DARKNESS ASCENDING

Third and Final Novel of

The Paladin Trilogy

James A. Hillebrecht

STORY MERCHANT BOOKS

BEVERLY HILLS

2012

Copyright © 2012 by James A. Hillebrecht All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.
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Cover Art Copyright © 2012 by John J. Blumen

To Maggie
For Being my Map

A Mountain Endures. A Man Responds.

Proverb of the Highlanders

PROLOGUE

Father Joshua reeled backwards amid the crowd on the Third Wall of Jalan’s Drift, eyes wide, heart thundering, unable to grasp all that had transpired in such little time.

The entire city was in chaos. The great battle between champions had ended with the re-animation of the Juggernaut, and just as quickly, the horror had been blasted out of existence, taking the Paladin Darius with it. The Arch-Wizard Malcolm had appeared unexpectedly right in their midst, a guardian angel revealed to save them from the dread forces unleashed against the city, and the next moment, the man had been obliterated by the very powers he had come to challenge. The attending Median who had watched over the struggle between champions and was prepared to enforce the conclusion had declared victory for the city, only to have Duke Argus emerge with the green scepter called the Ohric and encapsulate Brillis, the Mayor of the Drift, in green fire, before claiming command of both the invading Silver Horde and the city itself.

Joshua felt stone against his back, some kind of support, and he grabbed it blindly like a drowning man. He was one of the few who had truly believed that Darius would prevail against Regnar’s champions, despite the overwhelming odds, for he had seen Darius fight before and understood his strength came from the purity he carried within him. The destruction of Malcolm and the emergence of Argus with the Ohric seemed almost like secondary effects from the failure of Darius to prevail.

Someone ran into him, and he staggered, losing his hold on the stone and not caring. Above, Argus was wielding the Ohric and one of the Dukes was addressing the stunned crowd, but none of it was registering on Joshua’s mind. There were other yellow cassocks around him, the uniform of priests of Mirna, but he didn’t even remember that he had been standing with a number of his brother priests to witness the combat. He felt a vague need to get off the rampart, to retreat, to…hide. Evil was laughing triumphantly, the city was lost, and the Paladin was gone.

One other fragment of thought kept nagging at his consciousness, a combination of destiny, black irony, and guilt all rolled together. I brought Darius out of prison. I set him free. Only to bring him to this fate…

Somebody grabbed his arm and pulled him hard off to the side, half-dragged him into the shadow of one of the guard towers on the wall. Joshua blinked and stared at his assailant, a priest only a few years older than him with burning eyes and a hard face.

“Father Rathman?” he said, the man just one more piece of the madness.

“We have to get out!” Rathman hissed at him. “We have to get out of the city!”

Joshua shook his head slightly, more at the confusion than the suggestion. Rathman was far from being a friend. Indeed, his testimony against Darius had been one of the factors that contributed to the Paladin’s conviction for heresy.

Rathman, however, was clearly not concerned with the past. He shook Joshua hard, making the young man’s teeth rattle, and snapped, “Get hold of yourself! We need to get word of this to the others as quickly as possible! We have to spread the alarm!”

Joshua blinked as the thought went home. Of course. Even if Jalan’s Drift were lost, there were still all the Southlands that would resist. Warhaven. Gemsbrook. The Church itself. With a shock of anxiety, he thought of the Patriarch sitting in the Cathedral of Ascension, the very heart of the Church of Mirna, and he knew it was only a matter of time before this new tyrant marched against that holy site.

That called his attention back to his companion. Rathman’s desperation went beyond the need to simply alert their superiors to the new danger, and another connection clicked into place. Rathman had made a personal enemy of Argus by accusing him of serving the black arts, and he would be one of the first victims of the Duke’s new power. Of course, that may mean he dies only a few minutes before the rest of the priests of Mirna, Joshua realized.

“We need to get word to the Patriarch,” he said, but that seemed the limit of his capacity, a single thought with no sense of how to execute it.

Rathman shook him again, even harder. “First we have to get out of the city! We have to get out!”

The shaking helped to clear Joshua’s head a little, and he looked closer at the other priest’s wide eyes and locked teeth, the signs of intensity and terror. He could see Rathman was even more staggered by the turns of events than he was, the new reality shaking him to the very roots of his being. Of course. For years, Argus had been the center of the man’s fears and loathing, the ultimate threat to the Church and its people, and now to see him standing supreme over the city and all the Southlands must be rending his sanity apart. He needed an alternative, any alternative, to the nightmare leering down from the rooftop above them.

That’s why he grabbed me, Joshua realized. He sees me as a last link to the Paladin. The last link to hope.

“We have to get out!” Rathman snarled again. “We have to escape before Argus’ men come for us!”

Joshua nodded, the immediate threat penetrating through the last of the numbness that held him. Thoughts broke loose, tumbling together, an avalanche that helped to form a plan.

“There’s a stable just south of the city that is used by the forces of Norealm,” he said. “If we can get there, we should be able to get help, perhaps even horses.”

Rathman nodded instantly and released one of Joshua’s arms. But he held the other as hard as ever as if unable to totally release him. As if desperate for the reassurance of human contact.

“Come on!” Joshua said, heading towards the nearest stair. “There will soon be a flood of people making for the gates. And Argus won’t leave them open for long.”

CHAPTER 1

Darius’ Fall

Darius Inglorion knew he was going to die.

Trapped within the black tentacles of the deadliest entity he had ever encountered, the Juggernaut, both of them had been blasted through some portal by the awesome power of the evil scepter known as the Ohric. Now they were tumbling through a massive maelstrom that seemed half-air, half-liquid, caught in a swirling eddy that was dragging them down some unknown drain, and in this ethereal storm, they were being bombarded by a wild array of material, boulders, thorn trees, broken wood, pieces of metal, and even what appeared to be the torn parts of living creatures, as if the tornado had walked through a slaughterhouse and picked up the bloody carcasses of butchered and butchers alike. In the whirling madness were animals long extinct and people dressed in robes from kingdoms that had fallen centuries before, and his growing terror surged again as he realized this storm had passed through time itself and ripped pieces of history free from the past.

Darius had lost his great sword Sarinian, he had lost all aid from his friends, and with a tentacle wrapped around his mouth, he had lost even the ability to cry out to Mirna for help. With all the power of despair, he strained against the overwhelming strength of the tentacles around him, heedless of the vicious fury of the gale. A boulder the size of a horse smashed into them with enough force to kill a dozen men, but the Juggernaut merely bounced away, the tentacles showing no slacking of strength at all. Darius may have accepted death, but his opponent was refusing to let him die, as if determined to drag out the torment for as long as possible.

Strangely, the tentacles themselves no longer seemed alive. They held him as fast as ever, but it seemed a death grip with no sense of animation remaining within them. It should have been a last spark of joy for him, the proof that when his daughter Shannon had thrust home Sarinian to avenge him and meet the hungry blade of Bloodseeker simultaneously driven into the thing’s back, they had killed the hated monster at last. But Darius sensed that something still lived within the broken husk of the Juggernaut, a new form that was in the process of being born when they had slain the monstrous parent.

They were starting to fall, the watery winds of the storm growing faster, and Darius knew they were being pulled down into the bottom of the vortex, their speed increasing as some invisible walls narrowed around them. He was plunging now, the vortex accelerating his fall, throwing him down to his death, for even an impact on water would mean his certain end at this pace. His brain was numb with terror as he was cast down to his destruction.

The end came with shocking suddenness. They were thrust down against something firm and yet yielding, some kind of net or membrane that gave beneath their weight and yet did not break. Their speed came to nearly a full stop, the winds no longer ripping them, no longer howling with the glee of devastation, when the membrane seemed to abruptly give, dropping them down from some unknown height to tumble along a rocky ground before skidding to a final, dizzying stop.

The tentacles that held him seemed to spasm and jerk from the impact, and a tiny gap was created around his shoulders. Instantly, he squirmed and twisted within the black arms, widened the gap a little, then a little more, the additional room giving him the opportunity to bring his arm into play. He pushed hard, got his hand into position, and then he exerted all the strength of which he was capable, snarling with the effort as mind and body put every ounce of force into one single purpose. Slowly, the leviathan gave the smallest fraction, then another, and at last, it was dropping away and he was free.

Gasping, he began to climb slowly out of the tangle of dead tentacles, his body battered and shaken, but before he could take stock of his surroundings, he realized that something was emerging from the other portion of the Juggernaut, something breaking out of the shattered body of the monster. Unarmed, Darius staggered backward, and he could see the thing was about the size of an ogre, with massive bat-wings extending out from a totally black humanoid body, and burning yellow eyes in a face that seemed almost…almost human. But he had no more taken that single look when he was struck by an overwhelming sense of evil, a physical force that seemed to burn into all his senses as if he were now in the middle of a flaming desert. He had to put a hand to his head to steady himself, his brain reeling from leaving a world of life and growth to a leering maliciousness that existed solely to kill and maim.

To his shock, the evil had nothing to do with the Juggernaut or its off-spring.

It was coming from the entire area in which he stood.

Darius took a deep breath and fought down the surging desperation that threatened to master him, the mad desire to run blindly towards any place that was not here, and he forced himself to look around at this strange land to which he had been banished. The sky above was covered with dark red swirling clouds as if blood had been boiled into a concentrated gas, and he realized that was the bottom of the maelstrom through which they had fallen. There must be some invisible membrane holding back the turbulence, and it had been this barrier that had broken their fall. They were in a small clearing surrounded by warped and twisted thorn trees without a single leaf through the entire forest, the stunted trees looking dead except for the long dagger-like thorns that bristled from every branch. The woods were inundated by a thin white mist that was flowing slowly in a single direction even though there did not seem to be any breeze.

The rock on which he stood stank of sulfur, the air was dead and stagnant, but it was the endless forest of stunted trees that seemed to be oozing an odor of decay, a decay which spoke of rot extending far beyond the grave. His skin crawled in revulsion at this place as if he had just stepped into a cesspool, and his throat tightened instinctively against the odors trying to enter his lungs. There was no sound as such from that ruined wood, no bird calls or rustling of wind through the branches, but there was a low constant moaning as if the trees themselves were in pain.

Off to one side there was some sort of narrow ragged path through the trees that seemed surprisingly straight, and he recognized this trail had been caused by the body of the Juggernaut crashing down and clearing out an area of the thorny forest. But the path terminated at the edge of a blasted area where even the mutant thorn trees could not survive, a huge clearing that surrounded a gaping hole in the rocky ground, a hole from which slashes of red light showed a raging inferno not far below, and the white mist that passed through the trees was being pulled down into that pit. The mere sight of it made him feel as if fire ants were starting to feed on every part of his skin. All the pain, all the evil that had exploded upon his consciousness was coming from that noxious crater.

There was movement from the sides of the pit, and two human-sized creatures with snarling fangs and gleaming red eyes emerged from that jagged rift. Twisted and deformed as if by some alien power, the sense of evil radiating from these monstrosities exceeded even the malignancy of the surroundings, and Darius knew them instantly. Devils! The creatures came bounding across the small clearing with alarming speed, their arms and legs thin and rubbery, yet showing a dangerous strength, and they ended in razor-like claws that left scratches on the stone as they passed. More were issuing out of the hole, following their brothers to join the slaughter, all of them headed directly for Darius as if sensing the presence of a living heart.

There was a sheathed dagger attached to his lower leg, a pathetic weapon against such an endless onslaught of evil, but as Darius drew it, his teeth clenched in defiance and his eyes blazed forth with an anger that knew nothing of fear. Lost, battered, bereft of friends and allies, banished even from the sight of Mirna, he was left with nothing but the memory of hope. His only options now were battle and death, but they were two things he could still do extremely well.

“Inglorium et Fiele!” he roared to the angels above and the devils below, a rage of white light exploding around him with the words, a Paladin declaring his faith at the very openings to Hell itself. Then he charged the horde closing in upon him.

The first leaped at him, its face a mask of hate, and he brought the dagger slashing up into the chest of the thing, the devil dying from the knife thrust. Even as it died, the creature’s eyes bulged as the holy light that now surrounded Darius burned its skin, the flame of purity protecting the Paladin and searing any evil that dared to draw close. Two more were already upon him with more closing for the kill when a huge shape pounced from the side onto the bodies of two of the monsters, crushing them both to the ground. Darius could barely credit his eyes when he saw that it was the winged being that had emerged from the Juggernaut!

He had no time to watch. The other devils were upon him, their savage faces leering, mouths filled with pointed fangs lunging for his throat. Darius blocked the first with his arm, the plate mail absorbing the damage from the demon’s teeth, and he swung around with all the power of his chiseled frame and brought his armored elbow crashing into the head of the second. The first was actually climbing on top of him, its claws ripping at his face, and he seized its throat and with one wild heave smashed it to the ground, breaking the thing’s spine. Then he turned back to the other and struck upwards with the dagger, a blow that lifted the monster off its feet, followed by a hard downward thrust that ripped its’ abdomen open. It fell back, mortally wounded, but its constitution was such that it still lunged back to the attack, determined to inflict as much pain as possible before it was finished. More creatures were coming forward, another demon already lunging, and at the last possible moment, Darius yanked the mortally wounded creature into the path of the new assault. The fresh monster was clawing at anything it its path, even the head of its wounded brother, and its claws ripped into the exposed neck, instantly killing it. Darius managed only a slashing wound with the knife at this new assailant, the devil barring its teeth as if it welcomed the pain, and then it rushed in on his side. But Darius was tall and powerfully built, and he managed to bring a heavy arm up to drive into the monster’s body in mid-air, ruining its attack and moving it back in front of him. He knew the demon would charge again, and he swung the knife with perfect timing, catching it in the throat. The hate died on its face as it crumpled.

He swung around to receive more attacks and was stunned to see the winged figure battling half a dozen devils. With astounding strength, it grabbed the throat of one demon and flung it like a weapon against a second, killing both instantly. The black titan then pounced on a third, rending it to pieces with its taloned claws, and the rest drew back in obvious fear from the overwhelming might of this intruder, respecting their one, true master: power. With a single flap of its huge wings, the creature lunged forward to grab another demon by the head then, with one vicious twist, tore the skull from the body. It was enough. The devils fled down into the pit from whence they had come.

The being turned and stared at Darius, and the Paladin readied his dagger, a ridiculous weapon against such a behemoth. Rather than attacking, however, the creature simply continued to study him for an interminable period and then, slowly, sank down onto its haunches to rest. Darius’ eyebrows rose in surprise. The thing didn’t seem tired or wounded despite the plunge through the maelstrom and the battle with the devils, and yet there it sat in a half-squat as if waiting for Darius to strike up a conversation. It had no hair on a perfectly formed skull, its long cheeks came down to form a strong chin, and a heavy nose was positioned over a mouth than seemed…well…expressive. The eyes were a bright yellow, almost as if a candle were burning within the skull, and they were watchful and calm, hardly the baleful glare of a murdering marauder. It was the face of an intelligent being, and Darius found himself wondering uneasily if the creature were drawing the same conclusions about him.

As the moments passed, Darius too settled to the ground to rest his legs, and he began taking stock of their surroundings. Desolation in all directions, a blood-red sky overhead, a pit with a hungry flame burning deep within it, an inescapable sense of evil crushing in upon him. There was no doubt where they were.

The Nether Regions. The Ohric had blasted him to the very brink of Hell itself.

Yet this scene fit none of the images of the Gates of Hell that the Church always described in such lurid detail. There was no vaulted fortress, no citadel of power, no iron gates and massive walls. Only a blasted rift in the ground within which evil itself seemed to be smoldering. A hole that could be exited as easily as entered. There was no doubting the conclusion, however. The light that had erupted around him when he declared himself still burned brightly and put an end to the feeling of being eaten alive by insects. But every cell in his being still recoiled from that smoking crevice, and his very soul moved within him, yearning to escape.

Banished into Hell. It was a horrifying thought. Darius had faced death hundreds of times in his service as Paladin, and while fear had been a constant companion, he had taken comfort that his soul would surely be welcomed into the Blessed Realms, if not for his morals then at least for his service. But what now? Could any soul hope to find its way out of this labyrinth of despair to return to the real world, let alone ascend to the heavens where Mirna awaited? Darius took a grip on the fear and forced it down again, refusing to let it master him, but images from his last moments in the world above returned to haunt and torment him. Adella struggling against the Juggernaut, Argus with the Ohric surging power in his hands, the destruction of Malcolm, and worst, worst of all, the memory of Shannon wielding Sarinian, his child in the grip of the murderous sword that had drenched his own life in blood. He took a deep breath and locked those images down in the same place as the fears for his immortal soul, summoning his courage. With a tiny grim smile, he actually shrugged a little as he muttered to himself, “I’m not dead yet.”

“…not dead yet,” came a thick-sounding response.

Darius leaped to his feet and whirled around looking for the source of the voice, but there was nothing; nothing except the fiery pit and the endless expanse of thorn trees leading off in all directions. An echo of some kind? he wondered.

“Who is there?” he demanded.

From the direction of the winged creature came a single word, “Who…”

He spun and stared at the monster. Its yellow eyes were gleaming at him. There was the hint of a smile on its heavy lips.

CHAPTER 2

Madness at the Drift

On the rooftop far above them all, Argus watched everything, nothing escaping his gaze or his notice. The Paladin’s daughter, the thief Adella, the priests of Mirna, all of them scattering before his triumph. Let them run. Let them flee and fear and fret, mulling over their hopeless situation, coming at last to the realization that all was lost and their deaths were assured. Nothing could stop him. Nothing could save them. Nothing could divert the awesome destiny that was fulfilling itself at this very moment. Argus felt as if he could turn his entire being into green energy and send it forth to envelop all the world, devour it, make it his new body, with all nature, all creatures, servants to his will. He drew back from the feeling, the sane portion of his mind assuring him that was only a glorious form of suicide, but the intoxication with power remained and sharpened his taste for destruction.

He whirled the Ohric in his hands and laughed out loud. The puppet Georg-Mahl, one of the last remaining Dukes of the Southlands, was making the pronouncements to the crowd, uttering Argus’ every word with perfect precision and inflection, and that only added to Argus’ realization of strength.

He had destroyed the Arch-Wizard Malcolm. He had frozen Brillis, the Mayor of the Drift, with a single gesture that assured him control of the city. And he had opened a hole to send the Juggernaut and that damned Paladin to…where? Argus frowned slightly as he suddenly realized that he had exerted the power to open the portal, but he had not selected the location.

To the Nether Regions, of course, the Ohric answered, reading his thoughts. Did you not wish the Paladin to Hell?

“The decision to act and the choice were both yours,” said Argus, though he replied only through his mind. “But did you act against the Paladin? Or against the Juggernaut?”

Does it matter? asked the scepter. Both were a threat to us. And now both are eliminated.

Argus nodded slowly at the answer, but some of the sense of omnipotence was gone from him, a recognition of the cunning of the entity in his hands. There were hidden purposes within this thing, twisted goals and convoluted thoughts that no human mind could hope to untangle, but Argus felt sure that blasting the Juggernaut to Hell was an action long foreseen. That was disturbing. Was the Ohric a tool in his hands? Or was it the other way around?

“Will you corrupt and devour me?” he asked. “Discard me when your need for my service is over, just as you did Regnar?”

He asked the questions without anger or even fear, more in the form of intellectual curiosity. He had the power now, and nothing in the Blessed Realms or the Nether Regions would induce him to surrender it, not even the certainty of his own end.

Most assuredly, the Ohric replied. So you would be well advised to be of service to Bal as long as possible.

Argus laughed again, and though it was impossible, he thought he saw a malicious smile fleet across the half-formed face of the scepter.

*

“…and Argus, Duke of Corland, shall henceforth hold the title of Lord Protector, and during this period of danger, he shall have total and complete authority over all the forces and armies of the Southlands. The Council of Lords has thus spoken!”

Adella heard the words of the spokesman standing on the roof high above the crowd, one of the Dukes of the Council, though she wasn’t sure which one. She was one of the few people down in Second Tier of the city where the combat had occurred who was not hanging on every syllable, entranced by the booming voice and the sight of Argus standing beside him with the Ohric clasped in his hands.

Darius was gone. Blasted out of existence by a single spell of the Ohric. There was a part of her soul screaming with the agony of a bereaved woman, but the warrior part had suffered the loss of countless friends in the past and had no time to mourn in battle. This wound is like any other, she told herself stonily. I will lick it clean in the lonely hours of the night.

The Northing barbarians were as stunned by the sudden turn of events as the citizens of the Drift, and they were only slowly realizing that the sight of the green scepter in Argus’ hands as he stood flanked by two mountain ogres meant Regnar was dead and he was their new overlord. Adella knew she had only a few precious moments for this trance to continue, and she pushed her way calmly through the mob of gaping barbarians, pulling Shannon along by the hand. The girl was absolutely shattered by the battle and the disappearance of her father, and she held the massive sword Sarinian before her and stared at it as if unable to grasp its purpose. That, too, would not last for long.

Adella elbowed her way through the last group of barbarians that blocked the way into Sherman’s Lane and their one chance for escape. She dragged the girl along but was careful to move at a leisurely pace, almost as if they were headed to market to pick up breakfast, mindful to meet no one’s eye. They got to the end of the lane, and she yanked the grate out of position, opening the path down into the sewers. She turned around to find Jhan standing beside Shannon.

“Where in the demon’s name have you been?” she demanded, not expecting an answer.

“By the wall,” he replied simply, but Adella had no time for his nonsense. She grabbed him by the arm and pushed him, unresisting, down into the sewer. Then she took Shannon’s hand again, and led her down as well. The girl went without objection, but once she was down, she paused and turned back, a puzzled look on her face.

“Make your way to the third grate at the south exit. Understand?” Adella demanded. “The third gate at the south exit. And be quick!”

“Where are you going?” asked Shannon, almost as an afterthought.

“I’m going to kill Argus,” she answered as she dropped the grate closed on the girl’s anxious face.

With that, she launched herself into the corner formed by the wall and the nearest small shop, and she climbed the short distance to the structure’s roof with ease. It was the distance above the roof that posed the problem. The walls of the Drift had been carefully constructed and polished to leave not even the tiniest of cracks or toe-holds that might allow an individual to scale them, and time had not left many marks upon the surface. But Adella was in no mood for a subtle approach. She pulled a hidden dagger from her boot, the blade forged of magiced steel, and drove it into the mortar between the blocks to make her own handhold. The edge of the weapon chewed through the fortified mortar like thin cloth, and strength flowed into her arms from the throes of loss and an unendurable ravenousness for revenge. She was cold steel thrusting upwards into an enemy’s belly, and she gained the top of the wall in the course of only a dozen heartbeats.

There was total chaos on the ramparts, people screaming and pushing in all directions, the thrilling spectacle of a battle of champions having exploded into a murderous rampage, and none of them had any attention to spare for this single woman as she struggled through to the inner side of the battlements. The Drift had originally been designed to keep buildings a safe distance away from the walls, but over time, peace and the crush of new businesses had slowly eroded this safety zone until buildings were allowed to encroach even into the shadow of the walls. It was only a minor feat, then, for Adella to jump from the battlements down onto the roof of the nearest building and make her way swiftly across to where the Leatherworker’s Guild rose above all its neighbors, approaching the structure from the side.

She could see members of the Black Watch, Argus’ bodyguard, still milling around below, clearly as confused as everyone else, while above, she could make out only the side and head of one of the mountain ogres from this angle. She looked at the wall directly ahead of her and counted the iron-shuttered windows, her memory straining to recall the sequence she had once known by heart for virtually all the Guilds in the city. Six up. Two over. Or was it three? In defiance of the sudden doubts, she launched herself across the intimidating gap at the second window from the left and caught the iron shutter cleanly. Then in broad daylight, using only one hand, she inserted a thin shim through the gap between the shutters and worked the inner latch until it gave way, the shutters swinging open under her weight. She kicked off from the wall, scrambled around to the inside of the shutter, and a moment later, she was standing in a narrow, winding staircase.

The stone steps were carpeted with a thick runner of rich blue, while a banister of finely polished wood whirled its way around the wall, offering support for the aged or infirm. Even here, the aroma of worked leather permeated, seeping up from the workshops below, one of the many smells of wealth. This was a private stairwell, reserved for use of the senior guildmasters, and it was supposedly secret, though surely half the thieves in the city had heard of its existence. Secret passages and private stairwells were very common in the privileged halls of the various Guilds, the means by which the senior members could quickly gather without alerting or alarming the majority of the craftsmen, and Adella knew this one led to the top floor of the building, barely a dozen heartbeats away from the roof and Argus.

She began ascending the stairs swiftly, certain there would be neither guards nor alarms on these steps, so she was startled indeed when a figure leapt out of a small niche and pushed her against the wall.

“May I ask if you have an appointment to keep here?” the man asked quietly.

“Tallarand!” she hissed back as she recognized the master thief.

“I couldn’t credit my eyes when I saw you scaling the walls,” he said with a sad shake of his head. “Everyone was fleeing from the monster. Only Adella would be rash enough to charge towards him.”

“How did you get here?” she demanded, the bluntness of the question a clear admission of her surprise. Obviously, there were entrances to the guild buildings of which even she was not aware.

“It’s my business to know every passage and rat hole through the walls of the Drift,” he answered, confirming her thought. “Whether it is to bring out treasure or stop an ill-conceived attempt at revenge.”

“Stick to treasure,” she snarled softly. “It’s safer.”

“You are fey,” he told her. “You go in search of your death, nothing more.”

“Do you think Argus is going to become easier to kill?” she challenged. “Let him consolidate his power, and there will not be enough weapons, champions, or years to pull him down from the throne he is about to mount. This is our chance, our only chance, when he is not yet accustomed to his power and is not ready for the attack.”

“Argus will not be brought down by power alone,” Tallarand replied. “You’ve seen what he’s done to the Juggernaut and to Malcolm. Only a skillful blow, carefully prepared, has a chance of success.”

“Then go back and make your plans,” she said, starting to climb again. “I’ll let you know how I succeed.”

He reached out and put a restraining hand on her shoulder, drawing a deadly stare from her eyes.

“I’m afraid I cannot let you continue,” he said, a hint of steel in his voice. “A failed assassination now will alert him to his peril and make future attacks virtually impossible. We cannot waste our one chance on a hasty attempt for vengeance.”

There it was, the ultimatum, the assurance that any further effort would be met with force. She was quite sure that in a straight fight, Tallarand would stand no chance with Bloodseeker in her hands, and the one thought that kept her in check was the annoying suspicion that in these close quarters, she might be dead before she could fully draw the sword from its scabbard. Tallarand was not a man to issue such an ultimatum if he had any doubts about the outcome of the struggle.

“I promise you will be part of the group that kills Argus,” he added softly. “I only seek to make your vengeance the more certain.”

She struggled to stay calm, to think clearly, to avoid the lure of killing for killing’s sake, the fury that had begun at the battle of champions, urged on still by the hungry whispers of Bloodseeker. Slowly, she forced down the battle-rage and asked in a husky voice, “And what do you propose we do in the interim?”

“Oh, I think we can find ways to spend our time profitably,” he assured her.

“Such as?”

“The Paladin is gone, Brillis is taken, and more than half the Dukes are dead,” he said grimly. “The Southlands will be desperately seeking for a new leader, a figure around which they can rally their scattered forces. Fortunately, we have just such an individual available to us.”

“This worthy would be…?”

“The Paladin’s daughter, Shannon,” Tallarand answered with a smile. “Her kinship with Darius is already widely known. She is credited with bringing the hostages out of Nargost Castle. And now the entire population of the Drift has witnessed her apparent slaying of the Juggernaut. A proven warrior with an impeccable pedigree and no claims on the kingship. Who could be better?”

Shannon! Adella had to stifle a sound that was half gasp, half laugh, yet her mind was already racing over the various aspects of Tallarand’s suggestion. The girl was sharp, sensible, and brave, but far beyond that, she shared her Father’s sense of purpose, that intangible charisma that was the hallmark of leadership. Yes. Given the right circumstances and the right support, she could see men following Shannon. And the girl’s inexperience would simply make her easier to…control.

“Come now,” Tallarand coaxed. “Where have you left our new battle-general?”

Adella replied with a wry smile. “I shoved her down into the city sewers. She should be emerging on the south end just about now.”

*

Shannon was stumbling through the ancient sewers of the city, oblivious to the smells and slimes that dominated the environment as she fought back the agony and despair that threatened to master her, blinking at this hideous new world through tear-choked eyes. Her Father was gone. She still couldn’t believe it, couldn’t credit the images, a nightmare insisting it was real. The dominant force in her life, the pillar that had supported her from her first memories had been splintered and destroyed in a single instant. Adella had assured her he wasn’t dead, but Adella was a liar who would say anything that served her purpose. There was no denying the image of the warrior in his shining armor with the tentacles of that…that thing entangled around him. Worse, there was no denying the presence of the Great Sword Sarinian in her hands, the weapon that had come at her call, the best proof that they were now both orphans.

She stumbled, her one leg going down into the central channel, the cold sewage shaking her fully awake, and she blinked, trying to get her bearings. The tunnels all looked the same, nothing to distinguish her path, and with a jolt, she realized she would never be able to find the nearly invisible thieves’ marks that formed a map for the knowledgeable. Each mark helped point the way to the next, but without a starting mark, she was as lost as if they never existed.

Press on, Sarinian said suddenly in its haunting voice, misreading her pause. There is no need to wait on your companion.

“My companion?” Shannon repeated dully. She turned and blinked, and with staggering awareness, she realized she was all alone!

“Jhan!” she cried, a dull echo her only answer. “Jhan, where are you?”

*

Jhan was standing silently, still within sight of the grate through which they had entered, and he was fighting hard to keep his feet from moving forward of their own accord. There was another Presence within him, a Presence that seemed to have taken over his body, a Presence that spoke with a hollow Voice that echoed through his entire being.

“Who are you?” Jhan demanded, determined to regain control of himself. “I’m not going another step until I understand what is going on.”

“The less you know the better for both of us,” the Voice assured him. “To those with vision, you are as clear as mountain water.”

It was the oddest thing Jhan had ever experienced, communication that went beyond sight and sound, that went even beyond the words he heard within him. He could sense the intent and meaning of the Voice even without it speaking, almost as if the words it used were redundant. Indeed, without even trying, he sensed the truth of what the Voice was saying, and that it was also no more than part of the truth; the other part was the need to keep barriers between them, to maintain walls that would save them from slowly melding together, becoming both…and neither.

“I need more than that,” Jhan replied, holding firm to his decision to resist. “I know enough to be worried, and these people with vision of which you speak will pick that up quickly enough.”

“There are a thousand sources for a young man’s worry,” came the response. “By itself, that will tell even the sharpest mind nothing.”

Jhan let out a small snort of annoyance, particularly since he already sensed much of what he needed to know. He might not be able to understand the purpose of the Voice, but he didn’t have to. He could sense its intent and understood on a very instinctive level that it was not evil and intended no deliberate harm to either him or his companions. But by that same token, he also grasped that it was acting on purposes of its own, purposes that would not be denied.

He glanced down at the ring with the three gems that he had put on his finger only moments before, the ring that seemed to have instituted the Voice. Without giving himself a chance to think, he reached down and ripped the ring off his hand.

“Fool,” responded the Voice. “The ring is no more than a vehicle, and it has already discharged its function.”

Jhan bristled in sudden anger, furious at finding his body high-jacked, regardless of the reason.

“I won’t do it, and that’s flat,” he announced. “I’m not going to…”

He got no further. A blinding burst of yellow pain exploded inside his head, a shock of agony that set him staggering, the world around him dissolving. It was no more than an instant, a single surge of hurt, yet it seemed as if every bone in his body had been broken in that moment; and mended in the next.

“I do not like making examples,” the Voice said, and there was a clear distaste in its tone. “It is degrading to me as well as to you. But there is simply too much at stake here, and I cannot have my intentions disrupted by your childish tantrums.”

“And I will be no one’s slave,” Jhan retorted, even though he was still panting from the shot.

“You have no choice.”

“There are always choices. Even if that only option be death.”

The Voice hesitated, sensing this was no idle threat, and there was a rapid exchange of images between them, the Voice assuring Jhan that it would know the moment the youth planned to hurt himself, and Jhan responding that his tormentor could not react quickly enough to stop him from falling from a galloping horse or refusing to block a deadly sword thrust.

After a long moment of reflection, the Voice said, “I can assure you this situation is only temporary. I shall need you as a host for only a few weeks, perhaps no more than a matter of days.”

“Even if you believe that, it does not make it true,” Jhan retorted. “I can sense your satisfaction with this arrangement, and that complacency will only grow with time. Weeks become months, months become years. I trust no one who promises to relinquish power.”

Again, there was a long pause, but this time, Jhan sensed surprise in the entity, as if it had unexpectedly learned something of itself.

“You are wise well beyond your years, Boy,” the Voice said. “And yet I think even now you underestimate your peril.”

For just an instant, Jhan was able to glimpse the heart of the individual possessing him, to sense the depths of loneliness that had festered within him for untold years, a need unknown, not even suspected, made clear now only by its ending. As quickly as that insight came, however, it was gone again, the moment of weakness sealed over, never to return.

“I shall make this bond with you,” the Voice said with renewed firmness. “I cannot risk entrusting you with knowledge of my nature or my purpose, for you are far too fragile a guardian for such secrets. You will unwittingly divulge all that you know in a dozen different ways. The full moon is newly past. When it is come again, you need but utter the incantation of Abrus thel nargan e Volos, and you shall be shed of my possession.”

“Abrus thel nargan e Volos,” Jhan repeated, then frowned and asked, “But what if your purpose is not achieved by that time?”

“Then either I have failed, or I am not to achieve it by this means,” the Voice answered. “In either case, I will have no more need of you. And no more justifications.”

“Jhan!” came a cry from somewhere ahead. “Jhan, where are you?”

Shannon, and she was clearly frightened. There was no more time to haggle or to fight. A decision had to be made, and he made it.

“Very well,” he said. “I shall bide my time and not struggle against you for one month. This, however, I shall hold you to. You shall not use my complacency to harm me, my companions, or any allies that hold against the Northing invaders.”

“Done and done,” the Voice responded. “But I fear you are about to learn that the Northings are no longer the central threat to the Southlands.”

*

“Jhan!” Shannon cried again, her voice now tinged with desperation. Had he become lost? Drowned? Captured by the Northings?

“Over here,” came the call, and she rushed back towards the sound. She turned a corner and found Jhan standing quietly by himself, the grate through which they had entered still barely in sight in the distance.

“Jhan,” she said in both relief and annoyance. “What in the sweet name of Mirna are you doing?”

He blinked at her, as if just now recognizing who she was.

“Sorry,” he said lamely. “Just had to…figure some things out.”

“Here? Now?!?”

“Yes.”

She could only stare at him, the single word answer defying any further questions. She shook off the issue, focused on the more imminent problem at hand. There was noise coming from the grate in the distance, and any activity could only be a threat.

“I lost the thieves’ marks,” she told him. “I can’t find the path.”

“That is not a problem,” he announced, walking right past her. “Follow me. I can find the way.”

Shannon watched in surprise as the youth walked boldly down the passage, moving with the same confident speed as if he were on the streets above. On the way in, he had been creeping through these same sewers as if every step would mean his death.

There is no time to waste! came the harsh voice of Sarinian, startling her out of her reflections. The forces of our enemies are already in motion!

She looked down at the massive sword that she was carrying as lightly as if it were a dagger, and she held it in front of her, focusing all her thoughts on the weapon.

“You have known my Father for decades and have a special tie with him,” she said. “Adella claims he is not dead. Is she right?”

I am no oracle, the sword replied. But when he passed through the portal, the Inglorion still lived.

Shannon’s heart surged with sudden hope, and she looked down the tunnel to where Jhan was disappearing around the corner. The sword was certainly correct in one thing, she decided. There was no time to waste. She hurried after the vanishing figure of her friend.

CHAPTER 3

A Light Amongst the Thorn Trees

Darius was on his feet, his muscles tight, teeth clenched, his dagger poised in his right hand, ready for battle. The child of the Juggernaut was still sitting on its haunches a few feet away, and it was showing no reaction to the fighting posture Darius had assumed. The thing was the size of a mountain ogre with wings that towered even farther above its head, and it had fangs and talons that could rip apart devils with a single, savage blow. Yet the only threat it had made was the uttering of a few words.

“Speak!” Darius commanded. “Speak again!”

The creature showed no reaction, simply continued to watch as if Darius was some minor amusement or street performer. Its features were even and sharply chiseled, almost handsome in a way, and the light from its eyes gave it a distinctly attentive appearance, the look of…intelligence…

Could it really have said something? Darius wondered uneasily. Surely this monstrosity couldn’t have been speaking the common language of the Southlands. It must have been some odd echo of his own voice, some twist of this blasted and forsaken region. Either that, or it was the first signs of madness.

He relaxed a little, watching the creature watching him. It seemed almost eager to kill the devils, and yet it was making no attempt to kill him.

“Kill…Devils…”

What?! Darius actually took a step backwards, but there was no denying the evidence of his eyes. He had actually seen the thing’s lips move as it uttered the two words!

“…no…kill…you…” the creature continued.

His jaw dropped at that. Was the monster actually talking to him, more, actually making a promise not to attack?

“How…how do you know my language?” he asked.

The being pondered this for a moment and then put a hand to its forehead, motioned towards Darius, and then back again. Telepathy! There was a moment of panic, the instant fear of having a potential enemy that could see right through all his defenses and read his very thoughts, but he took a firmer grip on himself. The creature did not seem to be trying to exploit this power, and more, it was openly admitting it. That was hardly the actions of an enemy. Darius actually found himself relaxing a little in spite of his continued doubts. For years, he had communicated with Sarinian via the sword’s telepathic powers, so this form of exchange was oddly familiar. So, too, were the hard-learned lessons that could block the telepathy at need.

He studied this strange being more closely, his mind searching for means to expand the communication, but there was such a huge gap between them that he could find no common ground at first. He mulled over one approach and then another before a question came slowly on its own, “What is you purpose?”

“…purpose…?” the beast grunted, and Darius marveled at its mastery of inflection. It already understood how to convey a question.

“Your reason for being. Your goal. Why were you created? To what end? For what purpose?”

The monster seemed puzzled by the words, and it cocked its head slightly as if trying to see him from some different perspective. Darius realized the question of one’s purpose in life was too advanced for such elementary communication, even with the aid of telepathy. He tried a simpler approach.

“You were called Juggernaut,” he said and tried not to speak too slowly. “But it would seem that title no longer suits. How would you be called now?”

It paused for a long moment, but this time, it seemed to understand the meaning and was searching for a suitable response. Finally, it answered, “I called Illoghen…”

“Illoghen?” repeated Darius in surprise. “And where did that name come from, I wonder?”

“How would you be called?” Illoghen responded with the same question.

He hesitated, feeling odd at sharing names with such a monster, but then shrugged and answered, “I am called Darius.”

“And you…reason for being?” it asked. “Your…purpose?”

He chuckled at the aptness of the question, and he took a moment to look around at the hideously stunted trees, the only passage leading to the fire, the bloody maelstrom storming overhead, a man lost as far as any soul could be.

“Right now, my purpose is to stay alive and get back home,” he answered simply.

Illoghen leaned forward and said, “That my purpose. That my reason for being…”

Darius eyes widened at the response, and then they blazed with sudden anger.

“I will never let you return,” he snarled softly. “I will never let you go back to the world to prey upon my people again.”

Darius was fully expecting a violent response, the momentary truce between them ending with that irreconcilable statement, and he tightened his grip on the dagger in anticipation. But rather than becoming angry, Illoghen simply studied him even more closely, as if it recognized that this was a significant issue.

“…no prey on people,” the monster intoned, and its yellow eyes seemed to gleam with a matching intensity.

Was this the creature’s attempt at sincerity, wondered Darius? But just as he was puzzling over this issue, the thing made an even more startling statement, “Me not kill people…not later…not before…”

Darius’ eyebrows shot up at this absurdity, but the contemptuous laugh that rose within him died stillborn. The Juggernaut had walked across all the Plains of Alencia without ever noticing the humans fighting and running and dying around it feet. The killing had been done by the Northings. The Black Titan had bashed its way through the walls of castles and the Drift, but it had not gone out of its way to do that; the walls had simply been a barrier obstructing its progress. In truth, it had not actually led the Silver Horde; rather, the invaders had simply followed where the Titan had blindly gone.

He shook his head, his very soul rebelling at the thought. The Juggernaut had bathed in blood, had been soaked with the lives of thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of the plains’ folk, and it had drawn its sustenance from their deaths. Then he blinked, realizing that it had again been the Northings who had done the butchery, the invaders who had fed that blood to the Juggernaut to sustain it until it should reach the Drift. Indeed, the titan had not even set itself in motion. That had been done by Regnar…with the information and assistance of the Ohric…

That led his thoughts in a radically different direction, and he shook his head again. “But you did kill. When the cocoon was formed. It shot out tentacles and grabbed anything living within its range. Grabbed them and drew them in to be devoured.”

Illoghen shook his head decisively. “Not me. Cocoon. Keep safe.”

A safety mechanism? Darius’ eyebrows rose again at the thought. Could the tentacles have been a simple means of keeping the cocoon safe from potential enemies while the contents…developed?

“You not dead,” Illoghen continued, clearly grasping for the right words. “Me… you grabbed by tentacles…not kill.”

That was true enough, he had to admit. The tentacles had simply held him and made no attempt to draw him into the mass during the plunge into the maelstrom, and that had been when Illoghen was emerging. Or perhaps it was only due to the cocoon dying after it had fulfilled its purpose. But it still supported the creature’s contention that it did not deliberately seek to kill humans.

So the thing was not actively seeking to kill people. More, it had not hesitated to fall upon the devils issuing from the pit, a clear sign that it could chose its’ enemies. But did that mean it was safe to return to the real world? Darius sat back down, put his chin in his hand, and wrestled with his conscience.

There wasn’t much question of what the Avenger would recommend. Kill the monster and any other devils that dared to show their horned heads. But Sarinian would press to kill anything with even a hint of evil about it. Kill to eliminate any chance of future evil being committed, a simple catechism that would end with the peace of death for virtually everyone.

Stupid indeed, a creed Darius had always resisted. And did it really matter now? He looked again at their surroundings, at the utter hopelessness of their situation, and he suddenly became aware of ghostly figures moving through the white mist that lay like a thin blanket on the blasted trees. The vague forms were floating inexorably towards the flaming hole like smoke carried on a breeze, and with a shudder, he realized these were the souls of the damned entering the fires of Hell. As he watched, one of the white figures seemed to become entangled on the branches of a thorn tree, the surrounding flow of mist pushing it, impaling it, ripping it against the thorns, the form tearing apart, and he caught sight of the face screaming silently as the last of its being was shredded and consigned to oblivion.

It was the most terrible vision he had ever beheld.

Shaken, he forced himself to turn back to Illoghen and concentrated once more, but try as he would, he could not distinguish any conscious evil emanating from the creature.

“What do you remember of your previous existence?” he asked.

Illoghen just continued to stare at him for a long time. Finally, it said, “Moving. Always moving. Tiring. Then more…energy…and moving again. Always moving.”

Darius had been concentrating all his senses upon the creature as it spoke, seeking to pick up any surge in maliciousness, any hint of the joy of destruction, but he could detect nothing. He shifted the effort to focus on their surroundings, to confirm the feel of looming evil, and he stood up abruptly, a frown coming to his face. The sense of evil was here, overwhelming in its potency, and Darius again recoiled from it as from a noxious smell. But there was something else, something different, something that did not belong here. He fought down his revulsion to extend his senses again, seeking to identify it, and he quickly settled on a direction off in the stunted trees.

“What?” asked Illoghen, intrigued by his efforts.

“I’m not sure,” Darius answered as he headed in the direction of the difference.

A cooler spot in this raging inferno, a sense of…lesser evil? He reached the thicket of trees and pushed against one of the branches, breaking it off with difficulty, the path ahead virtually impassible with the thorns an impossible threat. Then suddenly, Illoghen took a hand and struck out against the trees, sending two of them flying from a single crushing blow. He waded in, smashing trees with his fists as he made a path, the dagger-like thorns having no apparent effect on his hide. Darius followed cautiously, still trying to catch the elusive scent, the hint of…goodness?

Illoghen abruptly paused as he spotted something ahead, and then he redoubled his efforts, clearing a wider path but becoming a little more cautious as well. Darius caught sight of something whitish or grey among the unrelenting brown of the thorn forest, and the next moment, Illoghen had knocked the remaining trees out of the way and exposed the source.

It was the body of a man wearing a mantle of dingy white, a real solid body, not one of the ghosts pulled along through the mist. He was impaled on the thorns of two of the trees, arms, legs, torso all pieced by the cruel daggers, the head thrown back in the agony of death. Darius actually caught his breath at the sight and wondered how the fellow could have come to such a terrible fate.

Then, incredibly, the man lifted his head and looked at them. He seemed to jerk slightly when he saw Illoghen, but then he caught sight of Darius.

More incredibly still, he actually managed a smile.

“So it looks like I am not to perish alone after all,” he said in a surprisingly strong voice, using a dialect oddly akin to the common language. “Who were you in your previous life, my friend, and how came you to travel with a monster such as this?”

* * * * *

Mraxdavar the Great, Lord of Dragons and Eldest of his Kind, stood at the very pinnacle of the mountain known as Thundertop where the savage winds ripped by him at such speeds that even his massive wings shook slightly with their passing. This was one of the highest peaks in the Mountains of the Winds and commanded a masterful view for hundreds of miles in all directions, though the dragon had positioned himself to keep only one spot under observation: the high citadel of the Fortress of the Winds, known to humans as Llan Praetor, sitting atop the adjoining Mount Arebus.

He would have to feed soon. Dragons regulated their body temperature by the great heat generated within them, and the fact that Mraxdavar was conscious of the cold told him that his internal energy was dangerously low. Hardly surprising. He couldn’t remember when last he had fed, and only two days ago, he had personally unleashed his breath upon Regnar and his generals, an attack that had been most gratifying but had depleted his inner fuel. But not yet, not while he maintained his vigil, his watch upon this ancient fortress that might yet prove to be the bane of him and all his children.

There!

Mraxdavar made no move, no change in posture or expression, but his dragon-eyes were flawless despite their age, and the air this morning was clear and crisp between the peaks with no impediment to vision. There could be no mistake. The great stone structure had surged ever so slightly, the walls expanded outward, the towers reaching a little higher into the sky. It was absurd to think that a stone building could expand on its own, but the Fortress of the Winds was living rock, and it was now stirring from a long slumber. Mraxdavar did not understand the full significance of this growth, whether it had a purpose of its own or merely represented the swelling energy within the stone, but of one thing he was absolutely certain. The changes in the Fortress of the Winds corresponded to the changes in the entity known as the Juggernaut, and it confirmed as nothing else could that the entity was still alive. Was still a threat.

A threat that was still growing.

Movement off to the right caught his attention, and he spotted a flight of dragons headed directly for him. He turned his gaze back to the citadel, even though his thoughts were now exclusively with the newcomers and the information they brought. The dragons very correctly flew beneath the mountaintop to avoid the affront of over-flying their lord and father, and they landed on the rocky cliff beneath him, holding precariously to the rocky face. Then they carefully climbed to the narrow ledge directly below him, all five crowding into this constricted space to await acknowledgement from the huge figure above who seemed oblivious to them.

There came a low hissing sound that overcame the swirling of the winds, the voice of two of his sons craving permission to approach, and Mraxdavar let a proper period pass to emphasize his authority. Despite the isolated location, this was to be a formal audience before their father, and supplicants must be made to wait, regardless of their business or their linage. It was part of the homage and tradition that sustained their natural order. Mraxdavar let a dozen slow heartbeats pass before hissing back his ascent.

Bramaclese was the first to approach, his first born who had grown into a titanic dragon whose own red scales had changed to the bright silver that spoke of age and wisdom among dragons. Second in order and of birth was Albathor, whose red scales were touched with gold, a sign of power and of strength. The three other dragons held back, leaving the stage to the two brothers. Both dragons bowed low to their father and waited in silence for his acknowledgement.

“Rise and speak,” said Mraxdavar, his voice rolling across the peak like thunder. “What news do you bring me?”

“The Wizard Malcolm is destroyed, Eldest,” Bramaclese hissed softly. “He was obliterated in battle against the Scepter of Bal. Our plans for the Fortress of the Winds are undone.”

Mraxdavar shifted his coils slowly, putting one section on top of another. It was usually a sign of anger or agitation in a dragon, but for a being as huge and ancient as Mraxdavar, it was simply a shifting of his considerable weight to ease the burden on aged bones. The dragons had placed watchers in the mountains directly above the Drift to attend to the development of events, and while they could hear little, nothing escaped the sharp eyes of the dragon-spies. But knowledge, Mraxdavar knew quite well, did not come from vision alone.

“Do not assume a wizard’s death unless you taste the destruction of his spirit in the flames of your breath,” Mraxdavar answered. “I have probed Malcolm’s defenses on two occasions, and he was well prepared to deal with his end.”

Bramaclese bobbed his head once, an acknowledgment of the older dragon’s wisdom, though he then continued, “The Juggernaut is gone from this world. It was sent forth by the scepter as it clutched the Paladin Darius through a portal into the Nether Regions. Is our watch upon the Fortress of the Winds at an end?”

The scepter had sent the Juggernaut into the dark realm? There was no change in the Dragon Lord’s demeanor, but there was a spark in his eyes that showed he was alarmed by this news, the turn of events completely unexpected. Why would the Ohric banish the Juggernaut after having nursed it across all the Plains of Alencia? His eyes focused again on the Fortress of the Winds, gleaming in the sunlight. Gleaming. And growing.

“The growth continues,” said Bramaclese, following his father’s glance

“Yes,” replied Mraxdavar shortly.

“But how can this be, Eldest?” demanded Albathor. “If the Juggernaut is gone…”

A warning hiss from his father was followed by a hard slap from the tail of his older brother, a harsh reminder that he was breaking protocol. In a formal audience such as this, only the oldest of the dragons was permitted to address their father, and Albathor should have respectfully directed his question to Bramaclese who could then relay it (if he chose) to their father. Albathor dutifully lowered his head in acceptance of the rebuke, but the fire in his eyes was not lessened in the least.

Deep within his being, the Eldest Dragon smiled at this impertinence. As was a dragon’s nature, Mraxdavar looked upon his children for the value they possessed, his reptilian heart a cold calculator of potential profit and loss that would instantly sacrifice any asset for the greater good of himself or his race. Albathor was not the most powerful of his children, nor was he the brightest, the most magically skilled, or the most insightful, and his brashness had caused Mraxdavar more grief than any other three of his offspring combined. Yet despite all this, the Eldest of Dragons was acutely aware that Albathor’s death was the one he would regret the most, and he wondered uneasily why that should be.

“Eldest, we wonder if the threat from the Juggernaut continues?” Bramaclese asked respectfully.

Mraxdavar nodded his head ever so slightly in approval, but his greater sign was actually answering the question. “The Juggernaut is not destroyed. Only the black armor that protected it during its crossing of the plains has been removed. It is now more dangerous than ever, even though you have rightly surmised that the Ohric has sent it from this world.”

Both of the younger dragons stiffened slightly at those words, and Mraxdavar’s inner smile grew. Every father takes pleasure in the sight of his children learning.

His attention turned back to the citadel on the distant peak that lay basking in the bright morning sun, a silent threat to all of them.

“Place spies to watch the Gianthold in the northern reaches of the Mountains of the Winds,” he said. “I want reports of any activity there.”

Both dragons bowed in acknowledgement. The Gianthold was a massive cave that housed hundreds of stone giants, the sworn enemies of their race, and it was known and feared by every dragon. The Fortress of the Winds, growing now before their very eyes, had once been the citadel of the Giant Lords, and its expansion was the most dangerous proof that the giants were once again growing restive.

“As to the Fortress of the Winds, Eldest?” asked Bramaclese.

Mraxdavar turned and looked at the rugged structure that had haunted his dreams for centuries. Dark dreams that now threatened to come true.

“Maintain two flights above the Fortress at all times and one below,” he declared, committing some nine dragons to a dreary vigil. “I want to know the moment any being tries to enter. Mark that. Any creature at all.”

“And to us?” asked Albathor quietly to his brother, following protocol.

Mraxdavar did not wait for Bramaclese to relay the question. He looked at his younger son and said, “We must discover the purpose behind the Juggernaut and its ties to the Castle of the Winds.”

Albathor was so startled by the words that he asked directly, “How can we do that, Eldest?”

“We must go to the place where the Juggernaut came forth. We must go in search of the Chamber of Balance!”

* * *

They came in sight of the road station just as the sun was setting in the west.

“There!” cried Father Rathman. “Did I not tell you we were close?”

Father Joshua let out an open sigh of relief, not even bothered by Rathman’s triumphant tone. It had been a difficult journey riding draft horses on the long passage from Jalan’s Drift, and the huge creatures jerked and rolled even more than a standard mount which was the main reason the horses were usually employed only for dragging large burdens over distance. They had been the only mounts available, however, when they had reached the Norealm stable south of the city, and both he and Father Rathman had counted themselves fortunate to get them.

The Drift was now a full two days’ behind them, and even more than the promise of a safe night in a warm bed, the road station could be counted on to supply a swift packet coach that would drive them southward at triple their present speed. They had pressed on past the point where they would normally make camp, risking being overtaken by the darkness, and they were now being rewarded by the appearance of the promised road station.

With their pace slowed, Joshua raised the question that had been growing ever more pressing in his mind as time and distance passed.

“Surely we are not the only messengers bearing the warning of Argus’ triumph to the Patriarch,” he said carefully. Carefully, for Rathman’s temper was exceeded only by his hatred of Argus.

“If all thought that same way, then none would send the message,” replied Rathman.

Joshua smiled at the response, but said, “Carrier pigeons from a score of sources would have taken to the skies moments after Argus’ appeared wielding the Ohric. Most will have already reached the White Citadel.”

Rathman said nothing, his focus on the road ahead.

“If that be so,” continued Joshua, “one would rightly ask the reason for our haste. Indeed, for our entire journey.”

Instead of the expected angry response, Rathman considered for a moment, and then said, “You and I are not much different in age, Father, but there are worlds of experience that lie between us. Argus has his agents even in the White Citadel, and they will spin and turn the known facts until it sounds as if a great victory has been won by the Southlands. Consider what those little messages strapped to the legs of the pigeons will say. Regnar slain. The attack on the Drift ended. The battle of Champions won. Even the loss of the Paladin will be seen by many as a sign the threat is ended. No. We bear more than simple word of events. We bear the truth with us.”

Joshua’s eyes widened in appreciation of this new perspective, and his mind began to consider all they knew that might be of value to the Patriarch. His mind had been focusing on their own narrow escape and the legions of people who had not been as fortunate, but he began to see a wider perspective that might indeed prove invaluable to their superiors.

“How many troops are left trapped within the walls of the Drift?” he asked.

Rathman frowned, considering the answer. “Mandrik of Warhaven and Clarissa of Gemsbrook both quietly removed their armies from the Drift before the Battle of Champions, and the Regent of Maganhall had removed all his forces even before that. Palmany and Hathage, of course, are Argus’ willing puppets. Only Norealm held troth, and Duke Thrandar died because of it. His son and heir, young Fallon, commands now in his stead. Mostly cavalry, from the talk. The Norealm infantry was sorely lessened defending the walls of the Drift, but horses are of little use in such street fighting.”

“So now they are Argus’ prisoners,” concluded Joshua grimly. “Locked behind the very walls that should have given them sanctuary.”

“Aye. Fallon will be a dotard before Argus sets him free. We can be sure…”

The man broke off abruptly, and Joshua turned to see him peering ahead into the failing light. He followed his gaze, seeing nothing at first, until his eyes settled on the horse corral beside the road station. The corral was empty, the gate hanging wide in an awkward position that suggested it had been broken, the horses stampeded or stolen. He looked over at the station house and saw that the front door was hanging open as well.

“Come on!” Rathman said tightly as he put the spurs to his horse to send it closing the distance swiftly, Joshua right behind him.

They dismounted at the corral and tied the reins to the fence, their eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of life and coming away empty. It was as if the station had been abandoned. He hurried up the steps to the porch of the station house, pushed through the door, Rathman right behind him, and came to a complete stop.

There, before them, was the crumpled form of a young monk, his arms twisted beneath him, his brown tunic stained with blood, a cry of agony etched into his dead features.

“Sweet Lord,” murmured Joshua as Rathman pushed in beside him. “What has happened here?”

“Just a little business,” came a voice.

Joshua’s head jerked to the side where five armored men were coming in from a side room, carrying bags that proved they had been ransacking the station. The leader was lazily wielding a long sword, the two behind him held maces, and the two at the rear were hefting loaded crossbows. All of them were dressed in the black armor of Argus’ Black Watch.

“We were sent to secure the station from any unauthorized use,” said the leader. “This fool of a boy not only tried to stop us, but wouldn’t tell us where the priests were. It seems we didn’t need him after all.”

Joshua’s throat was tight from horror and fury, preventing him from making any answer, and he tried to swallow to clear his voice. But suddenly, there was someone else entering the room, another individual coming in from the outside and gently pushing past them. The stranger was an old man with close cropped gray hair dressed in a dark green tunic and bare feet. The old man walked to the broken body of the young monk and nearly collapsed at its side, his face steady, but his entire form radiating a devastated grief. Gently, carefully, as if afraid of waking the boy, the man pulled the broken limbs from beneath the body and composed them as well as he could, though nothing could erase the traces of torment that had been inflicted in the young monk’s last moments.

“Brown robes bring not a half-penny,” sneered the leader of the soldiers. “These yellow robes will bring us a hundred dinar bounty each. I’m not sure how much a green robe will bring. But we’ll find out.”

The old man placed the lightest kiss on the brow of the fallen monk, and it seemed to Joshua as if the boy’s tormented features relaxed a little, finding some trace of peace in death.

“You will gain no bounty for any of the crimes you have committed here,” the old man said softly as he got slowly back to his feet.

“Eh? And why’s that?”

“I must see to it that you commit no further outrages,” the man said, his voice low and steady, but Joshua shivered at the deadly tone. “For the violation of sanctified ground and the killing of the monks charged with its defense, I find you guilty of sacrilege and murder. Thus is the power given. Thus shall it be applied.”

There was a moment’s stunned silence, the five men hearing their deaths proclaimed, but when the moment passed and they were still breathing, the leader scoffed, “You have no power and you have no weapons.”

“The only weapons I need, you yourselves have brought,” the man said softly.

An instant’s pause, and then the leader swung his sword in a murderous sweep that should have cut his opponent in half. But the old man was already moving, stepping inside the arc of the blow, and with astonishing speed, he shattered the sword-wrist with a single sharp blow which brought a cry of pain from his victim. He broke the sword free from the agonized grip and continued to turn, effectively completing the swing, only this time he was reaching out with the sword in his own right hand, burying the blade in the stomach of the first soldier with a mace. Even as the soldier fell, the old man grabbed his mace, and brought it crashing down on the shin of the second warrior. The resulting scream ended abruptly as a second blow from the mace shattered the man’s skull.

The two crossbows were already leveled, aimed at pointblank range, but even as the fingers unleashed the bolts, the man was still swinging the body of the officer around into the line of fire, the bolts finding the wrong target and killing their own leader. The old man sprang lightly over the dead officer, grasping the mace from the second victim, and with two expert, looping swings, he dispatched both dumbfounded crossbowmen before they could draw another weapon. Five men killed in as many seconds.

Joshua was staggering backwards, his jaw hanging wide, and he could only gape as the old man turned towards them, the bloody mace still clutched in his hand. The next instant, he opened his hand and let the weapon drop as if it had soiled his palm.

“You have brought swift justice to these criminals,” Rathman said, his voice breathless with amaze. “Glory be to Mirna!”

“Mirna is not served by killing,” the old man said coldly. “The only poor excuse for my act of vengeance is the future lives we may have spared. Come. There are more of these brigands about, and they will be upon us all too quickly.”

The man was already headed for the door, Rathman automatically falling in step behind him, when Joshua finally found his voice.

“Where…where are you taking us?”

The old man paused and shot him a single piercing glance before saying, “Where Mirna wishes you to be.”

Then he was out the door, Rathman right behind him, and the moment they were out of sight, Joshua felt as if a huge invisible rope around his entire being was being yanked forward. He hurried after his companions.

CHAPTER 4

Many Questions

Darius stood frozen in place, not sure whether he was more shocked to find a good man impaled on the thorn trees of Hell or that the individual was still alive and could actually speak.

“If you have descended from the battlefields, warrior, why do you tarry at the gates of your chosen home?” the man asked almost casually, showing no sign of the agony that he must be experiencing.

“Sweet Mirna,” Darius whispered and tried not to show the distress he felt as he studied the man’s terrible wounds. He was impaled on at least a dozen thick, foot long thorns that pierced his limbs, his torso, and one massive barb extending out of his neck. “Let me help.”

He took his dagger and began cutting carefully at the thorns to try to free the man’s right arm.

“You are a gentle soul,” the man observed and seemed a little puzzled. “You bear heavily the deaths you have caused, that is clear enough. But they hardly seem enough to drag you down this deeply.”

“I did not enter this realm willingly,” Darius answered, as he freed the man’s arm. The arm dropped helplessly, as if there were neither muscle nor bone to support it. “My name is Darius, and a dark power blasted me here along with this creature. We were fortunate not to be plunged down into the Pit itself.”

“You are alive then!” the man exclaimed, seeing nothing odd in the words. “Ah, that explains much.” He paused, his eyes studying both them and the hellish terrain. “So tell me. Can you see the dead as they make their way into the Abyss?”

“Only vague images,” Darius grunted as he freed the other arm and started working delicately on the thorn that penetrated the neck. “But I can see you right enough. Why is that?”

“I am not dead in your sense of the word, warrior,” the man said and actually managed a smile. “My name in Hoarace, and I released my spirit and set it free from my body with a special conjuring known as a Soul-Walk.”

Darius stopped and stared at him. He had heard rumor of such powers, though this was the first proof he had encountered that they actually existed. It was startling and a little disturbing to be speaking with a disembodied spirit, though it explained why the man was not suffering from these terrible wounds. It also explained why his sense of goodness stood out so clearly against this realm of evil.

“What brought you to willingly enter such a dreadful place?” Darius asked.

“I came in search of a loved one,” the man said sadly. “But I encountered a dameon with magical powers who sundered the enchantment which connected me to the real world. Without that support, I was naught but a leaf on the ethereal wind, and the breezes of chance blew me here. My body sleeps in the High Temple at Taragon in Elawich. At least, I hope it still sleeps. Even the powerful magics of a Soul-Walk spell cannot sustain a body deprived of its spirit forever.”

Elawich was a country in the far west, beyond the Alacan Ocean, though Darius had never heard of Taragon.

“So, you are a wizard, then?” he asked.

“I am a member of the Congregation of the Most High and a humble Guide of Seledan the Merciful,” he answered, and there was the slightest glint of rebuke in the man’s eyes, a hint that an inadvertent affront had been offered.

“Seledan…” Darius repeated in surprise. Seledan was the name used for Mirna in the far west, but the surprise came from realizing he was dealing with a priest. “You must be very high indeed in the Congregation to wield such powers.”

“Actually, I am not yet made bishop,” Hoarace replied, now a little of his own surprise showing through. “Forgive me, but you do not seem to know much of priests.”

“I am familiar with the priests of the Southlands where Seledan is worshipped as Mirna the Glorious. It would seem I have much to learn of your Congregation.”

“I would be most glad to teach you,” said Hoarace as his body collapsed after being cut free from the last thorn. Darius caught him in a hug, and the man managed to flop his neck back to look up at him and smile. “We shall have much time to speak on our journey back.”

“Back? Back where?”

“To the real world, of course,” the man replied. “Surely you do not wish to end your life here.”

Darius’ heart leapt with sudden hope. “To escape…It is possible to escape?”

“Certainly.” Then the man stopped, his eyes going to Illoghen who was standing and watching quietly. “But it will be a long and difficult path.”

Darius shifted the man onto his back, holding the arms around his own neck. While the body was not weightless, it seemed to be no more than the body of a child. As he walked back towards the glen where the empty husk of the Juggernaut lay, Darius asked, “This loved one must have been very dear indeed for you to take such risks.”

“I came in search of my brother,” Hoarace answered. “He was a Paladin of Seledan, and he died in battle. His soul was weighed down with the many men he had killed during the long years of his service, and so it naturally descended into the Nether Regions.”

* * * * *

Joshua and Rathman came to a stop a few hours after leaving the road station, their bodies chilled by the cold night air, their bellies rumbling for food. They had ridden into the forest on their two draft horses, the old man in the green tunic who had saved them trotting ahead on foot to show them the way, and as one hour turned to two, Joshua began to marvel at the man’s stamina that could maintain a pace that was wearing out even their hearty steeds.

As they came to a halt, the man seemed to be peering back the way they had come, and while the horses were blowing hard, there did not seem to be the sound of any breathing coming from their companion.

“The black warriors will not follow the trail at night,” he said, almost to himself. “We can rest safely here until dawn.”

Both priests slid gratefully down from their mounts, the long day having been extended much longer than they had anticipated. Joshua could barely make out the shape of the man before him, but he asked, “Who are you?”

There was a momentary pause, and the man answered, “You may call me Thelmar.”

“Thelmar,” Joshua repeated. “Well, Thelmar, you have our undying gratitude for your brave service back there. Your service to both the living and the fallen.”

The words seemed to hit the man, and when he spoke, his voice was oddly hollow. “He was just a boy. Playing a game whose rules he had never learned…”

“Did you know him?”

“Probably better than many who called him friend. Yet I never set eyes upon him in life.”

“Who are you Thelmar?” asked Rathman, and there was a hint of challenge in his voice. “How came you to be at the station house?”

The old man seemed to be moving about in the darkness, his voice travelling. “I came looking for two priests who I knew would be there. I sensed there would be danger, but I wrongly thought you would bring it with you and did not consider it might already be laying in wait.”

“You were looking for us? How do you know us?”

“I did not know it was you until I saw you. But I have no doubt I have found the two I sought.”

“I still don’t understand,” said Joshua. “The two you sought for what?”

There was a tiny spark on the ground, followed by another, and a small flame burst up, illuminating the old man as he fed twigs into the new-born fire. A moment later, he had a respectable campfire burning in the middle of the clearing.

“See to your horses,” Thelmar said. “I will tend the fire and prepare what I can for a meal.”

“No, we must have answers first,” Joshua declared. “We are bound for the White Citadel with urgent messages for His Blessedness, and we cannot be delayed.”

The old man let out a long sight and settled himself by the growing fire. Finally, he said, “Your messages for the Patriarch have no value. His Blessedness Innocent II will act as his conscience and his circumstances allow.”

“Why do you say this?”

“The Church has ever refused to side with one duke against another,” explained Thelmar. “It is a wise policy to avoid entanglements in the political realm, but it has also weakened the Patriarch’s ability to act unless heresy or a direct attack against the Church is involved. Is Argus guilty of either of these?”

Rathman bristled and began to answer, but Joshua interjected first, “No. As Lord Protector of the Southlands, he is supposedly acting with the blessing of the Council of Lords.”

“Then your journey to the White Citadel will not make any difference to the defeat of Argus and simply mire you both in the intrigues of the Patriarchal Court.”

The air with which Rathman had filled his lungs in order to rail against Argus slipped from his lips without words, his being deflating as he saw the simple truth in the man’s statement. Joshua turned back to the presence by the fire and said, “So I will ask again. Why were you seeking for two priests at that way station?”

The old man looked up, the light dancing across his face. “To make a difference in the defeat of Argus.”

Rathman stepped forward, a dark frown troubling his forehead. “There is a simple test that will reveal the truth. You must pass this test before we will go even another step with you.”

Thelmar nodded in understanding and held out his hand. Rathman took the hand and murmured several words over it as he closed two fingers over the palm in a rite that Joshua recognized as the Gleaning of Truth. A faint blue light began to emanate from the palm, and Rathman asked sharply, “Do you plan harm to either me or my companion?”

“Our journey is fraught with danger, but I will do all I can to protect you both from harm.”

“You must answer with only a single word. Again, do you plan harm to either me or my companion?”

“No.”

The blue light remained, a beacon of truth. If the man were to lie, the light would turn red and vanish.

“Is your purpose to defeat the aims of Argus?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe we are vital to help in the defeat of those aims?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a servant of Mirna?”

The ghost of a smile crossed the old man’s lips as he said, “Yes.”

“Will you tell us the truth about what awaits us at the end of our journey?”

Thelmar slowly closed his palm, ending the spell, as he said, “No.”

The two priests frowned at him, but Thelmar continued, “I have told you all that I may, and you must now make your choice. But come the dawn, we must move swiftly, whatever choice you make.”

Joshua glanced at Rathman and raised his eyebrows as a sign of acquiescence. Even before the truth spell, they had both felt an affinity for the old man, a kinship that went beyond the gratitude for the saving of their lives, and his simple words about the political reality surrounding the Patriarch conveyed a hard wisdom. But Rathman’s face was hard flint, a man enslaved to his duty, and he shook his head firmly.

“Whatever the truth of your words, we are required to carry warning of all we have seen and all we know to the White Citadel,” he said flatly. “Only death or the Patriarch can release us from that obligation.”

Thelmar studied Rathman quietly for a long moment, and then said simply, “I will come with you to insure you are not released by death. And I can but hope you will come with time to recognize my need for you far surpasses the needs of the Patriarchal Court.”

* * *

Shannon was holding hard as the big chestnut mare she was riding continued its endless rush southward, its hooves pounding the dirt road through a heavy forest to leave a cloud of dust behind them as it strove to keep pace with their guide’s coal black stallion. Two days had blended into three since Jhan and she had left the Drift behind, three days since the world she had known had ended, but it now seemed weeks or even months in the past. Adella had met them just as promised at the southern gate of the Drift, and she had swiftly led them over the wall to safety. Men had been waiting there with three horses, and Adella had entrusted them to one of the men, promising to meet up again later before then vanishing back into the city even as they departed.

This was the fifth horse Shannon had been given during this journey, replacements ready and waiting at a small inn or a farmhouse along the way with just enough time to stretch their legs and grab a cold bite of food before being hurried back onto the road, rushing southward, ever southward. The pounding ride had been an odd salve, however, driving down the memories and exhausting her so that the few hours of sleep granted them had passed without dreams or night fears, blessed oblivion from the images of her Father dragged down into darkness by that black monstrosity.

Shannon was startled out of reflection as their guide abruptly reined in his stallion and turned to face them.

“This is where I leave you,” he announced calmly

Shannon blinked, hardly recognizing the man, for this was the third guide they had had in as many days, faceless men who had wasted no time with words and focused entirely on leading them as far from Jalan’s Drift as possible. This was about as many words as any of the guides had spoken to them.

“I don’t understand,” she answered, looking around at the thick forest of maples and birch that surrounded them, the view unchanged for league after league. “Where are you going?”

“I have other duties that require my attention,” the man answered, the words only deepening her confusion.

“But where are we to go from here?”

“That is no longer my concern,” he answered. “I was tasked with carrying you this far and seeing that no harm befell you. That task is now complete.”

“You would abandon us, leaving us in these woods lost and alone?” asked Jhan, and there was a strange threat in his voice, an anger that seemed to threaten retribution. An odd reaction for a boy who had grown up in the forest.

“You are not abandoned, and you are certainly not alone,” the man responded with a raised eyebrow. “As to being lost, you are in the southern reaches of Maganhall with the Cascade River barely two leagues to the west. You have a clear road before you, and two full hours of daylight still ahead. Fare you well, for our paths are unlikely to ever cross again.”

With that, he turned and headed westward into the woods, vanishing as if devoured by the trees and leaving the two teenagers looking at each other.

“Well, I suppose we are intended to continue,” said Shannon. “There is certainly no reason for us to tarry here.”

Jhan nodded. “If we are not to retrace our steps, then forward is the only way left.”

Reluctantly, they nudged their horses into motion again, though their pace was a poor shadow of the purposeful trot they had maintained up until moments before.

“Where do you think Adella intends us to go?” Jhan asked as they continued on. “At first, I thought we were going south just to put as much distance as possible between us and the Drift. But if the guides have led us clear across Maganhall, it would seem they have a destination in mind.”

“We must have already passed Alston’s Fey,” said Shannon. “I know that Gemsbrook lies beyond Maganhall, but why we…”

She stopped as the sound of pounding hooves caught their attention, and they reined in as they realized a galloping horse was closing on them from behind. A moment later, a light grey horse roared into sight around a bend in the road, the rider bent forward to urge every step of speed from the mount. As the newcomer approached, they realized the rider was a woman, and when she reined in the horse, they saw it was Adella.

“You made good time!” Adella grinned at them, even though both she and the horse were breathing hard. “I had not thought you to reach this point before dusk!”

“What point is this?” asked Jhan. “The trees are the same in every direction, and the road looks no different to me.”

“Then check your location by other than your eyes.”

Shannon frowned for a moment and then tested the wind with her nose, finally catching a faint whiff of woodsmoke, a smile coming with the well-remembered fragrance of hearth and home. She realized their guide must have winded the camp fires and known he had reached the point from which he was to depart. Then she frowned as she smelt something else, something that made her mouth suddenly water.

“Cooked meat!” said Jhan with a glint of appetite in his face. “There’s an encampment up ahead. Please Mirna, it’s friends.”

“Friends without the sense to run guard patrols,” Adella growled as she began to move forward again. “The fragments of half a dozen armies lie ahead of us, fragments without a single, unifying leader to keep proper order.”

Jhan immediately followed her lead, but Shannon frowned at the woman’s back, images, memories, and questions rushing back into her mind. This was the first time they had met without the threat of danger since the battle of champions.

“Adella,” she called, her voice demanding attention, and when she received no response, she called out yet stronger, “Adella.”

“This is neither the time nor the place,” the woman replied without looking back.

“Adella, my Father,” she pressed. Again no response. Shannon spurred her mare forward and actually grabbed the reins of Adella’s horse, staring at the woman hard. “My Father. I must know. Is there any chance we can bring him back?”

Adella met her eyes quietly and said, “That is what we are come here to discover.”

As Shannon blinked, Adella yanked the reins free and continued onward. She led them over a small rise and around a bend in the road, and the encampment burst upon them as if it had risen abruptly out of the ground. There were soldiers everywhere, some marching, some sitting, others engaged in a variety of chores, the normal bustle of an army in camp. The air was rich with the smell of woodsmoke and food as the various units prepared the evening meal, and it was clear that whatever their military abilities might be, this force did not lack for vittles.

“Hold!” an officer commanded, coming to a stop right in front of them. He wore the gold armor of Maganhall, but the dozen soldiers who followed behind him wore uniforms from four other principalities. “Who are you and what’s your business here?”

“This is Shannon, daughter of the Paladin Darius,” said Adella, and there was instant respect on the face of the officer and his contingent. “We are commanded into the presence of Clarissa and Mandrik.”

The man nodded, almost as if he had been expecting the answer, but Shannon and Jhan could only stare at the woman. When had they been commanded to attend upon the last free lords of the Southlands?

Adella, however, merely dismounted, handing the reins of her horse to one of the soldiers and followed the officer, leaving the two of them to hurriedly do the same. As they walked through the camp, many of the soldiers stopped to stare at the newcomers, but they were being hustled along too quickly to hear any comments. Shannon noticed that all the campfires had a metal shield over top to break up and dissipate the smoke.

“They take precautions to hide their location,” she observed quietly.

Adella snorted in distain. “Like handing a whore a holy book.”

“What?”

“They’ve placed themselves in the northernmost portion of Gemsbrook close to the river and the high ridge, exactly where Argus is expecting them,” she said. “A child could find this army. If anything, they should uncover the fires and light a hundred more. That might make Argus count them at double their strength.”

“How many are there, do you think?”

The woman shook her head as she looked over the encampment. “Six or seven thousands. Certainly no more than eight. It looks as if none of the cavalry made it out of the Drift.” She let out a low sigh as they passed the bewildering variety of uniforms and muttered, “Units from all over the Southlands with long miles behind them.”

“And long experience,” growled the officer as he stood beside the entrance to a large forest-green tent where a guard of ten soldiers stood, half from Gemsbrook, half from Warhaven. “You are expected.”

Instantly, the flaps of the tent were opened, and they were bid to enter.

“How large is the Silver Horde marching down from the Drift?” Shannon whispered.

“Twenty thousands at least,” Adella muttered in response. “And Argus’ Black Watch which marches to meet it is at least fifteen thousands more.”

She exchanged grim glances with Jhan. Odds of five to one or worse. The next moment, however, there was an explosion of greetings as Clarissa and Mandrik came forward with members of their staff to shake hands and kiss cheeks, the enthusiasm clearly tinged with relief that they had arrived at last.

“You held to your word,” Mandrik said to Adella. “Units are still straggling in, and we have barely had time to set camp and establish our defenses.”

Clarissa, however, came forward, her eyes locked on Shannon’s. Shannon returned the stare unblinking, but there was the tiniest frown on her forehead.

“You do not know why you are here,” said Clarissa. It was a statement, not a question.

“No, My Lady.”

“She still carries the sword,” said Mandrik, almost with relief, his eyes on the bulk of the Avenger which Shannon carried in a back scabbard. “You did great service for us all at Jalan’s Drift. But we now must ask even more of you.”

Shannon blinked and asked cautiously, “Of what service may I be?”

“We need you to take your Father’s place,” said Clarissa.

“My Father’s place…?”

“At the head of our armies. As the symbol of our resistance.”

Shannon could only gape. She surely must have heard them wrong, or at least misunderstood their meaning. But the hard expressions on their faces seemed to back the words. “You…you cannot be serious.”

“I assure you we are in most desperate earnest,” Mandrik said.

“But…but I can’t possibly! I’m nothing…I’m…”

“You are your Father’s daughter,” Clarissa replied. “Nearly the entire population of the Drift saw that it was you who slew the Juggernaut, and that tale has spread like a prairie fire across the Southlands. Succeeded even where your Father failed. Those who oppose the evil of Argus will follow you.”

“It is now you who wields the Avenger,” continued Mandrik. “The sword was sent to ignite courage in the hearts of Argus’ enemies, and it shall be the beacon to lead us all. You must bear it in your Father’s place.”

Shannon opened her mouth, and Adella put an iron-grip on her arm to restrain her, stabbing her with a warning glance. But Shannon pried away the woman’s hand and turned to the two leaders.

“My Lord. My Lady. You honor me far beyond my means or my station. But I fear I am committed to a single quest from which I can risk no distraction. I must discover the fate that has befallen my Father, and I will not rest until he is returned to us.”

Clarissa frowned, the refusal completely unexpected, and asked, “Even at the cost of all the Southlands?”

“The Southlands has many children to come to its defense, but Darius has only a single child,” she replied. “I will seek for his return as long as there is even the most slender hope. That is a daughter’s duty, and I will not abandon it or him. Not if all the world be lost in the course of that quest.”

Mandrik and Clarissa could only stare at this simple declaration of loyalty, and Adella took advantage to step forward.

“You reach out to Shannon not as a means to victory but as a way to slow your defeat,” she said quietly. “Even if your forces rally behind her, how long will they endure against the armies Argus can field? A fortnight? Perhaps a month? The defeat of your armies is only a matter of time, and Argus will be undisputed king within a week of that. Only the Paladin offers us a real chance against Argus, and in your heart, you know this. If Shannon is to aid you in your endeavor, you must assist us in achieving hers.”

“The aid you seek is only that which we would willingly offer,” observed Clarissa shrewdly, her eyes on Adella. “We would joyfully return the Paladin were it readily within our power to do so. So you seek a path we have unwittingly blocked. For ourselves and for others. What is it?”

The two women were studying each other closely, and the tiniest nod came from the Thief.

“Honorium Stalbus is imprisoned in Gemsbrook Castle,” Adella said slowly. “I need to speak with him.”

“Stalbus!? Contact with Stalbus is forbidden by order of the Council of Lords!” Clarissa snapped instantly, her brow a thundercloud.

“Only Stalbus can tell us how we might rescue the Paladin Darius,” Adella continued undaunted. “He knows…”

“He knows, indeed!” the Lady repeated. “That is why we keep him under lock and bar! No one speaks with Stalbus, no one! That is simply out of the question!”

“At times such as these, nothing is out of the question,” Adella replied. “Argus has melded his ambition with a demon’s scepter and joined his forces to that of the entire Silver Horde. He holds the Drift in one hand and reaches out for Alston’s Fey with the other, while you try to rally a fifth of his strength to oppose him. Lady, in such straits, you should be pushing me into Stalbus’ cell.”

The woman mulled this over for a long second, her face impassive, the pause saying much.

“He would have no reason to speak with you in any case,” she replied, the words more question than statement.

“After eight years in total isolation, I expect he’ll be eager to speak to anybody,” observed Adella. “But that is not your concern. I require only access to the man. How I gain information from him is my problem.”

Shannon had been standing silent while this exchange took place, her doubts slowly growing, and she could restrain them no longer. “My Lady, I fear you are cheated in any bargain you may make. I am no general. I know nothing of armies and tactics and great weapons of war. I will be only a buffoon as the head of any force.”

“You wield the Avenger, and the light of it shines about you,” said Mandrik. “Men will follow that, never fear.”

“We have generals aplenty who can arrange the troops and command the battles,” Clarissa assured her. “We seek only your sword and your courage.”

“But…”

Adella turned away from the others and asked softly, “What would Darius be doing were he here?”

Shannon’s face hardened and she said, “Leading the fight.”

“Then that is what you must do. Until we get him back.” She took a small step closer and said even more softly, “With Stalbus’ aid, we will be much closer to that end than we are now.”

Shannon did not know what to say. She understood all the arguments, accepted the points that had been made, but her heart still fluttered, a sure sign it was not ready for such a task. She wanted to argue, to refuse, to reject the entire concept, but then she heard different words coming from her mouth. “If you grant what we seek, I will stand forth in my Father’s place. I have nothing to offer save my courage, but that I pledge to the final measure of life.”

Adella whirled towards the Lord and Lady to close the deal. “And as to Stalbus?”

There was an exchange of looks, a long moment of silence, and then Clarissa said, “If you offer honest service and the Fey is still lost, I shall send word for you to be allowed contact with Stalbus. But only a quarter hour, and only under strict control.”

Adella continued to stare for a moment, but Clarissa’s face was hard, a clear statement that there would be no further concessions. She nodded once in acquiesce.

Mandrik sighed with open relief and moved over to a table that held a large map. “Now come and see where our need is greatest. The enemy has taken boat on the upper reaches of the Cascade River, and we believe they are already disembarking at the confluence of the Cascade and the Ice Flow Rivers. Their clear intent is to take the bridges at Alston’s Fey and combine with the considerable might of the Black Watch coming forth from Corland. That union we must prevent at all cost.”

“What force do you have to oppose them?” asked Adella. “I see outside only the rag-tail survivors of half a dozen armies with no cavalry to support.”

“Argus sealed the gates of the Drift before much of the cavalry could escape,” admitted Clarissa. “Thrandar’s heir, Lord Fallon, is made captive along with almost 4,000 of the Norealm horse. But I withdrew the Gemsbrook cavalry before the gates closed, so we are not without support.”

“Perhaps a thousand horse at best,” replied Adella dismissively, and no one contradicted her. Her eyes narrowed as she said bluntly, “You faced the Silver Horde before out on the Plains of Alencia with all the forces of the Southlands gathered by your side, and you were thrown back. What makes you think that your decimated armies have any better chance here?”

“The enemy is marching to us, and we will have time to select and prepare the terrain,” said Mandrik, and there was a satisfaction in his voice that suggested this was much more to his liking. “We have been able to transfer ballistas and catapults from the Fey and will place them where they will do the most damage against the enemy. Because of their numbers, I cannot promise victory. But I can promise to take a heavy toll from their passing.”

“A comfort that will be in our defeat, I’m sure,” Adella observed dryly. “So you plan to meet the armies marching down from the Drift with all the force you have gathered here. What preparations have you made for the defense of the Fey?”

“Don’t worry, we have taken all precautions on that front,” Clarissa assured her.

“Those precautions will not be enough,” Adella shot back.

“How can you say that when you haven’t even heard what they are?”

“Because the Black Watch marches at last against the Fey, and Argus would not have unleashed them unless he was sure of taking it.”

There was a pause and another exchange of glances around the tent. The argument was simple to the point of being naïve with no military grounds whatsoever. Yet it struck a chord of truth with all of them.

“Argus has coveted the Fey for nearly 20 years, and you may trust me when I tell you he has spent lavishly in time and money to learn its secrets,” pressed Adella. “If he comes against it, it is because he has an answer for all the precautions you have prepared.”

“Then would you have us just abandon the Fey because we fear Argus’ anticipation?” Mandrik asked with heavy irony.

