiven.

When I wasn’t hired out, I lived at the tavern in Raven, in the small chamber above the common room. In those days the village wasn’t more or less than it is today – a crossroads jumble of wine shops, inns, taverns, and smithies gathered round the best ford across the Whiterush River where it winds through a narrow valley at the feet of the Kharolis Mountains. One summer I fell in love with golden Reatha, the ferryman’s daughter. As I loved her, she loved me, but by winter she was telling me that there wasn’t enough room in my heart for her and the ghostly past.

“Let it go,” she said, sad and sorry. “Ryle, hunting accidents happen. Please let it go.”

Talk like that stirred up the deep-buried dread, the old guilt. I had some stake in not wanting to rouse those, and so I argued with Reatha as if she were telling me to forget my father. She tried hard to make me understand what she meant. I tried harder not to hear her. We didn’t stay together past midwinter, but we watched each other from a distance. My eyes could find her across a crowded street; hers could find me in the dark.

*

The tavern was called the Raven’s Rose, named for the village and for the twining white and red roses that covered the wooden walls enclosing the tavern’s garden. The rose bower sat behind the marching ranks of turnips and carrots and potatoes and beans and beets, and it belonged to Cynara Taverner, tended over all the years since she was a child. This was the kind of garden they tell about in songs, and you got to sit yourself down in the comfortable wooden chair, or on the stone bench against the rose-tapestried wall, only by invitation. I enjoyed that bower from time to time, for I had a good friend in Cynara. A widow, she would have married my father, the widower, if he’d survived the hunting trip with me. She’d been looking after me with a mother’s eye since my own had died, and she kept on doing that after my father’s death. She said, “Bad luck and boars can’t change how I feel about you, child.”

One day in early summer, I sat in the rose bower dozing to the sound of the flower-drunk bees, when the gate behind me opened, the bottom hinge squeaking as it always did. A dwarf strode into the garden and banged the gate shut behind him. He came and stood before me, in that head-back way that dwarves have even when you’re sitting and they’re standing and everyone’s comfortably eye-to-eye.

The dwarf asked if I was Ryle Sworder, and I told him I was. He didn’t do more than grunt to acknowledge the answer.

“Who wants to know?”

He told me that he was an old friend of Cynara’s and that his name was Tarran Ironwood, then he went and sat on the bench by the wall. It was a lovely bench, crafted by a master stone-wright from whitest marble, a relief of twining roses worked on the sides and the legs. Most people stopped to admire it, even those who saw it often. Tarran Ironwood didn’t give it a glance. He sat himself down and stared at me.

Studied, I studied back. His face was pale, his black beard trimmed and glossy. He was whip-thin and of good height for a dwarf, about heart-high to a middling tall human. He had the well-heeled air of Thorbardin about him, and he looked to be in his early middle years, which means he was about ninety or so years old. Thin as he was, he was hale enough, but he was missing his right arm. A brooch of gold and emeralds, shaped like a dragon winging, pinned up the empty sleeve.

“What do you want, Tarran Ironwood?”

“I came to see you.”

A great shout of laughter thundered out from the tavern, a dozen voices raised up in hooting derision. Someone cried, “The dragon! Oh, aye, tell us all about it – and the story’ll be told for the hundredth time this year!” And the storm of laughter rolled around the Rose again, splashing out into the garden.

The dwarf sat still on the stone bench among the roses, head cocked and listening.

“Have you never heard the tale, Tarran Ironwood?”

He nodded. “I’ve heard it. There’s a copper dragon lives under the mountains, far away and down where even we of Thorbardin don’t go. Claw, they call him.”

A warm breeze stirred among the roses, rousing a heady scent you could almost see.

“That’s the one,” I said. “Though I’ve never heard the part about his name – or even that it’s a him. Anyway, the rest of the story says it – he – sits on a treasure mound the size of the Rose, and they say the dragon’s not the worst of what you can find down there.”

“There, the story is wrong.” Tarran touched one of the sculpted roses on the side of the bench, traced the shape of a marble petal with a finger, stroking the overlying softness of greeny-gold lichen. “Claw is the worst of what you can find under the mountain.”

Tarran sat very still, and the afternoon light glittered on the gemmed brooch where his arm used to be. All that shining made it seem as if the small emerald dragon were alive and breathing there on his shoulder.

“You’ve seen that dragon,” I said.

“I’ve seen him. Twenty years ago.” Tarran sat still as stone, but for one finger tap-tapping on the stony rose. “Tomorrow I’m going back.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “You want to kill him, right?”

That was a joke, of course; everyone knows it takes a few armies to kill a dragon. But Tarran took the jest soberly, just as if I were serious.

“If I could kill the beast,” he said, “I wouldn’t. I want revenge, and a longer one than Claw’s death would give me.”

I stopped smiling. “And you’ve got this revenge all planned out?”

“I do. And maybe you think it’ll be a cold revenge, coming this late, but it took me a long time to stop screaming in my sleep.”

Screaming in terror, howling down the long night.

I looked away from him and his admission of fear as you look away from a deformity, pretending to the politeness that common sense says is kinder than staring at the maimed and making him feel self-conscious. What common sense says, and what the gesture really is, are two different things. In some deep place within, often as not folk see injury or deformity as illness, something that might be catching. So it was with me and any confession of dread.

But one-armed Tarran didn’t seem to care if his fear was too ugly for me to see – it was his, and he owned it. He sat forward on the bench, his elbow on his knee, his dark eyes glinting.

“Ryle, Cynara says your sword is for hire. And the word around is that when you’re hired, you stay hired, and you won’t run off because you’ve killed me and robbed me – or because you haven’t got the heart to see a thing through.”

“Word’s right,” I said. “There’s no future in either.”

He took the dragon brooch from his empty right sleeve and tossed it to me. I caught it, and got lost in the brilliant green of the emerald wings, the wink of light in the ruby eyes.

“That’s the least of what treasure is under the mountain, Ryle Sworder.”

I tossed the dragon brooch back. The gold and emeralds and rubies shone like an arcing rainbow between us. His right shoulder twitched, as though his body couldn’t forget what used to be true. He’d been right-handed before he met the dragon. But he recovered in time, and caught the brooch in his lone left hand.