“No,” answered Adella. “I would have you make preparations he has not anticipated.”

“What might those be?”

“Man the Fey’s flotilla and put them out to guard the river,” she began. “Argus has had dealings with the river pirates before, and I expect he will press them into service again. Close the taverns on Stonefall Island and send every man, woman, and child you find to the western shore. The thieves of the Fey have no loyalty to anyone, and they can be had for a handful of gold, even if that hand belongs to Argus. And finally, bring charges against Alstan d’Brey and lock him up.”

“d’Brey?” cried Clarissa. “But he is head of the Fey’s Council!”

“And a more treacherous blackguard never drew breath,” answered Adella. “He can see the way the waters are flowing, and trust him to swim with the current. If he hasn’t made a deal with Argus, you can be sure he is planning to.”

“What sort of charges can we bring?”

“Smuggling, bribery, cruelty to animals, or public drunkenness. It doesn’t matter. By the time he clears himself, the battle will be over. One way or the other.”

More glances were exchanged, and finally Clarissa said, “The Fey is a sovereign state where we have only minor influence. However, we will pass along your suggestions as our recommendation.”

Adella stood back, crossing her arms, studying the two leaders carefully. “Where do your plans place Shannon amidst this coming storm?”

There was a pause, and then Mandrik answered, “There are high bluffs above the Fey on the eastern shore of the Cascade River where signal fires are lit as a warning to the city. From there, she would be visible to all the defenders of the Fey and yet close enough to our battle against the northern enemy to come to our aid at need.”

Adella let out a short breath and said, “So you would set Shannon out as a figurehead, a rallying point for your scattered armies and a lightning rod for Argus’ fury. What assurances do we have that you won’t simply sell Shannon’s life for a few days respite from Argus’ assault?”

“All our lives are likely now measured in days, Woman,” snorted Mandrik. “The dying do not strike against the healer.”

Shannon stepped forward and placed a hand on Adella’s shoulder, checking any further retort. “I will serve where I am needed, and I will do all within my power to protect Alston’s Fey.”

Frowns evaporated at this simple promise, the girl’s courage cementing their fragile alliance.

“Then you must hurry,” Clarissa said. “The enemy is moving with deadly speed, stealing marches even over the reports of our scouts. The battle may be joined as early as two days hence, and there is much to be done in the interim.”

A moment later, they were being ushered out of the tent, a new officer taking the lead, but as Shannon and Adella began to follow, a voice spoke behind them.

“You are a fool if you think the likes of you can get the better of Honorium Stalbus.”

Both women whirled at the words, looking for the source, but only Jhan was standing behind them. Shannon actually stepped to the side to make sure there was no one else was standing between him and the tent behind.

“What did you say to me?” Adella asked, her voice honestly puzzled.

“If you know anything of Stalbus, then you must know his endless knowledge is guarded by endless cunning,” Jhan said, and he seemed almost as surprised as they by his words. “That is why even the wisest fear to try to tap that source.”

“I have some history with Stalbus,” Adella replied, her surprise clear by the openness of her answer. “There is leverage to be brought that has nothing to do with intellectual fencing.”

“You will need much more than verbal leverage with Stalbus,” Jhan continued, and now there was a tiny frown of puzzlement on his forehead. “You know this. Yet you plan to speak with him regardless. What are you counting on?”

“I know details of his capture.”

“What details of import can you possibly know?”

“Such as the item from which he gained his power,” she answered absently as she studied the boy, her face taking on a thoughtful expression, a dozen factors running through her mind. “He had it immediately before his capture. But not after.”

Jhan’s face broke into an expression of almost comic surprise, but the emotion vanished as quickly as it had appeared and made Shannon wonder if she had actually seen it.

“How do you know of Stalbus?” Adella demanded.

The boy blinked as if at a loss. “I must have heard the name at the Drift.”

“I’m sure. Perhaps you’d like to accompany us at the interview?”

“I think not,” he said faintly.

“Such a surprise,” she replied with flat sarcasm. She continued to study him as if he were a difficult equation she could not quite solve. “But I’ll be sure to let you know the details. I’m curious about your reaction.”

Shannon frowned as she, too, studied her friend. His flawless sense of direction in the sewers of the Drift, his calmness in standing up to Adella, even his apparent knowledge of this Stalbus, none of these were particularly alarming to her. No, the clearest sign of a change was that he had said nothing about her accepting the position as nominal leader of the armies of the Southlands.

Said nothing when she had agreed to be the target of Argus’ wrath.

A moment later, he was walking towards them, his eyes suddenly alight.

“Officer,” he asked their guide, “will there be a chance to take an evening meal?”

The man smiled in answer. “We may be short on men and horse, but food and courage we have in abundance. Come. I will take you to where you might break your fast.”

Jhan paused to look back at her, and he flashed his usual grin at the simple prospect of a hot meal. It was her old friend, no doubt of that, so she pushed aside the questions and grinned back at him. There were many other issues with which she would have to contend.

CHAPTER 5

Plans for Life and for Death

Darius came to a dead stop, the light body of Hoarace nothing compared to the sudden weight of his words.

“Why do you pause, my friend?” the Priest asked.

Darius took a heavy breath and said, “I must tell you that I, too, am a Paladin, one of the Chosen. What was your brother’s name?”

“Only the best are called, it seems,” the man said softly, almost to himself. Then he added, “My brother’s name was Sylvius. I tried to summon his spirit at every point in my journey, but I received no response. It seems he has lost his link with his name, and that means he is lost indeed.”

The man spoke calmly, but there was pain in his voice that echoed in Darius’ chest. “I am sorry. Sorry for your brother. And for you.”

“Out…” came a deep voice behind them. “The way out…?”

They turned to see Illoghen staring down at them with his disturbing yellow eyes.

“Your large friend is impatient to leave,” observed Hoarace. “You have not spoken of him yet.”

Darius looked around at the packed forest of deadly thorn trees and the one path that led back to the flaming pit. He desperately needed time to speak to Hoarace, to seek his wisdom on this troubling subject, but returning to the hole where the ghostly spirits were slowly descending into ultimate despair would not serve.

“Illoghen, the Priest and I must speak at length,” he said. “Can you go down this path a ways and guard against a return of the devils?”

He saw the doubt in the creature’s face, the way it looked from one human to the other, and he opened his mind to let it see he intended no treachery. A moment later, the creature nodded and walked off as it had been asked to do.

“This thing can see into our very minds,” Hoarace breathed softly. “Whence has it come and to what purpose?”

“There lies a long and hard tale,” replied Darius, “and I would have your thoughts on this. For I know not how to proceed.”

Then, from the beginning, he began to tell everything he knew and suspected of the Juggernaut and the creature that had emerged from it. He spoke of the Ohric, of the Juggernaut’s release by Regnar, of the long march across the plains with the refueling with human blood to keep it moving, the breaking of the Drift, the forming of the cocoon, and the final battle where Argus and the Ohric sent them both down through the maelstrom. He spoke of Malcolm’s discoveries and a last desperate spell that he launched at the same instant as the Ohric, though he had no idea of its intent or what it may or may not have accomplished. And he spoke of Illoghen’s own explanation of its actions, along with its claim to know very little of its true purpose.

“For what was it intended, do you think?” wondered Darius, conscious that Illoghen might be monitoring their thoughts even from the distance. “Why was it created, and why was it given this form?”

Hoarace did not speak for a moment, and when he did, it was in a slow, cautious tone. “I have listened closely to all you have told me of this Juggernaut, and I am slow to offer any counsel on such a twisted and difficult matter. Several things I will say, however. The original intent of the Juggernaut has clearly been subverted. The creator of this entity would not await the coming of a demonic scepter to set his own purpose in motion, and it is even possible it was never intended to become active. However, above and beyond that, I believe it has deviated even from the corrupted purpose set for it by this Ohric. You say it was bathed in blood as a fuel to keep it moving beyond its intended stopping point, and it was even wrapped in the fertile earth itself to stave off the transition. No entity could predict the effect of these changes upon the being that was to emerge.”

“And sending it through the portal?” pressed Darius, his eyes still warily on the being’s back. “Was that intended to abort the birth of this thing, think you?”

“No,” Hoarace answered with a grim certainty. “No, I suspect that was always part of the scepter’s plan. It could have used far less power to transfer Illoghen just as effectively to a dozen other locations. It chose the lowest portion of the Nether Regions for a reason.”

Darius’ eyebrows rose in alarm. “That reason would be what?”

“To season it,” replied Hoarace. “As we have both seen, it is not inherently evil. I think it was the Ohric’s intent to expose it to the hatred and mayhem of the hells to warp both its views and its purpose. To have it prepared when finally it returns to our world.”

“Dear Mirna,” Darius whispered. “We are leading the thing back just as the Ohric intends.”

“Do not lose heart,” the Priest said. “Two things have arisen to disrupt the scepter’s plan. First, it is clear to me that the Ohric intended to send the Juggernaut into the final pit where the exposure to evil would be overwhelming, and something seems to have stopped it at the very edge of that abyss. As terrible as these levels are, they are nothing to that final end.”

Darius’ eyebrows rose. Malcolm’s counter-spell! In that moment, he understood the wizard had spent his life to stop the Ohric from sending the Juggernaut all the way to the Pit. And saving Darius as well. That was a sobering thought.

Haltingly, Hoarace continued, “Into the Pit even I would not willingly go, regardless of the need.”

Darius heard the anguish in the man’s voice and knew he had wrestled with this issue every day since his journey had begun. He would pursue his brother through all the levels of hell save for this last. If the spirit had passed that threshold, there was nothing left to recover.

“And the second disruption?” he asked.

“That would be you yourself, Paladin,” the man answered, and there was a small smile in his voice. “You are beyond the reckoning of the Ohric, for in its dread conscience there is no room for peace between enemies nor reason between rivals. You were to be the first taste of blood for Illoghen, and instead, you have formed a pact that serves you both.”

Darius pondered this for a long moment, weighing the implications.

“I do not believe it can return to the world on its own,” he said finally. “It depends on us to lead it back. That I am loath to do without a clearer knowledge of its purpose.”

“I fear you miss the greater danger,” said Hoarace. “The Ohric sent it into Hell for a purpose. I suspect that when that purpose is achieved, the Ohric will summon it back again.”

“Then I cannot stop its return,” breathed Darius.

“So I believe. But if it was indeed sent here to expose it to evil, I would counsel that you lead it away from the gates of despair. It is still like a child and seeks to learn. Far better that you be the teacher rather than the devils.”

Darius nodded slowly, a grim decision slowly made. For good or ill, he would try to return to the world, just as his heart longed to do. And he would not stop the monster from following.

“Very well,” he answered. He turned to the creature and called, “Illoghen. Our discussions are at an end. You can return.”

The creature came charging back at an alarming rate but pulled up just short. “We go? Where?”

Darius glanced at the Priest.

“What do you see there, in the distance?” Hoarace asked.

“Mountains,” the Paladin answered. “A wall of high peaks that make the Earth’s Teeth look like foothills.”

“Then that is the path that we must take.”

“Surely you don’t expect us simply to walk out of Hell?” said Darius skeptically.

“Even souls have a physical component,” replied the Priest. “They travel a long and hard road to get here. We simply must travel that road in reverse.”

* * * * *

Argus stood in the Audience Chamber of his main citadel in Monarch quietly studying a huge map of the Southlands with three of his generals, headed by Kaltron, the commander of the Black Watch, and the diminutive figure of Ursulan, his Chancellor, who stood unobtrusively off to the side. He had left the Silver Horde and the contingents from Corland, Palmany, and Hathage when they had taken boat on the Cascade River, using the power of the Ohric to launch himself through the ether at unbelievable speeds, and he still trembled with excitement at the memory. It was as if his soul had been flung forth from his body and sent scurrying across the world to emerge whole and intact at the place he wished. An unnerving experience, to be sure, but his presence had been needed here in Monarch to mobilize the Black Watch and launch the second pincer towards the waiting prize of Alston’s Fey. Listening to his generals now, he was grimly glad he had made the decision.

The men were explaining the strategy they had developed for the coming war, and while they were maintaining a steady, disciplined posture, Argus could sense the unease they felt from their proximity to the green scepter gleaming in his hands.

“Once the armies are combined on the eastern shore of the Delmar River,” General Innus was concluding, “we shall easily sweep the remaining enemy forces away without difficulty.”

“I do not wish to sweep them away, fool,” rumbled Argus. “We must bring them to battle and destroy them!”

There was a quick exchange of glances between the three military men, and then General Ramos, head of the Corland cavalry, spoke up. “There may be a problem, My Lord.”

Green light burst from the scepter and surrounded the general’s head, cutting off all air and slowly strangling him. The others watched in stiff-faced horror as Argus slowly rotated the Ohric and sent still more energy striking into the officer’s face, the green light pouring into his mouth, his nostrils, sealing off his windpipe.

“I am the Lord Protector of the Southlands, General, and am to be addressed as Liege,” Argus snarled softly as the man fell to his knees, thrashing within the green mist. “I shall not tolerate such insolence another time.”

He pulled the scepter back slightly, and the green light vanished, the man collapsing in a heap at his feet.

“My Liege, I offer apologies for myself and my staff for this grave insult,” Kaltron said immediately. “Please understand it in no way deflects our joy at your just ascension over the Lords of the Southlands.”

Argus said nothing, but he smiled inwardly. Kaltron held his position both because he had the skills of a soldier and the ready tongue of a diplomat. He let another moment pass, and then breathed out slowly, “And what is the problem that Ramos perceives?”

“Horses, My Liege. The Silver Horde has almost no cavalry, and they alone will never be able to bring the enemy to battle. We must be able to cross the Delmar River with our own cavalry and that means bridges.”

Argus glanced over at Ursulan who stepped forward and addressed the generals. “The new Lord of Palmany and Georg-Mahl of Hathage have both placed cavalry contingents at the disposal of Our Liege. They will more than double the number of Ramos troops.”

Kaltron’s eyes widened at this information, but the look on his face was one of calculation, not relief.

“Yes, General,” nodded Argus, confirming the man’s thoughts. “Palmany lies on this side of the Delmar River and faces the same problem as we, while Hathage is too far east to help with a fording of the river. We are caught in the same snare as before.”

“So we must have bridges,” concluded the General, “and that means seizing Alston’s Fey.”

“Precisely. What arrangements have you made to insure the capture of the city’s bridges?”

Ramos was on his feet again, massaging his damaged throat, and after a moment, Innus spoke up. “As you know, My Liege, we must capture the bridges that lead from the western shore to Stonefell Island which is the heart of the Fey. The branch of the river that separates the island from the Eastern Shore is small enough to be forded at need. The Fey has never had any interest in strong fortress walls because…”

“Because they will throw down the bridges at the first approach of an enemy,” snapped Argus impatiently. “We have chewed this bone a hundred times before!”

“But it is complicated now by the approach of three armies,” replied Innus, showing more courage than Argus had expected of him. “The Silver Horde nears the city from the east, but there also the rebel armies of Gemsbrook and Warhaven are gathering. That is their one source of reinforcement, and they will not sever that link lightly.”

“Making the western bridges to the island all the more expendable to them,” nodded Argus.

“The Fey will not destroy even the western bridges unless they have no option, for they are the main arteries of trade,” said Kaltron. “But we must not make the mistake of thinking they will wait for the last moment. If they are confronted with overwhelming force, they will throw down the bridges as protection and also in hopes of dissuading the enemy from attacking. The Fey without its bridges is far less attractive than with them.”

“I know all this!” growled Argus, his voice a threat. “I do not need a lecture. I need a way to seize the bridges intact!”

“I have elite members of the Black Watch in place within the Fey who will act when the time is right,” Kaltron assured him. “They will seize at least two of the bridges, of that be assured. But how long they can hold them is another question.”

“How many men? And how much time can they assure us?”

“I have slipped fifty of my best men into the Fey, and they have recruited another hundred, My Liege,” the general said. “They will act in tandem to seize the Merchant’s Bridge that leads to the island and the Low Narrows Bridge that leads to the Eastern Shore. As to the time they can hold, Your Liege is the better judge.”

“Fifty men with a hundred hired thugs in tow?” Argus sneered lightly. “An hour if they have the fates with them,”

Kaltron paused, clearly uncomfortable with his master’s response. Argus let him squirm.

“We can try to slip additional men…” the General began.

“They will only alert the enemy if they have not already smelled out the plot,” interrupted Argus. He then waved his hand dismissively. “Go back to your troops, General. You are to personally hold the Merchant’s Bridge until I arrive.”

The man went a little pale at the words, pointedly avoiding any look at the still gasping Ramos, but it took only a single glance from the Duke to end the interview and assure him his life now rode on the successful defense of the bridge. All three men bowed low and hurried out the door, ushered away by the obsequious Ursulan who departed as well.

Regnar had a similar tactic with his chieftains, the Ohric observed indifferently. Towards the end, he nearly ran out of generals to kill.

“I think Kaltron has an excellent chance to survive,” replied Argus. “I have laid plans for the capture of the Fey long before you set your snares for the unwary.”

Argus could feel his senses growing in power and sensitivity, expanding until he could smell the fear on those who approached him and hear the pounding hearts of those who still awaited an audience. It was a remarkable sensation, almost as if he had been blind all his life and had suddenly gained the ability to see. It was intoxicating to push the limits of these new senses, to explore the unlimited possibilities that seemed to be opening up before him, but he grimly resisted. That is part of the Ohric’s allure, the way it seduces and dominates its host. I shall not be taken as easily as Regnar.

The door opened again, and the Chancellor entered carefully.

“A…a priest requests an audience, My Liege,” said Ursulan bowing deeply. “I promised to make inquiry.”

The fact that Ursulan did not elaborate on who the priest was told Argus all he needed to know. This would be the Chancellor’s first open encounter with the Red Priests of Bal, and though he must have heard the rumors often enough back in Corland, that small stutter in his normally unflappable style showed the appearance had taken him off guard.

“Show the Priest in,” he said shortly, and Ursulan scurried to obey. A moment later, and the door opened to usher in the red-robed figure of Al-Luthrax who knelt immediately on the floor before Argus. That was gratifying.

“Speak,” Argus commanded.

Al-Luthrax began to rise, but with a single gesture of the Ohric, Argus drove him back down onto the floor.

“I said to speak, dog,” he said. “I did not say to rise.”

“I have come to add my voice to the celebration of the new king of the Southlands,” the Priest was able to sputter, despite the continuing pressure being exerted against him. “All glory to the anointed of Bal!”

Argus released some of the pressure pinning the man down, but Al-Luthrax knew better than to try to rise again. That, too, was gratifying.

“You have said that the Red Priests have influence in all the cities of the Southlands,” he said. “Does that include Alston’s Fey?”

“It does, Anointed One.”

“Then there is a service they may render to their new king,” he continued, casually examining the scepter in his hands. “In two days, as my armies advance upon the Fey, there will be a sudden rising that will seize two of the bridges. The numbers involved in the revolt will be small, and they shall need all the help they can get in order to hold the main bridge until I arrive. Your priests shall assist them by any and all means to see that this objective is fulfilled.”

“My Liege, the priests of Bal are not warriors,” the Priest began, but his words were reduced to a groan as the pressure returned.

“I do not care if they use mace, spell, or deception in this task,” Argus said. “They are to do all they can to help to hold that bridge. Is that clear?”

There was a snarling sound from the throat of the Priest, but Argus recognized it as an affirmation. He released all pressure from the Priest and stepped away. Slowly, Al-Luthrax climbed back to his knees. Argus took a deep breath, preparing for his next dangerous move, but surprisingly, the man spoke first.

“Anointed One, I beg leave to speak,” the man panted, his words broken by the effort to breathe.

Argus’ eyebrows rose slightly at the man’s impertinence, and he toyed briefly with sending him smashing into the far wall with sufficient force to break most of the bones in his body. But he was curious. “And what is it that you would say?”

“Back when you were Argus, Duke of Corland,” he continued. “A pact was reached. A pact that you made not with me. Nor with the Red Priests. But with Bal Himself.”

Argus nodded slightly, an old wound on his left palm bursting into sudden pain, the cut he had made to swear a blood oath before the altar of Bal.

“I come to ask when that pact will be fulfilled.”

Again, there was a surge of fury that wanted to swat this insolent rodent into an unrecognizable lump of bleeding pain on the floor, but Argus resisted once more. A pact with Bal was not to be taken lightly, and certainly not with the God’s scepter in his hand.

“When Alston’s Fey with its bridges intact is in my hands, I shall give over the Cathedral there to the worship of mighty Bal,” said Argus, and the scepter gleamed with sudden light at the words. The Cathedral at Alston’s Fey was the third largest in all the Southlands and renowned for its beauty. “And as the other cities fall to my armies, so shall their cathedrals be given up.”

Al-Luthrax bowed deeply and said, “So has the Anointed One spoken. So shall his will be done.”

Without warning, Argus put both hands on the scepter, and a green burst of energy shot forth to envelop the Priest and hold him helpless. The man’s eyes bulged with fear as he sensed Argus digging deep within the Ohric for the power he sought.

Argus’ hands trembled slightly as he forced the Ohric to continue, and he said through gritted teeth, “Alone, you can speak lies to one and all, Priest. But in the presence of the scepter of your God, you may speak only truth. Look! Look now into the green flames of the Ohric, and speak the truth that lies within!”

The man was staring at the scepter as if beholding his own death, and the hairs visible beneath his black half-helm actually began to smolder.

“Whither are our armies bound after the crossing of the Delmar River?” Argus demanded, and the Ohric surged against him, trying to resist the command. Argus held on grimly with both hands, his will unbreakable, though the reaction of the scepter told him much. The thing had expected him to guilelessly accept its subtle machinations and except them as his own ideas. Just as Regnar had.

“To the Monastery of the Rock, known also as the Sanctuary,” Al-Luthrax said in a strangled voice that was not his own.

The Sanctuary! The mythical fortress said to have been built to protect unspeakable secrets and guarded by an echelon of warrior monks! So it really exists! marveled Argus.

“To what end?”

“To break the walls and give access to the tunnels below.”

Argus’ eyes widened in shock. The forbidden tunnels beneath the Sanctuary! What madness was this? Death a thousand times over was said to lurk in those black corridors, and the guardian monks were trained to kill anyone who tried to break the seals on the doors that led to those tunnels. The interdiction by the Church came from the earliest days, the reasons now lost in antiquity, but it was whispered the Sanctuary had been established solely to deny access to those fell tunnels to any and all beings.

The Ohric bucked again, almost breaking Argus’ hold, and he knew he would be able to hold the scepter against its will for only moments longer. There was one final question to which he must have an answer.

“When shall my death find me?” he snarled, the muscles of his arms cramping from the exertions. “When shall I know my end is nigh?”

“When the door opens and the orange light gleams forth,” came the strange voice from the mouth of the Priest. “Then and only then shall your death be assured.”

With a final jerk, the Ohric broke his concentration, and the beam dissipated, allowing the Priest to collapse in a gasping heap. Argus himself fell backwards, bracing against the throne to keep himself from falling, and he stared at the scepter now in a combination of defiance and fear.

You have committed sacrilege, the Ohric said, but there was no anger or passion in its cold voice.

“The tunnels…” he gasped. “…the forbidden tunnels…beneath the Sanctuary. What could you possibly seek there?”

Ask that of Great Bal, said the scepter. In His mind alone is to be found the answer.

“The forces of Gemsbrook and Warhaven must be destroyed first,” said Argus, gaining control again of his breathing. “That must be our first objective.”

With our forces combined, we shall have enough strength to achieve both ends.

The crumpled form of Al-Luthrax made a moaning sound from the floor, an indication he was stirring back to life.

“Except the one leads to life and the other to death,” murmured Argus.

In that, you are wrong, corrected the Ohric. All roads lead to death. Some just take longer than others to arrive.

CHAPTER 6

Words on the Rooftops

Jhan shoved another piece of steaming meat into his mouth, his tongue wincing from the heat and the spice, a small dribble of juice running down his chin. He sucked air in to cool his enflamed taste-buds, but that did not stop him from skewering another piece of meat and preparing to send it the way of its fellow. He wasn’t quite sure what animal had given its life for this meal, and the meat was highly spiced in the manner of the Southlands (much heavier than the Greenwood where spices were rare), but he was already wondering if it would be impolite to ask for a second serving.

“You might try a different campfire,” the Voice advised him. “I suspect there may be some plainer fare available somewhere in this wide camp.”

Jhan glanced around at the group of six soldiers who were gathered around the one boiling pot of meat and vegetables, but they were all paying attention to their own plates. It dawned on him that they could not have been mess mates for long, or there would have been at least some talk around the meal. Instead, the men had their eyes downward and were focused on eating.

Beyond their little group, the camp fires went on to the limit of sight, each with its little ring of hungry soldiers, though some were chatting amicably over the meal while others were as silent as his own group.

“Those fellow over there wear the uniform of Norealm,” the Voice observed. “I would expect their meal would be a little less fiery.”

“You can taste the food also, can’t you?” Jhan asked in his mind.

“I am trying not to.”

Jhan sopped up the spicy gravy with the last piece of meat and put it into his mouth, rolling it across his tongue and paying particular attention to the flavor.

He suddenly noticed that all of his messmates had stopped eating and were staring intently at a spot directly above his head with expressions that varied from surprise to awe. He turned and found Shannon standing behind him, motionless, as if entranced by the stares of the soldiers. He knocked his plate clean and mumbled a thank you as he placed it in his pack and stood up. Then he took Shannon by the arm and led her firmly away from the campfire. But she went only reluctantly, unable to tear her eyes away, as if tied to them by some invisible chain.

“What is it?” he asked.

She blinked, distracted, then answered, “Adella. I can’t find Adella.”

“She went into the Fey,” he replied. “She told me nothing other than to wait. I think she is scouting out the best positions for the coming battle.”

She nodded, but the issue was already forgotten, the soldiers eclipsing all else.

“What is it?” he asked again. “Why do you watch them so?”

“Their eyes follow me wherever I go, desperate eyes, anxious eyes,” she said softly, as if speaking only to herself. “I’ve felt it since first we entered the camp, and it grows by the hour, sharpens by the minute. I can see it in their faces, hear it in the words they feel yet cannot speak.”

Jhan studied the way she stared at them, openly, as if they shared some terrible knowledge, an open secret that defied anyone’s ability to speak or deny. He had seen it growing within her, this strange awareness, almost a foreshadowing of destiny, and it scared him.

“They look to you for hope?” he asked and shivered as she slowly shook her head.

“They do not look to me to save their lives,” she whispered, frightened by the words. “They wish only that I might give some meaning to their deaths.”

Jhan felt a great silence settling over him, his own thoughts and those of the Voice quieted by the sound of doom. Then he felt the Presence stir, and with a sudden jolt of alarm, he realized the Presence was interested in this woman, interested in probing, interested in testing.

“Do you believe this is what fate has prepared for you?” it asked. “Is this why you have come forth from the Greenwood?”

Her jaw opened, and she turned to him in surprise. Then a frown settled on her brow as she considered the suggestion, her eyes sweeping the encampment and seeing it in a new light.

“The calling I felt when I followed my Father…” she said softly.

“He was the only warrior you knew,” continued the Voice. “You said the calling you felt was vague, as if it somehow went beyond your Father. Did you perhaps feel the call of these men even then?”

Savagely, Jhan spun himself around, sudden fury overpowering the grip of the Presence, and he forced himself to take a few halting steps away.

“You will not put such thoughts into her head!” he snarled, doing no more than mouthing the words, though they were shouted with all the strength he possessed inside himself.

“She is a piece in a much larger puzzle,” the Voice replied, though it showed some surprise at Jhan’s sudden strength. “I must know how she fits into this greater scheme.”

“She has her Father’s spirit, that is why she came forth!” he snapped back. “You will not tie her to this doomed army!”

“I seek to tie her to nothing,” said the Voice. “I only follow where the strands lead me.”

“Jhan?”

Slowly he turned back to her, forcing her expression under control again. But the Presence was re-asserting its dominance.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her face reflecting her alarm.

“Your loyalties are divided,” said the Voice. “You seek to return your Father from banishment, yet you feel the immediate need of this army calling out to you. The Woman Adella claims you serve both masters by fighting to gain access to Stalbus. But those goals must diverge at some point yet to come. When that choice is upon you, will you take the road that offers a small chance to save a single man, or the wider road that insures that you will save many?”

The expression on Shannon’s face put a physical pain in his chest that actually made him cringe. Even the Voice became aware of that look and grew silent.

“When we rescued the hostages from Nargost Castle, you told me that we needed to trust to hope and not to plans,” she said slowly. “Have you changed so much that you no longer see the wisdom in your own words?”

Jhan opened his mouth to respond, his own voice freed at last, but he forced it slowly closed again. He could not unsay the words the Voice had spoken, and he would only confuse the issue more if he tried. He met Shannon’s eyes openly, with his chin up and an apology on his face, giving her the final, unchallenged word. She studied him, a frown creasing her forehead, but some of the anger had left.

“I will stay with the army as long as I may,” she said with finality. “I do this to honor my pledge to Mandrik and Clarissa, regardless of what gain Adella seeks. But when we reach the crossroads of which you speak, I will take the road that takes me to my Father. That is the way of hope, the road we have ever followed.”

Jhan closed his eyes and bowed his head in quiet acknowledgement, but when he opened his eyes again, Shannon was looking back at the army, though this time, her expression was clear and hard, a decision made.

“If Adella is seeking a sanctuary for us in the coming battle, she is wasting her time,” she said.

“Where do you plan to be?” he asked with some alarm.

“Where my Father would have been. At the forefront of the battle with the Avenger leading the way.”

* * * * *

The relentless pressures of Hell were slowly, inevitably destroying Darius Inglorion.

The entire realm seemed an oppressive weight pushing down upon him, with every passing moment adding another pebble and another and another, until he must surely fall and be crushed beneath that inexorable burden. It seemed a heroic effort just to move one foot in front of the next, for there could be no destination, no goal, no hope in this world, no chance for anything pertaining to life. Hell was a vampire sucking the essence out of the human soul and leaving nothing but cold despair in its place. It even took effort to breathe, to force the cold noxious stench that passed for air into his lungs time after time, and Darius wondered uneasily if he were being slowly poisoned by these foul vapors. Not that it mattered. If poison was the only fuel for his lungs and body, then poison must be made to serve.

The worst was the inescapable presence of evil, an overwhelming sense of despair and pain emanating from the rocks, the gnarled trees, the very air around them, the hopelessness of death that might be a part of this dread place or an artifact of all the spirits that had passed this way. The darkest den of evil and maliciousness in the real world was nothing to the power of Hell, and Darius felt that he would never fear evil again were he ever to emerge from this chasm.

Despite the oppression, he strove onward, slowly, steadily, relentlessly. The memories of Adella, of Argus, of Shannon were goads that drove him forward, that refused to let him lay down in quiet acceptance of death, and he was sustained by a lifetime of struggle as if all his experiences had been to prepare him for this last, ultimate test. This race is not yet finished, he told himself grimly as he dragged one foot in front of the next again and yet again. And again. And again.

Still, even his great heart would not have survived for long were he not protected by the light that surrounded him, the Spirit Light, Hoarace called it, the strength and courage of the soul forming a protective barrier against the corrosive evil of Hell. More, the endless forest of thorn trees that Hoarace named the Winterwood would have been impassible by any being of flesh and blood, but Illoghen was smashing a path for them, uprooting the twisted trunks and crushing the thick branches as if they were no more than twigs. The creature’s single minded fury seemed a magnet that drew Darius ever onward.

The comfort of companionship, however, went far beyond mere physical or even spiritual support. As time passed, Darius was coming to realize that the final and perhaps most important force sustaining him was the simple sense of camaraderie, of fellow beings who were sharing his journey and his burdens, who cared about his fate. The spirits of the damned that floated past them on their way to the Pit traveled that final road alone, isolated from everything by their personal despair, carrying all the pains of a lifetime without another soul to hear or to care. Loneliness was the deadliest power of the Nether World, and Darius found himself bolstered not just by the actions and caring of his companions but by the sense of friendship he felt for them in turn.

There were occasional rifts in the ground, smoldering crevices that seemed like smaller versions of the pit they had now left far behind, passages to the flames far below, and Illoghen was making no effort to avoid them. As they passed one, a small devil leapt out of the flames with astounding speed, its’ mouth gaping for the taste of human blood, and it was clawing upwards at Hoarace who clung helplessly to the Paladin’s back. Darius thrust back with an armored elbow that knocked the monster against one of the twisted trees and impaled it on the heavy thorns, and then killed it with his dagger as it pulled itself free, one more attack deflected, one more enemy slain, and a few more precious steps closer to their goal.

“You need to rest, my friend,” Hoarace said softly.

“I am not tired,” replied Darius stubbornly, his eyes on the back of the huge being relentlessly pounding a road for them.

The Priest let out a small sigh. “You have no idea the toll this journey is taking upon you. Illoghen!” The huge creature stopped and turned at its name. “We will rest here awhile.”

Darius gratefully sat Hoarace down and settled himself on the ground, finding he was indeed happy for the rest. But his mind now was free to wander down the many roads that beckoned him, many of them leading in directions he did not wish to go. Instead, he looked ahead to the sheer cliffs that were now towering close at hand, climbing to impossible heights, their summits lost in the distance.

“These mountains,” he asked. “The way back to the world is over them?”

“Yes.”

Darius shook his head, unable to understand the answer. “So there is a solid, physical path that will simply take us back to the real world?”

Illoghen was coming back towards them, its dark face attentive, as anxious as Darius for the answers.

“It is solid enough,” said Hoarace. “Though there is nothing simple about it.”

“But…but that would mean the damned can simply turn around and retrace their steps! If so, there would be no one left within the Nether Regions!”

“These souls come here by their own choice, not by any compulsion. It is possible for one or all to leave again, though that is a rare event indeed.”

“They come by choice? They are not sent forth as punishment for their crimes…by…the gods?”

Hoarace’s eyes widened. “Think you that Seledan who is known as the Merciful would condemn his children to such a place by His choice? Would any father, however strict, send his offspring into eternal pain as a punishment? No, my friend. You know nothing of our God if you can even consider such a view.”

Darius frowned. He had always been troubled by the concept of eternal damnation, but there had seemed to be no other reasonable explanation. “But if they are not condemned for punishment, how is that the evil souls descend here into the fire?”

“We learn much during our time upon the world, and our souls are shaped by our experiences and our actions,” Hoarace explained. “When a person dies, his soul is set free to wander, but it retains much of what it learned in life. These souls slowly gravitate towards others of their kind, though whether they seek companionship or are drawn to some common source is a point of academic debate.”

“Why in the name of wonder would any soul enter the Nether Regions of their own volition?!”

“Migrate is the term our scholars use,” said the Priest. “As I am sure you know, there are levels to the Abyss, just as there are levels to Heaven. At death, a soul is predisposed from its life experiences to rise to the Blessed Realms or sink into the Region of Shadows. They sink to a depth or rise to a height based on how heavily those experiences weigh upon them.”

Darius stood back, blinking at this entirely new perspective. It made startling sense, explained all the known facts, and it spared Mirna from the role of heartless disciplinarian who would send millions of souls into infinite torment as terrible retribution for a few passing years of sin.

He shook his head slowly, as if afraid of the weightiness of this new perspective. “You are saying these souls are not individually judged by Mirna. That they…they…”

“Effectively, they judge themselves.”

Darius wanted to roar at such heresy, a lifetime of teachings rebelling against the words, and yet he felt an odd acceptance, a sudden sense that it fit perfectly into the world. He noticed Illoghen watching him intently, and he wondered at the creature’s interest in such a subtle subject. Then he realized it was reading his thoughts, learning the significance of these things by his reaction, and after a momentarily defensive flinch, he relaxed his guard again. There were worse ways for Illoghen to learn of the world.

“Tell me,” Darius asked Hoarace softly. “Tell me about the Nether Regions.”

“The first level of the Lower Realms is called the City of Vacillion,” the Priest continued. “All must enter here, but the weakest of souls remain, those that have been scarred by evil or whose spirits have been injured by the world. They are not evil themselves, but they have been weighted down and cannot rise. This is a place of eternal doubt, where the denizens have not the confidence to raise themselves nor the anger to fall farther.”

Darius nodded slowly and thought of the people who accepted the crimes committed against them, rather than resisting or even seeking vengeance.

“The second level is the Plains of Desolation, and in some ways, this is the most terrible of all the Nether Regions. For here the truly lost souls gather, they that have abandoned even the smallest spark of hope. They do not seek to harm anyone, but they are so broken and helpless that they can do no more than wander through the wastelands forever, seeing nothing, not even the other lost souls who share that empty landscape.”

Darius swallowed, his heart following the map much closer than his mind. “And the next level?”

“The battlefields,” replied the Priest. “The place of eternal strife and violence. This was the region from which I believed you had descended when I first saw you. Here, even some of the people with the highest callings come, for they become so stained with killing that they cannot escape from it and must wage war even unto the end of time. But it is not for warriors alone. Those that harbor vengeance and hatred come here to try to vent the pent-up rages that Life has left them with, seeking an antidote by drinking more of the same poison.”

Darius said nothing, but his expression spoke volumes.

“Yes, my friend,” Hoarace said softly, reading him correctly. “This is the very place that you must fear. Killing is never a good or a worthy act, but it is sometimes a necessary one, though the weight of taking even a single life can pull a man down into oblivion. Atonement is the balm for that wound, whether it come from priest or prayer or from deep within your own soul. You must cleanse yourself with the realization that while you may be forced to kill, you are not inherently a killer.”

Darius said nothing, but the man had spoken to a great darkness that existed within him, had blackened his soul since his first battle, and it was as if a tiny light had entered into that void, not a promise of salvation, but a first gleam of hope that such salvation existed.

“These battlefields are the next level above this?” he asked heavily.

“Yes. The lost souls are killed many times on the battlefields, each time rising again as their hatred brings them back, though they lose a little of their substance through each death until they become the pale spirits you see passing through the woods around us. They fall into the Pit, and there, they are twisted and corrupted by the amassed evil of all who have come before them, and the very strongest of these, when they are sufficiently prepared, sally forth again as devils to visit their terrible trials upon all living things.”

Darius let out a deep breath as if he were being deflated by that dread knowledge, but Hoarace brought his face closer to whisper reassuringly, “Do not despair, my friend. For remember that the same process is occurring in the Blessed Realms. And those souls properly seasoned and prepared issue forth also from the Heavens. And they are called Angels.”

* * * * *

Adella climbed up a slanted roof of a warehouse in Alston’s Fey, moving with care, even though the Church bell had already struck the middle of the night and the dark was an excellent shelter. The lights of the Fey had begun to dim as honest folk found their beds and the rest of the populace sought the comfort of darkness, a nightly ritual that continued even though two hostile armies were likely bearing down on the city. The river was a ribbon of blackness, cut only by the light of the Merchant’s Bridge, but close as it was, she couldn’t distinguish the river smell from the myriad flavors of the Fey that seemed to gather here in the still air of the night.

She was careful to stay in the darker shadows to avoid being spotted from another housetop, but she wasn’t particularly careful about making noise. Indeed, several times she deliberately let her shoes grind against the wooden slats of the roof as a diplomatic way of announcing her approach. Too much silence on this particular roof, she knew, just might get her killed this night.

She reached the peak of the eves and scurried quickly along the ridge to a large sky-light that looked down on the contents of the building below. She was careful to keep her silhouette low, but as she neared the sky-light, she received ample proof that she had been observed.

“Good evening, Adella,” said a voice from the shadows, and even though she had been expecting it, she still started at the sound. She peered ahead, and it was only the trace of elven blood in her heritage that enabled her to distinguish a figure sitting quietly in the lee of the sky-light. She skipped lightly over the peak and approached the sky-light from below, yielding the initiative to the figure in the darkness and thus assuring him of her peaceful intentions.

She settled herself in the same position as the figure at two arms length distance, close enough for a whisper to be heard and far enough that no attack could be launched unseen.

“You’re a hard man to find, Tallarand,” she said softly. “I had to pay some heavy gold and threaten some dangerous people to get even a clue to your whereabouts.”

“It would seem my popularity has grown considerably over the last few days,” he said airily. “My beautiful house on the bluff burned to the ground last night with a speed that defies natural law, and one of my most trusted operatives in town turned up drowned in the Delmar. Two others have mysteriously disappeared, and I trust they are in hiding rather than floating face-down farther down river.”

Adella’s eyebrows rose slightly as the magnitude of the attack broke over her. She had already heard of the burning of his house, but the loss of three of his major operatives was a heavy blow indeed. Tallarand was acknowledged as one of the premier thief lords in all of the Southlands, and no one would dare challenge his authority in the northeastern provinces, including the Drift. Nowhere, however, was his power greater than in Alston’s Fey, and he had actually established himself as an honest citizen here, his people dominating the underworld of smugglers, robbers, and fences that thrived in the open city. Now, someone had tried to break that hold in a single night.

“Why would Argus move against you with such power?” she asked.

“I was given a chance to be of service to the new Protector of the Southlands by betraying my city,” he answered. “My gentle answer has apparently been taken as an abrupt rejection, and this is the Lord Protector’s response. I am currently formulating my reply.” In the darkness, his voice hardened as he continued, “Now if we could turn to the impending threat?”

She nodded. “Clarissa and Mandrik believe the Black Watch is already on the move, but they have no hard information.”

“Two full divisions left Monarch some three days ago and headed northeast by forced march,” the man said, and Adella’s eyes widened. That was some 20,000 men who apparently had marched on less than 24 hours notice. “A partial division leaves today and will make directly for the Fey at normal speed. They will draw the attention of any spies and allow the real threat to close from the north. But the Black Watch already has a presence in the Fey.”

Adella became very still. “How many?”

“Of that, I cannot be certain. My guess is 50, and they will have recruited perhaps a hundred more.”

“Enough to storm and hold one bridge. Which one, I wonder?”

“There is no way to determine that,” replied Tallarand. “Perhaps even they do not know yet. But I would be most concerned for the Merchant’s Bridge.”

Adella nodded again, turning her eyes to the lighted span over the darkened river. The Merchant’s Bridge was the farthest north, closest to the approaching army, and it was the best built, able to allow entire caravans to pass unhindered; and therefore, entire armies.

“I am informed the Commodore has assembled his fleet at the river congruence,” Tallarand added casually.

The river pirates! Their dread leader, Morgus, was the commander of a motley fleet of swift river boats that normally operated independently, and he styled himself Commodore when the vessels gathered together. If they were massed at the congruence of the Cascade and Ice Flow Rivers to the north, it could only mean they were targeting the Merchant’s Bridge.

“What precautions have been taken?” she asked.

“Not enough. My forces have been weakened so that I now must wait for the Black Watch to commit themselves before I respond,” Tallarand admitted. “But they have struck only at my tools of convenience. Not at my tools of preference.”

“Those tools would be?”

“Dorence of the riverfront. Alark and Thendis down from Norealm. Javis and his little brother. Even Paklance seems to have remembered he owes me a favor.”

Adella chuckled in appreciation. “A redoubtable crew, I freely admit. But what can even those six swords do against such an onslaught as we are expecting?”

“The right people but also the right weapons,” Tallarand said, and he produced a dagger from beneath his cloak. It was long, very thin, and sharpened on both edges. “Even the wisest and most powerful can overlook the subtle.”

“A bargeman’s knife,” said Adella with a shrug. The weapon was used by bargemen to reach between bundles and bales of goods to cut ropes that were out of reach of normal knives. “What subtlety is there in that?”

“Stand with us at the Merchant’s Bridge and I shall show you.”

Adella cocked her head, hearing more than the words. There was a question that needed to be asked, a question whose answer would determine her own actions, and she asked it now in response to his direct request. “Even if you were to lose all the Fey, that can be no more than a tenth of your true wealth. Why, then, would you choose to stand by a city that may already be lost?”

“Perhaps I simply don’t like to be pushed,” he said.

“You have the patience to pay back an affront in your own time and manner with particularly deadly effect. Why take the brunt of your enemy’s attack?”

“I’ve a reputation to maintain,” he replied. “When my people are killed, I am expected to act, or I shall lose the respect which is my strongest asset.”

“That is true if your assailant were a rival from another city. Not against a duke. And most assuredly not against Argus. I ask you again. Why do you stand by the Fey?”

Tallarand looked out over the darkened streets of the city to the black line of the river and the high bluffs beyond as he mulled his answer to Adella, perhaps even to himself.

“I grew up on these very streets,” he said softly. “It was here I learned the hard lessons of survival, here I perfected my craft, and here I laid the foundations of my life. And it is here I belong, not up on the bluffs above the city.”

“You sound almost happy for the challenge.”

“I have fought for years with paper and words from behind strong walls adorned with rich paintings,” he said. “I have built defenses such that even the most powerful of my enemies have not dared to test. But a mongrel cannot change his linage, and there is still much of the street rogue in me. Yes. If truth be told, some part of me felt caged in that house and relishes the feel of a knife in my hands once more.”

Adella nodded imperceptibly in the darkness, her soul hearing, for her story was the same as his with only a few less chapters written. For people who clawed and fought for everything they had, a mansion could be as much a prison as the dankest dungeon.

“You stopped me in the stairway of the Leathermaker’s Guild from making a fatal mistake,” she said slowly. “I would now discharge that debt. Stay low and safe till the armies pass, and we shall play a pretty game in the streets of the Fey with those that remain.”

The figure nodded in appreciation, and even in the darkness, she could make out a tight smile on his face.

“The time for street games is now past,” Tallarand said, and there was steel in his words. “Just as Jalan’s Drift is your city, so Alston’s Fey is mine. You survived the loss of the Drift. We will see if I survive the battle for the Fey.”

Adella shook her head slowly. “Foolishness. Foolishness from one who knows better.”

“We must all be fools at some time in our lives, and this is simply my time.”

“Then count me fool as well. I will be with you at the Merchant’s Bridge.”

CHAPTER 7

Alston’s Fey

Argus walked swiftly through the halls of the Citadel of the Black Watch, the massive fortress that dominated his capital of Monarch, and while there was the usual scowl on his face, he was smiling inside. This was the true center of his power, the headquarters of the secret army he had been steadily building since he had ascended the throne of Corland, and now it was the weapon with which he would ascend the throne of all the Southlands. An entourage of a dozen members of the Black Watch kept pace with him, and they were taking turns relaying pieces of information that was steadily pouring in from dozens of sources.

“The armies of Gemsbrook and Warhaven have encamped on the eastern shore of the Delmar River,” one colonel was saying. “They appear stronger than we first estimated.”

“Their count?” growled Argus.

“Certainly seven thousands,” the man related, struggling to keep pace as the group swung around a corner. “They have gathered units from the other principalities…”

“It is of no matter,” Argus replied. “They save us the trouble of chasing down the renegades.”

“The Silver Horde has completed its voyage down the Cascade River and is now less than ten leagues from the Fey,” another man said, taking up the tale. “The enemy…”

“The enemy knows exactly where they are,” countered Argus. “Clarissa and Mandrik may be weak, but they are not fools. They know the Horde’s location better than you, of that have no doubt.”

“They are within two day’s march, and…” The man was abruptly silenced when Argus raised a fist and an invisible force struck him to the floor. The group continued on at the same pace, leaving the man to struggle slowly back to his feet, his face bloodied.

“I do not need to be told the rate of an army’s march,” the Duke said calmly to the others. “What of the Black Watch?”

There was a heartbeat of hesitation, but before a frown could form on Argus’ brow, another officer said, “All three divisions are on the move as you directed, My Liege. They have taken two separate lines of march in order to disguise their movement. The first division is still a full day’s march from the Fey, but the other two will be in position by sundown.”

“That is well,” said Argus, though he had expected nothing less. The Black Watch had been in preparation for this very move since their inception.

“There is other news, My Liege,” a young major said. “Officials in the Fey have arrested Alstan d’Brey and are holding him for trial. We are…”

Argus stopped abruptly and swung around upon the man who blanched but held his ground. “Alstan d’Brey? The Fey’s senior councilman?”

The man nodded. Argus had been in contact with d’Brey, and the man had already signaled a willingness to come to an arrangement, an arrangement that could be vital to the success of the effort to seize the bridges of the Fey.

“What is the charge?” Argus demanded.

“Public drunkenness and lewd behavior.”

Argus blinked for an instant and then threw back his head and roared with laughter. “So someone with brains is advising our enemies. We shall have to discover the source.”

He turned and led the group through a massive double doors into a training room where a dozen men were engaged in various forms of combat, but Argus ignored them as he headed for another set of doors across the room.

“But My Liege,” asked General Kaltron cautiously, “will this not make our efforts to seize the bridges more difficult?”

“I do not care about difficulty, General, only about success,” he answered as he approached the doors and threw them open. “We have many ways to achieve our ends.”

The group hesitated on the threshold as the pent-up stench of dung and carrion flowed out of the room and assaulted them. There was a piercing eagle-shriek of welcome, and the men could only stare at the monstrous winged creatures, half-eagle, half-lion, that flapped their wings and strained against the iron chains on their legs at the appearance of the party.

Griffins. Not long ago, there had been only eight ready to fly. Now the stable was filled, and the cries of nearly three score of the monsters filled the air.

Argus went up and slowly petted the head of the nearest and largest beast, unconcerned by the vicious beak and savage eyes of the creature. “I shall send word to the Silver Horde to march through the night. We strike at dawn.”

There was tension behind him, seasoned soldiers presented with an obviously flawed plan, and Argus wondered if any of them would be so stupid as to question his orders.

“The Silver Horde will have no time to scout the enemy’s positions,” General Kaltron said carefully. “They will take heavy losses in turn.”

Argus almost smiled. Kaltron had simply warned him of the consequence of his decision, a proper and prudent action by a subordinate. It told Argus he had not yet frightened the courage out of his men, and that brought both relief and anger.

“I care nothing for the Northings and less about the Walking Dead,” he answered. “As long as they tie down the armies of Mandrik and Clarissa, they will have served their purpose.”

He turned and stared at his generals, and even the bravest shrank back at that look. “I shall not be denied the Fey.”

* * * * *

Darius stood at the bottom of the cliff that rose abruptly into the sky, almost as if a wall that had been erected in their path. There had been no foothills, no transition, no warning, just the rough ground exploding upwards in this intimidating mountain with its barren face and nearly vertical ascent. They had made remarkable time, thanks to Illoghen’s tireless assault on the Winterwood, but Darius found himself hesitating before this next obstacle.

He reached out to touch the rock and was appalled at its vaguely greasy texture,

“The stones of Hell are not like the stones of our world,” Hoarace explained, the Priest still perched on his back. “They have as much of a psychic as a physical component to them. The mountain will change as you climb, and I expect the rocks will become closer to what you would normally expect.”

“Come! Come! We go!” rumbled Illoghen, mounting the cliff with one huge clawed hand and motioning impatiently with the other.

Yes, but I have nothing to break my fall should I slip, thought Darius glumly as he eyed the creature’s huge wings.

He reluctantly began to remove the plate armor that had protected him throughout his many journeys, placing it on the cruel ground as if abandoning a friend. He remembered the day he had taken the suit from the Containment Realm: was it only a few weeks ago in the Greenwood?

Hoarace watched this by-play and then said quietly, “The mountains of Hell are also not like any mountains you know. The struggle here is not to conquer stone, but to conquer your own doubts and fears. You will find the strength to climb not in your arms, but in your soul.”

“Come! We go!” roared Illoghen again.

Darius took a deep breath as he swung the Priest onto his back again, and he put his hands on the rock to find a steady hold. Then doubt touched him, and he stopped, his eyes going to the swirling red sky into which the mountain seemed to rise.

“Have courage,” Hoarace said simply. “Rising to higher levels in the Nether Regions is always the best direction. It is not just escaping from the horror and danger of the Pit. It is the lightening of the spirit as one emerges from one sphere of darkness into one where there is a little more trace of light, a little closer in distance and form to the world we left behind. It is the shedding of despair.”

Darius nodded grimly and hauled himself up, taking the next step in a long journey.

* * * * *

Shannon crept along the riverfront of Stonefall Island in the chill pre-dawn, a light mist from the Delmar River adding to the night cold, and she was trying to keep her bearings in an alien environment. Not far ahead, she could make out a series of lights that marked the Merchant’s Bridge, but her view was continuously interrupted by the mass of buildings through which they were passing. This was the warehouse district, the economic heart of the Fey, and even at this hour, she could hear the sounds of the first of the bargemen and rivermen readying for the day’s trade despite an enemy army bearing down upon them. She fumed with annoyance at the implications of the sound. If they didn’t find their intended location soon, someone was bound to spot them, and the resulting challenges would surely alert any lurking enemies to their presence.

Shannon shivered beneath her light cloak and was grateful she had refused the bulky chainmail Clarissa had offered her. Adella had taught her to fight by using her speed and dexterity, but that was in individual combat, not a clash of armies, and she realized she might come to regret that decision before the day was out. She wondered if any of the three score figures following behind her were feeling the cold as badly as she. Very few, she decided. Their heavier frames were armor against the chill, and their experience was armor against the fear. And none of them had the dread of failure sitting on their shoulders, the anxiety of being a young girl asked to lead men in her first battle. What would be said if the legendary Maid who had fought against Regnar’s champions should…

“So this is where you plan to lead the armies of the Southlands?” muttered Jhan beside her. Despite the tone of the question, she was actually grateful for the interruption.

“It is the point of greatest danger,” she answered softly.

“So claims Adella.”

“So claims everyone who has studied the plan,” she replied. “Mandrik wouldn’t have sent these men here if he had had any doubts.”

“And he wouldn’t have sent them at all if he knew you were going to take charge of them,” Jhan shot back. “He thinks you’re up on the bluff above the city.”

“I am,” she answered with a wry grin. “Can’t you see me?”

There, on the high bluffs perhaps three leagues away, were the bonfires of a military camp with about a dozen tents set in orderly fashion. A huge red signal fire was burning to the north, the traditional warning of an enemy marching southward on the eastern shore, but that fire had been burning for more than a day and showed no change. Several figures were just visible, far too small to identify at that distance, but even as they watched, one figure appeared to draw a sword that bathed it in a silvery light. The individual pointed the blade to the heavens as if in dedication, then pointed it to the north in the direction of the enemy. For several moments it held the pose and then with a graceful gesture, it scabbarded the sword, the light immediately quenched.

“Aren’t you inspired?” asked Shannon.

“Men fight and die for symbols,” Jhan answered simply. “You are better than many that have been offered them in the past.”

Shannon turned to stare at him, but in the semi-darkness she could see nothing of his expression. Anything she was about to say was interrupted by a low hissing sound ahead and to the left. There she could just make out the half-opened door of one of the warehouses, and as she hurried toward it, a shadowy figure appeared from within.

“Get them in here, quick!” whispered Adella. “Who’s in charge?”

“Captain Landris of the Warhaven infantry,” Shannon answered, and one of the first figures through the door nodded in acknowledgement.

“Get your men settled as quietly as you can, Captain,” Adella directed him. She pointed towards the northern end of the building, “These wagon doors open out to the approaches of the Merchant’s Bridge. When the time comes, you will be charging through those doors to support the Bridge guards. Do you have any questions?”

“No,” came the whispered answer, and the man turned to direct his men into position. It was a sign of their experience that they filed through the narrow door and into their places with a minimum of noise and confusion in the darkened building.

“Why are we here?” Jhan demanded as the last of the men were entering. “Both armies are more than a day’s march away. There will be no battle until tomorrow at the earliest, and more likely, the day after.”

“The Black Watch will attack the western defenses before dawn breaks this very day,” Adella replied. “I know nothing of the position of the Northings, but I am quite certain they will strike at the same time as the Black Watch. The first blow, however, will fall here, at the Bridge. You can wager your head on that.”

Shannon glanced back at the sixty heavily armed men packed into the warehouse behind them, the only force they could wangle out of Mandrik, and she prayed they would be enough. But the Duke had not been niggardly when it came to the quality of the men. Steady and battle-hardened, they were waiting quietly for a contest that would cost most of them their lives, and the only questions any of them had raised was when and where the battle was to be joined.

“This is the Merchant’s Bridge,” Jhan argued. “It is the biggest and therefore the best protected. Argus would have a better chance with the Stockman’s Bridge in the middle of the island. Or even the Fisher’s Span at the southern tip.”

“The blow falls here.”

Jhan let out a tiny sigh of exasperation. “Everyone knows the bridge is set with a dozen firebombs to set it ablaze in moments if it is in danger of being taken. Argus would win nothing but some charred spans left standing in the river.”

“You’ve seen these firebombs?”

Jhan paused, then rallied and said, “Two of them.”

“Inspected them?”

“Well…no…”

“I checked them less than an hour ago,” she said. “They had been soaked in water. The bombs are useless.”

“How can that be?”

Now it was Adella who sighed. “Because everyone knew about the firebombs, everyone was counting on those firebombs, and Argus did not want them to go off.”

“Alright,” interjected Shannon. “The bombs won’t detonate. What do you expect us to achieve with only sixty men?”

Adella looked at her with the hint of an approving smile. “You have to buy time.”

“Time? For who?”

“For the militia. Tallarand and I have arranged for the First Company of the Fey’s militia to be stationed here on Stonefell Island, and they have at least three wizards who are capable of casting fireballs.”

“Army wizards,” snorted Jhan with disdain. “It would take all three of them to set even a portion of that span ablaze.”

“Exactly my point,” countered Adella. “The wizards will have to be close and undisturbed to cast their spells, and these men will have to make sure nothing occurs to stop them.”

“How is it that you were able to influence the placement of military units?” Jhan asked with a frown. “Is even the safety of the Fey itself for sale?”

“Not for money alone,” said the woman. “The commander of the First Company is an old friend who was willing to listen to reason. His superiors all had secrets they preferred to keep between themselves and Tallarand.”

Shannon blinked and wondered for a moment at the coincidence that Tallarand would be privy to so many secrets, and then she realized he had likely arranged long in advance for those men to have such secrets. She decided to change the subject. “Will you be accompanying us?”

“I will be at hand.”

“Striking from behind, no doubt,” said Jhan. His tone was neutral, but the words were again tinged with disdain.

“One skillful blow is worth a thousand wild ones,” she replied. “The time may yet come when you will be grateful for my skill.”

“We are grateful now,” said Shannon with a pointed look at Jhan.

“A fleet of boats!” came a quiet call from above. A soldier had been stationed at the one high window of the warehouse as a lookout, and the first hint of dawn was breaking the darkness. “A fleet is approaching from the north!”

“Morgus and his pirates for sure,” said Adella. “How many sail?”

There was a pause before the man replied, “Twenty two vessels by my count.”

“Twenty two! Each with at least a hundred men on board.”

“With less than half a score of the Fey’s flotilla to meet them.”

An army was tearing down the river, heading for the bridge.

“The white fire!” came a cry from the city. “The white fire is lit!”

They scrambled over to the island side of the warehouse and stared up at the high bluff above the city. There, towards the north, a huge bonfire blazed, its flames a pure white. It joined the massive red blaze that announced the approach of the Silver Horde.

“The warning,” said Shannon. “But there is a message to be read in it.”

Adella nodded. “White fire means a threat on the western bank, and the position of the fire means an attack from the north. The Black Watch is attacking just as I said.” She frowned as a second white fire burst to life beside the first and then a second red fire roared into existence as well. “A second beacon means the battle is about to be joined. On both banks of the river.”

Shannon walked quickly back over to the small window that looked out on the bridge, but while the guards were anxiously staring up at the twin fires on the bluff, there was no other sign of activity.

“Well?” asked Jhan. “Where is this wild force coming to storm the bridge?”

Shannon glanced at Adella then looked back out at the bridge before saying steadily, “If the pirates and the Black Watch are both coming from the north, it can only mean the target is the Merchant’s Bridge.”

Still her voice trailed away slightly, showing her uncertainty. She wanted to defend Adella, but the bridge looked as peaceful as a market day in Spring.

“There can be only one explanation,” said Adella softly. “If they aren’t storming the bridge, it’s because they already have it.”

“What?!”

“Captain Landris!” Adella called abruptly, and the leader of the army continent came forward. “Send six of your men up to the Bridge. Have them demand the four passwords for the day.”

The Captain was a younger man with long blonde hair, and he stared at her confused. “But Lady, there are only three passwords.”

“And if they are the real guards, they’ll know that,” she answered. “Press them hard for that fourth word, and have your men ready to storm the Bridge if they so much as falter. The wizards will not cast if they think the Bridge is still in the hands of the Fey. You must prove to them it is not.”

“Where are you going?” Jhan demanded as the woman made for the rear of the building.

“If what I suspect is true, I’m out of position,” she answered. Then she turned to Shannon. “These men will face death in a dozen forms this day. They will look to you for courage.”

The girl nodded slowly, a great stillness within her. “I can promise very little, but if all they seek is one who will stand steady until the end…yes, that I can do.”

*

As the soldiers made their way up to the bridge, Adella slipped down the steep riverbank and moved swiftly along the muddy shoreline to beneath the Merchant’s Bridge, the attention of the bridge guards distracted by the soldiers and the approaching pirates. The sun was just breaching the eastern horizon, and it revealed that the Canopy of Oblivion had moved steadily forward during the night, its first tendrils almost up to the Fey itself. So the Northings have stolen a march on us, she thought. What a surprise.

A thin rope dropped down as she approached, and when she grabbed it, it rose almost as swiftly as it had fallen. She was pulled up into the wooden framework that supported the deck of the bridge, and she found herself facing a familiar visage in the shadows.

“You are come just in time,” Tallarand said softly as the rope vanished back to where a half dozen murky figures had been hauling. A score more were in the shadows close to end of the Bridge behind her. “Morgus’ fleet is closing fast. There is still no sign of the raiders.”

“I think that is because they already have the Bridge,” Adella whispered back. Tallarand’s head shot upwards as if he was seeing the bottom of the bridge for the first time.

“The last guard relief came before dawn,” he whispered.

“So all that would be needed is a swift raid on the barracks and an officer who would hand command of the bridge over to people he did not recognize,” said Adella.

“Both easy enough,” admitted Tallarand as he slipped quickly along the tresses towards the middle of the structure. The Merchants Bridge stood high above the Delmar River to let boats pass unhindered, and it had a series of wooden arches beneath that supported the decking of the Bridge itself. Magic had been employed in the building of the Bridge, and it was said that magic was used to sustain it, but as she scrambled across the aged timbers after Tallarand, Adella had no doubt that a few well-placed fireballs would drop the entire span into the river.

There were angry words being exchanged from somewhere above, followed by a clash of steel that said the argument had escalated into a fight, and Adella’s experienced ears told her that a few swords were struggling against many. There were battle shouts and brave cries from the island side, and a sound like rolling thunder went roaring over them as the Bridge guard raced to the support of their brothers. Adella smiled to herself. The ploy was now revealed, and they were in perfect position.

Tallarand held up one hand and made a short gesture that told the people watching from the shadows that they should wait for his signal, but the next moment, the thunder subsided, telling them the battle had been fully joined. He pulled out a slender blade, and the feeble ray of light that made it through the decking revealed it as the same bargeman’s knife he had displayed earlier that night.

Adella could see nothing between the boards of the bridge except where the light was blocked out by something. She placed her own bargeman’s knife in position, struck upwards hard, and was rewarded with a scream of pain from above. An instant later, there was a thump as something hit the bridge above, and a second strike from Tallarand brought the scream to an abrupt halt. Adella swung left, found another lightless spot, and struck again with identical results as Tallarand finished the kill. Around them, the other three teams were exacting a similar toll from the trespassers above.

From out beneath the bridge, however, they could see the pirate fleet rushing down on the dozen vessels of the Fey’s flotilla that stood as the only defense for the bridge. In front were four sleek river galleys with twenty oars a side flying over the surface like titanic dragon flies, two in the lead, two more just behind. As she watched, the lead galleys rammed two of the flotilla’s ships head-on and turned them around. The second pair of pirate galleys rammed the helpless vessels amidships, the sound of splintering wood mixing with the screams of dying men.

The flotilla line had been breached.

*

Shannon had dispatched her third opponent when she nearly stumbled over two corpses that lay directly behind the man, and she blinked, shocked to find no enemy pressing her. There were more than a dozen dead in the same area, sprawled out as if slain by an invisible foe, and she wondered for a moment if they had been the victims of archers. But she saw no arrows. Then an enemy directly in front of her screamed as a blade from beneath the bridge cut upwards through his foot, and the man crumpled to the deck where his cries almost immediately came to an end.

“It would seem we have friends at work,” said Jhan.

She glanced at the river to see the tangle of wreckage from the pirate rams, the remaining ships of the Fey’s flotilla desperately trying to maneuver back into position after the breaching of their line, but even Shannon’s inexperienced eye could tell at a glance that they would fail. Half a dozen of the shark-like buccaneers were already sweeping past the line and closing on the bridge with astounding speed, carried forward by current, oars, and sail.

Shannon looked at the remaining foes on the bridge and could see the doubt in their eyes as they waited for more death to come up from between the floorboards, and it was all the encouragement she needed. With a cry, she raised Sarinian above her head and charged across the gap.

*

“That’s Morgus’ flagship, the Dragon’s Maul,” said Tallarand, pointing to the lead vessel with a figurehead of a ferocious dragon about to spew fire.

“Your men are in position?” asked Adella tightly.

“Yes,” he answered. “But we’re prepared to deal with one or perhaps two vessels at a time. Not ten.”

“Can you signal them to concentrate on the flagship?”

“Easily.”

“How will I recognize Morgus?”

“He stands a head taller than me, wears a huge sky blue cloak, and fights with two boarding axes.”

“Sounds like a lovely fellow.”

“He’s one of the most feared warriors on the river,” Tallarand warned. “I’ve seen him kill three men in a single fight.”

“Unfortunately for him, I’m not a man,” she answered as the ships neared the bridge. “Give the signal.”

Tallarand pointed at the Dragon’s Maul, and a beam of red light leapt from a ring on his finger and momentarily illuminated the flagship. Instantly, a score of men swung from beneath the bridge on ropes and landed on the deck of the pirate vessel, and they were followed a moment later by another score.

“Care to come out of retirement?” she asked Tallarand as she cut a length of the supporting rope free.

“That’s been my plan all along,” he answered as he cut loose his own rope.

A moment later, they were both flying through the air to release their holds just as they were above the Dragon’s Maul to drop down onto the deck where the battle was already raging. Tallarand was immediately engaged by a huge boatswain who was wielding a broadsword, and the master thief produced a gleaming short sword that easily parried the pirate’s swing. Adella left him to it and darted low past the mast and over the hatch cover, making for the quarterdeck where she could already see a huge figure cloaked in blue. One pirate intercepted her, and she left him dying with his belly opened, but there were nearly a score of others between her and Morgus.

She darted to the left, cut one of the drag lines that controlled the spars, and she spun out over the water towards the stern of the ship in a wide circle. It was a suicidal move, and a pirate was waiting on the quarterdeck to skewer her with a boarding pike. Adella, however, leapt free of the rope a heartbeat early and somersaulted off to the side where she came to a stop by burying Bloodseeker into the chest of one of the pirate officers. The pikeman was turning his weapon towards her, but it was far too awkward for close combat, and he died before he could reach his cutlass.

Momentarily, that left Adella and Morgus alone on the quarterdeck, aside from the pirate manning the wheel, for all available men were forward to repel boarders. Morgus was a tall man with a muscular frame and long arms, dressed in a billowing blue cloak that gave him an impression of bulk. He had a wild mane of blonde hair above a full beard, and his wide, mad eyes were nearly black below bushy brows.

“No wench with a sword allowed aboard my vessel!” Morgus growled with an ugly grin. “I must teach you to be more lady-like!”

Adella ducked in low and swung Bloodseeker in a whistling arc that sliced the blue cloak near the man’s groin even as he jumped backwards.

“I plan to teach you to be the same,” she said softly, her face savage.

The man’s eyes widened, and then with a roar, he charged in with two long gleaming axes that seemed to materialize in his hands. Adella parried the one, but the other ax came down like retribution and nearly took her right wrist off, and she was forced to scurry off to the side, Morgus pivoting with remarkable speed to keep right with her. The cloak whirled with him, hiding his movements, and she had less than a heartbeat to parry when the ax flew out from that swirling cloud of blue. Adella ducked, struck upwards to hit nothing but cloth, and barely avoided a deadly counter-stroke from the second ax that slashed down unexpectedly from overhead.

He’s good, she admitted to herself. He’s very good.

Two weapons usually meant a primary and a secondary, and despite the obvious double threat, there was often an additional opportunity as well, an opening when the assailant switched from the primary attack to the second. All that was required was to survive long enough to spot the opening. Adella, however, didn’t have the luxury of time to study her opponent, not with the entire pirate fleet still making for the Merchant’s Bridge. Morgus had to die and die quickly, and that meant taking a deadly risk.

She was still giving ground before the man’s fury, countering merely to keep him in check and using the wild melee around them to her advantage. She had one edge over her opponent and one edge only, the pulsing power within Bloodseeker as it savored the three kills she had made already, but it would take more than that power by itself to dispatch Morgus. There was only one option, one option that would put a warrior like Morgus out of his reckoning, and she made the decision with cold clarity. Now she only had to decide which ax Morgus would choose to make the kill, an even chance on which to hazard her life. The right would mean more power and an angry man might choose the stronger stroke, but Adella’s instinct warned her against it. The man was a hardened warrior who would suspect a trap, and that meant he would opt for the left ax. She jumped off the quarterdeck into the waist and used the momentary reprieve to bring the sword up against the right side of her neck, wincing as she felt the discharge of protective power placing an invisible shield against her skin, and then as her opponent landed on the deck and charged her, she braced herself and thrust back.

Exactly as Morgus had been hoping.

Bloodseeker hit nothing but blue coat. In an instant, the counterstroke came to exploit the opening she had given, the man bringing the ax down with the full force of his motion and his might.

The left hand ax. The blade struck the spot just touched with Bloodseeker’s power, and despite the strength of the blow that should have taken her head, it barely broke the skin of her neck. In an instant, Adella spun herself completely around with all the speed she possessed and struck with blind power, all caution abandoned, her last card played. Bloodseeker’s razored edge cut into the man’s body just below his outstretched arm, up through the torso, and exited from the shoulder on the other side, cutting him completely in two.

Morgus’ eyes were still moving and horrid sounds were coming from his dead voice as she grabbed the head section. With a grunt, she hoisted the thing still partially clad in its blue cloak over her head to impale it on the stern light of the ship for all the other vessels to see.

“The Commodore has set sail for Hell!” she roared across the river. “Who wishes to follow him?”

She had no time to look for a reaction. Two more pirates had come charging in behind her, and she was forced to counter and dodge and counter again. By the time she had dispatched the second, she looked up to see that several of the vessels had put their helms over and their crews were manning the oars to send the ships scurrying back up river. The Fey’s flotilla could be counted on to handle the rest with which they were entangled. The threat from the river was ended.

“Look!” came a warning cry from somewhere behind. “Look to the sky!”

Adella turned just in time to see a score of huge shapes plummeting down from the clouds, massive wings, savage talons, and human faces peering from over the things’ shoulders.

“Griffins!”

*

Argus looked down from his griffin and saw the pirate fleet beating back away from the Bridge, his Ohric-sharpened vision spotting the severed body of Morgus mounted on the stern of his flagship. Simply less booty to share, he told himself. The pirates had distracted the defenses long enough. Now the real battle was to be joined.

As he watched, a fireball was launched from the cover of the warehouse buildings to streak over the river and impact on the middle span of the bridge, but the very next instant, there was a burst of red power and the fire was extinguished. Argus chuckled to himself. The Red Priests were on the bridge with the Black Watch, and they should be more than capable of breaking the pathetic spells of army wizards. But we will take no more chances, he decided.

He pointed the griffin down at the mob doing battle on the bridge, and the merest thought focused his steed on the female figure with the gleaming sword in the middle of the fray. He was plunging down now with frightening speed, the steel talons of the monster reaching hungrily for its prey, the griffin’s scream left to trail behind it. At such a closing rate, the beast might not be able to pull up in time and would plow into the bridge, killing itself and crushing the frail human beneath it. No matter. The Paladin’s daughter would be dead, he would be standing with the Ohric in her place, and the bridge would be his.

*

Jhan had worked his way to the upper river side of the bridge to watch the pirate fleet, for the veteran warriors at Shannon’s side had roughly shoved him out of the way. The Voice within had assured him it would cast no magics to save the Bridge, the risks of being unmasked here far too great, and yet he felt oddly certain he had more to do this day than swing a sword. He, then, was the only one on the bridge who heard the warning cry of griffins and turned in time to see the monstrosity hurtling down upon the bridge. In an instant, he knew the target was Shannon.

“She’ll be killed!” he cried to the Presence within him, and he knew immediately that the being would not respond. Shannon was about to be ripped to pieces before his very eyes, and he was absolutely helpless to do anything to stop it. But then an odd thing happened. The appeal caused the Presence to think what action it could take, and Jhan understood as clearly if the Voice had been instructing him.

Fear caused Jhan’s spirit to swell, to take back his body, and he found that he was momentarily joined with the other spirit, momentarily one with the Voice, and yet he was the dominant one, able to see and use the knowledge of the other. Able to feel the vast power that was at the being’s disposal.

Without thinking, he dropped his sword and cupped his hands before him. He remembered the way he had used the wand of power at the gates of Nargost Castle, the stillness Adella had taught him to force into his mind and body, and he performed the same rite now, the second time proving far easier than the first. Then he said clearly the words he saw in his mind, “Ethos nar Fren, Ethos nar Prendus, Ethos Evan!”

“What?!?” snarled the Voice within him, shocked.

The spell had been cast. Not by the Voice. But by Jhan.

*

Argus saw the protective barrier form above the Paladin’s daughter just barely in time. There was no chance to cast a negating spell, so he pulled back on the griffin’s reins with all his might as if to haul the monster back into the sky with strength and will power alone. The beast put out her wings to catch the air, and she beat bravely against it, striving to return to the sky. They continued to plunge, the speed slowly abating, and they struck the protective shield only lightly before climbing back into the sky.

“A wizard is at work here,” growled Argus. “And not one of the army frauds. We must see if we can smoke him out.”

*

Shannon’s first warning of the threat from above was the hideous shriek of the monster as it broke off its attack, and she shrank down in sudden fear at the huge apparition blocking out the sky above her. She had no idea what had saved her, and she stared stupidly around her for a heartbeat, wondering at her survival. Fortunately, the man with whom she had been fighting was even more surprised and was still cringing downwards, all thought of fighting momentarily gone.

The griffin was soaring over the island as others of its kind began their attack, and as Shannon watched, a wide beam of green energy crashed into the buildings near the bridge from which the fireball had been launched, leveling two of them. A second green burst set three more buildings ablaze, eliminating the cover from which the Fey’s wizards could attack the bridge. Then the beast circled around to come back at them, and she could see a figure seated on the griffin’s shoulders with some kind of rod or scepter in his hand.

A moment later, another green beam burst from the scepter, but it appeared to be no more than a dot to Shannon. For it was coming directly at her.

Sarinian surged suddenly in her hands, and unbidden, power detonated around her, answering the green threat. Shannon felt as if a giant’s hand had slapped her, and she went tumbling across the bridge, a score of bodies from both forces thrown with her. But everyone scrambled back to their feet, not a single one perishing in the explosion.

Other griffins were striking now, plunging from the sky to strike the defenders, six, twelve, a score, and more men were screaming as the steely talons of the monsters ripped their flesh apart. It was utter and total madness, the battle they had been winning suddenly a bloody defeat, the situation crying for the call of every man for himself. But here at the point of greatest danger, Shannon felt the least fear.

What she felt was rage.

She leapt to her feet and charged the nearest griffin as it ripped the body of a dying soldier, and she ducked beneath the razored claws to bring Sarinian slashing up into the bird’s underbelly. With a shriek, the thing fell from the sky, and Shannon climbed the dying monster’s body and launched herself through the air to slash the Avenger with one out-stretched hand across the neck of a second griffin. Sarinian severed the monster’s head, and it crashed down onto the side of the bridge, to fall over into the river below.

“To me! To me!” she cried to the scattered warriors. “Rally to me, Warhaven!”

The men answered, fighting their way to her side, their faces showing hope at the slaying of two of the griffins, but there were less than half of the sixty men who had stormed the Bridge. The false guards were re-grouping as well, and above there were at least fifty griffins circling and waiting for the kill. Worse, far worse, Argus was swooping down again, the Ohric gleaming green once more.

This time, Sarinian sent white fire streaking forth to answer the green power, and the Ohric’s beam split to pour around them. But several of the Warhaven warriors were outside the protective aura of the Avenger, and two of them were killed instantly. Argus was past, slowly trying to turn his griffin around, and someone was pulling at her arm. She turned to find Jhan staring at her.

“We have to get off of the Bridge!” he cried. “We cannot hold it!”

She yanked her arm savagely free, the action denying his words, but she was forced to look around at the desperate faces of the men. They would stand with her and fight to the gory end. That was clear. But such heroism could not now save the Bridge.

She gritted her teeth and mastered the fury.

Stand! said Sarinian, sensing her decision. The enemy is before us!

No, answered Shannon silently to both herself and the sword. No, our deaths would be meaningless here.

“Fall back!” she called to the men. “Fall back towards the buildings!”

There was relief in the faces of the men, a clear recognition of the wisdom of her decision, and they began an orderly retreat off the bridge. But to the Black Watch whose dead lay thick about them, the sight of their enemy retreating was a blood trail to a wolf pack, and with an animal roar, they charged their opponents once more. The soldiers of Warhaven, however, were well schooled in defense, and despite his youth, Captain Landris now showed why he had been chosen to lead them. A moment before the enemy hit, a single command sent the Warhavens surging forward, a counterstroke by the entire company that took some of the shock out of the enemy’s charge and knocked many of them back a half step. Another sharp command, and the Warhavens withdrew again, exploiting the tiny gap they had created and stealing a few precious paces of retreat. It was a standard tactic developed by the warriors of Warhaven over centuries of combat, and they were executing it with flawless precision, a surge and ebb that displayed the defensive skills of these hill fighters and kept their stronger opponents at bay.

The griffin riders were holding back, the bridge won and the carcasses of two of their brethren a stark warning that they could not attack with impunity. Argus, too, had changed his tactics, though in cruel and inexplicable manner. He hovered on his huge griffin off to the side of the bridge and rather than launching sweeping attacks against the Warhavens, he chose to focus his beams on individual warriors. Off to the left, a man was caught in the green power, and he burst into flames, his dying screams panicking even his steady companions until he threw himself off the bridge to death in the waters below. A second beam, and this time the man transformed before the horrified eyes of his friends into a hideous wolf-like being that howled with despair at the destruction of its humanity. The thing retained just enough of its former self to charge the Black Watch and kill two of its former enemies before perishing on their swords. But the example shook the Warhavens even more than the incineration of the first man.

“Why is he doing this?” cried Shannon as she hacked through the defenses of another foe and forced the others to take a step back from Sarinian’s fell light.

“He’s fishing,” said Jhan beside her with a note of cold certainty in his voice.

*

“Come, little wizard,” chuckled Argus, as he launched a third beam of power from the Ohric and caused another warrior to dissolve into red jelly. “Come and save your friends.”

Why do we waste power and time in this game? demanded the Ohric. The Bridge is taken, and we are needed elsewhere.

“A wizard who can shield against a griffin attack can also destroy a bridge,” replied Argus as he studied his prey for any sign of spell casting. “I’ll have the head and the hands of this cur for my trophy case.”

He readied a fourth beam, but before he could release it, a massive arrow flew past him, grazing the griffin’s left wing and causing the creature to buck in alarm. A second came close to Argus himself, and the third flew by well off to the left.

“What in the name of blood…?” he snarled, turning in the direction of the bolts.

*

“Aim true, you stupid bastards, or I’ll have your ears!” roared Adella at the men manning the ballistas on the deck of the Dragon’s Maul. “A stationary target, and you nick it once with three shots!”

I should have fired one of the damned things myself, she thought furiously as she watched Argus’ griffin looping around. She was standing at the ship’s helm, trying to keep the vessel steady even though wind and current were both trying to drive her down river. The triangular lateen sails were designed to use even a contrary wind to move upstream, but it was taking all of her limited skills to keep the Dragon’s Maul in place. Now retribution was rounding down upon them, and the fools were fumbling with fear as they tried to reload the ballistas.

“Time to abandon ship, I should think,” said Tallarand easily. The man had an arm bandaged from a savage wound and a second bandage almost covered one eye to protect a head wound, but he was as calm and steady as ever. Adella looked from the closing griffin to the struggling men, and she realized they would have their second shot ready just as they were bursting into green flames.

With a curse, Adella cried, “Get off! Get off, all of you! Save your own hides!”

She didn’t need to repeat herself. With death closing upon them, there was a rush to the sides and a score of splashes as the men abandoned the vessel to its fate. Adella followed them, but turned at the gunwale as she noticed Tallarand lagging behind her.

“Can you swim with that arm?” she asked with a frown.

“Probably better than you,” he replied. “Remember, I was born on the river. We should…”

His expression changed in an instant, he dropped into a crouch, and hissed, “Teblan!”

Teblan was a thief’s warning of an imminent attack from the rear, and Adella swung around as she reached for Bloodseeker, pivoting to protect her exposed back. Tallarand was springing with her, staying directly behind, and when she settled into a fighting stance, he drove forward into her back and sent her flying into the water.

Sputtering, Adella came to the surface, but Tallarand was already racing back to the ship’s helm, and even as Argus unleashed the full fury of the Ohric on the vessel, the man was putting the helm hard over. The Dragon’s Maul erupted into a mass of green flame as Argus swooped by, but Adella watched in amazement as Tallarand’s skilled hands guided the burning ship directly towards the central span of the Merchant’s Bridge!

“Damn my eyes if you didn’t pick my pocket last,” said Adella, a parting salute as the ship collided with the bridge. Then she struck out swimming hard for the eastern shore.

*

Argus roared with fury at the sight of his own power turned against him, and as soon as he was in position, he sent a green bolt flying from the Ohric to smash right through the hull of the Dragon’s Maul, sending the pirate ship to the bottom of the river. But the center of the Merchant’s Bridge had already taken fire, the magical flames devouring even the enchanted wood of the span, and the small counter spells of the Red Priests were simply consumed by the inferno. Argus knew he had only moments in which to act. Raising his arms, he caused a wave of water to rise out of the river high above the bridge, and then with a single gesture, he threw the wave against the central span. For a moment, the green flames continued to burn, defying even the power of the river to quench them, but the sheer volume of water won out in the end, leaving the bridge charred but whole.

With a strangled cry, Argus called the griffin riders to attack.

*

“Run!” screamed Shannon to the men around her. It was the least military command imaginable, but they understood it clearly. For the moment, the Black Watch was reeling from the wave of water flooding down behind them that had extinguished the fire, the griffin riders were still too high to intervene, and Argus was not in a position to harass them further.

“Full retreat!” order Captain Landris, giving the command its proper form, but the Warhavens were already charging down off the Bridge, their backs to the enemy as they ran for the shelter of the ruined buildings. They reached cover just as the griffin riders came shrieking to the attack, and the monsters cleaved nothing but air this time.

Landris was steadying the men, preparing to reform their defensive posture, when a voice cried, “Not here, you fools!”

There was enough anxiety in the words that Landris relented and allowed the men to fall back further, even though the words had come from Jhan. Shannon glanced around just in time to see the demonstration of the boy’s wisdom.

Argus had risen over the Merchant’s Bridge and was sweeping the ruined building with a wave of green fire. Even with the sheltering timbers between them, the fire swept through every crevice and set the wood ablaze.

“Fall back, fall back!” cried Landris as the men crossed to the next line of buildings, the green inferno putting an end to the battle.

“Can we get around these flames?” asked Shannon dubiously.

“Even if we could, we can do nothing with Argus himself guarding the Bridge,” replied Landris. “What we need is a wizard, a real wizard, who can match the power of Argus.”

*

Jhan heard the Captain’s words, and he took a step forward, knowing the power that resided within him. He could quench these flaming buildings with a single spell. He could send forth a fireball that would set the entire bridge ablaze from end to end. He could launch a lightning bolt that would obliterate the griffin on which Argus rode and…

Yellow pain exploded within his mind, nearly knocking him to his knees.

“You shall do none of these things!” commanded the Voice, regaining control.

Jhan put a hand to his head and tried to steady himself. But he managed to reply to the Voice, “We…we have to act. We…”

“Fool!” the Presence snapped back. “You use force with no thought for the consequences! I have faced the power of the Ohric before when my strength was full, and it mastered me! This is not the place to challenge it again!”

Jhan blinked at this unguarded admission, and even as he struggled to clear his mind, a word rose to his consciousness, the name of the only individual who he knew had once challenged the Ohric, a name that suddenly, simply explained everything.

“Malcolm…?”

Yellow agony swept through him again, choking off the word and the thought.