“As you see,” he said, smiling for the first time, and grimly. “I need a hand. If you come with me and help me get my revenge on the dragon, half of everything you and I can carry out is yours.”

I decided quickly, as I always do.

“My sword’s yours,” I said. “And since you’re Cynara’s friend, I’ll not haggle over the fee.”

That was a joke, too, but Tarran had already smiled once that day and didn’t see the need to indulge again. He said we’d leave in the morning, and he didn’t say anything else. After he left me, I sat alone for a long time, all the way into the dimming and beyond to twilight. Twice I heard Reatha’s voice – once lilting in laughter, once couched in quiet confiding tones as she and a friend walked past the garden on the other side of the wall. I closed my eyes and imagined how she’d look dressed in treasure from the dragon’s hoard, a golden chalice in hand, a diamond necklace spilling all down her breast like water running.

When the last of the light was fading, Cynara came into the garden to bring me a plate of supper, and she sat on the stone bench to watch me eat. After a time she said, “Has Tarran hired you?”

“Yes.”

She heard that and stayed quiet for a while, a small woman on the white marble bench in the last light of the day. Her roses arched over her, trailed around her, and the scent of them was always the scent of her.

“Ryle, he’s going to lay a ghost,” she said, when night was almost fallen. “That’s what the dragon really is to him.”

I shrugged, and I said that if that’s what Tarran was going to do, it was his business. Mine was to keep him safe along the way, help him as he wished, and come home a rich man.

“Aren’t you afraid you might meet some ghost of your own, Ryle, there in the dark under the mountain?”

A chill touched me, a strange breath on a hot summer’s night. But I smiled, as though she were joking, and I said, “I’ve never seen a ghost in my life, Cynara. I don’t expect I’ll start seeing ’em now.”

I went and kissed her cheek – the skin as soft as a petal from one of her beloved roses – and wished her goodnight.

She took my hands in hers, and she wished me good luck.

*

In the morning, when Tarran and I went to take the ferry across the Whiterush, we found Reatha by the waterside fishing, her hair unbound and streaming gold, her skirts kilted up and tied out of her way. Rosy dawn light shone on her legs, and she kicked up a little spray like diamonds in her wake when she ran to fetch her father, the ferryman.

She watched me all the way across the river, and she knew I knew that. On the far bank I turned, and Reatha lifted her hand to wave.

“Friend of yours?” Tarran asked.

“Yes,” I said tightly.

“Ah.” He shook his head, understanding. “Too bad.”

We didn’t have much else to say to each other for the rest of the day.

*

Tarran sat watching the stars dazzling the summer night, the tiny lights swept together and shining their best in the absence of the preening moons, the red and the silver only lately set. We were two days out of Raven and camped just above the tree line near a high sloping rock face. Midway up the slope, dark against the stone, the entrance to the storied caverns gaped out into the night. We’d take that way in and down in the morning.

Cynara had sent us off with our packs filled with dried meat and fruit, and bundles of brands for torches. Inside the caves there’d be no forage and no light. Outside, we trusted my hunting skill for supper, and with the little bird-arrows I fetched us a brace of fat grouse. Tarran ate, watching the sky glitter, and when the eating was done, he left the stars to shine on their own and came close to the fire.

For a while he said nothing, and he sat looking at me across the fire as if he were trying to see deep in and down.

I took my sword and laid it across my knees, took a whetstone and honed the glittering blade. That deeplooking made me edgy, and I kept the steel between him and me, as though it could deflect his gaze.

He smiled – only faintly – as though he understood. Very softly, he said, “We were five who came here twenty years ago. Me and my brother, and three of our kin. In Thorbardin they say these caverns are filled with veins of silver and gold. But we didn’t come here for that. In Thorbardin we curse the dragon and mourn the loss of the silver and gold, but we leave it be and delve in other places. Me and the others... we were young fools out to find legend’s treasure.”

The golden firelight glinted from the knives he had stowed about him – a couple of straight-bladed dirks, three wavy-edged daggers, and one jewel-hilted long knife. One-armed, he had no use for a bow, none for a broadsword, little for any axe that wasn’t a throwing axe. One-armed, Tarran liked knives.

“There was treasure,” he said. Now his voice wasn’t soft, and it had a jagged edge to it. “It was so lovely that it made our wild dreams pale. And there was Claw. He’s well named, like a talon, long and swift, and very keen. He’s a copper, and he’s old and swollen with greed....”

His words trailed off into silent remembering, and he had such a shut-tight look on him that I wasn’t sure he’d finish the story. Down in the woods an owl hooted; another answered.

“We found the treasure,” Tarran said on a sigh. “And the dragon found us. Of course. I don’t have a brother now, only the memory of him dying. Yarden was his name, and our friends were Rowson, Wulf, and Oran. They were the sons of Lunn Hammerfell, and they were kin of mine. I will avenge them all.”

“How will you take revenge without killing the dragon?”

“Claw’s a miser,” he said. “In Thorbardin we say that a miser hoards to hide the one thing that is most dear to him. I know what the dragon loves. Take it from him, and he’ll feel the hurt all the days of his life. That long will have to be long enough.”

Flames leapt up from our fire, then fell, dragging the light away from Tarran’s face. He tilted his head back a little, looking past me, up to where – darker than the dark – the way into the caverns gaped. I couldn’t see his face; I couldn’t read him, or guess what he was thinking. After a moment he looked back to me, and he nodded shortly.

“Good night,” he said, and his voice had a haunted, hollow sound to it.

I sat up a long while, making my weapons fit. I bundled the bird arrows and replaced them in my quiver with steelheads. In my hands weapons always felt like comfort – good steel to raise against foes and fear. So it was that night.

As I worked, I fell to thinking about Reatha, her goldrunning hair, her sun-browned legs, the smooth calves rosy and plump in the morning light. With the Whiterush between us, she’d lifted a hand to wave me farewell. After all this time, there was still no one she looked to the way she looked to me.

My work soon done, I stretched out before the fire and fell at once to sleep. I wasn’t restless, and I slept well. But once, toward dawn, I woke with a chill, and across the sky, in the dark west, I saw the bright plumage of a shooting star sketch a falling arc, like a silver arrow coming to ground.

I piled some wood on the low fire, warming myself and waiting for Tarran to wake. I should have seen a warning in the falling star, the reminder of a fear I wouldn’t admit to, but I didn’t. I had too much invested in the pretense that I’d long ago vanquished the old guilty dread that someday, once again, my cowardice would cause a death.

*

We left the outworld just before sunrise, when the rock face was cool to touch and dewy damp. We had some climbing to do to get to the entrance, and Tarran made me go first up the stony wall.

“You don’t want a one-armed climber ahead of you. If I fall, I’ll take you down with me. Go.”

That made sense. I went scrambling up, finding good hand-and footholds. At the ledge I got a brand and set to with flint and striker. The flaring torch spilled light over the ledge, and by it I watched Tarran come up. Unlike me, he didn’t use handholds for pulling; he used them only for balance. He put all his faith in the footholds. When he was within arm’s reach, he accepted the hand I offered and let me hoist him onto the ledge. Thin as he was, he was an easy lift. Safely up, Tarran put his back to the rising sun and led me into the mountain, the landscape of his nightmares.

The light from without came trailing after us for longer than I’d thought it would, like a little pale dog at our heels, but soon it left us, and there was only the torchlight running on damp walls, the pale smoke drifting ahead of us to the call of some cavern breeze. We went along a narrow path, with the walls closing tighter each yard of the way, the ceiling dropping lower, until I had to stoop to pass where Tarran easily went. After a while walking, he held up a hand to halt.

“Listen!”

“To what?”

He stood perfectly still. Torchlight gleamed in his dark eyes as the pupils widened to take in the flickering fireglow. He turned his head a little, and his eyes – till then black – suddenly flashed reddish, like a wolf’s in the night. Dwarves have eyes like that, shifting and changing to adjust to whatever light is found.

“There,” he said. “Hear it?”

Now I heard breathing that wasn’t Tarran’s and wasn’t mine.

“This is what the dragon sounds like sleeping,” Tarran said. “Whether he’s sleeping just now, I don’t know. Things echo in here, and the echoes echo. “He eyed me closely, head cocked. “You all right?”

“Of course I am,” I said, a little coldly.

He raised an eyebrow, as at something strange. “No law says you can’t be afraid, boy.”

I told him I wasn’t afraid of an echo, and he laughed, a short dry bark. “Right, then. We’ve got some walking to do.”

I checked the set of the quiver on my hip, the heft of the sword at my side. My longbow, the weighty yew, lay unstrung in a holder across my back. Torch high, I followed Tarran through the narrow passage. All the while and all the way, the sound of the dragon’s breathing rose up from the floor under our feet, flowed down from the damp ceiling, seemed to roll off the very walls themselves.

I am here, I am here, I am here... whispered the echoes of the beast, the dragon deep down in his lair.

If I’d been wise enough to listen within, I’d have heard the deep-buried fear in me stirring awake.

I am here, I am here, I am here!

*

When we came out of the narrow shaft, Tarran halted again, and I held the torch up and out. Before us lay a new path, and we stood above a void so wide I couldn’t guess where the other side must be. Tarran kicked a stone over the edge of the drop. We waited to hear it hit bottom, and we waited, and we waited.

“Come on,” he said, when he was sure his point was made and taken.

The path wound down the side of the pit, spiraling around, and here the echo of the dragon’s breathing had company. Voices whispered, like ghosts rustling up from the blackness.

Someone, long years ago, whispered a secret. Another voice moaned in dread’s cold grasp, the sound like a chill finger on the back of my neck. A treasure-stalker spoke of hope and gold – and someone screamed, a hundred years ago, falling into the swallowing darkness.

In the next breath all the whispering ghosts, all the ancient echoes, fled to silence before a hollow, groaning roar. In the wavering torchlight, Tarran’s face showed waxy and white above his black beard. He shuddered, and the gems on the dragon brooch glinted, little darts of light in the blackness.

“That’s Claw,” he said, peering up at me as though he were watching for sign of the fear I professed not to have.

Cold in the belly, I said that I reckoned it was Claw, and then I said that we’d best be moving on. He went forward carefully and slowly, and I followed after.

The path was wide enough for Tarran and me to walk side by side with a man’s-length of room between us and the drop. We’d entered on a west-running path, but I soon lost any sense of our direction on the spiral way. The brand I’d lighted outside burned down to a stump, and I sparked a fresh one off the ember. When the third one was half burned, Tarran stopped and took the torch from me. He held it high and a little forward. Light spilled all down the rocky wall, like a firefall, a silent gold-shining river, and he stood like he was stone-carved.

Whispers from below rustled around us.

“What is it?” I asked.

He stepped back to let me see what lay ahead. At his feet was a break in the path, a gap almost twice as long as I am tall. I kicked at the slender ledge remaining; stones tumbled down into the chasm, pebbles clattering on the sides, the larger rocks silent in their fall.

“We’ll go back and find another path,” I said.

“There is no other path.” He went down on his heels, peering into the darkness and so close to the edge it made my belly clench to see him. Ghosty echoes sighed about gold and silver, about treasure and wealth. Keep on... hold on... we’ll find... more than you’ve ever... worth a man’s life to risk... Now, or then, the dragon rumbled and moaned.

I lifted the torch as high as I could reach and saw that here, as all along our way, the wall was studded with small outcroppings. Most didn’t look like good anchors, but one long knob looked as though it could easily bear weight.

“Are you afraid of heights, Tarran Ironwood?”

I said that in jest, and he laughed – not that short dry laughter, but a sudden gleeful amusement I’d not have thought him capable of.

“I’d like to meet the dwarf who is.”

I took a stout coil of rope from my pack, tied a swift noose, and tossed it high. The noose slipped over the knob and lodged there securely. I tied a stirrup in the end of the rope and asked Tarran if he wanted to go first. He gave me the torch, wound the rope once around his hand, gripping, and shoved off, leaning a little out toward the chasm and letting his weight swing him back to the path.