*

Shannon was looking at the green flames and had no eyes for Jhan doubled over off to the side. She was staring at defeat, at the loss of the bridge they had come to defend, and she was loathe to yield despite the obvious dangers.

“Is there nothing more we can do?” she asked despairingly. Sarinian was rumbling fiercely in her hands, adding to her desire to somehow charge the bridge again.

“We can still fire the bridges to the eastern bank,” said Landris.

“Fire them or not, you won’t stop Argus,” said a voice off to the side.

They turned to find Adella coming up to them, dripping wet with river water.

“The eastern branch of the river is hardly a trickle compared to the western branch,” she said. “Argus can bridge it with boats if he doesn’t want his horses to swim.”

There was silent acceptance to her words. That was the reason for the defense of the Merchant’s Bridge, for it was the real key to crossing the Delmar.

“But if our forces are able to throw back the Silver Horde there may yet be hope,” said Landris, even though his voice revealed his own doubts.

They all looked up at the warning fires on the bluff and at the Canopy of Oblivion that marked the location of the Silver Horde. Even as they watched, it seemed as if the noxious green clouds were continuing to roll south.

“Did you steer the pirate ship into the Bridge?” Shannon asked Adella.

“No,” she answered tightly. “Tallarand had a broken arm and still managed to kick me overboard before steering her home.”

Eyebrows were raised in appreciation, the courage of the act lifting all their hearts even as their lips tightened in loss.

“Could…could he have survived?” asked Shannon, the question sounding absurd even in her own ears.

Jhan staggered over to them, the color drained from his face, and Shannon feared he may have been wounded. Yet when he spoke, his voice was so strong and steady that she knew he wasn’t injured. “A wounded man on a burning ship in the middle of a fast flowing river with Argus throwing lightning bolts all around? What chance has he?”

She shook her head, as much over his condition as his words. But he was straightening up again even as she looked, almost as if some wound were being healed as she watched.

“Anyone who spits in Argus’ eye as Tallarand just did had better find a good place to hide,” Adella said with a shrug. “There’s no better hiding place than death.”

She shot a single quick glance at Shannon, and the girl’s heart leapt with hope as she heard the unspoken postscript: or anyone he thinks is dead.

“Duke Mandrik and the Lady Clarissa have engaged the Silver Horde,” said Captain Landris, pointing up to the high ridge above the town. They all turned to see the signaling bonfire issuing red smoke, the sign that the battle had been joined, and every heart skipped a beat, wondering at the outcome.

“Come on,” said Adella, turning away from the river. “This battle is lost. We’ve an important appointment to keep before the next.”

Shannon frowned and asked, “With who?”

Adella and Jhan locked eyes as she said softly, “Honorium Stalbus.”

CHAPTER 8

Rallying

The rock crumbled beneath Darius’ feet to send a small avalanche tumbling down the mountainside, and he frantically lunged for another hand hold, catching a small outcrop that blessedly held under his weight. He searched desperately for a support for his feet, touching nothing but bare rock, and with a fierce grimace, he threw himself sideways and lunged for another handhold. He caught it, swung himself over, and felt a surge of relief as his feet found a small ledge that held as well. He hugged the cliff as he waited for his pounding heart to slow back to a normal pace. I never dreamed I would bless anything in Hell, he thought. But I bless this little ledge of stone.

“You cannot pause,” Hoarace said quietly in his ear, the Priest still perched on his back. “Strength is to be found in progress, my friend. The way above us is easier, I promise you.”

Darius took a deep breath and blew out some of the fear. All around him was the vast sense of openness with the tightly suppressed knowledge of the dreadful fall to the distant rocks far below, and the stone of the cliff was his only hold on life. A short distance away, Illoghen clung easily to the cliff, his clawed hand making its own holds and his wings saving him whenever the rock crumbled beneath his weight. He was staring at Darius now with those strange yellow eyes, an attentive look that could best be described as curiosity. Darius mentally shrugged at that. I must be an odd sight indeed, he thought. A man climbing up a sheer mountain cliff with the limp body of a priest riding on his back.

“You have said that you wish to return to the world to stop the evil of this Duke Argus,” Hoarace said.

“Yes.”

“And you fear for the fate of the daughter who now wields the sword which was to be your burden alone,” the Priest continued.

“That is true as well.”

“The road to both lies above you. Have you still the strength to take it?”

Darius took a deep breath and looked upward. But now, he saw more than the daunting cliff and the malevolent swirling red sky. Now, he saw the way home.

Resolutely, he reached for handholds and began to climb again.

This was the strangest mountain he had ever been on. It was nothing but a series of sheer cliffs going on and on interminably as if it ascended into the very blood red sky from which they had fallen days…weeks…hours?…ago. He had been climbing for a very long time, and glancing down, he knew that should he fall, he would scream himself hoarse before he struck bottom. Fortunately, there was no wind to speak of, and the cold was cruel but did not cripple his hands or limbs. A thought struck him, and he glanced down at his chest where the fist of the giant Ug-Lan-Jo had smashed through his plate armor to inflict a telling wound during the battle of champions. He did not need to see beneath the shirt to know that the massive bruise was now healed, and he was suddenly conscious that none of the wounds from that battle or the subsequent journey into the Nether Regions were bothering him.

“Odd,” he said. “I’ve taken more than my share of blows, and yet they seem like they are weeks old. I should have thought the pain would be doubled in Hell.”

“You are tired, but not weary, are you not?” added Hoarace. “When was the last time you slept?”

Darius frowned, trying to remember. He had not slept at all on the night when he had been preparing for the battle of champions. Had he slept the night before that?

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“And you are thirsty but not particularly hungry,” the Priest concluded.

“Yes,” he replied in surprise. “How can that be? How much time has elapsed since we met?”

“Time has little meaning in the immortal realms,” explained Hoarace. “Long days have passed back in our world as you have labored. Here, it is the spirit and not the body that requires sustenance. It is your faith and not your food from which you draw strength.”

Darius actually turned to look at the Priest, an uneasy maneuver clinging to the face of a cliff. “You mean I will not die of hunger here?”

“Not while your soul remains strong. But the power of the Nether Regions will wear away the resistance of even the strongest. You have only so much time in which to manage your escape.”

Darius nodded slowly in comprehension, then asked, “But my wounds…I suffered hurt from the devils as well. What of them?”

Hoarace smiled. “I am weak, my friend, but I am not powerless. As our journey has progressed, I have been able to affect some small healings on your body. It seems my efforts have been successful.”

Darius actually laughed at that, the first time he had laughed in what felt like eons. He threw back his head and let the laughter well out of him, and it rebound against the cliffs and echoed through the air, an alien sound that seemed to shake the very fabric of this horrid realm. Even the threat of falling could not suppress the emotion rising within him, and he let it roar forth in defiance to the despair and hopelessness that was trying to crush him.

“You have a great heart indeed, Darius who is called the Inglorion!” cried Hoarace. “The devils shall never have your soul!”

“Nor yours, my friend!” he answered, climbing again with renewed vigor. The cliff suddenly seemed less sheer and less daunting, the hand holds easier and more numerous. He did not pause as he resumed climbing, but he looked over at the huge creature moving beside him and called out, “Nor yours either, Illoghen!”

The monster said nothing, but Darius actually grinned. If the creature had eyebrows, he thought, they’d be raised in surprise right now.

* * * * *

Mraxdavar rode the bitter winds above the snowy peaks of the Earth’s Teeth, his nostrils flaring from the unusual smells rising up from these foreign northern mountains. There were the scents of strange animals like snow bears and winter wolves that hunted the terrain and strange plants like mountain ivy and winter pine. There were the disturbing odors of two footed animals, rock goblins, mountain ogres, humans from the northern plains who stank of whale blubber and sea salt, and humans from the foothills who smelled of corn and goat dung. But the most predominant odor was of the land itself, the rock and soil so different from the softer smells of the Mountains of the Winds, and there was still a stain of sulfur on the winds, the memory of some catastrophe that had devastated the region not so very long ago. From his position on the airs above, Mraxdavar could see the source of that calamity.

A hole had been blasted in the face of the mountain directly below him, the sides stained black with the power of the explosion, the chasm looking as if some gargantuan god had put his fist right through the stone to tear out the mountain’s heart.

It had taken long days of searching to find that monstrous hole, and they had explored three other likely openings further to the east, wasting precious time and energy on false leads. But there could be no doubt about this one.

Albathor was climbing back up towards him from having explored the opening of the gaping pit, three of his sons attending upon him.

“We dare not enter, Eldest,” he said. “The bones of this mountain are weak. They were shattered by a great force and now are set to crumble at the next blow.”

“Nor do we dare depart, for our peril will be greater yet if we do not face the tunnels,” Mraxdavar replied. “We shall watch the entrance for a time to see if any creatures use it. When I deem it safe, I shall take only Elthanor and Jeriex to attend upon me. The rest shall stand ready here.”

Albathor frowned his doubt at this decision to take only two of the younger dragons with him, but Elthanor was a promising spell caster and Jeriex had already acquired an enviable reputation for quickness and cunning. They were small enough to walk abreast in narrow tunnels, and neither would be too badly missed if treachery or misadventure awaited them there.

“Father, I crave leave to speak,” Albathor said, his head lowered in respect, and his three companions fell back to give father and son their privacy.

Mraxdavar glared at him, already knowing what his son would say if permitted, and he toyed with the notion of commanding him to silence. But there was too much at risk for such a rebuke, and he had learned long ago that his second son would find a way to speak whatever the prohibitions.

“Leave is granted,” the Eldest Dragon growled.

“I claim the right of the eldest son present to accompany you,” the red dragon said, his tone challenging, his words impertinent. Any other dragon would have been smashed from the sky by a lightning thrust of Mraxdavar’s tail for such a response, but Albathor had always been given a little leniency which he had learned to push to the brink of tolerance.

“No,” the great dragon rumbled. “I don’t need you blundering about in damaged caverns and bringing the roof down on us with your rashness. You are needed here with the others.”

“The threat lies before you within that mountain,” Albathor answered steadily. “My children are more than capable of defending this position and carrying word of our fate at need. Father, the times darken, and fell decisions loom. I must understand your purpose if I am to choose the right course, and the answers to many questions lie within those caverns.”

Mraxdavar’s teeth gleamed in a horrid grin, clear proof of his annoyance, but while Albathor flinched at the sight, he held his place and refused to back down. For long moments, the two dragons floated upon the air in a frozen tableau, taking each other’s measure, and in the end, it was the Eldest who relented, yielding to the logic of his son’s request.

“Summon the others as well,” he said as he dropped to one of the peaks below. “They also have a right to hear.”

Moments later, Mraxdavar was poised at the top of a mountain peak with a dozen younger dragons clinging to the rock face beneath him, their claws making light of the steep cliff and the threatening drop. He stared at their hungry, eager eyes, the way they waited for his slightest word, and he knew the time for this tale was come. But it did not make the telling easier.

“Many long years ago, we were at war with the Giants for sovereignty over all the world, and they were a match for us in strength and much more than a match for us in numbers,” he rumbled, balking at the memory. To speak of that time was to give it life again, and he had no taste for the retelling. “Their leader, the Avatar of their race, was a giant named Nehgolli, and every giant held him in fell reverence and heeded his least word as you do mine. They fought to the death for him and saw to it that their offspring would do the same. With such ferocity, they bested us in every open battle, their missiles striking as far and as hard as the power of our breaths, and we were sorely tested. At the last, only cunning and treachery saved us from oblivion.”

“The Battle of Baramalon,” hissed Albathor softly.

“Aye, the very same.”

“But how was that treachery, Eldest?”

Reluctantly, Mraxdavar continued, “The Avatars were ever in search of a secret place known only as the Sanctuary where a weapon of surpassing power was to be found, and upon this weapon Nehgolli focused all his thought and energy. The dwarves knew the location of the Sanctuary, even though their own avatar had been slain by Nehgolli many years before. I made a pact with the dwarves and swore a blood oath that if they shared with me the location of the Sanctuary, I would never claim this weapon for my own.” He let out a long, low hiss, the words pulling scabs off ancient wounds. “I bartered away the blood-right of the dragons for the knowledge to strike our enemy.”

The dragons said nothing, but he could read the shock in their eyes. He had given away a gift of their god that spanned the ages for a temporary advantage over the giants, and the more time that passed, the darker that decision appeared. He continued, “Once I knew the location, I let the knowledge slip back to Nehgolli who immediately brought his entire army forth to claim the prize. Precisely as I expected. Even as we struck from above, the dwarves came forth from below, and the giants were vanquished.”

There was total silence from the listening dragons, the vague history of the battle now made sharp and clear in their minds. Finally, Albathor asked, “And Nehgolli?”

“I delivered that fatal blow myself,” said Mraxdavar, but all could hear the hesitation in his voice. He continued slowly, “Those of his bodyguard who still lived carried him from the battlefield. His corpse was never found, and no tale tells where his tomb lies.”

Albathor’s head twisted to stare at the gaping wound in the side of the mountain, the other dragons following his stare.

“That passage leads to an ancient vault known as the Chamber of Balance,” said Mraxdavar. “It was there that the god of the giant’s, Surtur, placed the entity known as the Juggernaut at the end of the ancient wars. And it was there that Alacon Regnar and the Ohric drew it forth scant months ago.”

The dragons were all staring at him, the same questions on all their minds, and it was Albathor who gave the questions voice. “Did Surtur intend the Juggernaut as some form of retaliation for the death of his Avatar?”

“No one knows. Some believe that as it was created at the end of the wars, it was intended to lead his people back to the ways of peace. But the animosity of the giants is deep, and the memory of their god is very long.”

Albathor considered this for a moment before asking, “And what of the Ohric? Why has Bal sent forth his scepter to unleash this being upon the world?”

Mraxdavar showed his teeth once more, and dragons beneath him cringed at the sight. “That is what you and I will hope to discover within those caverns.”

* * *

Father Joshua and Father Rathman were riding their draft horses down the dusty roads of southern Gemsbrook with the enigmatic Thelmar keeping easy pace with them. The air was unseasonably chilly, and there was a clear threat of impending rain as a group of storm clouds made their way northward from the Southern Ocean, but they were pressing the horses as hard as the animals could go in their race to reach the Patriarch and the White Citadel. It had been four days since Thelmar had saved them from the Black Watch at the way station, four days and four nights of travel with its broken conversations, and yet they still knew as little about the man as when their journey started. The only thing of which Joshua had come to be certain was that this man’s simple devotion to his cause surpassed his own piety and Rathman’s fanaticism combined.

They had eased the horses to a walk for a rest as the road meander through another stand of forest, and Joshua took the opportunity to ask Thelmar again, “So your home, the place to which you would have us travel. It is to the east?”

“Now well to the north as well,” replied Thelmar. “There is still time for us to reach there before their need is upon them. But the margin for error is shrinking.”

“What is this need of which you speak?” Joshua pressed, exasperation showing how often they had asked a similar question. “And how is it that you think we may be able to answer it?”

“We all sit beneath the same threat,” the man answered. “It was a Vision that warned me of our approaching danger. And showed me that you alone have the chance to give us succor.”

“How can you know that?” demanded Rathman. “Whence came this vision of which you speak?

“How did I know that you would be at that way station on the appointed day?” replied Thelmar. “As to the Vision, where do all such inspirations come?”

“But your Vision was not without some confusion,” began Joshua, but he stopped when Thelmar’s entire bearing changed. The monk’s muscles tensed, and he darted forward with cat-like speed, peering at the countryside ahead as if his life depended on the accuracy of his sight. Startled, both priests followed his example.

They were just emerging from the small stretch of woods, and the flat farmland had given way to gently rolling hills, good pastures for grazing animals. The road rose and fell with the hills, leaving small valleys that limited sight, and Joshua could make out several groups of riders and perhaps a dozen wagons traversing one of the closer hills. He was about to comment on this when a large group of horsemen dressed all in white appeared before them, climbing up out of the nearest valley, and his heart trembled as he saw the flags that flew above them.

“Is that the Patriarchal emblem?” Joshua asked, not believing the evidence of his eyes.

“The banner of Mirna!” Rathman shouted in astonishment. “Father Joshua! The Patriarch has come forth!”

Joshua, however, was struck dumb at the sight of a being flying towards them, an entity of white and light and hope, a gleaming presence in spotless robes that sprouted small feathered wings. It had a human face but of such surpassing beauty that Joshua caught his breath, even though he could not be sure if the being were male or female. It flew with remarkable ease, its’ wings folded against its back as if they were not needed for such simple tasks, and it came to a stop directly before them, floating upon the very air.

“Prepare thy heart for Rapture and thy soul for Joy,” proclaimed the Being in a ringing voice. Then it seemed to take note of Thelmar and with a gentle smile said, “Thou art far from the place assigned, Good Master. Yet your heart shows it has not broken troth. How can this be?”

“My task here is now completed,” replied Thelmar to the Presence. “My charges are safely delivered, and my hope is the stronger. I return now to the assigned place and await the appointed time.”

The Being smiled, nodding once, and without another word, the gleaming presence flew off, winging its way down the road to spread its message to others. Immediately Thelmar turned to leave.

“Was…was that an angel?” Joshua asked, hardly able to believe the words.

Rathman seemed almost as surprised as Joshua by the encounter, but he shook his head, his attention on Thelmar. “That was no more than a herald. They are the least of the Host and are used to send forth tidings. But this one actually broke from its purpose to speak with you. Never have I beheld one that spoke directly to any mortal!”

Thelmar’s only reply was to say, “There is no longer a need for me to accompany you. The Patriarch has come forth. He shall bear you where I wish you to be, and my presence will be no more than a distraction.”

A patrol of white-clad cavalry was moving towards them, and without another word, Thelmar turned and vanished into the wood with astonishing speed, leaving Joshua stunned. He turned to look at Rathman who was frowning at this abrupt departure. The man’s eyes were suspicious as he said, “It is as if he were fleeing before he was seen.”

Joshua’s eyebrows rose at the suggestion, and he was about to brush it off as another example of Rathman’s paranoia until he had a moment to reflect. Traveling alone, refusing to speak clearly of his mission, and then a swift departure when the authorities of the church appeared, all combined to support Rathman’s conclusions. But before he could make any reply, their attention was pulled sharply back to the road before them.

Over the crest of the hill came a gigantic structure that looked at first sight like a moving castle. A huge central spire came first into view, followed quickly by four smaller flanking spires, the five moving in steady unison, their solid appearance, making Joshua momentarily feel as if it was he and not them that was in motion. But as the spires cleared the crest of the hill and the white walls of the structure came more fully into view, he realized it was actually a massive tent, and moments later, he saw that the tent was erected on some sort of platform. Though the platform itself appeared to be floating over the ground with nothing to support it! Three separate teams of oxen were laboring to drag the levitating platform forward.

“What is it?” asked Joshua in awe.

“It is called the Ascendency,” replied Rathman, his voice showing more than a hint of surprise. “The Patriarch uses it only when he travels with a large entourage and for very special occasions such as the consecration of a new cathedral. So Innocent would seem to have come forth with the Patriarchal Court as well.”

Rathman rode towards the approaching group of cavalry, and the officer in the lead called his troop to a halt. He was a handsome young man in a spotless white uniform with plumes of white feathers extending from his helm, and his horse was as white and striking as he. Some second son of the nobility, Joshua guessed, given an enviable position in the Patriarchal Guard. His eyes, however, kept going to the five banners held by the horsemen that were flapping in the gentle breeze. The pure white field with a green cross and the Tree of Life blooming in the middle, the Banner of Mirna which only the Patriarch was permitted to display.

“Have you business here, Fathers?” the officer asked, his eyes taking in their plow horse steeds, their travel-stained clothes, and their weary faces.

“We carry word of the fall of Jalan’s Drift, and we are bound for the White Citadel,” said Rathman. “Is the Patriarch come forth?”

“He has indeed!” said the officer proudly. “And he brings all of the Patriarchal Army with him! May I ask your names?”

As Rathman identified them, Joshua looked over the force displayed around the Ascendency. While it was spread out over a considerable area and partially hidden by the rolling hills, he estimated the surrounding force at no more than a few thousands. Surely this is but a contingent of the fabled Patriarchal Army, he assured himself.

“We have had word of your approach!” the officer said. “You are commanded into immediate attendance. Sergeant! Escort the Fathers back to the Ascendency! May you have joy in your meeting with the Blessed One, Good Sirs!”

The sergeant bid them dismount, and Joshua was grateful to climb down off that great rolling steed, groaning a little with relief when his feet touched the ground. The man led them back towards the levitating tent where yet another surprise awaited them: as they drew near to the platform, they found themselves walking upon the very air itself! They were actually rising the short distance from the ground to the platform with no visible support, and it felt to Joshua as if he were climbing a small knoll thick with soft spring grass.

“How is this possible?” marveled Joshua as they stepped onto the platform where the sergeant relayed their names to a waiting priest.

“Simply part of the magic that supports the platform,” replied Rathman. His attention was on the platform itself where a middle-aged priest was quickly approaching them.

As the sergeant withdrew, the Priest offered them his hands and said, “Peace be upon you, my good friends.”

“And upon you as well,” they answered in unison, touching the proffered hands as protocol required.

“I am Father Maynard, and I am tasked with carrying word of new arrivals to my superiors. I have been told to expect your coming, and I have been instructed to conduct you immediately into audience.”

Rathman and Joshua exchanged startled glances. Priests often waited weeks or even months for an audience with the Patriarch, and they had never dreamed they would be granted immediate access. But Father Maynard had already signaled to the guards who opened the wooden doors that formed the main entry of the tent, the structure easily supporting the heavy wood.

“How is it that the Patriarch has word of our approach?” Joshua asked quietly as they followed Maynard. “Surely no one would waste a carrier pigeon on the movement of two minor priests.”

“The Patriarch has means of seeing many things that are of importance to the Church,” Rathman replied. “His sight transcends distance and barriers alike.”

“Then why does he need to hear our report so urgently?” he wondered, but Rathman had moved past him.

The interior of the tent was a huge anteroom for a still larger chamber cut off by another set of massive doors that made the interior tent wall look like real stone. This room was crowded with a dozen tables and at least two score of people dressed in a wide variety of ecclesiastical robes, military uniforms, and common dress, and not a single one of them looked up from their tasks at the newcomers. Maynard led the way to the great inner portal where a dozen soldiers dressed in dazzling white stood guard, armed with swords and spears. A word from the Priest was all that was necessary for them to pull open the doors and grant them entrance, but it required the combined efforts of three men on each door to pull them fully open.

Inside was the most astounding sight Joshua had ever beheld. The tented room was ablaze with light that surpassed the sunlight outside, and it was dominated by a spectacular throne with two gigantic wings spanning out above it that nearly brushed the top of the structure. So powerful looking were the wings that it seemed as if the empty seat were about to take flight into the heavens themselves.

“The Angel Throne!” breathed Rathman in quiet reverence and Maynard announced their names to the chamber. “The Patriarch has brought forth the Angel Throne itself!”

The sacred throne of Mirna on earth, the seat occupied by every Patriarch since the founding of the Church! Joshua found himself moving slowly forward as if being drawn toward the sheer majesty of the vision. The great seat itself was of the purest white marble with an array of diamonds set above the back to illustrate the heavens above, while the bottom blended into the dais to symbolize the Church’s position as intermediary between the heavens and the earth. The massive angel wings, however, dwarfed everything else, branching out from the back of the throne to spread the entire width of the room, projecting both a power and a protection that left the beholder in awe.

So impressed was Joshua by this first sight that it took him a moment to realize there were people in the room as well. A sharp elbow from Rathman brought him back to reality.

He blinked and turned in the direction Rathman was facing where a small group of men were gathered around a pair of tables. Two were military men, two were civilians, and the others wore the yellow of the Church with miters to indicate their rank as Bishops or Archbishops. An elderly man dressed in gold and white was approaching them, though he wore nothing on his head and carried nothing in his hands. Only at the last moment did Joshua recognize the vestments as the gold of the Patriarch himself, and he swiftly followed Rathman’s lead by going down on one knee and bowing his head.

“Rise, my children,” the man said, touching them lightly on the head. “We are in crisis and shall spend no time on the amenities.”

Surprised, Joshua got to his feet and had his first close look at the Patriarch Innocent Devar. He was well into his seventh decade of life with a head of white hair that seemed part of his spotless robes, but his face showed few age lines, as if the years weighed gently upon him. He stood only a little taller than Joshua, and while his shoulders were slowly beginning to slump, they showed a broadness that suggested a warrior’s strength in the days of his youth. His eyes were a deep, rich brown beneath leveled brows, and an arched nose detracted from his handsomeness but added to his authority. He offered them a tiny smile, but coming from those firm lips, it seemed like a grin of welcome.

“We have heard much of the events at Jalan’s Drift,” Innocent said, taking them both by the arms and leading them back toward the two tables. “But you are the first who actually witnessed what transpired. We are eager to hear your accounts.”

Several of the men standing there bowed and took their leave as they approached, their service apparently completed, and they were left facing one man in the pure white uniform of the Patriarchal Guard, a Priest with the miter of an archbishop, and one of the civilians dressed in the common robes of a merchant, though they were of the richest fabric.

“This is General Alandris who commands the Patriarchal Army, Archbishop Jandrik of the Arch-Parish of Gemsbrook, and Delton Devar who is our closest adviser,” said Innocent by way of casual introduction, but Joshua was almost as startled as he had been by meeting Innocent himself. Alandris was a legendary warrior, Jandrik was the senior archbishop of the Church, and Delton Devar was the Patriarch’s own brother, a sharp politician who was said to be the Church’s chief diplomat. This was the inner circle of the Patriarch’s advisers, and it was a little overwhelming to find himself swept instantly into their presence.

“Come,” prompted Innocent quietly, clearly aware of their bewilderment. “We need your report on what you have seen.”

Fortunately, as senior priest, it was Rathman who made the report, and as he had been in the presence of the Patriarch twice before, he recovered his wits more quickly. Joshua blinked and nodded as he heard Rathman relating the details of the battle of champions, the unexpected appearance of Argus, the vanishing of the Paladin and the Juggernaut, and their own narrow escape from the city.

“I know Argus, Blessedness,” said Rathman slowly, his voice becoming thick. “I know his ruthlessness and his lust for power. What Regnar would have done is nothing to what Argus plans.”

Innocent nodded his head, but replied only, “It is not the leader of the invaders alone against which we must guard.”

“But Blessed One,” said Rathman carefully. “We have seen the size of the Silver Horde, and it has swept all before it. If we cannot contend against the invading army, does that not mean we must contend against the leader?”

The Patriarch smiled gently and said, “I fear you are blinded by your history with Argus, my son. The enemy is not the leader, but the scepter he holds. As we have seen with Regnar, slaying the hands that hold the scepter does not end the evil.”

From the expression on the Priest’s face, Joshua expected Rathman to argue further, and he was surprised when the man bowed slightly and said, “The vision of the Patriarch is legend. We are guided by his sight.”

It was a relief to find that the Patriarch, at least, could command the man’s silence.

“The Northings,” interjected General Alandris. “What force remains from the storming of the Drift?”

“Of the Northings themselves, my lord, more than ten thousands but less than fifteen,” answered Rathman. “The remaining rock goblins and the undead may well double that number.”

“And the Army of Corland marches with them?” asked the General.

“Aye, my lord, but not all and none of the Black Watch. Argus has held them in reserve back in Monarch.”

There was an exchange of glances, and everyone looked down at the first table that showed a remarkably detailed map of the southlands, complete with rivers, mountains, and tiny towns and castles.

“As you can see, Blessedness,” said Alandris to the Patriarch, “it appears Argus did not anticipate this change in his fortunes. He placed his forces in expectation of losing the Drift, for the Black Watch is even stronger than the Army of Corland. Our estimates put it at more than 20,000 strong.”

“Twenty five thousands are closer to the mark,” murmured Rathman, and they all knew the Priest had made it his special purpose to watch Argus’ forces as they grew.

“The sole weakness of the Silver Horde has been its lack of cavalry,” continued Alandris. “The regular army of Corland will help them in this regard, but they too have taken their losses at the Battle of the Plains. The Black Watch will bring thousands of fresh horsemen with it, and that will give the range they need to force Clarissa and Mandrik to battle.”

Joshua peered at the first table, his eyes going to the tiny structure that stood at the juncture of the Cascade and Ice Flow Rivers, its significance obvious even to his untrained eyes.

“If Argus is able to combine these forces, we will have nothing that can stand against him,” said the General and pointed to Alston’s Fey. “The fate of the Southlands may well hinge on the battle for the Fey. I ask again to be allowed to rush the bulk of our troops forward to the defense of Alston’s Fey.”

“I hear the impatience in your voice, my friend,” said Innocent, still staring down at the map. “But I fear it is no longer an issue. Alston’s Fey has already fallen.”

Only Joshua openly gasped at that revelation, though there was shock in the faces of everyone in attendance. But his surprise wasn’t restricted to the news of the battle. Clearly, Alandris had wanted to march northwards to the aid of the remaining forces of the Southlands, and Innocent had forbidden it!

“Blessed One, how could you not come to the aid of the Fey!” he blurted out, and even his own ears were shocked by the words.

Innocent, however, just looked up at him calmly. “The Fey was fated to be lost whatever heroic efforts were made. It is the events following the battle with which we must now concern ourselves.”

Joshua bent his head in apology and tried to assure himself that Innocent, with concerns for the Church and all the Southlands, would know best how his forces must be committed. But he remembered the great Cathedral of the Fey, the glorious structure in which he had been anointed Priest, and he shuttered to think of that sacred place under the fist of Argus and the Ohric.

“Clarissa and Mandrik are retreating eastward with whatever forces survived the battle,” Innocent continued. “They will fight a rear guard action as they fall back on the Hold. That is where Mandrik dreams of making his final stand, though the doom of the Southlands will be decided long before he reaches it. But in my eye, I see Argus sending some power southward as well. Possibly against us.”

Joshua was shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. They had traveled more than half the length of the Southlands to bring news of the enemy to the Angel Throne, only to find that the Patriarch was better informed than they were.

“You believe Argus plans to split his force?” Alandris asked with a small note of excitement in his voice.

“His force, yes,” the man replied as he stared down at the map. “But as to his army, I cannot say. He is focused completely on the destruction of Clarissa and Mandrik so I cannot fathom why he would send large contingents southward. Yet I know that in some manner, he will.”

Silence asked the question for all of them.

“While the Silver Horde marched against Alston’s Fey, they had eyes only for the Maganhall forces in the west near the river,” the Patriarch continued, his finger moving slowly over the portion of Maganhall on the map. “Those were the only forces that threatened them. I persuaded the Regent to indeed gather his forces, but to march southward, not westward. He has now massed an army almost 10,000 strong on the border with Gemsbrook.”

“On the exposed flank of the Silver Horde!”

“Precisely.”

Joshua’s heart leapt with hope at the thought of another army coming to the aid of Clarissa and Mandrik, but Alandris was shaking his head.

“The flower of the Maganhall forces fell on the Plains of Alencia and before the walls of the Drift,” the General said. “These ten thousands can only be the militias and the garrisons of Maganhall, the last crumbs the broom of the Regent can reach. What good can old men and boys do against the Silver Horde and the Black Watch combined?”

“They are not alone,” said Innocent placidly.

“With apologies, Blessedness, all of our forces have had the invocations of the Church bestowed upon them, and we are still falling at every skirmish,” Alandris said coldly. “These men will need more than a blessing to succeed.”

“Do not dismiss the Grace of Mirna so easily, my friend,” replied the Patriarch. “It is His Will that has sustained us this far. But I do not speak of religion alone. A force of Norealm horsemen four thousands strong escaped from the gates of the Drift two days ago, lead by young Fallon, the heir of Thrandar. They are riding hard for southern Maganhall even as we speak.”

Joshua and Rathman exchanged surprised glances, but there was also a look of concern on Rathman’s face. The cavalry of Norealm had been held as virtual hostages inside the gates of the Drift, for all knew that Fallon would ride to join with Clarissa and Mandrik to avenge the murder of his Father. Then Joshua saw a growing look of concern on Rathman’s face, and he felt an identical doubt rising within himself. Whoever had had the courage to open the gates of the Drift would swiftly regret it once Argus learned of such treachery.

“Four thousand horse?” repeated Alandris, a frown of concentration on his forehead. He stood in silent calculation for a long moment.

Innocent asked at last, “Will that be enough to check the Silver Horde?”

“I do not know, Blessedness,” he replied. “Men and boys from Maganhall, horsemen exhausted from the long ride south, Clarissa and Mandrik’s forces battered and decimated in defeat. They’ll still be badly outnumbered, even if Argus splits his force.”

“I need more than that, General,” Innocent said softly, and the soldier stiffened as he recognized the command in that quiet voice.

He thought for another moment before saying, “If Argus does indeed separate his forces and this new army can strike with surprise, we have a chance to win a victory, but do not expect this one blow to win the war. Young Fallon’s contingents are light and medium cavalry, and they will be a poor match against the heavy horse of the Black Watch. Skill and surprise may snatch them a victory, but tired and half-trained troops will not be able to pursue a defeated enemy to the death.”

“But such a defeat will force Argus to re-unite his armies?” asked Innocent.

“Aye, Blessed One. Even Argus cannot afford to lose half his army and turn his enemies loose to harass his rear.”

“That may buy us the time we need,” the Patriarch said slowly, more to himself. He noticed the way the man continued to stare at the map, and he asked, “What else troubles you, General?”

“The only objective to the south that Argus might seek is Gemsbrook Castle itself,” began Alandris. “It is one of the strongest citadels in the Southlands, and it will take Argus many weeks to reduce. But…” He trailed off.

“What is your thought, my friend?” asked Innocent.

The man looked at him, his face grim. “I see no value to Argus in investing Gemsbrook Castle in a siege. The only other target of interest for Argus in this area is the Ascendency itself. Could he be planning to move against us with a sudden strike?”

The Patriarch, however, seemed unfazed by the threat. “Argus does not yet know of our presence. But my fear is that Gemsbrook Castle is also not his goal.”

Alandris blinked as if he were seeing a different map than the Patriarch, and he frowned at his master.

“What other objective could there be, Blessed One?” he asked.

“While Argus is distracted, we shall move the Court and the Angel Throne to the east and to the north.”

“To the east?” repeated Alandris, even more confused. “But there is nothing of importance for the enemy eastward. The river is the vital source of trade leading down to Azare itself which may well contain more plunder than Jalan’s Drift and the Fey combined. Taking Gemsbrook Castle would open up this line of attack.”

“So you think the enemy’s goal is the plunder of rich cities?” asked Innocent.

The General shrugged at what seemed an obvious answer. “Plunder will keep the barbarians satisfied and increase Argus’ ability to wage war. Take all such wealth for your forces and deny them to your enemy. That is the hard reality of war.”

Innocent nodded in appreciation, but he asked, “Let me ask a philosophical question, my friend. Do you deploy your armies to defend against what the enemy is most likely to do? Or against the worst damage of which he is capable?”

“Against the most likely,” answered Alandris immediately. “In war, it is the cautious who are most likely to meet defeat.”

“Thus do the aims of Army and Church separate,” said the Patriarch. “For I am charged with duties beyond this threat and beyond this time and cannot afford to hazard that fell responsibility against a fair guess.”

He leaned over the map, studying it closely, and Joshua felt oddly certain the old man was looking at the land itself from a great height.

“I have seen much of what Argus intends, but he is no more than a skillful mask for the true designs of the Ohric,” Innocent explained, his voice heavy. “I believe Argus will soon strike southward, but I feel certain that is not his wish. Therefore, it can only be the influence of the demon scepter that drives him. It is this southern arm that holds his secret goal.”

He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders.

“We must be in position to counter the true intent of the scepter when it is revealed,” Innocent continued. “Gemsbrook Castle must fend for itself, and we shall trust to its strong walls and the stout courage of its garrison. The Angel Throne, however, must move to counter the greatest threat.”

The greatest threat? To the east? All eyes went to the empty area away from the river. What could Argus possible want there? Joshua and Rathman’s eyes met once, both thinking the same thing: to the east and the north was the direction that Thelmar had wished them to travel.

It was the Archbishop Jandrik who finally asked the question that was in the back of all their minds. “But Blessedness, even if we know the enemy’s intent, what hope have we against an army that smashes through every wall, barrier, and force erected against it?”

Innocent turned to them all, and they read the pain in his face.

“I have no real hope,” he said at last, his words heavy. “I have watched the progress of the enemy, and every prediction of our defeat has come true and every promise of respite has been shown to be false. The power of this scepter overthrows all our means to contest it, and there is no weapon in any of our arsenals that can face it in open battle. For long days and longer nights, I have watched the growing power of the darkness, and I see no means by which the light might prevail. This only can I offer. The enemy marches by a hard schedule that brooks no delay. He sells his troops lightly to gain but an hour in his march, and his power is set more for movement than for destruction. I feel in my heart he strives towards some preordained rendezvous when all the conditions must be right to achieve his final end. All we can hope is to delay him sufficiently that his dark designs somehow fail of their own.”

He looked at the chagrinned faces around him and added more gently, “Keep heart yet, my friends, and hold off despair. I have no doubt that all the forces of Mirna are stirring to counter this enemy, and we are but one ship in that armada. Hold to courage and trust to faith. That must now be our motto.”

There were slow nods from every head, life’s blood flowing once more into chilled hearts, and quickly the three advisers excused themselves and went about their business, leaving the Patriarch with the two younger Priests.

“And your orders for us, Blessed One?” asked Rathman.

Innocent turned and stared at them for a long moment before saying, “I feel your role in these events is not yet done, my sons, for you have both been often in my eye over the course of your journey here. Until the meaning of that is made clear, I wish you to remain close to me. We are yet long days from our meeting with Argus, so take rest while still you may. My steward will see to your needs until then.”

They both bowed, knowing they had been dismissed, but Rathman clearly could barely contain himself from speaking before they were out of the Blessed Presence.

“We must get word to our brothers at the Drift,” he whispered with soft intensity, even though none of the people in the outer tent were paying them any heed.

“Why?” asked Joshua.

“I see their hand in achieving the escape of the Norealm cavalry,” he said. “They and the Merchant Guilds, for the wealth of the Guilds can open any gate in the Drift.”

“So you seek to warn them of their danger?”

Rathman stopped and turned an angry face that brought Joshua up short.

“Fool!” he snarled softly. “They know their hazard far better than we! But Priests and merchants alone cannot have enabled an army to pass the gates of the Drift. They have contacts within the ranks of the enemy, and we need those contacts.”

“Why?” Joshua asked again.

“His Blessedness keeps his own wisdom by moving army to match army, even though he himself admits such maneuvers are pointless. That leads us back to Argus.”

Joshua frowned at the man. “Even if we ignore the words of the Patriarch, how can traitors at the Drift aid us in destroying Argus?”

“By letting us know his movements.”

Joshua’s hard face still did not relax. “And when we know exact where to find him, to whom will we pass this information?”

“To the Paladin’s Daughter,” replied Rathman. “If she can slay the Juggernaut, she is the one warrior who may be able to destroy Argus. Come! We must find the keeper of the carrier pigeons if we are to send word to the Drift.”

* * *

Adella, Shannon, and Jhan caught up with the defeated army at the end of the day following the battle at Alston’s Fey.

The troops were tired and battered men who seemed to be using the last of their strength to pitch their tents and start the evening meal, and the blood and grime of battle stained every uniform. They had fought hard and fled harder, marching through most of the previous night to put the safety of distance between themselves and the victors, and they were in desperate need of a night’s sleep. There was little talk and no banter, their spirits lessened by the things they had seen on the battlefield and the comrades they had left behind to the cruelty of the Northings and the hunger of the Undead. Many had bloody bandages to cover the wounds they had suffered, and Shannon shivered to think how many of those wounds would prove mortal as the men continued to march with no thought to change the dressings and care for the injuries.

It was a sobering sight that took much of the heart out of Shannon, adding to the knowledge that Argus was even now marching his Black Watch across the bridge she had lost, combining his two armies into a massive force that these men could not hope to challenge. Yet every eye turned as she rode past, every face seemed to brighten a little as they watched, and she heard a low, constant murmur in her wake.

“The Maid!”

“She is returned!”

“She has come back to us!”

“She survived the Fey and comes now to our aid!”

She had no words for them, no message of hope, no calls for valor, for there was nothing she could add to these men who had fought so bravely against an overwhelming foe. She could only twist her mouth into the shape of a smile and nod to them as she passed. Incredibly, that seemed to be enough, and she could sense the rise in spirits behind her as she went. She took a deep breath and she felt her own spirit rising from their regard, and no matter how she tried to deny it, her heart was filling with the intense joy of giving strength to others. They made their way to the same sky blue tent they had entered before the battle, and grooms quickly took their mounts for them.

“They cheer me…,” she said, her voice husky with emotion, her eyes still on the soldiers, “…even though I have done nothing.”

“They cheer the idea of you,” said Adella. “That is far more important than any single act.”

“But it’s a lie…”

“Tell that to the two griffin riders whose mounts you slew at the Merchant’s Bridge,” replied Adella. “You taught even Argus to be cautious of how he uses his hellish flock.”

Shannon actually turned to stare at the woman. But Adella strode on, her comment a simple statement of fact, and that made the compliment even more striking.

“How many did they lose, do you think?” asked Jhan as he paused to look over the encampment. Shannon winced at his words and turned a baleful eye upon him.

“Ask rather how many remain to carry on the fight,” she corrected him. “We count an army by its strength, not its losses.”

“Well spoken, Maid!” said one of the grooms with eyes shining at her.

“Yes, well spoken, Maid,” said Adella, and then added softly. “But there are still no more than two here for every three that broke bread together before the battle.”

The flaps of the tent were drawn back and they entered once again into the presence of Mandrik and Clarissa. Mandrik’s armor was caked in places with mud, and there was a sign of bandage from beneath his dented breastplate. His thick beard was twisted and dirty, clear proof he had paid it no attention since the battle, but he seemed as steady and grim as ever. Clarissa, by contrast, wore a clean blue cloak over her armor, and her hair was pulled back in braids, though her face seemed as tired and drawn as Mandrik’s. Rumor said that both of them had fought hard at the battle against the Silver Horde, and the survival of their armies was due in no small part to their personal courage. Shannon bowed deeply, acknowledging their efforts even in defeat.

“So you are come at last!” said Mandrik. “Good! Good! You’ll put some heart back in the men, that’s certain!”

“The tales of your exploits do you honor,” said Clarissa. “The plot to steal the bridge uncovered, the pirate fleet defeated, and the griffin riders held at bay. The men never tire of the retelling of the tales.”

Shannon was appalled. “I did little enough and nothing about the pirate fleet! It was Adella who…”

“The Maid led the assault to reclaim the Bridge,” interrupted Adella, stepping forward to quietly take hold of Shannon’s wrist. “And she slew two of the griffins herself. I think it must have made Argus think twice about bringing the griffins against you in your fight with the Silver Horde.”

Mandrik looked a little uncomfortable at the suggestion, but he nodded his head. “We had our hands full enough without facing griffin riders. The Northings pressed our center hard, though we may have held if the Undead had not come up out of the river and turned our left flank.”

“The dead came out of the river?” asked Shannon, her eyes wide.

“Aye. They knew our positions as well as we did ourselves, and they struck where the blow did the most harm.”

“Lord Mandrik led the countercharge that held the enemy back and allowed our line to reform,” added Clarissa. “Had it not been for him and the steadiness of the men, all would have been lost.”

“Instead you live to die another day,” replied Adella.

Clarissa bristled slightly at the words, and Mandrik rumbled, “We will yield to death. But not to Argus.”

Shannon’s chin lifted at the simple heroism of the Duke’s words, and even Adella seemed to accept the honest courage in his voice.

“So I assume your intent now is to fall back towards Gemsbrook Castle?” asked Adella, changing the subject. There were covert looks between Clarissa and Mandrik, as well as the other officers in the tent, and she added testily, “Argus knew the disposition of your forces before Alston’s Fey, so he will not long be puzzled by your movements now. Besides, if we be traitors, you will have far more at risk than the location of your troops.”

Another exchange of looks, a half-shrug, and Clarissa said, “We intend to retire due east and make for the Hold in Warhaven.”

The Hold? Shannon frowned, trying to remember the geography of the Southlands, but Jhan saved her the trouble.

“The Hold is a hundred leagues from here,” he said. “It will take your army a week and more to reach, and that is without delays of holding back the Silver Horde and the Black Watch.”

“Gemsbrook Castle is the strongest citadel south of the Drift,” said Adella. “Why would you abandon it?”

“By retiring eastward, we will draw the bulk of Argus’ armies with us,” said Clarissa. “The Castle will stand against a small force for many days.”

Adella shook her head. “This decision makes no sense. There must be something more to your thinking.”

Silence answered her, but Adella was not about to be put off. “You wish the Maid to lead your armies. She must know your intentions if she is to be effective.”

There was another exchange of glances, reluctance and necessity struggling, and Adella said softly for only the two lords to hear, “We won’t fight unless there is some hope of victory.”

“That hope exists,” said Mandrik gruffly.

“What might that be?”

“The Regent of Maganhall has decided to join our struggle against Argus,” he said quietly. “He has gathered an army nearly 10,000 strong on his southern borders. Argus is in for a cruel surprise when next he comes against us.”

“They are joined by 4,000 horsemen of Norealm,” continued Clarissa. “Lord Fallon has broken out of the Drift!”

Shannon and Jhan exchanged looks of surprise. They had seen how tightly Argus had sealed the gates of the Drift, and it seemed incredible that a single horseman could have escaped without his knowledge, let alone four thousand.

“So you withdraw eastward to lure Argus into an ambush by this other army,” mused Adella. Shannon’s ears pricked up. She knew the woman well enough to know she was not much concerned with the maneuvering of soldiers.

“Aye,” growled Mandrik as he turned to a map of the Southlands displayed on a table behind them. “We’ll fall back towards the Spindle as if to make our stand there. It’s a tangle of heavy woods and gullies made for defense, and you can be sure the enemy will press us before we reach it. He’ll have little taste for trying to dig us out of there.”

“On the plains before the Spindle is where we will make our true stand,” continued Clarissa. “Argus will think he has forced us to battle on his terms, and he will give no thought to his flanks.”

“The Maganhall army will strike his left flank with the power of surprise,” said Mandrik with deep satisfaction. “We will give Argus a beating he will not soon forget.”

Adella, however, seemed quite unimpressed. She barely glanced at the map before asking, “So you plan to leave Gemsbrook Castle unsupported?”

“It will hold,” said Clarissa confidently.

“And what of Stalbus?” demanded Adella.

“He will stay safely in his cell,” Clarissa replied.

“I hold you to your word, Lady,” Adella said, her eyes hard. “By your own admission, we fought well at the Fey, and still the enemy pursues you. It is time for our promised talk with Stalbus.”

Clarissa stared back at all three of them, and it was clear she was reconsidering the agreement. Finally, she relented with a heavy sigh. “Very well. But I hold to the terms. A quarter hour only, and under supervision. I shall prepare the necessary documents.”

Adella half-bowed in acceptance. “Since you wish the Maid to return swiftly, perhaps you would put your coach at our disposal? That would allow us to leave as soon as night falls when the troops cannot see our departure.”

Clarissa’s eyebrows rose at that audacity, but the sense of the suggestion was quickly clear. She turned to one of her officers and said, “Order my coach prepared. It is to leave after sundown.” She turned back to the trio before her and said, “The Maid must move among the troops now. They need to see her presence for themselves.”

Adella bowed again and unobtrusively pushed Shannon out of the tent ahead of her, Jhan following behind.

Outside, Shannon said quietly, “Lady Clarissa’s coach! We can sleep as we travel and lose no time at all!”

“With her authority and escort, we should be at the Castle sometime tomorrow,” Adella answered, and there was a hint of satisfaction in her voice.

“That is simply wonderful! But I thought you did not want any restrictions on our visit with this Stalbus.”

Adella snorted a little. “What is written and what is read are not always the same thing.”

“You would dare to alter a sealed ducal order?” asked Jhan, scandalized.

“Won’t be the first time. And Clarissa’s hand is easier to match than most. Or so I’m told. Now get your best smiles on, both of you. You’ve some five thousand men to look the heroes for before we leave.”

CHAPTER 9

Honorium Stalbus

The Mountain was impossibly high.

It rose in endless layers through the bloody sky of hell, reaching like hopelessness itself for the empty promise of sanctuary somewhere far above. Darius had lost track of how long he had been on the mountain, how far a distance he had climbed, how much blood his fingers had left of the rocks below. He knew only that the climb went on and on with a helpless priest clinging to his back and an ebony monster keeping easy pace with him, its gleaming yellow eyes watching as if just waiting for him to fall.

Darius found a solid ridge for his feet, and he perched precariously there to give his arms a momentary rest. He flexed his hands and tried to force a little life back into the numb fingers. But while he was tired and his muscles ached with the exertion, he had to admit that he was more weary in spirit than in body. That was exactly as Hoarace had predicted.

“Is there no end to this accursed mountain?” Darius grumbled. “How much farther have we to go, think you?”

“What do you see above you?” countered the Priest.

He looked up and shook his head. “An endless cliff climbing to a blood red sky. It looks the same as when we started.”

“Keep faith, my friend. No cliff goes on forever. You have made amazing progress.”

“But how much father is there yet to go?”

“I am a guide for a man’s soul, Darius, not for his feet,” said Hoarace. “If a map exists for this path, I have never seen it.”

“Then how can you be sure of the way?”

There was no answer. With a frown, Darius glanced over his shoulder at the Priest, still more questions rising.

“Hoarace, how can you know this is the right path if you have never traveled it before?”

Finally, the man relented and said, “No man can lead another out of hell, my friend, just as no one can lead another into it. Both are paths he must find for himself. This much will I say. One cannot leave the Nether Regions unchanged. If you wish to escape, you must find the strength within your own heart to grow, to rise to the challenge, to defy the powers of darkness and deny them access to your soul. That is the first and most important step. It is a step you have already taken.”

Darius eyes widened as he understood that the path was more than rock and thorns and endless distance, but he had also heard more than words in the Priest’s voice.

“You have asked me several times what it is that I see before us,” he said. “That is not just a Priest’s rhetoric, is it?”

A small painful smile came to Hoarace’s lips. “My eyes are veiled, Darius. I can barely see the mountain on which we climb. But I feel the fire within you, the indomitable will which refuses to yield, and my heart rises with it. That power sustains me.” He coughed, and then added, “It is the same power I loved within my brother.”

Darius’ heart surged in answer. A dying priest was clinging to life for the chance to help show him the way out of hell, the need to save and to serve still sustaining him even though his own brother was forever lost. Darius took a deep breath, shook his head clear, and slowly, with almost strangled intensity, he began to force a song out of his throat, out of his chest. Out of his heart.

“A Warrior’s strength is in his arms,

An artist’s in his eye,

A Mother’s love no pow’r can break,

No pain shall it deny.”

He gasped, his breath burning his lungs, his throat, as if the air itself was set afire by his words, but the song was giving him the strength he needed to continue.

“Promises from a Father rise,

In Mirna’s bosom lie,

While Braveheart holds to honor’s faith,

His soul shall never die.”

“The Great Song!” cried Hoarace in awe. “Even in the depths of hell, you find the power to give voice to the Promise of our God!”

Darius looked up, and now for the first time far, far above, he thought he could see a crest of the cliff, a hint of an end at last.

“Our graves shall not be dug in hell, my friend!” shouted Darius to the Priest and to the sky. He looked over to where Illoghen clung as usual from a single hand, watching him close.

“Come, Illoghen!” Darius called. “I’ll race you to the top!”

* * * * *

“No, No, NO!” the Voice roared in his head. “The cambium first, you fool! How many times must I tell you?”

“I believe this is the second,” Jhan answered calmly, reaching for the yellow container. “Do you wish me to take the powder from the middle of the jar again?”

“Of course! I do not trust any of this quack’s ingredients. And take particular care when you mix it in. We are approaching the critical stage!”

Obediently, he scraped aside the powder on the top of the jar and began carefully scooping a small quantity on the scale before him, trying to ignore the bubbling cauldron just off to the side that was emitting a foul stench and occasional sparks of magic. Through the curtain behind him, he could hear the apothecary talking to some customer out in the shop, and despite the demands on his attention, Jhan couldn’t help marveling again over the man’s reaction. The Voice in his head had given him a few simple words of a single spell to say, and in an instant, the apothecary had been transformed from a hostile skeptic into his best friend who could not do enough for him, including giving him full rein in his workshop with access to all his various powders and ingredients. An advanced charm spell, the Voice had called it. That’s one I’m going to have to learn, Jhan assured himself.

Adella and Shannon were resting in the rooms set aside for them, though Jhan suspected that Adella was spending the time tampering with the document that would give them unfettered access to Honorium Stalbus. Jhan himself was feeling no need to rest, for aside from the sleep in the coach, he had discovered that he could nap within his own mind and leave the movements of his body to the Voice. It was a disturbing idea and one that had horrified him when it had first occurred, but he was already becoming accustomed to it. It was just as well, for the Voice had given him no peace since they had entered the town, directing him to the central market where they had sought out the largest apothecary and began this hurried and complicated preparation.

“You will have time enough to rest when this work is finished,” the Voice assured him as it read his thoughts.

“It is not rest but understanding I want,” he replied. “I’ve never even heard of some of these components!”

He could feel the Presence bristling within him, the instant resistance to sharing any of its magical knowledge with the individual who had stolen its power at the Merchant’s Bridge, but Jhan sensed another problem as well. The entity was disturbed by how complex Jhan was proving to be, by the shifts and changes in his thoughts that sometimes produced…surprises. Guess I’m not the forest bumpkin you expected, he thought openly.

“You are still more fool than you think!” snapped the Voice in answer. “Now offer the incantation first!”

Jhan set the scoop down with a decisive tap.

“I’ll do nothing further unless I understand what we are about,” he declared.

“I will tell you nothing more than I must,” the Voice said with a growing touch of anger. “The outrage you committed at the bridge put far more at risk than your safety. Or even mine.”

“You would not act, so you left me no choice.”

“I shall deprive you of that choice also in future. You hunger more for the power than for the knowledge.”

Jhan let out a small sigh of annoyance, but more at the accuracy than acrimony of the words. It was all too true. The memory of power haunted him like an addiction, one delicious taste that demanded more, and even here, he knew he was as eager for the display of power as for the results of it. He was as transparent as water to the Voice. But he pushed the feeling resolutely aside. “My concern is practical. It is my hands which are creating this spell, and since you are allowing me full control, you are clearly concerned with accuracy. The smallest error may cause the spell to fail or even to erupt.”

“Stop this foolishness! The time for the incantation is already passing!” the Voice said in reply.

“I need to understand what we are about,” Jhan repeated stubbornly. “Better a lost spell than a burned out workshop. Why are we doing this? To what end?”

He could feel the anguish in the Presence, the eagerness to complete the spell and the fear that a second attempt would be even less likely to succeed. Jhan had steadfastly kept one word out of his thoughts since the Fey, a name he knew was forbidden, and he now began to slowly let it slip back into his mind. Malc…

There was a surge of control, the word cut off in mid-thought. But the threat had been made clear.

Finally, the Voice burst out, “The woman supplied a critical new detail I did not previously know. Stalbus had his item with him before his capture. We had assumed he had put it away from him much earlier, and that was why we were able to track and capture him.”

“We?” asked Jhan in surprise.

“I…was involved…in the capture,” the Voice said, and Jhan could sense this was a dangerous admission the Voice dreaded to make. There was a sudden calliope of thoughts and images that slipped through along with that admission…an agonizing choice…emerging from isolation for the first time in decades…a deadly threat…and the deciding knowledge that Stalbus sought something he possessed…something within Llan Praetor…

The rush of images made one point suddenly clear, and Jhan exclaimed, “So you now have a much better chance of finding where he hid the thing!”

“Only if you complete the spell!”

Jhan nodded, now understanding the importance and the urgency.

“Tera mar, Tera mar, evas Stalbusar Tera mar zex,” he intoned, repeating the words he heard in his head.

He then lifted the pan with the yellow powder and began to slowly mix it in to the boiling cauldron, the fumes increasing and making him retch, though he hung grimly on until all the powder had been added. Then he fell backwards, coughing and wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

“Look! Look, damn you!” commanded the Voice. “I need to see!”

Blinking, he peered back at the smoking cauldron, and he could just make out some figure that seemed to be forming from the fumes. Am I imagining this? wondered Jhan as he blinked again. It was a creature on four legs, and at first, he thought it must be a horse of some kind. Then he saw that the front legs were the long claws of a bird of prey, and the face curved into a cruel beak. There were even some kind of wings folded on the back. As he watched, the wings spread and the creature took flight, the form quickly vanishing.

“Of course, of course!” the Voice said excitedly. “It makes perfect sense now!”

“What makes sense?” croaked Jhan. His throat felt as if it had caught fire from the fumes.

“You needn’t trouble yourself,” the Voice answered. “We must return to the Castle immediately. And stop by the public well for a drink of water first. I can’t stand that infernal hacking.”

* * *

“You may have permission to interview Stalbus, but I must dissuade you from your task,” the tall, intimidating man was saying to them. “You will become his unwilling pawns no matter your precautions.”

Shannon, Jhan, and Adella were standing in the deepest tunnel beneath Gemsbrook Castle, a passage they had reached only by passing a dozen iron gates and fortified doors with armed guards who seemed barely able to resist the desire to attack these interlopers. The man before them was the Chamberlain of the Castle, the man who controlled access to any and all portions of the structure and therefore its chief jailer, and he was looking with cold suspicion at the document bearing Clarissa’s signature.

Will he spot the changes Adella had made in the document? Shannon wondered uneasily, though she kept her face composed. What if he should demand to authenticate it?

“The warrant is legal?” asked Adella, showing nothing but mild annoyance at the delay.

“It is.”

“The signature and seal authentic?”

“So they appear.”

“Then stand aside and give us access as the Duchess requires.”

The man colored at the words, and his hands slightly crinkled the document he was holding. He seemed about to refuse them access, rescinding the document on his own authority, but then gritted his teeth as he considered the consequences. Finally, he turned on his heels and stalked down the corridor with a curt, “Wait here.”

Shannon took a deep breath, even though she hated the noisome stench in the place, a mixture of musk and sewage and something she couldn’t quite define. The last dungeon she had entered had been beneath Nargost Castle to rescue the hostages, but that had been nothing to the size and crushing weight of the depths beneath the fortress of Gemsbrook. She was having second thoughts about accompanying Adella on this interview, even though she had already been assured a second person had to be present. And considering the delicate subjects to be discussed, she was the only candidate.

“So this man is a criminal,” she asked slowly. “You say he was only taken by warriors supported by a group of wizards?”

“The less you know of Stalbus, the better,” Adella said shortly. “All you need for now is that he is a powerful wizard and a far more potent sage who has made fell use of his wealth of knowledge. He has been held here at Gemsbrook Castle in isolation for the past eight years at the sentence of the Council of Lords, for they fear his death almost as much as they fear his escape.”

“If he is so powerful, how can you hope to gain his help?” asked Shannon.

“I know many little details of Stalbus’ life, including that he was aware he was on the verge of being captured,” said Adella. “He has a particularly important little item that was not found on his person by his captors. That means he managed to hide it just before he was taken.”

Shannon blinked. “Do you know where he hid this thing?”

“No.”

“Then what good is this knowledge?”

Adella let out a tiny sigh of annoyance. “Stalbus doesn’t know that I don’t know where it is hidden. He was taken in the eastern reaches of the Mountains of the Winds, and I can ask some interesting questions that will raise his…concerns. The question is whether I can raise those concerns high enough for him to offer us help.”

Shannon heard the unspoken conclusion to that sentence: but not so high as to kill us.

“Hippogriff?” Jhan said suddenly, and they both turned to see him frowning.

“What did you say?” asked Adella.

“I…ah…I said…hippogriff,” Jhan stuttered. “It…just kind of popped into my head.”

“Well put it back there,” said Shannon, but she turned to find Adella staring intently at the boy. “What is it?”

“I know the item in question is not kept in one place,” she answered slowly. “Yet Stalbus would never entrust it to any intelligent being, nor would he risk some animal to carry it blindly. But a hippogriff…”

“They are nearly immortal,” Jhan said. “And they are common enough in the eastern reaches of the Mountains of the Winds.”

“Yes, and Stalbus has made the study of immortal beings his specialty,” said Adella thoughtfully. “A brilliant answer to a hard puzzle. But how much is pure guess, I wonder?”

“Any guess is better than pure ignorance,” Jhan said evenly, matching Adella look for look.

She nodded slowly. “More and more, I am glad I resisted the desire to kill you, boy.”

“One of the few things we hold in common.”

Both women continued to study him closely, and Jhan blinked a little, embarrassed by the scrutiny. Exactly as you would expect of Jhan. The tableau was abruptly ended by the return of the chamberlain.

“All is in readiness on our part,” he said grimly. “I can only pray that you are equally prepared.”

*

The room they entered was far from being the cold, harsh cell Shannon had expected. It was brightly lit with rich furnishings sitting on a thick carpet of woven wool, and the walls displayed a bewildering array of paintings that ranged from portraits and flowers to battle scenes and sea storms. There was a table off to the side with a linen tablecloth and set with a silver place setting and a beautiful candelabra whose nine candles made the dishes and silverware sparkle. Towards the back was a luxurious looking bed with heavy blankets and a tapestry of a woodland scene hung on the wall behind it. It was the room of a king in exile, not a condemned criminal reviled and hated throughout the land.

“Adella!” the man cried with obvious delight. “How wonderful for you to come to visit! It has been so long since I have seen any of my old friends!”

Honorium Stalbus was of medium height and somewhat slender in stature, though his rich red robes and blue overmantle could not hide a small tummy that spoke of middle age and little activity. He had long black hair shot with gray at the temples, a thin face with a sharp chin and nose that seemed like weapons, and the most piecing coal black eyes that Shannon had ever seen. He was looking solely at Adella, as if wanting to waste none of the power of those dark eyes on a secondary target, and for once, Shannon was very grateful to be ignored.

“Your visiting hours are a bit restricted,” Adella answered. “You look as fit as ever, Honorium.”

“I fear first impressions miss the mark,” he said sadly. “Look what they have done to me, my dear. Look at my poor hands.”

He held his hands forward and held them flat out with the fingers spread, a most uncomfortable looking pose. As Shannon looked closer, she realized he was wearing some kind of metal gloves that held his hands rigid, and there, at the cuff, hung a tiny lock. There were joints for the knuckles of the fingers which would allow the hand to be adjusted for a given purpose, to hold a spoon or a pen perhaps, but no flexibility, no chance of the graceful gestures needed to conjure magics.

“They look perfectly fine from this perspective,” Adella replied easily.

“Ah, but an artist of your surpassing skills,” he said with an ingratiating smile, “an artisan of your unrivaled dexterity. You could undo these locks with the merest caress of your hands. Then, Adella, ah! Ah, then, we would have a jolly time!”

“I’m having a jolly enough time right now, thank you.”

“Remember Augsburg?” he said softly, coming closer, and Shannon blanched as if a serpent were approaching them. “Remember Ravensfeld? Do you remember…?”

“I remember Steadworth Castle,” Adella interrupted, a tiny glint in her eye. “How many did your little friend kill that night?”

He shrugged lightly, unconcerned. “They would have died in later years. I gave them an end to be remembered.”

“For us all to remember,” she said with a hint of harshness.

He tilted his head slightly. “You have not come to remember the past. You have come to look to the future.”

She smiled slowly in answer. “It is a pleasure to speak to a knowledgeable man. The future, indeed, is my interest.”

“Alas, my dear one, I have no future,” he said, his mouth drooping to one side. “It is taken from me. Why then should I seek to know what it holds?”

“Some would say as recompense for Steadworth Castle,” she said. “If not for your own peace, then as a hedge. There are so many waiting on the other side for the moment when you cross over into death.”

Stalbus smiled.

“Others might suggest that your only way out of this cell is to be of service to your captors,” she continued. “It is a long pit you have dug yourself, but when your aid surpasses your harm, you might see the sun again.”

The smile widened.

“And what do you say, dear one?” he asked softly. “What have you yourself come to suggest?”

“Why, I would suggest you do it to preserve a small red ruby with the crest of Irubicon inscribed deep within.”

The man’s smile vanished in an instant, and his eyes narrowed, becoming almost reptilian slits. Shannon swallowed at the abrupt change, but Adella showed no reaction.

The next moment, the man’s expression had eased again, and he said, “You may have learned of the ruby’s existence, that is easy enough, but you can know nothing else.”

“I know you had it moments before your capture.”

The man came slowly towards them, his face calm but with a feral light in his eyes that set Shannon’s stomachs quivering. Never before had she felt such maliciousness from a human being. “You of all people know the danger of striking and missing. I fear your thrust has struck nothing but air. I cannot permit you another try.”

Shannon’s heart skipped a beat, the man’s tone soft and deadly, and she felt as if a ravaging wolf were closing in upon them, a thing of claws and fangs that came to feed upon their lives as well as their flesh. His hands are bound! she assured herself even as she felt a wave of heat washing over them. But Adella’s voice was steady as she replied and forestalled his advance.

“Oh I admit, I found it quite by chance,” she said. “Whoever would have thought you would hide a soul-ruby in the belly of a hippogriff? I cannot claim brilliance, and I cannot even claim thoroughness, for it was Bloodseeker who sensed the ruby’s presence after I slew the beast. No. My only claim is awareness. For when I saw it, I knew right away what it was I held.”

Now it was Adella who smiled.

Stalbus stopped, the wave of heat abruptly dissipated, and Shannon was stunned to see his face relax once more into its previous polite smile, tempered now with a look of consideration.

“This little ruby of mine,” he asked. “It is quite safe?”

“Quite safe,” she assured him. “For now.”

After a long moment, he said, “I think you are lying, my dear. I think you learned about the ruby by chance, for a woman of your skills can wheedle water out of rocks if it be her wish. I think you made it your business to learn the nature of my guardian, but you would have learned nothing beyond that. What, for example, was the color of the hippogriff?”

“Are you truly prepared to risk this road?” she asked. “If I have the ruby or know only its location, is your peril not the same, your secret compromised and with your fingers spread and useless? What, I wonder, would your jailers offer for a few words…?”

His face tightened.

“…or for that matter,” she continued, “what would be the reaction, think you, of Irubicon himself?”

Stalbus stiffened slightly, and Shannon could actually see the change coming over him. His brows were level beneath clear eyes, the mouth steady, the chin slightly raised, all pretenses gone. “I shall bargain, but I shall not be held prisoner by you as well as my jailers. We must come to an arrangement, an arrangement agreeable to us both, or your knowledge will quickly become useless. For even without my hands, I still can sing a song my friend can hear.”

There was the slightest widening of Adella’s eyes, but Shannon knew that in a person of less courage, that would be the equivalent of a cry of fear. Stalbus’ friend was clearly this Irubicon, and Shannon had no interest in learning more of him.

“My visits are limited by your jailers, so you will not find yourself beneath my thumb,” she said. “This one visit is all I require, should your responses prove adequate.”

“An arrangement must work both ways,” replied Stalbus. “Upon the conclusion of this interview, you shall perform one simple service for me. If I have your sworn word, I shall be free in sharing whatever poor knowledge and insights I may possess.”

“And that service would be…?”

“I’m afraid my fall from power came with too little advanced warning,” the man said, falling back into some of his previous smoothness. “Many of my projects remain uncompleted. One in particular I remember with special regret. I was raising a few pets in my western citadel not very far from here, small creatures of sweet and loving disposition, and while I made assurances for their care, they will surely pine away after years of inattention. I ask merely that you visit and care for my little friends.”

Shannon’s face showed her alarm, and she looked directly at Adella. But she needn’t have worried. Without a pause or a blink, Adella said, flatly, “No.”

“My dear one, you disappoint,” said Stalbus sadly, turning away. “I fear we are nearing the end of our visit.”

Adella’s expression was as composed as ever, but there were calculations running behind those eyes, a weighing of risk against the likely gain. Finally, she said, “I did not come here for charity and am prepared to offer value for value. I am willing to discharge a duty, but only if you offer what I seek.”

Stalbus stopped and turned back, and Shannon’s heart quailed from the expression on his face. He came directly up to Adella, and Shannon actually stepped back from his advance. Adella, however, did not move, did not react in any way, the man’s black eyes locked on her, the words of her offer still echoing between them. He was nearly up to her now, and it seemed for just a moment as if a green breath were coming from his mouth. And going to Adella’s.

“You have the weapon?” he hissed softly.

“Yes,” came the reply, though the voice sounded flat and cold. Shannon, standing behind her, couldn’t see her face.

“Prove it.”

With astounding speed, Bloodseeker appeared in Adella’s hands, cutting in a graceful arch that made Stalbus retreat hastily. But the man put out both of his hands, and the sword seemed to stop in mid-pass. He then made an awkward gesture, his crippled hands motioning towards the ground, and it was as if Adella had lost control of the sword, the blade striking downward. It buried itself almost half way to the hilt into the stone of the dungeon floor beneath the carpet.

Shannon had no idea what the Sage was attempting, but she knew her friend was in danger. She leapt forward and put her hands on Adella’s shoulders, and the next instant, the woman pulled the sword free and pointed it with deadly intent at Stalbus.

The man backed away again, his hands still before him but now making a placating gesture.

“A simple trial that failed,” he assured them. “Surely you of all would not blame a prisoner from seeking to escape.”

“I am done with these games,” Adella snarled quietly. “You will tell me what I want now, or I shall deliver the Ruby of Irubicon into the hands of the Church of Mirna.”

The man said nothing, waiting, the issue at a tableau.

“This only will I offer,” relented Adella at last. “Turrio was ever your willing creature. Should I deem your information of value, I shall pass along your request that he care for these pets of yours. But I will do no more than that.”

The man considered this for a long moment, mulling over the implications, and finally, he nodded once in agreement.

“We have little time and much to learn,” Adella said, suddenly brusque, though she was careful to keep Bloodseeker between them. “I have no doubt that you have kept yourself informed of the Northing invasion and the Juggernaut that marched at its head. But have you heard of the recent battle at the Drift?”

“Less than I could wish,” he said with a shrug.

“Then learn quickly,” she answered and launched immediately into a short, succinct summary of the battle, the breaking of the two outer walls of the Drift by the Juggernaut, the thing forming a cocoon right in front of the third wall, the challenge of champions, the emergence of the new form of the Juggernaut interrupted by the crossing of Sarinian and Bloodseeker within its old body, and finally the appearance of Argus and the unleashing of the power of the Ohric that sent warrior and monster off to some unknown oblivion.

“So it was Argus, not Regnar, who was wielding the Ohric at that point?” asked Stalbus with obvious interest.

“Yes.”

The man nodded slowly, thoughtfully, his eyes distant, but Shannon could almost see the calculations and ideas running behind those eyes. If the man already knew so much of the war from the isolation of his prison cell, she realized, he must have some powerful insights available to him, insights that he might even now be using.

Adella waited several long minutes before saying softly, “We would be grateful if you shared your thoughts.”

He blinked, coming back to himself. “I apologize for the bad habits of a long hermitage. You are fortunate in what you have seen and learned. More fortunate than you may ever know. With the scepter in new hands, we can be sure it was the Ohric and not the wielder that chose the point of banishment.”

“And that point would be…?”

“The Ohric would send them both home, of course,” Stalbus replied. “It would send them through a gateway to the lowest level of the Nether World.”

Despite her tight hold on herself, Shannon stifled a gasp that was the only alternative to a scream of terror. The Nether World! Sent into the realm of devils and demons from which no living being could hope to return. The man’s eyes caught her response, the first time his eyes had fallen on her, and she felt as if she had become just one more detail to be filed away in that massive memory. Adella, however, gave Bloodseeker one small twist that instantly drew back his attention.

“The opening of a gate to another realm is tricky enough,” she mused. “And opening to the exact same location twice would be near on impossible. How much more so if one or both of these banished entities had moved from that locale…”

“A fair summary,” agreed Stalbus.

“A puzzle that exceeds the ability even of one of the greatest sages in the world?” she asked.

“You wound me, my dear one, you wound me deeply,” Stalbus said with a pained expression. “After all our time together, how can you name me as only ‘one of’?”

Adella smiled and nodded her head slightly. “I beg pardon. Exceeds the ability of the foremost sage in all the long histories of the world?”

Stalbus bowed slightly and said, “Why the answer is most simple. The Ohric banished these two. It is the Ohric that must return them.”

The Ohric! But how in the world could they manage to use the demon scepter to undo what it had done? Shannon could not stop herself from glancing at Adella, and it was clear the woman’s thoughts were closely following her own.

“Even if I were to obtain the Ohric, I could not wield it,” she said patiently. “Nor is its present owner likely to view any request from me with kindness. I suspect you are already aware of this.”

“You have asked for a means,” replied the Sage lightly. “I have supplied it.”

“Your style has not changed, old friend,” Adella said. “You impart information but withhold wisdom. That the Ohric alone can restore this man is of interest, but of little value.”

“And you were ever a woman who looked for value,” Stalbus finished with a gentle smile. “Though I fear you will not be pleased with the rest of my lecture. Attend closely. If you can but induce the Ohric to open a second gate to the Nether Regions, it is possible to insure that the gate will be guided to the last victim it banished there.”

“To insure,” repeated Adella, coming a little closer to the man. “Yes. That is a wonderful sentiment. If we were to induce the Ohric to open a second gate, how do we insure it extends to the individual we wish?”

“Oh, my dear, have your years of study taught you nothing?” Stalbus asked sadly, his eyes going back to Bloodseeker. “You are one of the few keepers of an intelligent item, and yet you still think of it as you would a person. However great it may be, the intelligence is confined and limited by the device in which it is housed, and it has no choice but to obey the functioning of that device. We know the Ohric acted without Argus’ conscious intent, for a mere warrior could never have mastered such a spell in so short a period of time. No. The scepter was predisposed to send the Juggernaut into the Pit. Indeed, your attack on the Juggernaut appears to have precipitated the Ohric’s action. It had to send it forth before you succeeded in killing it.”

He paused, leaning forward a little in turn and lowering his voice as he added, “And unless I miss my read on all that I have heard, I believe the Ohric intends to bring this entity back again.”

Shannon’s jaw dropped in astonishment at these words, and even Adella straightened up, her eyes widening.

“So if we can induce the Ohric to open this second gate before the appointed time,” she said softly, “it will open to its last victim whether it wishes to or not?”

“Precisely!” said Stalbus like a teacher praising a bright student. “A spell once cast cannot change itself, nor can the Ohric do other than fulfill the purpose for which it was sent forth!”

“But the Ohric banished two victims,” said Adella. “How can we force it to recall Darius…and not…the other?”

Stalbus shrugged. “A pre-conjuration spell is all that would be needed. Though it would likely take a better wizard than you or I to prepare it.”

“A pre-conjuration spell. You are speaking of preparing a concoction?”

The Sage nodded. “You will need at least two items with a personal connection to the one being summoned. In addition, you will need a prism of red quartz to split the spell, an artifact of the outer realms to hold the gateway open for the necessary time, and an amulet of protection against devils to keep other creatures from emerging as well. All of these must be combined at the focal point of the Ohric’s spell.”

Shannon’s jaw dropped open slightly at this dizzying list of requirements, but Adella showed no such despair. Instead, she asked, “The prism. Can it be the size of my hand?”

“Larger is better, but the key is purity, not size.”

“The artifact of the realms. Would Angel Dust serve?”

“Right well.”

“Three pinches?”

The man’s eyebrows rose slightly, and he said, “I keep forgetting that you are a woman of means. A single pinch would be adequate, but a triple quantity would repay you in many ways. It would offer some of the insurance you seek.”

Adella nodded slowly, her mind reviewing all she had heard, insuring she had missed nothing, and the man was watching her closely.

“There is another question before you,” the Sage said quietly. “A question even I cannot answer.”

“That would be…?”

“You may have the power to return this man from the Nether Regions, but should you exercise that power?” Stalbus asked, his eyes watchful. “Even if he has somehow managed to survive, he will not return from the dark realm unscathed. The being you bring back will not be the same man who left.”

Shannon felt as if she had stopped breathing, simple life functions meaningless before these deadly, damning words, and she had an overwhelming need to answer them, to repudiate them. She found herself walking past Adella, past the gleaming protection of Bloodseeker, coming forward to meet the challenge of this callous, goading monster.

“You have knowledge of magics and powers far beyond my poor experience,” she heard herself saying. “But you know nothing of my Father. I cannot be sure that Hell will not kill his body. But I am quite certain evil will never destroy his spirit.”

Instead of an angry response, Stalbus’ eyes widened as he seemed to see her for the first time, and Shannon felt as if she had been suddenly placed beneath a viewing glass, a specimen to be observed and dissected by a hungry intelligence. It was as if a light were being shown into shadowy niches of her being, illuminating things even she herself had never seen, and she felt a great stillness within herself, an awareness of herself that had no words, that could not be contained by words.

“A nexus,” he said softly, clearly speaking to himself, the voice tinged with amazement. He took a small step closer, but Shannon held her ground, refusing to yield. “A nexus of the Farsi. Never have I seen…”

He broke off abruptly, coming back to himself. He blinked, and his face resumed its countenance of polite indifference, like a curtain falling across a stage.

“What?” demanded Shannon. “What have you never seen?”

“It is a matter of little interest and less consequence,” he answered dismissively.

“You once said that mere mortals are not worth lying to, Honorium,” said Adella who had watched the by-play closely. “It would seem our status has grown.”

The man shot her a fiery glance, but Adella maintained her own gentle smile, the expression reminding him of who and what he was. He nodded once, acknowledging the challenge, and he turned back to Shannon, his dark eyes seizing her.

“You are woman child who feels the pull of destiny upon your heart, and you think this is no more than the normal trials of youth,” he said, his face suddenly becoming the entire world to Shannon, shutting out all else. “You hear the call in a voice you cannot fathom, so you cast it in words your mind can grasp, to place it in a context for your own piddling experience. A woodland wench with blind eyes, the plaything of power, who trembles to claim her own strength for fear of being thought rude.”

He came closer yet, his black eyes now all that she could see, all that there was.

“You think you have travelled many long leagues down this road, but you know nothing of the distance yet before you,” he said, his voice deep and threatening. “You feel the specialness within you, and you dismiss it as the uniqueness every living soul feels towards itself. But yours extends beyond the limits of your own skin, beyond the restraints of your mortality.”

An ugly sound escaped from his throat, a noise that might have been a chuckle of disgust or distain. “Yet a girl’s mind directs this destiny and holds that fate hostage, a child’s question that bends and corrupts the light. That answer is nothing to the greater question, so take it now as a free gift and be done with it. The choice will come down to your Father or your world. Choose wrong, and it will cost you both.”

Something pulled her backwards, hard, something that broke the enchantment of that bottomless voice and the drowning depths of those pitch black eyes.

“We thank you for your insights, Wise One, and will surely weigh your words with all due care,” she heard Adella saying as she was slowly dragged backwards. “Be assured that I shall hold to my part of our pact.”

“I never doubted it, my dear,” he said without a smile.

She backed away, pushing Shannon behind her, as if leaving a royal presence. Only when they were near the door and she had knocked for the guards did Bloodseeker vanish into its hidden scabbard.

“Adella,” the man called after them.

They both looked back.

“You know there are deep purposes here that remain hidden,” he said with odd sincerity. “Purposes set in motion by the gods themselves.”

“Yes. But those purposes have become crossed, do you not agree?”

The man nodded.

“Then who is to say if we are opposing the purposes of one god…or forwarding the purposes of another?”

“Words of brash foolishness,” Stalbus answered, “if they had issued from any lips other than Adella’s.”

He bowed slightly, a sign of honest respect. Adella nodded in turn, but she said nothing more as she quietly ushered Shannon out the door and past the anxious guards.

*

“What did you learn from him?” demanded the Chamberlain the moment the door was closed. “Of what did you speak?”

“We had a pleasant visit with an old friend,” said Adella lightly. “He seems in better spirits than I expected. Much better than mine would be in his place.”

“Do not ignore my questions, woman!” the man snarled. “I am charged by the Council of Lords with…”

“The Council is broken, and no one now has any thoughts for Stalbus,” she interrupted curtly. “Clarissa granted us unfettered access, and that means immunity from interrogation afterwards. What we take away is ours and ours alone.”

The man went scarlet with anger, but Adella turned away from him and headed down the tunnel. Not far ahead, Shannon made out the lone figure of Jhan waiting for them.

“He… spoke with you?” the boy asked quietly.

“Hold your tongue,” cautioned Adella. “These walls are hungry for secrets.”

The three lapsed into silence as Adella led them swiftly through the corridors of the castle and past the multiple guard points until they reached the suite of rooms set aside for them. They entered, and she threw the bolt on the door behind them. Holding up a hand to keep their silence, she led them to a large painting of horsemen on the wall and moved it slightly to reveal a small hole. She produced some kind of pliable black material and inserted it into the hole, then allowed the painting to slide silently back into place.

She then said softly, “I haven’t had time to find the other listening holes, but stoppering one will sharply lessen the power of the others to hear.”

“So the session went well?” asked Jhan cautiously.

“Better than I could have dared hoped,” said Adella with a glint in her eye. “Your guess about the hippogriff struck right to the heart.”

Jhan looked pleasantly surprised, smiled and nodded. Shannon, however, had more pressing questions than Jhan’s unexplained luck.

“Can we trust anything that man said?” she demanded. “A monster in human form who seems to delight in torment…”

Her voice trailed off, but Adella’s was firmer as she assured her, “Stalbus’ pride in his knowledge is perhaps his only true weakness, and you can be sure he would not sully that pride for the likes of us. He himself would say we are not worth lying to.”

Shannon’s shoulders seemed to crumble beneath the words, leaving her with no defense against the claim that the man they returned from the Abyss would not be the same one who departed.

Adella reached out and grasped her arm, hard. Reassuringly, she said, “Just because he doesn’t lie, does not mean all his words are true.”

Shannon took a deep breath and nodded her head once, telling Adella she had helped to quench some of the fear rising within her.

“But even if we can trust his words, how have we gained anything?” she asked, though she kept her voice low. “Even if we killed Argus and took the scepter, it would never bring my Father back.”

“The greatest value we gained was the elimination of many other options,” Adella replied. “I would have squandered our efforts on useless ideas had it not been for our friend Stalbus.”

Shannon’s eyebrows rose slightly in appreciation, but she quickly shook her head. “That may well be, but the Ohric…”

Her voice trailed off, unable to continue.

“So the Ohric is the means by which Darius might be recovered!” Jhan said as his face broke into a smile of comprehension.

“Yes,” said Adella, watching him.

Jhan noticed her attention, and he composed his expression and said nothing more. Shannon had deeper concerns.

“But the rest of which he spoke,” persisted Shannon. “This pre…pre…”

“Pre-conjuration,” said Adella. “It is a means of affecting a magic as it is cast. Not to stop it or even to change it, but to expand some aspect that may not have been already defined.”

Shannon nodded a little impatiently at the explanation, but she had been wrestling with one serious aspect of this idea since they had first heard it. “The man said we would need not just one, but two items to complete the spell. But I have nothing of my Father’s that will serve.”

“Yes you do,” said Adella. “You have Sarinian. It has a very long history with your Father and will serve nicely.”

Shannon’s eyebrows rose but then fell again. “That is only one.”

Adella reached into a pocket of her tunic and produced a small golden band. “Have you forgotten this? He gave me your mother’s wedding ring to carry for him. It might just be enough to save his life now.”

Shannon’s face lit with delight, but Adella’s smile was more somber. “The ingredients are not the issue. Combining them is the real trick. To affect an item with the power of the Ohric casting a spell as potent as a gate far surpasses my poor knowledge of conjurings. Indeed, I’m not even sure where such a magic can be accomplished.”

“Llan Praetor,” came an answer.

Both women whirled on Jhan.

“Just how can you know that?” demanded Adella. “And don’t try any of that nonsense about overhearing something at the Drift.”

The boy looked from one to the other, and he seemed to be holding an internal debate, pondering his answer.

“Well?” Adella pressed, her eyes a deadly warning..

Finally, Jhan fumbled in the pockets of his vest and produced a small golden object. It was a heavy ring set with three huge stones, one clear, one red, and one green.

“I came by this ring at the end of the battle of champions,” he said slowly, his voice oddly strained. “I believe it must have belonged to Malcolm. It…it sometimes tells me things. Sometimes…helps me… do things.”

Adella’s eyes lit with sudden interest, and she reached for the ring, only to have Jhan close his hand and hold it back.

“So this ring of yours,” she asked carefully. “You think it can help to create the necessary concoction?”

“Perhaps.”

“But only within Llan Praetor,” she said, and got a small nod. “Just how do you propose we get there?”

There was another long pause, and then Jhan looked carefully from Shannon to Adella before saying, “The ring…can take us there.”