Safe aground, Tarran sent the rope back to me, and I tossed the torch across the gap to him. When the light was steady again, I settled my pack, took my place, and kicked off. I was but a few beats of the heart hanging there at the top of the arc. Almost still over the dark and the void, I looked down, into the pit, into the black. That endless emptiness made me feel light in the belly, like I could soar if only I let go of the rope.

A shrieking, wrathful roar blasted up from the unseen deep.

Startled, I clenched. My hand slipped on the rope; the rough hemp burned the skin. I felt the sickening drop – then caught myself.

The echo of the dragon echoed, and Tarran cried out as the arc of my flight wobbled.

Ryle!... Ryle!... Ryle!

I couldn’t feel my grip on the rope, and I seemed to feel the drag and pull of falling again as Tarran flung the torch away and reached out as far as he dared – farther than he should have – and caught hold of my pack, trying to correct the swing. Below, the torch was a little falling star, shooting down into the eternal blackness.

I hung, but whether over emptiness or the ledge, I didn’t know.

“Let go the rope!” Tarran shouted. “Now!”

In leaping echo, the cavern pleaded, Let go now!... Go now!

Blindly, in utter darkness, I trusted. I let go of the rope and fell hard against the rock wall. Sick to my stomach, my knees gone suddenly watery, I stumbled, clutched at Tarran’s shoulder.

“Stand still, boy! You’ll spill us both over the edge!”

The terror that had been like ice in my belly now bled all through me, like a poison. I staggered when he moved back and away from me. Tarran grabbed my arm to hold me still, gripped so hard I knew there’d be bruises later.

“Stay right there,” he said. “Stay right there. I’m going to light a torch.”

Shaking, belly-sick, I clung to the stone while he got a brand from my pack. He struck his steel against the rock wall. A spark leapt and fell. Another. The third caught, and Tarran praised his dwarf god, his red Reorx, for the grace of light. He held the new torch high, and for the first time I saw some color come into his face, a flush of relief.

“You all right?”

Sweat ran cold on me, down my neck, down my ribs, like death’s icy touch. I said, “Of course I am,” and I was pretty sure I looked like I was.

Yet, like an accusation of the truth, the afterimage of the falling torch, the shooting star, lingered in my mind. Panicked, I’d come dose to rumbling us both off the ledge. I might have caused Tarran’s death. So it had been, once before, when – panicked – I could not draw the bow, loose the bolt, and kill the boar that was bearing down on my father.

Tarran put his hand on my arm, and I tensed under his grip.

“Easy now. You’re back to the wall, and feet on the ground again.”

But it wasn’t height-fear that had me, not the fear of falling. It was worse, and he must have sensed it, for now I heard a new note in his voice. Beneath the reassurance I heard doubt, a thin qualm.

“Let’s go,” I said gruffly, taking the torch from him.

Narrow-eyed, he nodded and set out. I could feel it as you feel a storm coming – Tarran was wondering if he’d made a mistake to hire me. He said nothing to me about it, and I was cold and surly – asking no questions of him and permitting none from him. I was not minded to talk about the fear he suspected.

And there was this, to keep us both quiet: Tarran had been twenty years at learning not to scream in his sleep, twenty years waiting till he could tame his terror and take his revenge. He’d take the chance that he’d not gone wrong in hiring me. And I’d been ten years at the work of building an honestly earned reputation behind which to hide the one naked dread I must let no one see – that my fear would once again kill someone who trusted me. If I went back now, I’d go back shamed, a coward for old men to point at, for women to cluck over, and children to laugh at. A coward for Reatha to turn from in pity. Tarran and I, we had to go on.

*

We left the spiral path after only a little while more of walking. We’d not come to the bottom of the chasm – Tarran said we’d not gone even a tenth of the distance down – but there was a fork in the winding road, and the left-hand way led us off the rounding path and into a tunnel, a small shaft. As we walked, me stooping again, the lesser echoes from the chasm faded and fell behind. Claw’s breathing, his long ago groans and cries, followed. The sound of the beast was with us still as we stepped from the shaft onto a great wide plain of stone.

A stream of water in a stony-edged channel ran through that plain, an underground brook that seemed to spring from the rock itself and wander away into the dark.

“Where does it come from, Tarran?”

He shrugged. “There are layers and layers under the world. The water comes from under here, just like any sudden wellspring in the outworld.”

Stalactites, like stony icicles, dripped down from the roof. Groves of stalagmites rose from the floor, some as high as trees. Just past the tunnel’s mouth, in two places, pairs of each kind of formation joined, making floor-to-roof columns like a formal entrance. Tarran said that here would be a good place to stop and rest, and he told me we’d been underground for most of the day.

“Outside,” he said, “the moons are rising.”

I ached for the sight of that, and the sound of crickets, and the dazzle of stars on the black, black sky.

*

Tarran ate walking, pacing round the wide cavern, touching the walls, stroking a pile of stone, and always coming back to the three columns. We’d wedged a torch between some rocks and near the brook for the water’s reflection, but even so it gave little light. I sat close to the brand, watching Tarran and seeing him as only a black shadow.

“I used to be a stone-wright,” he said, his hand on a glistening column. He had a look about him as if he were touching a living thing. “I’d take a hammer and chisel to a reach like this and call any shape you wanted from it.” Softly, almost tenderly, he whispered, “It isn’t magic, but it used to feel like that.”

He turned, moved abruptly away from what he could now only dream about.

“That’s how I know Cynara,” he said. “Not all the good stone is in Thorbardin. I used to come out of the cities from time to time, looking. She was a little girl when I first saw her, out behind the tavern and planting thorny rose bushes. It was I who made the bench in the garden, for her wedding gift.” He stopped, smiling ruefully. “For her first wedding gift. There was another wedding planned, after she’d been a widow for a while. But her man died. Ach, you probably know more about that than me, being from Raven. Any case, Cynara’s been a friend for a long time. How do you know her?”

I leaned away from the light, scooped up icy water and drank. I was a while swallowing, keeping the water in my mouth to warm. It was that cold, like snowmelt, and swallowed too fast that stuff can cramp the belly.

Finally, I said, “It was my father she was going to marry, that second time. He died in a hunting accident.”

All around us the dragon-echo sighed, and if Tarran heard anything but the thin fact in my answer he gave no sign.

“I’m sorry,” he said, awkward and caught unaware in the act of trespassing on another’s pain.

“Me, too.”

Tarran walked away from the stone. He sat down near the torch, and the light glinted on the hilts of his knives, darted from the ruby-eyed dragon brooch where his right arm used to be. He had a tentative look on him, as though he wasn’t sure he should say something. But he said it, sure or not.

“Feeling better?” He glanced away, then back. “From before, I mean.”

“I’ve got the solid ground under me again,” I said flatly. “I feel fine.”

His thin lips were a grim line, pressed tight, while he sat there thinking. In the stony channel, the icy water rippled over rocks, murmuring softly.

“You’re not afraid of heights, Ryle, are you?”

“No more than you are.” And that was the truth. I laughed, for show. “But I was afraid I wouldn’t grow wings fast enough.”

The torch spat embers. Tiny bits of light arced over the brook and fell into the breathing darkness. Tarran watched me intently, never blinking, his black eyes never moving.

“Ryle, listen.”

The dragon breathed in echoes, like the sea lapping at the shore. Tarran reached and touched my chest. He had a dark and strange look on him now, like a man seeing visions – as though he could know everything in my heart just from touching me. I wanted to move away, but I kept still, afraid to seem afraid.

“They say you’re fearless, Ryle Sworder. But surely they say wrong – no one is fearless. Listen to yourself, Ryle, and search for your worst fear, your most dire dread. Listen!”

He stood up, head cocked, eyes black as the chasm as the pupils widened, adjusting to the greater darkness.

“Claw feeds at night, in the forest where no one goes. If we’re very lucky, and very careful, we won’t see him. I’ll get my revenge, and we’ll get out of here with our pockets and packs filled with enough treasure to keep you like a king.

“But if our luck misses,” Tarran said, “if we once come in sight of Claw, he’ll know how to look at you and see your worst fear, the terror that cripples you. He’ll use that fear, and he’ll kill you with it just as if it were a sword to cut you apart.”

The torch guttered, spat sparks into the darkness, arcing bits of light. Then the darkness fell; the stumpy little ember couldn’t stand long against it.

“I was the first one Claw spotted,” Tarran said, whispering. “The first one he came for. He hurt me, and he left me bleeding halfway between him and my friends.”

His words were like heavy stones, one then another, and I felt the weight of them on my chest, like a barrow being built too soon over me.

“Claw used me for bait, and they took it. First Yarden... then the others. I couldn’t do anything to stop it happening. Between the dragon and them... I was helpless.”

Even in the dark people shouldn’t talk about such dread. I said, “Stop, Tarran. I don’t want to hear it.”

I spoke roughly, as to a coward baring his worst craven deed. I had no right to speak like that, and I hated the silence my words caused. But I couldn’t apologize, though I knew I should. His talk of worst fears was like one more crack in a weakening dam.

“It’s all right to be afraid, Ryle. Here, you’d better be.”

I closed my eyes, coldly quiet.

“All right, then. I’ll say no more but this: if you don’t know what your worst fear is, you’d better spend the night reckoning it out. You don’t want Claw to be the one to show it to you.”

I didn’t answer him, nor did I speak again for the rest of the night. In the morning, Tarran asked if I’d slept well, and I told him that I had. He shook his head as you would over a stubborn fool. Once, when he thought I wasn’t looking, he glanced back toward the tunnel that led to the chasm and the spiral path, the way back.

But he said nothing about not going forward. He’d come too far. So had I.

*

We went all the day through a series of chambers, caverns small and large, narrow and wide, and Tarran Ironwood remembered his path.

“I came in this way, and I went out this way.” He smiled bitterly. “The last somewhat more slowly than the first.”

He’d had his right arm on the way out; the bone had still hung to the shoulder. In two places the meat of the arm had been laid open, the muscles naked to his sight. He told me that, and he said that a man should never have to see what the inside of himself looks like. He’d bound the wound and done his best to keep it clean, but the arm already had the gangrenous stink about it by the time he got out and got found. He knew before anyone had to tell him that he’d be one-armed for the rest of his life.

I followed him closely, and he never took a wrong turn, never stopped for more than a moment to reckon a direction. I marked time passing by the count of the torches, and so I knew we’d walked a full day by the time we came to a low narrow tunnel like the one that led off the spiral road along the side of the chasm. This tunnel was much longer than that first, and as low. All the muscles in my back and shoulders were cramped with stooping by the time we came out of it and onto a wide ledge, like the gallery rounding a king’s great hall.

The whole place stank of dragon, the dry, dusty reptile smell, the scent of endless age, and Tarran’s breathing got rough and choppy, like he was trying not to gag. I looked up to the edge of light around the hole in the ceiling. The silver moon and the red sat together in a quarter of the sky, their light pouring down through the opening. By that shining I saw bones littering the stony gallery, the large rib cages of cattle and horses, the smaller bones of deer and elk. I saw a bear’s skull, and what had to be the skeleton of a minotaur, the horned skull larger than that of any bull you’d ever hope to see. Old blood painted the ledge, rusty brown, dripping over the edge, streaking the walls of the beast-hall below. Here was where Claw brought his night kills. Here, on this wide ledge, was where the dragon dined. Below us – almost sixty feet down – lay the beast’s lair, empty, as Tarran knew it would be. Claw was a night hunter. Above – so high I had to crane my neck to see – yawned the dragon’s way out, and the dragon’s way in.

“There’s a way down,” Tarran said, his voice hushed, hardly heard. He pointed to the left, and I raised the torch, saw gouges in the stone, like stairs.

“They’re not as regular as stairs,” the dwarf said. “Some are a longer step than others. But they’ll do.”

“Who built them?”

“Claw. The dragon’s got a way of changing his breath and spit into acid when it suits him. You knew that, didn’t you?”

I didn’t before then. “Why’d he build steps in here?”

“You’ll see.”

He didn’t say anything more, and now he was all pulled into himself, as he’d been when I first saw him in Cynara’s rose bower. I strung my bow and slung it over my shoulder, then checked to see that the steel-heads were close to hand. I took my sword from the sheath. These were good weapons and strong, and they’d always been my comfort. Not this time, and all the hair rose, prickling on my arms and neck as I followed Tarran Ironwood down into the dragon’s lair.