“And how long…does the ring…say it will take to complete the charm?” asked Adella.

“One full day at the least,” Jhan answered immediately. “More likely two.”

A shock of fear ran through Shannon at those words, a premonition of danger. She suddenly doubted if they had two days.

“Every minute may be important!” she announced to the world. Adella reached over and gripped her arm, reminding her of the hidden listening holes.

“We have no choice,” she said. “A concoction is a powerful magic, and it must be prepared with great care. But I must pause long enough to send out one message.”

“A message? To whom?”

“An acquaintance named Turrio in the port city of Azare.”

Shannon blinked in shock. “This friend of Stalbus? You plan to pass word to him from the prisoner?”

Adella stopped and looked at her with a piercing stare. “Not even I will dare to break my given word to Honorium Stalbus, girl.”

Shannon was silent at this reminder of Stalbus’ power, the memory of the Sage’s last comments rising up within her again, the strange words and the still stranger sensations they seemed to uncover.

“A nexus,” she said, the unaccustomed word falling oddly from her lips. “What is a nexus?”

“A nexus is a crossroads of power where forces of different purposes meet,” interjected Jhan casually, as a teacher answering a student’s question. “Many think this is a point of conflict where one overcomes and subjugates the other. But rather it is a juncture of reality where truth wins out over fallacy, and the two forces are fused by their strengths into a single union that is greater than the either of the two.”

Shannon blinked at the concise explanation, and she found herself going further. “And what is the Farsi?”

“The Farsi?” he repeated in obvious surprise. “The Farsi is the light of the Blessed Realms. But you need give it no further thought.”

“Why is that?”

“The Farsi is never seen upon this world. It is the stuff of angels and illuminates only the halls of the heavens.”

CHAPTER 10

The Battlefields

“We are nearing the top,” Hoarace was saying as the crest of the endless cliff now appeared almost within reach. “You must prepare yourselves. Both of you. We are approaching the Battlefields.”

Darius nodded in understanding, but the promise of the crest was distracting him from everything else, a chance to escape from this interminable cliff, a chance to rest without fearing a drop from a dreadful height. Anything, anything was better than this, and he found himself climbing with renewed vigor at the sight of the end.

“Illoghen, do you understand the danger of which I speak?” called the Priest. “The next level will have an endless battle in progress, a war among all sorts of creatures. You must not be drawn into it. This is vitally important. Do you understand?”

The creature, too, nodded its head, but it was keeping pace with Darius, clearly as eager to reach the top as he. They were scrambling up the last segment, and Darius noticed that the sky above the plateau was a swirling black and grey mass like angry storm clouds and very different from the blood red sky that extended over the lowest level. A streak of lightning flashed between clouds as he looked and a distant boom of thunder reached his ears.

He reached the crest and pulled himself up over the top, taking a huge breath of relief to feel solid ground once more beneath him. He collapsed onto the rock and spread his body out over the rough surface, rejoicing to feel his weight supported by his entire form and not just his fingers and toes.

Then he looked out at the vista ahead of them, and his breathing stopped.

Before them lay the carnage of a massive battleground with the bodies of thousands, tens of thousands of warriors strewn to the very limit of sight in all directions.

He got slowly to his feet, and the extent of the field simply grew with his vision.

Darius stared in disbelief at the devastation before them, the ground invisible for the hacked corpses, with spears, arrows, swords protruding from the bodies in the mad chaos of death. Most of the dead were humans, dressed in every conceivable uniform and type of armor, though there were other races piled among the slain, and the ground was soaked with all their blood, red mixing with green and grey and black.

“The most vicious of other races sometimes find their way here after death,” murmured Hoarace at the sight. “They glory in the endless battle against humans and seldom move on to the Pit below.”

Darius had seen hundreds of battlefields in his time, had fought in conflicts where the numbers were so heavy that the dead had not room to fall and stayed pressed against the living as if determined to continue the fight, but nothing even came close to this. He recognized dead from all the principalities of the Southlands, Northing barbarians, near-naked savages, knights in full platemail and archers in light leather, dwarves in thick chain mail, rock goblins, mountain ogres, and stone giants, the proud feathered helms of distant lands and the strange intricate armor from ages long past, all stacked upon each other lying in the wild abandonment of death. There were even the corpses of devils mixed in, as if they too had been swept up by the insanity that had massacred so many. Most battlefields showed a point of flow, signs of where the forces had contended over a particular strategic feature of the ground. But not here. Here they lay equally at all areas, as if the point of battle were the killing and not the victory.

Illoghen was on his feet as well, surveying the slaughter with an expressionless face.

“Stay back,” cautioned Hoarace. “We dare not go directly through the center of the Battlefields. We will skirt along the edges first, and then we may…”

He stopped as Illoghen took a step into the carnage and picked up a massive sword that some giant or ogre had discarded, its arm hefting the weight of the weapon.

“Illoghen, step back!” warned the Priest. “Put the sword down! There is great danger for you here!”

But the creature did not seem to hear or care. There was movement off to the right, the sound of something approaching that walked right over the prostrate bodies, and then to the center there was another silhouette approaching, a large figure with some kind of mace.

“Fighting is the only real danger!” shouted the Priest, trying again. “Do not get pulled into the slaughter! Illoghen!”

But the monster was already surging forward with sword raised, and the distant silhouette was now charging forward to meet him, the mace swinging over its head. More figures seemed to be rising right up out of the ground, as if the dead themselves were stirring, readying for yet another battle.

Darius found himself slowly lowering Hoarace to the ground as Illoghen engaged his first opponent.

“What are you doing, Darius?” the man demanded.

“He’s…he’s under attack…” he said heavily, feeling the energy flowing through his arms, his hands, his legs. “He…needs help…”

The Priest was saying something else, some babble of caution and restraint even as Illoghen was crushing his first opponent and being beset by half a dozen more. Darius was breathing hard, and he found himself moving forward, marching to war as he ever did, answering the battlecry.

“Darius!” shouted Hoarace. “Darius, you must not go!”

Something was coming towards him now, a figure scurrying along among the dead, bloody daggers in its clawed hands. A devil! The thing was charging at him, daggers raised, a scream or curse echoing from its mouth. Darius darted to the side, and his hands found a long sword among the fallen. The devil lunged at him, and he impaled it with the sword to send it crashing backwards, its evil extinguished.

There was a voice somewhere behind him, calling to him, but it was only a nuisance, a distraction, as two more devils appeared off to the right, interposing themselves between him and Illoghen. There was a spear sticking from a corpse, and he freed it with one motion and sent it flying at these new opponents, the spear burying itself in the side of one of the devils. The monsters were charging, and with a cry, Darius rushed to meet them, leaving the faint sounds of a human voice vanishing behind him.

* * * * *

The blasted tunnels within the ruptured side of the mountain that lead to the Chamber of Balance were even worse than Albathor had reported. The mountain was largely composed of goblin slate, a hard rock that tended to splinter when broken, and the walls and the ceilings of these tunnels showed large cracks where the force of entry had fractured the stone. Every step Mraxdavar took made it feel as if he were walking across cracking ice.

Directly behind him, Albathor was following his every step, careful to keep his distance so as not to add his own weight to the considerable mass of his father, and up ahead walked the scouts Elthanor and Jeriex who were testing the stone before him. The dragons had spent two full days watching the entrance to the cave, and they had not seen so much as a bat enter or leave. No surprise there, Mraxdavar decided. No cavern dweller would trust such a tunnel if they had a choice.

There was a distant sound of wind echoing through the tunnels, and the dragon scouts pulled up short, knowing that an encounter with any wandering or misguided creature might well result in the roof falling on all of them. Mraxdavar, however, pushed them on with a single hiss that dismissed the danger.

“The wind comes from before us, Father, not from behind,” Albathor said quietly. “Is there another entrance somewhere ahead?”

Mraxdavar continued his cautious advance, his eyes locked on his two scouts, but he answered softly, “The Chamber of Balance may well lie within this mountain, but it is bordered by many realms. This gust of air tells me the doorway that separates the mountain from the Chamber has been broken,”

“Is that not what you expected?” the younger dragon asked.

“If the Juggernaut had been induced to move on its own, the door would have opened at its behest. If the Ohric broke the door, it was because it had no other way to gain entrance.”

Albathor said nothing more, and Mraxdavar nodded slightly to himself. His son was digesting the implications of that fact and realizing they were approaching the site of a sacrilege committed against the gods, a sacrilege that made it far less likely that they would incur divine wrath for their own trespass.

The two scouts came to an abrupt halt, their bearing showing they had spotted something, their postures clearly indicating alarm. A moment later, Elthanor softly called back. “An opening…lies only a score of paces ahead.”

Mraxdavar slowly closed the distance between them, the irregularities in the tunnel’s course speaking of great power wielded without complete control. There ahead was a huge shattered hole in the rock wall with a lighted chamber just beyond, and scattered on the floor of the chamber was broken rubble, the debris from the forced entrance. He took the lead, moving carefully up to the entranceway, though his pace now reflected respect for the chamber he was approaching rather than a fear of the broken stone of the passage.

The Chamber of Balance was a titanic, eight-sided room, more than twice Mraxdavar’s full height, and he could have stretch out three times over and not touched the opposite side. Each of the eight walls bore inscriptions in a different language, and the power of the writing was such that even the weakest eye could make out every detail even from a distance, for the engravings of the gods were more than writing and more than sight. But each of the walls appeared to have been damaged, one, two, or even three holes having been punched through the stone itself, desecrating the sacred writings.

Sacrilege. To see that divine script broken, the words of the gods smashed out of existence, froze Mraxdavar’s heart. But worse, far worse, was the suspicion those blows had not landed randomly. A fierce intelligence had chosen what runes to destroy, changing the basic meaning of the scripture, a corruption of the purpose of the gods.

It was an abomination.

The dragon tore his gaze away from the blasphemous walls to the rest of the room. In the middle were four white marble columns in the form of a square that were covered with large runes, but these did not leap out at the observer as did the wall writings. The floor was an incredible mosaic of brilliant colors shooting inward from the eight walls to form an intricate pattern around the four columns, the effect both soothing and compelling. Even with the damage to walls and the rubble on the floor, the Chamber was emanating a tangible power, the manna of eight gods still pulsing through the room.

“For what purpose was this Chamber forged?” breathed Albathor softly, his voice awed to a whisper by the sheer magnitude of the chamber.

“It is said it was created by the gods as a meeting place where enemies could confront each other without fear of combat or treachery. But it was always much more than that. When the world was new, the creations of the gods were many, and more than a few were monstrosities that would seek only to destroy the garden of existence. The Chamber was designed as a prison to hold the wildest spirits and bring them slowly into equilibrium with the rest of nature, incorporating them into the fabric of creation rather than destroying them. The power of the eight major gods was inscribed into each of the walls for that purpose.”

“But why would Surtur imprison one of his own?” asked the younger dragon.

“He corrupted the Chamber to fit his new purpose,” hissed Mraxdavar, “but even he would not have dared to damage the sacred walls. That is the work of the Ohric.”

“But…why…?”

“That is what we have come to discover.”

He turned to the two young dragons and snapped, “Go back to the pride and tell them to hold until we return.”

Then he glanced at Albathor and said, “We have much work ahead of us.”

* * *

The time had come for the return of the Juggernaut to the world of mortal men.

On the heights above Alston’s Fey, Argus stood before a blazing bonfire that had once been a nobleman’s home, the site chosen by the Ohric to complete its mission and return the black titan from the Nether Regions where the flames had now had adequate time to cook and season it to perfection. The burning mansion was surrounded by a ring of Red Priests, intoning solemnly, a choir of evil setting the stage for the ceremony, though they were hardly more than spectators come to bear witness to the power of the Lord Protector of the Southlands.

Argus, however, had paused at the very start of the ritual, a small, puzzled frown touching his forehead. He found his eyes pulled down to the vast river city that lay stretched out below the bluffs, his city now, a lifelong dream already achieved, and the sight brought the frown and a question into his mind. I control Jalan’s Drift. I am Lord Protector of the Southlands. Now Alston’s Fey at last has fallen to me, and the armies of my enemies flee in ruins before my forces. I reign supreme, King of the Southlands in all but formal name. What further need have I of this hellish scepter? But it was no more than a passing thought, a rhetorical question with no real answer. A part of him was welded to the Ohric, a part of his soul fused with that deadly green glow, and while the scepter was not at rest, he could not be at rest. As if in confirmation, the wound on the palm of his hand where he had sword fealty to Bal ached anew, and all questions of resistance vanished.

He held forth the scepter, raising it above his head where the green power could swirl and grow, the gleaming lines sweeping outwards to encircle the inferno, the aura turning the flames emerald and exploding to color even the clouds above, the heat changing to an icy cold. He focused on the center of the blaze, his mind looking through the burning timbers to a tiny dot of darkness that existed in the very heart of the fire, a dot that he pulled and pushed and expanded, causing it to grow to the size of a window. Then to the size of a door.

“Azur ki Aban! Alban ki Zur!” he pronounced, speaking the invocation that the Ohric required. “Alban ki Zurax!”

As the last syllable escaped his lips, he knew that something had gone wrong. There was movement on the other side of the void, but it was independent, not tied to the magics of the spell. He wanted to stop, to pull back, but he was caught up in the casting, required to complete that which he had begun.

“Alban, Alban, Alban zur Kareth! Alban ki Kareth! Kareth mal! Kareth evos mal!”

The doorway became the opening of a huge tunnel, the flaming timbers forced aside, the portal welcoming anything that wished to step from one world into another. And step they did. Devils with large leathery arms and bulging eyes began climbing through the opening like angry bees from a broken hive, dozens, scores, hundreds, tearing at each other for the chance to escape from the abyss, to enter again the world of life and light. Devils aplenty. But nothing else, nothing large and black and filled with menace. Nothing to fulfill the machinations of Bal.

The green power vanished abruptly as the Ohric withdrew, and the black tunnel began to shrink again, pulling the mass of creatures back down with it. They struggled mightily, clawing over each other for the chance to escape, to elude the backward pull, but the spell was too powerful, pulling all back with it, the burning house collapsing into burning rubble. Argus was not sorry to see them go. None of them would have done his bidding, and they surely would have triggered a retribution of angels to come forth to balance the release of evil upon the world.

The hole was gone, leaving him staring at the fire as he felt his own rage growing in kind.

“Where is the creature?” he roared. “Why has the magic failed me?”

The Juggernaut has moved on, the Ohric said, its clipped tone new and alarming.

“It has gone into…the Pit?” asked Argus, the words tempering his anger. His dealings with the Red Priests had given him a much better knowledge of the Nether World than most people possessed, and it also gave him a healthier fear, the specter of the unknown replaced by an intimate knowledge of horror.

No, the scepter answered shortly. It has ascended.

“To the Battlefields?” Argus asked, his voice incredulous.

It appears so.

The movement in the Nether Regions was ever downward, but the closer to the Pit, the more powerful was the pull. It seemed impossible that the creature could have even backed away from that final chasm, let alone ascend to a higher level.

“What treachery is this?” he demanded. “You pull me into this farce while the armies of Clarissa and Mandrik make good their escape?”

We will still destroy the enemy, for they stand between us and our objective, replied the Ohric shortly.

“You said it would be seasoned and prepared to do our bidding! Now it is lost, and you have no idea how to find it!”

If it had remained where it was sent, it could be summoned from any location. If it has moved, we have other ways to compensate. We still have five days to complete its return.

“Five days?” repeated Argus. “Five days until what?”

There was a hesitation, the scepter not wishing to divulge anything more than it must, but finally, it replied, Until all parts of the plan are united.

More secrets, he sneered to himself. Aloud, he said, “If we could not crush the armies of our enemy when they were defending the Fey, how do you expect me to destroy them when they have open country in which to maneuver?”

There is no need to crush the enemy, the Ohric answered. They can do little now to blunt our purpose. Once they have been pushed aside, you will have no more cause to worry.

“They are falling back on the Spindle,” Argus replied, referring to a mass of heavy woods that would be perfect cover for Mandrik and his men. “I have no desire to dig them out of there.”

There are forces in motion that will make the Spindle a deadly trap for Mandrik and Clarissa, the scepter assured him. They shall not emerge from that wood.

Argus frowned. The Spindle had a dark reputation, a hidden history that made people and even animals shy away from it, and he knew the locals called it the Dead Wood and would not enter under any compulsion. It seemed the Ohric had reason to share their concerns.

“If I am to accomplish all this in five days, I have no more time to waste here,” he snarled. “But what assurance have we you will find this thing within that time?”

You can be assured by the fact that we cannot afford to fail, said the scepter. We shall find the means we need.

* * *

Honrium Stalbus adjusted the fingers of his right hand and reached cautiously into the inner pocket of his robe to grasp the jar of crushed peppercorn hidden there. The gloves prevented any feeling in his fingers, so he had to be careful to have a solid grip before pulling the jar out. He smiled at the container as it appeared, rolling the black powder around inside to watch it cascade. They had taken everything from him, his treasures, his magics, his books, even his personal items, replacing everything with their own carefully monitored materials. Everything, that is, except the contents of this little jar.

He rubbed the jar against his cheek to get the sensation of the glass against his skin, his smile growing, for he knew the time was now at hand. He had insisted on the spice with every meal for the last eight years, but his jailers had been understandably nervous about any request, knowing his reputation, and had supplied only the smallest sprinkling, then checking to be sure some trace was to be found on the plate afterwards. Not that it mattered. Stalbus’ first action after the departure of the meal steward had always been to carefully transfer a portion of the spice to the hidden jar and spread the remainder over the plate to assuage their suspicions. Then he would study the slowly growing level, a miser gloating over his wealth, and he would make the same elaborate calculation day after day, area versus quantity, the amount of powder versus the thickness of the line he needed to draw. Now at long last, the time to spend that carefully horded treasure had come.

He went to the center of the room where there was the smallest slash in the thick rug, the point where he had caused Bloodseeker to be buried into the floor, and he smiled at the tiny wound. The magical protections his jailors had weaved around his jail cell were the true stone walls and iron door of his captivity, and he had fretted for eight years over the myriad difficulties presented by the obstacle. His smile widened. Only an enchanted blade such as Bloodseeker could have pierced those protections, and only a thief of Adella’s skill could have carried the weapon passed his ever vigilant jailers.

“Ah, but we are not free yet,” he cautioned himself. “The time for cunning is past and the time for skill is at hand.”

He knelt down and began very gently pouring a line of black powder from the jar, a line no thicker than his thumb. He frowned slightly at the cream colored carpet, knowing that white would have been better for this purpose, but he put the thought away and concentrated on keeping the thin strip of black powder straight. Not that he was concerned with having sufficient material to complete the symbol. His calculations assured him that he had accumulated enough some five months ago and had continued gathering powder more as a habit than a need. No, his attention was that of an artist concerned with the beauty of a final masterwork.

He had completed the inner design and now moved to complete the outer circle, and he found himself starting to rush this last section.

“Patience. Patience!” he whispered to himself. “Do not squander eight years of preparation with a moment’s haste.”

Finally, it was done, the circle completed, and Stalbus stood and admired his work: a perfect enclosed pentagram of dark on light. It would do admirably for the summoning, of that there was never a doubt, but as for protection…well, that was to be seen. He smiled and drew a deep breath, knowing he was taking the first step out of this hated cell.

“Fiela, fiela, arbanon. Fiela arbathis,” he sang to the room, exulting in the incantation he had not dared to utter for so long. “Fiela thelma incantor, fiela incanthis. Fiela awn, fiela awn, fiela Irubicon!”

A black hole began to open in the ground within the pentagram, a crack in the very essence of the world at the precise point where Bloodseeker had split the stone, and Stalbus felt the old thrill of delight and terror at the sight of that rip in reality. He could have attempted this summons without the aid of the hole caused by that magiced blade, but the enchantments his jailers had placed around the cell made control difficult if not impossible. That precise incision Adella had left made it certain his visitor would appear right in the very middle of the pentagram. He held his breath against the horrid stench pouring out of that opening, the fetid smells of an old swamp and new graveyard, and the next moment, the source of that putrid odor burst out into the room.

The monstrosity was snake-like in its overall form, but it had three separate heads and three separate tails splitting from a long thick body. The left head was pure serpent with green eyes and pointed fangs that could spray poison at a distance as well as inject it with a killing bite, while the right head was of dragonkind, red eyes over a gaping maul from which a thin line of black smoke issued, proof of the fires burning within the monster’s throat. But worst of all was the central head with a demon’s cast and black eyes that seemed to drain both light and life from everything they beheld.

Stalbus instantly fell to his knees and began, “Irubicon essan et…”

He never got a chance to finish the invocation. The black eyes of the demon head flashed power, and he was smashed backwards to crumple against the wall. But even as he groaned, he felt a surge of reassurance, for Irubicon had opted to strike him with magic rather than physically seizing him. The line of protection was holding.

“You dare to summon us without our ruby as guard?” the thing hissed at him. “Then it shall be you who feeds our hunger!”

Stalbus felt himself lifted off the ground, and the very air around him began to press in like an invisible crushing hand. He had only moments left to live, and he chose his last words wisely.

“Your ruby is not safe!” he gasped, and the pressure paused as if savoring the pain. His chest could not expand against the force, so he could only wheeze out, “Its location is known…”

“By whom?” the creature demanded, but Stalbus made no reply, vaguely gesturing towards his wind-pipe. There was a pause, and then the pressure lessened enough to allow him to draw air.

“The…the woman…who just…visited…” he said in heaves. “Adella…”

“Then we shall claim her after your death,” Irubicon said coldly.

“It is not her alone!” Stalbus cried, just in time to forestall his crushing. “She lied about finding it. Someone else knows the location!”

The demon’s tails thrashed in annoyance, sending furniture flying, and the fangs of its dragon head began chattering, the sign of an imminent attack.

“If I am freed, I could recover the ruby,” Stalbus hastened to add. “It was ever safest with me. I am still the best vessel for your needs.”

The monster stared at him with its triple eyes, and Stalbus actually smiled back, knowing the question and the inevitable answer. Whoever held the ruby could command Irubicon to any service they wished, and it had been held in the past by ruthless individuals who required constant service. Stalbus, by contrast, usually asked only for information and left the demon alone for the most part. Worse, far worse, there was also the possibility that the ruby would fall into the hands of the Church who would inevitably seek to destroy it.

The invisible fist shook Stalbus, but it was more a sign of frustration than an attack.

“We cannot set you free, whether we would or no,” the horror hissed again. “The protections around this place are too strong and too complete.”

“There is a way,” said Stalbus. “The woman. She opposes the armies of Argus who wields the Ohric. Even now, Argus closes with his prey and falls into a trap as an army gathers in secret in the southern reaches of Maganhall.”

The creature did not have lips that could smile, but its eyes lit with an unholy light that showed full comprehension. Even Stalbus faltered at that sight.

“We know this road,” the creature said as it dropped Stalbus back to the floor. “We shall walk it gladly.”

In a heartbeat, the black hole returned, and the thing vanished back from whatever dread night it had come. Stalbus got slowly back to his feet, his eyes wide, and after a long moment, he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

CHAPTER 11

Battle’s End

The Warrior stood in the Battlefields upon a dozen fresh corpses, two swords in his hands, slashing at every body that came near, his rage a beacon in the darkness.

He was unleashed. Here, here now at last was the chance for which he had waited all his life, the chance to kill evil once and forever, to destroy the infection that stained humanity, annihilate it with a single blow if he could just strike well enough…strike hard enough…strike often enough…

All the fury from every battle he had ever fought was searing through him, fueling his strength, each kill urging him on to the next as he exulted in the black joy of slaughter and destruction. He was in his true element now, a killing machine turned loose, and he no longer needed words like glory and justice to cover the murderer’s lust.

They were circling him, a dozen warriors from distant lands, all warily seeking the opening for the attack, and all leery of the corpses he had piled up around him.

Come, he commanded them silently. Come and die.

And come they did.

He blocked a dagger thrust seeking access to his ribs, and he whirled around to cut off the assailant’s arm with one devastating stroke. A barbarian ax slashed into his leg, the new enemy crowding him, leaving him no room to swing, so he dropped the one sword, hunkered down, and then launched himself upward into the opponent, lifting the man up and throwing him back to be impaled on a broken spear embedded in the ground. He whirled with the second sword, cutting into some unknown flesh, and he darted free, giving them no chance to tie him down. Then the killing continued.

A rock goblin with a curved sword cleaved in two, a mountain ogre with a war hammer that required a dozen blows to kill, and a barbarian from the North swinging with skill and the madness of battle who died on the fourth exchange. Blood was in the Warrior’s mouth, his own or others or both, a taste to go with the rage and the butchery, the rich flavor of death.

One final enemy was striking from the side, and the Warrior grabbed a dagger, whirled once, and buried it in the assailant’s belly, only to find himself face to face with his newest victim.

A young boy. A boy he remembered.

A boy who he himself had slain at the Highlander’s Pass.

A boy no older than…Shannon…

He stared for a second time into the youngster’s face, watched once again as the eyes glazed with death, felt the spirit and the hope vanishing, and he found himself again experiencing the horror he had felt then. The dagger dropped from his hand as he caught the falling body and gently laid it on the ground, heedless of the mad battle still raging around him, trying to find some niche among the bodies to shelter the boy. The blood had stopped gushing from the stomach, but it had stained both of them, an anointment that tied them together in the passing of life.

“Sweet Mirna,” the Warrior whispered to the boy, to himself. “Sweet Mirna, what have I done?”

He blinked, slowly coming awake, looking around as if fearing what he would see. The landscape had not changed. It was still filled with the hacked corpses, the blood-drenched banners, the broken spears and battered swords, all the litter of battle and death. Just the same as when he had emerged from the cliff.

Only now, he was part of it.

His hands were trembling as he looked down at them in the half-light of the Battlefields, and his stomach wretched as he saw the blood that covered his fingers, his body, covered everything, the blood he had drawn from countless victims. He slowly realized the boy would rise from the slain again at some point, would be drawn to him once more, repeating the same battle. And the same result.

With widening eyes, the Warrior realized he would spend the rest of his existence killing this same boy.

He staggered to his feet, revulsion ripping at him, and he threw back his head and let out a cry of agony, the pain of a soul in torment. He sank to his knees, not caring if the others slew him or not.

How long he knelt there he did not know. The battle had moved on, the madness roaring off in another direction, taking the strife with it.

“…darius…” A half-heard whisper.

He frowned, look around, annoyed by the word, by the name.

“Darius…” Stronger now, but still remote, a disembodied voice floating over the battlefield. The call of some victim he had slain, another boy he had butchered?

“Darius…” it said again, and he felt himself responding, acknowledging, as if to an accusation. Darius. He was returning to himself, answering to the call, answering to his name. Darius. Yes. Yes, of that, I am guilty.

“Darius, you must leave. The red sky. Come back towards the red sky.”

He squinted, tried to clear his eyes. The sky was indeed red over there, forming the border with the black war clouds.

“Darius…the red sky. Do you see the red sky?”

He roused himself, staggered back to his feet, and he was surprised how steady he was, how strong his legs still seemed to be. He could have gone on killing for a very long time.

“Darius. Can you hear my voice?”

“Hoarace,” he called back to the red sky. “Hoarace. Is that you?”

“Seledan be praised! You answer! Yes, it is me.”

“How is this possible?” he asked. “Where are you?”

“I am where you left me,” the Priest’s voice answered. “I have been searching for you with my voice.”

A thought came into his mind at those words, a connection.

“You…you were searching for my name,” he said hoarsely. “Seeing if I still remembered it. Just as you did with your brother.”

“Yes. Only this time, there was an answer.”

His mind was clearing, the fatigue and the battle-lust both leaving him. He took a deep, deep breath and let it out slowly, reclaiming his soul.

“Darius. Come back towards me. Towards the red sky.”

He was looking all around now, scanning the horizon, noting the little furies of battle that surrounded him, trying to determine who was fighting who. He couldn’t have gone far, he assured himself.

“I will,” he answered. “As soon as I find Illoghen.”

Darius…!” the voice cried, but Darius ignored it.

* * * * *

“Stop,” said the Voice.

Obediently, Jhan paused. He was floating through the ether with Shannon and Adella holding either of his hands, creating the odd sensation that he was holding them both bodily in the air with only the strength of his finger tips. He frowned down at the massive mountain range beneath their feet, and the well remembered citadel of Llan Praetor sitting atop one of the highest peaks. He had glimpsed it only through half-shut eyes from the back of a pegasus and the bottom of a wind-boat, and this was his first clear view of it, even though it now came through the haze of ethereal travel.

He felt the impatience in his two companions, the desire to push on now that the end of their ethereal journey was in sight, and he wanted to ask the Voice why they had stopped. But he didn’t have to. A single thought made him frown at the two front towers, at the sides of the castle, at the base where it joined with the mountain.

Llan Praetor had changed.

The walls were straighter, the towers cleaner, the angles more precise, and even the stone itself seemed more refined, more polished, more…finished. It was as if an army of giants had been hammering away for weeks, cutting the half-completed castle from the mountaintop, fulfilling the task they had begun long eons before. Now rather than a castle partially carved from the peak, it looked more like a fortress that had been placed upon it.

“We shall ascend,” the Voice instructed him, and Jhan turned his head upwards as the three of them began to rise. The Voice did not need his cooperation to go or do as it pleased, but they had come to recognize that they moved faster and more smoothly when they acted in tandem. It was becoming so standard that they were barely aware of it anymore.

“What are you doing?” demanded Adella. “Why are you taking us away from the castle?”

“I…I just want to look around, first,” he replied, and he felt the slightest tightening on the hands of both women as they sensed danger.

Upwards they rose, speeding faster and faster through the thinning air, past the highest point of birds, of eagles, of even the famed praetor hawks, above even where the clouds failed, beyond where any living thing could live without the aid of magic. Jhan, who had started to master his vertigo, began to feel the fear returning with a vengeance as he was torn away from the earth and propelled with such incredible speed through this bright blue void. He was just about to register a protest, his stomach rising into his throat, when his eyes spotted three tiny specs far, far above, impossibly high above the mountains. Even though they appeared minute from that distance, he knew they were actually very large.

“Dragons,” said the Voice with a mixture of satisfaction and annoyance. “So Mraxdavar maintains his vigil even now.”

Jhan was feeling distinctly queasy as the Voice debated its options, the moments feeling like hours. He didn’t want to look up at the patrolling dragons and the endless sky, and he most assuredly did not want to look down.

“Those are dragons, or I’m a fisherwoman,” said Adella. “A flight of three. Why are they circling the Castle?”

“…vigil…” Jhan tried to say.

“What?”

“We shall descend,” the Voice announced.

“We’ll…go down…” Jhan said, closing his eyes tight only to find the Presence forcing them open again. He stared in terror as the ground rushed back up to meet them, but they mercifully slowed again as the Castle came once more fully into sight.

He was paying no attention, grateful for the nearing touch of the ground, so he was caught off guard when Adella demanded, “What are you doing now? You’re putting us down on the wrong side of the Castle, you fool! The entrance is on the other side!”

Nonetheless, the three of them landed on a narrow shelf at the foot of the castle with a sheer drop behind them, and the ethereal spell ended the moment they touched ground, almost as if a bubble they were in had popped.

“Idiot!” snarled Adella, giving him a shove as she broke her hand free. “It will take us half a day to navigate these cliffs and get back to the entrance! You controlled the spell well enough to this point. Must you ruin everything in the end?”

“Tell the woman to shut her mouth and send them both away,” the Voice said.

“What?” said Jhan aloud, shocked by the idea.

“What?” said Adella with soft menace.

“We need time to cast,” said the Voice. “You must find a way to send them away.”

“I…uh…I have to relieve myself,” he said lamely, and both women stared at him.

“I’ll only be a moment,” he assured them as he hurried off to the side. They shook their heads, but turned away, and he stumbled around a small outcropping of stone to gain as much privacy as he could. The instant he was fully alone, he found himself casting, and so adept had he become at reading the intent of the Voice that he knew it was a conjuring spell of some sort. There was a series of soft “pops” and an entire flight of giant pheasants came into being, each nearly the size of a horse, their plumage incredibly beautiful in this barren setting. They immediately took flight, the flock rising as one, breathtaking in their size, their speed, and their stunning appearance.

“Why pheasants?” asked Jhan. “Do dragons like pheasants?”

“From far above, the plumage will be dazzling in the mountain air and a welcome distraction to an endless patrol,” answered the Voice. “And pheasants are a favorite food of the praetor hawks. Now quickly! We will have only a few moments in which to act.”

He came around the corner and announced, “Join hands with Shannon in the middle. We must get through the force-field quickly.”

They both frowned at him, but they were moving to obey when there came a wild frenzy of screeches that echoed with terrible force from the walls of the surrounding cliffs.

“What in the name of goodness?” asked Shannon, her hands shielding her ears.

“Praetor hawks feeding,” answered Adella with a suspicious glance at Jhan. Then she added, “That will surely draw the eyes of the dragons for a few moments. Grab hold.”

They joined hands with Shannon, and there was the smallest burst of energy as they walked through the barrier. Jhan was quite confident that nothing had noticed their entry on this back side of the Castle, but he found himself wondering what good they had done. They were now facing a daunting, impenetrable wall that stretched out of sight in either direction.

“I have learned a great deal about Llan Praetor recently,” the Voice said, answering his doubts. “Now put your hand against the wall. No, you fool! The one with the ring. We must continue the charade as long as possible.”

Obediently, Jhan placed his right hand with the gaudy ring against the wall of the Castle and told both women to take hold of his shoulders. The moment he touched the stone, Jhan jerked in surprise, for so vibrant was the surface it was almost as if he were touching a living thing. But the next experience was even more startling. He felt as if the Presence was sending power through the very grains of the rock, seeking to insinuate itself into the stone itself rather than trying to assail it. He could feel it working, could feel the grains expanding, almost relaxing as if welcoming an old friend, and he stared in astonishment as a huge opening expanded right before them.

“How is this possible?” demanded Adella even as they moved cautiously into the new tunnel. “Malcolm himself could not have opened the very rock like that!”

“Perhaps you underestimate the Arch-Mage,” the Voice said through Jhan’s mouth as they entered an empty room with the familiar arcane symbols on the floor. Jhan was wondering what to do about the new entrance they had just created when the Voice relaxed its concentration and the hole closed on its own to present a wall with a beautiful base relief of mountains.

“Jhan…this is astounding!” said Shannon, but he was already studying the pattern and had no attention for his companions. He quickly found the point he wanted and summoned them both to him with a gesture. Jhan wondered about using the butt of a dagger as they had previously, and the Voice quickly assured him it was not necessary. Once the women were again grasping his shoulders, he reached down and put his finger on the indicated spot.

A flash of light, and he blinked to find himself once again in the Throne Room of the Castle with the massive mirror wall reflecting the three of them, though there seemed to be some distortion about his own form. It seemed almost like another image was superimposed over his own.

“Tell the thief to open the door to the study,” the Voice said, indicating the door to the left. “I want to see how easy it is for her.”

* * * * *

Darius found Illoghen at the center of the fiercest battle in the area. Warriors, ogres, and devils had gathered around the monster like flies to rotting meat, drawn by its fury and its mastery of killing, but such was the creature’s power that none survived more than a single blow from its clawed fists. Spears and swords struck against its thick hide, some launched with such ferocity that they drew a small stream of blood, but Illoghen’s only response was a devastating counterstroke that laid every opponent low.

Darius dared not enter the fight himself. He knew in his soul that he would be swept up once more by the madness of battle, and this time, he might not emerge again. He had to find some other way to extricate Illoghen, to free him from the clutches of this battle-frenzy, and that meant separating him from his opponents.

He stared at them for a long moment, trying to see past the hatred and anger, and a revelation came to him.

They are spirit.

They look alive, he told himself, but they are really spirits, the beings we would call the Undead back in the world. Hope sprung up in his heart, for small groups of Undead could be turned away by the power of Mirna using the simple rite known as the Avator Seleiam. But could he gather enough power to himself here in the Nether Regions, and would it work against so many? They are isolated from each other, he realized. They look like a group, but they are all warring individuals. That would make the Avator Seleiam far more effective.

He produced the symbol of Mirna from beneath his shirt, the Tree of Life that he always wore around his neck, and he drew it to his lips in a kiss that gave and took strength. Then he held it high above his head and shouted, “Avator Seleiam! Avator Selor! Avator, avator, avator Re!”

The protective light about him burst into an explosion of power, a force so bright that it actually interrupted the battle raging just before him. Illoghen’s back was to him, oblivious to the light, but all of his opponents were suddenly backing away, mesmerized by this approaching brilliance.

“Into this land of darkness I am come!” he proclaimed. “And the power of the Blessed is with me!”

They may not have been able to hear the words due to the perennial noise which surrounded them, but these dead souls felt the power nonetheless. Illoghen reached out and ripped its claws down the front of one of the warriors, laying open armor and flesh at the same time, and swept the head off a rock goblin with the other. It was enough. The warriors fled before the power of Mirna and the rage of the Juggernaut’s child.

Darius was right behind Illoghen now, and the creature spun around, sensing his approach. Its face was a mask of demonic rage, consumed by blood-lust, and he swept a massive claw at this new target without any sign of recognition. Darius ducked inside the blow and launched himself inwards to grab the waist of the creature.

“Illoghen!” he yelled. “It is me! It is Darius!”

The creature reached down with its free hand to grab Darius’ arm and haul him into the air, bringing him close to its snarling mouth. Darius reached out, grabbed the massive wrist, and bellowed into the furious face, “Illoghen! This is not the way home!”

The touch of his hand on the creature’s skin communicated a little of the Avator Seleiam onto it, a sensation that spoke of hope and life. A momentary pause, a small frown of doubt, as the titan looked down in puzzlement at this hand that touched him without hatred. It was the first sign that there might be some other response than killing, and Darius cried desperately again, “Illoghen! The way home! The way out of hell! The way back to the world! Illoghen! Don’t you remember? Illoghen!”

There was growing recognition in the monster’s face now, the hate-filled expression easing. It still answers to its name, Darius thought with relief.

The creature slowly lowered him to the ground, its yellow eyes focused on him again, old memories, old issues, restored.

“We have to get out of here!” Darius yelled up at him. “We have to go back to Hoarace! Illoghen! Do you understand?”

Now the creature seemed to remember, its face clearing, and it concentrated fully on the man before him. Darius realized the being was reading his mind, and he strove to drive down his emotions and leave his thoughts clear. A moment longer, and the creature nodded its head and said, “Priest. Hoarace. Which way?”

Darius let out a small sigh of relief and pointed back towards the malevolent red sky that was clearly visible nearly a league behind them. “We came from that direction. With luck, we can find him there. We will follow his voice.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Illoghen turned away from the battle, heading back towards the direction Darius had indicated. Darius paused for only a moment longer to stare over the devastation, the hacked bodies, and the swirls of battle that continued all around them.

Had Sarinian been here, he realized grimly, I would still be among those warriors blindly killing.

CHAPTER 12

The Chamber of Balance

They were leaving the Battlefields behind them at last, the horrid din and the bloody corpses giving way to a shattered wasteland with a dead grey sky overhead and not a sign of life. But desolate as the vista might be, Darius still sighed with relief, knowing his most terrible test was now behind him.

They had found Hoarace again after following his voice, but though the Priest had been overjoyed to see them, he was worn out as if the effort to call them back had pushed him beyond his limit. He had seemed to rally when Darius lifted him again on his back, and he had directed them cautiously along the cliff they had climbed, watching the ebb and flow of battle. Finally, when the squalls of struggle had lessened at one point, he had started them on their hazardous march across that accursed land, climbing and stumbling over the devastation. He had required Darius to keep physical contact with Illoghen, at times literally pulling him by the wrist to lead him away from the carnage, but Darius had no doubt they had survived that dread passage only due to the power that Hoarace continued to exert, a power that was still taking a steady toll on the Priest. A dozen times, masses of warriors had spilled towards them, a miniature war with neither purpose nor end, and they had turned their backs to the fray and marched resolutely in the opposite direction. Sometimes Illoghen and sometimes Darius had felt the pull of the combat, but the power of the three had held the threat at bay and enabled them to continue.

Before them now was an emptiness that seemed almost worse than the anger and madness they had left behind. Darius paused to look over this new desert, and he felt as if the land itself were pulling at his life essence, a vacuum that sought to fill itself with his very soul.

“These are the Plains of Desolation, the place where the truly lost souls wander aimlessly for all eternity,” Hoarace said, and Darius turned not because of the words but because of the weakness of the voice.

“You are not well, my friend,” he said. “We must rest.”

“I am well enough to continue,” he countered. “We have no time to spare, and the pause would not restore my strength in any case. Push on.”

Darius debated pressing the point, but he decided resting here still in sight of the Battlefields was not a wise course. He looked ahead, and his heart faltered at the emptiness before him, a desert that seemed to drain even the memory of hope from him. He took a deep breath and strode forward, but it was a trial to force even one step into that daunting distance extending beyond even the limit of sight.

“Keep your eyes downward, Darius,” the Priest instructed. “I shall be your guide here.”

Darius obeyed, focusing on the parched ground that looked as if it had never been touched by rain, but he found it easier to move forward now that he was no longer looking at that endless horizon.

He had gone no more than a few score paces, however, when Illoghen said unexpectedly, “The Dead come.”

Startled, Darius looked up and found himself staring at a middle-aged man in common dress who was staggering towards him with arms outstretched like a desert victim dying of thirst. He was pale with dark, haunted eyes and a lifeless expression as if his brain had already been devoured, but he was moving faster as he approached Darius, something within him responding to the presence of a living being. Darius pushed the man gently aside, and he collapsed, helpless, his hands still reaching for him, his need unquenched.

There were more.

There were many more.

An old woman, a young boy, a muscular man and another with a missing arm, two older men, girls, women, men, boys, people of every description and type, dressed in rags and finery, a few in armor, many wearing attire Darius had never before seen, all of them with the same vacant, hopeless, desperate expression, and all of them coming for Darius and Illoghen. The endless terrain was suddenly covered with them, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, more of them materializing out of nothingness with every passing moment.

Darius continued to push his way through the growing mob, each body falling as easily as the first, but the crush of sheer numbers was already threatening to overwhelm them. Illoghen was sweeping swathes of bodies out of the way with his massive claws, but even his efforts were slowing as the numbers grew.

“I feared this,” said Hoarace. “They are drawn to you, to your steady purpose, to the meaning of your existence. To them, you are water in an endless desert.”

Hands. Countless hands. Fingers extended, reaching, reaching, ever reaching.

“We cannot continue thus!” Darius shouted. “Soon we will be overwhelmed!”

“The Avator Seleiam,” replied Hoarace. “You cannot force our path with muscle, so we must use other means.”

“There are far too many!” he cried. “I could not turn a score of them, let alone this multitude!”

“Trust me in this,” said the Priest. “Put forth your power and clear our way.”

He produced the Tree of Life from beneath his shirt and once again drew it to his lips in a sacred kiss. He then thrust it towards the grasping, greedy hands and shouted, “Avator Seleiam! Avator Selor! Avator, avator, avator Re!”

The light that burst forth from the Tree was like an explosion thrusting outwards in all directions, and the bodies caught within the light dissolved instantly into a grey sand that was absorbed back into the ground. The crush of the mob, however, did not stop. They pushed forward almost as if welcoming their own destruction, and the more that pushed into that brilliant aura, the smaller the light became, shrinking away as if consumed by the endless, insatiable hunger of the Undead. Darius gritted his teeth and willed the aura outward, but it was to no avail. The dead continued to press forward.

Hoarace stretched out his own hand, moving slowly along Darius’ arm until he, too, grasped the gleaming Tree, and he shouted out, “Avator Seleiam! Avator Selor! Avator Seledan Re!”

The light exploded outward to twice its original size, incinerating scores of the dead in an instant, and the entire mob staggered backward as one as if struck by an earthquake. In a single heartbeat, every single body halted as if their purpose had been broken with one stroke, frozen by sudden indecision, and then they began to move off in random directions, a mob no longer.

“Mirna be praised!” muttered Darius as the bodies parted before them. He waited for more to leave before stepping gingerly forward. None of the creatures took any further notice of them. He took another few steps, and the brilliance retreated to the soul-light that had surrounded him from the start. It made no difference to the aimlessly wandering bodies. Hoarace’s hand slipped away from the holy symbol.

“Keep the Tree before you,” gasped the Priest. “It is the only shield we now have.”

Darius swung around at the sound of exhaustion in the man’s voice, and he now understood the astonishing success of the Avator Seleiam. The Priest looked as if he had used his own life-blood to fuel the power of the Turning.

“Hoarace!”

“And keep your eyes down,” instructed the Priest without pause. “The Tree will keep the Lost at bay, but you still must find your way across the wasteland.”

“Hoarace, you can’t do this!”

“It is already done, my friend,” he replied with an attempt at a reassuring smile. “If you wish to help, follow my instructions and get us out of these terrible lands.”

Darius hesitated for only a moment before recognizing the wisdom of the words. The only solace he might bring to his friend was to bring him out of this dreadful place. So taking a deep breath, the Paladin pressed resolutely forward with holy symbol raised and eyes downcast, the Priest clinging to his back, and the hulking presence of the black titan following steadily behind.

* * * * *

Mraxdavar now knew the answers he sought were not to be found in the sacred inscriptions within the Chamber of Balance.

The Chamber had been his universe for the past three days, his and Albathor’s, and the two had pushed the limits of their power and their wisdom trying to decipher the meaning and significance of those ancient runes. The eight specific walls each scribed with glyphs in the language of their specific god with seven of them damaged in a specific manner, the four central pillars with their newer runes in Old Giantish, the weaving pattern of color on the floor, oddly mirrored by identical swirls in the gray stone of the roof as if the magics that emanated from the walls had twisted the stone itself. He now understood much of what had happened here. And understood he had reached the limit of what the inscriptions alone could tell him.

He stood staring at the shattered opening into the Chamber, the eighth wall nearly obliterated by the entrance of Regnar and the Ohric, the wall that had born the Runes of Oberon, God of Dragons. It had been the first to be desecrated by the intrusion of the demon scepter, and he knew that choice of entrance had been very deliberate: else the power of the dragons may well have stirred at this blasphemous intrusion by the Ohric.

“Father, you must not take this risk! The powers entrapped here could destroy even you!”

The voice of Albathor hissing warnings, the son trying to divert him from what must be done, a distraction to his purpose. There were two completely different stories being told here, one that originated in the damaged walls and another centered on the inscribed pillars, two stories that sometimes complemented each other and sometimes seemed to contradict. That conflict would never resolve itself without…assistance.

“You must permit me to be the one to undertake this task…”

More drivel from the younger dragon, more distractions. Mraxdavar swung his head around and barred all his teeth in a single terrifying snarl. “Withdraw!”

Albathor recoiled at the naked threat of those fangs, and he shrank slowly away, his every step monitored by the Eldest Dragon until he was through the entrance and outside the Chamber. With that, he turned his attention back to the dangerous task that lay before him.

There was only one alternative, one approach that held any chance of success. This space was much more than a chamber. It was an environment that went far beyond walls and stone and runes. It was a meeting place of the gods, a nexus of the divine, and there lay the opportunity and the danger. For as Avatar of Dragons, his being had been forged by these same powers, attuning him to their flow and vibration and enabling him to read them through his scales, taste them through his skin. He could open himself to those powers, blend himself into the energies coursing through the place, become one with the Chamber of Balance.

The risks were legion. He would be vulnerable to all the currents of power that coursed through the chamber, the manna of hostile gods that would strike him like lightning to an iron rod, and the least of them might strip the flesh from his very bones. More, the severe damage to the room had rendered any defenses he might employ useless, the forces unpredictable, the threat far beyond even his ability to calculate. But worst of all was the danger he might not be able to back away again, that he might be incapable of separating himself from the overwhelming eminence of the Chamber.

“Great Oberon, grant me vision to see and wisdom to understand,” he whispered to the shattered wall, the words both a prayer and an invocation.

There were hardly a dozen runes remaining on the dragon wall, mere remnants on the edges that no longer made the least sense, but they had been inscribed by Oberon himself, blasted into the stone by the manna of the god. On these Mraxdavar now focused his full attention, linking himself to them through his eyes, his senses, his very being. The carvings began to glow with a residual power, responding to the kinship between stone and dragon, drawing him forward, drawing him outward, drawing him upward.

His vision began to expand, and he turned slowly away from the broken entrance to view the entire room, the swirls of color now in motion, alive with energy streaming from the broken walls. The central pillars were gleaming with white light, the colors joining to form the whiteness, a rainbow of magic fusing into brilliant sunlight, and Mraxdavar felt himself caught up in this glorious flow, carried along in a river of hues and divine manna, the very stuff of Creation.

Knowledge was here in abundance, permeating his mind without the need for words or vision or sensation, answers to questions he sought and answers to questions he had never thought to ask. The spectrum was intertwining, growing, expanding to a new level, to a new dimension of understanding, the language of the universe speaking now in the ancient mind of Mraxdavar. He had the answers he needed about the Chamber and the Juggernaut within moments, but the knowledge did not stop there, the insights continuing to expand further and further, the perspectives widening, deepening, flowering. The wisdom of the gods was unfolding before him.

There was a sudden jarring as if he had encountered a cross-current in the stream, a foreign eddy in a global tide. He ignored it, focusing on the prismatic glory around him, liquid knowledge in which he could bathe and soak and drink. But the eddy would not go away. It was tugging at him, dragging him away from the main flow, disturbing the glorious pattern in which he was becoming a part. He tried to shake himself loose, swim free from this interruption, this distraction, but his body was slow to answer, his mind entranced and enraptured by the kaleidoscope before him. He was being pulled, pulled not into a different part of the ocean but out of the glorious multi-hued water entirely, yanked back onto the cruel, drab land.

…fa..th..er…

A sound. A painful sound impinging on his ears, a vibration from outside, from the old world, the coarse environment that was ever niggardly with its knowledge, sharing it only through the restrictions of ears and eyes, the imperfect medium of his senses.

The light was gone. Now there were only dull grays that were diluted by his eyes before they registered on his brain, a bland caricature of color. He roused himself, wanting to escape from this pathetic imitation of existence, to return to the magnificence that was the light, but something was blocking his way, something holding him back.

“FATHER!”

A large, red-hued being was in front of him, blocking him, the glory of the colors still there, just beyond, beckoning. He strained forward for a moment against the resistance, longing to return, hating the awakening.

No.

He stopped, forsaking the desire, letting the dream float away. No, the promise of the Light, the gift of unlimited knowledge was not for him, not even for the Avatar of Oberon, not for any but the gods themselves. To think otherwise was sacrilege against the divine.

He looked down at the interloper who had interfered, the creature watching him intently. He blinked, trying to pull his mind back to the present, back away from that mesmerizing spectrum.

“Albathor,” he said, the name bringing him completely back. He stepped back further, allowing the smaller dragon to push him a score of paces down the passage, away from that beckoning opening. His senses were returning to him, his mind functioning, becoming Mraxdavar once again.

“What is it, Father?” the younger dragon asked anxiously. “What did you learn?”

He was unaccustomed to answering questions from a son, even one as senior as Albathor, but after the impact of so much information, he felt the need to speak, to try to organize the knowledge that had been imparted to him by putting it into hard words.

Slowly, he said, “Surtur himself brought the dying body of his Avatar, Nehgolli, to this chamber after the Battle of Baramalon. The Chamber of Balance was always intended for containment of the creations of the Gods, but Surtur modified it, changed it to contain not just the body, but also the spirit of Nehgolli. To shield it away from death.”

“Why did Surtur not simply heal the giant himself?” asked Albathor.

“The gods had agreed not to intervene on the part of their Avatars, for that would have led to the very escalation they were seeking to avoid. The wounds I had inflicted were fatal, the body of Nehgolli was indeed dying, but Surtur created a new body forged with power and darkness. He inscribed runes of his own manna on the four pillars and placed the body in the center where it would slowly absorb the spirit of Nehgolli.” He paused, and then added, “The runes on the pillars reversed the name of the Avatar to maintain its power. It was henceforth to be known as Illoghen.”

Mraxdavar glanced down the passage, then turned away, resisting the lure.

“Then this entity, this Illoghen, it is Nehgolli re-born?” Albathor asked.

Mraxdavar shook his massive head. “No. It was to have all the power of the Avatar, but only a trace of its memory and character. The black shell of the Juggernaut was the first stage, and after the cocoon, it would enter a second stage in some demonic form. Only when this second manifestation enters the ancient giant bastion of the Fortress of the Winds will it finally return to its true form. And assume its full power.”

Albathor’s tail thrashed, a sign of agitation, and he growled, “Why was this thing left here for so many centuries? After so much effort, why did Surtur abandon it?”

“Time is meaningless to the gods,” replied Mraxdavar. “At the point when the Juggernaut was ready to come forth, the giants were broken and scattered, and the time for the return of their Avatar had not yet come. It was the Ohric, not Surtur, who determined the release of the Juggernaut.”

“Then why has not the wrath of Surtur fallen upon the Ohric and its wielders for such an outrage?” demanded Albathor.

“Because the release of the Juggernaut was not an outrage,” the Eldest Dragon responded. “It was Surtur himself who first desecrated the Chamber of Balance, not the Scepter of Bal. And the Ohric did no more than set the Juggernaut in motion, merely allowing it to follow the course for which it had always been intended. No. Bal has designed this plan with great care and cunning, and he knows we cannot look to the other gods for aid at this time.”

“Then…then what can we do?” asked Albathor.

“Wait and watch,” replied Mraxdavar. “It is possible the Ohric wants no more than the breaking of Jalan’s Drift and control of the Southlands for its master, Bal. With that completed, it may have been disposing of the Juggernaut when the second form began to emerge. Our peril is already passed if that be the case.”

“You do not believe that, Father,” said Albathor. “You know there are more twists to this plan yet to be revealed.”

“What any of us believe is of no importance,” growled Mraxdavar. “What matters is that we have gleaned all we can from the Chamber of Balance and our task here is done. And what matters still more is that we must maintain our unsleeping watch upon the Castle of the Winds.”

* * *

“My Liege.”

Argus turned from the scattering of maps on the table to find a mud-spattered soldier of the Black Watch kneeling in the doorway of the great drawing room of the mansion his staff had seized as a temporary headquarters.

“Rise and speak,” he said to the messenger.

The soldier snapped to attention and said, “I am directed by General Antor to say that his cavalry has turned the flank of the enemy. The armies of Clarissa and Mandrik have turned at bay, still eight full leagues from the Spindle.”

“Ha!” cried Argus. “So Antor finally does something right!”

He turned back to the maps on the table, and his generals crowded in, eager to see the significance of this new development. The main map had markers depicting all the units of the Silver Horde, the Black Watch, and the various support forces, as well as the estimated positions of the enemy, and Argus sneered again as he saw how they were scrupulously avoiding the southern border of Maganhall. The fools still thought this was one of the old wars where borders and neutrals meant something.

“Send orders to General Ramos for him to bring his entire corps to reinforce Antor’s cavalry. I want there to be no chance of the enemy escaping,” Argus said. “Once he has been reinforced, Antor can press the enemy’s flank, but not until then. Kaltron, I want a full frontal assault to pin down Mandrik’s forces. How quickly can it be launched?”

The plan took only minutes to develop, and the generals rushed off to see to its implementation. It was precisely what they had been hoping for since the crossing of the Delmar River, and this was their last chance to bring their numbers to bear before the enemy reached the Spindle. Mandrik and Clarissa had proven infuriatingly elusive, with the heavy Warhaven infantry surging and retreating against all frontal assaults and the Gemsbrook cavalry and light infantry thwarting all attempts to move around their flanks. Twice before, Argus thought he had brought them to battle only to have them slip away as he massed his forces for a decisive blow. His army was proving too large and unwieldy for swift movements and too divided for good coordination. This time, however, he would leave nothing to chance. This time, he would summon the griffin riders as well.

You have no time for this battle, the Ohric said, interrupting his thoughts.

“If the enemy wins through to the Spindle, our superiority in numbers will mean nothing, and they can mock us with disdain from its heavy cover,” he growled in answer. “Now at last, we have the opportunity to bring them to battle on our terms and finish them off. Then we can take the entire combined army southward.”

The Spindle is a trap from which the enemy shall never emerge, replied the Ohric. Destiny moves after long eons, and any caught in its path shall be destroyed.

“I shall press their destruction on my own and leave Destiny to fulfill itself,” he said.

You are a fool to thus put the Great Plan thus at risk! the scepter snarled.

“Without the Juggernaut, there is no plan!” he shot back. “I shall use my armies as I see fit until Bal has need of them! I…”

He was interrupted by a loud crackling somewhere near the middle of the room, the sound of wood being twisted and chewed into splinters, and Argus turned in alarm, the Ohric ready in his hands. The large room seemed perfectly normal, a woven rug, a fireplace, table and chairs, a sideboard, exactly as the family had left it before they fled from the approaching armies. The windows were shuttered and the drapes pulled to block out both the daylight and prying eyes, and light came from a dozen candles scattered about the room. But the candles showed nothing unusual.

The crackling noise was getting louder, filling the entire house with its din, and his bodyguards had rushed in with weapons drawn, ready to defend their master.

There!

Right in the center of the floor, a hole began to form, at first no larger than the size of a fist but expanding rapidly, the rug and the entire wood floor being dragged down inside. Argus stepped back warily, but he held his ground, watching closely as the destruction continued, wondering if the hole would take the entire house. Then came the stench, a reek of death and decay that caused every human throat to gasp and every human stomach to wretch.

The hole was a gaping pit leading into nothingness, oblivion given physical and terrifying form, and Argus stepped further back, his human heart instinctively fearing that darkness. But then the thing began to emerge. Three heads it had, snake, demon, and dragon, all with flaming red eyes, and the huge body nearly filled the room, crushing the remaining furnishing and causing even the stone fireplace to groan against its weight. The black hole vanished as it vomited forth this horror, leaving Argus and a dozen guards to face the master of the pit.

“Be wary, Irubicon,” the Ohric said, unexpectedly speaking aloud with an echoing voice. “There is power here to blunt your purpose.”

The thing’s three tails began to quiver in answer, making the entire building shake, and the central demon head leaned forward to say, “Our purpose is not one you will oppose. We bring tidings. Not death.”

“You are no messenger,” the Ohric replied.

The monster seemed almost to grin. “We come to bargain our tidings. Service will we have, and service render. Or a tithing of human blood to sate our thirst.”

Even with the Ohric firm in his hands, Argus could not repress a shiver at the demon’s words.

“Speak!” he snarled. “What fell tidings are these that you bring?”

All three heads swayed in unison as it considered him, and Argus was certain this was also the motion it made right before an attack. But rather than striking, the monster said, “Your enemy has gathered an army that sits in hiding ready to pounce with surprise upon your unsuspecting troops.”

“What army? Clarissa and Mandrik have nowhere to turn except to each other!”

“The army comes from that which you call Maganhall,” it continued. “They are joined by men on horses escaped from the fortress called Jalan’s Drift. They stir to action now that you have eyes only for the prey before you.”

Maganhall! Joined by the cavalry of Norealm, the cavalry led by Thrandar’s son, Fallon? The smoldering embers of fear within his soul burst into full flame, the treachery he had always expected now given real and deadly force. But he held himself in check, even as he mentally built the army of which the creature spoke.

“How is such a thing possible?” he demanded. “Why should I trust the forked tongue of a lying demon?”

The tails quivered again in annoyance, and the teeth of the dragon head began to chatter in a frightening manner as if it needed something to fill its jaws. Argus braced for an attack, but the monster seemed to check itself. It settled back and said, “Behold.”

A scene came into view directly in front of Argus, a vision of Jalan’s Drift at night as line after line of horsemen trotted through the open southern gates, thousands of them moving rapidly while the troops on the walls looked away, seeing nothing. Then the scene changed, and he saw men in golden armor rushing out of fortresses and walled keeps, the garrisons of Maganhall joining up on the roads even as the Fey came under attack, marching southward as well while his eyes were focused on seizing the bridges over the Delmar River. Finally, he saw massed units of gold-armored infantry and lightly armored cavalry beginning to move out of the heavy cover in which they had hidden, marching now directly towards…him!

So the Regent had gathered every available warrior and joined them with the cavalry of Norealm to strike him by surprise. His northern flank was now exposed and vulnerable even as he sent more forces toward the southern end of the battlefield. The Regent betraying him…the commanders at the Drift betraying him…

The three heads of Irubicon burst through the image, destroying it, returning Argus to the deadly reality of facing the demon.

“Proof enough have you?” it hissed at him, its tone and bearing a terrible threat.

Argus was trying to control his breathing as he struggled to evaluate the new danger. His forces were already in motion, fear of his anger giving them a driving speed, and should he try to countermand them, there would be confusion and misunderstanding and delay, giving the new enemy all the time they needed to bring their forces to bear. Of course Mandrik and Clarissa knew of the new attack. That was why they had stopped here and turned at bay, luring him into this false position. Count on them to exploit the confusion of the surprise assault to its fullest.

“But to the time?” demanded the Ohric, speaking in his mind alone. “What will such a defeat do to our march against the Sanctuary?”

Argus said nothing in answer, but the images in his mind were clear to read. The breaking off from combat that would cause the survivors to fall back towards the west, pursued by the enemy, the scattered units trying to rally, commanders dead, orders going astray, the confusion of the multiple armies multiplied a dozenfold. Exhausted and demoralized troops resting and feeding, trying to find every excuse to delay, finally gathering themselves together to once again answer the strident call of their master. Two days of delay? Three? Far beyond the time set by the Plan.

“You say you come to render service as well as tidings,” the Ohric said, now speaking directly to Irubicon. “Of what service do you speak?”

The demon swayed again as it said, “You, Servant of Bal, cannot summon more than a single devil from the Nether Regions without inviting a matching number of angels to descend from the heavens. But I am accursed on all realms and am therefore free to move and strike as I please without fear of answer. The demmoria are my servants and answer my every whim. A dozen I can set against this new foe who comes against you, a dozen to chill the hearts of untried warriors and fill their horses with a bucking terror.”

Argus wondered at the unfamiliar term, but the Ohric bled an image into his mind of these servants of Irubicon. His eyes widened in appreciation, knowing that even a dozen of such creatures might just check the onslaught of Maganhall and Alencia.

“And what service do you seek in exchange?” the Ohric demanded.

“The breaking of Gemsbrook Castle and the releasing of the all prisoners held within,” the thing replied.

“Impossible,” said the Ohric immediately. “We have no time for castle breaking.”

In reply, all three heads spoke at once, a high-pitched jabbering that made Argus wince in pain. For endless moments, that shrill chatter continued, and Argus felt certain that the Ohric was making answer as well, speaking some fell language of the Nether Regions that no human ears could hope to grasp. Then both fell silent, the issues between them plain.

Finally, the Ohric said, “We will hold to this bargain. But in turn you must summon not a dozen but the full score of the demmoria who pay you homage for use against this new foe.”

Irubicon seemed to hesitate as if mulling the consequences of committing all his forces at once, and then it swayed once more and said, “We are of one accord.”

In an instant, the black hole reappeared and seemed to pull the hideous bulk of the creature within, vanishing again with a snap and a pop. The room it left behind was a shambles, the furniture broken into dozen of pieces, and the floor was nothing but a shattered mass of wood.

“While I’ll grant the intercession of a score of demons may well turn the tide of this battle, we have gained nothing from your bargain,” said Argus. “Even if I use power to break the walls, reducing Gemsbrook Castle will take all the days we will save from not gathering our defeated forces.”

We shall set power against the castle’s defenses, not armies, the Ohric answered, speaking once more only in his mind. Irubicon has sealed this bargain with valuable insights. We have a friend awaiting us within the walls of that castle. A friend we may well need.

CHAPTER 13

The Concoction

Any final doubts Adella had about the power residing within Jhan vanished as she watched the forging of the concoction.

After she had re-opened the door to Malcolm’s study, Jhan had entered and abruptly locked the door behind him, declaring he needed privacy if he were “going to figure this all out.” Not that that had stopped Adella. After discovering that the door had been magically sealed to prevent any form of spying, she had gone off by herself and rummaged around in the bottomless sack she carried until she found what she sought: a rectangular piece of crystal with tiny lights sparkling deep within. She had also recovered a small, rose colored prism and an ornate pouch, both of which she hid in an inner pocket of her armor.

With the crystal in hand, she had returned to the study door and placed the item against the stone beside the door, pressing her forehead to the crystal in turn. Instantly, she had been able to see within the walls where Jhan was bent over half a dozen heavy tomes that he had taken from the shelves, tomes that had resisted all of Adella’s efforts to free the last time they had been here. The crystal had watched as the boy summoned another volume from the shelf and witnessed a strange interplay as he seemed to be speaking to himself.

“It disturbs me to see you summon like this,” he had said in a deep masculine voice as the volume floated into his hands. “The books have been protected.”

“You protected the books, but not the leather binding,” he had seemed to answer himself in Jhan’s voice. “If I summon the leather, the book comes with it.”

“A minor oversight I will soon correct,” the masculine voice had replied. “Though you show a marked skill at summoning, I must admit. You should…”

The voice had stopped abruptly, and while he made no sign or gesture, Adella had been certain he was aware he was being watched, his fingers drumming restlessly on the open book.

Rather than trying to break away, however, she had chosen to send her thoughts through the crystal to echo into the room.

“You will need my help in this matter,” she had said. “We cannot afford a single mistake when we challenge an artifact as powerful as the Ohric.”

“I do not make mistakes, regardless of the opponent,” a voice that was not Jhan’s had answered tartly, his lips motionless.

“I can offer a red prism of flawless quartz and a pouch of angel dust as an artifact of the realms,” she had countered. “Perhaps that will pay for my tuition?”

There had been only a momentary pause before the door had snapped open on its own, giving her entrance.

“Keep watch on the mirror, but do not touch it,” she had said to Shannon. “The castle is slowly stirring to life, and I somehow think that mirror is at the heart of it.”

Now Adella stood in quiet amazement as she watched the forgings of magics the like of which she had only heard of as whispered rumors. Jhan stood in his woodsman’s cloak, his brown breeches, and his deer-hide boots and summoned power from books whose titles Adella could barely pronounce. Before them was a large silver bowl with a golden elixir slowly bubbling within as it absorbed spell after spell conjured from the dusty tomes, and her own red prism was levitating directly above it, seemingly breaking the spells into multiple rays that played down upon the silver bowl.

With a small sweeping gesture, Jhan sent the one tome floating off to the side to expose yet another book beneath, and with hardly a pause for breath, he continued to read from the arcane inscriptions it contained. Light rose from the pages at his invocation, called forth by his voice, and he cupped it gently in his hand as if to give it form before releasing it to vanish into the prism and the silver bowl. A jerk of one finger sent pages whirling to find another section in the same book, and the process repeated itself, light rising, given form, and then flying into the growing, boiling material within the bowl.

In the middle of the next reading, he said “angel dust” with no change in tone or bearing, but Adella was ready, lifting a pinch of glittering powder from the ornate bag and flicking it towards the bowl. The powder did not enter the bowl, but rather spread itself over a wider area, momentarily illuminating a form that seemed to be surrounding both bowl and prism. Adella caught her breath at the sight. She sincerely hoped her eyes had been deceived.

More volumes, more spells, more light ascending from the pages, some white, some colored, some that seemed almost solid, all of them sent into the growing concoction. The bowl was no longer visible, the vessel vanishing as the light grew dominant, encapsulating the levitating prism, and slowly filling the invisible shape she had glimpsed before. Twice more, she sent a sprinkling of angel dust onto the creation, and her eyes widened with both dread and amazement as she realized the double purpose Jhan was setting for that specially blessed component. It was intended to hold the gate open once the spell was cast, but Jhan was also using it to perfect the form the concoction would take.

This conjurer, this magic-master, this forger of the concoction, could not be Jhan. It was him in form, in mannerisms, in knowledge and emotional reactions. But there was a second name that kept creeping into Adella’s mind, a name that explained all the unexpected insights, the abrupt changes in character, and now the mastery of both Llan Praetor and these magical tomes. A name, she realized, that could get them all killed if it should be voiced at the wrong time.

I’ll hold the name close. May the fates grant others can as well.

*

Outside in the throne room, Shannon was watching the flashing of light from beneath the door with increasing nervousness. Adella and Jhan had been working magic for more than half a day now without any sign of a break, and she had no idea if the castings were going well or going terribly. For all she knew, they might both be dead behind that door with the concoction they had forged slowly growing in power and maliciousness until it burst out into the throne room to find more victims.

It was a mad thought, and she shivered. But Llan Praetor now seemed the place for mad thoughts. Mad thoughts. And memories madder still.

“You are a woman child who feels the pull of destiny upon your heart, and you think this is no more than the normal trials of youth,” came the haunting voice of Honorium Stalbus, dredging up a host of strange feelings with it.

She shivered again and turned sharply away from the door, crossing her arms tightly across her chest as if to protect her heart. She did not want to remember those words, that voice, those black, deadly eyes; but far more, she did not want to recall the feelings those words had engendered within her.

“You think you have travelled many long leagues down this road, but you know nothing of the distance yet before you,” the voice continued, deep and threatening.

She shook her head like a dog trying to chase away a gnat, but the ugly sound of that disdainful chuckle rose again in her head.

“A girl’s mind directs this destiny and holds that fate hostage, a child’s question that bends and corrupts the light. That answer is nothing to the greater question, so take it now as a free gift and be done with it. The choice will come down to your Father or your world. Choose wrong, and it will cost you both.”

A nexus of the Farsi…

What did that even mean? her mind demanded. But her heart answered with an echo of that distant call she had heard back in the greenwood, back when she had been only Darius’ daughter.

She flung herself away again, trying to escape the thoughts, the memories, the shadowy niches she had barely glimpsed, the niches that seemed to have decreed her fate…

The mirror wall. She stared at her slightly distorted image with the smallest ray of hope. No matter the consequences, it was the one way out of the tightening cage in which she found herself. Adella had said to watch it, but nothing was happening. She had said nothing against trying to activate it.

She took a step forward, and without warning, the mirror exploded into life.

She saw soldiers pressing forward, warriors in all the uniforms of the Southlands, men straining to catch a glimpse of a young blonde woman riding by on a chestnut horse.

The Maid, they were whispering. The Maid has come! Grim and battle-hardened, they were struggling for just a glimpse of her, this girl that had destroyed the Juggernaut, who wielded the holy sword in her Father’s stead, this girl who was said to have come to deliver them from the power of Argus.

Shannon felt the air fail in her lungs as she watched their desperate yearning, their frantic need.

With dry lips and tightening throat, she now saw herself through their eyes, felt their fear and their desperation as they faced an unstoppable foe and the sudden promise of a young woman who did not cringe before their enemies, who did not recoil from the threats that chilled their hearts. She watched as she had ridden among them, the eyes of even the most bitter softening as she passed, courage rising to beat back despair. Then she had ridden away, and those hopes had fallen to ashes.

“I abandoned them,” she whispered aloud, the soft words devastating.

The images continued as she saw herself binding wounds after the battle and saw the pathetic gratitude in the eyes of the young soldiers; she spoke of courage, her voice ringing with strength and passion, and she witnessed the hope growing again in their faces; and she saw how she had prayed with them, the prayers pulling them together, uniting them in something larger than themselves, larger than their entire army, larger even than the entire world, a unity and a warmth that no force of arms could ever defeat. Bringing them the inspiration they so desperately needed.

“But those goals must diverge at some point yet to come,” she heard Jhan’s stern voice saying to her, repeating the words he had spoken at the army encampment. “When that choice is upon you, will you take the road that offers a small chance to save a single man, or the wider road that insures that you will save many?”

She took a step back, her breath and her thoughts coming more quickly. Had she confused the drive to comfort and protect her Father with the larger need to bring that protection and comfort to other warriors? Had it been Shannon who had heeded that call? Or the Maid?

She drew back entirely, the questions too much, too threatening, and the images of warriors and armies vanished. But the mirror did not go blank. Instead it burst into a panoramic scene of sky and mountains, and Shannon had the instant impression it was a view of the peaks surrounding Llan Praetor, the very view she herself would behold should the walls around her turn suddenly to glass. But it wasn’t the majesty of the mountains or the stark beauty of the sky that drew her attention. She found her eyes drawn to a corner of the vista where a small bird was struggling hopelessly against the fierce mountain winds…

*

Finally, the last book was read, the last light sent forth, and with a soft whoosh, the various spells congealed into a solid, tangible body before them. Jhan collapsed at the foot of the pedestal that had held the magical tomes, panting as if he had completed a long race, but Adella just stared up at the entity he had forged.

No wonder he didn’t care if I watched the creation of this thing, she said. Even if I could remember the sequence, I’d never dare to undertake such a conjuring.

“You’re mad to give it such a form,” she said, though her voice was edged with a hard respect.

Jhan struggled slowly into a sitting position and also studied his handiwork. “We must be sure Argus unleashes the full power of the Ohric. More, we must be certain the Ohric will use its power to open the Gate to the Nether Regions, for Stalbus has assured us that Gate will be linked to its last victims. This form should insure both.”

“Or insure all our deaths,” she finished quietly. “It is still no more than a framework. How do you plan to animate it?”

“I did not say our task was done,” Jhan replied wryly. “I must eat and rest before we move on to the next stage. We are no more than half way to our goal. Though in many ways, the most dangerous portion lies behind us.”

“So tell me…”

Her question was interrupted by a hammering on the study door. They both jerked up, startled to remember there was a world outside the confines of the room.

“Jhan! Adella!” called Shannon with urgency in her voice. “The mirror wall! It is displaying something you must see!”

Comprehension came to both of them now. Adella moved towards the door, but it was a gesture from Jhan that opened it. Shannon made no attempt to enter, but when she caught sight of the concoction, she frowned in puzzlement and she took a step forward. Adella seized her arm and guided her firmly away from the room. Jhan came out and closed the door behind him.

“That…that…” Shannon stammered.

“That is no concern of yours at present,” said Adella. “Now what is it that has you so excited?”

Shannon looked from Adella to the door and then back again, two subjects clearly warring in her mind. Finally, she turned and indicated the mirror where the surrounding mountains were still in glorious display.

“Yes, a breathtaking view to be sure,” said Adella shortly. “What of it?”

“The bird,” said Shannon, pointing down to a corner of the mirror. “See how it struggles to gain the heights?”

“A meal on the wing for a prowling praetor hawk,” she replied.

Jhan, however, came up to the mirror and looked more closely at the bird.

“The mirror responded to you with this scene?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s what I’m trying to explain.”

“And you spotted the bird quickly?”

“Right away,” she answered.

In response, Jhan walked up to the mirror and placed his hand over the image of the struggling bird, and a yellow light burst around him, a yellow light that seemed to radiate through the mirror and touch the straining creature as well.

Shannon actually took a step forward, the open display of magic combining with what she had seen in the study to settle any questions she still had. A strong hand reached out and held her back.

“That…that can’t be Jhan…” she said to Adella, a small note of hostility in her voice.

Adella gave the girl a small shake to get her attention and growled softly, “That is Jhan. If you value all our lives, you’ll get that clear in your head and keep it there. Especially after we leave the castle. Do you understand?”

Shannon’s eyes widened slightly, and she opened her mouth to protest, looking back at the alien figure glowing with golden power. Then comprehension broke over her, followed by a frown of indecision, and finally a resigned nod of acceptance.

There was movement in the room, something fluttering down from above, and both women turned in surprise.

“You let the bird in!” said Adella, startled.

“Yes,” answered a voice much deeper than Jhan’s.

“With dragons watching overhead and spies set on every peak, you demonstrate to one and all that there is someone inside the Castle, someone who knows how to use its’ power!” she snapped. “Apparently, there’s still much of the old Jhan about you!”

The boy paid her no attention, his eyes only on the bird as it circled, and his attention caught Adella’s interest as well. She realized she wasn’t quite sure what species of bird it was, a thrush or sparrow in appearance but considerably larger, almost a small raven in size, and that in turn made her wonder at its arrival here in the thin air of the peaks. Small birds always stayed closer to the ground where the food and cover from predators were more plentiful.

As they watched, the bird spiraled down and focused on Shannon. It actually paused in front of her, beating its wings awkwardly to hover in place, and the girl put out her hand to offer a perch. The bird took it gratefully, its head cocking this way and then that as it studied her.

Unexpectedly, it said, “You are the Maid Shannon.”

She almost dropped the thing in surprise. The bird’s beak had opened to utter the words, but it had made no attempt to form them, almost as if it had been no more than a doorway through which the words had passed.

“You must confirm who you are,” said Jhan quietly. “The bird has a message, but it needs to hear your voice before it continues.”

Shannon swallowed and said, “Yes, I am she.”

“A traitor to Argus aided the release of the Norealm Cavalry from the Drift. The traitor is his chancellor, Ursulan.”

Shannon’s jaw dropped in shock at the words, and she looked in astonishment at her companions. But before she could say anything more, the bird seemed to disintegrate, falling into nothing, its purpose achieved.

Jhan came over and touched the thin dust on the floor that was all that remained of the bird. “A poor enough sending, limited to exactly 25 words. I would think they must have released half a dozen of these birds to be sure of the message finding you.”

Adella had been nearly speechless since hearing the bird’s tidings, but she spun around at Jhan’s response.

“Idiot! Are you so interested in the bird that you pay no heed to the message? Ursulan, the chancellor! Don’t you understand what that means?”

“It means Ursulan is not long for this world,” replied Jhan. “Argus will discover his treachery all too quickly.”

“No, you fool! Ursulan will know Argus’ personal movements! We need to know where Argus will be if we are to meet him with your little creation in there!”

Jhan and Shannon both perked up instantly, realizing the missing piece of the puzzle may have been delivered right into their hands. Shannon, however, frowned and asked, “Can we trust this information? It seems almost too good to be true.”

Jhan picked up a pinch of dust from the sending and replied, “It will be easy enough to check. A simple messenger such as this will have no protections upon it.”

With that, he cast the dust onto the mirror, and there was a small burst of light that flashed through a series of scenes they did not recognize and finally resolved itself into two Priests of Mirna laboring over some task.

“Father Joshua!” exclaimed Shannon. Her eyes widened as she said quietly to herself, “This, then, is no coincidence.”

“And Father Rathman,” added Adella. “An unlikely pair to be sure, but no friends of Argus.” She turned to Jhan and asked, “Can you find Ursulan on this device?”

The boy pondered the question for several moments, still studying the image of the two priests, before saying slowly, “The magic contained the name of Ursulan. The power of the mirror has grown so much…I wonder…”

He dabbed a little of the dust from the crumpled bird onto his fingers and then pressed it lightly against the mirror as he mumbled some words of incantation. The mirror responded erratically, flashing a series of pictures in no logical order, priests and layfolk and soldiers in a bewildering jumble before they resolved themselves into the image of a small man with a balding pate wearing rich robes and a large silver medallion of rank around his neck. The man was there for only a few moments before the mirror returned to the simple reflections of the throne room. Jhan turned hurriedly away, for the image the mirror had reflected had not been his own.

“I fear that is all I can contrive to do,” he said, his tone apologetic.

“It is more than adequate,” replied Adella. “Those furnishings around him were clearly his offices in Corland, and that makes good sense. If I were betraying Argus, I would want to keep my distance as well.” She paused, turning to consider Jhan, a plan forming behind her eyes. Finally, she said carefully, “Once some time ago, Darius was sent from this very room through the ether to the Council of Lords. I wonder if it might be possible for me to make a similar trip to Corland? What does your ring say, Jhan?”

Jhan glanced back over his shoulder, and a look of understanding passed between them.

“I think it may be possible,” he said.

“And the chances of me returning as well?”

He looked more doubtful at that, glancing at the study. “I cannot be diverted from my work. This task will demand ever more of my attention.”

“Can you set the spell with a duration of time?” she asked. “Arrange it so that after a given period, the spell will return me here?”

“Yes, that can be done. But you would have no control over the spell, no more than a leaf can control the wind.”

“I need none,” she replied. “Give me four hours in Corland. If I haven’t achieved my goal by then, more time will be of little help.”

“Then I will prepare the spell.”

* * *

Argus marched through the dungeon halls of Gemsbrook Castle killing all he met.

His strangely enhanced hearing could detect the sounds of fighting above him as the spirits released by the Ohric caused panic among the main garrison of the Castle and left him free to enforce his will in the dungeons below. A portion of his brain rejoiced in this newest display of power, entering one of the most heavily protected citadels in all of the southlands with only his personal guards and creating havoc in its well trained soldiery as a mere diversion. But that was the old Argus who had merely been the Duke of Corland. Argus, King of the Southlands, had become accustomed to imposing his will and saw such displays as annoyances and delays, stealing time which was now his only treasure, the only commodity he did not possess in abundance.

He rounded a corner, and a dozen crossbow bolts flew at him, but they simply disintegrating as they hit the green aura emanating from the Ohric. The guards were firing from behind the iron bars that blocked the corridor, and Argus eliminated both problems by sending a mass of green energy forth that smashed through the bars and sent iron and flesh tumbling into ruin. Nothing could stop him. Nothing could divert him.

The Ohric had never been so powerful, so responsive, starting with a single stupendous energy burst that had unleashed the green ghosts upon the castle, spirits that entered their victims through the eyes, the ears, the nose and turned them into ravaging fiends. Argus rejoiced in this incredible display of power, but some kernel of remaining sanity warned him it was the Ohric’s will being enforced, not his. The failure to return the Juggernaut was jeopardizing the grand design of Bal, and the scepter was summoning unsuspected reserves in pursuit of this new solution.

He also felt the drain on his own body, sapping strength but adding power, the seductive trade that had turned Regnar into a walking skeleton. He knew enough to recognize and resist that draining. But not enough to put a stop to it.

He was at the final door now, the iron-bound portal that protected the deepest darkest treasure of the Castle, and with a dark grin of humor, he knocked on it, the locked door swinging open at his touch. Inside was a lush room with rich furnishings and tapestries and painting adorning the hall, with the only flaw a circular burn mark on the thick carpet. A man was standing here as if he had been awaiting the knock, a man wearing red velvet robes beneath a blue overmantle and an evil smile, a man he had devastated a castle to find.

“Welcome to my humble dwellings, My Liege,” the man said with a bow.

“You are Honorium Stalbus.” It was not a question.

“I am,” he said with a small bob of the head. “And you are Argus, Lord Protector of the Council, and by the grace of great Bal, Master and King of All the Southlands.”

The titles sounded oddly hollow and meaningless here in the bowels of the castle with death and chaos roaring in the distance.

“You are familiar with the nature and the purpose of the Juggernaut,” he said.

Stalbus nodded and said, “Yes, My Liege.”

“You are aware that our purpose for it may have gone awry?”

“The interference of the conjurer Malcolm, I believe. The spawn of the Juggernaut needs to be…seasoned. And in this, your purpose has been thwarted.”

Argus frowned. “How can you know our purpose has been…thwarted?”

“The spawn is rising through the Nether Regions,” said Stalbus. “Were its seasoning complete, it would be quite satisfied to remain where it is.”

A small smile of appreciation creased Argus’ lips. The Ohric had assured him that Stalbus would understand the situation completely, but it was a pleasure to deal with an individual who was not troubled with the commonplace limitations of humanity.

“We cannot be sure that it will act as we intend when we return it to the world of the living,” said Argus. “That requires it to be guided. I am assured you possess the intelligence to supply that guidance.”

Stalbus smiled in answer. “Oh, yes, My Liege. I shall gladly be its teacher.”

Stalbus held out his hands, the hands bound and locked with metal, waiting to be set free. Argus thought for a moment of requiring some oath or commitment from the man, some assurance of future behavior, and then he cast the foolish notion aside. Stalbus knew exactly what was expected of him and exactly what would happen if he failed.

A flick of Argus’ fingers broke both locks on the gloves.

Slowly, gingerly, Stalbus drew first one hand free and then the second, pausing to flex the fingers for the first time in nearly a decade. He showed the hands to Argus who actually felt the tiniest twinge of apprehension, the smallest question of the wisdom of setting this individual free. Then Stalbus bowed formally, and the moment passed forever.

“We are in haste,” said Argus. “We shall summon the Juggernaut spawn this day, and you shall become its mentor.”

“I fear the summoning must wait on establishing the entity’s location,” the man replied. “Your plans assumed the thing would fall into the Pit, and its return was based on that assumption. We still have hard work ahead of us before we can make the attempt.” He hesitated before continuing, “I fear I must ask for a short delay before even beginning the search, My Liege. There is an item I must recover, an item vital to the achievement of our task.”

Argus’ forehead became an instant thundercloud at being contradicted, but the Ohric interceded. “We know the item of which you speak. But you must be swift.”

“No more than two days, I assure you, and perhaps as little as one.”

“Make it one,” growled Argus.

“How do you plan to proceed once the spawn is recovered?” asked the Ohric.

Stalbus’ eyes narrowed, and his voice was low and hard. “Your attempt to corrupt this thing with evil has clearly failed, so maliciousness will not win for you what you seek. That role must now be filled by vengeance.”

Argus could actually feel the unaccustomed sense of uncertainty moving through the Ohric, the scepter faced with an unanticipated choice.

“There are dangers here,” the Ohric said.

“The risks are manageable if we all hold to our purpose,” Stalbus assured them. “But there are two factors which must be neutralized. First, Mraxdavar holds disaster for my designs in his claws.”

“We shall deal with the Dragon Lord,” said the Ohric impassively.

Argus frowned. “Even as we speak, the army is marching against the Sanctuary. We will have no time to fight with dragons.”

“Your army must smash the Sanctuary on its own,” replied the Ohric. “This task demands all our attention. And the second factor?”

“The Arch-Mage Malcolm,” said Stalbus slowly, as if savoring the name.

“Malcolm is dead,” said Argus curtly. “I killed him myself.”

“You may have destroyed his form, My Liege. But I can assure you his spirit still lives. And that spirit moves even now to block your designs.”

Argus bristled with anger at being corrected, but the stirrings in the scepter stopped him. It assured him that Stalbus knew of what he spoke.

“You clearly have unfinished business with the Arch-Mage, but we have no time for personal vengeance. If Malcolm intervenes, you may deal with him,” replied the Ohric. “But you shall not seek him out. Is this understood?”

“Perfectly.”

Argus turned to go, but he was forestalled when Stalbus said, “One more minor item, My Liege.”

Argus frowned again at the delay. “What?”

“I had two visitors several days ago, the woman Adella and a young girl of destiny who I took to be the daughter of the Paladin, Darius.”

Argus stiffened, his attention now fully focused on Stalbus. “What did they want?”

“They wanted to know how they could return this Paladin from the region to which you sent him.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Why, I told them the truth, as I am bound to do,” Stalbus said with a hint of injured dignity. “I told them the Ohric was the entity that sent him forth, so it was the Ohric alone that could summon him back.”

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, the significance of the words sinking in, and then they both threw back their heads and roared with laughter.

* * *

Adella’s departure brought no peace to Shannon.

The haunted, hopeful eyes of the soldiers she had seen in the mirror were seared into her memory, a sight that both twisted her heart with guilt and burned her with a sense of a task left undone, a duty unfulfilled. She walked between the mirror and the room in which Jhan continued his work, between the silent cries of distant soldiers and the desperate hope for the return of her Father, and she felt as if her very soul were being torn asunder.

Our place is with the army, said Sarinian quietly, intruding on her thoughts. The life of one man, however heroic, is nothing against the lives of thousands.

“How can you of all beings say such a thing?” she asked. “Are you not tied to my Father?”

I am tied to the quest to destroy evil wherever it be found, the sword answered. It is the army that now contends against this evil.

“The army has leaders aplenty,” she countered. “My Father has only me.”

The time to attempt the return of the Inglorion is still in the future, said the sword. But the time of battle is even now upon us. Look. Look you upon the mirror.

She stopped pacing and walked hesitantly up to the mirror, standing hardly a pace away, the reflection showing a young woman in the throes of indecision. She raised a hand, the fingers going reluctantly forward, but she paused before she brushed the surface, feeling that she stood upon a threshold, a threshold through which she might never return. She took a deep breath and made her choice.

Doubt had closed the fingers of her right hand into a fist, but now she gritted her teeth, forced open the clenched fingers, and pressed her palm against the mirror.

Instantly, the surface exploded into images, a vista of war, with charging horses, straining archers, cheering warriors, the start of some great battle. She fell back, her hand leaving the surface of the mirror, but the visions continued as if they could not now be stopped. She frowned to understand what she was seeing, and as she focused, it seemed as if the mirror relented and revealed details she could understand. The golden warriors of Maganhall, the ebony armor of the Black Watch, the hideous forms of the Undead, all helped her to understand that she was witnessing events that were even now occurring, or would occur in the near future, the ambush of which Clarissa and Mandrik had spoken. Her heart leapt as she saw a young man with black hair and burning eyes leading a charge of cavalry against the stunned enemy, smashing through their ranks to make them stagger, the valor of the few overcoming the viciousness of the many.

But then the images began to change, black forms appearing in the very midst of the battle, horrible things that made her cringe even with the protection of distance, and she saw the victory swaying in the balance, turning now to defeat. Nothing could stop these monstrosities, not the power of the horsemen nor the bravery of their young leader, nothing that the army currently possessed…

In an instant she had launched herself across the room to pound on the door of the study. How long she hammered on that wooden barrier, how long she cried out, she did not know. She only knew that when the door opened, she seized Jhan’s shoulders in her hands and glared at him with a look that allowed for no debate, no disagreement.

“You must send me forth as you did Adella!” she demanded. “You must send me with all the speed of which you are capable!”

CHAPTER 14

The Battle Before the Spindle

Fallon, son of Thrandar and the new leader of Norealm, sat impatiently on his chestnut stallion watching the movements of the enemy army on the grassy plain before him, waiting for the killing time. The stallion, too, was restless, sensing the intensity in his rider and the other horses in the shadow of the woods, the open plain before them, the grass beckoning, and he patted the animal on the neck to calm him.

“Soon, Amathen, soon,” he whispered, a promise to both the horse and himself. Amathen let out a low neigh, but he settled himself, comforted by his master’s hand. Fallon felt a small twinge of conscience at the stallion’s trust, for in a very few moment, he would almost certainly be riding the animal to its death.

In Norealm, Fallon was known simply as the Dark One, partially because of his black hair and blacker eyes, partially because of his quiet and somber bearing that belied his twenty-two years, but mostly because he was half-elven, the bastard son of a noble lord who had given his heart to an elf-maid. But there was a warmth and a wisdom that had come to him from his mother, and that same confidence which enabled him to calm his anxious warhorse now had also helped win over the skeptical people of Norealm.

“Have these fellows no taste at all, wearing nothing but interminable black on black?” asked a voice.

Fallon glanced back to see his friend, Captain Henlik, trying to control his own restive horse. Henlik was dressed in the light mail of all the Norealm cavalry, just as Fallon was himself, but he covered it with an elaborate jacket of woven green and topped it with a huge horseman’s hat adorned with three green feathers.

“Argus’ Black Watch,” Fallon said softly. “Fell warriors all. Or so is said.”

“Heavy cavalry guarding the army’s northern flank,” replied Henlik. “Argus is no fool, whatever his failings in fashion.”

“True. That is indeed what fat old men teach cadets,” said Fallon.

Henlik cocked an eye at his friend. “Those fat old men know the thickness of the heavy armor and the strength of the heavy horse. And the least of them has fought more battles than you and I combined.”

“In a frontal charge, horse on horse, I would agree with them,” he answered. “But we have these by the flank and by surprise.”

Henlik shook his head. “This is the heavy horse of the Black Watch, ten squadrons strong. Only a madman would send light cavalry against such a force. We are only to support the infantry, not lead the charge.”

“The only time heavy cavalry is vulnerable is when it is standing still,” Fallon replied. “If we fight by the rules of old men, we are doomed to defeat.” His dark eyes sparkled as he added, “So we fight by our own rules.”

He looked up at the long lance that was seated in the holster of his saddle and twirled it lightly in his hand. The lance was made of golden elm, a tree abundant in the high valleys of Norealm and scarce almost everywhere else, and the wood was renowned for its strength and durability. For centuries, carpenters had used it for building bridges, stockades, and towers, but Fallon had been the first to think of using the heavy wood as a cavalry lance. He had designed a swiveling leather holster for the butt end that allowed the rider to handle the greater length and weight in a charge, and it had performed to perfection in trials. Now, it would have to prove itself in battle.

“The gold flag is unfurled,” Henlik warned, and Fallon turned to see half a dozen standard bearers emerging from the woods, the huge golden battle flags of Maganhall, the signal for the infantry to advance. Endless moments passed, the summons of the flags unanswered, and Fallon let out a soft oath. The bumbling infantry was still trying to get their lines straight in that tumble of trees, and any moment, the warning shout would come from the Black Watch of an enemy on their flank, all chance of surprise lost.

In sudden defiance, Fallon put the spurs to Amathen, and the stallion leapt forward out onto the plain, breaking cover, and he galloped half a furlong before swinging back to look at the wood. After a moment’s hesitation, Henlik had galloped out right beside him,

“The fat old men said the infantry would go forth first,” Henlik pointed out to him, his eyes shifting between thousands of enemy cavalry on one side and the gold flags flapping peacefully in the wind. “We’re supposed to let them close as much of the distance as possible before the enemy takes notice.”

Fallon looked across the plain and shook his head as he now saw the foolishness of the tactic. “These are the scrapings of Maganhall’s garrisons, and they don’t need order. They need a leader. That much at least we can offer.”

He pointed Amathen head towards the enemy, and the stallion neighed his agreement as he pranced forward. All along the line of the forest, horsemen broke cover as well, wave upon wave of light cavalry flowing over the plain, battle orders nothing beside the simple example of their young lord.

“First troop steady!” came a cry to the left as an officer strove to restrain his eager men, and other cries of “Steady!” echoed across the grassy plain. But they were all following Fallon’s lead, matching his speed. He was at a cantor now, the stallion tossing its head in annoyance at the restraint as it saw the open plain and felt the grass beneath its hooves. Fallon held him firm, whispering calming words, conserving his energy for the final charge when every measure of strength would be needed.

Well out of range to the east, there was a mass of enemy infantry moving steadily eastward, and Fallon had the impression at least some of the units were engaged in combat, their attention locked entirely on the forces of Warhaven to their front. But barely a third of a league away now rode the division of heavy cavalry in column of four moving at a steady trot, their armor and their horses both as black as night and flying banners with three spears and a black shield over a field of red. They, too, seemed to have eyes only for the open plain and the distant enemy, heedless of the wood to their left and the now rapidly approaching foe.

Fallon was almost in charging range when the first loud challenge came from the black cavalry, heads swiveling to see, though the horses never changed gait. Orders were being shouted now, officers at last recognizing the threat, cries and curses running up and down the line as the men swung their mounts around and tried to move from a marching column to receive an unexpected attack on their flank. They showed wonderful discipline, the obvious surprise not breaking the long hours of training, each trooper sorting himself out and finding his proper spot in the forming line.

None of it mattered.

Fallon was patting the neck of his charger, letting the restrained energy go, aiming him like an arrow at the long, long line of black horses, his lance coming down to the attack, the swivel supporting the butt working perfectly, the swiftest of the other horses catching up with him to charge along side. He was flying across the grass now, closing the distance with astounding speed, charging formed heavy cavalry while wearing nothing but light chain, bare horse flesh against heavy barding. It was utter suicide, an attack no rational officer would even consider, and Fallon grinned fiercely as he closed. The stationary cavalry suddenly looked exactly like the training targets they had been destroying for the past year on the practice fields.

Fallon chose his target, steadied his lance, and smashed into the enemy with far greater force than even heavy cavalry could have managed. He aimed his lance at the base of the warrior’s helmet, and the blow lifted him right out of his saddle and threw him to the ground. The impact caused the man to drop his own lance which surely would have impaled Fallon had it been held steady, and the black horse reared and broke, half falling as it fled from the line. Savagely, Fallon drove his charger’s front hooves right onto the body of the trooper, crushing the heavy armor. All along the line, the maddened Norealmers brought their fury to bear and struck true, their recklessness and their lances of golden elm laying low the flower of the Black Watch.

The carefully arranged line was now a wild melee of light horse and armored knights. The Black Watch may have lost a third of their number to that first wild charge, but their discipline had held, and their heavy armor now served them well, deflecting most of the sword thrusts from the Norealmers. Fallon struck twice, three times against his new opponent without affect, and in a wild rage, he threw himself off his horse to land right beside his foe. The black warrior struck down hard, clearly pleased to be fighting an unmounted foe, but Fallon rolled underneath the horse and brought his sword slashing up into the beast’s exposed belly. The creature jerked madly up and to the right, unhorsing his rider before falling dead on top of him.

“The bellies!” roared Fallon. “Slit the horses’ bellies!”

There was shock on both sides, for cavalrymen respected horses whatever rider they might bear and by tradition, aimed their blows at rider and not mount. But the Norealmers were caught up in the fury and the desperation of a hopeless battle, and they followed the example of their young leader with devastating effect. A horse fell here, another there, two more, and then the horses were rearing and bucking, frightened by this new butchery. It was over in what seemed like a matter of breaths, the black horses dying or bolting or being ridden away by fleeing warriors, leaving Fallon and his troopers bloody and triumphant.

Henlik was standing beside him, drenched in blood from man and horse, his hat still astonishingly atop his head. “Well, the war is begun, and the fat old men will be appalled. Light horse defeating heavy cavalry, and riders disemboweling mounts.”

Fallon nodded. There were distant shouts behind them, and he turned to see the long lines of golden infantry marching bravely forward out of the wood. The careful lines were already staggering as they advanced, clear evidence of the men’s lack of experience.

“Seems the fat old men were wrong about the order of battle as well,” he said. “In a full charge, the heavy cavalry would have destroyed them on the open plain.”

“And not just the infantry,” added Henlik. “The lances did fine work, but their armor and their courage were stronger than I expected. The outcome would have been very different if they had managed to meet us at a gallop.”

“We’ve but pricked this monster’s hide and stirred it to anger,” said Fallon. “Gather the men and the horses. Our fighting this day is not yet done.”

* * *

Adella stood before the half dozen guards dressed in the armor of Corland and did a masterful job of whimpering. She was dressed as a serving maid, with her hair tied tightly under a brown scarf, and she was carrying a heavy silver tray with an ornate tea service carefully displayed. The service had been under a white napkin until it had become stained with the real serving maid’s blood.

“Oh, good sir,” she said in a desperate whisper. “I’ve been sent with the Chancellor’s tea, but wither I’m to bear it has gone clean from my head. My matron will surely beat me if I dare to serve cold tea.”

“And a beating you’ll deserve,” the man said gruffly. The woman winced and seemed to shrink from the words, a pitiable sight. The man snorted and said, “He’s in the Duke’s study. That’s the doors at the end of the hall.”

“Thank you, thank you, good sir!” she breathed, hurrying down the hall and deliberately stumbled a little under her heavy burden to heighten the sense of incompetence, earning a derisive laugh for her performance. As she moved her left hand up to steady the tray, she deftly flicked a bead on the little bracelet she was wearing on her right wrist as a rough means to mark the passage of time. Five of the seven beads already moved. It was only a fair guess of the passage of time, but when she moved the last, the spell would very soon pull her back to Llan Praetor.

At the doors, she knocked lightly and answered the muffled question that came from inside with, “Your tea, sir.”

This was the moment of greatest exposure. The real serving maid had begun to cackle with fright when she had been waylaid in the halls, and Adella had been forced to knock her out before the woman could tell her who the tea was for. If she were wrong and the tea was not for the Chancellor, her disguise would be penetrated with a heavy door between her and the prey, surrounded by a dozen watchful guards. But who other than the Chancellor could order such an expensive tea?

“Come,” said the voice inside, and Adella kept the smile of triumph carefully hidden.

She opened one of the double doors and hurried inside, closing it firmly behind her. The room was huge and heavily furnished in leather and dark woods, the windows hung with dark curtains that let in only a measure of light, and the walls were adorned with the crests of all the noble families of Corland. The heraldry may originally have been intended as a sanction of the authority of the Duke, a reminder of his duty to his willing subjects, but Argus was not the sort to value such sanctions. Adella suspected Argus had kept them there as a sop to his ego, a reminder to himself and others of all those subjugated to him.

Across the room stood a solid desk of black wood with beautiful carvings on the edges and the crest of Corland embossed on the front. Behind the desk was a little man hunched over a scattering of papers and scribbling furiously, oblivious to everything else. Adella walked quietly across the room and set the tray down on the thick carpet, even though one of the sideboards would clearly have been more appropriate. The little man looked up in annoyance, but before he could do more than blink, Adella had produced Bloodseeker, and its dangerous light took all the man’s attention.

“If you utter a sound, it will be the last you ever make,” she assured him.

The man, however, seemed more curious than frightened.

“If you’ve come for Argus, I fear you are too late,” he said, putting aside the quill. “He is gone from Monarch.”

“Where might he be off to?” Adella asked softly, moving slowly around the desk on cat-like feet.

“Oh, put aside your sword, woman,” the Counselor said dismissively. “It is of no use to you here. A dagger is all you will need for the likes of me, and if I succeed in summoning the guard, the sword will only delay your own end.”

Adella actually smiled at that. If the man was not intimidated by Bloodseeker’s light, there was little point in waving it before him. A gesture made the sword vanish into its hidden scabbard, but the look on Ursulan’s face showed he realized it could reappear just as swiftly. “You seem calm enough in the face of death. Or have you already despaired of life?”

“The thralls of Argus ever count their lives in hours,” he said leaning back in is his chair. “But I cannot fathom your purpose here. I have little of value for a thief to take, and if you sought vengeance for my service to Argus, you would have struck without wasting time on words. What is it you seek?”

“Why, I am a priestess come to offer you absolution for your sins,” she replied.

Despite the tension of the situation, Ursulan laughed out loud at that. “I fear you have not enough time to absolve me of all I have done. Perhaps there is some particular sin of mine you wish to absolve?”

“Opening the gates of the Drift to allow the escape of the cavalry of Norealm.”

He sobered immediately and sat forward in his chair, frowning a little as if trying to see her more clearly. After a long moment, he said, “I am guilty of many crimes. But that is not one for which I seek forgiveness.”

“Oh, be assured, I do not name it sin, myself. Unfortunately, the dark master you serve will most certainly bring the most terrible damnation raining down upon you for it.”

“So you would extort something from me under threat of revealing my part in the opening of the Gates of the Drift?”

“Nothing either of us do will stop Argus from soon learning your part in that,” she assured him, sitting down on the edge of his desk and picking up some of the paperwork before him. Invoices, provisioning lists, a dry reminder of the quarterly tax due, all under the ducal seal, which apparently explained Ursulan’s presence in his master’s office. The man is under threat of imminent death, and he’s still doing his daily work. She tossed the papers back onto the desk and leaned closer to say, “You see, absolution means to escape from the consequences of one’s sins. I’m looking to help you escape from Argus’ wrath.”

“How do you intend to accomplish that?”

“By killing the bastard first,” she snarled softly.

The man actually blanched slightly at the tone and words, but then he seemed to puzzle for a few moments before asking, “So you think that I can somehow help in this mission, even if that were my intent?”

“I need to know where Argus will be and when,” she said.

“In the field, Argus is master of his own schedule,” the Chancellor replied. “I have no idea where he is, let alone where he will be.”

That was as she had feared. But she continued, “Then you must arrange a meeting, a place and time where he must be. You may not be able to dictate the particulars, but as Chancellor, he will surely grant such an audience.”

“True,” the man agreed, “but you may be certain he will be heavily guarded. I am only the Chancellor of Corland, and he is now master of all the Southlands. If I am granted an audience, I am sure I will only be one of the individuals he will be receiving at that time.”

Adella shrugged. “If that is the only way we can be assured to find him, then that must serve.”

“A death sentence for you and perhaps still worse for me,” the man said softly. But Adella was struck again by the lack of fear in the man’s bearing. He drummed his fingers lightly on the desk, his eyes narrowed in thought, and then he said, “There may be a better way.”

He rose to his feet, and Adella sprang to attention, her tension a warning. The man held up both hands in a gesture of peace. “I need to bring you something, and that will require me to speak to the guards. I fear we have reached the point where you must either trust me or kill me.”

Reluctantly she nodded him towards the door, but she followed at a discrete distance, hiding behind the door as he opened it.

“Captain, send a man to my office,” he said to his guards. “Bring me the cage of crows.”

He closed the door even as the Captain snapped an ascent, and he moved a short distance back into the room to be certain they would not be overheard.

“Occasionally, I must get messages to Argus when he is away from the capital,” he explained. “Clearly, no homing pigeon will serve, since they fly only to a given spot. So Argus had a group of crows specially enchanted to bring messages to him. They will point the way for you.”

Adella nodded in appreciation. They could release one of the crows close to where the army was, and track it wherever it led. They could even attach some urgent message that would allay any doubts about the bird’s arrival. She flicked the sixth bead on her little bracelet. Her time was nearly gone.

“I can offer one other thought for you,” said Ursulan. “Argus’ schedule is dictated by the press of events, so you cannot even be sure when he might be sleeping. But he keeps the hour of midnight for himself. I do not know if he sets it aside for meditation or prayer or the practicing of dark arts, and he does not keep to it every night. That, however, is your best chance of finding him alone.”

She nodded again and then said in turn, “I would make my travel plans swiftly, were I you. Once we arrive in the wake of this crow, Argus will have little doubt about who has betrayed him. Should we miss our mark, his hand will fall heavily on you.”

The man actually shrugged. “The only road down which I can flee from Argus is the one that leads to death. That path I can walk as well from Monarch as from any other place.”

Adella studied him more closely after that. He was a mouse of a man with slowly bowing shoulders and the look of perennial meekness about him, the sort who could not stand up for himself against a grocer or a tradesman, let alone a tyrant like Argus wielding an artifact from the depths of hell. Still, a man could not run a state like Corland without backbone, she realized.

“Why are you taking such risks?” she asked. “Argus appears to be in the ascendancy, and you would surely rise with him. Why risk a traitor’s death at the hands of a man who delights in killing?”

“We have no time for motives,” he said brusquely. “Why do you take such risks to match swords with him when all who have done so have died?”

“I have hard scores to settle and a man to be rescued,” she answered. “I do not ask your motives from mere curiosity. Knowing your purpose will tell me how far I can trust you.”

The man raised a single eyebrow, considered her carefully, and then said, “Argus has been mad for power all his life. But striving for the kingship of the Southlands is a worthy goal of ambition, and many of us gladly served in that cause. As Argus rose, so did we, and so did Corland. But now Argus is no more than a pawn to that hellish scepter, and he is compelled only to do its bidding.”

There was a knock at the door. Ursulan moved to answer it and added, “I also believe the scepter sees me as an enemy, and I suspect it will soon convince Argus to order my death. That, too, is a strong incentive.”

He opened the door just wide enough to bring in an enclosed cage, and Adella frowned at the size. It seemed too small to contain even one live crow let alone several. Ursulan recognized her expression and after closing the door said, “The cage keeps the birds in an enchanted sleep. It helps extend the life of their magical seeking abilities, and makes them easier to handle and transport. I had the inscription to awaken the birds placed on the side of the cage, so I would not forget it.”

Adella took the cage and looked at the inscription. It was a simple dispelling charm that anyone could use. She looked back at the man, knowing she had only moments.

“You have given me two good reasons to act against Argus,” she said. “Loyalty to Corland is commendable, but not motive enough to thus sacrifice your life. And a diplomat of your skills could long evade the wrath of the scepter. There is another reason moving you.”

The man looked slowly around at the huge study with its displayed weapons and its coats of arms, his eyes troubled. Perhaps he himself had not delved any deeper into his motives, and he was now confronted with an unanswered question.

“Argus raised me up from a minor clerk to be Chancellor of a great state, and even in his viciousness and cruelty, he honored me,” he said slowly. “I see his reluctance to heed the scepter’s demand for my death as a sign of his continued support. In so many ways, I am his creature, and I ever act to defend him from assault, even if it be from the green scepter.”

There was a pause, and Adella felt the magics beginning to work on her, dragging her back to the castle. The last words she heard from Ursulan were, “In some strange way, freeing him from the Ohric is my final act of loyalty to Argus of Corland.”

* * *

Fallon was mounted once again on Amathen and leading the light horse of Norealm at a slow trot around the flank of the enemy infantry. Wave after wave of the warriors of Maganhall were surging forward, their golden armor gleaming even under the hostile darkness of the Canopy of Oblivion, and part of the Black Watch infantry had turned to face them. Only part. For the forces of Warhaven were pressing their front and tying down many of the soldiers needed to fend off this new assault.

“We cracked the hard shell when we broke the heavy cavalry,” said Henlik riding beside him. “Now we can feed on the soft center.”

Fallon nodded but said nothing, his eyes on the critical hinge in the enemy’s lines where the northern force facing the Maganhaller’s met the eastern line still fighting the men of Warhaven. His cavalry would smash through the small force guarding that hub and roll down the flank of both lines, routing the infantry, and the enemy seemed too mesmerized by the golden armor of the new force to pay any heed to the horsemen riding nearly parallel to their line. The surprise of the attack was complete, and they appeared to be on the brink of winning a significant victory, the first real defeat inflicted on the invaders.

The Maganhall force was closing now, arrows filling the air as the range narrowed, but only a few men fell. The armor on both sides was good protection against arrows at anything except very short range, and neither army was wasting much time on archery. The Maganhall line was closing more rapidly than he had anticipated, and Fallon wheeled a little to the right and urged his stallion into a cantor, the thousand or so survivors of his force following suit. They must strike the hub soon after the first wave hit, or…

It was then that the earth in front of the Black Watch opened and vomited forth death.

A dozen huge worm-like creatures burrowed up out of the ground and launched themselves into the ranks of the golden warriors, falling with a thunderous impact to crush dozens of men beneath them. Even at a distance of nearly half a league, Fallon and the cavalry froze in their tracks, horrified by the spectacle of these hideous monsters wiggling forward, their huge mauls open, gobbling down whole soldiers whose screams of terror could be heard even at that distance. Dirt and death had exploded on the Maganhallers, and 10,000 men were reeling backwards, unable to comprehend let alone face the assault of these monster worms.

The Black Watch, too, fell back, shocked by this apparition, even though it was directed entirely at their enemy. They stared at these hideous allies that had burst upon their foes, blunting what had appeared to be certain defeat. Then one man cheered, and then another, a sprinkling of hurrahs moving up and down the line, men celebrating the devouring of their own species by inhuman monsters.

It was the cheering that cleared Fallon’s head. He spurred his stallion forward where the entire line of cavalry could see him.

“Henlik!” he shouted. “Take your troop down upon the enemy hub as we intended! Break their line! Shandar! Thalgris! We shall bring relief to the Maganhallers!”

It took a moment for his words to disrupt the spell of the massacre unraveling before them, but Fallon was not waiting. He pointed Amathen at the nearest of the behemoths and started at a slow gallop, closing the distance between them with wondrous speed. He could hear the sound of charging horses behind him, Shandar and Thalgris urging their men forward, and he put the spurs to the stallion as he lowered his spear. Bugles were blaring, sounding the charge, catching the attention of every human on the battlefield, hearts leaping at this mad onslaught, foe and friend alike stirred by the naked courage of the light cavalry bearing down on these worms from the pit.

The monstrosity was looming over him now, twice the height of a horse and a dozen times as long, its sides a gleaming black, but Fallon did not slow at all as he drove his lance of golden elm right into the thing, burying the shaft nearly to the hilt into the soft, yielding flesh. Amathen staggered under the impact, his front legs beginning to buckle as he spun sideways to actually collide with the side of the monster, but that helped stop the fall and saved the horse. The worm jerked from the piercing of its side, like a man from a bee sting, and then it settled again to pursue the golden armor fleeing before it.

More cavalry was striking, more lances driven home, and though none struck as true or as deep as Fallon’s, the monster was feeling the blows and started twisting away from the attack. Fallon rode forward, drawing his sword, but the thing seemed to launch the front of its body into the air, pivoting as it moved and showing astonishing agility for something so huge. The head came down on one horseman, crushing both mount and rider beneath it, and the horses were screaming and rearing in terror as the horror rounded upon them. Fallon struggled with his own mount as the head thrashed sideways, striking him and another horseman and sending them all, horses and riders both, crashing to the ground. He was stunned by the fall, blinking his sweat-blinded eyes as the maw of the horror began to open, seeking to devour anything in its path.

Then it seemed to the stunned soldier that heaven took pity upon him, and an angel stepped out of nothingness to come to his aid.

*

Shannon trembled at the sight of these monstrous worms, exactly what the mirror had shown her, lashing out at the scattering ranks of men in gold armor. She had arrived in time. But only just in time. She willed the ethereal spell in which she was traveling to rush towards the nearest creature which was writhing under the impact of a dozen spears, but the creature’s sudden twist had caused much of the cavalry to abruptly break off their charge as they found no clear target for their lances.

She emerged from the ether just as the monster was striking against the men it had unhorsed, and Shannon fell back a few steps from the sheer magnitude of this horror. It towered above them and stank of death and decay, its open mouth dripping a black saliva mixed with the blood of the men it had devoured, and there seemed to be no eyes in its black head.

Strike! roared Sarinian. Strike hard and true!

Shannon rallied at the words and launched herself forward, striking the Avenger through the soft fat on the side of the creature. It was barely a scratch compared to the lances the cavalry had buried in the worm’s side, but its response was out of all proportion to the wound. The thing jerked savagely away as if it had been burned, and Shannon could see a black fluid pouring from the slash as if she had hit something vital.

Devil! cried Sarinian. This thing is come forth from the Nether Regions! Strike again, and we shall send it hence!

Desperately, Shannon rushed forward, and this time she struck hard and deep, burying the Avenger into the monster’s flesh. She felt a rush of heat bursting over her as if an oven door had been flung open, and the gigantic worm convulsed once, not much more than a hard shiver, and was suddenly gone.

Shannon was left staring at an empty area that had once held the creature. The hole from which it had burst was still there, as was all the death and ruin it had caused, but the monster itself had vanished.

“Where…?” she began a little helplessly.

We have sent it back from whence it was summoned, said the Avenger. They are the demmoria, the devil worms, and they have no place upon this earth.

“What great wizardry is this?”

She turned at the words and saw a man rising from the bloody muck in which he had been thrown by the monster, a tall young man with flowing black hair and a chiseled face.

“It is no wizardry but the wrath of the Avenger,” she replied, holding forth the sword. “Are you hurt?”

“Can you accomplish such wonders against these other monsters?” he demanded.

She hesitated for just a moment, but she felt the boiling fury in the hilts of the Avenger and knew it would not tolerate the presence of these things. In her heart, she understood that the Avenger might not have sufficient force to expel all these devils, but she also knew it would not rest while they despoiled the earth with their presence.

“Yes,” she said. “There is still power within the blade. Though I am not sure how long it will endure.”

Without another word, the young man seized the reins of a riderless horse milling about in panic and confusion, and he mounted it with a single bound, the animal steadying at the familiar guiding hand of a rider. He reached down, grabbed her arm, and lifted her onto the saddle behind him.

“I am Fallon,” he said. “I am the captain of this squadron.”

“My name is Shannon,” she replied.

“The Daughter of the Paladin Darius,” finished Fallon. “I saw you at the Battle of Champions. Mirna has sent us His angel at the time of our greatest need.”

“Lord Fallon!” shouted one of the horsemen, saving Shannon from having to reply. “Henlik has broken the hub of the enemy line!”

Fallon paused long enough to glance backwards, and as Shannon looked as well, she saw a mass of cavalry ripping through the black-clad infantry that stood at the juncture of the two defensive lines. The cavalry was pushing triumphantly forward, but even Shannon could see that they had not enough troops to truly exploit the breakthrough they had made. The two broken segments of the enemy lines were recoiling from the shock, but they were reforming against the cavalry even as she watched, refusing to panic.

An instant later, Fallon was spurring the new mount towards the next monster, the horse leaping forward in response.

“Form around us!” he shouted to the other horsemen, and then obeyed immediately, closing around their leader protectively.

“The Black Watch will unleash every weapon they have against you once they understand what we are about,” he said to her.

She nodded, even though her eyes were focused entirely on the line of monsters ahead of them, identical siblings to the leviathan they had just dispatched. There were at least a dozen of the horrors, and possibly twice that number.

“The Maganhallers have turned!” cried one of their escort. “They are challenging the monsters!”

Shannon could see it was true. The soldiers had rallied at the sight of one of the horrors being destroyed and were turning to confront them. They were striking the demmoria with everything they could, peppering them with spears and arrows, swords and pikes, and she could see the devils were no longer advancing. But she could also see the devil-worms were still taking a terrible toll from the brave men who dared to face them.

They were up to the next monster now, and Shannon slashed out with Sarinian to leave an open gash in the side of the worm. Again there was the surge of heat as a furnace being opened, but this time, the devil did not simply vanish. It spun around as the first one had done, lunging for this fly that had caused it such obvious pain, and the horsemen recoiled from the deadly threat. Shannon, however, jumped from the horse and charged forward to strike again, digging the Avenger deeply into the devils’ unholy flesh, and this time when the surge of heat had passed, this creature, too, had been banished, leaving behind nothing but an empty space that made it seem like only an evil dream.

“The Maganhallers have scored as well!”

She looked up just in time to see the next monster dissolving into black dust as the cumulative blows of the soldiers finally took their toll. But at least a hundred gold-clad bodies lay around the destroyed demon.

“Come on!” she cried to Fallon, holding out her arm to him.

The Captain pulled her again into the saddle and charged forward, riding right through the noxious dust that was all that was left of the third devil. Much farther ahead, she could see another of the monsters falling to nothingness as the host of stinging flies brought it low, but her heart quailed at the losses they were taking.

She leapt from the horse as they neared the next worm and thrust Sarinian home as deeply as she could, and the monstrosity vanished at the first blow, leaving the same void behind as its sisters. The carnage of crushed bodies was even thicker here, more men perishing as the stronger worms prevailed, and Shannon shuddered as she felt the energy in the hilts of the Avenger ebbing, its power nearly expended. But she gritted her teeth and held grimly on. Even if Sarinian could no longer expel these monstrosities from the world, she knew they would feel the Avenger’s bite like no other weapon on the battlefield.

“Shannon, watch out!” came a warning shout, and she turned to see Fallon launching himself at her from the back of his horse. He had a shield around one arm, and as he tackled her, he held the shield above them both. There was a hammering sound, three, four, five, and she turned to see just the very tip of an arrow protruding from the back of the shield. For just an instant, their eyes met as they lay tumbled together, their lips close enough to taste the others’ breath, a momentary spark of fire and life amid the death and slaughter. Then Fallon jumped to his feet and pulled her up with him. Three of their escort lay dead around them, pierced by arrows, and several more had taken wounds. Fallon jumped back into the saddle, and with his aid, she climbed up behind him.

“We have gained the enemy’s attention, it would seem,” he said. “We must get you out of range before the next volley.”

They fled away from the battleline, showing their horses’ tails to the enemy, and if another volley was fired at them, it was lost in their dust. Fallon wheeled his horse around to ride parallel to the enemy line, and from this position they had a much wider perspective of the battle. More of the demmoria were falling to the assault of the Maganhallers, and Shannon guessed that of the score or so of the monsters that had come forth, more than half had now been slain, though the losses in men must surely number in the thousands. The cavalry under Henlik had pressed both sides of the enemy line, but the harsh discipline of the Black Watch was now its strongest armor, refusing to buckle under the assault.

There came the sound of a bugle blowing short and long blasts, sending a signal to all within hearing.

“The retreat?” snapped Fallon, as if he could not credit his ears. “The Maganhallers are withdrawing?”

He didn’t need to ask a second time. The golden warriors who had fought so bravely were falling back, breaking off their combat with the demmoria, and it was a credit to their skill and ferocity that the wounded devils were only pursuing very slowly. Fallon was spurring his horse forward into a full gallop, Shannon holding on with all her strength, and when he finally reined in, she found them facing a group of older mounted men quietly watching the withdrawal.

“General Eldros, why are you retreating?” demanded Fallon angrily. “Henlik is turning the enemy line, and Warhaven is pressing their front! Now is the time to attack, not withdraw!”

He was addressing an elderly man in gold chainmail with a sash of rank across his breast. He was husky with a huge belly around which his armor bulged, but he had steady eyes and a hard face. He looked at Fallon coldly.

“Half my men have been slaughtered by these things, and we have barely bled the true enemy,” snapped Eldros. “If we break off now, we should be able to retreat eastward and link up with the forces of Warhaven. But that will be true only as long as Captain Henlik can keep them off balance.”

Shannon, sitting on the back of the horse as she held onto Fallon’s waist, felt the anger welling up within him, a fury that refused to recognize the military reality and wished only to strike the enemy wherever he might be found. She leaned forward and softly whispered in his ear, “Fallon.”

The sound of his name seemed to bring the young man back to himself. He looked at the gold-clad warriors forming up again as they fell back from the devils and saw they still retained their military discipline despite their losses. He looked at the line of the Black Watch infantry that was still struggling to adjust from the appearance of the devils to their front and the attack on their flank, and all could see this was not a defeated foe.

He nodded his head once and said, “Then we are surely doomed. Once he recovers from surprise, Argus will bring his reserves crashing down upon us like the hot face of vengeance itself. We shall never reach the Spindle now.”

“The enemy’s reserves are gone,” said General Eldros flatly.

“Gone? What do you mean?”

“Our scouts report Argus gathered up every man and monster he could summon and sent them swinging southward before dawn,” explained the General. “Had we broken their line here, we may have inflicted a crushing defeat on the enemy.”

Shannon was not able to grasp the military implications of this revelation, but she had a much more practical question.

“Where is Argus taking them?”

To that, no one had an answer.

* * *

Word had come of the slaughter at Gemsbrook Castle, a slaughter as a green horror had possessed some defenders and sent then to kill their brethren. A slaughter of men and women and children that they were powerless to prevent or to counter. Just as the Patriarch had predicted.

Father Joshua was riding a white horse over the rolling hills to the east of Gemsbrook Castle with the Ascendency rolling along a short ways behind, as far ahead as Joshua’s escort would allow him to get. The day was sunny with a few white puffs of cloud to flavor the blue sky, the sort of day for smiles and picnics, but Joshua had an evil scowl on his face that warned off any conversations with the soldiers of his escort. If he turned and looked back at the Ascendency, he would see the Canopy of Oblivion blackening the sky behind them, a storm before which they were fleeing like so many crumpled leaves. We might as well be leaves for all the good we are doing, he thought darkly.

Someone was riding up towards him, a priest in yellow robes, and Joshua didn’t even turn to look. He knew it was Rathman, knew he was coming to chastise him, knew that he too was riding a white horse as if a chestnut mare would mar the display of this pretty army and thus weaken its sole purpose.

“I came to seek for you, Father Joshua,” Rathman said formally with a hint of rebuke in his tone, nodding ahead. “We are nearing our destination.”

Ahead, the open plains had been replaced with a forest that seemed to stretch endlessly across their intended path, a massive wood that had been visible for hours, and as they neared, the age and the striking density of the forest was becoming obvious.

“What? A better copse of trees in which to hide?” he asked, trying and failing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“Our destination is where the Patriarch decrees,” said Rathman with a shrug. “You have been troubled, my brother. Why?”

“Why? You actually have to ask this?”

“Yes.”

“We did nothing!” he replied, louder than he intended. He looked away for a moment and then said more slowly, “At Gemsbrook Castle. The murderers came just as Innocent predicted, but despite our power and our warriors, we continued to ride placidly across the plains as if all were well in the land!”

“Alandris sent scouts that helped rescue many who escaped from the castle,” Rathman reminded him.

“A few score if even that,” said Joshua dismissively.

“Do you say the saving of scores of lives is meaningless?”

“No, Father, I truly do not. But I do question why no effort was made to try to save the thousands who died within the Castle.”

“Nothing could save those caught within the fortress,” said Rathman. “The evil took possession of men and set them against each other. Our forces would have only added fuel for the massacre.”

Joshua let out a deep sigh and tried to get himself under control. It wasn’t just an attempt to be coherent to Rathman. It was also an attempt to be coherent to himself. He knew in his heart he had an idealized and foolish vision of the Patriarch, the arch-father who not only would come marching to the aid of thousands but who would set the army in motion to save even a single life, and that was an absurd notion by any rational standard. Innocent was the master of the Church, a political realm that existed within every state of the Southlands, and his decisions had to be made in the interest of that entity, not of individual lives.

Joshua took a deep breath, focused.

“Innocent would not fight to save the Drift,” he said slowly. “He would not fight to save the Fey. He would not fight to save Gemsbrook Castle. What is the sense of marching blindly over the countryside, if we are never to confront the enemy?”

“Perhaps to save that which is most important.”

They had reached the outskirts of the forest now, the escort coming to a halt as there was no sign of road or even trail for a woodsman, let alone a patrol of cavalry, through that undergrowth.

“Somewhere within this wood is a compound known as the Monastery of the Rock,” said Rathman. “Had you attended upon General Alandris earlier, you would have known that this is the objective set by his Blessedness, the place we have come to defend.”

“A secluded monastery out in the middle of a secluded wood? Why does it need defended? Defended from what?”

“I am told the compound has another name,” said Rathman softly. “In elder times, the monastery was known as the Sanctuary.”

Joshua’s eyes widened, and he looked at the priest as if he were speaking of some magical portal to a mythical land. The Sanctuary was a legendary fortress where ancient and forbidden secrets were hidden away for the safety of all mankind, the walls defended by warrior monks and the interior by the power of Mirna Himself. Some tales claimed it was atop one of the highest mountains in the world, others that it was on a deserted island amid an eternal storm, but most said it did not really exist at all. Now, however, Innocent was openly proclaiming the monastery not only was real, but it lay here within the Southlands, its location protected only by a wood and a false name.

“The Sanctuary!” he breathed in awe. “Are the tales of it true?”

“I cannot say,” said Rathman. “This is the first time I, too, knew it was anything more than a legend.”

“But why?” cried Joshua, coming to a halt. “Innocent has abandoned all the cities of the Southlands, all the churches, all the great Cathedrals, even the Citadel of Purity itself, to come to the defense of an isolated monastery?”

Rathman stopped and looked at Joshua with the eyes of an older brother considering a naïve younger sibling. Finally, he said, “The location of the Citadel of Purity was determined by the Dukes of the Southlands who came close to going to war over who should have the prestige of the home of the Church on their soil. The Sanctuary, however, has stood at the same location since the time of our earliest history. Legend says that Mirna himself established the monastery and placed the monks to guard a secret too terrible for mortal men to face. Now, it would seem, that tale is legend no longer.”

Joshua’s eyebrows rose as the significance of what Rathman had just said sank in. An ancient secret buried beneath an obscure monastery that was more important than the Church itself. Could such a thing be possible?

He turned to look at the Canopy of Oblivion steadily dogging their steps, the best scout for the location and direction of the enemy. The green clouds were continuing to move eastward, towards the open countryside. Towards the Monastery of the Rock.

“So the Patriarch believes Argus is intending to invade the Sanctuary?” he asked. “To deliberately violate the ancient prohibition handed down by Mirna Himself?”

“Not Argus,” Rathman replied. “Innocent believes this is the ultimate objective of the Ohric.”

“The Ohric!” he breathed, his eyes opening in shock. “The Ohric seeks what lies hidden beneath the Sanctuary!”

“That is our great fear,” said Rathman, and there was a shadow on him that Joshua had never seen before. “Consider the implications if Innocent is correct. It means the demon scepter seduced Regnar and set the Juggernaut in motion so many months ago not just to break Jalan’s Drift. The Ohric may well have known the threat to the Drift would propel Argus to the leadership of the Council of Lords, and it switched its allegiance to Argus in order to splinter the forces of the Southlands. For it is only with the principalities engaged in a civil war that would enable the scepter to thus put itself at the head of an army that can break the Sanctuary and give it access to its closely guarded secrets.”

Joshua could only gape as the staggering implications of the plot dawned upon him, a design that spanned thousands of leagues, dozens of states, and tens of thousands of individuals from the least soldier to the mightiest duke, a panorama of maneuver and deception that surpassed the capacity of any human mind.

“This is the hand of Bal at work,” Joshua said, his voice soft with awe and dread. “It is he who sent forth his scepter and put these events in motion. It is his ends that they will serve.”

Rathman nodded. “I believe his Blessedness has drawn the same conclusions. That is why he could not spend his forces in defense of other objectives. He has husbanded them to face this final challenge.”

Joshua felt a stirring within his chest, his heart rallying to the old man who had steadily prepared for this confrontation despite all the complaints and objections of his closest advisers, and he felt a small blush of shame at the words he himself had spoken against Innocent.

“Now is the time to make amends for many sins,” he said quietly. He looked at Rathman. “This, then, is the end of the journey upon which our feet were placed. Here, we will find what fate has been reserved for you and I.”

Father Rathman said nothing, but his head nodded in almost imperceptible agreement.

* * *

When Mraxdavar at last returned to his home in Caraluthax with a brood of exhausted dragons in his wake, he had hopes of a few days of food and rest to regain his strength before facing the coming trials. But those hopes were dashed as he found a blue-gray female dragon waiting near the entrance for him. Helexia was his personal steward, the clearinghouse through which all reports must pass before they reached him, and to find her literally waiting on the doorstep did not bode well.

Helexia bowed low, awaiting acknowledgement, and when he granted it, she said, “Great One, you commanded that all activity around the Gianthold be monitored, and the first reports are now in. While the numbers of giants seems heavy, it is not beyond our expectations.”

There was a pause, and Mraxdavar knew there was more to be told. “What else?”

“The monitors have watched closely and report that nearly all the giants entering bear burdens of supplies upon their backs, while those departing carry very little. They have counted six hundred giants entering and leaving again every day.”

A giant could carry enough supplies on his back to feed 10 of his kind. That implied thousands of giants were massed within the Gianthold, massed and trying to hide their numbers.

“There is more, Master,” Helexia continued, her voice a warning. “The flight of guards is newly returned from the Castle of the Winds, and they report a flight of giant pheasants appear to have been caught in the mountain updrafts and were slain by the praetor hawks.”

Mraxdavar nearly roared in annoyance. The pheasants were an obvious diversion to pull the watchful eyes away from the Castle, and the fact the guards had mentioned it as no more than an afterthought upon their return showed none of them had recognized the ploy.

“What other activity has there been around the Castle?” he demanded.

Helexia coiled her body once, a clear sign of agitation, and after a moment said, “The updrafts appear to have brought up a single bird as well, a crow or raven by the reports. They lost sight of it as it neared the Castle.”

Mraxdavar thrashed his tail savagely, making the stone of the volcano rumble, and Helexia immediately bowed and backed away before his rage. First a diversion, and then a message brought within the Castle by someone who understood the power of the fortress.

“Have Bramaclese bring forth a flight from his brood to add to Albathor’s force,” he said. “We go to the Castle of the Winds!”

CHAPTER 15

The Pride of Dragons

Jhan was standing in a hidden chamber somewhere deep within Llan Praetor, silently repeating the simple prayer to Mirna his mother had taught him as child. The prayer had to be silent, for the Presence was droning on in an incantation that might easily result in both their deaths.

The chamber had the size and intricate designs common to other rooms, but it was unique in that there were stone braziers in all four corners, each ablaze with a different colored fire. In the middle was a high table inscribed with strange runes, and Jhan understood this had been some kind of a magical forge for the original inhabitants of the castle, a cross between a workbench and an altar. Malcolm had chosen this place for the forging of magical devices, learning to use the tools that others had left behind, but Jhan was painful conscious they were completely isolated, far beyond any chance of help. If anything should go wrong here, this would be their tomb.

He tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry, and there were small beads of perspiration on his forehead; odd that the body should sweat when Malcolm seemed completely untouched by fear. Jhan was watching his own hands working the enchantment of two small but perfectly formed gem stones, feeling their smooth textures even though he had no control over his fingers. The clear stone had already been filled with power using an invocation that Jhan had been able to recognize as defensive in nature, the magic intended to absorb energy, not release it. But the spell currently being invoked into the red stone was much more dangerous, the power directed outwards, and should it slip past its magical constraints, the resulting explosion would be catastrophic.

The Presence was making no effort to disguise its thoughts, a sign of its distraction, and Jhan was able to understand most of what was going on. The first part of the evocation had simply been to open the stone, completing a preparation begun long before that had prepared the gems for enchantment. This second part was the killing magic. The graceful weavings of his own hands was conjuring a small but intent light, a glittering energy that could kill everything within a small space, and when the glittering abruptly stopped, he knew it had been frozen a mere instant before detonation. Now it was being slowly, agonizingly condensed down and enclosed within the red stone, concentrated death that would explode in devastating force if the least mistake were made. It was terrifying to see his own fingers containing that energy, and his heart pounded as the power quivered on the verge of detonation, death hovering right before his eyes. Then there was a final flash, and the spark vanished, pulled into the waiting stone.

“The demon take me,” breathed Jhan, seeing no conflict between the oath and his previous prayer. “That was a more dangerous encounter than facing any monster I know!”

“Then you know little of monsters,” replied the Voice. It picked up the stone with a casual ease that belied the power now residing within and slid it into the right pocket of Jhan’s vest, the clear gem already resting in the left. “And nothing at all of Argus.”

Jhan glimpsed the purpose behind the initiative, but no more than a glimpse. Despite the long hours, the discipline of the Voice was as strong as ever.

“You did not need the gems to launch these spells,” he said shrewdly. “You chose them to save you from casting.”

“I chose them to save time,” the Voice said. “When the confrontation with Argus comes, moments will be the difference between life and death.”

“That is true enough, but it is not your only purpose,” replied Jhan. “It is not even your main purpose. You took these risks to disguise where the spells originate.”

“Argus will likely learn our identity at this confrontation,” the Voice said. “These tricks I am preparing may delay that discovery, but they cannot avoid it. The return of the Paladin will not end our peril.”

Jhan’s eyebrows rose in surprise for a moment and then narrowed into a frown as a sobering thought struck home. “Argus will never relent. Once he has a face for a target, he will pursue it until the end. My face.”

“True,” answered the Voice.

“So even though the full moon draws nigh again, the utterance of the spell to break our link will not spare me,” he said slowly, and he began to realize the Voice had been aware of this possibility even when it made the original bargain.

“True again. Argus will never forget being challenged by a mere boy, and only your death will wipe that slate clean.”

“Or his death,” replied Jhan.

The Voice paused for a heartbeat before answering, “You have a lion’s heart, to be sure, Young One. But bravery without wisdom is rashness and leads only to death.”

“And genius without bravery is stagnation and leads just assuredly to the same end,” countered Jhan with a touch of anger, heedless of what reward his insolence would earn him. But instead of an angry response, the Presence seemed to pause as if in reflection, the long hours having deadened its temper.

“Bravery itself is not the real issue,” continued Jhan slowly. “You showed your courage…before…”

That raised an entirely different range of images, a memory of a wizard surrounded by a golden light struggling against the green power of a demon scepter wielded by Argus atop a building in the Drift. Then an odd thing happened. His perspective of that fight seemed to shift, moving him into the line of green fire, making him the intended victim of Argus’ wrath. Now it was he who felt that onslaught of power, who knew the terror of feeling his energy slowly waning, who felt his own death closing in upon him.

“But there is more,” he said.

The Voice said nothing, and Jhan felt it drawing away as if fearing the words that were coming. But again, it exerted no power to prevent him.

“You now fear to face the Ohric,” he said, a simple statement of fact. “Yet it is the Ohric that is our means of recovering Lord Darius.”

“An enemy that has defeated you once is entitled to due respect,” answered the Voice evenly.

Jhan, however, just shook his head. “Most warriors who lose in combat never get the chance to profit from their mistakes. You survived. You have learned the nature of your enemy. His strengths. And perhaps, his weaknesses?”

The Presence was no longer withdrawing. Now, it seemed to be hesitating, caught by indecision, held by an unexpected thought.

“You haven’t even been thinking about the Ohric,” accused Jhan. “You haven’t allowed yourself to think of it. Is that why you refuse to rest? You are too afraid…”

He stopped as if he had heard something, though nothing had registered on his ears.

“The woman,” said the Voice. “The spell has returned her.”

Jhan frowned, not wanting this moment to pass. Yet he, too, was aware that they had crossed a line, a boundary the Presence had established…and had now yielded.

“I do not trust her,” the Voice said, becoming practical. “She will be up to mischief if she is not watched.”

To that, Jhan could offer no argument. But rather than casting, the Presence paused and invoked a simple charm, calling power onto his fingers and then raising them to his eyes. The feeling was alarming, almost as if ants were walking over his eyeballs, but the sensation vanished quickly, leaving his vision flawlessly clear. Jhan was astonished by how refreshed he felt, as if he had just had the best sleep of his life, but the Presence had no time for such distractions. This, he realized, was what passed for rest when a wizard was involved in an extended and exhausting creation. More, he now appreciated how vital it was to prevent human frailty from delaying or interrupting such critical and delicate craft.

“Clear your mind,” commanded the Voice, their usual warning preceding a spell cast.

This time, however, he paid attention to the method of travel, and he still nearly missed it. The Presence simply pictured the throne room, then embraced the walls of the chamber, and the next moment, Jhan was standing close to the mirror with Adella whirling to face him. He just blended himself with Llan Praetor! Jhan thought with a gasp. He put himself into the very fabric of the castle, and it took him where he wanted to go!

For an instant, he even glimpsed the extent of the knowledge of the Castle he now carried within himself. The Presence, however, was bearing down on him, exerting the familiar pressure to drive the thought out of his mind, but Jhan was conscious of two other clear impressions. The first was that the Presence had been growing closer and closer to Llan Praetor over the years, establishing a link of which even it was not fully aware, and the second was an image of some kind of wave sculpture deep within a forbidden room of the castle, a sculpture into which the Presence had projected itself to escape from imprisonment. That single act had sealed the connection between…the two…beings…

“What’s wrong?”

Jhan blinked and found himself on one knee, looking upwards into Adella’s concerned face. The room felt as if it were in motion.

“I..ah…I’m just tired,” he answered lamely, and he didn’t need the warning jolt from the Voice to say nothing else.

“Where is Shannon?” she asked with a frown.

Shannon? He blinked, looking around even as his mind tried to remember.

“She gained a vision from the mirror wall, and she went forth with warnings to the armies of Norealm and Maganhall.”

“A vision?” the woman bristled. “And you sent her into a battle? Alone!?”

Jhan’s eyebrows rose at his own blatant stupidity. He had thought only of the message she bore, but with the Avenger in her hands, she would never be content with that alone. How could I have been such an incredible idiot? he demanded of himself. The next moment, he had his answer.

“She has a destiny beyond ours,” the Voice answered impassively. “And the work here was not yet completed.”

The decision had not been his at all. But far more alarming was his complete failure to even grasp the significance of the decision, his utter blindness to the consequences. Her destiny. And he had blindly let the Presence send her forth to face it alone. Am I so far gone I have lost all feelings for Shannon?

The woman was looking hesitantly towards the side room where the work had been conducted, and she interrupted his self-condemnation by asking, “The concoction? He…it…is finished?”

“Yes,” he found himself answering, getting unsteadily to his feet. The image in the mirror did nothing to help, and he spun away from it.

“How will you move it?”

“It will be summoned,” the Voice explained. “I have linked it to a small, fragile crystal. When the crystal is broken by any means, the concoction will appear.”

Adella nodded in appreciation, and Jhan’s eyes actually widened as he understood. Even if he were killed, the destructive energy would likely break the crystal and summon the concoction, setting the plan in motion whatever his fate.

“What of your endeavor?” asked the Voice. “How fared you with Argus’ Chancellor?”

“Better than I expected, but not as well as I had hoped,” she said and produced a small box from within her cloak. “Ursulan has given us a chance to find Argus, but no more than a chance. These are personal carrier crows that can find Argus wherever he may be to relay a message. But we must be sharp if the bird is not to elude us.”

Jhan felt a stillness within him as the Presence absorbed this information and tied it with a string of ideas. Then, abruptly, he threw back his head and burst into laughter.

“I miss the joke,” said Adella with a frown. “Argus will be closely guarded wherever he is, and those guards may have sharper eyes than ours. Sharp enough, I suspect, to even see ethereal travelers. I have no desire to be announced before entering the ducal presence.”

“No fear of that,” the Voice said, and Jhan’s expression became bland as he gained control of his face again. “Ursulan has given us…”

He stopped abruptly, his eyes going up to the ceiling.

“What is it?” demanded Adella.

“Visitors,” he answered, and now it was both Jhan and the Presence that smiled. “A visit from old friends.” He turned and began mounting the stairs to the huge throne above, scaling these same stairs that a short time before had denied him more than the first three steps. His voice was strangely confident as he added, “We must be prepared to offer welcome.”

*

Mraxdavar had considered all his options for approaching the Castle of the Winds. The Dragon Lord was no stranger to disguise, and there were tales in almost every culture of the lonely traveler or the isolated hermit revealing himself as an irresistible power either to repay a kindness or visit revenge on an affront. Here, he could have disguised his entourage as a flock of praetor hawks or a small swarm of bees or even snowflakes drifting down on the peak. But he knew in his heart the power that had taken up residence in the Castle of the Winds would see through all such ploys and would rightly perceive them as weakness. No. Disguises and deceptions would not do. The time for them was past. The time for power was at hand.

It was therefore a pride of twenty dragons that Mraxdavar led down onto the peak of the Castle of the Winds, a mighty armada that cast a shadow of fear over everything beneath them, and all creatures fled before their approach. Bramaclese was to his right and Albathor to his left, but their fell visage was nothing before the size and majesty of their titanic father. Mraxdavar struck the ground with no attempt at caution, and the mountain itself trembled beneath his impact, the tremor repeated as a series of aftershocks as the rest of pride made their landings.

Mraxdavar had still not decided whether to actually enter the Castle or not. He had known for years the method required to enter, and his visits with Malcolm had clarified the risks and the counter-measures that were required to deal with the inherent resistance within the structure. But the Castle of the Winds had grown since that time, and the Eldest Dragon was no longer sure that his defenses would shield them once their claws had touched stone. The consequences of failure were…disturbing.

Fortunately, he was spared from making that decision. As he approached the entrance, a figure appeared directly before him, the figure of a human male not yet come to his full growth. The boy was unremarkable in appearance, dress, or bearing, and he actually seemed somewhat disheveled as if he had been disturbed from sleep or some manual task. The only thing of note was the way he calmly faced this dread force of dragons.

“Greetings, Lord of Dragons!” the boy said. “You make bold to return to Llan Praetor unbidden. May I inquire as to your purpose?”

While the boy looked solid enough, Mraxdavar’s eyes recognized the charm and knew it was no more than a magical sending, an image without real substance. An individual who could project such an image was a force worthy of respect, regardless of appearance.

“We are come to meet the being who has taken control of the Castle of the Winds and to determine if it be friend or foe to my kind,” the Dragon Lord rumbled. “Be you he?”

“Control of Llan Praetor lies beyond my poor abilities,” the boy answered. “But I can assure you that what power I have will not be directed against dragons. Indeed, we may even find the opportunity to make common cause.”

“Common cause? Against what foe?”

“Why, against the plans of Argus and his demon scepter to once more rouse the power of the giants,” the boy said calmly.

There was a rumbling behind him as some of the younger dragons growled their rage at these words, but Albathor and Bramaclese quickly put an end to that, sparing their Father from any distraction.

“Against Argus, we have no complaint as yet,” said Mraxdavar carefully. “The Ohric banned the Juggernaut to the Nether Regions. Why, then, should we make your enemies ours?”

“Because even as we speak, the giants are in motion.”

Mraxdavar made no response to this startling pronouncement, his silence a demand for evidence, and a moment later, the evidence was forthcoming. Images appeared before the dragons, images of armored giants issuing from isolated caves and crevices in the mountains, hundreds, perhaps thousands of the creatures sallying forth in secret and heading…southward. Always southward.

“Our eyes have been on the entrances to the Gianthold,” hissed Albathor softly. “Instead they move through hidden tunnels to slip past our spies.”

“They are marching southward,” the boy observed as the images vanished. “Marching in the direction of Argus and his army.”

Mraxdavar said nothing, but in his mind, he saw the lay of the land. Clearly the boy was sharp and well-informed, but he was missing the most critical part of the puzzle, the deadly teeth of the trap. Uneasily, he tied this detail to the knowledge he had gained at the Chamber of Balance, and he did not like the result.

“Why does he summon them?” the boy asked looking directly at Mraxdavar.

The dragon almost smiled. The boy had sensed from his silence that there was something unsaid, and he was not afraid to reveal his ignorance. An unusual boy, to be sure.

“They do not gather at Argus’ direction, though they may well be unwittingly doing his bidding,” the dragon answered. “They come answering an ancient summons that even their elders do not understand. Argus has merely given form and meaning to that summons.”

The boy’s eyes rose, and for a passing moment, dragon and human stared deep into each other’s eyes, reading the secrets stored there, and Mraxdavar it was who flinched first, surprised by the steadiness of his opponent. This boy has stood a dragon’s trial before, he realized.

“To the Spindle are they bound,” the boy whispered. “He aims them. Just as Regnar aimed the Juggernaut at the Drift from five hundred leagues away.”

“The very same,” responded the Eldest Dragon. “Argus holds your armies against an anvil and brings down the hammer of giants to destroy them. But Argus exerts no power against the wishes of the Ohric.”

The boy was silent, and Mraxdavar puzzled again. A steadiness of character, a moral courage, and now reflection. An answer began to weave itself into existence within his mind, an image of another human, but he knew he was not looking at any form of disguise. The boy interrupted his musing by asking, “Argus aims them at the Spindle. Where does the Ohric aim them?”

Mraxdavar nodded once at the boy’s perceptiveness.

“They march towards the scene of their ancient defeat,” he answered. “They march towards the Battlefield of Baramalon.”

The boy’s eyes widened at this unexpected revelation, and he could only ask, “Why?”

“They travel the same course, because the reasons remain the same,” replied the Dragon. “Before the ancient battle, they were marching on the Sanctuary with their Avatar at their head. They march now in answer to that same call.”

“The Sanctuary is hidden within the Spindle!” whispered the youth, his face alive with the ramifications of that fact. Then he frowned, the theory stumbling against the known facts. “By all accounts, the Sanctuary is a test of the Avatars of the races. What good is an army in a test of individuals?”

“An army is needed to clear a path for the individual,” Mraxdavar said quietly, watching for the boy’s reaction. “Neither the Spindle nor the Sanctuary have changed since the last time the giants marched.”

He was not disappointed. The young face came alive again, the eyes almost gleaming, and the Dragon could almost see the sequence he was following. Softly, the boy said, “They march to break the defenses of the Sanctuary. March, even though they have no Avatar to lead them. At least, not yet.”

Then the boy’s expression hardened, and he said, “So it seems a time long foretold approaches again. Is that not proof that the Juggernaut will once more return to lead the giants?”

Mraxdavar said nothing, even though the possibility that the Juggernaut was intended to be a re-birth of the Avatar of the giants made the boy’s point all the more valid.

“If the Ohric banished the Juggernaut to give itself power to direct the gathering giants against humans, it is a matter of little consequence to us,” the Dragon replied with a cold voice. “Both species have ever been the bane of my people, and I shall make no effort to stop their war.”

“But what if the Ohric plans to recall the Juggernaut?” the boy asked. “What if this is but the first step in gaining complete control of the Children of Surtur?”

Again Mraxdavar paused. There was little to be gained sharing secrets with a human youth in the thin airs before the Castle of the Winds, but aside from any information he might glean, Mraxdavar felt the need to speak, to explore these questions with another intelligent being, to show a weakness in knowledge he dare not reveal to his own people, not even his eldest sons.

“There is no gain for the Ohric in igniting that ancient war,” said Mraxdavar softly, though his voice was tinged with doubt. “Bal’s focus has ever been upon humans. Why re-enact an ancient battle in which he had no part?”

“Not all the pieces of this puzzle have yet been put forth,” the boy conceded. “But if the giants are gathered, can it be long before they come against the dragons as they did of old, whatever force that calls them?”

The Eldest Dragon said nothing, even though the words echoed his own thoughts, even though the certainty of battle was steadily growing in his heart.

“Until all these puzzle pieces are known, we will make no war against the scepter of Bal,” Mraxdavar replied with slow gravity. “We shall hold our strength and watch this movement of giants with great care. You speak of making common cause. But there is little common ground yet between us.”

The boy paused, and then said quietly, “If battle with the giants is now inevitable, would it not be wise to strike while they are still scattered? Or failing that, fall upon them with surprise as they bring their power to bear on my people?”

Mraxdavar shook his massive head slowly, and there was regret in his voice as he said, “To most, that would seem as wisdom. But it is at the Castle of the Winds where our fate will be decided, and our power must fall heaviest here. What if we should move against these scattered giant tribes only to find they are a diversion to pull us from our vigil?”

With twenty of his kin listening, he did not dare voice another nagging thought: if the Battle of Baramalon should indeed be re-fought, he was doubtful it would have the same result, for his people were now far fewer. The one chance of the dragons was to stop the battle from taking place. The boy, however, seemed to hear the unspoken words, and he nodded in understanding. And possibly, in agreement.

“Then our ways lie down different paths,” the boy said, and his voice, too, showed regret. “Llan Praetor stirs just as do the giants, and I have no more control over one than the other. I wish you well, Mraxdavar, Lord of Dragons. You and all your noble kind. May Oberon have pride in the actions of his children.”

Mraxdavar nodded his head at the courtesy, but it was only within his own mind that he said, and may you find the peace you seek,…Malcolm…

*

As the dragons flew off, Adella swung back to the titanic figure seated on the Castle’s throne. She had watched everything on the mirror wall, even the images of the giants marching to war, and she had marveled at the revelations. Clearly, it was not just the Castle and the mirror wall that had grown in power.

Jhan was making no effort to rise from the throne, but simply continued to sit staring into the mirror, his eyes focused, his brow furrowed by what he was seeing. She followed his gaze, but the mirror now appeared blank, reflecting only her own annoyed countenance. Finally, she called out, “We have no time for this! We need to go to Shannon, and we need to go now!”

The head of the titan turned slowly, and the voice rolled like heavy thunder through the chamber. “A moment of reflection can save a lifetime of regret.”

“And platitudes aren’t worth a pig’s tail!” she shot back. “You can help no one sitting on your rump and moping!”

A moment longer he sat there, his eyes on her, and then he rose to his feet and descended the stairs, shrinking back to Jhan-size.

He glared at her when he reached the bottom and said, “Woman, a race of noble beings may just have decreed its own end. Can you not spend a moment in mourning, to acknowledge that loss?”

“The dragons aren’t dead yet,” she replied. “If we can kill Argus, we may just save your scaly friends.”

He shook his head, his eyes narrowing at her. “The power within you helps to sustain life, but the corruption that mars your soul destroys its value. What good is it to survive if only to eat another meal?”

“Survival may be an animal goal,” she said. “But it’s hard to be noble without it. Now if you’re quite done wringing your hands, get us into the ethereal wind. We have to reach Shannon!”

* * *

Shannon was nearing collapse. Her legs were actually trembling slightly, her arms too heavy to raise, and she had to concentrate to keep her eyes from blurring. How many fights had she been in this day, how many charges? How many men had she killed? She could not say. One struggle had merged with the next as they had fought their way to join with the Warhaven troops and disengage from the Black Watch and the bloody barbarians of the Silver Horde, an endless day, and she was as tired of the killing as she was of the effort. Even the Avenger had grown silent, content to pause between one day of killing and the next.

True night was coming on at last, the meager sunlight that could penetrate the Canopy of Oblivion giving way to natural darkness, and a long, long day of combat was coming to a gory end. She was standing in a thicket of heavy trees and heavier brush, the kind of overgrowth than normally required a hatchet or ax to move through, but up and down the forest line, thousands of men were digging in, using the cover as an ally against the far larger numbers of enemies gathered on the open plain before them.

The Spindle. The promise of sanctuary, now achieved. And it appeared the promise was holding true.

“A hard day.”

She turned to find Fallon standing beside her, looking at her with concern in his eyes. She nodded, her eyes going back towards the plains where the first campfires of the enemy were beginning to wink into life.

“I am surprised they pause,” she said. “The dead do not tire, and they fight better at night than in the day.”

“Our scouts report Argus has moved great force against the southern part of this wood, and it seems he takes the dead with him,” said Fallon. “This cursed greenish cloud is moving off at last. There are actually stars to be seen in the northern sky.”

Startled, Shannon moved to get a clearer view of the northern horizon. Sure enough, there was a twinkle of starlight in the firmament. A twinkle of hope.

“Why would he move his force against an undefended wood?” she asked. “Does he perhaps seek to take us by the flank?”

“We have local men in our ranks who know these woods well,” Fallon answered though there was unease in his voice. “The forest is too thick for maneuvers with large bodies of troops. If Argus were to drive northward through the wood, his troops would be isolated and divided by the time they reached our sentries. Whatever Argus’ purpose, it has nothing to do with us.”

“Should we not seek to thwart the enemy’s purpose, whatever it might be?”

“Not when twenty thousands of the enemy still face us,” he replied. “Probably twice the number of all our men who made it back into the thickets.”

Shannon said nothing, but her heart was torn between the defense of the army and the wider struggle against the designs of Argus. What was the good of defending the wood if Argus’ objective lay elsewhere? Finally, she asked, “So they will strike with the dawn?”

“That seems certain,” said Fallon, glancing at the campfires out on the plains. Then he turned back to her and added, “But there will be many more men to meet the enemy because of your heroism this day. The men rallied to your sword and to the idea of the Maid, but still more to the courage that flowed freely from your heart.”

She let out a small sigh, his words giving some meaning to her struggles, and she felt a little of her weariness falling away. “But can we hold against so many?”

“The enemy will be able to bring greater pressure to bear on a single point. He has freedom of movement on the plains, while we must struggle through the heavy growth to bring reinforcements to the point of attack.”

“What can be done?”

“Duke Mandrik is in his element here,” smiled Fallon. “If the enemy learned to respect the men of Warhaven on the open plain, they will soon learn to fear them in the thickets of the Spindle.”

“But how long can they hold?” murmured Shannon, not expecting an answer.

“As long as we have weapons and the strength to use them,” said Fallon. Then he looked down, seeing her exhaustion, and said, “We must take what rest we can. The tests of the morning will not be easier than the ones we faced today.”

To that, she nodded in full agreement.

*

“My Liege, there is no way through a wood such as this!” said General Kaltron, commander of the Black Watch. “It blocks the way for a single man, let alone an army!”

Argus actually smiled, more at what the man was not saying than what he did. Kaltron was furious that much of his force had been diverted to the south when the battle was raging in the north, and he was even more enraged that the best of his army was being thrown against an impassible wood, rather than the enemy. It seemed like the actions of a madman, and yet he held his tongue, not daring to question the actions of his master. That was what brought the smile to Argus’ lips.

“Stalbus is not yet ready to attempt the return of the Juggernaut,” cautioned the Ohric. “We cannot move against the Sanctuary until he is prepared.”

Except it may take a week to carry the baggage train of the army through that barrier, Argus answered as he stared at the thick wood before them.

“We shall enter the forest immediately, General,” he said. “Set axmen forth to cut a swath through the undergrowth and clear the trees.”

“Through…THAT…My Liege?” the man asked, eyeing the seemingly impassable wood.

Argus grinned. “I have touched the heads of these axes with my scepter, and they shall cleave through any wood, mystical or real. Send the light infantry forward as scouts with the Northings close behind the axmen. Then the dead, followed by the bulk of the Black Watch. Push the troops forward, use extra oxen on the siege equipment, and let the supply wagons struggle through on their own. I shall return as swiftly as I may.”

“You…are leaving us, My Liege?” the General said, the break in his voice betraying his surprise.

“I have other matters that require my attention,” replied Argus shortly. “You already have your orders when you emerge from the wood.”

The General saluted in answer, but Argus could see the man was not comfortable with the tasks awaiting him. There was no time to review the issues, however. Time was slipping through his fingers.

*

Shannon awoke to find light streaming through the trees, the first real daylight to fall on this army in many long days. But it was not the light that had awakened her.

“Time to rise,” Jhan was saying, smiling down at her. She blinked and saw Adella standing beside him.

“What?” she said in confusion. She could remember almost nothing, not even where she was. Old blankets over leaves to form her bed. The heavy growth. The Spindle.

She jumped to her feet.

“We’re only just arrived from Llan Praetor,” said Adella. “But there seems no cause for alarm.”

“The enemy,” she said, trying to peer through the brush to the open plain. “They…they were going to attack. With the dawn.”

She was struggling forward, pushing through the brush, staggering as her legs shot soreness at her as a reminder of yesterday’s exertions.

“The sun is fully clear of the horizon,” said Jhan. “There is no sign of battle.”

She came upon a group of men standing at the edge of the plain, looking out over the clear land. They turned as the three of them approached.

“Good morn to you, Shannon,” said Fallon with a warm smile. “You seem to have at least slept deeply if not well.”

For a moment, Shannon hesitated, not certain what was real…and what had been a dream. There was an exchange of glances between the young man and the two newcomers, and Shannon hastened to introduce them. Fallon and Jhan looked each other over hard when they shook hands, the handsome lord and the solid woodsman, and Shannon almost groaned at the unspoken challenge. Fortunately, the open plains were there to take her attention.

“What is happening, My Lord?” she asked. “I thought you said they would begin attacking as soon as there was light.”

“We were wondering as well,” replied Fallon, following her gaze. “Our scouts report the approach of an army out of Hathage which has taken position on the other side of the Spindle, effectively blocking any escape to the East. With us safely bottled up here, it appears they have decided to take a holiday from war.”

“They took heavy loss in yesterday’s battle,” said Henlik. “With Argus gone, they may take a day to bury the dead and give the wounded time to heal.”

“May they take a second day as well,” said Fallon.

“They will take three days.”

Everyone turned in surprise to Jhan.

“Why three days, good sir?” asked Fallon.

“That is the time it will take for the first tribe of giants to reach the Spindle.”

“Giants!”

“A tribe of Giants? Advancing against the Spindle?”

“Seven tribes to be exact,” replied Jhan. “Each with 500 to a thousand warriors.”

“How do you know this?”

“Argus cares little for the lives of his Black Watch and nothing for the lives of the Northings,” said Jhan. “He would allow this pause only if a surer end were marching down upon you. I have seen the giants gathering and marching southward, marching towards this very spot. You have three days, and then they will be upon you.”

There was an anxious murmur of voices as the warriors talked this over, sensing the severity of the closing trap.

“The giants will take no notice of this thick brush. They’ll snap it like twigs.”

“From the north. We can push no defense line northward without weakening a front facing the enemy.”

“That is why they wait. They expect us to flee the Spindle. Or die amongst its trees.”

Shannon took the moment to pull Jhan off to the side.

“Are you sure of this?” she asked quietly.

“As sure as trees grow and bloom,” he said. “But we have a chance. The Chancellor has given us a way to reach Argus.”

Shannon’s eyes widened. The chance to confront Argus! The chance to affect the return of her Father! Then she paused and turned back to the murmuring warriors, feeling a painful tug.

“What will you do, My Lord?” she asked Fallon.

The man shrugged. “There is little enough we can do. The enemy to our front is far too strong to challenge on the open plain, and the hordes of Hathage have sealed off our retreat eastwards.”

“We have fought giants before,” said Henlik. “But never have we faced entire tribes. If they come against us in strength, we will have no answer.”

“Three days,” muttered Fallon. “In three days, we can have pits dug and covered, spring traps set for large legs, and sharpened stakes for giant feet. We will kill our share of enemies, be assured. But nothing will steal victory for us.”

The silence of certainty settled upon them, the only response to a pronouncement of doom.

“Then we must find another way,” said Shannon resolutely. “We have three days to affect a miracle. We can afford to waste none of it.”

CHAPTER 16

Release

“There,” said Hoarace.

Cautiously, Darius looked up from the cracked ground that had dominated his vision for league after endless league. There were still the flat plains, the sense of emptiness, the drained colors that made land and sky seem as one. But now there was something else in sight, something bizarrely out of place in this desolate landscape.

A house.

It was nothing but a shanty built of rocks and scrap that looked as if a single touch would cause it to fall, and the roof was no more than some kind of tarp, the ends held in place with more rocks. Beyond it, he could just see a second house, and then another, scattered as if deliberately trying to avoid each other, and beyond them, he could make a thin curl of smoke, several, rising from some unseen source. The ground itself appeared to change ahead, the parched brown of the plain giving way to a darker shade that seemed less arid, and even the sky appeared different. The vague brown was changing to a type of grey. Perhaps even a shade of blue.

“We are come…” said Hoarace, but his voice trailed off, unable to complete the sentence.

With real concern, Darius gently lifted the Priest off his back and laid him down on the ground, the weight of his body now almost nothing. The Priest smiled up at him with the usual gratitude, but the face was worn and weary, the eyes shrunken, the hair tinged with an unnatural white.

“Hoarace, you must stop this,” Darius said softly, forcing down the fear that rose in his heart at the sight of the Priest.

“Stop what, my friend?”

“Stop exerting your power in order to sustain us,” he replied. “It was you who drew us back from the slaughter, and your power that kept us safe during our passage through the battlefields. Now it is your power that has kept off the spirits of the Lost as we crossed these dreadful plains. It has taken a terrible toll upon you, and it must stop.”

“You over-estimate me, Darius,” he said with a small cough. “It is true I exerted my skills to call to you when you were lost and helped to guide you back to me. But it was you yourself who broke the power of the battlefields. Broke its power over you and over Illoghen. And it was the purity within you that sustained us all through this long trek.”

“I know my limits right enough,” he said as he took the Priest’s limp hand. It was cold as ice. “I may be the legs for our strange union, but you are the heart.”

Hoarace shook his head in answer and said, “Darius, I would have perished long ago, alone among the Winterwood, had it not been for you. You say you draw your sustenance from me, but I assure you the reverse is true as well: I have drawn what little strength I have from you. Do you not see? We are not wood and flame where one is consumed by the other. Rather, we are both flames, and united our heat is stronger and more enduring than we could ever hope to maintain alone. But I fear that eventually even a united flame must finally fail.”

Darius eyes widened in alarm at the words, and he grasped the hand tighter. But he had looked upon too much death not to recognize it when he held it in his arms. The Priest reached up with his free hand to touch Darius lightly on the shoulder, seeking to offer comfort even when he himself was passing.

“My time is now at hand, and neither magic nor miracles can stay that doom,” he said quietly. “You must listen closely and heed me well, for while my journey ends, yours must not. You have now passed the Plains of Desolation, and that is an astonishing achievement. No song nor legend tells of a passage of the Plains by any means other than magic, and I believe you alone have managed it. But your journey must not end here.”

He coughed again, weakly, then continued to speak. “You see before you the outskirts of the City of Vacillion, and once again, you must hold firm to your purpose if you are to pass through safely. The population will implore you for aid in all real and imagined trials, but you must not be drawn in. Even if you should solve one of their despairs, another will arise after it and another yet, for there is no lasting solution to the real pain that afflicts them. You must harden your heart if you are to find your way through.”

“And beyond the city?” asked Darius, for Hoarace had only spoken in vague terms of the entrances to the Nether Regions.

“There you must fare for yourself,” said the Priest reluctantly. “There are gateways, but they each have their own terrible guardians to prevent the passage of the living. I would advise you to avoid them. Seek instead the streams that flow from the ethereal plane, and the smaller the better. You will have to fight your way against the flow or be swept back down towards the Pit, but there is nothing else that will stand against you. That is the way your hope must lead.” He glanced over at the looming presence of Illoghen and added, “In my heart, I feel…the strength of our friend may aid you…in that final trial…”

He trailed off, words failing, and Darius held him closer. For a moment, Hoarace seemed to rally.

“You must let me go, my friend,” the Priest said gently. “Indeed, my only regret is that I have not seen you safely out of this horrible trap into which your enemies have cast you. But I no longer doubt that you will persevere. There is power within you, Darius Inglorion, power that will not be denied, not by evil or treachery or all the dark dominions of Hell.”

“You have done more good than even you can understand, Hoarace,” Darius said huskily. “You have shown me the power and the wisdom of a true Priest of Mirna, and you have restored my faith in even the possibility of a priesthood. I had despaired for the Church. Now I know there is still hope. That is your doing.”

“I take joy in your words, Darius,” he said, his voice now going faint and distant. “Grieve not for me, for you have carried me so far out of the Pit that I can feel the gentle hand of Mirna and know that I shall see the Blessed Realms this day.”

Darius seized the dying body and hugged it to him as if to hold the fleeing spirit for a moment longer. “Hoarace…”

“Be at peace with me, Darius,” he whispered with his final breath. “I came into the Nether Regions to save a brother. I know now that I have not failed.”

And with that, the body of Hoarace dissolved into white smoke and rose up above them. Darius looked upwards, watching it, and his heart leapt as he watched it winging swiftly ahead, moving towards the exits of the Nether Regions.

“Priest has found a way out,” Illoghen said roughly. “But he has left us behind.”

Darius turned to stare at him, and he actually laughed even as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

“There is truth in your words, Illoghen,” he said. “But do not begrudge a soul that has found Paradise. Come. We shall journey on together, just you and I.”

* * * * *

The Patriarch left the Ascendency formally regaled with miter and staff and approached the Monastery of the Rock on a splendid white charger, though he kept his entourage down to General Alandris, Archbishop Jandrik of Gemsbrook, Father Maynard his personal steward, and Rathman and Joshua. Joshua had almost been expecting the summons, and he rode now behind the Patriarch with a sense of approaching destiny, as if the purpose not just of this journey, but of his entire life, were now before him.

They had passed through the dark forest with disquieting ease, the trees giving way before the Ascendency as if in tribute to the power it possessed, though no one wished to look behind to see them closing again after their passage, sealing them within. They had emerged into a broad clearing in the shape of a bowl with short grass that seemed to invite them to run after the smothering closeness of the forest, and the center of the bowl rose into a gentle hill. On top of that hill, dominating all the valley, was a walled compound that seemed to contain no more than three or four buildings, a fort whose sheer isolation spoke of military discipline and control. Even at a distance, Joshua knew those walls were immensely thick, far heavier than the simple stockades of some small town, and he had a momentary vision of armies breaking themselves against that daunting structure. As if any army could hack its way through the endless thicket they had just passed.

The gates of the monastery were a solid black iron that looked nearly as thick as the walls, and they were closed tight with no sign of sentries or watchmen, almost as if the structure were completely abandoned. The walls were clean and smooth with no litter or clutter around them, and even the grass was short and uniform as if forbidden from growing above a certain height. But Joshua noticed there were no signs of crops or orchards or grapevines that surrounded most monasteries and supplied the wants of the occupants.

It was not until the Patriarch was within a few dozen paces that the gates slowly sprung open to reveal rigid line upon rigid line of monks within, all dressed in dark green cassocks, all silently facing the new arrivals. There was not a weapon of any kind in sight, no indication of force, yet Joshua found himself struck by an overwhelming sense of power, as if he were approaching a mighty army. In the front of these ranks was a group of four monks who seemed indistinguishable from their brothers, solid in build, steady in stance, only the gray in their bristled hair that betrayed their age. Before them all was a single old monk with his long white hair tied in a queue at his back, standing quietly with his head bowed and hands crossed before him.

It was Innocent who halted and dismounted, a surprising gesture, and Father Maynard was left holding the reins of all the horses as the others advanced with him. Only when he had actually crossed the threshold into the monastery did the lead monk come forward and went to one knee to bow deeply to the Patriarch and await acknowledgement.

“Arise, Master of the Walls,” said Innocent formally, passing his hand over the man’s head. “We hold your post in time-bound honor.”

The monk stood up, and Joshua was somehow not surprised to see it was Thelmar, Thelmar the monk who had saved them at the way station, who had guarded them on their journey to find the Patriarch, who had begged them to come to the place he named as home to help spare his people from a terrible end. Joshua looked around, not sure what to say, but he was struck by a sharp, warning glance from Rathman. Thelmar had been very careful not to speak of what he required of them then, and it would seem it would be wise not to speak of it unbidden now.

“The Brethren of the Walls offer greetings to the Patriarch of the Church,” the old monk replied equally formal. “We crave your love and gentle censure.”

Joshua frowned slightly at the rather odd exchange, but as soon as the last word was uttered, the two old men came forward and embraced like brothers, all formality gone.

“It is good to see you again, old friend,” Innocent smiled, shaking the aged monk’s hand warmly.

The man smiled in turn and replied, “The monastery is honored by the presence of the Patriarch. And I am honored by the presence of an old and wise friend.”

Innocent turned and offered introductions.

“You are acquainted with Arch-Bishop Jandrik,” Innocent said. “This is General Alandris, who leads the Patriarchal Army and Fathers Joshua and Rathman who are come at my invitation. This is Thelmar, Master of the Walls of the Sanctuary.”

Thelmar, however, rather than making any acknowledgement, turned cold eyes upon them and said evenly, “We welcome those who serve the Patriarch, but while on these grounds, you must remain within his shadow. You are come within the domain of the Sanctuary, and here you are under our laws. From those edicts there be no appeal.”

“We understand,” said Innocent, speaking for them. “Now let us meet your brothers.”

Without missing a beat, Thelmar turned to the group of four behind him and said, “Permit me to present the Elemental Masters. This is Shalas, the Master of Air. Felos, the Master of Water. Turbus, the Master of Fire. And Morbian, the Master of Earth.”