*

I thought I saw the empty-eyed skulls scattered on the floor before Tarran did. Maybe that’s so, but he knew they were there.

They were four, the bone-naked remains of dwarves by the size of them. The skulls weren’t bleached white, for they’d not lain out in the sun and the wind and the rain. They were brown, old and shiny things with gaping jaws and staring eye sockets. One of the skulls was split right down the middle, and the three whole ones were cracked, the cracks like dark lace.

“Rowson,” Tarran said, pointing to one of the three whole skulls. “And there’s Wulf. Oran’s over there.”

He went and knelt beside the broken skull, the one that lay in two pieces away from all the others. I raised up the torch. Tarran knelt right in the middle of a dark stain on the floor, a wide sweeping streak of rusty brown. There he’d lain, bleeding and begging his kinsmen to flee. They hadn’t done that. One by one they challenged the dragon for him, biting the bait every time, until they were all dead and Tarran lay alone in his gore, the broken bodies of his kin scattered around him. Their dying screams framed his nightmares for twenty years.

Tarran touched the broken skull, very gently, as if he were touching living flesh. Here was his brother, and the stain on the floor was the shadow of their blood.

“It was a hard way to kill them,” Tarran said. He got to his feet, and he came to stand by me. “It was a cruel, hard way to do it.”

He wasn’t looking at the blood mark as he spoke, or at me. He was checking the release of every one of those knives of his, making sure each would come swiftly from its sheath when needed. He kept the jewel-hilted long knife to hand.

“Are you ready, Ryle?”

Dry-mouthed, I said that I was.

“Put the torch out.”

I hesitated, wanting to cling to all the light I could.

“Do it.”

I did, and when my vision settled, there was more light to see by than I’d reckoned could be so. The great opening in the ceiling channeled the starlight and moonlight downward in a slanting, milky column. And now, with the light evenly spread, I saw more than blood and the browned skulls of Tarran’s luckless kinsmen. Now I saw the dragon’s hoard rising like a mountain of moonlit rainbows under the ground.

“It’s a fine hoard,” Tarran said, his voice low. “Raw gems from the mountains of Karthay, golden torques from Istar, rings from Palanthas... chalices and plate from the towers of wizards, from the halls of knights, from the tables of the elf lords in Silvanost. There,” he said, pointing to a sword. The blade was rust-pitted, age-dulled; the grip was a ruby, one solid stone shaped for a slender hand. “That belonged to an elven queen, and it’s said that she forged it herself, so long ago that these days her people hardly remember her name. All this Claw has stolen to hide the single thing he holds dearest.”

Whispering, like a worshiper, I said, “What could the beast hold dearer than this hoard?”

“I saw it,” he said, answering me only glancingly. Now he sounded like a dreaming man. “When I was lying for bait, I saw what the beast guarded, what he always tried to hide with every turn, every spread of his wings.”

We went wide around the bloodstain, wide around the skulls. Tarran was white in the moonlight, like a ghost walking. We went past piles of uncut topaz, and that was like walking past frozen fire. In the shadow of the mound, behind the hoard, we found another skull. It was a dragon’s, and it paled every treasure Claw had in his hoard.

Long as me, and half as long again, this skull was – like the others – browned with age. Its fangs were gilded, its eye sockets dressed in silver and filled each with a ruby the size of my two fists together. Seven bony spines, the start of a crest that must have run down the length of the dragon’s back, wore sheaths of silver and were hung with nets of slender gold strands from which diamonds and blue, blue sapphires dangled.

I touched one of those nets, and the jewels chimed gently against each other, a delicate tinkling.

“Tarran, what is this?”

He sighed, a whispered groan. “What the miser hoards to hide. Who would look past that mountain of trinkets to see this, aye?”

This skull, dressed in gold and silver and gems, was Claw’s treasure. Tarran had seen that. When his kinsmen were dying, one by one murdered, Tarran had seen the shape of his revenge behind the shining mass of stolen treasure.

Now he moved a little, as if to reach to touch the skull. But he didn’t reach, and he didn’t touch. He let his hand fall, barely raised.

“This is why Claw built the steps in his lair,” he said. “A gemsmith, or more than one, had to come in to do this work. It’s dwarf-craft. Claw made a bargain with someone out of Thorbardin, a long time ago.”

He lifted his long knife, eyeing it as though he’d never seen it before now. He turned it this way and that, the jeweled hilt and blued steel glittering in the moons’ light. Then, suddenly, he reversed his grip and made a shining hammer of the hilt. Groaning, aching right to his soul, he struck the dragon skull. Under this first of revenge’s blows, a silver-sheathed spine fell from the bony crest and shattered at my feet. A golden net of sapphires rattled, slithered, and clattered to the floor. I reached for it, and Tarran turned on me, his eyes like dark fire.

“Not till I’ve powdered this damn skull!”

He broke another spine from the crest, and he shouted a curse, the cry a longed-for release from old, old pain. He pried a rubied eye from one of the sockets, and his cursing now sounded like the cries of a blood-lusty soldier sacking a foeman’s hall.

This wasn’t my vengeance; it wasn’t for me to do this breaking. I stepped away, out into the moonlight, tight and tense and doing the job I was hired for – warding the vengeance-taking. Eyes on the great opening above, I walked past the hill of treasure, out into the middle of the lair. I stepped wide around the skulls of Tarran’s kinsmen, wide around the old blood mark on the stony floor.

Tarran kicked a tooth from the dragon’s skull. Now his cursing sounded like sobbing. I didn’t turn to look at him. Revenge is a private thing, and if a man wants to sob over it, he should be able to do it in privacy.

I walked round the lair, pacing, watching the sky – and, not watching the floor, I tripped on something. I flinched back, thinking it was an ancient bony relic of some unfortunate death, and saw that it wasn’t. In the shadows, I couldn’t tell more than that, and I toed it out into the center of the lair, into the light of the two moons. It was a shard of an old, leathery eggshell. Once a she-dragon had lived in this lair. With a sudden chill, I turned to see Tarran kicking another tooth from the skull that a gemsmith out of Thorbardin had dressed like a queen in jewels and gold.