The monks each bowed at their names, but it was hard to see differences between them. They were all middle-aged men with close-cropped hair and lean tough faces that showed no trace of emotion. As soon as the last was introduced, they spun on their heels, raised their hands to the rest of the congregation, and with amazing speed and order, the entire courtyard emptied of monks. With that simple gesture, the welcoming ceremony was over.

“Come,” said Thelmar. “We will speak in the central hall.”

From what Joshua could see, there were only four large buildings in the monastery, all of them two floors tall and made of the same stone as the walls. But there were no windows as such, just a long series of crosses cut into stone, and he came to recognize these as arrow or crossbow slits. The courtyard itself was composed of remarkably even flagstones as if worn smooth by the passing of countless feet, and the only other prominent feature were two wells near the back. There were no barrels or crates, no supplies of wood, no tools or instruments, no signs of work or practice or play, none of the endless disorder that accumulated when hundreds of people occupy so narrow a space. Joshua had the odd feeling that no one actually lived here.

Thelmar led them into the nearest building, and the feeling of the interior was exactly the same as outside. There was a table with six wooden chairs, a sideboard with two empty white bowls, and a beautiful sculpture of the Tree of Life as the room’s only adornment. Joshua was struck by the austere simplicity of the room, a stunning contrast to the luxurious quarters of most clerics, and he felt this was just a waiting cell until the occupants passed on. Perhaps to the next life.

Thelmar indicated the chairs with a graceful gesture, and when they had all seated themselves, he said, “It is long since last you were within these walls, Innocent. I am pleased to host my most beloved adversary.”

Joshua eyes widened at this apparent impudence, but Innocence laughed. He glanced around at his entourage and said, “Master Thelmar is renowned for being a very stubborn man. We had a small unpleasantness in our wild youth.”

“Yes,” said Thelmar. “I was put on trial for heresy and murder.”

“And guilty of both charges,” Innocent reminded him.

“Murder?” repeated Joshua, unable to balance the words with the friendly banter between the men.

“Some twenty years ago, a very foolish man by the name of Bertram was designated as Prefect of the Monasteries of Gemsbrook,” explained Innocent. “The Monastery of the Rock has never fallen under the control of any of the prefectures, but Bertram believed this was an error that he was destined to rectify.”

“The man came into the monastery and began to direct our daily tasks,” said Thelmar. “We were pleased to follow his directions when it did not violate our protocol handed down from of old. He was pleased to see this as signs of our arrogance and our heresy. So he chose to demonstrate his authority by taking his men into the banned chambers beneath the Monastery.”

“It was in the days following the harvest,” Innocent continued, “and Thelmar was then the Master of Earth. So the task of defense fell first to him.”

“My brothers helped me to gather myself, and I came upon them,” the monk said. “The first five I was able to render unconscious, but the next three were stronger and more determined. I honored the ancient ways and injured rather than kill. But Lord Bertram had passed beyond the point of Sanctuary, and there my choice was taken from me. I slew as my oath bid me do.”

“Thelmar traveled back to the Citadel of Purity with the body and explained in simple, honest detail exactly what he had done,” said the Patriarch. “We had no choice but to put him on trial, and I was given the task of prosecuting him. It wasn’t a very challenging job, considering he was condemned by his very words. He was convicted and sentenced to death.”

“But the sentence was commuted,” volunteered Joshua. “The Patriarch certainly took the circumstances into consideration.”

Innocent blinked at him. “Why, no. Actually, the Patriarch spoke very harshly of the murder of one’s superior for the minor transgression of wandering about the grounds of the Monastery.”

“Then…then how…?”

“I left and returned to the Monastery as the Master of the Walls at that time directed me,” Thelmar answered.

“He broke out of the most carefully guarded dungeon in the Southlands without anyone so much as seeing him,” said Innocent. “You see before you a man who is still under sentence of death by the Church. If he ever leaves the protections of these walls, I am honor-bound to hang him.” He looked at the monk with no change in expression and added, “I fully intend to execute that judgment.”

Thelmar bowed. “There is no man I would prefer to have hang me, Blessedness.”

Both men laughed, but Joshua only stared, knowing that he had only heard truth from both.

“Your Blessedness, time presses,” said Alandris. “The green clouds grow nearer even now.”

The old man nodded.

“Come, my friend,” he said to Thelmar. “We have enemies bearing down upon us and common cause to make. We must summon all our resources if the Sanctuary is not to be violated again.”

CHAPTER 17

The Paladin and the Thief

Darius could not remember how he entered the dead City of Vacillion.

Rather than entering, it seemed as if the city simply grew up around him, the single structures giving way to isolated groups which in turn became more numerous and more closely connected until they evolved into an endless village and finally the crowded streets of a city. The poverty of the buildings never changed, a slapdash construct of cast off refuge pushed together as best as the occupants could manage, each a shelter in name only, for none could keep out wind or intruder.

But far worse were the citizens. They did not attack like the warriors of the Battlefields or the devils of the Pit, nor did they stagger hungrily forward as the lost souls of the Plains of Desolation. No. They sat in dejected apathy, or walked hunched and apprehensive from one house to another, only their eyes following these interlopers, eyes scorched with pain and hopeless despair. Many made sounds, strange croaking noises as if they had lost the power of speech, but Darius could recognize the desperate need in the formless words, the endless beseeching, lost souls seeking some guidance from this meaningless existence in which they found themselves.

Within the heart of the city some of the lost actually began to speak, not yet having forgotten the language of their former lives. Many were incomprehensible to Darius, languages from distant lands and distant times, but some were spoken in the common tongue of the Southlands though with dialects and variations that suggested ages past.

“My good sir. Dear sir. Will you not help?”

“My house is falling. You are strong. If you could but pause a moment…”

“I am hungry. So very hungry.”

“Lost are we. Great man, where go you? Might we come?”

It was torment to tear his eyes from the outstretched hands, from the begging faces, from the words that asked for so little of aid that would mean so much. He held hard to Hoarace’s words, knowing that he could not help them, that the true cause of their despair came not from the houses or the streets or their neighbors. Those were just the forms they blamed, the common memories from their lives. The true cause rose from the realm in which they now lingered, and for that, there was no answer.

Illoghen was growing more and more annoyed with these beggars, pushing aside the few that dared to approach him, and he spread his wings wide to ward them off. At one point, he seized an old man who had gotten in his way, and Darius turned quickly to put a restraining hand on his arm.

“No, Illoghen,” he said softly. “Killing is no more an answer here than it was in the battlefields. Hold back your ire. Restraint will make our passage easier.”

Reluctantly, the creature cast the old man aside and continued on, though his face was still marred with anger. Darius, too, was finding the progress more and more daunting as he pushed his way through the milling crowd, not because of the physical resistance, but rather the endless calls for help.

“My lord, if you would but…”

“Sir. Sir. Sir…”

“Master, please…”

They still remember all their old emotions, he realized. They have not yet been baked from them by the plains or ripped by the battlefields. They are still much as they were in life, and by that measure, this is the most terrible of all the levels of hell.

“Sir, my child, my child is sick.”

The woman was holding a small boy of perhaps three or four years, the child drooping in her arms, barely conscious, his eyes flickering, consumed with fever. There had been children in the streets, children as anxious for aid as the adults, but this appeal struck past all his guards and brought him to a halt. In all the appeals he had heard, in all the despairing, helpless cries, this was the first made on behalf of another.

He looked at the child, took him from the mother’s arms. The boy was breathing shallow, his chest hardly moving, and there were red splotches on his skin, the marks of advanced disease.

It was the plague.

“Darius,” said Illoghen roughly. “We go.”

“In a moment,” he answered softly.

Darius pushed off to the side, the woman leading the way to her pathetic hovel, and Darius went in, laying the boy down on a mass of rags that passed for a bed.

“My baby, my sweet baby,” the woman was weeping softly. “He’s so sick.”

Darius gently passed his hands over the boy’s hot forehead, and he felt the heat being absorbed into his own flesh, the fever burning his own fingers and palm. He removed his hand and flexed the fingers for a moment, letting the heat dissipate, and then he passed the hand over the forehead again. As it passed, the ugly red blotches disappeared…and grew out on the back of his own hand.

Again, Darius flexed the fingers, forcing the healing blood from his arm into the infected hand, the pain telling him of the war going on inside his flesh. Slowly, very slowly, the red splotches faded, and finally disappeared.

“Oh my lord! Oh my good lord!” the woman trembled as the boy began to stir again. “You are curing him!”

“He is not cured yet,” said Darius, breathing heavily. He flexed the pain out of his fingers’ the last of the splotches vanishing, and then he reached down to begin the cleaning of the boy’s arms.

Outside the tent, people were gathering. The sick. The lame. The diseased. All drawn to this spark of hope, coming to touch it, to cover it.

To smother it.

* * * * *

Jhan was standing awkwardly, holding the motionless bird he had taken from the box while Adella and Shannon both watched him skeptically. He couldn’t blame them. If he were able to look at himself, he would be skeptical as well.

“It’s a simple matter of timing,” the Voice assured him impatiently, but there was something different in the feeling the words imparted on Jhan, something that spoke of distraction and…concern?

“This isn’t a problem,” he assured both women and tried to sound convincing. “It’s a matter of timing.”

They were standing on the outskirts of the Warhaven camp among the darkened trees of the Spindle, the only light coming through the branches from the dying camp fires of the sleeping soldiers. It was the quiet hour before the dawn, and they had gathered here unobtrusively, avoiding even the notice of the sentries. Fallon, Clarissa, and Mandrik had only grudgingly agreed to their departure, but they had stressed if must take place under cover of darkness to avoid it becoming common knowledge that the Maid had abandon them yet again.

“We can get closer before launching the bird,” Adella said. “We can get a lot closer.”

“Distance is not an issue,” the Voice said dismissively to them all. “The bird’s power will enable it to reach its goal in only a few hours.”

“But so much can happen,” said Shannon. “Storms, hunters, hawks. The shorter the distance, the less chance of a…problem.”

“The Ohric will likely know the distance the bird has come from the remaining magic it radiates,” the Voice replied, obviously trying to stay reasonable. “It may even have a sense of direction. If so, it will simply assume that someone from Corland has joined the Northing army and is sending Argus a message.”

Even Jhan himself blinked at this new and critical information. The approach they were considering now made a great deal more sense. But why hadn’t the Voice explained this earlier and eliminated some of their doubts?

Shannon looked to Adella who shrugged and said, “It’s a risk. But so is every other option. Let’s get on with it.”

The Voice said nothing more and simply stepped forward and touched Shannon on the head. The next instant, she had vanished as if wiped out of existence. Without pause, he turned and touched Adella’s head with the exact same result. Then Jhan took a breath and spoke the short invocation on the box, bringing the bird slowly to life. He put the box inside his cloak, reached up and touched his own forehead, leaving only the bird fluttering in the clearing.

The crow rose slowly into the air, clearing the trees, trying to get its’ bearings. It sensed the approaching dawn, felt the breeze, and then it knew the direction it must go. It pointed its left wing to where the sun had set and shot forward, heading north by north-west.

* * *

Argus was fuming with impatience.

It was just past the hour of midnight, and he was in the central tower of the Mayoral Palace of Jalan’s Drift in a luxurious suite of rooms reserved for the special guests of the Mayor, a suite of rooms he had never occupied during his previous life as Duke of Corland. On the occasions when he had formally attended meetings at the Drift, this suite had always been reserved for the Duke of Maganhall, and he had been regulated to lesser quarters lower down in the tower. Argus had paid off yet another minor score by taking the quarters that had always been denied him and using the Mayor’s own quarters to interrogate half a dozen of the city counselors who had been involved or at least complaisant in the escape of Fallon’s cavalry. The halls were still echoing with the screams of the last few survivors, but the ever-expanding list of the guilty had now begun to grow more slowly.

The salve to his pride, however, was nothing to the infuriating requirements of this accursed scepter.

“Well, where is this creature, this spawn of the Juggernaut?” he demanded of the Ohric. “My enemies mock us from behind the cover of the Spindle, and you have me dawdling here at the Drift!”

The tracking of a being through the Nether Regions requires both time and skill, the scepter replied in its echoing voice. Stalbus has been able to determine that it was in the Battlefields…and has moved on.

“It has passed…the Battlefields!?” shouted Argus, his eyes wide with amaze and alarm, and then they narrowed again in anger. He had split his overwhelming army into two halves, a cardinal sin for any military commander, and he had sent the bulk of it to march through a deadly, enchanted wood bound for an isolated monastery that a few troops of cavalry ought to be able to capture. The armies he had dreamt of were at his command, the decisive victory he had always pursued was nearly within his grasp, and he was sitting in Jalan’s Drift and squandering the opportunity, while this thrice-damned scepter could not even locate the creature for whom all this effort was being made!

Stalbus shall not fail, the Ohric assured him, reading his thoughts. The protection around the creature is gone. It will be found.

“But what could have extended it such protection? And for what reason?”

Perhaps some powerful demon came upon it and exerted its influence.

“To carry the thing upwards, away from the Pit?!”

The Ohric said nothing more, having no answer for the question. Argus was about to press the issue when the shuttered window of the room opened by itself. Alarmed, he swung to confront the intrusion and was startled to see a large black bird enter through the window and perch on the sill, surveying the room as it patiently waited. A messenger crow. Problems in Corland? At Alston’s Fey?

Puzzled, he held out his hand, and the bird came obediently, though the moment it touched his flesh, the magic ended. The raven crumpled into black dust, leaving only the small leather message vial in his palm. He put the Ohric down to use both hands to open the capsule, but it was no wad of paper awaiting him within.

Abruptly, three rays of light shot from the empty cavity and resolved themselves into three figures, the Paladin’s daughter, the thief Adella, and a boy he recognized from the Merchant’s Bridge at Alston’s Fey. He lunged for the scepter, felt the surge of power as he grasped it, and he spun to rain devastation on these rash interlopers.

To his angry surprise, the green fire he unleashed was met with a yellow power that quenched it like cool water. He wasn’t sure where the power had come from, some area protection perhaps, but such spells were of limited duration. The girl, however, now held that accursed holy sword before her, ready to counter any power the scepter might unleash.

“Fools!” he growled at them. “I’ve a dozen ways to crush the life out of you!”

He raised a hand and the door flew open almost instantly, his personal guard charging in, summoned by far more than a verbal call. They were a dozen burly warriors, the strongest and best trained of the Black Watch, but Argus had long ago decided that he could not trust his safety to mere soldiers. As they rushed to the defense of their master, the fragile human disguises dissolved as their rage burst through the magic. Were-beasts, mutant children of the Ohric’s power, lusting for the chance to kill and to die.

*

Adella braced herself as the beasts rushed to the attack, but it was not to prepare for battle. Jhan had promised them that two spells would be put in place when they emerged from the capsule, and the first, the protection from magic, had worked to perfection, squashing the first blast from the Ohric. The second was a power ring, a sophisticated magic that would inflict serious damage on any being trying to cross it, and Jhan had wisely concluded that after the failure of an initial trial of magic, Argus would unleash some sort of guards against them. As the were-beasts crossed the threshold, the invisible power of the spell detonated in a staggering explosion magnified by the enclosed room.

While the power was directed outwards, Adella was also knocked backwards by the sheer force of the blast, though she recovered quickly and threw herself blindly into the cloud of dust and confusion. She jumped lightly over the corpse of one monster and brought Bloodseeker slashing up into the chest of another still stunned by the explosion, killing the wounded creature with a single blow. She took a half-breath to check the situation. Four of the were-beasts now lay dead on the floor, victims of their own intensity as they touched the power ring together, though the others were already returning to the attack. Argus himself had been knocked backward by the discharge, but she resisted any desire to close with him. They needed him alive. For now.

One of the were-beasts charged her, a snake’s head set above a thickset human body, and it was wielding a massive double-headed ax with frightening strength. Even as she ducked the first blow, the monster was looping the ax around in a series of figure eights that would kill anything caught in the middle. Adella threw herself off to the side, swinging at the thing’s legs as she passed, but it was too agile despite its size. It pivoted and brought the ax down in a crashing blow that clipped her armor but did no real damage.

This bloody thing is just too fast, she realized even as two more charged to join it.

*

After the explosion, Shannon rushed to Jhan’s side, knowing he would have to be defended while he unleashed the concoction. For several precious heartbeats, the monsters were too stunned by the spell to press their advantage, and her hope soared. But Jhan stood motionless as if in deep thought, and the first of the were-beasts was roaring toward them, a creature with a tiger’s head and feline-like body. It swung a sword from either hand with lightning speed, and Shannon found herself parrying first one and then the other, the sheer volume of attacks preventing her from launching one of her own.

She countered, countered again, though a wolf-headed monster was coming up now swinging a huge scimitar. She had to maintain position to protect Jhan, but she managed to duck one of the tiger’s blows to bring Sarinian slashing up against the hilt of the wolf’s sword. The creature was too quick to be caught by the blow, but it was forced to jump back, ruining its attack and buying them a few additional precious seconds.

“Jhan,” she muttered to herself. “Do something!”

*

Jhan was terrified. They stood now in mortal combat with the most powerful foe in the entire world, surrounded by ravaging giant monsters, and the Voice within him, the Presence that had displayed such power and orchestrated their confrontation with this foe, had suddenly become mute. It wasn’t a matter of fear as such. Jhan could sense that much. The Presence wasn’t overwhelmed by the onslaught of the monsters or the looming menace of Argus. It was simply fixated on the green aura of the Ohric.

Shannon was fighting two of the creatures, Adella was fighting three more, and another three were trying to make their way through the tangle of corpses and fighting bodies to get at him. They had only moments left.

Desperately, he reached into his pocket and produced the wedding ring of Darius’ wife and tossed it at Shannon’s feet. It was entirely the wrong sequence, violating the careful order the Voice had hammered into him for days, but it forced the Presence into action. It had to act before Shannon moved and separated Sarinian from the ring, and with a burst of fear, it released a final pinch of angel dust and crushed the fragile crystal in its pocket that initiated the summoning.

*

Argus knew immediately something was amiss. There was a surge of power in the room, a burst of energy from an unknown source, and the Ohric began weaving a counter spell in anticipation of an attack. But the energy wasn’t directed at them. It was somehow directed at their three opponents.

White light ignited in the middle of the room as if an invisible door had been opened, a door that lead to a world of endless sunlight that knew nothing of darkness. The were-beasts were falling back as if the light were burning them, and Argus squinted against the brilliance, his eyes detecting an outline, an outline that seemed even brighter than the surrounding radiance.

An entity of the Blessed Realms comes forth! warned the Ohric.

What?

Argus’ lips snarled in hatred and fear as the blinding white light grew even brighter, panic assuring him this was the trap they had prepared, the real weapon intended to forge his destruction. The light was resolving itself into a figure, a figure of a man with white hair and gleaming robes, carrying a staff of intertwined dragons, who was stepping through the doorway, bringing the light of the Blessed Realms with him.

Bilan-Ra, the Messenger of Mirna.

There was no time to think, no time to plan. The Ohric was actually screaming in his head, roaring warnings that they had only moments to act while the doorway in which the entity stood remained opened and it was still vulnerable. That doorway was also an opportunity, a tear in the world, a tear that could be rendered open to a much different domain.

“From the Outer Realms he is come!” said Argus as the Ohric roared forth its counter spell. “To the Outer Realms he shall be sent!”

The evocation exploded, a black hole opening behind the blinding glare, darkness coming to devour the light. In an instant, the gleaming being was snuffed out like a candle in a wind storm. But the black hole did not vanish with the entity as it should have. Instead, it remained open, a gaping portal inviting any within to venture forth.

* * *

Darius felt the opening before he saw it.

He was bent over an old man with a savage wound down his leg, and he was trying as best he could to bind the injury to stop the seeping blood, even though all he had with which to work were soiled rags. There were others in the hovel, people he had cured, people still waiting for his attention, an endless line of distress coming to him for relief and salvation. He was numb, not from the exhaustion or the drain or even the emotional anguish of this work. No. He was stupefied by the endless line of human misery and their simple acceptance of their doom.

He was becoming a permanent citizen of the City of Vacillion.

This advent of power was thus something completely new, a blast of snow in a tepid desert, and it roused him from his stupor, a threat triggering a warrior’s instant response. It was a huge vacuum pulling at his back, a thousand tiny hands yanking him away from his patients, and he grabbed the table for support only to have the rotting wood crumble in his hands.

He twisted around to see what was pulling him, and he saw an opening, a void, though there was some kind of light in the region beyond. He put out his hands to try to slow himself, but the pull was too great, the effort pathetic.

Suddenly, the narrow doorway of the hovel shattered as a huge figure burst into the room, a dark figure with massive wings.

“No go!” roared Illoghen as he seized Darius’ outstretch hand. But the same force that was pulling Darius in seemed to be pushing everything else back.

“Darius…”

The voice seemed distant, too faint to recognize, but his ears perked at his name, his resistance hesitating.

“Father…”

Fainter yet, a thought more than a word. But it was enough.

He understood.

He stopped struggling and surrendered to the pull, eager now for where it was drawing him. He lunged down with both hands, taking hold of Illoghen’s wrists, and the monster threw himself upwards, actually spreading his wings and taking flight in a mad effort to keep hold of the vanishing human. But even the monster’s wings and great strength were no match for the summoning magic.

“Fare well,” Darius said as the magic broke their grip and left his companion behind.

The last thing he knew of the Nether Regions was the plaintive cry of Illoghen as he was abandoned. Then he turned to pass through the opening to the region beyond.

*

The spell was going terribly wrong, and Argus had no idea why. The same swirling vortex that had once sent the Juggernaut and the Paladin forth had opened again as he had intended, but the gleaming entity was not sucked down inside. Instead, it seemed to dissolve back into its component light, and the illumination coated the sides of the vortex, widening it slightly and bringing the surging energy to a stop. The spell had become an open door, a portal over which he had lost control.

A doorway is opened! cried the Ohric, and Argus felt the unaccustomed doubt in the scepter. But surely a doorway into the Nether Regions could only mean a threshold for new allies?

The Annulling! the Ohric roared again, the scepter trembling with anxiety. We must put forth the Annulling!

Argus’ mind was abruptly filled with the incantation of the Annulling, the power that would cancel the spell and close the doorway they had unwittingly created. I’m a warrior, not a wizard, he thought. But this was the first time he had sensed fear within the demon scepter, and that drove him into motion.

“Evar seval. Elan Nul…” he began.

*

Darius could see figures on the other side of the opening, and he could tell from their movements that a battle was in progress. One of those vague figures must be Shannon, and she was almost certainly in the fight of her life. He narrowed his eyes, hunched his shoulders, and willed himself forward.

*

Shannon swung at the first of her monstrous assailants, but the creature flung itself backwards just far enough to avoid the gleaming blade, and she had no chance to pursue. Three more of the creatures were gathered around Jhan, and she had to direct her next blow to intercepting an attack on the boy.

“He’s trying to annul the spell!” shouted Jhan as Argus continued his incantation. “We must stop him!”

Adella leapt away from her opponent, produced a dagger as if by magic, and threw it with deadly accuracy directly at Argus, only to see it bounce harmlessly off some invisible shield. The were-creature she was fighting swung around, its hungry claws reaching, and she was forced to parry as she gave ground, her one chance wasted.

It’s up to me, Shannon realized. The monstrous wolf-creature before her had felt the power of Sarinian and was giving it due respect, leaving her more room to maneuver, and when she feinted to the left, the beast gave her the opening she needed. With a wild cry, she flung herself across the room directly at Argus and the Ohric, Sarinian blazing with a light that defied the power of any magic to stop it.

Argus broke off from his cast, and Shannon readied for another trial against the green death of the scepter. But instead of the energy coming at her, it flashed off to the right as if to deal with another opponent, and she rushed forward to exploit the opening. At just the last second, she caught sight of something hurtling at her from the side, and she swung the Avenger around as a small statue flew at her head. The sword brushed it enough to avoid a direct collision that likely would have killed her, but the stone struck towards the back of her head with staggering force. She crumpled to the ground.

*

Argus advanced towards the helpless form of the Paladin’s Daughter and raised the Ohric to deliver the killing blow. There will at least be one less of these insects to annoy me, he thought.

An instant’s warning was all he got as a burst of yellow power surged towards him from across the room, the spell knocking the three beasts attacking the boy backwards as well. The Ohric rose in answer, meeting the energy and dispelling it, but the effort knocked Argus off balance and made him face this new threat. He unleashed green rage at this young fool, but the boy was already gesturing, and even as the flood of murderous green energy reached him, he had transferred himself off to the right, away from the attack. So it is the boy who is the spell caster! Argus lifted the Ohric to finish the issue, but he never sent the second blow.

Something was emerging from the doorway created by the Ohric, something in human form stepping forth from the depths of Hell, something returning to the world of light.

Argus suddenly understood the reason for the Ohric’s panic.

“Paladin!” he roared and unleashed the power of the scepter against him.

*

Darius had no time to think and no need. His instincts had never been sharper, and as he emerged once more into the world of the living, his senses, deadened so long with unrelenting evil, exploded with the renewed awareness of life. He knew Jhan was cringing on the floor to the left, and Adella was fighting desperately just beyond him. He could feel Shannon’s pain at the foot of Argus. But most of all, he felt the smoldering, unrelenting anger of Sarinian, and it required no more than a gesture and a thought to bring the Avenger flying into his hand, steel and flesh reforging their holy bond.

Now, however, rather than the pure silver radiance, the light that burst forth around Darius was a brilliant gold like a miniature sun.

Green power roared at him from the Ohric, but the golden light of the Avenger blazed out and shattered the green energy into a harmless rain. He moved towards his assailant, his heart fusing with Sarinian into one purpose, one cause, one mission. To kill Argus.

A huge wolf-like monster charged at him with venom dripping from its deadly fangs, attacking with astonishing speed, but Darius made no attempt to dodge or avoid the deadly attack. Instead, he rushed forward as if embracing death, the memories of hell enflaming him and the Avenger hot in his hands, and he struck upwards with wild abandonment, Sarinian finding the mark and burying into the opponent’s stomach. Golden manna shot into the open wound, and the monster died instantly, dissolving into nothingness even as it collapsed to its knees.

There were half a dozen of these creatures charging him, closing from every direction, but Darius caught sight of Adella closing rapidly from the right, and he knew immediately the game she was preparing to play. He lunged at the insect-headed monster on the right and drove it backwards, and he pivoted to meet the attack on the left even as Adella slashed Bloodseeker into the back of his first opponent and killed it. He parried and jumped back to the right, a suicidal move if the insect-head had still been there to meet him, and he merely blocked the attack of the next beast, standing it upright, and then rushing right past it as if it was already dead. The creature lunged, only to freeze in place as the silver sword slashed through its side and punctured its heart.

Darius drove Sarinian into the belly of the surprised fourth monster, shock and life vanishing from its lion-like face at the same time, but he was resigned to suffer at least one blow from the next were-creature to his left in retribution. The lion-thing was disintegrating in front of him as something rolled past behind, and his attacker to the left sudden screamed in horrible pain as Bloodseeker severed both its ankles with a single blow. Darius swung around in a full circle, momentarily presenting his back to the final beast, but even as it struck at this momentary opening, he completed his loop and brought Sarinian around in a blind arc that slashed into the creature’s arm. The monster struck back, the blow grazing Darius’ side, but the next moment, Sarinian flashed again, and the thing died where it stood, the final victim of a superb teamwork.

A moment later, Adella had swung directly beside him, Bloodseeker pulsing with a red light that mixed with the golden glow from Sarinian.

“This bastard is mine,” she said, her eyes hot for Argus.

“You must learn to share,” he answered. “I’ll charge down the middle, shall I?”

“I’ll take the right.”

*

Argus had paused to finish the girl lying before him, but another flash of yellow enveloped her and drew the body away. That interfering pup of a wizard! But even as he turned to destroy the young fool, he was startled to see the last of his guards fall in a matter of heart beats, leaving him exposed to the Paladin and the Thief.

Argus’ rage, however, was brought to an abrupt halt when he saw his two opponents standing together. The golden light of the Avenger. Mixing with the red glow from the thief’s sword.

“The orange light!” he whispered, remembering the words he had elicited from Al-Luthrax. The words predicting his death.

He would know his end when the doorway opened and he saw the orange glow.

Depart! demanded the Ohric. There is nothing to be gained here, and there is much damage to be undone!

Argus was in full agreement. As his opponents rushed forward, he launched himself into the ether and sped away.

*

Darius’ first thought after Argus fled was for Shannon. The rush that began as a death charge at the tyrant diverted to the limp form lying on the ground. He threw Sarinian to the side and gently lifted his Daughter into his arms, the instant joy at holding her again quite overwhelmed by the fear that he had returned only to lose her. He brushed a lock of hair away from her face, his hand trembling, and he gasped in relief as he saw her draw breath. He touched her forehead with his fingertips, the sensations assuring him she was not serious hurt, and the next moment, his heart rejoiced as he watched her eyes flutter open.

“Father?” she asked, her voice hoping that all the time since his departure was nothing but an evil dream.

“I’m here, Shannon,” he whispered to her, words he had never hoped to utter again. “I don’t know by what miracle. But I am here.”

“Lord Darius, we need to leave,” said a voice, and he glanced up to see Jhan’s worried face. He smiled at him as at a child. There was no threat in all this world that could counter the joy of being here with Shannon nestled in his arms.

“My Lord, more enemies are drawing close even now,” he insisted. “We may have only moments.”

Shannon was holding him as tightly as he held her, the embrace telling him of the endless pain she had endured since she had lost him, a pain she had never been able to overcome. Finally, she whispered hoarsely, “He’s right, Father. This is the Mayoral Palace of Jalan’s Drift, and it is now one of Argus’ strongholds. We must leave.”

For one more moment he lingered, even if it cost them their lives, even if it cost them the world, no power in the universe capable of prying his arms open in that instant, his soul complete again. Then, reluctantly, he eased his suffocating hug, watching to be sure this miracle would not vanish as he released her, and slowly got them both to their feet. Adella was standing off to the side, watching them closely, her face blank, her eyes soft with a joy even she could not hide at the reunion of father and daughter.

“Adella,” warned Jhan, as they all heard the noise in the outer hall, the sound of a hurried approach. She blinked once, then came swiftly over to where they waited, the four of them forming a circle. The next moment, the spell took effect, and they found themselves moving through the ether, leaving the room just as the guards burst in.

CHAPTER 18

A Brief Respite

They stood on the mountain peak beside the towering majesty that was Llan Praetor with the sun burning brightly in a crystal blue sky and the winds playing with their hair and clothes.

Jhan (if, indeed, this enigmatic individual was still Jhan) was passing his hands over the stone of the fortress, muttering some magic that at some other time, Darius would have found astonishing. But not this moment. Not this day.

This day, Darius was celebrating his return to life.

He sucked air into his lungs, clean, crisp, wonderful air, his nose filling with aromas that were not choked with brimstone and sulfur, his tongue at last free of the taste of bitterness. He felt the world around him, vibrating through his fingers and his face, the world of life and vitality, of growth and promise, of roses and smiles and daughters strong. He wanted to extend his arms to embrace all the earth, to squeeze just a little of its rich juices back into his soul, refilling it like a thirsty sponge.

“Well, Glory Man, I’m told no one passes through Hell unchanged,” Adella said with a twisted smile. “Or are you, as always, the exception?”

Darius stared at her, the gentle lips, the hard eyes, the tempered body, the most alive woman he had ever known. All the pain and torment and doubts of the endless journey meant nothing now, all the pretenses and foolishness meaningless beside the fact that he was a man, he was alive, and she was the woman he adored. He reached out and pulled her to him, and he knew this, this was the essence of life he wished to embrace, the woman who would give life and receive it, the ultimate celebration of existence. Her face showed an instant’s shock, and then her eyes narrowed as she felt the energy pulsing within him, sensed the sheer joy, and in that moment, she shared the passion, the two of them alone, the whole of the universe in two pounding hearts.

With life, however, came memory. Even as his head bent towards her, even as her lips slowly opened, the fire of the old wound burned his side, and his arms stiffened, the embrace changing to struggle. She sensed it, knew what it meant, and she, too, drew back, shaking her head and giving off an ugly chuckle.

“The exception,” she said huskily. “As always.”

But even as she drew away, his arms tightened once, holding her, forcing her eyes up to meet his, and there was confirmation in those eyes, the assurance that the feelings that had passed between them had nothing to do with the wound of a vampiric sword, that they were the real and the lasting, and the rest of the world was the fleeting dream.

“Father.”

He came fully back to himself now, his eyes lingering on the woman for only a moment longer, until he pulled himself away. And faced again the world.

“Father,” Shannon was saying, and her eyes showed nothing but warmth and compassion. “We must go in.”

Darius turned and was startled to see a tunnel in the side of the fortress with Jhan standing beside it, waiting patiently. He nodded once, passed into the tunnel, and again entered Llan Praetor.

* * *

Argus was seething with rage as he looked out at the Sanctuary perched on its tiny rise, an insignificant structure in an isolated valley surrounded by the dark wood and the legions of his army. His troops had made it at last through the tangle of the Spindle, and they nearly filled the tiny valley, ringing the monastery with steel and hate to insure that none of their prey would escape. He was snarling with fury at that insignificant structure that defied the power of his army, the walls that dared block his purpose.

Dared to delay him when the Paladin walked again upon the earth.

Before him was General Kaltron, the commander of the Black Watch, and three of the War Chieftains of the Silver Horde whose names he had not bothered to learn. Behind him stood Al-Luthrax, the head of the Red Priests, standing as a patient minion…or as the true power behind the Duke.

“My Liege, the siege equipment travels only slowly through this tangle of forest,” Kaltron was reporting, his eyes downcast, fearing for his life at reporting failure to his master. “I have already taken half the oxen from the baggage train to assist.”

Argus shot an obscenity at the man to make him cringe further, but he checked himself. In truth, he was surprised the massive siege engines were moving at all through that nearly impassible wood.

“Strip the wagons of all their draft animals, put troops to work with pull lines, level the accursed forest if you must,” he growled, “but get those machines in position!”

“We are already more than a day late, My Liege,” injected Al-Luthrax from behind, softly enough that the military men could not hear his words. “We will need time to clear the corridors beneath the Monastery and reach the final chamber.”

Green power sparkled over the Ohric in response, and Argus had to throttle his rage not to unleash a killing blast. The scepter was becoming more and more attuned to his moods…or he to its.

“We do not need the machines to test the gates,” he snapped to his generals. “The battering rams are already in hand, and they will serve our need.”

He then turned to the Northings. “You three will lead your tribes against the monastery to breach the gates. But your task will be to use the rams to batter open a passage and to clear the walls of enemy archers. The Legion of the Dead will be hot on your heels, and it will be they who pour through the breach. As they enter, your men will follow.”

The barbarians nodded, but they did not have their usual sullen look. Apparently, they thought Argus was showing mercy to their tribes by sending the Undead in to face the fury of the monks first. Fools. The Undead had no allegiance and made no distinctions among the living; they would kill any breathing human before them whether they were monks or Northings and therefore had to be first to cross the threshold.

“General Kaltron, you will keep the Black Watch in reserve and counter any move by the Patriarchal Army,” Argus continued and the man nodded in understanding. The pampered figureheads of the Patriarch would be cut down in droves by the flower of the Black Watch. “Once the Undead have secured the courtyard, you will take control and kill all who remain.”

He turned back to the scene that would soon be a bloody battlefield choked with dead bodies and ruined lives, and he lusted for the sight, for the fury that would impose his will on that insolent building. But he could feel the Ohric squirming impatiently in his hands, eager to depart. Stalbus had sent word that he had at last found the Juggernaut.

“You attack as soon as the rams are in position,” he said shortly. “See to it that your men are fed and get a chance to rest, so they might fight the better.”

“You will not be with us for the battle, My Liege?” Kaltron asked carefully.

“I have other issues. But I shall leave you with some allies to help you through the gate.”

*

Joshua looked out over the parapets of the Sanctuary at the army gathering like a deadly flood before its gates, the ebony ranks of the Black Watch, the mass of Northing barbarians to the side, and the terrible silent mass of the Undead waiting for only a word to advance and kill. In the distant gloom, he could just make out a number of wagons filling the back of the small valley, and soon enough, there would be larger shapes yet, the siege machines and battering weapons, the tools by which the army would break their walls. Overhead, the Canopy of Oblivion now blocked out the sun, putting all the world in shadow, and try as he may, Joshua could not rid himself of the feeling that those hideous clouds were blocking our Mirna’s grace as well. The white of the Patriarchal Army gathered close beneath the walls was no more than a single patch of sunshine amidst the blackness of a gathering storm.

He had never felt so terribly alone.

“Keep heart.”

He turned to find Thelmar looking at him with that quiet, confident look that always warmed him with hope.

“The gates of the Sanctuary have never been breached,” the old monk said. “And by Mirna’s love, they never shall.”

Joshua, however, shook his head, the words useless against the armada arrayed before the walls. “I fear the past is meaningless when Argus and the Ohric are come against us. Hope is a wonderful tool to sustain, but we will need a better answer when this wave is unleashed against your walls.” He sighed deeply as he added, “It is the Undead that worry me most, The Avator Seleiam, the invocation against evil spirits, would have no power against so many gathered together to fight as one.”

“That is why Innocent has brought forth the Angel Throne,” answered Thelmar. “The power of Mirna will shine forth, whatever clouds are above us.”

Joshua turned and looked down into the courtyard where the Angel Throne had been arrayed, and a small group of priests were even now attending to it, and there was a surge of hope at the sight. But along with the hope came a nagging question.

“Your Vision, the one that brought you to the way station and to our rescue,” asked Joshua quietly. “Why did it show us, and not the Angel Throne?”

The old monk’s expression did not change and his voice was calm and level when he said, “Because it is not the presence of the Angel Throne that will make the difference to our survival.”

Joshua’s jaw went slack, the implications chilling his heat, his stomach, his soul. But Thelmar just turned and said, “I wish to thank you for not disclosing our earlier meeting. Innocent may now be Patriarch, but he is still the ecclesiastical prosecutor who will suffer no breach of the law.”

“But…but surely you are not suggesting he would pursue that old sentence even now, while we all stand beneath the threat of annihilation!”

Thelmar’s eyebrows rose just a hair at Joshua’s surprise, and he answered simply, “The edits of the Church do not wait on daily events, and a sentence of death cannot be commuted. There are those amongst the Patriarchal Court who would call for my immediate execution should they learn of my trespass, and Innocent would be hard pressed to deny them.” He saw the question in the young Priest’s face, and he nodded, confirming the thought. “As Innocent is my Patriarch, I am bound by oath and honor to submit to his will. For a Church without order and structure is no Church at all.”

Without another word, the monk turned and left, leaving the young Priest staring after him, wondering if he would have the strength to walk Thelmar’s path; or Innocent’s.

* * *

It was a chicken leg. Nothing more. A simple piece of meat, cooked by minor magic with only a small dash of salt and hint of some other herb, the sort of meal eaten and forgotten by nearly all of humanity during every day of their existence. But for Darius, it tasted like the Ambrose of the gods.

He had never been so famished. He had eaten three of the chickens set before him, and he felt that he could eat three more if they were presented to him. He had savored every bite, chewed every morsel to feel the texture, rolled the flavor across his tongue, rejoiced in the food going down his throat to fill a stomach that never thought to encounter vittles again. It was glorious gluttony, washed down with an invigorating small beer that cleansed the palate, and he passed his fingers beneath his nose to catch their sent and licked them for both the tang and the sheer sensation. Reluctantly, he sat the last chicken bone down, and blessed both bird and cook.

Adella, seated opposite him, had watched with a small smile as he devoured the fowl, and she now reached out and took a small sliver of chicken from his shirt and passed it slowly to her own mouth, sharing the relish. Darius watched her chew the flesh, her dark eyes on him, and with an act of will, he tore his glance away and focused on Jhan and Shannon who had being taking turns talking and who were now waiting for him to speak.

He took a deep breath and cleared his thoughts of woman and food.

“Argus,” he said, the word a distasteful necessity. “Argus is the key. Nothing else really matters. Argus holds the Ohric, and the Ohric is rushing now to complete its mission. Whither is he bound with this southern arm of his forces?”

“The mirror-wall has become wondrously powerful of late,” said Jhan, indicating the reflecting surface behind him to which he carefully kept his back. “It has not only shown me that Argus’ forces are even now surrounding an isolated church known as the Monastery of the Rock, it has also confirmed the reason. This monastery is known in legend as the Sanctuary.”

“The Sanctuary?” repeated Adella with sudden interest. “The place where the gods are said to have hidden the treasures from the ancient wars?”

“There are no treasures there, woman, at least none for mortal hands to use or sell,” Jhan said sternly. “As the ancient wars dragged on endlessly, the gods came to see that the strife they had put in motion was tearing the world apart and destroying the very prize they all sought. So they settled on a new approach, an approach to resolve the conflicts between their children, a prize to be won rather than a land to be ravaged. They forged a sphere of diamond and adamite, and into it each god allowed some of their personal power to flow, the manna that could command their children, and this created an item that could control all the peoples of the world.”

“The Soul-Welder,” whispered Adella in soft awe.

“So it was called by humans,” agreed Jhan. “It was known as Argornan to the dwarves, Elesia to the elves, and a hundred different names to the various folk both fair and foul who dreamt to one day make all the world their own.”

They all sat in silence, weighing the significance of this thing, an item that could impart control of all the races and insure dominion over all the lands.

“How was the Sphere to be used?” asked Darius.

“In the Ancient Times, each race had a Prime, a First-Being, a Father if you will,” Jhan explained. “Moravik of the dwarves. Quilleron of the elves. Black Sharax of the rock goblins. They were known as the Avatars of their people, the Minion of their god and the Overlord of their race. Of this storied group, only Mraxdavar still survives. Only the Avatars had the strength to hold, let alone use, the Sphere.”

“But to put such power into a single item,” said Shannon with a shake of her head. “Would this not increase the strife between the races?”

“It was intended to reduce that strife to a struggle between champions, not armies,” explained Jhan. “The Sphere was placed in a hidden location, and the Avatars were each given a single clue as to how to find it. Only the ones with the greatest cunning and the greatest skills could decipher the clue and win through to claim the Sphere. And remember, only the true Avatar of a race could touch this thing and live, let alone use its power.”

“But how is it that this prize was never claimed?” Shannon asked.

“The two most powerful races were the giants and the dragons,” the boy continued, “and each had a bottomless hatred for the other. The giants bent all their efforts on finding this Sphere, and Mraxdavar used this obsession to lure them into a deadly trap at the Battle of Baramalon. The giants were all but destroyed, but the dragons and the dwarves were gravely weakened as well. The true winner of the Battle of Baramalon was Mankind, for our dominance over the world stemmed from that time.”

Darius frowned, shaking his head. “But why were armies employed when the prize was to be won by the Avatars?”

“The creation of the Sphere did not lessen the hatred between the races, and even now, dragon and giant will fight each other on sight,” replied Jhan. “But there is a practical side as well. Mirna alone among all the gods sought to put an end to the war, not just change its character. He could not avoid adding his own manna to the Sphere, but instead of naming an avatar to seek for it, he created an order of warrior monks to watch over the entrance of its hiding place. It is said that the power of these monks is such that they can overthrow even an Avatar of the Gods.”

“Thus was born the Sanctuary,” breathed Adella.

“The very same. So to win the Sphere, an entity must decipher the riddle of its location and bring forth an army to break through the defenses of the Sanctuary. And as the giants learned to their deep regret, marching forth with such an army cannot be done in secret and laid them open to the plots of their enemies. Mraxdavar alone remains of the true Avatars, and it is said that he swore a blood oath to the dwarves before the Battle of Baramalon never to use the Sphere himself.”

“Regardless,” said Darius. “It seems we now know what Argus intends.”

“Argus, even with all the power of the Ohric, cannot reach, let alone claim the Sphere,” said Jhan. “That is permitted only for the Avatars of each race, and Argus is the master of nothing.”

“Then why does Argus besiege the Sanctuary?” asked Darius, his brow furrowed.

“I have no answer other than the one I have just given,” Jhan replied calmly, though he clearly was not pleased with the response, either. “Perhaps he seeks to use the power of the Sphere for some purpose other than the one for which it was intended. Perhaps he seeks something held in the Monastery other than the Sphere. Or perhaps he hopes by conquering the Sanctuary to force a confrontation that would not otherwise occur.”

“And perhaps he has discovered some means to gain and use the Soul-Welder despite all your assurances,” countered Darius. “The actions of the Ohric, it seems, speak stronger than your words.”

“That, too, is a possibility,” Jhan admitted.

“Then my path is clear,” decided Darius. “I must go to the defense of the Sanctuary.”

“But the Spindle,” said Shannon in distress. “Have you heard nothing of my tale, Father? The forces of Mandrik and Clarissa. Of Norealm and Maganhall. They are held between the armies of the Black Watch and Hathage, and the giants are marching down upon them even now. If we do not bring them aid, they will surely be destroyed, whether you thwart the aims of Argus or not.”

Darius’ eyes narrowed, and his mind went over the position of the armies and the predicament in which the allies found themselves. He took a deep breath, his eyes looking softly at his daughter, and said reluctantly, “We can do nothing more for them.”

“But surely the death of Argus will end this war,” offered Jhan. “The goals the Ohric seeks are still a threat, but without Argus, there will no longer be any reason for army to battle army.”

This was clearly intended to mollify Shannon, but Darius just shook his head slowly in disagreement, knowing his daughter deserved the truth.

“Despite his authority, Argus is but a man, and the events he has put in motion will not stop with his death,” he replied. “Armies are forged to fight, and they are not easy to stop when they have taken the field, especially after blood has been drawn. And the death of Argus will mean nothing to the giants.”

“There must be some way to put an end to it,” said Shannon. “There are so many good men there. How can we let them die for nothing?”

“Warriors die in every war, Shannon. Good men all. That is the horror and the waste, but that is also the truth.”

Her eyes were wide with a growing understanding, and with a sinking heart, Darius knew his Daughter’s mind was making a choice her soul had made long, long ago.

“I…I cannot abandon them,” she said haltingly. “I cannot just leave them to their fate.”

“You can do nothing but share their doom,” Darius said as convincingly as he could.

“If that is all I can offer, then that is what I will give.”

He heard the finality in her voice, the decision made, and he crushed down his desire to fight it, to change it, to make her move in a safer, more sensible direction. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

“I made a mistake when I sent you from Jalan’s Drift before the battle,” Darius said after a long pause. “Though none of us understood at the time, you were the Third Champion of the Southlands, and by sending you away, I nearly cost us the battle. I closed my eyes to everything except my desire to keep you safe. To keep you from a road I never wanted you to have to travel. But we cannot always choose the road set before us, let alone change it for those we love.”

He looked down at the floor, slowly shaking his head, and when he looked up again, he said, “By all reason, I should have perished in the tentacles of the Juggernaut. Most assuredly, I should never have survived in the Nether Regions, let alone actually return to the world of the living. Never have I felt my destiny so strongly. I have been spared for a reason, and I am certain that reason is to foil the fell purposes of the Ohric. Foil them, or at least blunt them. But that fate is mine, not yours.”

He gently moved a strand of her hair, once more the loving father. “I cannot tell you how proud I am of the woman you have become. Strength is in your hands and wisdom in your eyes, and you walk with caution but not with fear. If the road set for your feet is with a hopeless struggle against the giants, I will not try to dissuade you. Wherever your fate takes you, you go with my blessing. And with my love.”

There were tears now on both their cheeks, and Darius kissed her once on the forehead and stepped away. He picked up the Avenger, the long gleaming blade that had haunted all his adult dreams, the source of the fear that had goaded him throughout the Nether Regions, and he forced his arms to hold it out to her.

“There was a time when I would have broken this accursed blade before I let it touch you, but that is now past. I do not think the Avenger will allow itself to be parted from me again, not while my purpose remains unfulfilled. But I offer it to you as the only real help that I can now give, to you and to the armies you hope to save.”

Shannon took the blade, and it burst into light at her touch, acknowledging the power she carried within. But even as she raised it, the sword vanished. They turned and saw it again in its scabbard on Darius’ back.

“The Avenger has made its choice,” said Darius, and there was a hint of relief in his voice. “Part of my soul rejoices in that decision.”

“Pretty swords encased in light are easy enough to be had,” said Adella. “The soldiers will be just as happy seeing you with a copy. Just don’t try to kill any more demon worms with it.”

“As to that, neither of you is properly equipped to fight anything,” said Jhan shortly. “Excuse me for a moment.”

He went into the second chamber off the throne room, the one from which they had taken the flying boat, and a moment later, he emerged with a folded suit of fine chain mail and a gleaming sword completely white from tip to hilt.

“Damn my blind eyes,” muttered Adella. “How could I have missed THOSE?”

“This armor is a poor substitute for the plate mail you have lost, but it will help to turn both blade and shaft,” Jhan said. “While thin and light, it has enchantments upon it which should serve you well in battle.”

Darius held up the chain mail and was startled by how light it was, almost as if it were no more than a suit of cloth. But he could see the intricate pattern of the minute chains, the way they overlapped to prevent penetration, and he knew he held a thing of magic and wonder in his hands. “I thank you, Jhan. I shall wear it with pride and gratitude.”

Jhan then turned to Shannon and offered her the sword. “This is the weapon I would have you wield.”

She took it from his hands, and the entire blade began to shimmer with a white fire at her touch, the glowing flames moving up her arm to encase her entire body.

“This is known as an angel blade,” he explained. “It is said to have power in the hands of those of pure heart, and it is clear you can command it. It is the bane of evil, and of devils in particular, and I suspect you will put it to its true purpose.”

“My heart rejoices that you have such a weapon,” said Darius. “It may serve all three of you at the Spindle.”

“You mean all two of them,” said Adella evenly.

Darius swallowed, knowing the answer even as he asked the question, “Whither are you bound, Good Thief?”

“I’m going with you, of course,” she said. “I have a final debt to settle with Argus.”

“Have you heard nothing of this story?” asked Darius. “You would never be permitted inside the grounds, and the Sanctuary is guarded by two hundred warrior monks who can smell an intruder.”

“After Argus breaks the gates, they’ll have little interest in a single frail female.”

“This is no merchant’s strong room or the treasury of some minor lord,” said Jhan. “It is guarded by the power of the gods themselves. Few will survive the passage and none will do so unscathed.”

“That will just make Argus easier to kill,” she replied, her eyes smoldering.

Darius looked into her defiant face, and he made the smallest gesture off to the side, moving towards the privacy of the side room. Adella followed him.

“They will have need of you as never before,” he said quietly.

“I am no children’s nanny. They will fare well enough on their own.”

“Death a hundred times over will come marching through those woods and take all that it can find. Your sword alone may make the difference.”

“I care nothing for the movements of armies and less for the fate of Mandrik and Clarissa,” she shot back.

“Then return to the Drift. There is far too much danger lurking in the tunnels beneath the Sanctuary.”

“If you have not the courage to lead, then take the rear and whisper your cautions to my arse,” she snarled at him.

He took a step towards her, forcing her back against the wall, his eyes hot, and she knew of all the insults she might fling at him, cowardice was the one she had no right to utter.

She put a single hand against his chest to force him away, but the palm froze, the muscles of her arm refusing to push, her last defenses giving way to that single touch.

“I have bled for you,” she whispered. “Every night since your passing, in the lonely darkness when there is no one to hear or see, I have welled with the pain and found comfort nowhere within myself, nowhere in all the world. You think that I would choose to fill the rest of my life with such nights?”

He could not stop his own hand from slowly rising, from following the contour of her face with his palm, close enough for both to feel the warmth, yet far enough to deny them both the caress.

“Our paths do not lie together,” he said softly. “You know this. If we are to meet again at some future point, it will not be due to our actions or our wills. Our only hope is to cast our fate upon the winds and stand the hazard of that chance.”

“The righteous Paladin who lives by order and law trusting now to luck,” she said with a sneer.

He grabbed her arm, hard to wipe away that sneer, and he said slowly and evenly, “A paladin cannot love you.”

Her teeth clenched and her eyes flamed, reading all the messages he intended in those words, and she tore herself loose.

“I should kill you here and now to be finished with you,” she snarled savagely.

“My death would free me,” he said simply. “But it would not free you.”

Her eyes widened with rage, the anger made all the hotter by the truth of his words, and she spun away from him, returning to the outer room where the two young people waited.

“Take us to the Spindle, wizard,” she snapped at Jhan. “Put some distance between us before I do something I may someday regret.”

CHAPTER 19

The Juggernaut’s Child

Argus stood upon the roof of the Leatherworker’s Guild exactly as he had so many weeks before, the lights of the Drift dimming as the dawn slowly approached. He had ordered the citizens into their houses, and there had been no need to enforce the directive. People were not eager to witness the next desecration of their city. Four hulking mountain ogres stood about him, the only bodyguard he needed, and they were far too stupid to appreciate the spectacle that was about to unfold.

The only real spectators were a long line of men impaled on stakes mounted on the top of the wall, the traitors who had opened the gates of the Drift to allow Fallon and the cavalry of Norealm to escape, now moaning and screaming out their lives as a lesson in treachery to the people of the Drift. At the very head of the line was the limp body of Ursulan, Chancellor of Corland, the man dead by poison from his own hand before he had been impaled. Argus found himself glancing occasionally at that lead corpse, conscious that it represented more than the end of his old Chancellor’s life, and he was vaguely uneasy not about the change but rather his indifference to it.

He looked down at the empty area before the Wizard’s Gate where the Battle of Champions had been waged and where Honorium Stalbus now stood alone casually drinking from a large tankard, looking like a minor merchant taking the morning air. Standing on the ground beside him was a gigantic tankard that came up nearly to his waist, a perfect duplicate of the container he held. He hefted his own mug to his lips and took another deep drink as the sun breached the horizon just as it had done weeks before to herald the start of the Battle of Champions. Then he glanced upwards at Argus and gave a single nod.

Argus held forth the Ohric, the green power igniting around him from a single thought, and he concentrated on the very point from which he had sent forth the Juggernaut and the Paladin, picturing the abyss he had opened and into which they had fallen. Stalbus and the Ohric had found the thing at last squatting in the City of Vacillion, far beyond the confines of the Pit to which it had been sent and dangerously close to the exits from the Nether Regions. Close to the point where it would have been able to escape on its own.

Argus concentrated only on the ground before him, his mind forming the image of that swirling maelstrom, conjuring the memory and giving it the strength of substance. The hole in the world began to open again, gaping wide at his behest, responding to his power, and only after the void was yawning before them, the mouth of the ultimate monster threatening to devour all the universe, did the green beam flash out from the scepter and enter that terrible emptiness. For an instant, even the green force of the Ohric seemed lost in that well of darkness, but then the emerald energy began to swirl itself and form a tunnel, a pathway through the blackness.

At first, Argus frowned as nothing more happened, no distant light, no sign of an end to that magical tunnel as had been the case when the Paladin had emerged. Then he felt the tinglings, the approach of something powerful, and he realized with a start that something indeed was in the tunnel, something huge and black that blotted out any light beyond. The next instant, the tunnel vomited out a massive being of solid blackness as if the void had given birth, and with a whoosh and flash, the green magic vanished and the gate collapsed upon itself and was gone.

The child of the Juggernaut now stood in the real world.

The creature was not seething with murderous rage as would be expected from a monstrosity that had spent all its young life among the mayhem and murder of the Nether Regions. It was alert and poised, ready to defend itself, and it looked cautiously in all directions as if it were appraising the situation. Almost as if it were…curious.

Stalbus took a small step forward, capturing the being’s attention, and he called out, “Do you know your name?”

The creature simply stared at him, its expression indecipherable, the yellow light of its eyes unnerving to Argus even at the distance between them.

“I know you can read my thoughts, so there is really no point in feigning ignorance,” Stalbus continued easily. “We have a great deal to discuss and very little time. Again, do you know your name?”

After a long moment, the creature opened its mouth and uttered one word. “Illoghen.”

Argus’ eyebrows rose at that. Stalbus had warned him that the creature might not be immediately aware of its telepathic ability and might well need to develop its latent skill much as a child must learn to speak. But even Argus could tell from the ease of communication that this creature had been in telepathic contact before, and that meant with a being in the Nether Regions.

“Do you know your purpose?” Stalbus asked.

The question was intended to be rhetorical, to introduce the idea of purpose, but the creature had a swift and ready answer. “To stay alive. To return to the world.”

Stalbus barely missed a heartbeat at this unexpected response before saying, “These both you have now achieved. Here, you can embark on the mission for which you were created, the purpose for which you were born. Look. Look into my mind. Look and see clearly the path for which you were intended.”

This was unexpected, and Argus frowned as he tightened his grip on the Ohric. But the scepter calmed him, offering silence assurances that all was going well, very well.

“It was the Wizard Malcolm who cast you into the Pit,” announced Stalbus, returning to words. “He it was who took possession of Llan Praetor, the home of the Giant Lords, and corrupted it for his own purposes. He it was who opened those same gates to your sworn enemy, the dragons. And it is now he who conspires to achieve the final end of you and all your kin. But these wrongs shall be righted. I and the Lord Protector Argus have sought for you for many days, for your enemies are our enemies. Now vengeance is possible for us all!”

The creature rose up at those words, its wings spreading out in anger, and Argus almost laughed at the ease of the deception. The potion Stalbus had consumed in his own drink had strengthened his ability to protect his thoughts, letting this gigantic infant see only what they wished him to see. To lie through telepathy was nearly impossible, but by shielding one’s thoughts, it was possible to be…selective about the truth.

“Come, let us drink,” said Stalbus, indicating the massive tankard beside him. “You will need sustenance now that you are come to the real world, and your throat must burn with dryness. Drink. We shall need all our strength in the time ahead.”

This was the point of greatest danger, the time when this entire approach succeeded or failed. The creature would be ravished with hunger and thirst, the internal sustenance from long days in the Nether Regions giving way to an overpowering need for food and drink as the body re-adjusted to the physical world. Stalbus had assured him the thing would drink, but it seemed incredible a being would come into an alien environment and be willing to consume anything. Stalbus had placed a minor sympathy spell upon the tankard as insurance, a minor enchantment that would make it look all the more appealing to any who beheld it, and it was clear from Illoghen’s reaction that he was indeed drawn to it.

The creature reached out for the tankard and lifted it off the ground, drawing it slowly up to its lips. Stalbus gave a small toast with his own mug and took a deep drink, clearly savoring the contents, his example strangely irresistible. Illoghen put the tankard to his mouth and tasted the first hint of the contents, tilting the mug further back as his mouth and throat welcomed the deluge.

Stalbus began to smile, and the higher the tankard rose, the wider that smile became.

“Drink, Lord Illoghen. Drink deep and full. Drink the full flavor of your fell people and the bitter dregs other have left there for you. Drink! Fill your body and your soul with that fiery brew, fill your mind and spirit. For the Avatar of the giants is come again, and the fate of worlds has been altered this day.”

* * *

Joshua stared up at the hideous green clouds that lay like a massive death shroud over the entire valley of the Sanctuary, the canopy which had looked down upon the slaughter of tens of thousands and was now looking down on the deaths of only a few hundred more. Their deaths. Beyond the walls came the roar and shouts of an army in motion, as soldiers responded to the cries of their officers and sought to bring their power to bear on the gates and walls before them. That noise was punctuated by a massive boom that echoed throughout the courtyard of the monastery, resounded off the walls, magnified by the utter silence of the two hundred monks drawn up in careful lines, showing the same disciplined order as when Thelmar had returned. Only now the gates were barred and barricaded against an unrelenting enemy.

Another crashing boom, another unnerving reverberation, the blows coming with flawless timing. But there were no yells or roars from immediately before the gates, from those who would be the first through the breach, a silence that perfectly matched the discipline of the monks inside. This was no sign of control, however. It was the Dead waiting hungrily as the ram battered against the gates, and they had no voice.

“Third quadrant, fourth star!” called out a voice, breaking the silence. Every monk swung his crossbow upward to the exact same angle. “Fire!”

The crossbows unleashed at the same moment, sending a rain of death out beyond the walls, and the only sign of any affect was a momentary increase in noise as men screamed their lives away. Joshua had worried when the first volley had been unleashed less they strike the Patriarchal Army that was contending against the enemy beyond the gates. But the monks knew their business well, and Joshua was beginning to fear that their volleys meant there was no longer any danger of striking friends beyond the walls.

It was strange, waiting here for death to come through the gateway. A power had settled on Joshua, or perhaps had welled up from within him, a perception and awareness that went beyond his simple senses. His vision had never been so clear, so flawless, and it seemed to extend beyond the physical. He could see that Canopy of Oblivion overhead was now hardly more than a bank of dark clouds keeping out the sun, the seething evil that had infected them nearly dissipated. He could get a sense of the levels of seniority emanating from the individual monks and saw that they were arrayed with the weakest on the parapets, and the strongest leading down into the courtyard where the greatest danger lay. But most of all, he could see the light streaming from Thelmar, the Master of the Walls who stood directly before the gate, a brilliance that eclipsed even the sum of the Elemental Masters who stood directly behind him. That even eclipsed the light shining from the Angel Throne in the center of the courtyard where the Patriarch Innocent III sat and waited.

Another boom, the gates quivering in response. The monks had reloaded their crossbows.

“Second quadrant, fifth star!” called out the voice, and the monks again swung their crossbows upward in response. “Fire!”

They’re striking a given part of the field before the gates, Joshua realized as the screams increased once again. There is no need to see. They are simply killing anything within that area.

“Do not fear,” a young monk whispered to him as he reloaded his own crossbow. The monk was roughly Joshua’s own age, and there was a hint of camaraderie in his face as he violated the rule of silence. “The enemy shall not win this day.”

Joshua was standing with Father Rathman, Father Maynard, and several other priests close to the Angel Throne, and the monk was at the end of the nearest line of monks.

“How can you be so sure of that?” demanded Maynard. Maynard had never been involved in any fighting before, and his fear was clear on his face.

“We are gathered,” the monk said simply. “We are one.”

“What in the name of the blessed angels does that mean?” Rathman wondered rudely, but Joshua could only nod. He felt the union around them, the fusing of spirits, a gathering for which his experience had no name, no explanation, but which matched perfectly the young monk’s words: they are one.

“This is not a time for the secular authority of the Church,” the monk explained. “It is a time to be consecrated by a higher power.”

Rathman frowned at him. “Even the highest power may fail against this foe. You are hundreds. They are tens of thousands.”

“The ancient credo takes no notice of count,” said the monk.

“Of what credo do you speak?”

“He will meet them in the courtyard and deliver death to every being he finds there. For to cross this threshold in anger or in stealth is to forfeit life.”

“Seventh quadrant, third star!” called out the voice, and the monk obediently swung his crossbow into position. “Fire!”

The only answer was another thunderous blow. And then another. And another. The gates were weakening.

The Angel Throne burst into gleaming light in preparation, power emanating in all directions, the manna of the Blessed Realms shining forth, but Joshua found it almost a distraction. As the other priests were murmuring prayers of exaltation of the glory of the Patriarch, Joshua could look only on the solitary figure of the Keeper of the Walls, the slender old man standing alone before the Gates as an irresistible enemy pounded against them.

Thelmar had no eyes for the Patriarch and the gleaming throne standing behind him. He had no ears for the relentless pounding upon the gate or the roar of hatred already invading over the walls. He stood enraptured and alone, oblivious to all but the heavens above and the distant whisper of his God. All around, the congregation of monks bore silent witness to the preparation of their master, and despite all the absurdity of the notion, Joshua was suddenly very, very sure that the monastery would not fall.

The test came in the next moment.

With a thunderous crack, the massive lock gave way, and the iron gates swung open, yielding at last to the anger set against them. In charged three stone giants in full battle armor, filling the entrance, their heads level with the walls, and all three glowing with a hellish green radiance that showed the Ohric’s work.

The crossbows of the monks went off as if fired from a single trigger, and the torrent of bolts was a storm of death hurled at the invaders. But while many of the Undead rushing in at the giant’s feet were slain, the bolts that entered the green light vanished in blaze of white smoke. Flames leapt from the hands of the Elemental Master of Fire to envelope the giant on the right, but while more Undead were incinerated, the red flames could not penetrate the green light soaking the creature. To the left, the Master of Earth caused the very ground to envelope the legs of the second monster, but while the thing was slowed, its protecting magics broke through even the power of the ground itself.

All eyes, however, were on the middle giant who roared forward with raised mace against the lone figure of Thelmar standing between the gates and the Angel Throne who seemed oblivious to the threat rushing down upon him. The mace rose and came hurtling down with frightening power to crush the old man with a single deadly blow, but at the very last moment, Thelmar rolled to the side with astonishing speed and left the mace to bury itself in the ground. The Master flung himself forward before the giant could raise the mace and produced two shining curved swords with which he sliced into the monster’s exposed wrist. With a bellow of pain, the creature dropped the mace and pulled back his arm, the wrist half-severed, the hand useless.

Innocent had begun to chant even before the gates had opened, and now with a single word, he sent a beam of light from the Angel Throne to strike the giant on the left. The creature staggered as if struck by a giant fist, and when the light vanished, so too did the green glow. With awesome coordination, the crossbows of the surrounding monks turned as one against the monster, and it staggered again from a hail of bolts that this time struck true. The thing fell to one knee, and two of the Elemental Masters charged forward with their bodyguard to finish the thing.

In the center, the one-handed giant kicked out at the circling figure of Thelmar, and when he jumped to the right easily avoiding the kick, the monster flung a massive rock with his good hand that stuck the small figure with deadly accuracy. The blow was enough to kill any two men, and Thelmar was knocked backwards, his body obviously broken. The triumphant monster charged forward, grabbing its mace as it closed in on Innocent and the Angel Throne.

Joshua, however, was strangely unconcerned. He noticed three monks collapse on the parapet, though no weapon had struck them, and the next instant, Thelmar was swinging back to his feet as the giant passed him. The Master brought both swords slashing up behind the exposed knee of the monster, and with a scream that seemed to shake the very walls, the titan fell backwards, spinning around to brace itself with its one good arm. Thelmar bounded onto the giant’s chest and thrust both swords under the exposed helm and into the thing’s neck. It died in a deluge of black blood, the green glow extinguished.

All attention had been directed to the central monster, and now it was the giant on the right who flung itself towards the Angel Throne. The Elemental Masters opposing it were caught by surprise, the creature’s wild lunge suicidal, and they were not in position to stop it. The two monks in the way were kicked aside as the thing rushed forward, and the guards around the Angel Throne braced their spears to impale the assailant. One spear vanished in white smoke, two more broke against the thick armor, and two more broke through to wound the monster.

It made no difference.

With a bellow that seemed to echo off the green clouds above, the thing brought its mace down to crush the helpless figure poised on the Angel Throne. There was a horrible burst of blood, and the white light that had warmed the entire courtyard flickered and went out.

The giant did not long survive his victim. It had surrounded itself with its enemies and exposed its back to the vengeful Masters, and it died in a matter of heartbeats beneath a score of flashing swords. But the damage was done. All three giants had fallen, but the light that had held the Undead at bay was gone and the walking horrors flooded over the sacred threshold and despoiled the holy ground of the courtyard.

The monks surged in answer, the green tunics of the monks descending upon the invaders like a wave of destruction, and the first rank of the monsters vanished under the perfectly coordinated attack. But more of the Undead pushed forward, almost welcoming their own destruction, and first one, then another, and then still more monks fell as their organization dissolved beneath the relentless assault. Thelmar and the Elemental Masters were in the thick of the battle, and fire, earth, air, and water were unleashed against these walking horrors, each taking its toll, and each monster was replaced by still more.

Joshua felt as if he was in another realm, a realm immune from the madness and slaughter that had erupted around him, a realm that had its own rules and its own requirements. He walked calmly, almost casually, towards the Angel Throne even as the monks threw themselves against the invaders, their advantage lessening with every moment as more Undead forced their way through the broken gates. Walking towards the Throne, Joshua watched the whirling fury of Thelmar as he held his ground against the invaders, watched and understood, understood with the simple, beautiful certainty of faith confirmed. The body of Thelmar was nothing, no more than a shell, his age meaningless, for it was the flawless purity of his spirit that allowed him to channel the power granted to the Master of the Walls. Channel it into the flowing death he was delivered to every creature who crossed that fell threshold.

He reached the winged throne and saw the crushed body lying there, a body recognizable as Innocent only from the blood-soaked clothing. He picked up the dead Patriarch and laid him gently at the foot of the throne, his mind murmuring a gentle prayer as he did so.

Then without thought or doubt, absolutely certain it was what he was intended to do, Joshua sat on the Patriarchal Throne.

Light erupted once more from the extended wings, light that filled the courtyard, light that burned into the eyes, the bodies, the soulless voids of the Undead, light that burned the evil out of them, leaving nothing behind. Light that filled the defenders with a fiery hope that burst into fury. The blood of Innocent vanished in a twinkling as if it had been absorbed by the white marble, and Joshua felt the stone itself becoming animated, responding to his vision. He did not know how to command the throne. He did not have to. It felt like an extension of his body, and he needed to know no more about summoning the light than he did about extending his hand. He took a deep breath, focused on the horrors who were desecrating the courtyard, and the light seemed to double in intensity, the front line of the Undead dissolving into nothingness under the impact.

The crush from outside the gates was continuing, the sheer numbers of the creatures and their unrelenting hunger for human flesh defying even the power of the light, and more monks were dying even as they struggled to turn the tide. Joshua straightened himself in the seat, and the massive wings above him moved once, twice, three times, caressing the air with their divine feathers, pushing away the earth. The Angel Throne rose in the courtyard, the light radiating out now in all directions, searing even the back ranks of the Undead, filling them with a living power they could not endure. It rose higher, above the walls, its brilliance falling upon the creatures still outside the gates, scores of monsters dying from the exposure. It was enough. The monks slew the few remaining Undead in the courtyard that had survived the light, and the monsters outside had turned and were fleeing.

Only then did Joshua see the terrible vista that lay beyond the walls of the monastery.

The white army of the Patriarch lay in bloody ruin in every direction he looked, men and horses alike scattered in the abandonment where death had left them, their proud banners broken in the mud. Northing and Black Watch lay there with them, brothers now in death, but it was the white of Innocent’s army that drew Joshua’s eye, their purity sullied, their strength broken. His wonderfully enhanced vision now became a terrible burden as he could see every wound, every face frozen in pain, every body crumpled by the throes of death. There in the lead was the body of General Alandris, pierced by many swords, his young bodyguards strewn around him as if seeking to protect him in death as they had tried in life. Yet their sacrifice had held the enemy back, and now as the Undead fled from the Monastery’s gates, the human enemy was hanging back, not daring to face that from which even the Undead had fled.

Joshua let out a great sigh, and he allowed the throne to descend once more, settling down into the courtyard. The courtyard was alive with activity as some dealt with the dead and wounded, other were closing and barring the gates, and still others were already at work clearing the debris of weapons and discarded equipment that littered the courtyard. The monks all looked at him without expression, their discipline still holding firm, but the mere fact that they touched him with their eyes was proof of the gratitude they felt. The few remaining warriors who had guarded Innocent were on their knees in tribute, but a figure in golden robes was pushing past them. Father Rathman was bleeding from at least three wounds, the blood turned brown on his robes, but there was no change in the fire in his eyes.

“You must descend from the Throne immediately,” he said, though there was no anger in his voice. “You have rendered a great service, but only an anointed Patriarch may ascend the Angel Throne.”

Joshua nodded as he realized Rathman was right, but before he could move, Master Thelmar was beside the Priest.

“It is the Throne itself that has chosen the new Patriarch,” said Thelmar. “Few can even sit upon the Throne, and none unsanctioned can induce it to perform the feats we have beheld this day.”

“New Patriarch?” gasped Rathman. “Are you mad? A mere slip of a boy set at the head of the Church? The conclave of Bishops is charged with the task of selecting a new Patriarch, and only they can anoint the new Father of the Church!”

“Would you set aside the judgment of the main artifact bequeathed to us by Mirna Himself for the political opinion of a score of old men?” asked Thelmar in turn.

Joshua was as shocked by the monk’s words as Rathman, and he shook his head as he quickly descended from the throne, holding up a hand to forestall the Priest’s response. “This is not an issue to be resolved here. Should the threat return, I will try to utilize the power of the throne again. But I surely make no claim to the title of Patriarch.”

Rathman nodded slightly in agreement, still smoldering at the Master’s words, and Joshua turned to the remaining guards. “Take the Father to the infirmary where he can have his wounds tended.”

As the guards led Rathman away, the Master said quietly, “You and your fellow priest are wrong. A name only recognizes that which is. It cannot create. Nor can it undo what is.”

Thelmar showed not a single wound, not the slightest cut from the desperate battle in which he had engaged. Slowly, Joshua turned and looked up at the parapets, and he saw the monks carrying the bodies of at least a score of their comrades, victims cut by swords and impaled by spears that had never been anywhere close to them. He looked askance at Thelmar, and the monk nodded just once, acknowledging the accuracy of Joshua’s appraisal.

“How can you accept their sacrifice?” asked Joshua softly.

“We are all held by oath to the defense of Mirna and the Sanctuary, and their sacrifice was for their oath, not for me,” he answered simply.

“But to simply stand and wait to die…”

“It is my spirit that is the conduit through which the wrath of Mirna is dispensed. If those unskilled monks had stood in my place, many more would have died, and the Sanctuary itself may have fallen. This we have sworn never to permit.”

“No matter the cost.”

“No matter the cost.”

Joshua just stared at the old man’s steady face and realized it was as set and unyielding as the walls themselves. Which, he also realized, was as it should be.

“Come, Father,” said Thelmar. “We have much to do. This was but the first of the enemy’s attacks, and worse is yet to come.”

CHAPTER 20

Dragon Fire

Mraxdavar the Great stirred abruptly in the throne room of the dragon warrens beneath Caraluthax, his mighty heart racing, his ancient scales long since numb from age tingling back to life. He had known a summons would come, a warning, an… invitation… but he had never expected it to be so clear, so immediate, or so intimate.

He sent forth his voice in all its power, the roar shaking the very rock of the volcano, shaking the souls of every dragon. An instant later, Helexia rushed in, cringing before the open rage of her master.

“Summon the full broods of Bramaclese and Albathor!” he thundered. “We are bound for the Castle of the Winds!”

* * *

Honorium Stalbus stood on the mountain peak before the fortress of Llan Praetor and gloried in the air and the sunshine. After years of confinement, this wondrous vista brought home the full sense of freedom, and he was a little surprised by his own rapture, by the spontaneous sensation of human emotion. Still, he would have enjoyed it a great deal more if the child of the Juggernaut was not standing a few paces away and his own brain did not feel as if it were encased in metal.

The mind-numbing potion was most unpleasant. It caused a steady, throbbing ache in his head and made it nearly impossible to entertain more than a few thoughts at any one time, though it also eliminated the chance of a random or inappropriate thought being read by a telepath. It would wear off within the next day, and there would be no need to repeat the dosage. Quite aside from the numbing potion the creature itself had imbibed, it would soon have ample distractions to keep it from suspecting its new guide.

Stalbus took a deep breath of the frigid mountain air, swallowing it to cool his fears, as he scanned the sparkling clear blue skies. He knew full well that their presence here had sent forth signals, warnings of prophecy fulfilled, of destinies looming, and it could be only a matter of short time before they were under attack by a full pride of dragons, himself, Illoghen, and Argus with the Ohric standing carefully off to the side. Such a glory of sunlight, such an enthrallment of sky. It was a fine day in which to kill. It was a fine day in which to die.

Illoghen was standing before the fortress staring at it with a fixed expression on its dark face, and Stalbus was quite sure there was a silent communication going on between the two entities, a communication he would pay a fortune to hear. The field of force that had shielded the keep for untold centuries had vanished at the approach of Illoghen, the barrier no longer needed. The ancient stronghold of the Giant Lords was stirring to full life as the savior of the giant race stood before it. A mere two eons too late.

The creature abruptly spun around, looking up at the clear skies with sudden alarm, sensing some danger, and Stalbus did not waste time following its gaze. He placed a hand within the secret pocket of his cloak to clutch the ruby of Irubicon it held and turned and fled towards the protection afforded by the hollow of a nearby rock. Any power that was unleashed would center on Illoghen, and Stalbus had carefully noted that partial-cave as the best protection the barren mountaintop had to offer. Illoghen instinctively flung itself against the wall of the castle, and it almost seemed as if the creature’s black skin became blended with the stone of Llan Praetor.

The dragons appeared without warning, emerging out of the thin air as if through a tear in the sky, and the monsters covered the sun and darkened the land with their shadows. Five, ten, a score, three score at least, all with their necks outstretched to rain fire on the world beneath them, plunging down like living meteors, turning the mountain into the flaming torch of some titanic god.

Stalbus felt the living fires engulfing him, the entire world gone red from the dragon bile, the stuff of legends and nightmares, and he exerted the power of the ruby to fling a barrier of power across the hollowed concave of the rock. Just in time. A dozen of the wyrms swept the castle and its surroundings with their breaths, burning the very air around them, and behind them came a dozen more with fresh flames to incinerate the stronghold of their ancient foe.

Fire, fire, and more fire, the elements of air and earth yielding to the red rage, the dragons now lord of all the world, and the heat was building as each wyrm in turn set loose its fire spirit. Stalbus was gasping behind his barrier, but just as he thought the worst had come, the breaths of the dragons were swamped out of existence by an unimaginable holocaust, an incineration such as he had never encountered before, a heat so intense it seemed almost as if the previous flames themselves had taken fire, the blaze consumed by a conflagration out of the very depths of hell itself, the wrath of the Lord of Dragons unleashed.

Stalbus cringed against the back of his tiny cave, his protective shield melting, even the magic being consumed, and he watched with screaming fascination as his own skin was blistered away, only to be instantly replaced by the flashing ruby, the pain delicious, his mind glorying in the terrible instant when death and rebirth were in perfect balance. He knew in that single moment that the fires that roared in the belly of Mraxdavar were kin to the very fires that had given birth to world in its beginning.

Yet for all the devastation, he was not the target of the Eldest Dragon’s attack.

That had been reserved for the spawn of the Juggernaut, and Stalbus doubted that Illoghen even with all the support of Llan Praetor could withstand the firestorm released against him. Nothing, nothing in the Blessed Realms or the Nether Regions could stand against the wyrm rage.

*

The fury of Mraxdavar’s attack was unceasing, as if the sun itself burned in the belly of the beast, and Argus was screaming out loud, as much in fear as in pain. He stood at the edge of the mountain, far from the center of the dragon rage, and he had flung all the power of the Ohric in a feeble shield to protect Illoghen from his enemies’ assault, allowing him to reach the protecting embrace of the castle. But while the barrier had shielded Illoghen from the fire of the lesser wyrms, it had been consumed in moments by the dragon-lord’s anger, no more than cheesecloth on a funeral pyre. Even around Argus, the very rock was melting in this mad open furnace and flowing as lava, the mountain transformed to volcano by the fury of the dragons.

He was beginning to despair of his own survival even at this distance. The scepter had placed protections around him, but heat that could burn rock had begun to heat his eyes, his flesh, the very blood in his veins, beginning to cook him alive even on the edge of the inferno. Then Mraxdavar was gone, flying back up into the open sky, and the minor flames of the lesser dragons seemed like a simple campfire in comparison. Argus was left gasping for the air that was sucked back into the vacuum created by that massive fire breath.

It was time for vengeance. Argus sent forth a beam that destroyed one of the dragons, a gratifying direct blow that seared the beast from head to tail, dissolved into molten flesh, its scales, wings, and head devoured by a single burst of plasma. He crumpled another with a green titan fist, breaking its wings and sending it crashing down to ruin, striking the mountaintop in its death throes. He flung multiple bolts wildly, wounding half a dozen of the creatures, but it was impossible to do more. There were simply too many of the beasts, and they were simply too powerful.

The sun was vanishing once again. The darkness of Mraxdavar was descending upon them, the Eldest Dragon returning to complete the devastation he had begun. Death with reptile wings was come to consume them all.

The Castle! raged the Ohric. Strike the Castle’s wall by the upper keep!

Argus did not pause to frown or wonder. He sent the next surge upward against the highest tower of the keep, allowing the scepter to choose the nature of the spell, and the green power burst against the delicate central turret, the magic illuminating it, agitating it, animating it. The response was instantaneous. The entire structure burst into a strange radiance, a grayish light as if the stone itself were reacting to the attack, but it took no notice of the feeble scepter that had roused it. The four corner towers flung energy towards the central keep, the gleam momentarily blinding, the rock of the mountain itself trembling with the intensity, and then a beam flashed out from that central keep, a beam that cut through the mass of dragons, directed perfectly towards a single target, seeking out an ancient foe.

Mraxdavar!

The beam struck the monster in mid-glide when he was at his most vulnerable, the attack completely unexpected, and the huge ray broke his momentum and began dragging him directly towards the citadel. Undaunted, Mraxdavar righted himself, his wings pounding rage, and unleashed the full fury of his breath against the central keep, matching power with power, enwreathing the tower in such an explosion of flames that it seemed it must surely be destroyed. To no avail. The Wyrm Lord was pulled with ever increasing speed towards the source of the beam, his wings beating futilely against the drag, his voice a helpless anger.

A dragon flew into the beam, trying to interject its own body between its master and his fate, but the beast burst into flames and fell to its death, its sacrifice meaningless. More dragons sent their own fire breath into the stream, trying desperately to disrupt the energy, but the gray light was not to be denied, its lock on Mraxdavar unbreakable, the fusion perfect.

An instant later, the beam vanished and the dragon lord was gone.

*

When Albathor saw his Father vanish into the central tower of the Castle of the Winds, he nearly went mad with rage. The castle, the green scepter, the Juggernaut’s spawn, he wanted to plunge wildly into all of them, encompass their destruction with his own, kill the world with a single crazed act of immolation, and he was just on the verge of casting himself downward when something huge crashed into him. He struggled to keep the sky, his wings folding from the blow, but great claws grasped him, held him in flight. He looked up to see Bramaclese glaring down at him.

“Call back your brood!” Bramaclese roared. “We must withdraw!”

“No!” answered Albathor. “I will…”

His brother shook him, the force rattling his teeth, shaking even his iron resolve, making him look up again.

“I am lord in our Father’s absent!” the dragon bellowed, revealing a majesty that would not be denied. “Withdraw!”

Albathor’s eyes went to the keep where Mraxdavar had vanished, and he said with a small tremble in his voice, “But…but Father…”

“We shall have him back!” said Bramaclese. “But that path winds many turns before ending in the Castle of the Winds!”

Albathor saw the anger in his brother’s eyes and knew he shared the same rage. But he had not let that rage master him. The dragon nodded once in acquiescence and roared for his brood to retreat.

*

As the dragons departed, Stalbus let out a deep sigh that was part relief and part disappointment. Standing amid the dragon fire had felt as if the world itself were ending, and now it seemed as if all the rest of his life would be anti-climatic.

Illoghen was half-falling from the rock of Llan Praetor where it had clung to life, the monster stumbling and nearly collapsing. Stalbus came forward and saw that the smooth black skin was mauled and roughened, the smooth sheen gone. It’s been burned, he realized. It’s been burned badly.

“We go in!” Illoghen announced angrily, turning back to the Castle. It staggered several steps, then righted itself, its pace now too straight and too steady. The huge doorway sprung open at his approach.

“The thing is wounded!” said Argus who was suddenly directly beside Stalbus. “I thought it immune to damage.”

“All things that live can be hurt, My Liege,” he answered. “Indeed, this is the first being who has ever stood unshielded in the full power of Mraxdavar’s breath and survived. And that only by the sustaining power of Llan Praetor.”

“Will it live, think you?”

Stalbus frowned slightly as he studied the creature. “The wounds are serious indeed, but they are not mortal. More, this damage is much to our advantage.”

“How so?”

“There are answers waiting within, answers over which we have little control,” Stalbus explained. “Pain may well give them the meaning we seek.”

* * *

Darius looked down out of the ether at the army besieging the tiny monastery, and even his stout heart faltered with doubt and fear at the vista opening before him. Thousands of the Black Watch and the Silver Horde were arrayed against that single structure, and they formed rings of human steel around the small hill on which the walled buildings sat, rings through which even a mouse could not hope to pass unseen. Campfires burned behind these lines where even more warriors ate and rested, awaiting their turn, clear proof Argus had locked his jaws on the Monastery in a death grip that would not be broken.

Between armies and walls were the carnage of battle, small groups of corpses of men and horses strewn about where the crossbow bolts of the monks had caught them, and neither side was making the slightest effort to bury the dead or care for the wounded that could not crawl clear themselves. This was a war to the death, a battle without quarter, and no effort would be wasted on the fallen until only one side stood triumphant.

The only real activity was in the enemy lines directly in front of the Monastery where three massive catapults were being dragged into position with clear aim at the main gates, and a gang of mountain ogres was laboring to bring up the massive boulders that seemed certain to shatter the portal in a few volleys. The army was waiting and resting, hording its strength against the moment when those gates would be thrown down and the final battle begun. I am come barely in time, he realized.

He directed himself towards the battered portal and let the spell deposit him there, knowing he would be dead within moments if he dared enter the monastery itself unannounced. There were no sentries in sight, nor did he have any words that would gain him entrance. He drew Sarinian and placed it against the gate, the Avenger glowing with power, and without a sound, the gates began to open of their own accord.

There were shouts from within, and an answering cry from the distant enemy, but Darius simply held his ground, any motion dangerous. As the gates opened, at least two score crossbows were pointed at him from different positions on the walls, but directly in front of him was a middle-aged man with close-cropped hair in a dark green robe.

“I am Shalas, the Master of Air,” the monk said simply. “I am sworn to kill you. Have you a reason why I should not?”

Darius heard the total truth in the words and knew he had only a few moments in which to save his life. “I am here to assist in the defense of the Monastery, and you can see the power of my sword is as one with the power within your gates. If they still live, there may be those among your guests who will stand with me.”

Shalas was clearly unconvinced, though he still had sufficient doubts not to order the crossbows to fire. He glanced beyond to where the enemy was already stirring at the sight of the open gates, and he knew he dare not pause longer.

“Father,” he called over his shoulder. “Do you know this man?”

Coming around the gate with his arm in a sling was a yellow robed priest that Darius immediately recognized.

Father Rathman.

For a moment, the two men stared at each other, the Priest’s condemnations and his damning testimony at the heresy trial rising like ghosts around them, and forty fingers tightened ever so slightly on the triggers of forty crossbows.

“I know this man,” Rathman said at last. “And I stand with him.”

CHAPTER 21

The Council of Lords

The Council of the Lords of the Southlands did not seem to merit that lofty title. Instead of the council room of some citadel of legend, the lords were gathered in a small forest clearing of the Spindle with a few camp fires and a dozen guards as the only adornments. They were seated in a rough circle on simple camp chairs, and their uniforms were stained with the dust, the mud, and the blood of a long and desperate campaign. But the surest sign of decline were the members themselves. Only Clarissa and Mandrik were ordained lords and formal members of the council, while Fallon of Norealm was no more than the heir of Thrandar and not yet crowned duke. General Eldros commanded the forces of Maganhall, but he was the mere representative of the regent for Duke Boltran’s infant son and had no true legal authority. Three other people were in the circle, though they were seated on the ground as if to emphasize they had no formal standing with the Lords of the Southlands: Shannon, Jhan, and Adella.

Eldros was summarizing the military situation which had gone from grim to desperate thanks to the forces of Hathage which now blocked any escape to the east, the fresh infantry and cavalry ready to pounce the moment the forces of the bedraggled and battered coalition should emerge from the cover of the wood.

“Before this, I still had cherished some hopes of retreating eastward,” the man said. “The enemy had naught but scouts to the east, and even though they would pursue the moment they sensed our withdrawal, it offered the one chance that we might break their containment. That hope is now ended with the coming of Hathage. The cowards have done no more than string their bows to crush that one chance, as they sit and wait for others to do their killing for them.”

“Argus set the forces of Hathage in motion before the fall of Alston’s Fey,” said Clarissa. “Georg-Mahl has not rushed to do the bidding of his new overlord, but he will not dare treachery. Of that, we may be certain.”

“There was little chance of escape to the east in any case,” rumbled Mandrik darkly. “We have more wounded than cavalry, and I will not leave a single man behind to face the mercies of the Black Watch. I, for one, am done with running.”

There was no answer, their minds pacing like a lion in a cage, walking to the left, then to the right, then back to the left again, finding no escape. Shannon was watching the people gathered in the circle, the shadow of despair that had been steadily growing over Clarissa and Mandrik since the fall of the Fey, the narrow perspective of the aged General Eldros, and her eyes came to rest on the young Norealm Lord.

“You hold your counsel close, My Lord,” she said to Fallon, and Jhan turned and looked at her. “Will you not share your thoughts?”

The young man smiled at her. “You saved me and all my troop from the demon worms, so my heart and my thoughts are yours to command. But I fear I have little hope to offer.” He looked around the circle and continued, “We have done all that we can. In the north, we have pits dug and covered, spring traps set for large legs, and sharpened stakes for giant feet. We will kill our share of enemies, be assured. But nothing we have done or will do can change the final outcome.”

There was a grim silence as each one of them dealt with the terrible truth they were hearing, their deaths inexorably bearing down upon them, no options left.

“We can pull back into a tight perimeter, mass our forces,” General Eldros said gruffly. “We may take a few more of the monsters if we can concentrate our strength.”

No one answered, no reply possible, and then Jhan rose from his seat, pulling every eye towards him.

“My lords and lady,” he said formally. “You say that you will face certain death with any choice you might take. I fear I can find no alternative that might yield a different result. Yet still shall I make bold to put forth a course of action to you.”

“What course might that be, my friend?” asked Fallon.

“To sally forth against the giants and meet them in direct combat.”

There were gasps all around, eyes staring, jaws agape.

“You would have us rush to our deaths?” demanded Clarissa. “Has the forest made you rave?”

“I know well what I ask, and I do not do so lightly,” continued Jhan. “The Ohric has set the giants in motion, and while we cannot yet fathom its purpose, we can be sure they are a vital part of its plan. Eons ago, the Avatar of the Giants gathered his folk just as they gather today and led them through this very wood, intent on seizing a power that would have given the giants dominance over all the world. They were met by the dragons, and their dreams perished at the Battle of Baramalon. Now they seek that goal again.”

“I do not take your meaning,” said Clarissa. “We have not the force of dragons. What would you have us do?”

“I would have you delay the giants.”

“What?!?”

“At all points in this campaign, we have seen that Argus marches to a tight schedule, spending lives and treasure freely to save not just days but even hours,” said Jhan, stepping into the center of the group, his voice growing. “He brings the giants southward with great haste, and I feel in my heart that they are already lagging. Why would he try so hard to destroy your armies on the plains if he knew the hammer of the giants would finish you in the Spindle?”

Frowns, the points scoring, and several of the generals exchanged glances, their minds of one accord.

“It may be the last service your armies can render,” said Jhan slowly. “If all ends lead to your deaths, should not you choose the one that will pay you most dearly for your lives?”

A sound like a laugh came from Mandrik, though his face was as grim as ever. “You make a wizard’s case before warriors, boy. That tally sheet holds no value.”

“Then what of glory, Warrior?”

He turned to see Adella’s cold eyes boring into him. “What of the songs in the lodges of the long years still to come? What of the regard of your sons and grandsons? What of the watching eyes of your enemies out on the plains who wait to see how Mandrik of Warhaven dies? Will you let them sully your name as cowering in a hole until the giants root you out? Or will you make them catch their breaths in cold tribute and secretly rue that were not one with such dour-handed warriors when you meet your foe and your end head on?”

Mandrik had straightened slowly in his seat, and his face had hardened, the woman’s words summoning not the wild fury that would soon cool but the grim ferocity that sees destruction and embraces it. He nodded his head slowly as he looked at the others. “The men of Warhaven will sally forth. In our deaths, we shall honor the code by which we have lived.”

“You will not march alone,” said Fallon, his eyes glinting. “We have fought as brothers, and so have we fought, so shall we die.”

Heads nodded in agreement, a bond sealed.

“If this be your decision, then you have much still to do and little enough time,” Jhan interjected. “March you men northward one league, and be prepared to fall back.”

“Fall back? If we are to march north, why would we not meet the enemy at the very edge of the forest and contest every clearing and every tree?” rumbled Eldros.

“Because a league to the north will put you just beyond the ancient battlefield of Baramalon,” explained Jhan. “As they pursue you across that fell terrain, the giants will sense the spirits of their dead and hear them whispering through the trees. They will not be as hot for human blood when they hear the voices of their war dead moaning to them.”

Approving glances were exchanged, the wisdom of the suggestion clear to all.

“You may not be as eager for my suggestion,” said Adella. “Set a fire line of pyro-stakes just south of the position you choose to help cover your retreat.”

“Pyro-stakes? You cannot mean to fire the wood?”

“There’s a better chance of the fire moving south than north!”

“We’d burn ourselves out of our own cover!”

“Madness!”

“You’ll need to trust to luck,” Adella said, then shot a sharp glance at Fallon. “With a little help from magic.”

The young man’s eyes brightened, and there was a small smile on his lips. “The wizards. The army wizards! Among their spells is the conjuring of breezes. They may be able to direct the fire northward!”

“Exactly.”

“We have only five wizards left in all our forces,” said Mandrik dubiously. “The Spindle is more than a league across. They could never counter a steady wind, and they would barely move the fire even in a dead calm.”

“Barely might be enough,” replied Clarissa thoughtfully. “The giants are tough-skinned, but they have no love for fire. And if the fire once moves northward, the charred wood it leaves behind will keep it from moving southward again.”

“What’s to keep them from simply leaving the wood and coming around on the open plain?” asked one young captain.

“The giants will think of nothing but killing once the battle is joined,” said Adella. “They move as an army, but they fight as single warriors.”

“Perhaps we could try…” began Mandrik, but shouts and screams from behind them stopped him short.

“What was that cry?”

“What alarm? You there! What alarm?”

“Dragon!”

All hearts fluttered, all eyes snapped to the sky. At first, there was nothing but the sunshine of an early Spring day, the sort of day that caused the buds to sprout into leaves and flowers, a harbinger of full Summer. Then a shadow passed between the sun and the land, a shadow that caused even the bravest to cringe. The Wyrm-Dark.

“The beast lands!” came the next cry.

“Do it no harm!” shouted Jhan to the surprise of the lords and lady.

It was Fallon who recovered first. “Hold your hands! Do not strike!”

He turned to Jhan. “What is it you propose?”

“That we go and speak with it.”

*

The dragon standing in the narrow clearing of the camp was huge and filled more than half the available space, and even though it kept its long neck snaked downward, the tips of its wings were still above the tops of the trees. Its silver scales turned to reddish on the top of its back, getting lighter red down its length so that its tail was still nearly pure silver. The claws of its great hind legs were dug into the soft earth, speaking to its considerable weight, and its smaller forearms, still strong enough to rip a man in two with a single swat, were pulled in tight against its body. Its eyes (for those with the courage to look) were a gleaming red that missed nothing as the armed humans watched it from the pathetic cover of the trees, forgetting the conflagration it could hurl upon this forest growth with a single breath.

“Albathor,” breathed the Voice as they came in sight of the monster, and Jhan winced. It would serve no good purpose to be thought familiar with dragons or this particular dragon.

“What say you?” asked Fallon with a frown.

As Jhan blinked, Adella interjected, “He said ‘albathor’. It’s the formal name for a red dragon.”

“I’m not familiar with dragons,” said Mandrik uneasily. “They come in different shades of color?”

“Oh yes,” said the Voice, his eyes still on the wyrm. “And red is the meanest of them all.”

He walked boldly into the clearing, taking the monster’s attention, and even Shannon and Adella hung back at first, not wishing to be part of the target Jhan was creating.

“Hail, Dragon, Lord of Air and Fire!” he called. “You are most welcome to this, the site of your grave!”

“Had I come to fight, this clearing would now be an inferno and all the humans in it burning corpses,” Albathor rumbled. “But I am come to parley, not to kill.”

“We will have no truck with monsters!” shouted Mandrik. “Begone! We have made no terms of parley!”

Albathor thrashed his tail, toppling several of the trees behind him, strong proof of annoyance. Jhan held up his hand and called back, “Patience, My Lord. A dragon does not come easily to parley. Let’s us hear what this one has to offer.”

Albathor bristled at this slight, exactly as the Voice had hoped. Jhan was speechless, knowing that nothing he did would make him any safer, but terrified at the knowledge of the Voice’s plan.

“Come then, Dragon!” he called again. “You have before you the lords of the three free principalities of the Southlands, which is to say the only true lords of these lands. What have you to say?”

“My words are meant for you alone,” he growled. “I have no need for human princes.”

“But my service is at their command,” he answered. “I have not voice to speak nor ears to hear save by their leave.”

The dragon pulled back his head to gain a wider view, a sign of puzzlement, and the Voice waited calmly, confidently.

Finally, Albathor said, “We have a use for your knowledge at the Castle of the Winds which you name Llan Praetor.”

Jhan felt one of his eyebrows going up in surprise. “Indeed? I am eager to know more.”

“There were visitors to the Castle,” the Dragon said carefully. “They passed freely inside. The changes to the structure have continued, and we would value your opinion of its nature.”

Jhan’s heart was pounding. A visitor who could pass freely inside and thus gain the attention of the dragons could only be the Juggernaut. But there had been more than one visitor.

Something yanked his arm, hard, half pulling him away from the dragon. He blinked as Adella spoke softly into his ear. “You have some history with this wyrm, it seems.”

“I do,” the Voice admitted.

“I have never heard of dragon’s begging a parley, and this one would seem a particular poor choice of embassy,” she continued. “Something has gone wrong at Llan Praetor. Something that involves the Dragon Lord.”

Mraxdavar! It was true. The Voice had been so savoring this moment, so sure of its position of strength, that it had given no thought to the implications of the visit. Mraxdavar never would have sent Albathor the Rash on such a delicate mission. And if Mraxdavar were not sending the order, he could only be one of the victims.

“I will come with you,” blurted out Jhan, forestalling the Voice. “I will come with you now.”

There was stunned silence from both species, the dragon as staggered as the humans by the unexpected agreement.

“The three of us will come with you,” interjected Adella, taking a step forward to confront the dragon. “And as aid is rendered, so shall it be returned in kind.”

The Voice was silent, Jhan’s generosity and compassion opening an entire new vista to it. As well as emphasizing its own pettiness and vindictiveness.

“No,” said Jhan. “I will do what I can for the sake of the good with nothing required in exchange.”

There was movement beside him, and he turned to find Shannon smiling up at him, a smile of recognition. A smile welcoming back her friend. She put a hand in his hair, gave it a familiar tug.

“Argus has returned the Juggernaut, just as we suspected,” Jhan said quietly for her ears alone. “It appears he has brought the thing to Llan Praetor, and I tremble as to his purpose. It was Mraxdavar’s greatest fear, and he himself may well have fallen victim to its power. I must return to the Castle and do there what I can.”

Shannon looked around at the people, at the twisted forest of the Spindle with the waiting enemy beyond, at the watching, suspicious dragon.

“As hopeless as this battle seems, I cannot leave,” she said. “It falls to you to find a way to turn the tide.”

Adella turned back and stepped between them, her face quiet, her eyes full.

“We have come many leagues together, you and I,” she said softly. “Over all that long distance, your trust in me has never faltered, even though I have given you ample cause for doubt. I am a liar and a rogue, and only a great fool would give me their trust as you have, and that error should have killed you a dozen times over.”

“I did not trust the liar or the rogue,” said Shannon simply. “I have trusted Adella. And a truer friend I have never met.”

For a moment, the woman twisted her head oddly as if from a gentle blow, but she turned back directly. “Then you must trust me this one last time. A road has opened to us, a road that is dark and twisted, but the only one that does not lead to certain defeat. It is a road both Jhan and I must travel, but you are the fulcrum that has ever kept the two of us in balance. You say your purpose is to help save these men. But you will only die beside them if you remain. This road is the only one to save them as well.”

Shannon frowned her doubt, thinking of all the men who looked to her for courage. Her eyes fell on Lord Fallon, and the young man nodded to her. Even though he had not heard the words, he recognized the indecision and its cause.

“Your battle lies on another field,” the young lord said. “Sometimes it takes the greatest courage to walk away from a fight.”

Her eyes warmed to him, but the words just made her decision harder yet. Then Jhan stepped forward and took her hand, his eyes bright, his lips gentled with the hint of a smile. He said simply, “We go to save lives, which was ever our quest. As we began this journey together, so let us finish it.”

Shannon looked up at him, the two of them once more the childhood friends from the Greenwood, and she smiled in answer and nodded, not trusting her voice. It was so good to have Jhan back with her again.

Jhan turned to look at the dragon and smiled. “The three of us shall accompany you to Llan Praetor.”

“Well spoken indeed,” said Adella. She looked up at Albathor and added, “Such selfless sacrifice should not go unrewarded, don’t you agree, dragon?”

“We shall judge both the aid and the sacrifice before an answer is given,” the dragon said slowly. “Come! We have no time to waste!”

* * *

Honorium Stalbus stood before the massive doors that opened onto the throne room of Llan Praetor like a sainted soul standing before the Sapphire Portals to the Blessed Realms. Behind those doors lay legend, the Mirror Wall whose powers were only hinted at in the forgotten books of scholars long since dead, a window into the past, the present, and the future. Stalbus had plotted and connived throughout his life to gain access to that room, an ambition which had put him in direct conflict with Malcolm, and he had discovered the grim truth that sheer power could not force open the doors of Llan Praetor. The hard lesson of failure had helped him appreciate the extent of Malcolm’s achievement in entering the castle and making it his virtual home for the past two decades. An achievement, he reminded himself, that he now stood on the brink of replicating.

Illoghen reached out its massive claws and pressed against the portals, but they began to open even before he exerted his strength, responding to his mere touch. Just as all the other gates had, they sprang open as if to welcome at last their long awaited master. Stalbus wasn’t sure if Argus had even entered the citadel, for the doors had closed behind them almost as quickly they had opened, leaving scant opportunity for others to follow. Even here, the sage found that he had to step quick as the doors began to close the instant Illoghen had passed.

“The Mirror Wall,” he whispered to himself and was not surprised to see his image smiling back at him even though his face was even and composed. Throughout his long quest for knowledge, this had ever emerged as the ultimate source, a power of the ancient world that held the flawless record of history within it; which meant it also held the key to the future. He longed for the chance to explore the mirror, to test its depth and power, to probe its very nature, and he took a half-step forward, the promise of knowledge nearly irresistible. He was interrupted, however, by Illoghen abruptly mounting the huge stairs, ascending towards the titanic throne that dominated all the room.

The monster seemed to be growing with every step he took, expanding in both power and stature as he approached the throne until he finally reached the top, towering there, his presence overwhelming. Electricity was climbing up his legs, his arms, crackling up either wing to leap from one to the other as miniature lightning, the threat of unrestrainable power. For a moment, he stood there, his yellow eyes blazing like torches, the lightning altering him, burning away the black skin, his entire form heaving as if under some great stress or emotion. Stalbus watched in awe as the bolts seemed to join with the titan’s body, covering the black form and changing it, transforming it, completing it. As the bolts subsided, there stood on the dais a magnificent giant warrior with flowing yellow hair and superbly muscled body.

“The Avatar of the Giants is come again,” Stalbus whispered to himself in reverence to the culmination of a god’s cunning and power.

Illoghen stared down at his new body, hands in place of claws touching skin instead of hide, blue eyes staring out from a humanoid face, the expression that of one awakening from a dream; or a nightmare. He flexed his mighty shoulders, stretching the arms out to feel the muscles ripple, to feel the strength of giants emanating from his chest, the strength to crush anything that might dare try to impede him. The fingers brushed against the right side of his face, and they trembled at the feel of the distorted flesh running the entire length of his body, the hideous burns inflicted by Mraxdavar, the pain still fresh and real, the transformation powerless to heal the damage inflicted by the Lord of Dragons. The fingers paused but did not linger, the burns an issue for another time and another place.

Then Illoghen sat on the throne of Llan Praetor. Light erupted from the Mirror Wall, engulfing the entire room in a blinding radiance so bright that Stalbus was forced to throw his arm over his eyes to protect them. There were sounds within the light, voices and cries and animal growls with more distant sounds that were impossible to identify, and so great was Stalbus’ curiosity that he forced his eyes open by the narrowest slit against the brilliance. The room itself seemed filled with figures of all forms and sizes, their outlines barely discernible against the light, but Stalbus could make out giants and smaller forms that were perhaps humans. It was too much for his watering eyes, and he turned away, but not before he saw the figure on the throne staring down at the display with full attention that saw everything and missed nothing.

For endless moments the flood of lights continued, and Stalbus moved slowly away from the mirror, still trying to peer at the exhibition and grasp its meaning. There was the unmistakable form of dragons swooping through the spectral skies, and armies marching across the lands, castles were crumbling, cities emerging, prospering, and dying, great fleets setting sail, and huge caravans rumbled in eternal motion, seeking for markets they never seemed to find. The spires of cathedrals rose into the skies only to have flames rise higher yet, floods crashed down to wash away entire towns, and mountains broke and tumbled beneath the convulsions of the earth. Stalbus realized the Mirror Wall was responding to the will of Illoghen, and it was displaying these images at the rate he required, the performance scaled perfectly to the master’s needs and abilities. Finally, his eyes could endure the glare no longer, and he threw both arms across his face in an attempt to save his vision.

The sounds finished abruptly, the spectacle at an end, and Stalbus tentatively backed his arms away, testing his aching sight. There was a single sound approaching, a large form descending from the dais, and he blinked furiously in an attempt to clear his eyes. He could just make out a huge figure looming over him, the giant with the flowing yellow hair whose chiseled, handsome face that still bore cruel burns from Mraxdavar down one side. Then he felt himself seized in a crushing grip and lifted off the ground.

“You would use me for your own ends,” the giant growled in Illoghen’s voice. “You are treachery.”

The ruby of Irubicon was virtually touching his palm, and the tiniest gesture and the briefest of thoughts would summon the demon lord here to do his bidding. Argus was only a shout away, and he could be counted to bring the power of the Ohric to bear to stop this monster. Simpler yet, Stalbus could summon heat into his hands, a fiery touch that would mean instant agony should he but brush the creature’s still half-charred skin.

But Stalbus did none of this. Instead, he grinned and opened his mind, trusting to the power of the potion to continue to do its work. The weapon he would choose for his defense, the weapon with which he would defeat this monster, were words.

“It is true,” he said. “You are but a piece in the great chess game played out between the gods, as am I. But what choice does either of us have? The mirror has told you no lies. Indeed, it is quite incapable of telling even a half-truth to the true master of Llan Praetor. Even now, the remnants of Surtur’s kin gather to their slaughter, summoned by the whispers of the dead of Baramalon, a species marching bravely to their own extinction.”

Illoghen’s eyes shot to the mirror, the memory of all he had seen still fresh in his face, and Stalbus pressed on.

“You have been reborn, Lord Illoghen,” he pronounced. “The long plan of the divine Surtur has been completed, and an Avatar of the Giants stands once more upon the world. You can sit here on the guiding throne and watch the end of the giants, or you can fly to their aid and perish in their midst. But either course will still mean their deaths and yours. All courses lead to that end. All courses, save one. That sole option is the Sphere of Life. The Sphere that once you sought.”

Illoghen, breathing hard, tightened his grip for a moment, making Stalbus’ eyebrows rise not in fear but it surprise, and then the creature tossed him down. It continued to stare at him, and Stalbus could feel its thoughts moving across his brain like spectral fingers, seeking, probing, poking. He continued to leave his mind open, confident that the potion would protect what needed to be protected.

“Your knowledge is young as a small child not long in the world,” Stalbus said softly. “But your wisdom is as old as Llan Praetor itself. You know the roads laid by the gods in the ancient times, the roads set for the Avatars of their species, and those roads still await your feet. The Sphere is the means by which a great species brought low by treachery might still achieve its rightful position, if only its chosen lord has the strength, the wisdom, and the stamina to seize it. The Sphere is the means by which the perfidy of dragons, dwarves and men might yet be overcome.”

Stalbus could feel the giant’s anger, its fury at finding itself driven down a closed canyon, its choices eliminated, and he marveled at the astonishingly complicated plan that had brought the Avatar of the Giants to such an impasse. It would go after the Sphere. It now had no other choice, even though it was fulfilling the grand design of some other being.

“You know…where the Sphere…is to be found?” Illoghen asked haltingly.

“Oh, yes,” said Stalbus. “And we are even clearing a path for you.”

* * *

Darius stood on the parapet of the Sanctuary with Joshua and the Master of the Walls, all three watching as massive boulders were strenuously loaded into the three waiting catapults. The forces of the enemy had gathered at the edge of the encircling ring, gathered though no signal had summoned them, the warriors sensing the approach of the decisive moment of the siege. Darius’ trained eye studied the size and construction of the timbers, the distance to the Monastery’s walls, the hasty repair done to the battered gates.

“We must destroy those catapults,” he said, his voice stern. “The gates will not stand even a day of the battering they can deliver.”

“But we have not the force to sortie out against them,” replied Joshua. “Outside these walls, the monks will be slaughtered.”

Darius glanced at Thelmar who was calmly surveying the activity that would shortly breach his walls, his face composed, even relaxed. Off to the side, the four Elemental Masters stood in quiet attendance on their leader. None of them offered anything. He let out a low sigh at the game, even though he understood the necessity.

“That stone meadow on which the catapults sit is so perfectly placed it could have been made by Argus himself,” Darius said. “It is situated right at the very head of the valley, where the oxen and horses can easily reach. It is the only level area in all this rolling ground. And it faces the main gate which must be the target of any assault.”

Joshua’s eyes went from the watchful Paladin to the expressionless monk, and he frowned as he asked, “I don’t understand, My Lord. Are you saying we have somehow been betrayed?”

“No, Joshua,” the Paladin answered. “I am saying a dreadful error appears to have been made, an error understandable from simple rural monks. But we know it was not simple monks who built this monastery.”

Thelmar looked again at the tall warrior and said simply, “We will make our stand here. Within these walls. As the builders intended.”

“You will make no stand at all,” Darius shot back. “Once the gates are destroyed, the magic that protects the walls and the grounds will be broken. The enemy will not make the same mistake as before and storm the breach the moment it is made. No. They will continue to pound the walls, the buildings, and the occupants until there are no more rocks to hurtle. Then he will bring all his force against you, scaling the walls, forcing the gates, pouring through the breaches they have pounded. There will be far fewer monks, and they will have much more area to defend. What stand will you and the others be able to make then, Master?”

He stepped closer to the Master, and Joshua tried to take a step back, to give them a moment of privacy, but something held him there, made him part of the moment. Darius studied the old monk, seeing the disciplined nothingness in his face, sensing the turmoil carefully controlled deep within.

“You know,” said Darius slowly. “Your mind…sees…understands…”

There was the tiniest flicker in the Monk’s eyes, an acknowledgement and an admission. Finally, he said, “It is called a Vision. It is granted to the Master of the Walls…in times of difficulty.”

“You see,” Darius continued. “You see the necessity as clearly as I, yet you hesitate. Why? What is it that your Vision tells you?”

“That life is tied to the destruction of those machines,” Thelmar said softly. “But it shows me not the road beyond…”

Darius’ ears perked up, hearing much more than words in the old monk’s voice.

“You do not see their destruction as part of the defense of the Sanctuary?” asked Darius.

“No…”

Both men fell silent, feeling the presence of fate about them, as a warning whispered in some strange language, only the tone discernible, rich with danger.

There came a distant “thwung” that called every eye, and they spun to see the first catapult trying the range. They watched as the rock it threw rose in the air, appearing to grow in size with every instant as it flew closer and closer to the walls before plunging back downward, a meteor hurtling down to forge their destruction. It landed with a resounding “thwump” as it buried itself in the ground, clumps of earth flying upward, and they felt the faint tremble in the stone of the walls from the impact. It had fallen a dozen paces shy of the walls and just a few steps right. But as they watched, a sizzling green smoke emerged from the ground around the boulder, the earth being devoured by some caustic substance.

“Acid,” muttered Darius. The boulder had been enchanted with some destructive power that would eat away at whatever it struck, adding corrosion to the physical blow.

The second catapult fired, the second boulder burying itself off to the left. With the same hideous green smoke.

The rock from the third catapult hit the wall beside the gate, and the entire Monastery shook from the blow, the sound of the rock being devoured by the acid audible to all within.

Already, the men manning the catapults were preparing the second volley.

Without a word, Thelmar turned away and walked over to his Elemental Masters, all five monks speaking in quiet earnest tones.

Darius turned and raised an eyebrow at Joshua. There had been such a rush since his arrival that they had hardly had a chance to exchange even a dozen words and none in private. The young man had changed in the short time since they had last met, his eyes sharper, his brow more furrowed, his jaw set firm.

“The monks say it was you who saved the Monastery from the first assault,” he said quizzically. “Even Father Rathman has respect in his voice now when he says your name, and that is surely the highest tribute I can imagine.”

The young man shrugged, but his brow was weighted with a frown that told Darius there was much that was still unclear in his own mind.

“They praise me. Praise me even though I did no more than sit in a chair. Even though I merely pulled a dead man from the seat and took his place,” Joshua said, stumbling a little over the words.

“Your actions saved the Sanctuary and every person in it,” Darius answered gently. “There must be more to your anguish than that simple act.”

Joshua shook his head, turning away. After a long moment, he said, “I…I was reminded of when I was made priest. An honor bestowed for no effort. No achievement. The lowliest monk cleaning the sculleries is more worthy of their praise than I.”

The Paladin’s eyes softened, and he gave the young priest’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. He looked around at the waiting monks, the solid stone of the parapet, the clean earth, and he forced his mind back to the hideous nightmare through which he had passed, the dark memories of the Nether Regions. Haltingly, he said, “I have spent many recent days in the company of a true priest of Mirna, a man who displayed tremendous power that stemmed directly from his faith. Do not dismiss the power you displayed on the Angel Throne, for there the will of Mirna was made clear to all, far beyond the ancient rites of the Church. Stay true to the faith you carry within yourself, Joshua. For beyond its power in battle, it is a beacon that will lead many out of darkness in the days to come.”

Some of the strain was gone, but Joshua’s face still bore a frown, a doubt even those words could not ease. He looked across the courtyard at the decimated ranks of the monks and said softly, “But what is the good of the victory we have gained if we are only to fail in the end?”

Darius took a step closer, capturing the boy’s attention, and he said, “I have been to the Nether Regions and learned that the fate we forge in this life follows us through into the next. We fight to gain a victory, it is true. But even more, we fight to keep our hearts pure. We must follow the path of righteousness, for if once we stray, we may never find our way back. Joshua, believe me when I tell you that if we hold troth, there is no defeat.”

Joshua’s eyes widened, but his response was interrupted by the sound of all three of the catapults firing and the whistling of three more meteors rushing through the air. One hit the ground. A second hit the walls. The third struck the gates clearly, making them buckle before bounding back. Green smoke rose from each impact, and all could see it would not take many more such blows to rend the gates asunder.

Thelmar returned, his face grim and hard, a fell decision made.

“There is a way,” he said simply.

CHAPTER 22

The Dragon Unleashed

The doors of Llan Praetor were shut.

Jhan stood before the sheer wall where the massive doors were hidden, his magical entreaties nothing but echoes on the mountain winds. Adella and Shannon stood behind him, along with the towering presence of Albathor, but they were not alone. A huge golden dragon which the Presence knew as Bramaclese was watching from a high point off to the left, while countless dragons flew overhead or perched on the rocky crags of the peaks, waiting impatiently for the return of their lord.

The entire mountaintop had been blasted by an unimaginable cataclysm, the stone burned and twisted into hideous shapes, and the energy barrier that had encased Llan Praetor for centuries was gone. But the Presence did not believe it had been blown away in the fire storm that had engulfed the mountain. Rather, it seemed the barrier had vanished of its own accord, as if it were no longer needed.

On their previous visit, Jhan had entered the citadel by simply touching the walls and willing an entrance to open for him, but now, not only did the main gates remain shut, but even the small portal Malcolm had created refused to open. The appearance of the castle had refined itself once again, and it was now a perfectly formed fortress standing proudly in the sunlight, all trace of the rough mountain rock gone. Jhan looked up at the smooth towers and the flawless ramparts, and he had the unmistakable feeling that he had accidentally arrived at the wrong castle.

He stepped closer to the barred entrance Malcolm had created, studying both doorway and stone, and his eyes widened as he felt the power of the castle emanating out at him. Never had he dreamed that stone could be so conscious, so vibrant, so…alive. Incredible as it seemed, Jhan realized far down in the pit of his stomach that the castle recognized him, actually knew who he was, an achievement as shocking as a man recognizing an individual ant. He reached out and touched the wall of the fortress, and his fingers jerked back in surprise. Cautiously, he touched it again. There could be no mistake. There was a warm pulse within the stone. Llan Praetor was fully alive.

Words were being directed at him from behind, questions and suggestions that were nothing but a distraction, and he stepped back and held up a hand to silence Adella, Shannon, and the dragon. After a moment of reflection, he stood forward and cast an empathy enchantment, a spell that could enable him to gather impressions from an area or an inanimate object. The sort of spell that might give a hint or a clue of what might have passed by recently. But instead of some faint residual, Jhan actually staggered under the surge of power that struck him from the castle. For a short moment, man and stone were fused as one, and Jhan was a helpless, uncomprehending spectator as images and thoughts flew between the two entities, an exchange that answered all the questions for which the Presence had sought for so long. And raised as many new ones.

Hands were on his shoulders, hands pulling him backwards, away from the stone, away from the answers he so desperately needed, and he spun around to give a bitter rebuke to whoever had dared interrupt him. But he nearly collapsed as he turned, the offending hands now helping to hold him upright, and his biting reply came out as nothing but gibberish. He blinked, tried to focus, and he finally recognized Adella’s hard face staring at him.

“Take a breath!” she was shouting at him, shaking his shoulders, though he barely felt her touch. “Jhan, take a breath!”

He was reeling, the blue sky, the snow-capped peaks, the anxious faces all blending into one, overwhelming image of the castle with many shattered parts of the communication they had shared.

“You are tora…the Life within the Stone…but the master…is come…at last.”

“…duty done…his task still before him…”

“…treachery…”

“…hold…must hold…”

He was coming back to himself now, the chilly winds finding its way into his lungs, and he vaguely understood that the empathy spell, though broken, still retained some magical link with the stone. There was a tie, a union between the Presence and the castle, a link that no longer required magic to bridge the gap between them.

He took a deep, deep breath and nodded once to the Thief. He got his feet beneath him again, flexed his arms, and put the palm of his right hand against the skin of the castle. This time, he knew what to expect, and the discipline the Presence had mastered over a lifetime of training came now to steady him.

“Am I not tora?” he asked, using the word the castle had used to describe him. “Am I not the living one? Am I not joined with you?”

“…yes…”

“Then grant this final boon, this one request,” he beseeched it. “Release the entity that has been imprisoned within you. Give back that which you have taken.”

There was a long silence, and then came the slow response, “…the master has named it enemy…cannot…now…”

Jhan found his hand nearly petrified from the contact, from some fusion of stone and flesh, and he willed blood to flow into the fingers, flexed the hand back to life. He looked up at the gleaming facade of Llan Praetor, and Jhan had to struggle to keep the Voice from calling out loud to the Castle.

“Jhan,” came Shannon’s voice. “Jhan, are you all right?”

He nodded reassuringly, the two women continuing to keep a single hand on each of his shoulders, but they were not the ones he needed to address.

He looked up at the waiting dragon. “The castle has been awakened and now serves only the spawn of the Juggernaut. Llan Praetor will not release Mraxdavar as long as the monster lives.”

“Then this monster shall die,” Albathor hissed instantly.

Jhan blinked and was surprised by how gentle was the response of the Voice. “It is not so simple. They are bound now for the Sanctuary to retrieve the Sphere, and if once the creature obtains it, the Giants shall emerge as the chosen children of the world, and Mraxdavar shall never again see the light of day.”

The dragon’s head twisted first to the left, then to the right in a hypnotic dance while whispering in a strange, exotic language that had Jhan stupidly staring. But the Presence within him was untouched by the Dragon Song.

“This is the time for trusting, Albathor,” the Voice said, and the dragon recoiled at the sound of its proper name. “Deceptions will avail us nothing.”

Only once before had the dragon heard its name come from human lips, and it stared with hard, suspicious eyes at this mortal who dared to offer it such an insult. Jhan was trembling in fear as the monster brought its enormous maul close to peer and to sniff, but the Voice held his limbs steady and forced him to stare down the beast. The tiniest smile lifted the one corner of Jhan’s lips, and Albathor jerked back as if he had been struck.

There was recognition in the wyrm’s reptilian eyes, recognition, respect, and a cold, smoldering hatred that was more frightening than its close inspection, and he barred his teeth in what might be a snarl or a grin.

Jhan was about to say more when Adella put a hand on his shoulder.

“What must be done next?” she asked.

“We can do no more here,” he announced reluctantly, to both her and the waiting dragons. “The castle will not yield.”

“Will not yield?” repeated Adella incredulously. “What pig mash is this? You are one with the stone! It will heed you! Do not ask it to release the dragon. Tell it to!”

“Llan Praetor is grown,” he said as if in explanation. “It is nearing the apex of its power and its purpose. The child of the Juggernaut…”

She stepped forward and put a hand lightly against his chest, the action silencing him.

“I have seen you here,” she said softly. “I have seen you walk right through the solid wall of this castle and command its power from a seat that no human was meant to reach. We were lost within its bowels for days, so I know what ability it has taken to command such authority. What wisdom. What power. The stone has not forgotten you, cannot forget you. Use that power. Use it now. Command the stone to release its prisoner.”

“This is pointless,” he said, and tried to push her hand aside.

Adella grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and shoved him roughly back against the stone. She pressed against him, leverage allowing her to keep him pinned against the castle wall,

“We will try again,” she said patiently.

“How dare you!” the Voice shouted. “I shall blast you to…”

It never got another word out. Adella’s free hand seized his hair and drove his head into the rock, hard enough to assure him that far worse was possible.

“Have a care for your threats, wizard,” she snarled softly. “I do not release enemies once I have their throats. Trexler threatened me, and he is now only a name the plainsfolk use to frighten their children. Believe me when I say you will be much easier to kill.”

Jhan felt the Voice hesitate, and he hastened to add his assurance that Adella had known all the details of Trexler’s demise which had convinced even Zarif that she was indeed the slayer of the Black Wizard. The Voice tried to counter that he was the more powerful spellcaster, but Jhan cut that down flat with the assertion that Trexler was ever so much more vicious.

There was a pause, and then the Voice said aloud to both Jhan and Adella. “You have convinced me.”

The woman eased back on the pressure she was exerting, but she came even closer as she held him in place against the castle wall, the assault becoming almost an embrace.

“Focus now,” she whispered, her breath hot in his ear. “Take control. You are the master. You are the Life within the Life. The Soul within the Soul. Firmly now. Firmly!”

Jhan felt the hesitation within the Presence at this new approach, the concept of command completely foreign to one who had spent decades simply trying to understand the castle, to coax a response out of it. The Presence had come to think of it as a companion, almost a friend, and the idea of exerting authority over it was unnerving.

“Think of the castle as you would a magical device,” she urged him. “Forget its size, forget its complexity. Summon your will. Exert your mind. Control it as you would control your staff!”

Jhan sensed the comparison to the staff was wrong, a wizard’s staff being perfectly attuned to the caster and thus requiring no act of will. But if the example were off the mark, the approach struck the dead center of the target. The Presence had spent its entire adult life mastering the magics of the world, and it knew exactly what was required to master an item with a magical intelligence, no matter the size.

He shrugged his arm loose from Adella and placed the palm against the castle wall, this time seeking to send a message rather than receive one.

“…tora…”

“The entity within you is to be released,” he stated flatly.

“…cannot…the master…”

“You not only can, but you must,” he insisted, exerting his will to match the words. “The master is new to the world and does not understand you as I do. The entity within you is a dragon, the creature anathema to your race, to your very being. It is poison to you, its flesh contamination, its life a growing cancer that must devour you in the end. You were not forged as a prison, most assuredly not as a prison for the great wyrms, and that corruption even now eats at you, diverting you from your true purpose, from the fulfillment of prophecy!”

Jhan sensed this was a gamble, a chance, and yet he also felt the confidence, the certainty that this was the path to take. He could feel a stirring within the stone, a response to at least some part of what had been said, and then he frowned. The stone was adding other details, drawing its own conclusions. Beginning to think for itself!

“…the green power…”

Jhan’s eyebrows rose as he sensed the connection the castle had made, and his heart began pounding as he sensed the opening. The Voice was not slow to exploit it.

“You see it now,” he said. “It was not the master who commanded you to take the dragon within your being. It was the green power, the alien force. The corruption. Reject the corruption. Expel the contamination. Free yourself of the dragon!”

There was a rumble within the stone, a vibration that began deep within its foundations and seemed to rise throughout the entire structure to the topmost tower. It echoed in the empty halls, a whisper in the abandoned rooms, a silent cry of treachery and betrayal, of perfidy to it, to the dragon, to the newly born master. There was revulsion and a rage that had no voice, an emotion the stone was never meant to experience now setting its very fabric atremble. That shiver, that pulse, that quake grew with every passing moment, and Jhan leapt back in alarm, fearing the castle itself might begin to crumble.

All eyes turned to the area between the towers where lightning began to flash, the crackling energy leaping from the pinnacles to crash together above the central keep, only a few bolts at first, then more, then a lightning storm turning into a steady stream of electricity creating a sphere of glowing power around the central keep. Llan Praetor was struggling against its own defenses, seeking to open the barrier of the walls just as the Ohric had done. Breaching its very fabric in an effort to expel the foreign presence within it.

There! The energy seemed to be opening the central keep, revealing the interior of the castle, and within the glowing sphere was the recumbent form of a titanic dragon. Mraxdavar! But the Eldest Dragon seemed to be moving only slowly, mind and body both lethargic as if asleep or under enchantment, and he showed no sign of awareness of the opening created for him.

“The power of the castle has subdued him,” the Voice cried out. “He cannot free himself!”

There was the first small break in the gale of electricity streaming into the central keep, the first sign of a faltering, and all watching knew instantly that this opportunity was about to lapse, the chance of rescue slipping away, perhaps forever.

Bramaclese launched himself into the air, a stupendous golden arrow making for the sphere that constrained his Father, but while he was the first dragon to move, he was not the swiftest. Albathor exploded as a fiery meteor from the ground and flew like a streak of flame directly at the cracking sphere, and as he was the closer, he left his older brother behind. The Red Dragon unleashed his breath weapon as he approached, the inferno within him roaring forth to clear a pathway through the lightning, flame and bolt contesting in the thin air above the castle. Onward he flew straight and true, unflinching, unfaltering, and that utter determination served him well. The wall of lightning began to open, cleared by the dragon breath, and Albathor made for the gap, the rescue of his Father now at hand.

But the power protecting Llan Praetor was the greater. Even as the Red Dragon neared the gap, bolts of the lightning were beginning to arc through the flames, his breath weapon faltering. Still he flew on, heedless of the crackling threat, and his great wings pumped even harder, propelling him forward in a last burst of speed.

To no avail.

Even as he entered the gap, the lightning crashed through the encasing flames and struck the dragon, freezing him in mid flight, the power like some monstrous hand reaching out to crush a moth. The electricity slashed into Albathor, bolts cleaving both flesh and scales, ripping muscles and sinews from bone, burning the life from a creature that lived with fire. The dragon roared in agony, a death cry that shook the very mountains, and the sound of his son’s pain seemed at last to stir the drowsing Mraxdavar. The Great One raised his head and seemed to perceive his surrounding for the first time, but it took no time at all for him to grasp the situation and act. His son was perishing in the deadly energy of his prison in order to hold open a doorway for his escape, and he hurled himself forward through the opening, seizing the helpless body of Albathor as he passed and pulling him free from that murderous storm of lightning.

Instantly, Mraxdavar came to earth, laying the stricken dragon down gently, but the terrible wounds inflicted by the bolts ranged up and down the body of his son, the black blood flowing freely, his internal organs exposed, merciful death but a few agonizing breaths away.

“Albathor,” Mraxdavar said, and it was the voice not of the Dragon Lord but of a father mourning a son. Albathor stirred at the uttering of his name, but even more by the strangely gentle tone in his Father’s voice.

“Do not grieve for me, Father,” the Red Dragon gasped slowly, the black bile choking his words. “My past sins are now cleansed. The purpose of my life…is both revealed and fulfilled. Can any…being…ask more?”

The great head drooped as life passed from the mighty body, and death claimed Albathor the Red.

Mraxdavar threw up his head and let loose a roar that seemed to shake the very framework of the world, a warrior of the ancient times roused at last to the height of fury, the loss of a treasured son ripping a cold heart that had never before known grief. For endless moments that cry continued, and every being human or dragon who heard it trembled with fear and exaltation, their hearts quivering and glorying in the power thus revealed.

The Eldest Dragon turned to Bramaclese and said in the Dragon Tongue, “Return to Caraluthax with the body of your dead brother and gather there every dragon who can fly. Then bring our vengeance down upon the heads of the gathered giants! Be it Baramalon or not, we shall match the courage of our slain son and go forth with fire into battle!”

The Gold Dragon paused for only a moment, his own heart filled with the loss of a brother and the fell pronouncement of his Liege and Father, and then he took to the air again, his own terrible voice summoning a hundred dragons to his side. As four of Albathor’s sons attended to their fallen father, the mass of wyrms gathered swiftly, their shadows darkening the earth to terrify all that came within that darkness, and then they flew faster than the ethereal winds eastward, eastward towards Caraluthax, the Mountain of Death.

Slowly, Mraxdavar turned away from the body of his son, his eyes coming down on Jhan, and even with the strength of the Presence within him, he trembled to fall beneath that dreadful gaze.

“Come, Wizard,” the Eldest Dragon growled, his voice death. “We have found our common cause at last. We shall go and kill the child of the Juggernaut and any that would stand at its side!”

* * *

“Below is the Althor Nastra, the Forbidden Path,” said Thelmar, his voice a warning. “All those who walk those corridors without the protection of the Order must suffer death, their bodies burned, and the ashes stored for all eternity in the very passages they would defile.”

Darius nodded his head once in acknowledgement, the gravity of the situation all too clear. He was about to descend to passages denied to all living things by the gods themselves, and the power of the monks in the monastery had been crafted to prevent the very outrage he was now about to perpetrate.

He was standing in the central chapel of the Sanctuary, a simple shrine with a few benches, blank walls, and an elaborate altar with a magnificent tree of life carved into the wall behind it. Thelmar and the four Elemental Masters were standing before him, and at his accepting nod, they turned and placed their hands together on the altar. There was complete silence as the four monks focused themselves, and then with a “crack”, the altar parted in the middle and the sound of stone grinding against stone filled the chapel as the two parts were pulled asunder to reveal an opening behind.

Darius took a step forward and swallowed hard as he saw a stone stairway leading down beyond the limit of sight.

“Shalas and Turbus shall accompany us,” Thelmar announced, referring to the Masters of Wind and Fire. “Morbian and Felos shall hold troth.”

The Masters of Earth and of Water bowed and stepped away, and Thelmar led the group down the passage, his two scimitars drawn and radiating light. When Darius came up to the threshold, he hesitated for just an instant, though the entrance was large enough to permit even giants to pass without trouble. Then he stepped forward across the threshold and became guilty of sacrilege, his life dependent now on strict obedience to the monks and their unwavering code. Behind him, Shalas and Turbus followed, and as they entered the stairwell, the altar closed behind them with a grinding that echoed down the passage like the sealing of a tomb.

The wide stair turned slowly, winding its way downward into the unknown, the dimness parted by the gleaming weapons of the Master of the Walls. There was an overwhelming sense of pressure, as if the weight of all the stone of the world was pressing down around them, and the only smells were of rock and dust, the odors of the crypt. Reluctantly, he drew Sarinian from its scabbard, even though there was no danger of attack here with Thelmar guiding them. The walls themselves were emanating a faint radiance, perhaps some residual from the powerful magics that had forged them, so there was no need for additional light from the sword. But in this deadly place, his hand needed the reassuring grip of a weapon, and his heart longed for a familiar voice, even if was that of the Avenger.

Why must we pass through such a place to find the enemy? asked the sword. Charge rather across the open field in the bright light of day.

We would all be dead within a hundred paces of the gate, Darius answered silently. This secret way holds our only hope.

They reached the bottom of the stair in a surprisingly short period, for Darius had thought of the steps as going down forever into the bowels of the earth. They were in a corridor that ran straight and narrow before them, and he shivered at the sight, the cold of the area only partly to blame. Thelmar had proceeded only a short way down this passage, and he was now moving one palm slowly over the stone of the right-hand wall, leaving the others to stand and wait.

This is a darkness that does not know the world, said Sarinian. Those who perish in this place shall leave behind their souls as well as their ashes.

Darius swallowed again, but not just from the warning. For the first time in their long association, he heard a note of respect that bordered on fear in the cold voice of the Avenger.

There was a loud snap, and Darius jerked at the sound, turning to find Thelmar peering down a second passage that had opened beneath his touch in the right wall. The Master looked back at him.

“As to the passage straight ahead?” Darius asked, unable to get his voice much above a whisper.

“That is the path to death,” the monk replied. “This is the only way open to us.”

Thelmar entered the side passage, and Darius hastened to follow him, grateful to be out of that central corridor. This passage was much smaller, clearly made for man-sized creatures, and they were able to make good progress along its way. Odd that I should prefer this passage, Darius thought to himself, considering it leads to ten thousand enemies.

CHAPTER 23

The Breaking of the Sanctuary

The earth trembled as if in fear, the leaves of the trees fluttering for an instant even though there was no breeze, the deep roots sensing the approaching terror. There was a sound of a distant crashing as of wood splintering beneath some powerful force.

“They come.”

Captain Henlik spoke the words calmly with a warrior’s steadiness, but Fallon knew his friend well enough to recognize the intensity that lay just beneath the surface, the hard discipline that held a warrior’s fury in check. Another crash, already closer, their enemies smashing their way through the heavy foliage of the Spindle.

“The giants have not paused at all before entering the wood,” Fallon answered. “Thank the fates and the monsters’ rage that they have rushed to battle. I would not have cared to meet their attack in the dead of night.”

Behind them were several hundred of their own men waiting uneasily for the first appearance of an enemy while the rest of their force was deployed evenly to their left and to their right. Somewhere beyond their right flank, Clarissa and the army of Gemsbrook were enduring a similar wait, while off to the left, Mandrik and the men of Warhaven did the same. Their line stretch across the entire length of the Spindle, a pathetically thin barrier against the forces marching down upon them, but Fallon suddenly felt very sure they had made the right choice. The giants were lumbering along blindly, their ranks broken by the forest, and they were perfectly staggered for the small groups of men awaiting them

His eyes shot off to the left where one of the distant trees shook suddenly, some oaf of a giant colliding with it, and then a deep-throated scream echoed through the trees, a shocking sound from the lips of some creature not accustomed to giving voice to pain. Men recoiled at the sound, but Fallon said loudly, “It would seem at least one of our traps has scored.”

“If it screams, it means we didn’t kill it,” muttered Henlik in answer. “In this struggle, it will only be the killing blows that count.”

Fallon did not bother to hazard the opinion that a giant wounded half a league off would be that much easier to kill when he finally dragged himself into battle. Clarissa had sent word that some of the giants seemed to be wasting time smashing down trees for no clear reason, but Jhan had predicted that the giants would be distracted and enraged as they entered the ancient battlefield of Baramalon. The young man was proving wise far beyond his years, and Fallon found himself wondering once again at the fellow’s keen insights. Thoughts of Jhan brought another face to mind, and he hurriedly set that image aside.

“Halmlin, bring your pikemen forward!” Henlik shouted suddenly, and Fallon realized there were dark shapes in the trees just ahead. “Perrone, ready your archers!”

“We should send word to Elgar on the right flank…” Fallon began and then stopped abruptly, his ears catching some distant sound.

It was a chant of some kind echoing through the forest, a word or phrase roaring from the lips of many giants, and it seemed to Fallon to be a warning, a threat, a promise. It was building, growing with every step the giants took, a battlecry from five thousand throats.

“What? What is it they are saying?” asked Henlik, his voice suddenly hoarse.

“Illoghen,” replied Fallon, the word dropping from his lips like lead, even the sound somehow chilling. “It is a name of some kind. May Mirna grant we never learn its full meaning.”

* * *

Thelmar, Master of the Walls of the Sanctuary, paused before a massive stone gate that blocked the entire tunnel and turned back to Darius. They had just traveled a long and confusing route through a maze that the old monk had navigated unerringly, a labyrinth to confuse even the clearest mind, and Darius realized an invader might well die in those loops and twists without ever finding the route into the Sanctuary.

“The builders, in their wisdom, saw fit to create this tunnel, and the catapults of the enemy lie just beyond this door,” Thelmar said. “But the builders also knew that a necessary exit might also be an unwanted entrance. Once this gate is open, it will seal behind us, and only my hand will enable it to open again. Is that clear?”

Darius nodded and tried to restrain his impatience. The labyrinth through which they had just passed had taken much longer to navigate than he had anticipated, and he knew the enemy’s catapults had not been idle during that passage. Time was critical, more critical, perhaps, than these cautions, though Darius could not help glancing up at the ceiling of the passage. He had absolutely no doubt that if the stone door were broken by force, the entire corridor would crumble to seal this access forever. Should Thelmar die in the coming battle, this escape would be denied to any survivors, and ten thousand enemies would stand between them and the closed gates of the Sanctuary.

“We are too far from our brethren for the healing power of their bodies to aid us in this struggle,” the monk continued impassively. “Beyond this door, we shall have the powers entrusted to us, but we can be slain as easily as any other monks. A single well-fired arrow could end any of our lives. Is that clear?”

Darius nodded again, and he met Thelmar’s piercing gaze unwavering to show he understood and accepted all that the opening of this gate implied. Thelmar also glanced at the two masters behind him, Shalas and Turbus, but there was no question of their acquiescence. They knew all too well the fate of the Sanctuary was at stake, and they could be counted upon to defend it unto death.

Thelmar nodded once in acknowledgement, then said, “Beyond this door is a short passage that ends in a simple wall of dirt. When I place my hands upon that dirt, it will vanish, and we shall be exposed to the power of the enemy.”

“And he shall be exposed to us,” said Darius grimly. “Come, my friend. The gates of the Sanctuary do not grow stronger as we pause here.”

There was the tiniest spark of comprehension in the eyes of the monk, the barest appreciation for the courage of the Paladin, and then he turned and placed his hand against the stone of the door. Instantly, the door began to open outwards, moving with an ease that belayed its obvious weight, and it did not make a sound. Not the slightest sound.

As predicted, the stone of the passage gave way to a tunnel cut through the raw earth, and it went only a little way before ending abruptly, almost as if the tunnelers had been called away and left their task unfinished. They proceeded forward, and Darius had to restrain a doubt as they approached that abrupt end of the tunnel. It looked like an impassible barrier to him. Then Thelmar put his hands against the dirt, there was a small flash of magic, and the raw earth vanished, opening from the side of the hill into the semi-darkness that now passed for daylight.

Directly before them were the three massive catapults that were hurtling boulders at the walls and gates of the Sanctuary. Each of the machines had two mountain ogres attending to it, the ogres pulling back the arm of the catapult and then laboriously lifting the huge boulders and setting them into the basket. There were half a dozen humans attending upon each machine as well, the men who directed the ogres, aimed the catapults, and fired the rocks on command. One of the weapons went off even as they emerged, the rock flying behind them, aimed at a target at the top of the hill.

For a few precious moments, the operators of the catapults paid no attention to the new arrivals, the monastery their only interest and dangers of attack the furthest thing from their minds. Shalas went to the left, Darius to the right, and Thelmar jumped onto the hillside behind them. Turbus, Master of Fire, stepped forward, pointed at the nearest machine, and sent a wave of flame to engulf it, the fire driving everyone backward, while the Master of Air was casting a wind that lifted the nearest guards and hurled them away with the force of a full gale.

The momentary shock quickly vanished, and the angry guards were drawing weapons, warning cries and shouts pointing the finger of vengeance at them. Darius killed one guard, slipped the blow of a second and swung fully around to bring the Avenger down through the man’s feeble defense, and he brought his armored elbow crashing into the head of a third. He leapt over to the side to intercept another black armored warrior who was charging Turbus, the Fire Master, even as the monk was gesturing at the second catapult. Darius cut the man down and then ducked instinctively as the flame erupted from the Master’s hands and enveloped the second machine.

The flaming siege machines were sealing off one line of attack, and Darius turned to defend Turbus’ exposed side when a small group of guards went flying past him, caught in the conjured wind of the Master of Air. He had only a moment to glance up the hill where the Master of the Walls was positioned, and he was stunned to see a score of black-clad bodies already strewn at Thelmar’s feet. Even as he turned back, he saw the monk pivot artfully in the air and kill one guard to his left and wound another to the right with his other scimitar, a killing machine working to perfection.

There were simply too many. No matter the skill, three warriors could not defend a single man against the onslaught of an entire army, and the flaming catapults were attracting retribution as nothing else could. Darius slashed Sarinian across the belly of one assailant, nearly severing him in two, and cut the arm from a second, but two more had pushed passed him, and a thick spear pierced his chainmail, leaving a nasty gash on his left side. He gave ground, swinging the Avenger around in a half-stroke that broke the spear in half, and then another gust of wind cleared away a swath of assailants, giving him a moment’s respite. He turned and intercepted another fighter trying to get past, but even as he slew the man, he saw Shalas, the Master of Wind, impaled on two spears, blood gushing through his lips even as he vainly tried to summon a last gust to the defense of his colleagues.

A ball of flame erupted right beside Darius, sweeping through a crowd of the Black Watch until it struck the final catapult, much of the power of the fire expended on human flesh. Turbus was trying to bring his defenders a moment’s respite, but while many of the human assailants were swept aside by the power, two hulking figures were charging forward, the ogres who worked the catapult were coming to the defense of their machine. Darius was hopelessly out of position, and he braced himself against the coming blow when a small body leapt through the air and seemed to make a motion of blessing as it landed directly in front of the first ogre. The monster stopped as if amazed by the audacity of this fragile human, but Darius noticed blood flowing from the thing’s neck just before the head fell from its shoulder, the victim of Thelmar’s razored scimitars.

There was no time to attend to the second ogre. The warriors who had slain the Master of Wind were rushing down upon the second monk, and Darius lunged and killed one, and Turbus flung himself aside just in time to avoid a spear thrust and brought a jarring kick down on the skull of his attacker. But three more spear thrusts skewered the Master of Fire. Darius threw himself desperately upon the attackers, driving in close where the spears could not be used with effect, and while he killed one, the others were able to pull back where they could make their weapons bite. He was swinging around to face them when the lithe figure of Thelmar interceded and severed the heads of both attackers with a single motion.

Darius was left staring at Thelmar who had dispatched the second ogre and still intercepted the attack against the Paladin’s flank, but the Master of the Walls was already pointing up the hill. All around them, the Black Watch had paused as well, all their attention taken by the monastery. Darius turned in time to see the waves of Black Watch and barbarians sweeping forward in a final assault even though the gates were not breached, but any puzzlement was dispelled a second later as a titanic figure descended directly in front of the gates in a globe of green power, along with half a dozen smaller figures. Darius immediately recognized the power of the Ohric, and he knew the doom of the Sanctuary had come.

Darius did not wait to see more. The pause was too precious to waste, their one chance to escape, and he already knew the outcome at the gates. He swung out one heavy arm and scooped up the surprised Master of the Walls, literally lifting the old man off his feet and rushing back towards the tunnel only a few paces behind them.

“The Sanctuary is breached!” cried Thelmar. “We are too late!”

Just before he plunged back into the tunnel, Darius looked up to see the battered gates open before Illoghen, broken by the same power that had pounded through the walls of the Drift and Nargost Castle, and wave after wave of the enemy was already charging towards the breach to seal the fate of the monastery. He had the impression of a storm of crossbow bolts unleashed against the titan, but he knew how useless the gesture was, bolts that should have gone against humans wasted against the behemoth.

He enveloped himself in the darkness of the tunnel just as the spell on their assailants broke, and there was a roar from many throats as the pursuit began. Thelmar was at the stone wall when the first of the Black Watch entered the tunnel, and the gate was swinging open as Darius met the first thrusts of the enemy. He killed one, then another, giving ground as he withdrew into the open tunnel, and the stone gate began to swing shut the moment he was clear. Several of the warriors pushed against the gate in an attempt to hold it open, but the power that animated the stone was not to be stopped by any mortal means. Two halted as the door closed, and Darius cut down the only one who tried to push through the narrowing passage, leaving himself in the silent tunnel with the Master of the Walls.

The Paladin was at a loss for words, his grand plan to destroy the catapults achieved and yet the gates of the Sanctuary still breached. Breached, with their main defender pulled away where he could do nothing to prevent the slaughter.

And Argus was now within the Sanctuary. Argus, and the demon scepter.

Darius opened his mouth to say something, anything, to Thelmar and found no sounds that could express his despair. The monk was standing quietly, as if lost in thought, until Darius noticed darker stains on the man’s green tunic.

“You are wounded, Master!” he exclaimed.

“In spirit more than body,” the old man answered, already moving down the tunnel, back towards the Sanctuary.

“I have some power to heal,” he said haltingly even as he followed the man.

“We have no time.”

The shortness of the words seemed to pierce Darius, and he slowed, guilt dragging his heels. The monk noticed and turned to look at him.

“Darius, do not surrender to guilt or to despair,” Thelmar said. “I made the decision to take this course, and I will say no word of regret, even though it has cost me two of my closest friends and defenders.”

“But…the Sanctuary…”

“The Sanctuary and even its defenders are nothing,” the monk replied, the words shocking Darius’ ears. “All that matters is what lies in the corridors beneath. You feel as if by pulling me away, you have caused the monastery to be lost. But I see in this the hand of Mirna. I saw that the way to life lead through the catapults, and the cruel truth of that Vision is now revealed. For I could not have turned the tide that even now washes the monastery in blood, yet my oath would have required me to stand and be slaughtered with the rest. Only your intercession could have pulled me away from that fate. And perhaps spared me to fight again in the defense of the Sanctuary’s true treasure.”

Darius’ eyebrows rose at that thought, and much of the heaviness left his heart.

“Come and be swift, my friend,” the old man said. “It would seem our paths are twined as one.”

*

As the gates of the Sanctuary broke, so did Joshua’s heart.

The entity bursting through the shattered portals appeared as some mutilated giant with half his face charred and nearly melted, but as he sat upon the Angel Throne, Joshua saw the power this being carried within, an energy that eclipsed the Ohric coming in its wake, eclipsed the power of the Angel Throne, eclipsed even the ancient walls of the Sanctuary itself. It was a being that had an intrinsic right to the corridors beneath the monastery, and the defenses of the Sanctuary would be sorely tested to deny it access. In a burst of understanding, Joshua realized the Sanctuary was composed of a divine manna, established by the power of their god. And the energy within this giant was its equal; its equal and more.

A burst of green power came surging towards the Angel Throne, and Joshua met it with a simple thought, the white aura dispersing the green glow without trouble. Then, in a blaze of defiance against the looming defeat, Joshua summoned the aura and sent it back as a blinding radiance to momentarily stagger the invaders as they stormed into the courtyard, many of the Black Watch throwing their arms across their eyes and dying to the blows of the defending monks in consequence.

The blonde titan seemed unaffected by the light and took no notice of Joshua or the throne, making its way across the courtyard as it headed for the central building. The green beam burst out again, though this time it went wide of the mark, passing above the Angel Throne, and Joshua paid no heed to its intent. He was summoning another display of radiance when he heard a wild cry of “Look out!” and someone was charging up the stairs of the throne towards him.

He had no time to turn. Something was falling, something knocked loose from the building behind, something that was smashing through the wings of the Angel Throne. The person charging up the stairs struck him fully, knocked him from his seat just as a mass of stone crushed the throne itself on which he had been seated.

Joshua was bleeding, but the blood on him seemed out of all proportion to the pain he felt. He was sprawled at the foot of the broken throne, dazed and disoriented, half buried under the façade of the building that had been brought down upon him by the beam from the Ohric, his right arm broken, his right leg pinned. As he struggled feebly to right himself, he discovered that most of the blood on him came from another body, a body that had been broken under the impact of the hurtling stone, a body dressed in the golden robes of a priest of Mirna.

Father Rathman.

Joshua let out a choked sob, brushing the bloodied hair of the dead priest, but he could not deny the twisted irony. In the end, Rathman had perished as he had lived, trying to protect the Church from the power of Argus.

Men were screaming, fighting, dying all around him, the monks waging a hopeless battle against the invaders. But all Joshua could do was to murmur a quiet prayer for the dead priest who had saved him and beg Mirna for a miracle to save them all.

*

Argus laughed out loud as men died on every side of him.

Illoghen was paying no heed to the slaughter of hundreds as he pushed his way past the few monks who tried to block his way, the majority of defenders killing and dying with the Black Watch which was pouring through the broken gates. One monk lunged at Argus and received a blow from the Ohric for his trouble, the man’s head dissolving into red jam from the mere touch. Honorium Stalbus was even closer to the monster, sheltering in his shadow, while Al-Luthrax and three of his senior priests tried to stay in the creature’s wake. The assault had been flawlessly timed, and just as Stalbus had predicted, the monks were specifically targetting Illoghen, their powers enabling them to recognize one of the Avatars of the gods. Recognizing that this was one being whose entrance to the tunnels below they had been placed here specifically to prevent. And were it not for the overwhelming assault of the Black Watch, they might very well have succeeded.

Still, as Illoghen smashed down the doors of the main building, Argus frowned back at the dead in the courtyard, many gathered around the broken Angel Throne. It had been too easy, he thought to himself. He had always understood it would take an army to break through the barrier of the monks, even with the might of Illoghen and the Ohric combined, but he had the unsettling feeling that something had escaped the slaughter, something significant, something still to be faced. But he had no time for reflection as he hurried after the Red Priests and entered the main building.

Illoghen burst through the next set of double doors into the main chapel, the huge altar dominating the room with the Tree of Life adorning the wall behind it. Argus frowned again, wondering if the monster was off track, and the Red Priests hung back, having no desire to enter a chapel consecrated to hated Mirna. But he needn’t have worried. The giant strode over to the altar and with unerring accuracy, seized one side and pushed it away to reveal a massive staircase descending into dimness. Even Illoghen paused for a brief moment before descending, and the humans gathered behind and tried to master their reluctance to follow.

“After you, my liege,” said Stalbus with a crooked smile and a mock bow.

Argus snarled an obscenity at him and led the way down in the wake of the monster. He noticed that Stalbus continued to loiter near the entrance, and he turned and barked a command.

“Just preparing a little charm,” he replied as he carefully positioned a small gem at the base of the first step where it would not be noticed.

The Red Priests walked past him, the stairway easily wide enough for them all, and a moment later, he stood up and smiled as Argus glared his question. “A minor spell to tell us if we are pursued, my liege. We need no more surprises in the tunnels before us.”

CHAPTER 24

Pursuit

The pyro-stakes had been ignited, and the Spindle was an inferno of blazing trees and dying warriors.

Fallon was standing in a small clearing with a band of Norealmers fighting a giant whose thick hide-armor was ablaze from the inferno that surrounded them on three sides. The monster was already riddled with a score of arrows that had done nothing but enrage him, and he swung his massive club with the fury of a cornered animal. The club smashed into one of the men beside Fallon, knocking his head from his body, but the young lord took advantage of the blow to rush in close to the giant and bury his sword half way into the monster’s stomach. It bellowed as much from anger as from pain and jerked backward, pulling the sword loose from Fallon’s hand. But even as the thing readied an answering blow, more men charged in against it, one spear handled with particular skill piecing the giant’s throat.

The creature gagged, grabbed the shaft of the spear and snapped it like a twig, but the black blood was pouring from the wound where some critical artery had been severed. The giant twisted desperately, grasping its throat, its life gushing out between its fumbling fingers, and a moment later, it dropped down to a single knee. The humans backed away, knowing the kill had been made, and they watched as the eyes glazed over, the monster collapsing at last, its body nearly filling the entire clearing.

“These things aren’t easy to kill!” gasped Henlik beside him whose spear thrust had finished the monster. “We’ve lost three score good men already, and this one makes barely a dozen we’ve dropped!”

“Better to count the ones that are still standing,” Fallon replied, looking around. He could make out massive forms moving through the flame and smoke on either side of them. “We need to retreat, or we’ll be cut off!”

“Mandrik warned us the army wizards might not be able to send the entire wall of fire northward. That boy, Jhan, did us no favors by suggesting pyro-stakes.”

“The fire may not be turning the giants,” said Fallon, “but he seems to have been right about the confusion it’s causing. They’re attacking as individuals or small groups, not as an army.”

“A good thought, but if we keep falling back, we’ll run out of forest,” replied Henlik.

“No danger of that,” replied Fallon with a death’s head grin on his smoke-blackened face. “We’ll run into the remains of Argus’ army long before then.”

Henlik laughed outloud at the morbid joke, and men on all sides perked at the sound. “The giants, Argus, and the flaming trees all contending for my hide! Let’s go and see which one wins the prize!”

*

Thelmar was stumbling. He had been leading the way through the labyrinth without the least hesitation, guided by some instinct or marking of which Darius was unaware, but for the last hundred paces, he had been slowing, his footsteps faltering. Finally, Darius had reached out and seized the old man’s arm, bringing his to a stop.

“We have no time,” the monk said, though Darius was appalled by his feeble attempt to break free. He held firm, forced the man to rest against the wall, and Thelmar dropped down into a sitting position, his legs giving way beneath him. Darius quickly checked the wounds, and he was surprised that while numerous, none of them appeared serious.

“I can heal these with little trouble, Master,” he said, already taking the first wound upon himself and making it pass away.

“It is not the wounds themselves that slow me,” Thelmar said through a small cough. “It is the decline of the Sanctuary.”

“The Sanctuary?” repeated Darius as he took the next wound from the monk.

“They are dying,” Thelmar said weakly. “My charges. My defenders. My friends. They are dying as they fight to the last against the enemy pouring through the broken gates. They honor their oath with the last of their blood.”

Darius frowned at him. “You fought a heroic battle outside the range of the monastery, and suffered little hurt. Now you are weakened as you come closer to the source of your power?”

The old man shook his head. “The link that binds me to my brothers does not go in a single direction. While I may not suffer their hurt, I am not immune to their suffering. As I come closer, the pain increases.”

Darius nodded, removing yet another gash from the man’s arms. Thelmar tried to rise, but Darius gently held him down.

“I can do nothing to ease their suffering, Master,” he said. “But these wounds would take a toll on any man, whatever his age. We will rest, and I will heal what I can. There will be no chance to do so later.”

The monk did not resist, and Darius realized that was perhaps the clearest evidence of his decline.

*

The corridor around them was moaning in pain or anger.

Illoghen was in the lead with Stalbus directly behind him, followed by Argus with Al-Luthrax and his three Red Priest in the rear. The moaning sound had seemed to grow up around them, a low groan that had been nearly inaudible expanding with each step until it now seemed like the keening of some giant just around the next bend in the corridor.

“What is it?” called Argus, a frown masking his anxiety.

Stalbus glanced over his shoulder and said, “There are few tales of the passages beneath the Sanctuary, but there are said to be a series of tests through which those who seek the Sphere must pass. I would venture we are approaching one of them.”

Illoghen rounded the next turn, and it was if the creature had stepped into a full gale. His hair was flung wide with the force, and he bowed his head to push into the breeze, his step slowed. When Argus turned the corner, it was if someone had thrown open the door to a storm, and he gritted his teeth and squinted against the mad wind. The entire passage was howling a warning of death, and invisible hands were plucking at their clothing and slipping chilly fingers beneath their armor. The corridor had made a simple turn, and the distant whisper of wind had turned abruptly into a torrent of air that seemed to be increasing in intensity with every step they took.

“How is it to be countered?” he shouted to Stalbus and was enraged to see the renowned sage shrug his shoulders.

“No one who has ever passed this point has lived to record the encounter!” he yelled in turn. He grinned as he added, “We shall be the first to weave this tale!”

Argus growled a curse in answer and crouched as he tried to shelter in the lea of Illoghen, for the giant had hunched down on hands as well as feet and his fingers appeared to be gripping the very stone of the floor. They drove forward, the gale increasing with their every step, the wind coming from some unknown source and passing as quickly into oblivion somewhere behind them. Argus tried to move closer to the spawn of the Juggernaut, but nothing could protect his ears from the noise, and he quickly became conscious of nothing but the bellowing air.

Part of the stone wall to the left suddenly gave way, opening a window not on dirt or more stone but on blinding blue sky that seemed to extend on forever, the wind rushing triumphantly through the gap to slap them with an icy hand.

“Push on!” cried Stalbus, actually shoving Illoghen in his haste. The titan drove forward against the wind with renewed strength, the others following in his wake, but more blocks of the corridor were falling away as if ripped off by the force of the gale. Part of the roof disappeared, but far more terrifying, a portion of the floor gave way nearly beneath their feet, vanishing into the breeze to reveal nothing but endless blue sky, a fall forever into eternal blue nothingness.

“It is reforming behind us!” cried one of the Red Priests, and Argus glanced backwards to see that portions of the first section of the corridor seemed to be reforming as if some gargantuan being outside were putting the blocks back into place.

Another of the Red Priests, panic stricken by the dissolving corridor before them, turned and fled from whence they came, seeing safety in the reassembling blocks behind them. He took no more than three steps before the blocks again buckled beneath him and dropped him into endless blue sky, his screams devoured by the distance and the rushing air.

The blocks were falling away faster now as the wind tore through the passage, the entire corridor beginning to tremble as if it were about to be shattered completely by the storm. Stalbus grabbed hold of Illoghen’s belt as the giant leapt over a gap in the floor, clearing it easily, but leaving the rest of them behind. Snarling, Argus willed his anger into the Ohric, and the scepter shot forth a wide green beam that covered the gaps before them. He charged forward, knowing that if the entire corridor gave way, this beam would not save them from that eternal fall, and Al-Luthrax with the other two Red Priests pressed hard behind him, slipping and grasping as the green beam vanished immediately after he passed.

Illoghen had reached an iron door that blocked the exit from the corridor, and Argus’ heart was pounding with fear, the walls around them now more air than stone, and he knew if there were any delay at the portal, they would all be doomed. Illoghen laid his hand on the handle of the door, and it opened with gratifying ease beneath that massive fist. The two of them passed through, and even as the corridor dissolved into nothingness, Argus and the Red Priests made it over the threshold.

Behind them, the corridor reassembled to look the same as any other passage, the wind quieting to a distant howl. Argus slammed the door shut.

“Fascinating,” said Stalbus, his quiet voice abundantly clear in the sudden silence.

“What is fascinating about a plunge through eternity?” demanded Argus angrily, as he tried to compose himself.

“The Test of Air,” he answered easily. “A link, perhaps, to the fabled Elemental Masters who are said by some to guard the Sanctuary. I am beginning to sense the nature of this place. The gods of the Outer Realms would never set their own defenses about the Sphere, for they could never agree on their nature. It would seem they have chosen the natural defenses of the world instead.”

“I wonder what would have happened if any of us other than Illoghen had been first to touch the handle of that door,” said Al-Luthrax, his voice remarkably calm in face of the ordeal they had just passed.

Stalbus smiled. “That is why our friend is in the lead.”

“We go,” grunted Illoghen, turning his back and pressing on down the corridor.

*

Shannon looked down at the battle raging beneath them, and she was horrified by the sight of the slaughter enfolding. They were floating through the ether, she and Adella grasping hands with Jhan, and below them, an army was pushing its way through a broken gate into a walled compound, a few green-tuniced defenders still struggling against that overwhelming horde. Scattered around the compound in all directions were the corpses of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of the Black Watch and the Silver Horde, grim testaments to the skill and ferocity of the defenders. But the final struggle was playing out even as they approached, the reality of a fight with no quarter revealed in all its savagery.

And somewhere, down there amidst the slaughter, was her father.

“The Sanctuary,” said Jhan quietly. “It has always been right here in the middle of the Southlands for all these centuries.”

“We are come too late,” Shannon said. Too late. For everything?

“The dragons do not think so,” replied Adella. “Look!”

Three massive shapes had come plummeting down through the remains of the Canopy of Death, Mraxdavar and two of his children, and they were aiming themselves directly for the broken gates of the monastery. They were falling like rocks from a great height, but their flight leveled off swiftly as they took aim at the press of warriors gathered tightly beneath them. Faces were turning, men looking upward into the avenging heavens, their souls warning them long before ears or eyes took note, and Shannon’s heart pounded in sympathy at the first flush of terror as they saw the Lord of Dragons descending upon them.

Mraxdavar unleashed his breath on the very rear of the crush of warriors, his companions sweeping the sides with their lesser streams, and it was as if a volcano had been emptied from the sky upon the massed army. Men vanished in the flames, the sea of fire sweeping steadily forward, unrelenting in its intensity as it covered every single human in its path.

Shannon was screaming, reaching out as if to seize a dying hand, the deaths of so many in a single moment tearing at her very soul. The dragon inferno continued right up to the gates and on into the courtyard of the compound, the mass of black clad warriors and barbarians incinerated by the power unleashed against them, but Mraxdavar relented at the last moment, sparing the buildings and the few remaining defenders from his ire. The dragons flew on, leaving an army of charred corpses in their wake, the few survivors running for their lives from the carnage and the wyrm-shadow.

“Shannon!”

She turned to find Jhan desperately grasping her hand, the arm in danger of slipping free, and she realized she was close to breaking contact with Jhan which would cancel the spell and send them all plummeting down to the ground. He shook her hand, hard, steadying her, forcing her to focus.

“We have no choice,” Jhan told her firmly. “We must enter through the gate.”

“There?!” she cried. “Among the dead?!”

“We have no choice,” he repeated firmly. “Only entry through the gates will allow us to elude the defenses set about the Sanctuary.”

“Close your eyes, if you must,” snapped Adella. “I’ll shed no tears over dead enemies.”

Shannon took a grip on herself and nodded once. She felt them descending as Jhan brought them towards the gate, and she noticed the dragons had looped around as if to make another pass. But as she watched, the two lesser wyrms departed and flew off to the north, leaving their dread father to approach the gates on his own.

They emerged from the ether to the smell of burning meat. Their feet straddled corpses still smoldering from the dragon fire, and even Adella flinched as the bodies jerked and spasmed, still in their final death throes. Inside the courtyard, the few remaining invaders were being dispatched by the surviving monks, though it appeared as if no more than a single score had survived the onslaught. Shannon kept her eyes on these precious survivors, focusing on the life that remained, not on the legions of the dead.

One monk in a green tunic was making his way towards them, stumbling as he came, though he did not seem to be troubled by the dead that choked the courtyard. As he drew nearer, they saw his wounds and the dark stains on his tunic that marked still more wounds beneath. There was a “whoosh” as a gigantic body came to earth behind them, Mraxdavar landing within the full swath of his victims.

“I am Morbian, the Master of Earth,” the monk gasped simply. “I am sworn to kill you. Have you a reason why I should not?”

Shannon looked at him aghast and said, “You are dying! Let us help you!”

She started to move forward, and both Jhan and Adella seized a hand, holding her back.

“I am Mraxdavar, Father of Dragons and Avatar of my Race,” answered the huge being behind them. “I do not seek the secret placed by the gods in the deep places beneath this Sanctuary. Rather, I am come to stop others from seizing it. Step aside, guardian, for myself and these three who accompany me.”

The monk, however, made no effort to move. “The Sanctuary is broken and with it, the power of the Order set to defend it. Your fire destroyed our enemies and gives credence to your words. But I am sworn to take a blood-toll on any who cross this threshold without the leave of my master.”

“You would strike against those who seek only to hold your secrets safe?” rumbled the Dragon. “We alone can prevent the failure of the oath you have sworn. We alone can now thwart the designs of the green scepter!”

Morbian hesitated for just a moment, though it was clear that the menace of the dragon was having no effect upon him. Suddenly, he swirled with astonishing speed, and Jhan let out a short cry, looking down at his arm where the smallest of cuts had appeared. The monk held up a dagger for all to see, a single drop of blood gleaming from the tip.

“The blood-toll is taken,” he said to the few weary survivors in the courtyard. “Our duty is satisfied, my brothers. Stand aside.”

As she passed, Shannon turned to the injured monk and asked, “The Paladin, Darius. Is he here?”

The monk looked down towards the bottom of the hill where some sort of siege engines were in flames. “He accompanied the Master of the Walls to destroy those machines. If he still lives, he is in the corridors of death beneath this monastery.”

With that, Shannon turned and hurried after the others, hope and fear combining to overcome the nausea she felt at the sight of the victims of the dragon fire, the bodies of monks now mixed with Northings and Black Watch, bound together in the common brotherhood of death. Mraxdavar led them towards the first building, though how he knew the way none could say. She reached the edge of the slain and stepped once more on solid ground, breathing the easier to be free of that open graveyard, and she found Adella waiting for her.

“Your father would have survived a simple raid on a few catapults,” she said softly.

“But how would he fare in corridors that are forbidden to all mortal men?” Shannon asked, her voice tight.

“That we shall soon learn, for we are to trespass through those same corridors.”

They turned as Mraxdavar burst open the doors of the building, and while the opening was huge, the dragon was forced to scrunch down nearly onto his belly to pass through. A second set of doors followed that entered into a small chapel dominated by a huge altar and the Tree of Mirna on the wall behind it. However, the altar had been moved off to one side to show a passage leading down into darkness.

Jhan let out a low sigh and turned to the dragon.

“Our fate lies now before us,” he said. “To enter the Sanctuary is only to enter the realm of the monks, but to enter the passages beneath is to enter the realm set aside by the gods themselves. There are said to be dread tests to keep out the unworthy, and death a hundred times over waits at the end. Even if we are to survive, the lives of all who cross this final threshold shall be forever changed.”

Adella’s answer was simple. She drew Bloodseeker from its hidden scabbard and moved down the stairway, the dimness fleeing before the sword’s fell light. Mraxdavar, too, growled an acknowledgement before following in the wake of the thief. Shannon and Jhan were left looking at each other, doubts and fears holding them back. And then Shannon reached out and took his hand, and together, they followed the dragon down into the dark.

*

There was a small trickle of water coming from a tiny crack in the wall of the corridor, and Stalbus pointed to it as if in warning.

“If the distance from the last test is any measure, we must be close to the next trial,” he said. “From this sign, I suspect that will involve water.”

Argus and the Red Priests looked at the walls in alarm as if expecting them to give way to a torrential flood exactly as had been the case with the Test of Air, but Illoghen was pressing grimly onward without regard for what awaited them all ahead.

Stalbus was following when he stopped in his tracks and turned sharply to look down the passage behind them. Argus frowned and followed his gaze, seeing nothing but the empty corridor they had already passed.

“What is it?” he asked. “What do you sense?”

“The warning gem I left at the entrance,” the sage said softly. “We are pursued. By some old friends.”

“We have no time for this,” snapped Argus. “Press on! We shall let the defenses of the corridors take their toll, and we will finish off any who manage to survive at the end.”

“I am not so certain, my liege,” Stalbus said. “Perhaps we should await them at the end of one of the trials just as they think themselves safe.”

“Our task lies before us, not behind,” said Al-Luthrax flatly.

Stalbus continued to stare back into the darkness, and then he nodded his head ever so slightly, his face still registering regret. “Very well.”

But no sooner had he turned to again follow the giant than there was a distant sound of thunder echoing down the corridor towards them, a sound that got louder with every beat of their hearts.

“A barrier, my Liege!” shouted Stalbus. “A barrier across the entire corridor before it is too late!”

Argus placed the Ohric before him, and instantly the scepter surged with power, sending forth a wide beam that passed Illoghen and created an emerald wall of energy before them all.

Barely in time.

A wall of green water was roaring down to drown anything that had dared violate the passage, washing away the defiling filth with a flood of purity. Argus set even more power into the Ohric to strengthen the green wall, for they could all see with sickening clarity this was their only chance of survival. The water hit the barrier and drove it backwards, the concentrated force overcoming even the power of the demon scepter, and for a fear-choked moment, they all stared into the certainty of a death by drowning.

Then Stalbus shouted, “Get closer to the barrier, all of you! My Liege, bend the top of the barrier back over us!”

Argus puzzled for just a moment before the meaning dawned upon him. They all pressed close against the green wall, and Argus willed back the top of the barrier to let a massive stream of water pour out the top and continue down the passage behind them. With the pressure released, the wall no longer pushed backward, though try as he may, Argus could not force the green wall forward against the weight of water. Then Illoghen bore down and put his massive arms against the wall, bracing his feet hard, and with a deep grunt, he began to slowly force the green barrier back against the water. Argus gritted his teeth in concentration, trying to exert all his will forward, and between them, the wall advanced at a steady rate, moving painfully down the corridor.

Argus noticed that the sage still seemed consumed with fear, despite their progress, and he wondered uneasily at the cause. He soon had his answer. The air was becoming thicker and thicker as they progressed, their small bubble being rapidly consumed by pounding hearts and gasping lungs.