The wind outside moaned like grief. The sound shivered down my spine. Tarran never seemed to notice. He kicked another tooth out of the dragon skull, and the wind’s moaning rose in pitch. The hair on the back of my neck and arms bristled.

“Tarran!”

A shadow, a wide pool of darkness, slid across the floor, and I saw the dragon, the beast framed in the opening. Broad black wings were just tucking in, his copper body gleamed, a long shining streak of red across the blackness, a bright star loose from the sky and running between the moons.

“Tarran!”

The lair filled with thick blood-reek – and the bone-crunch sound of two heavy bodies hitting the stone of the ledge, an elk and a cow. Supper. I grabbed Tarran’s arm, yanked him away from the skull.

“Come on! This isn’t worth dying for!”

His dark eyes wild, Tarran pulled away from me, but he was one-armed – and I had that arm in a tight grip. He couldn’t help but go where I dragged him.

I didn’t drag him far, only behind the jeweled skull. There, I went to my knees and pulled him down with me, so that we had Claw’s precious heirloom between us and the beast. For good measure, I shifted my grip on Tarran and clamped a hand over his mouth and nose. He couldn’t breathe behind my hand, and so he was forced to calm down. When I was sure he’d come all the way back from rage, I let him go. I pointed upward, then put a finger to my lips for silence. I could only hope that Claw’s hearing wasn’t so good that he’d catch the sound of my heart thundering.

We heard the beast eating, we heard the ripping of flesh, the crunching of bones. We heard the copper dragon lapping up steaming blood before it could all run off the ledge. I buried my face in my arms to hide from the reek, to keep from retching.

As Claw ate, groaning, a glutton over a feast, Tarran leaned close and by gestures let me know that the dragon would leave as soon as he’d fed, wanting water. I settled to wait, my hands shaking so hard I had to clasp them together, a fist against fear.

In a sudden silence, I heard the tapping of blood where it dripped over the ledge and down to the floor of the lair. And then Claw rose up on massive hind legs, thundering pleasure, sated. Moonlight ran on blood-dripping fangs, and talons still clotted with gobbets of flesh. The light raced down the beast’s crested neck, glinting from spine to spine, spinning down the copper scales. Claw stretched black wings, leathery and broad, then thrust them suddenly downward while leaping upward.

In the wake of his leaving, wind roiled the stench of his leftovers, blood and bone and the undigested contents of the creatures’ stomachs.

Tarran and I scrambled out from behind the dragon skull and ran for the blood-wet stairs and the way out. We bolted past the heaped treasure as if it were no more worthy of a glance than the leavings of a gravel pit.

Claw must have seen something as he wheeled, turning, above the lair – the wink of starlight on my sword, the sudden shine of moonlight on Tarran’s long knife, our shadows where none should be. The dragon screamed down on the opening to the lair, confusing the light.

Acid fell like rain, the dragon’s deadly slaver hissing on stone. Things melted – golden rings and torques, a silver chalice, the rusty blade of the elf-queen’s ruby sword. One single drop of acid hit my own sword. I only dropped it in time to save my hand. Claw screamed again, and I heard no dumb bestial roaring now, but one raging word.

Thief!

The sound of it rang through the cavern, echoing in the very bones of me as I fitted arrow to bowstring with clumsy, shaking hands. And then the dragon saw what we’d really been doing.

He howled, lunging at Tarran.

Desecrator!

All my carefully honed instincts took over. I was like a vessel for some cooler intent. I turned, drew, and let fly a steel-headed arrow. I missed the beast’s eye by a hand’s width, and the bolt caught up under a plate-scale. Howling curses, Tarran sent a dirk flying after my arrow, and that blade caught the beast in the unsealed place right under his left eye. Tarran shouted, “I’ll blind you, you bastard!” and he threw another dirk just as I let loose another arrow.

But our target wasn’t there. Thrusting down with leathery wings, Claw rose up to the opening in the ceiling.

The dragon was gone, and I hadn’t clenched when most needed! I shouted gratitude to whatever god was listening.

“Too early for that,” Tarran said. “He’s just getting room for another dive. Come on!”

His warning was like a spur. Forgetting gratitude, and anything else that didn’t have to do with survival, we ran for the stairs, scrambling around acid-hewn pits still hissing at the edges. But inside me, gleeful, a voice celebrated victory with laughter. I’d not clenched, nor frozen with fear!

The lair grew dark as the dragon came between us and the moons’ light. The stairs were in reach.

Suddenly it wasn’t we running – it was me scrabbling up the first few steps. Tarran slipped in blood, staggered, and fell as the beast came raging down again.

I turned on the stairs, arrow nocked to bow, and sent a steel-headed bolt right into the beast’s gaping jaws. In the same instant, Tarran raised up on his knees – now his howling was for pain, his curses for helplessness – and let fly the jewel-hilted long knife and pierced the beast’s tongue.

Claw bled, and he shrieked in fury and pain. He sheered away and thrust upward, out of the lair again. Tarran tried to get up, but he fell back. He’d broken an ankle.

“Go,” he groaned. His face shone white in the moonlight; his eyes glittered dark as polished jet. Dread etched deep lines into the flesh of his face. “Now, Ryle. Go!”

I wouldn’t, and I took a step toward him, down one bloody stair. Then I stopped, sweat running on me, cold as terror.

Something touched me. Not a hand on the shoulder, not a breeze wafting by, not anything like that. It was the dragon’s thought, him perched on the lip of the opening in the roof of his lair and looking down like some enormous, brooding vulture.

Claw raised wings and beat up a wind so strong it flung me against the stone wall and held me there, a foul-smelling fist. The beast looked at me, a helpless thing, a useless thief come padding, a wretch on two legs. Him seeing me was like something cold and hard and sharp piercing the inside of me, where the heart is, and all the things I know and remember and hope and dread. In that moment, I stood more naked than the old brown bones scattered around the dragon’s lair, and the beast hovered on the edge of the opening, moonlight darting from talons and teeth.

Aren’t you going to help your friend, Ryle?

Tarran groaned. We knew it, both of us – he was bait again.

Are you afraid? Are you afraid you won’t be fast enough? Or brave enough? Are you frozen there, Ryle Sworder?

My belly churned with the fear he accused me of; my hands shook so that the arrow I tried to nock rattled against the bow.

I’ll give you the chance you didn’t have the courage to take for your father. Claw laughed as he wove two nightmares into one. Run for the dwarf, Ryle Sworder – I’ll give you a count.

“Ryle! Don’t!” cried Tarran, cried the bait. “Don’t!”

I tried to place the arrow again, and cut my hand on the steel head. Blood ran down my arm. I’d sent one arrow into the beast’s mouth, another to wound him near the eye. He was hurt, but he was a long way from dying. This futile arrow of mine couldn’t harm the beast.

With the voice of winter, Claw hissed: The man’s got no more courage than the boy, does he? The boar killed your father while you stood quaking, Ryle Sworder. Things don’t seem much different all these years later.

In Tarran’s glittering eyes, in his hollow pallor, I saw sudden understanding and swift despair.

The dragon laughed, seeing into both hearts. Tarran Ironwood! Old friend! Do you suppose he’ll be calling this latest cowardice a ‘hunting accident,’ too?

Tarran got to one knee, tried to get his good leg under him to rise. When he couldn’t, he crawled, elbow and knee, elbow and knee again, an agonizing progress. He didn’t get but a yard before he fell.

That dragon had the cold soul of a cat; he liked to play with prey. Laughing, he spread his wings, fanning the air. The stench of his feast filled the air with death-reek. Shadows skittered all over the lair and some magic – or guilty terror – changed every patch of darkness into the ghost of my father. And the bones littering the ledge were his, the blood staining the lair, even Tarran’s panting groans as he tried to get to the stairs.

It was sweat or tears running on my face now. It felt like blood. It was going to happen again. As my father had died, so would Tarran die, killed by my fear. Or, as Tarran’s kinsmen had, I would be killed taking the bait the dragon offered, the chance of saving Tarran’s life.

You are helpless, Ryle. You have always been. Now Claw’s voice was hollow, like a ghost’s. Helpless, useless, and it wouldn’t have mattered if you had seen the boar in time. No puny arrow from your bow would have stopped it. Helpless!

Utterly. Then, as now. And my puny arrows, the honed steel tips, wouldn’t hurt Claw, but he could snatch Tarran up and dash him to death before ever I could reach him. There was no way to win this cruel game, as there had been no way to stop the boar fifteen years ago.

Fear drained away from me in one sudden rush. Shadows were shadows again, and no ghost was here to haunt me. Forgiveness is that achingly swift and final.

I turned to change my aim. Claw stopped laughing. In the silence I heard Tarran’s labored breathing. I sighted down the sure, straight shaft, dead center on the dragon skull glittering in its jeweled garb. Swift, I caught the edge of the beast’s unguarded thought.

Flame!

So had his mate been named, the copper she-dragon who’d shone like a blaze, like flash and glare and, in the light of the moons, like shimmering golden fire. And if my aim was true, my arrow would strike the brittle relic and turn it into a pile of gems and bone slivers. Claw and I both knew that.

“Tarran,” I said, like a soldier snapping an order. “Come here.”

Elbow and knee, he crawled again, and it seemed like forever till he touched the first step with his hand. Claw rumbled. Fat drops of acid spilled down into the lair, hissing. But that was an empty threat, a useless gesture. If once that corroding slaver came so close as to splash near Tarran, I would loose my arrow. Claw knew that, and the knowledge was like an iron shackle on him as he watched Tarran make a painful way up, one blood-wet step at a time, bracing on one hand, dragging one leg, sweat running on him as if he were a man in a rainstorm.

When Tarran passed me on the stairs I couldn’t watch him anymore, only hear him. A step at a time, I went up behind him. I never took my eyes off the dragon skull, and that wonder-dressed relic was like a lodestone locking my arrow’s aim. Tarran got onto the ledge, the rounding gallery strewn with gore and bones and offal. He got into the shadow of the opening. His groaning sigh told me that he’d got as far as he could on his own.

Claw knew it, too, and he turned, his long neck snaking toward the gallery and the shadowed opening where Tarran lay.

The beast was just starting to laugh when I loosed my arrow, sent it whistling low through the lair. Moonlight winked on the steel head. The treasure-dressed skull, the relic of his beloved Flame, shattered like ice, shards flying everywhere.

Claw screamed as if he were dying, and I bent and lifted Tarran in my arms. He made no sound but one, a groaning like a man waking from nightmares. Or maybe that was me.

We were not hunted through the caverns, but the sound of Claw’s grief, of Tarran’s revenge, followed us all the way.

*

We came back to Raven at the end of the summer. It was no easy thing getting out of the caverns, and once out I wouldn’t leave Tarran alone. I nursed him carefully, as if he were my kin. Once he said that he owed me a fee, for we’d not taken the smallest trinket from Claw’s hoard. He said he’d make it good if I would wait till we got to Thorbardin, for he wasn’t a poor man among those mountain folk. But I told him that I’d not be going to Thorbardin with him, though I admitted it would be a rare thing to see, the seven great cities under the mountain. I told him I’d tend him until he was well and able to make his way.

“Then I’m bound home,” I said. “Back to Raven.”

He smiled, that lean smile of his, and said he supposed he’d go with me to see his old friend Cynara. Later that day, he asked if I thought the ferryman’s daughter would know me when we met again.

“Why not?” I asked, surprised into laughing.

“You’re not the same boy who went out from there, Ryle. Take a look at yourself some time.”

I did, in a still pool one morning while the mist was still rising, and I looked about the same as I always did. A little thinner in the face maybe, but about the same.

Still, Tarran was right about me not being the same as I used to be. When we came to the Whiterush, it was Reatha who brought the ferry across. She greeted Tarran gravely, but she lighted up to see me. Quietly, she asked if I was well. As quietly, I told her that I was. Smiling, golden at the end of the day, she knew the truth when she saw it, and she believed me.

We were married in the rose bower soon after. Tarran stood by me, and Cynara stood at Reatha’s side. There was no jewel to be had for dressing my bride, only a thin gold band for her finger. And there was not a ghost in sight to stand between us.

(Continued in Volume 5)