“There! Off to the left!” shouted Stalbus, his voice just audible over the pounding of the water. Argus peered forward, and the water had stabilized just enough for him to see through the murkiness. There, just where Stalbus had indicated, was a door. Hope enabled him to redouble his efforts, and even the Red Priests leaned frantically into the green wall, helping to push it forward against the flood. The air was already becoming stale, their exertions eating up the small reserves within their bubble, and Argus’ head was beginning to spin even as they drew close.

After an eternity of pushing when legs were aching and chests were pained with the simple effort of breathing, they were up to it, and it was Stalbus who studied the opening mechanism carefully while Argus and the titan held the wall, the deafening sound of the water cascading overhead filling the corridor and their ears.

Illoghen had opened the previous door, but if the giant were to release his effort to sustain the wall, they might well be washed away before he could open it.

Finally, Stalbus made a circular motion with his left hand, the speed steadily increasing until they could actually see some sort of vortex appearing before him, the energy moving forward, and just as it touched the door, he thrust down with his other hand with one fierce movement. The door sprang open.

“Quickly!” he shouted as they rushed through the door. When Illoghen fled, the wall trembled and fell backwards, and Argus had to leap wildly after him, the wall remaining just long enough for them to slam the door safely shut behind the deadly flood.

“Those who walk in the righteous eyes of Bal look forward to being united with him,” gasped Al-Luthrax, his hands on his knees. “But drowning is not a way I would choose to leave this life.”

“I’m sure you shall have ample opportunities ahead to join your god,” said Stalbus casually. Then, as Illoghen stalked forward down the new corridor, he continued, “Come! It seems our friend at least is impatient to find his end.”

CHAPTER 25

The Corridors of Death

The end was near.

Fallon stood by a blazing fir tree, heedless of the flying embers and the falling branches, the fire nothing beside the other dangers he had battled. Off to the right, he could see gigantic figures moving through the smoke, turning his flank and severing any link with the remnants of Clarissa’s forces, and it made no difference to him. They had fought the entire length of the Spindle and were now nearing the end, the end they had known was coming, the end in this wood that devoured men and armies.

Henlik came up beside him, exhaustion etched into every line of his face, his helm gone, a battle-axe in one hand, a cavalry saber in the other.

“Shandar is dead, as well as Thalgris,” he said, his voice thick from the smoke and the strain. “So are half my men, and the other half are saying their death prayers.”

“Duke Mandrik?”

“Holding the left flank. If he still lives. We’ve heard nothing from Gemsbrook to the right.”

“And the horses?” asked Fallon. A cavalry man was ever conscious of his mount even when on foot, and giants had already gotten in among the handlers once, killing both men and horses before the guards dealt with them.

“Some killed, many more fled from the fires.” Henlik shot a hard look at his lord and friend before adding, “We have little time before the rest spook as well.”

Fallon’s answer was interrupted by a cracking of wood as a massive form shoved a burning tree out of its way and spotted the humans arrayed before it. With a roar, the giant charged, club raised, but though the Norealmers had grown weary from the battle, they had also sharpened their tactics. Arrows flew at the monster’s face, a hive of angry bees unleashed, and the creature pulled up short to try to protect its eyes. Men rushed in as it hesitated, many wielding axes, and they began hacking at the legs of the behemoth as if trying to chop down a tree. The giant roared and kicked, narrowly missing a target, and then one of the axes scored cleanly behind its left kneecap, severing the tendons there. The thing fell to one knee, and they all closed in for the kill, Fallon charging wildly forward to bury his own sword in the monster’s throat. The giant took a final erratic swing that hit nothing and collapsed in ruin.

But there were more behind him. There were many more behind him.

Henlik looked at him, and there was a hint of despair in that gallant face, a recognition that there was a limit to what strength and courage could achieve. The look enraged Fallon as nothing else could, and he reached out and seized his friend’s shoulder, feeling the staunchness flowing back into him.

“We are not meant to perish in a burning wood at the hands of brutish giants!” he roared. “Argus and his plots be damned! We shall prove to the world that it is soldiers who make history!”

Henlik’s eyes blazed anew, a flame rekindled.

“For Norealm!” he cried.

“For Norealm!” Fallon answered.

Then they charged together towards the shadowy figures amidst the smoke and fire.

* * *

They could feel heat even at this distance.

The walls of the passage ahead bore strange runes carved deep into the stone that seemed to be sending hot waves down upon them, a harbinger of the inferno yet to come. Illoghen cringed slightly as the heat touched the wounds from the dragon’s breath that still marred his body.

“The elemental test of fire, it would seem,” Stalbus said with a small smile. “Now if we could only direct that stream of water from the last test onto this one, we should have no problem.”

“That choice is not available to us, and our friend’s burns make this a sore test for him,” replied Argus. “Priest! This is your time.”

Al-Luthrax nodded slightly, though his two attending priests visibly shrank away at the words, and one even began edging back down the corridor, retreating from both his master and the fire. Al-Luthrax, however, had already begun his conjuring, and it became immediately clear that the two priests were linked inexorably to the magic, their bodies pulled forward despite their resistance. With terror-widened eyes, they found themselves floating forward before the group, an invisible hand carrying them forward into that hellish corridor, though no sounds came from their mouths. Whether this was discipline or some part of the spell became immaterial as the two men dissolved into a red mist as if they had been vaporized by the heat. The mist seemed to move against the wall and adhere to it.

“We must be swift,” warned Al-Luthrax as he moved forward. “The mist cannot restrain the heat for long.”

They rushed into the corridor, and the heat struck them like a physical force despite the mist, searing their lungs and crisping the very hair on their skin as it threatened to ignite them. Illoghen let out a howl of pain that echoed along the passage and spoke for all of them, and he started to press forward, trying to run through this hellish test, but both Stalbus and Al-Luthrax restrained him.

“Stay with the mist,” the Priest cautioned, moving forward at a steady pace. As Argus watched, the mist seemed to dissipate from the walls behind them and move forward into the rest of the corridor, creating a safety zone. They pressed forward, staying as much as possible in the center of the red mist, but the heat was clawing at them, turning the air to fiery poison, their boots beginning to smolder, eyes bulging from faces. They had gone only a score of paces, and already they were being cooked alive, the test greater than the power of the priest. The stone of the corridor itself was starting to burn, the flames a greenish-red that made it seem as if they were descending into one of the hottest zones of hell itself.

Argus saw the red mist starting to dissipate, the heat of the corridor devouring the barrier of the two priests and promising to expand the pain beyond all levels, but his throat was already too dry and constricted to utter any sound. He glanced at the Ohric and knew he no longer could focus enough will power to get help from that source.

Al-Luthrax had been in the lead, and now as the heat increased, he stopped suddenly and raised his hands, momentarily blocking the corridor. Illoghen clearly had no intention of pausing for any reason, his burning wounds driving him to near madness, but as he bulled his way past the priest, the man’s body suddenly dissolved into the same red mist of his underlings and spread out before them to renew the barrier against the walls. Illoghen was rushing down the corridor, oblivious to the cooling fog, frantic to be away from this torment.

The heat had been lessened by the mist, but there was no relief to their bodies that were being drained of water. They were staggering, their lungs scarred with the hotness, and as they turned a corner, they saw an open door with the body of Illoghen sprawled across the corridor beyond, overcome at last. As they passed the door, they felt the heat become instantly less intense, dropping until it was no more than a minor unpleasantness as they reached the prostrate creature. Argus reached out and touched the burned skin and received a moan in answer. A moment later, Illoghen was turning over, exhausted by the heat but still very much alive.

There came a “whoosh” from down the corridor, and Argus turned just in time to see the red mist gathering itself once again into the body of Al-Luthrax. Even as the body reconstituted itself, he could see the terrible burns on the flesh, the skin hanging in charred ribbons in places, the face a hideous mask of red and black. Through it all were the eyes of the priest, gleaming with intensity, the eyes of a fanatic, bright as if he gloried in the agony. He reached down with one hand, and there was a gleam of red from the palm of his hand as some sort of manna was sent forth. While the body shook from the impact, the flesh of the arm was slowly repaired. The man repeated the process for his other arm, his legs, his face, and while the skin was repaired it retained the ugly scars from the heat.

He looked up at them, his face a mass of raw lines, but a face again.

“I shall come before Bal with proof of my loyalty etched into my face,” he said, the lips twisting in a dreadful caricature of a smile.

“I trust Bal has a strong stomach,” replied Stalbus casually.

Argus found himself nodding in agreement. Then he felt a warning surge from the scepter and turned down the corridor again. “We must press on.”

*

When Jhan heard the moaning in the passage ahead, he paused and looked back at his companions.

“That sound comes from no animal I know,” he said uneasily. “The first test lies before us, it seems. I can send forth a viewing spell that can see into the corridors ahead.”

“It would see nothing,” replied Mraxdavar. “Trust a dragon to recognize the voice of the wind. Come. Climb upon my back and hold firm. We shall face this test as one.”

Cautiously, the three humans climbed the back leg of the dragon lord, the scales of his body large enough to allow handholds, and mounted his back to walk upright as they moved forward to the wings. Here, Adella produced a thin rope with which she tied all three of them to the base of the wings and settled down into a tight group that Jhan felt was excessively cautious.

He did not hold that opinion for long.

When the dragon rounded the corner, the force of the wind ripped at them with a power even the Presence had never experienced in the natural world. It would have lifted all three of them right off the dragon’s back had it not been for Adella’s rope, and even then, they found themselves digging in to the scaly body and grasping each other hard. Mraxdavar was pressing forward, but even he was being held back somewhat by the cyclone, each step requiring a conscious exertion of strength.

A piece of the ceiling flew away, revealing flawless blue sky above, and Jhan’s heart skipped a beat as the Presence recognized the Domain of Air, the endless realm of sky devoid of any land or water. Should they be lost here, they would fall helplessly for the rest of their short lives.

Mraxdavar staggered once, his claw missing its footing, and Jhan realized that portions of the floor must be falling away as well, the great weight of the dragon hastening the process. Through eyes squinted against the wind, he could make out some kind of door far ahead that sealed the corridor, and Mraxdavar was redoubling his efforts, climbing over crumbling stones that fell away beneath his weight, marshaling his strength for this last sprint.

Entire sections of the corridor were falling away now, the threatening blue sky gleaming in at them, and Jhan was desperately searching for some spell or incantation that might help hold the stone together, even as the Voice assured him that no magic could be cast in the midst of such a wind. He slipped, the wind getting beneath him and lifting him away from the huge body, the price for looking about rather than holding himself close. Adella lunged for him and just managed to lock a wrist under his armpit, and that enabled Shannon to seize a portion of his cloak and lean her weight against it, both no more than delaying the hungry wind. Then suddenly, they were passing through some kind of portal, and the force of the wind lessened, fell away, and then stopped completely. Jhan turned and looked behind them, and he was startled to see the corridor reassembling even as Mraxdavar slammed the door closed with a swish of his huge tail.

“The first test,” said Adella with a wry smile. “Simple enough if you have a dragon to carry you through.”

“I doubt the solution to the rest will be quite as easy,” answered Mraxdavar. “But we have suffered no loss, and we can only hope our quarry was not so fortunate.”

Shannon had already begun climbing down off the dragon’s back, and Adella was preparing to follow when Jhan overcame the reluctance of the Voice and reached out to touch her arm. The woman stopped and frowned at him.

“Thank you,” he said, trying to keep the stiffness out of his voice. “You saved my life at the risk of you own. That gives the lie to many of the words I have spoken of you in prior times.”

The frown remained on Adella’s forehead, but the rest of her expression eased a little.

“You’ve more grit than many a warrior I’ve known, boy, that much I’ll grant you,” she said. “And being wrong now doesn’t make you wrong in the past.”

His ears perked at the simple honest in the woman’s voice, and he asked in turn, “Why have you taken this path? Why forsake the dark alleys where you rule uncontested for these forbidden corridors that offer only death?”

She snorted in what may have been a chuckle. “I asked Tallarand the same thing the night before the Battle of the Fey. He had no good answer either.”

“The Paladin,” Jhan said softly and got a sharp glare from the woman. “He roused a wizard out of his hermitage and brought him back among his fellows. If he can redeem a soul as lost as that, turning a thief’s blade to the cause of good is not so hard to imagine.”

Their eyes locked for a moment, understanding passing between them, and Adella gave him the tiniest nod before adding curtly, “Save your thanks for when the last danger is passed. That’s when we’ll see the final tally.”

With that, she was gone, dropping lightly to the floor below, leaving Jhan with raised eyebrows.

“You heard the woman right,” the Voice said within him. “Next time, she’s still just as likely to kill you as to save you.”

*

The Master of the Walls was failing.

Even after the rest and the limited healing Darius had been able to affect, Thelmar had proven to be increasingly feeble as his years seemed to be catching up with him. The speed and agility of the man who had slain two ogres with as many blows was dissipating, flowing away like blood from a gaping wound, and both men feared to consider the implications of that decline.

They had made poor time through the labyrinth that led away from the burning catapults, and Thelmar had been forced to pause occasionally at some of the intersections, staring and feeling the stone rather than peering down the passages. Thelmar was taking an unusually long time at this particular juncture, and Darius had to restrain himself from making any comment of encouragement. Finally, the old man turned down the left corridor, walked half a dozen paces, and put his hand against the wall. Immediately, the stone opened, and they found themselves back in the main corridors beneath the Sanctuary.

Darius exclamation of surprise, however, was cut short by the harsh frown he saw on Thelmar’s face as he stared down at the floor of the passage. The stone appeared perfectly normal to Darius’ untrained eye.

“What is it, Master?” he asked.

“The sanctity of the ground has been violated,” the old monk replied. “Not just by one group. But by two.”

Darius’ stared in surprise. “Argus and the titan we knew. But what is this second group?”

“A powerful presence leads it as well. And I am near to the end of my strength.” He turned and looked hard at the Paladin. “I now must speak words of caution to you, my friend.”

Darius smiled slightly. “Our need is for haste, not for caution, Master. Yet I would honor any words you may bestow.”

“This titan is the Avatar of the Giant folk, and the power of these corridors will yield to him,” said Thelmar, and Darius was startled at the extent of the old monk’s knowledge. “I do not know this second group, but I believe that another of the Avatars moves with them.” He took a deep breath, summoning the strength to say the words, though his tone was as calm as ever. “The entrance is violated, my oath is broken, and my brothers lie like autumn leaves before a bitter wind. I now seek only to trade my life to reclaim a shred of my lost honor.”

Despite the man’s anguish, Darius frowned with sudden hope. “So you will come with me to stop the intruders?”

“No, Lord Paladin,” he replied with a shake of his head. “The Order has ever been removed from the struggles of the races. My oath requires me to bring the full power of the monks down on any invaders who would trespass within those halls, whether they be dragon or giant or rock goblin. Or human.”

Darius nodded, understanding coming with a sickening dread. “If I proceed down this corridor in pursuit of the others, you must declare me an enemy as well.”

“If you leave now, I will hold my hand in reverence to the service you have rendered.”

He thought about this for a moment, weighing what he knew of the Order and the Sanctuary. Then he said, “Argus uses this being as his shield and manipulates him for his own ends. It is the Ohric’s will that is being fulfilled here, not that of the Avatar.”

The monk shrugged. “That may well be. But that makes no difference to my Oath and to my Duty.”

“Let me ask this question, Master. Does your duty require you to kill an offender immediately upon encountering him?”

The old man smiled sadly, clearly seeing the point of the question. Softly, he said, “No.”

“Then I would ask this one boon of you,” Darius said. “To insure the intent of the builders of this place is not betrayed, hold your hand until after we have passed into the innermost chambers. Let my doom fall when I attempt to leave, not when I enter. Not until after we know the Sphere has not been corrupted.”

“You will be surrendering yourself to death whatever the outcome,” the monk warned, though he offered no other argument.

Darius nodded. “My final doom awaits me at the end of these corridors, Master, by whosever hand. I ask only the chance to see the end of my quest.”

Thelmar’s expression did not change, but there was the smallest glint in his eyes, the tiniest hint of compassion and empathy. “I shall hold my hand until the end, and trust that others will spare me this dark duty.”

Darius bowed his head in simple acceptance. “Thank you, Master.”

*

The stone-lined corridor ended abruptly in the rough rock walls of a cave, and Illoghen came to a halt, none of them liking the look of that cavern. It appeared that the builders had simply run out of stone and continued the passage without them, and they all knew that was not even a remote possibility. The worked stone had been left off for a reason.

“It would seem we have reached the Test of Earth, which should be the final trial,” said Stalbus. “Any thoughts as to how we should proceed?”

Argus frowned in answer. He felt the need to conserve the power of the Ohric for the still more daunting tasks that lay ahead, and he worried that he would be forced to nearly drain the scepter to challenge the raw power of the trap before them.

“Well, I have a notion,” Stalbus said. “Though I am not eager for the trial.”

He placed his hands before him as if in prayer, and very soon a faint light began to radiate from those hands, a light that began to grow and expand, increasing in intensity even as it seemed to move up his arms and shoulders. Very shortly, it had encased his entire body, the radiance intense enough to make Argus avert his eyes. A moment later, the light seemed to be fading again, and when he was able to turn and look, he saw there were two identical sages standing there, the one directly in front of the other.

The back figure pointed towards the corridor, and obediently the figure in front walked forward, showing no trace of concern or caution. There was some kind of a luminous thread that seemed to connect the two figures, a faint golden light attached to the back of the first and lead to the chest of the second, as if the filament linked their hearts. The figure, however, had taken no more than two steps into the corridor when a massive creature of chiseled and broken rock emerged right out of the floor of the cave and drove a spear into the side of the image, impaling it. The thing took only two or three more steps and then submerged again into the stone, taking the broken body with it, the golden thread snapping.

Argus swung back to find the other figure lying on the floor, blinking and clearly stunned though otherwise not obviously hurt. Stalbus rubbed his forehead and his temples in an effort to clear his head, and then he got slowly to his feet. Clearly, the death of the spectral image carried a severe blow to the caster, but the effects appeared to be passing quickly.

“Rock men,” the Sage muttered, his voice heavy with respect verging on fear.

“Rock men, say you?” repeated Argus. “What are rock-men?”

“Creatures of the deep earth,” answered Al-Luthrax, his own voice tight. “Never before have I seen them on the surface of our world.”

“And you do not see them now,” said Stalbus. “They are not come into our realm. Rather, our path has been lead through theirs.”

Argus’ eyebrows rose, and he stared at the cavern with a new appreciation; and a new fear. They stood before passages never meant for those who walked in the world of air and light.

“We know the problem then,” said Stalbus, with tone of a scholar facing an academic puzzle. “We have only to concoct an answer.”

He reached down cautiously just over the threshold and took a small pinch of dirt from the floor of the rock corridor, placing it in the palm of his hands and muttering the terms of some spell over it. A moment later, the pinch of dirt rose up and moved into the corridor, floating through the very air. It had traveled only a few paces when a rock creature half-emerged from the ceiling and knocked it back to the ground.

“That is no solution,” Stalbus said with a trace of annoyance. He stood there silently tapping the tip of a finger against his lips, lost in thought. Then his face brightened, and he gathered another pinch of dust from the rock floor. Again, he bent over it, uttering some invocation, though this one took longer and resulted in a small flash of light.

“My Liege, may I impose upon you for a simple animation spell?” he asked.

Argus’ frown deepened, but the Ohric quickly assured him this was a minor magic of little consequence. Argus put effort into the scepter, and Stalbus threw the pinch of dust into the resulting green beam. The individual particles went flying out from the beam like a swarm of bees, winding their way down the deadly corridor, and a dozen of the rock creatures leapt from the cavern floor, attracted by that stream of dust. However, the rock-men focused only on the dust, leaving the center of the vortex unharmed, and it took some time before the last speck was knocked down.

Stalbus nodded in satisfaction. “Thus are we come to our answer. Though it is not one I would gladly choose. Illoghen, you must go first, and My Liege, I would ask you to follow swiftly behind with the Priest going last.”

“And as to yourself?”

“I must maintain the dust storm. But I shall have a different road available to me.”

Without another word and without asking leave, Stalbus reached out and gently touched the Ohric, Argus too surprised by the impudence to even try and withdraw the scepter. There was the smallest flash of red, and the ruby eyes of the scepter gleamed with momentary power. Argus was about to roar his displeasure when the Ohric interceded and assured him that no harm had been done. It was only then that Argus realized that the sage held a large ruby in his hands and had touched the scepter with the gem, not his own flesh.

“We are prepared then,” the Sage said simply.

He raised his hands and began a short, quick invocation, gesturing in outward circles as he did so. Argus watched for some affect, and it seemed as if a light draft were stirring in the corridor, just enough to lift a few particles of dust off the floor. Then the draft turned into a breeze, and the breeze into a full wind, and the wind into a whirling tornado that lifted every speck of dirt from the floor and spun in madly around in the confines of the rock corridor. In the center of this whirling vortex, there was a clearer area where the dust from the magical storm was not as thick.

“Go!” shouted Argus as Stalbus continued to concentrate, and he gave Illoghen a hard shove for emphasis. The creatures had emerged again, but they were focusing on the specks nearest to them, and essentially leaving a narrow passage down the middle of the corridor. The giant lowered his head and charged down the middle, vanishing into the maelstrom of dust. Argus wrapped a piece of cloth across his mouth and nose, crossed his arms over his chest, and followed.

He felt as if he had kicked over a dozen bee hives, and the insects were so furious that they were spending their time swarming around this intruder, a half-breath away from the first sting that would herald a swift and terrible death. He could see nothing, his half-squinted eyes blinded by the dust storm, but he knew he had to keep his bearing and stay in the middle of the path. Should he straggle to the left or the right, he would be knocked reeling across the safety area into the grasp of the first of those stone monstrosities, where he would quickly suffer the same fate as Stalbus’ image.

Something brushed against him to the left, a glancing blow that did not knock him off balance, and he immediately adjusted his course, holding as straight as his disoriented senses knew how. Dust was starting to get up under his face cloth, and he began to cough, his lungs rejecting this particle-infested air. The dust storm actually seemed to strengthen in intensity, his eyes completely blinded, and then he mercifully broke out into the clear, the stinging storm behind him.

He blinked, tried to clear his eyes, and the first vague shape he began to make out was a large form towering over him. Illoghen. The corridor beyond the creature lead to yet another corridor, and it seemed to fracture immediately into three more corridors. A maze, most likely, he concluded. There was movement behind, and he turned to find that Al-Luthrax, coughing and gagging, had safely run the gauntlet.

There was no sign of Stalbus, the man left behind at the start of the dust storm, and Argus frowned, wondering if the Sage had abandoned them. Then, over the howl of the sandstorm, he heard Stalbus clearly say, “Power to power, let the magics unite!”

There was a distant roar, and a red beam flew out of the duststorm and crossed the short distance to strike the Ohric. It felt as if something had lightly struck the scepter, and the next moment, Stalbus was standing beside him, the huge ruby in his hands. The sage looked at the intersection of the three corridors, and he smiled.

“These passages lead to the final portal, My Liege,” the sage said. “You need only follow Illoghen and be sure it is he who opens that final door.”

Argus nodded, but he noticed the man seemed distracted, looking back towards the naked rock. “And you?”

“I can feel our pursuers have not been turned away by these trials,” Stalbus answered. “The image is unclear, blurred by some magic…but I feel…I sense… Malcolm…”

“Malcolm is dead.”

The Sage blinked, coming back to himself. “So you have assured me. I shall prepare a fitting welcome for those who past the final test, whoever they may be.”

CHAPTER 26

Deep Treachery

Bramaclese the Golden looked down from on high, unable to believe the sight his dragon-eyes revealed to him. The forest known as the Spindle was in flames, the smoke visible to a blind sparrow let alone a pride of dragons, and there, rampaging wildly through the fires were a mass of giants, hundreds of giants, thousands of giants, their order broken, their eyes on the ground, heedless of the skies above. But as wondrous as this opportunity was with their enemies distracted and divided, Bramaclese grinned with monstrous teeth as he recognized the site of the battle.

“Baramalon is fought a second time,” he whispered to himself and to the memory of his dead brother. “And the humans have insured it will have a similar end.”

With that, he turned to the two dragons flying in attendance upon him and growled, “Take word to Malandathor that he is to strike the giants to east. I shall lead my brood against those to the west.”

Both dragons peeled away to carry his words to the new leader of the Second Brood, and Bramaclese felt a twinge of emotion, part regret, part remorse. It should have been his father sending word to Albathor to prepare to attack. But not only would Albathor never again receive that word, Bramaclese had a sudden chill that his father would never again be here to send it.

He shook off that premonition and altered his own direction, three hundred dragons above and behind him following suit. The lives of his children, the very survival of his species, would depend on the decisions he made now. It was passed mid-day, the sun beyond the zenith and slowly descending towards the west, and that would give them cover to hide their approach. A pride of six hundred dragons would project a shadow across all the land that the giants would sense many leagues off if they were not distracted. What wind there was blew gently out of the north, but it would be enough to carry the smell of the wyrm-stench to the sensitive noses of their enemies. Would, except the thick smoke in which they were enveloped was masking that smell and leaving them exposed.

Someone has arranged for us to strike with the advantage of surprise, Bramaclese realized. We must not squander that opportunity.

He was nearly in position now, approaching from the north unafraid that his scent would betray him, and he swayed slightly from side to side, a warning to his mass of children arrayed behind him that he was about to strike. The Second Brood was in position, every dragon ready, and their enemies were still oblivious to their presence, still chasing humans amongst the burning trees.

The time had come.

Bramaclese turned his wings downward, plunging towards the ground with frightening speed, and he changed his approach slightly to get the sun behind him, his shadow now a weapon. Down he flew, a meteor launched by an avenging god, the scream of the wind through his wings left behind by his speed, and five hundred dragons plunged with him. Down, down, down, he dove, his speed rising with every passing yard, the ground rushing up to meet him, his enemies growing larger with every passing moment. He chose his target, a massive figure with a spear and club, and at the last possible moment, he set out his wings to slow his fall. Even as he closed more slowly with the ground, he drew a great breath into his belly and sent forth a murderous stream of flame.

The victim never looked up, never saw the cause of his death. He was simply immersed in a column of fire that ignited his weapons, his hide, his skin, and he dropped before the flame was done, allowing Bramaclese to shift to a second giant and envelope him as well. Similar columns of flame were erupting all over the Spindle, the giants taken completely unawares, gawking stupidly up at the deadly skies and giving the dragons a critical chance to re-position themselves. After such a mad plunge, the dragons were vulnerable, their bellies open to the ground, and already a few rocks and spears from the most alert giants were hurtling upwards to strike dragons as they pulled out of their dives. Here and there, one of the great wyrms fell, crashing down into a funeral pall of flaming trees and dying giants. But at least five hundred of their enemies had been slain in that single pass, and those that remained were caught between the wrath of the dragons above and surging courage of the humans below.

Not one of the giants will survive this day, Bramaclese promised himself as he returned to the fray. Not a single one.

*

Honorium Stalbus felt the power of the divine in this labyrinth of the gods, and he knew how appropriate a setting it was for the looming confrontation. He ran his hands against the cold stone of the walls as if to feel their age and breathed deeply of the stale ancient air. There was power here, latent power, for the passages still tinged with the memory of their forging, a residual energy that could be exploited by a being with the right nature. A demon, born in rock and fire.

“Fiela, fiela, arbanon. Fiela arbathis,” he sang to the corridor, exulting in the knowledge and the magic, in words that would mean the instant death of any other mortal who dared to utter them. “Fiela thelma incantor, fiela incanthis. Fiela awn, fiela awn, fiela Irubicon!”

The horribly familiar black hole began to open in the very air of the corridor, a crack in the fine tapestry of existence, but this time, Stalbus was coolly confident of the result, his hand grasping the ruby with its ingrained insignia. The fetid stench came forth first, that nauseous mixture of swamp and graveyard, and the next moment, the hole widened and vomited the demon lord into the world.

Irubicon paused to glance around with its three heads and immediately noticed that Stalbus had held the black hole open.

“Why do you not allow the portal to close?” the demon demanded.

“The service I would request is not of you alone,” Stalbus answered quietly, holding the ruby clearly before him. “How many of the demmoria survived the battle against Maganhall and Norealm?”

The snake tail rattled with agitation, but it answered slowly, “Nearly a dozen were sent back by mortal spears, and they must reform before they can come forth again. Three more were slain with a weapon of power, and they shall fester only in the Nether Regions and never more come forth into the mortal realms.”

“I count six then that remain to offer service,” said Stalbus.

“Service to us,” corrected the demon-head coldly, its tone a deadly threat.

“That duty shall serve us both,” the Sage answered undaunted. “For we shall slay the force that comes upon us, and at its core is Mraxdavar, Lord of Dragons.”

Irubicon drew back slightly at the name, all three heads weaving slowly, hypnotically, as if to entrance, but Stalbus was quite aware of the demon’s thoughts and intentions.

“You would have us confront one of the Avatars of the Gods, the First Child of Oberon, and you would have us kill it,” the demon snarled softly. “Such an act is not yours to command.”

Stalbus nodded slightly in agreement, for a mortal forcing such a battle would incense the gods themselves and bring a terrible retribution down upon the head of the perpetrator. “As I say, this service is a request, not a command. I would bargain for your aid.”

“What aid can a mortal offer to such as us?” the creature scoffed, though it paused for an answer.

“When the Avatar of the Giants and the Avatar of the Dragons are both destroyed, the Castle known as Llan Praetor with its Mirror Wall shall lay open,” Stalbus said carefully. “There, for one of my months, I shall stay and search the memory of the mirror for all that you desire.”

The three heads stopped swaying as the significance of the offer dawned upon it. Irubicon was a being ever caught between the Nether Regions and the real world, having power in both and mastery in neither, and the possession of its ruby condemned it to endless service. Now, Stalbus was offering to serve Irubicon, to supply it with any and all knowledge it might require, arming it with the information that might allow it to break free from the eternal trap in which it existed. Of all the possible sources of knowledge, none would serve that end better than the Mirror Wall in the hands of Honorium Stalbus.

“Done,” it hissed softly. “But the term shall not be for one of your months, but for ten of your years.”

Stalbus hesitated. He had expected Irubicon to raise the offer, though not to such a stake. But it also meant Irubicon would have to insure he survived if it were to collect on the terms. Ten years of service. Longer even than his imprisonment beneath Gemsbrook Castle. But then Llan Praetor and the Mirror Wall would both be his.

“Done and done,” the Sage said, and for the first time, he faced the demon lord openly, almost as an equal, as he added, “Bring forth the demmoria. But see that they each take your own form.”

*

Shannon approached the change in the corridor from flagged stones to raw rock with a growing sense of unease. The change suggested yet another challenge, and she tried to tell herself that just as they had passed the previous tests without harm, so they should be able to pass this one. But the words brought no confidence. Perhaps it was a sense that their luck was running out, or that the farther in they pressed, the more dangerous the obstacles would become. Or perhaps it was the cave-like appearance of this passage, a suggestion of the primitive and the brutal. But her sense of dread seemed to go beyond all of those.

“The Test of Earth,” said Jhan, pausing a safe distance away. “By the nature of the elements, Earth is deemed the most powerful, and so this test will be the most deadly.”

They had passed the Test of Water with relative ease, Jhan conjuring a barrier of some kind (it still astounded her to see magics leaping from the rough hands of a forest lad, even though she was coming to expect it) and Mraxdavar driving it backwards against the flood until they had managed to escape through a side door. The Test of Fire had been more serious, the Dragon breathing a freezing ice which the magics of Jhan had maintained, but the fire had burned through ice and magic both. They had escaped injury by again scrambling onto the dragon’s back, but Mraxdavar had traversed the final stretch without aid, enduring whatever terrible pain it inflicted upon him without word or sign. Now, here, was the final test, and none of them were relishing the challenge.

Jhan whirled his right hand several times, the fingers moving in a complicated pattern, and there before them was a small wren hovering on the air. With a gesture, he sent the bird flying down the rock corridor, but despite its speed, it did not make it even a quarter of the length of the passage. A brutish creature of stone leapt out of the rock wielding some kind of spear and impaled the wren with a single thrust before sinking once more into the cavern walls, taking the body of the bird with it.

“So, a simple enough test it would seem,” said Jhan, turning to look at Mraxdavar. “The only question now is how to pass through unharmed.”

“Speed will not avail us,” the dragon answered. “Nor will a distraction serve. I feel power in the bones of the earth here. It is rich with the creatures we have just beheld.”

“A wall, perhaps?” suggested the youth. “We might extend the blocks of the corridor and cover these rock walls.”

“It would still form an intrusion, and these creatures are not troubled by boundaries of stone, worked or unworked,” said Mraxdavar. “The answer must lie somewhere within me. As an Avatar of my folk, I am meant to find a way to pass this test.”

Jhan nodded, accepting the logic, and then asked, “But dragons are masters of fire and air. What mastery have you over the earth?”

Mraxdavar considered this for a long moment before saying finally, “There is only one answer that I can see. Summon again one of your scouts.”

Jhan did as requested, bringing a sparrow into existence this time, but just before he sent it down the corridor in the wake of its fellow, the dragon unleashed its breath into the passage. But this was no storm of fire or coating of ice. Instead, there were almost rings of smoke, and in their midst was a muffled roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the rock. The bird made it much further down the corridor, but when the roar subsided, another creature leaped out from the rock at this intruder. Oddly, it missed its first blow, the sparrow scurrying away, but a second creature emerged from the opposite wall and skewered it exactly as had happened to the wren.

“Impressive,” said Jhan thoughtfully. “You retained the power of your voice within the containment spell?”

The dragon shook its massive head and said, “The spell did not contain my voice but rather amplified it beyond the range of your ears. The vibrations sank into the rock, and it appears the quaking of the earth is the bane of these creatures of stone.”

“Then we have our answer!” said Jhan with a wide smile.

“Perhaps,” interjected Adella, and Shannon’s heart fell a little at the note of skepticism she heard in the voice. The woman turned to the dragon and asked, “How long can you maintain this vibration?”

“Long enough, I trust,” answered Mraxdavar. “The quaking drives the creatures away and unnerves them even when they return. That will give us more time as well.”

Shannon saw Adella’s eyes go down the long length of the dragon, and she understood her concern. If the rock creatures were not driven away far enough, they would return in time to strike them all from behind.

“Once we enter this cavern, we dare not pause,” warned Adella. “Not for any reason.”

They all nodded slowly in grim understanding. Any who fell behind in this ordeal would be lost.

*

Argus was growing angry. Their pace had slowed noticeably following the passage of the Test of Earth, and Illoghen was now staggering forward, barely keeping one foot in front of the other to keep himself from collapsing. Once again, he lurched against the wall of the corridor and stopped, his energy sagging, and Argus let out an oath.

“If Stalbus has not stopped our pursuers, they will be gaining rapidly on us at this pace,” he snarled. “And if we loiter here longer, they will be upon us!”

Patience, counseled the Ohric. The titan is not yet prepared for what awaits him. He is stronger than expected, despite his many wounds.

Argus nodded in understanding and in sudden appreciation for the complicated timing by which the Ohric had orchestrated this situation. They had drawn the creature back from the depths of Hell, convinced it of the need to reach the Sphere of Life, inflicted considerable damage upon it, and brought it to the Sanctuary just as the gates were thrown down so that nothing could stop Argus and his party from passing through. If the gates had been thrown down earlier, counter-forces might well have been gathered against them, forces that would have at the very least delayed them and allowed Illoghen to proceed on his own. It was a breath-taking achievement and spoke of the divine power behind the Ohric.

“The Priest could make a claim to healing,” Argus replied in his mind, glancing over at Al-Luthrax. “The wrong spell at the right time could inflict all the damage you require.”

The creature will never succumb to such a ploy, the scepter answered in turn. Remember, he retains some ability to read thoughts.

Argus said nothing more, for he felt the mood of the scepter, could sense the thoughts it tried to keep hidden. Treachery awaited them somewhere ahead, treachery for the monster and perhaps for him, and his hand went instinctively to the small talisman he carried around his neck, the artifact of the House of Corland. It was a last link to the past, the last ally he could now trust. A cold testament, he realized, to the road he had chosen.

Illoghen pushed away from the wall and seemed to gather himself, a runner preparing for the final sprint. Then without a word, he continued gamely down the corridor, Argus and the Red Priest following closely behind.

*

They were nearly through the Test of Earth when disaster struck.

Mraxdavar’s breath had forced away the rock creatures, and they had proceeded down the stony corridor without incident, Adella on one side of the dragon, Jhan and Shannon on the other. Up ahead, they could just see the beginnings of worked stone, the old corridor reformed, and hope rose in their chests that they might pass this final test without harm. Then came another sound echoing down the corridor from somewhere ahead, a reverberation that seemed to come from more than one throat though nothing human could have given birth to that noise.

“A counter-spell!” cried the Voice, and Jhan immediately understood that something was quelling the vibrations from the dragon’s voice. But who would dare challenge the power of the dragon-lord?

“Run!” roared Mraxdavar between breaths, a desperate warning that his strength was waning, even as he put forth another heroic effort. The three humans raced ahead, the dragon lumbering along as swiftly as he could, but Jhan could actually feel the change in the rock, the vibrations ending, the momentary stillness now the pause before the storm. The first rock creatures emerged just as they were nearing the worked stone, and Shannon leapt clear of the awkward blows from one monster with little trouble. Another thrust its stone spear at Jhan, a lunge that would have skewered him alive had it hit, but fortunately, the thing was still too shaken by the quakes and missed cleanly. Jhan scurried onto the worked stone and out of harm’s way.

Not so, Mraxdavar. The breaths had drained the energy from the dragon, and his great length led back a considerable distance, giving the rock creatures ample opportunity for their attacks. The Voice began a stunning spell when a cry from Adella sent a chill to the very center of his heart.

“Irubicon!”

The name brought both terror and understanding with it. Only a demon lord would dare to match power with Mraxdavar, but the Presence assured him their danger went far beyond that. If Irubicon were involved, it meant the horror had committed to stopping them and would employ all the power at its disposal to do so.

A rock creature had buried its stone spear in the side of the dragon, half a dozen more rushing forward to add their blows, and Jhan’s decision became very simple. A demon lord had many protections against magic about its person, so there was little enough he could do against the monster directly. The rock creatures however, were giving him a perfect target for the stunning spell.

“Ethran ethros kaval!” he cried, unleashing a vortex of magic from his hands. The spell was short ranged but very powerful, and all four of the rock creatures caught in the miniature tornado were knocked flat, sparing their victim at least a few blows. Jhan could see still more of the creatures emerging to rip at the dragon as he passed, and he knew even worse was being inflicted on the opposite side, the rock beings there striking unopposed.

Terrible as the wounds were, Mraxdavar responded by charging forward, his great legs propelling him with tremendous speed, his tail whipping behind him to kill any of his tormentors too slow or too stupid to avoid the retribution. The dragon reached the worked stone, and Jhan sucked in his breath at the sight of the wounds the rock creatures had inflicted, the golden blood flowing freely from dozens of wounds. But Mraxdavar did not slow. Once his claws grasped the worked stone where the corridor widened again, he shot forward, unfurling his wings which could just extend in the available space, taking flight in the narrow area in what amounted to one stupendous bound. The right wing nearly clipped Jhan, the wind of its passing driving him against the wall, while Adella and Shannon threw themselves to the ground as the gigantic wyrm passed over them, flying like an arrow of death towards the entity that had challenged him. Jhan rushed around the small bend just in time to see the three-headed figure of Irubicon spitting fire and poison at the on-rushing dragon, and though both could do damage, nothing could stop the sheer murderous momentum on the dragon-lord. Jhan, however, could see the middle demon head was conjuring, and he was not surprised when Irubicon vanished just before the full weight of Mraxdavar was about to fall upon it.

Mraxdavar let out a roar of rage at being denied his prey, and the tunnels themselves seemed to tremble from his fury.

“Irubicon!” he thundered. “You are a jackal that neither hell nor the real world will endure! I shall end your long and ugly tale this day!”

“Then…then it has not fled back to the Nether Regions?” asked Shannon.

“Oh, no,” said Adella slowly. “It has merely hidden itself in the tunnels ahead to await us. To strike and flee again before we can so much as scratch it.”

“Stalbus has sold the last of his soul for this service,” Jhan heard the Voice say. “We are in a fight to the end against one of the demon lords of the Pit.”

The words were greeted by silence, chilled with fear.

“Glad tidings to be sure,” Adella said, breaking the spell. “We must move swiftly before the thing has time to set another ambush.”

“Follow me,” said Mraxdavar as he advanced down the corridor, his tongue sensing the air before them.

*

The sound of the dragon roar behind them was discernible only to Argus’ Ohric-sharpened ears, the many twists of the labyrinth stifling and twisting it so that it was no more than a hollow echo when it reached them, and Illoghen was too focused on the path ahead to pay it any heed.

The Ohric, however, seemed particularly disturbed by the sound. That was not a death cry. Mraxdavar has passed the first trap set by Stalbus.

They rounded a bend in the corridor and came to a full stop. There, directly before them, the corridor ended in a pair of titanic double doors, each wide enough for half a dozen men to walk through abreast and higher than the tallest giant. They were pulsating with a dull red glow, like the heart of some mighty slumbering beast, and there were carvings up and down their length that might be runes or writings or glyphs of power.

“The Portals of Atheleon,” breathed Al-Luthrax in awe, naming the legendary builder of the gods. Argus’ eyes opened even wider at the name. The Portals had their place in many of the great tales, always the guardians of some arcane and forbidden treasure, a barrier through which only those specifically chosen might pass. But the reality far surpassed any tale of legend. The Portals were pulsing, alive with power, instant death awaiting any infidel who would desecrate them with unsanctified hands. There were eight carved panels illustrated with hundreds of carved figures, each consecrated to one of the major gods, and the myriad figures detailed the power and authority of the panel’s deities. Argus looked at the carvings with a new dread, realizing death a thousand times over were stored within those pulsing forms.

“Illoghen!” the Ohric cried openly for them all to hear. “This is the boundary established against all but the Avatars of their people! Press against it and declare your intent!”

The titan paused for only a moment as if considering his options, but he moved reluctantly forward to press his hands against the middle of the doors, his massive legs braced to give a mighty push. The doors glowed with a brilliant red, the slumbering beast awakening, and Argus held his breath, knowing the test was upon them. If Illoghen were not the true Avatar of the Giants, they would all be dead before their hearts could beat even once more.

Slowly, painfully slowly, the portals began to open. Illoghen bore down, exerting all his strength, but it seemed as if the doors were reluctant to yield after all these eons of denying access to the space beyond. The giant drove forward, the doors parting, and finally they continued to open on their own, swinging at the same stately pace, as if the strength of the titan had merely set them in motion.

As the Portals opened, Illoghen turned his head once to stare at Argus, and the Lord Protector of the Southlands was startled to see the red power of the doors had joined with the yellow of the titan’s eyes to radiate an orange light. When the door opens and the orange light gleams forth, then shall your death be assured. The words of Al-Luthrax, foretelling his own end. But even as the memory of the prophecy chilled his heart, the vista opening before them drove it out again.

The doors opened on a room for the gods. The ceiling arched upwards to twice the height of the doors and displayed an array of stars that actually twinkled and gleamed like the true night sky, a universe in miniature. Argus was startled to recognize the constellations of the Great Bear and the Warrior, though they seemed slightly out of position with each other, and he realized this was how they might have appeared many ages before. The walls were adorned with a bewildering arsenal of weapons, from swords to clubs to battle-axes and curved weapons the like of which Argus had never before seen, and he slowly recognized the handiwork of all the races of the world. Giant hammers, rock goblin scimitars, dwarven axes, elven bows, gnomish slings, the tridents of the merfolk, and swords of every size and style from the smithies of men, the entire surface of the high walls covered, the endless array of weapons extending upwards into the star-lit sky.

“The regalia of the heroes of the races,” observed the Ohric. “These are the weapons of legend from the ancient wars.”

A score of human paces ahead were a simple trio of steps that rose to a dais, and poised on this dais was a short, golden pillar, thicker than the body of a man though no higher than his chest. Atop this pillar gleamed a great jewel of some kind, though it was not just the distance that made it hard to determine. As he squinted, Argus could see there was some kind of distortion between them and the pillar, vague waves like heat simmering from desert sands, and he knew the Sphere was not yet theirs.

“Forward, Illoghen!” cried the Ohric. “Forward to your destiny!”

The creature shambled forward a few paces, paused, then shambled forward again, though it wasn’t clear if the speed was due to the drain of its wounds or a reluctance to face this final challenge.

“The doors!” called Al-Luthrax. “They will not close!”

Argus turned to see the Red Priest standing by one of the huge doors that now hung fully open, doors that he dare not touch or try to enchant with a closing spell. The Portals of Atheleon were meant to allow the passage of only a select few, and they should have closed on their own after the Avatar of the Giants had passed.

“Illoghen!” the Ohric hailed. “Release the Portals! Allow them to close again!”

The heavily-muscled titan turned his charred face slowly, and the light of his eyes were now stained orange and gleamed at them with a deadly maliciousness.

“You are not the only ones capable of treachery,” he answered. “The Paladin pursues you. I can feel his approach in my dying soul. The Portals stay open!”

*

Darius found himself looking back at the stone now glowing red-hot again behind them, threatening to incinerate any living thing that might have found itself in that corridor. The Test of Fire, and even at this safe distance, he was still cringing from the intensity of the heat. They had managed to pass through the corridor merely by Thelmar singing a slow incantation as he walked casually down the passage, his hand restraining Darius who felt the rising heat and had been struggling not to run towards the distant door.

“That was a test indeed,” breathed Darius as he looked at the old man beside him. “But could we not have simply placed protections around ourselves to keep out the heat?”

“No such protections will work in the Corridor of Fire,” answered the Monk. “No one can overcome the power of the gods. The concept is to quell the energies and delay their release until you have passed.”

Darius nodded in appreciation. Thelmar had guided them through the Test of Air by simply touching the walls of the corridor at certain points that slowed the breaking away of the stone. He had guided them past the Test of Water by merely breaking the small stream that had been trickling out of the wall and walking along with the tiny flow that had delayed the unleashing of the drowning torrent of water. And now the simple incantation had allowed them to pass the Test of Fire.

He was about to say more when a distant roar echoed down the passage like a physical force, a cry of fury and agony that reverberated from somewhere not terribly far ahead.

“The sound of a dragon in pain,” said Darius who had heard that sound on more than one occasion before.

“And all the more dangerous in consequence,” observed Thelmar. “Come. There is yet one more test before us.”

CHAPTER 27

The Death of Wisdom

They were hunting a demon. Mraxdavar was in the center, prowling grimly forward, eyes and tongue sensing for his enemies, while Jhan, Adella, and Shannon followed by his side, slipping down the increasingly bewildering number of side passages to make sure no enemy lurked in the shadows, intent on coming back behind them.

Jhan walked down one side passage that split into two more, his heart pounding in his throat at the look of that forbidding intersection. This was the very setting where enemies might be lurking, and he had to take a deep breath before he could force his legs forward to peer down the right passage. The Presence had placed protections around him, magics that would counter fire and even poison, but Jhan could sense those barriers were far from perfect, intended to blunt the attack, not stop it.

Some intuition triggered within him as he peered right, some warning of danger, and he spun towards the left corridor even as his ears registered the sound of flames given birth. His right hand was raised, and he felt himself sending forth power, a blast of pure energy, magic with substance but without form or purpose. The spell collided with the fire breath of a dragon, and the two forces exploded in a roar of devastation that threw him back a dozen paces down the right-hand corridor.

The power of the explosion undoubtedly saved him. He looked up to see a three-headed monster closing upon him, smoke still issuing from the dragon’s head that had belched fire, the other two heads in the process of finishing the job. Irubicon! he screamed, but the inner Voice made no reply. The Voice threw up a small shield of energy, and a stream of poison from the snake head splattered against it, even the magic sizzling from the venom. The demon head was casting something, a spell that would surely shatter his pathetic shield, but instead of a magical response, Jhan found himself scrambling wildly down the passage in a frantic attempt to put distance between himself and the monster in seeming panic. The next moment, he understood why.

As the thing walked into the intersection, the world erupted in a cataclysm of fire as Mraxdavar taught this puny monster what the breath of a true dragon was like. Jhan was singed even as he fled, but the Presence within assured him Mraxdavar had not committed the full fury of his breath. As the flames subsided, he turned to find the creature had vanished. He came slowly back into the intersection where a small, shriveled, burning form was all that was left of his adversary.

“Irubicon!” breathed Adella, her voice tinged with shock. “With a single breath, you disposed on the devil lord!”

“Would it were so,” answered the dragon, and the entire tunnel reeked of sulfur and brimstone from his breath. “That was merely the form of Irubicon, though it was real enough to be a part of him.”

“The demmoria,” Jhan heard himself answer. “They have been given the form of their master.” He looked up, his eyes wide as he said, “We are in great jeopardy.”

“Aye,” agreed Mraxdavar. “Irubicon would never grant them the power of its own shape, unless it has joined Stalbus of its own free will. This is a battle to the death.”

*

When they came upon the raw rock walls of the cavern, Darius’ sixth sense warned him of impending danger, so he was not at all disturbed when Thelmar sat down at the very edge of the worked stone and placed his hands lightly on the bare rock. It seemed only prudent to consider their options before proceeding. But as time passed and the monk made no sign of movement, Darius hunkered down beside him.

“Master, what is your intent here?” he asked quietly.

“I am becoming attuned with the rock,” he replied, his eyes still shut. “Many have passed over the stone of the cave this day, and it has been roused by their intrusion.”

Darius frowned, looking dubiously out at the cave. The rock had been roused? He didn’t care for the sound of that.

“Will we be able to pass?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” the Monk said shortly. “But I must first gather my spirit. Never before have I faced this test after others have passed before me, and I shall need all my remaining strength.”

Darius let out a low sigh and plopped down on the floor of the corridor. He was prepared to kill. He was prepared to die. But he was not prepared to wait.

He crushed down thoughts of Argus and the Ohric hurrying towards the Sphere, settled himself, pulled a piece of jerky from his pouch and began to chew. It occurred to him that in all likelihood, this would be his last meal.

*

Illoghen was stubbornly refusing to die.

As they drew closer to the dais on which the Sphere waited, they could see that there were three barriers of power established across the entire width of the room, rising up from each of the steps of the dais. At the first, the titan had tentatively placed his hand against it and received a devastating shock of lightning in turn that had driven him backwards a dozen steps, the hall echoing with his scream of pain.

Argus had felt pleasure welling up within the Ohric at that terrible sound, a satisfaction that the great plan was nearing perfection, but Illoghen was not fool enough to directly challenge the barrier again. Instead, he went to the wall of weapons and took down a massive club of finely carved black wood, a giant’s tool which he wielded with impressive ease. He then returned to the barrier, positioned himself carefully in front, and brought the club crashing down with all his considerable strength onto the first step. The stone splintered from the impact, and lightning flashed up and down the barrier as if in anger, but it could do nothing to the wooden club. Again, three times, a fourth, Illoghen brought the weapon smashing down upon the step, crushing more and more of it, the response of the lightning weakening with every blow. On the fifth hit, the lightning vanished, and the Avatar of the Giants stepped forward.

The giant proceeds too easily. Advance, the Ohric commanded Argus, and he suddenly found himself standing before the first step, almost beside the titan.

This time, Illoghen did not test the barrier at all but simply brought the club flashing down to begin the destruction of the second step. Magical flames shot up to the very top of the ceiling, a curtain of fire that sent him staggering backwards, and Argus could almost feel the pain erupting from the old burns under that burst of heat. The titan came back as the heat dissipated, raising the club a second time, and the stone began shattering just as the first step had. But with the third blow, the Ohric put forth a sudden green bolt that struck the exact point where the club aimed, and this time, the flames shot directly back up the club, setting it afire and bringing a conflagration up the giant’s arms to momentarily encase them in flames forged by the gods themselves. Illoghen flung himself off the stairs to roll wildly on the floor, keeping his arms beneath him until the fire was extinguished, the skin on his left arm in particular blackened to match the damage from the dragon-fire. Wounded and gasping, he staggered back to his feet, and despite the terrible injuries, Argus’ heart quailed at the murderous light in those yellow eyes.

“No, Illoghen!” shouted Al-Luthrax, jumping between the giant and his intended prey. “You will but perish to no point if you confront the Ohric now! It will do you no more mischief, of that I pledge my word. Argus! Withdraw from the stairs!”

Argus bristled at the rude command, but he understood what was now at stake. The Ohric was satisfied with the damage it had done, so he drew back towards the Portal, giving Illoghen the illusion of safety.

“The Ohric’s power has broken the second step and eliminated the wall of flame,” the Red Priest assured him. “Beyond the third barrier stands the answer to all the problems of your people. It is nearly within your grasp! Continue!”

The creature looked at the Red Priest and said simply, finally, “No.”

*

Adella sensed they were approaching danger. She felt it in the balls of her feet, in the hairs on her arms, and in the prickling sensation on the back of her neck, an intuition that had saved her life on many occasions in the past. This maze has been designed as a series of superb ambush points, she realized, an opportunity for one party to lie in wait for another. And we’re walking right into it.

They had continued in the same formation with Mraxdavar prowling lethally down the middle of the corridor and his human companions on either side, checking the side passages, the same tactic they had used to find and kill the one demmoria. She was becoming more certain with every step that creature had been a pawn to draw them out and test their mettle, a deliberate sacrifice that matched the cunning of Stalbus and the viciousness of the demon.

They will surely learn from that mistake, Bloodseeker observed, and she nodded once in agreement.

Up ahead, the central corridor merged into an intersection of half a dozen passages, and Adella stepped in front of the dragon and brought him to a halt with a gesture. There was no sound coming from ahead, even though Adella’s sensitive hearing could make out the steady breathing of Shannon and Jhan and the powerful beating of the dragon lord’s heart, and she knew that if she could hear them, so could Irubicon.

She pressed against the wall and slipped silently down the passage, all her senses alert, and she wondered how many of the hallways ahead of her contained enemies. She came to the intersection and peered around, the corridors as empty as she had expected, for no trap laid by Irubicon would be spotted by a single scout. She rolled right out into the middle of the intersection as she passed to the opposite wall, bait to draw out the predator, and she could now see there was nothing down any of the passages. She threw a pebble down one and then tossed her probing dagger down the middle of the passage they were likely to take.

Nothing.

Well, there’s one sure way to draw them out, she told herself grimly. The eyes of Mraxdavar were locked on her, and she put both hands out in front and raised them slowly as if indicating a barrier between floor and ceiling. The dragon nodded in answer, and it gestured once with its massive left claw and once with its right. Nothing appeared different, but Bloodseeker was pulsing with a warning that magics had been put in place directly before them. She nodded once, and Jhan, Shannon, and the dragon all launched themselves forward like rivals in a footrace, all of them headed for the corridor right beside her. The dragon-lord propelled himself forward on his muscular legs with alarming force, clearly aware that speed was his best defense at this junction, and when he reached the intersection, he was moving faster than a galloping horse.

Right into the jaws of the ambush.

No sooner had he crossed the threshold than a spell struck the invisible wall to the right and destroyed it, laying Mraxdavar open to attack from the three corridors to that side. Power erupted from all six of the intersecting hallways as the demmoria appeared from hidden niches down each of the passages, and while the attacks to the left failed against the protective barrier, Mraxdavar was struck with streams of poison and bolts of magic that ripped and sizzled through the armored scales of his side, a murderous attack that would have slain any lesser dragon on the spot. Adella spun around, looking for the source that had dispelled the wall, but the second barrier fell a moment later, allowing more attacks to score on the hapless dragon. Mraxdavar rushed through the murderous streams and charged down the comparative safety of the corridor with Shannon and Jhan beside him, even though Adella was quite certain Irubicon himself awaited them down this passage. But if they were swift enough, they would catch him alone while the demmoria loitered in the deserted hallways they had left behind.

She spun to follow them and nearly collided with a human figure that had appeared right beside her.

“There is still time to save yourself, my dear one,” said Honorium Stalbus gently. “You need not suffer the same fate as the others.”

She jumped to the left and brought her sword slashing back at the newcomer, only to see Bloodseeker pass harmlessly through the man’s body. A conjuring of some kind, the man actually standing safely out of sight down one of the corridors. Yet a conjuring through which he had brought down the protective walls of the dragon.

“You have never been foolish in the past, my dear,” the man said, unfazed by the attack. “Riches untold await you if you withdraw, while you will find only death in the passages ahead.”

A subtle sound came from one of the side passages, the suggestion of an approach, and she realized this was all part of the ambush, the attempt to delay her long enough for the demmoria to reach her. She rushed down the hall after her companions, but she reached into her cloak to throw handfuls of white crystal on the floor behind her.

“Salt,” observed Stalbus. “Clever, Adella. Clever. Few know the sovereign bane of the demmoria. But it will only delay them, not stop them. You do no more than prolong your agony.”

*

The corridor splintered into three more passages, and as before, Shannon slipped down the right passage while Jhan checked the left. Two more small corridors branched out from Jhan’s passage, the main tunnel curving to the right, and he was tempted to leave it be and hurry back to the wounded dragon. Caution prevailed, however, and he reluctantly stepped forward to complete his duty as scout. There was nothing visible down either of the side channels, but when he turned the bend, he was confronted by a huge creature with three heads and three tails, a monster that radiated such malignancy and menace that it could be no mere imitation.

Jhan just had time to throw up a magic shield between himself and the demon before a roar of fiery breath forced him backwards, driving him almost to his knees, the sleeves of his cloak smoldering from flames. He was yelling, shouting for his very life, calling out for help, and the response was almost immediate.

The entire corridor was quivering with the impact of a large body moving swiftly, and he turned just in time to see Mraxdavar turning the corner and opening his massive jaws, the sole warning of impending death. Jhan ran down the side corridor, heedless of what might await him, just as the dragon put forth the full force of his wrath.

Mraxdavar had focused his power on the demon, but in the restricted space, the fire flew in all directions, filling all spaces, devouring all air. Even in the side corridor, Jhan heard the blaze hurtling down upon him, and the next instant, the hot breath was all around him, the world turned to red heat. He staggered forward, away from the inferno, the flames lifting him despite his magical protections and hurtling him down the passage to fall, uninjured in a small chamber. A chamber in which he was not alone. A sixth sense warned him of the approach of magic, and he unleashed a cancelling spell just in time to break whatever power had been about to strike him. As he scrambled to his feet, he heard a calm voice say, “A boy with the ability to dispel magics. The sorcerer’s apprentice? Or perhaps the sorcerer himself?”

He gained his feet and faced his opponent, a middle-aged man of normal height wearing a blue cloak with an under-mantle of bright red.

“Honorium Stalbus,” he heard himself saying.

*

Shannon knew they had only this one chance. She had come running at Jhan’s cries and reached the second intersection at the same time as the dragon, an instant’s chance to recognize the demon-lord before Mraxdavar threw forth his vengeance, but Irubicon’s entire bearing suggested surprise at the speed with which they had passed the ambush. She knew, however, it would take the monster only a single moment to vanish once again. Vanish, to lay more snares in the endless passages ahead.

Despite its fury, the conflagration could not kill a being born in the flames of Hell, though not even Irubicon was free to act while the dragon’s breath whirled about him. Shannon charged forward blindly, her eyes shut against that sea of flames and using the searing heat as guide, risking a death by fire for a chance to draw closer to the enemy. Her hair was singeing, the right side of her face beginning to burn, the very air smoldering with the heat, and she shied away, colliding with the wall and slowing her pace. She put an arm over her face, the hairs already burned away, but she pressed desperately forward, knowing how critical every step could be.

The fire was lessening, a heartbeat away from ending, and Shannon rushed away from the shelter of the wall even though she felt as if her very skin was about to combust. Then the flames vanished, the world coming back into focus, but she was on the balls of her feet, running as hard as she could, the shining white of the angel sword gleaming in her hands. She had to reach it, had to bring this elusive enemy to battle before it had could vanish again, hold it until Mraxdavar could reach the thing and kill it.

There was something ahead of her emerging from the smoke and flames, something large and malignant. Something with three heads and a thick snaky body. Something radiating death.

Irubicon.

It was aware of her, the dragon’s head already turning even as she neared, and it struck down fast, its’ blackened teeth crunching closed as she drew back her left arm just in time. The head snapped backwards, denying her a blow, but she never faltered, never hesitated. She rushed the body itself and thrust the white sword into the green-scaled torso, the blade cleaving easily through the demon flesh, and Irubicon’s entire body jerked backward in reaction. It was spinning around, bringing all three heads to bear against this wild assailant, but Shannon stayed close, jamming against the body as she struck again, giving the heads no chance to reach her and no chance to flee. A spray of poison rained down from the snake-head, her armor actually sizzling and smoking from the near-miss of the venom, the fumes choking her, forcing their ways into her lungs, into her blood, but she struck again and then again, the white blade cutting deep each time, cauterizing the evil with each blow.

Something else was striking the creature, something cutting into it from the opposite side, something that kept the devil from just pivoting in place to bring all its heads to bear at once to finish her, an unseen ally. Adella for sure. But this was a foe for the angel blade, not for Bloodseeker.

The eyes of the demon-head flashed power, and red flames erupted beside her, burning her already scalded flesh. She screamed from the pain, the skin of her arm blistering, but she struck one last time as her legs buckled, ripping another deep wound in her assailant, the dragon-head almost severed from the accumulated damage. It was a blow of honor, a last strike to set the price of her life as dearly as she could, and the forepaw of the monster slashed out in retribution, smashing her to the ground. But she was vaguely conscious of some gargantuan form lashing out above her, massive teeth slashing into the flesh of her opponent, exploiting the opening she had provided.

Even as she slipped into darkness, she felt her enemy staggering backwards, the demon head severed, the thing falling into darkness with her, falling into a black hole from whence it had been summoned.

*

Jhan was alone with the grinning figure of the Arch-Sage, and he knew immediately that Stalbus had placed himself here to deal with any survivors who might have fled from the power of Irubicon. Had prepared for this exact confrontation. Worse, there was a tingling inside his head as if ants had come in through his ears and were walking across his brain, a maddening sensation that the Presence within him swiftly repressed.

“Stalbus is reading our thoughts,” the Voice warned. “We must take great care now.”

Jhan felt his right arm extending, a complicated incantation sounding only in his mind, and the next moment, a slender staff of ebony was in his hand. He brought the tip down with a resounding tap, the sound both a warning and a challenge.

“So, My Lord Malcolm,” Stalbus said softly with a growing smile. “You are revealed at last.”

But the man hadn’t spoken, and Jhan suddenly realized he had heard the words, not with his ears, but with his mind.

“I should have killed you years ago,” Jhan found himself replying in kind as power flowed through the staff. “It is not yet too late to correct that mistake.”

Even as he unleashed the spell from the staff, he could actually feel the Sage’s instant response. As the magical bolt was launched from the staffhead, Stalbus put some kind of barrier between them with a single gesture, a barrier that seemed to have a figure standing in the middle. With sudden horror, Jhan recognized himself and realized a reflective force had been placed between them. The yellow bolt struck the mirror and rebounded, much of it scattering under the impact, but the central core came flying directly back to the source. Jhan’s jaw did not even have time to drop in amazement before the counterstroke reached him, but the hand that controlled the staff was quicker. The ebony rod flashed in front, and the yellow magic vanished in an eye-blink.

“You should have learned long ago, Lord Malcolm,” the Sage was thinking, “that you are your own worst enemy.”

Jhan’s own figure seemed to walk right off of the mirrored surface, raising its own ebony staff as it approached, and the Presence seemed so struck by understanding the nature of the magic that it had no thought for the impending blow. It was Jhan who dodged to the right as the staff struck down at them, and Jhan who raised their own staff to block the second blow, black and yellow bolts exploding from the contact between the two staffs.

“Black bolts from a mirrored image,” the Presence within him said. “The hallmarks of a nyca-specter.”

Jhan had never heard the word before, though he immediately understood that light was the weapon they needed to employ; and that the nyca-specter’s ebony staff would protect it from any direct exposure.

Two independent thoughts rose up in their minds to be welded into a single action, and the Presence conjured light along the staff even as Jhan spun away to the right. The image turned in pursuit, but Jhan stopped in mid-motion and struck down hard with the staff. The tip struck the unprotected foot of the nyca-specter, and the light surged down the length of the rod and into their opponent, avoiding any chance of counterstroke from the thing’s own staff. The false-Jhan froze in place as light suddenly began to gleam from its entire body, the brilliance growing to become momentarily blinding, and when the light had vanished, so had the nyca-specter.

“Quite an unusual ploy for a wizard of your extensive knowledge,” observed Stalbus. “I should have thought a Soul Illumination spell would have been the more appropriate response.”

Or the response for which you had hoped, expected, and prepared, thought Jhan.

“You have long been readying for this day, it would seem,” the Presence said to Stalbus.

“For the eight long, uninterrupted years of the imprisonment you provided, throughout all those endless days and nights,” the Sage responded. “Power is nothing after the planning has been perfected.”

Jhan almost shouted in frustration. The Presence was so enchanted by the beauty of the duel that he was more interested in observing and analyzing it than in surviving and winning. And he could sense that this was one factor on which Stalbus was counting, the balance to the greater power of the Arch-Mage, bewitching him with the artistry of his own execution. Savagery awoke in him, a fierce determination to survive, and that feeling linked with a familiar name and gave birth to a simple plan.

“You shan’t have me, Stalbus!” he cried out loud, the sound startling both wizard and sage. “I shall not be your victim!”

“How crude you have become,” the Sage thought back in grim rebuke, even as Jhan circled to the right. “Does death hold such fear for you now?”

“If you don’t fear death, Stalbus, then you can embrace it!” he shouted again as he continued to circle. The mirror barrier was stationary, and he was getting around it, though that was only a part of his plan. Knowing that Stalbus could read his thoughts, he used a feeling to communicate with the Voice, a powerful urge to force their opponent backwards.

The ebony staff came up into both hands, and a massive ring of flame erupted from it to lash out at anything within range, a simple and effective attack that caught Stalbus by surprise. The Sage staggered backwards, a portion of his own clothing momentarily taking fire that required a gesture to quench, and then his face twisted into a mask of hatred such as Jhan had never seen before. The man produced some sort of small item from his cloak, and when he thrust it forward, the ebony staff suddenly glowed red with tremendous heat, searing Jhan’s hand and forcing him to drop the rod.

“He has turned the magic of the staff loose upon itself!” the Voice said with an infuriating admiration. He looked up at Stalbus just in time to see the man raising both hands in the act of conjuration, and he knew the final blow was about to be delivered, the blow that would kill his body and both spirits it contained.

“You shan’t have me, Stalbus!” he cried a second time, hopelessly, desperately, denying the evidence of his own eyes.

Those words, however, proved to be the most deadly incantation he had ever uttered.

The mask of murderous fury on the Sage’s face turned abruptly to wide-eyed shock, and the next instant, a silvery blade burst out of his chest. But not a single drop of blood fell to the floor.

The face of Adella appeared right beside the dying Sage’s head, and she said softly, “Take Irubicon my greetings, Dear One.”

An instant later, she had pulled Bloodseeker free, and Honorium Stalbus crumpled to the ground, dead. There was no triumph on Adella’s face, however, and she lingered over the body for a moment, her posture even suggesting a twinge of regret.

The Voice, too, paused, troubled, and then Jhan heard himself say, “Thus passes a great mind, a victim of its own lust for knowledge.”

Jhan, however, was simply relieved to still be breathing, and he broke the tableau by asking, “Where is Shannon?”

“With Mraxdavar,” Adella answered. “He has affected a curing upon her, and she seemed steady enough. I’m not sure we can say the same for the dragon-lord.”

*

Illoghen was staring at them, his flat refusal still echoing in the chamber, the eerie orange light of his eyes shining with anger, with the certainty of a decision made. Despite all the goads, despite all the irrefutable arguments, despite the sense of inevitability, the titan had stopped at the very brink, refusing to pass through, refusing to complete the path that had been so elaborately prepared for him.

Argus’ heart was in his throat, staggered by the simple, blunt refusal, the cunning, intricate plan floundering on the hard rock of the Avatar’s intransience. But the Ohric was strangely unmoved, almost as if it had been anticipating this very action, as if it knew Illoghen would balk at the last, refuse to take that ultimate, decisive step.

“You have come too far down this road, Illoghen,” the Ohric pronounced for all to hear. “The fates cannot be denied by a single soul, however powerful.”

“This road serves your master, not mine,” the titan responded. “I will travel it no farther.”

“Then behold the doom you bestow upon your people!” the Ohric cried.

Green light exploded all around them, a living luminescence with images displayed within, a panorama of action and motion and struggle, a vision of battle and of death. Dragons filled the air, swooping and hovering as they bathed the land below in flames, fiery columns of death consuming any victim caught within. Below were hundreds of giants amid the poor cover of a flaming forest, hurtling rocks and spears at the attacking wyrms, and while the missiles were taking a toll, many more of the giants were falling to the dragon-breath.

“Behold the Second Battle of Baramalon!” said the Ohric. “The fate of your people dangles on the edge of fate’s knife, and only the Sphere can save them! Do you still refuse the road before you?”

Illoghen was staring aghast at the spectacle, his eyes locked on the vista, on the death of so many of his folk, the final force to push him over the brink of his refusal. But as Argus watched the battle, his trained eye told him the giants were not losing but had already lost, their numbers reduced, their structure broken, individuals struggling against the dragons, an organized force no longer. Something had already weakened the giants, some unexpected force deployed against them, and as he watched closely, he could see the small figures of men moving among the flaming trees, still fighting against the giants, against an overwhelming enemy no rational man would have dreamed of challenging.

Argus snarled with impotent rage. The armies of Mandrake and Clarissa, the forces of Norealm and Maganhall that he had pursued so relentlessly across the Southlands still had the strength left to battle giants! Battle them and defeat them!

The titan saw the truth also, recognizing the death of his people rather than the desperate struggle he was meant to see, and he dropped to his knees, hiding his eyes from the devastation. The Ohric mindlessly continued the display, aware that it was not having the intended effect but incapable of doing anything else, the Great Plan unraveling even when the prize was within reach. But as Argus snarled in impotent rage, a roar came echoing down the corridors, the triumphant roar of a dragon that has destroyed a victim. The giant raised his head in recognition, his face a mask of rage, for he had heard that same roar from that voice in another time, in another life.

The Ohric was not slow to exploit the chance. “Hear, Illoghen! Hear the voice of your nemesis, Mraxdavar! The dragon-lord comes to seize the Sphere you refuse to touch!”

The implications of that triumphant roar sent a chill down Argus’ spine, but he joined his voice to that of the demon scepter.

“Do you hear, Illoghen?” he cried. “It is not just the Paladin who pursues us. That is the voice of the Avatar of Oberon, Mraxdavar the Great, whose scars your body already bears! You do not choose to continue? No matter. The dragon-lord will be here shortly to claim the prize you have so nearly won!”

The ploy worked to perfection. Illoghen hesitated for only a moment longer, the truth of the situation too clear to deny. Then he turned to the third step. He picked up the smoldering stump of the club that had been burned by the second wall and pushed it against the third wall, watching for a result. There was none. The wood simply struck an unyielding barrier and fell to the floor, a wall of force that denied entry to all. The titan raised his fist and brought it down in a crashing blow that caused a deep, echoing “thwunk” to reverberate through the room, the slightest vibration rippling across its surface to show its extent. This barrier was different from the others, not projected from the steps or the walls but emanating out from the pillar that held the Sphere.

Resolutely, Illoghen took a giant’s war ax from the wall and began pounding against the barrier, the magiced edge of the weapon scoring the invisible rampart.

“The strength in the titan’s arms is legend,” said Argus uneasily, eyeing the open doorway. “But I fear the strength in the dragon’s legs may be the greater.”

We can do nothing to close or block the Portals of Atheleon, the Ohric answered. But we can still impose an obstruction between Illoghen and his pursuers.

Argus found himself raising the Ohric above his head, and his jaw sagged as it send forth a massive green ray that stretched from the gleaming stars of the ceiling to the ruined stairs of the dais behind Illoghen, a huge bulwark that divided the room into two halves with Illoghen and the Red Priest isolated from the doorway. But the scepter did not relent with a single burst, and Argus found his arms trembling from the pounding energy the Ohric was releasing, wave after wave of green manna, the hidden reserves he had always sensed within the emerald rod beginning to be released at last. His skin was burning from the reflected magics, his eyes shut, his face averted, his quivering arm barely holding on as the scepter sent forth a storm of lightning into the growing wall, and Argus was slowly driven to his knees, now clearly only the pawn of the Ohric.

When at last the explosions were over, Argus pried his eyes open to behold a massive barrier of green energy thicker than the bodies of three men, and beyond it, Illoghen was still pounding away at the third wall, oblivious to his isolation.

“Malcolm would have no magics to breach such a bulwark,” said Argus, his breath returning in gasps. “Even the Paladin’s sword would have to work from dawn to dusk to bring it down. But what of the power of Mraxdavar? The Dragon Lord has bested you at every trial.”

There are other powers to be called to our defense, replied the Ohric. We shall prepare a fell welcome for those who follow, be they Avatar or Paladin.

*

Thelmar rose to his feet, ending his meditation, and Darius rose with him, both men staring ahead at the cavern.

“A forbidding sight,” said Darius, and meant it. “After the worked stone, it looks like the lair of some primitive monster.”

“Oh, many more than one,” Thelmar answered as he carefully gathered dirt from the edge of the rock. “Their history goes back to the very origins of the world.”

Darius’ eyebrows rose. “Of what sort of creatures do you speak?”

“Behold,” the monk said as he threw a pebble out onto the rock. Immediately, a petrified monstrosity in man-shape emerged from the stone, a being without features in its craggy head and wielding a spear that seemed made of the same material as its body. It stood taller than a man and nearly twice as thick, and it moved with startling agility for something so large and made of flint and granite. It walked swiftly to where the pebble had fallen, a sentry checking a possible intrusion, and then it disappeared just as easily back into the floor of the cave.

“Sweet Mirna,” breathed Darius. “What was that?”

“A stone-soul,” Thelmar answered. “Some call them rock-men. By either name, they lived within the body of the earth long before any living creature strode upon it. Their ways are closed and guarded, and they have no love for the beings that walk in the thin air. The gods made a cruel choice when they crossed their road with ours.”

“There are more than one of these things?”

“Certainly scores. Possibly hundreds.”

Darius turned and looked at the passage with new eyes. He would be hard pressed to fight even two of those creatures on their own terms, and the idea that he might be covered by a score of them filled him with honest dread. This was a passage only for those who longed for death.

“How can we possibly pass?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.

“There is a pathway,” the monk said as he tied his tunic tightly about his waist, and at his arms and legs.

“Where?”

“Why, down the middle of the corridor, of course.”

Darius stared at him aghast. “You surely jest.”

“There are no jests in the Althor Nastra, the Forbidden Path,” the old man said, moving to the edge of the cave. He studied the cavern for a long moment as if remembering it, and then he said, “Put your hand on my shoulder. You must stay directly behind me, and follow my movements as closely as you may. When I shift sideways, you must shift also. There will be only one point where we must move backwards, only three steps, and I shall give you ample warning.” The monk paused and looked back directly into Darius’ eyes. “The stone-souls cannot see or hear in our terms, but they are sensitive to the slightest vibrations in the rock. If I command you to be still, you must become like a tree on a windless day. If you fail in this, you shall forfeit both our lives.”

Darius took a deep breath and nodded his head. He put his hand on the old man’s shoulder and waited.

The monk looked back and gave him a wintry smile. “Hold to your courage, Paladin, and to your faith. Masters of Earth are attuned to the vibrations in the rock.”

To his surprise, Thelmar produced two short wooden rods from his tunic, holding one in either hand.

“We begin.”

He stepped boldly into the cavern, walking at a brisk pace, and Darius had to step out bravely to stay in place. For several long moments, they proceeded without any response, almost as if the cavern were surprised by their blatant suicide.

The first stone-soul came unexpectedly from the left, erupting out of the ground with startling speed to charge with spear leveled directly at Thelmar, and Darius had to resist the instant desire to draw Sarinian and defend the feeble old man. The monk, however, was already taking a small step away from the creature and struck the spear sharply with his rod to deflect it, and then stepped easily back towards their assailant. The stone-soul tried to adjust, but it was past them in the next heartbeat, and to Darius’ considerable surprise, the monster was swallowed by the stone before it could turn back.

“The stone-souls are like fish leaping through the air,” Thelmar said even as he repeated the maneuver with a second assault. “As they leave the rock, they are propelled on a set path that they are ill-equipped to alter. Parry the first blow, and you are likely to survive the attack.”

Any relief Darius felt at that explanation was eliminated by the sudden emergence of a creature directly in front of them, its spear already only half a pace away from the old man’s heart. Thelmar countered, pivoted in place, then had to parry once more as the thing brushed against him, and Darius realized the extra effort was due to the need for the monk to protect his companion. The stone-soul was gone, and another was already lunging at them from the left, nearly colliding with another rushing down upon them from the right, and Thelmar astonishingly slipped right between them, pulling Darius to safety at the last possible moment, the two rods parrying both spears at once.

“Mirna be praised!” gasped the Paladin, trying not to squeeze down of the old monk’s shoulder.

“There is something wrong,” said Thelmar as he pushed forward again, only to find his way blocked by another attack. “There are too many at this early stage. The rock trembles with their approach. Stay close!”

The old man charged sharply to the right, passing two of the creatures that emerged together, and then moved forward, before angling off to the left again to spin past a monster that appeared directly in their path. Darius had both hands lightly on the monk’s shoulders to follow his lead as closely as possible, and he could smell his own fear as they wove their way across the cavern in an intricate and terrifying dance of death with the creatures of stone.

Twice, three times, four, the old man blocked a spear just an instant too late and suffered a slash in payment for his age, but not a single blow came close to Darius, the stone-souls apparently aiming for the head of this four-legged monster prancing across the cavern floor. They had just come in sight of the end of the cavern and the promise of worked stone when a real blow struck Thelmar. The old man had nicely parried yet another spear thrust from his left and was pivoting back to the right when a stone-soul abruptly emerged almost between them and slashed its spear directly at the monk’s exposed back. Darius froze for a moment, his faith in Thelmar actually preventing him from acting, and then, at the last moment, he threw himself against the side of the spear. His action saved the monk from instant death. The heavy spear shifted from its mark and ripped into the monk’s side rather than the small of his back, eliciting a small grunt of pain that should have been a shriek of agony.

The monk spun completely around using both halves of his staff to knock the thing aside, and then he staggered off to the left, Darius close behind him. Blood was pouring from the man’s wound, and Darius could see immediately he would not be able to complete this convoluted ballet across the cavern floor. With one gesture, he pulled Sarinian from its scabbard and eyed the deceptively open path between themselves and the promise of sanctuary from the worked stone.

“Your sword will not avail you here, Paladin,” the monk grunted.

“A few moments ago, I would have said the same of your two rods, Master,” Darius replied. “Let us hope we are both proved wrong.”

A stone-soul came from the right, and Thelmar easily parried, but instead of striking at the rock creature, Darius jammed the Avenger down into the cavern floor, burying it halfway to the hilt, and he then lifted the Master in his left arm and walked swiftly towards the wall for a few paces to distance himself from the pulsing sword. The air erupted with the noise of a dozen stone-souls launching themselves out of the rock, all of them responding to the pounding anger of the Avenger, and Darius sprinted with all his might towards the smooth surface of the worked stone. Four paces, eight, twelve, something bursting out of the rock to their left, but he was past before it could make even a single thrust.

An instant later, his feet were on the worked stone, and he continued on for a dozen more paces, his pounding heart refusing to let him slow. He then spun around to see what appeared to be a convulsion of the earth in the middle of the cavern, and he realized that dozens, perhaps scores of the stone-souls had emerged at once, stirred into a frenzy by the mocking vibrations of the Avenger.

Darius held out his hand and cried, “Sarinian en aval!”

For a startling moment, nothing happened, and Darius’ heart leapt with hope that he was done with the hellish sword at last and fear that it was gone just when he needed it most. But not even the power of the stone-souls could blunt the purpose of the Avenger. There was a familiar tingling in Darius’ hand, a momentary tremble in the bones of his fingers, and then Sarinian was in his grasp, the golden light filling the corridor. He put the sword back in its scabbard, ignoring its angry protestations at such treatment, and turned back to the wounded monk.

“I fear the wound is mortal,” Thelmar wheezed, and a tiny trickle of blood emerged from his mouth as a frightening confirmation. “The proof of the death of my brethren is here in my own end.”

“Your heart and my hands are not so weak, Master,” Darius answered, a light glow coming from his palms. He reached down towards the bloody wound, but Thelmar’s hand shot up and seized his wrist, holding him back.

“Do not be a fool, Paladin,” the old man said. “I am sworn to kill you for your violation of this forbidden ground. Would you heal your own slayer?”

Darius’ expression did not change as he said, “I would heal a good man wounded in the service of our god. It was for that reason I was blessed with this power, not my own survival.”

“That power is given to save those whose lives are not yet complete,” Thelmar replied. “Not to tie unwilling souls to this world of care and pain. The passing of my congregation has put an end to my duty and to any love I once had for life. Do not torture me with your healing.”

Darius hesitated, seeing the life-blood slowly flowing from the monk’s body, knowing the chance to save him was passing, but Thelmar held his wrist in a death-grip, refusing to let him touch the wounds.

“I would put an obligation upon you, Paladin,” the Monk continued. “An oath to bind you even unto death. You alone can see that the Sphere is not corrupted. You alone can insure the long service of my Order does not end in failure. You alone can see that the purpose of our god is not lost in the end.”

He coughed, more blood coming forth, and Darius knew that even his power could not save the old man now. He cradled him gently in his arms, made him as comfortable as he could.

“That oath I undertake right willingly,” said Darius softly, “and to that end I pledge my life and my honor.”

“There is a labyrinth yet before you,” the old man continued, his voice no more than a whisper. “But there is a shorter way for those of human stature. Take the left passage. Then the second right, and the third left after that. Then you must look sharp for a narrow passage five paces on the left which will take you directly to the Portals of Atheleon. You now bear the vengeance of the Order. See that the desecrators…feel… our wrath.”

They were the last words uttered by Thelmar, Master of the Walls of the Sanctuary. Darius bowed his head, even as he gently laid the body down.

There was no time even for the simplest prayer, not if he were to fulfill the Master’s last wish, but he took a moment to compose the body, the least gesture for a lifetime of dedicated service.

“I shall not fail you, Master,” he whispered softly, a promise to the old man and to himself.

Then he turned and hurried into the maze.

CHAPTER 28

The Sphere of Life

Illoghen was pounding against the third barrier with a weapon from the ancient wars, the gigantic axe leaving thin gouges on the surface that looked like wounds in the very air, and it was clear the wall was slowly yielding to the Avatar of the Giants. Argus stared at the massive partition of green energy the Ohric had placed between them and the giant, a rampart as thick as the outer walls of any citadel in the world, but it had left him isolated here in the front portion to defend the Portals of Atheleon from any pursuing force. He swallowed, suddenly uneasy, though the flush of fear had nothing to do with his isolation. He looked down at the green scepter in his hands, its green glow a threat of power, its silence a deafening warning.

“We have little time to waste on musing,” he said, trying to brazen through the fear. “The dragon is closing upon us even now!”

“The means to forge his death lie within your hands,” the Ohric replied. “The time for the fulfillment of the blood oath is nigh!”

Argus jerked at the words, sudden terror leaping to choke him. The hand which held the scepter began to burn, and he instinctively opened his palm to let the hellish thing drop. But the old wound through which he had sworn his blood oath to Bal burst open, and his own blood adhered to the shaft of the scepter and prevented it from falling.

The scepter appeared to be growing, expanding, the rubies in the head bursting forth as real gleaming red eyes, demon eyes that lusted for any living soul.

“We shall fight this battle as we have the others!” cried the Ohric, its fell voice filling the hall. “We shall fight as one!”

Argus’ eyes widened in panic, his heart pounding madly against his chest, the scepter sneering at the moment of his destruction. Frantically, he reached for the talisman that dangled from his neck, the horded magic handed down from his fore-sires to counter any destructive spell, the one ploy he had held in reserve to enable him to break the Ohric’s grip. There was indeed an answering flash of light, but the burst was not directed against the Ohric but against his own flesh, the talisman driving his hand away, refusing to acknowledge him. The artifact of his fathers now spurned him for the dark path he had chosen.

“No mortal flesh can endure the true touch of Great Bal’s scepter, you fool,” the Ohric snarled. “Feel now the real power of our God.”

Green power exploded into his eyes, and Argus screamed as every pore of his skin burst simultaneously from the murderous energy flooding through his body, the corruption that had seared all those around him at his command now turned inward, the impact multiplied by his constant and continuous contact with the hellish scepter. His face erupted with green pustules, the bones of his legs, his arms, his back all broke and then reformed, his heart and lungs twisting and extending, death a hundredfold over devouring him, and yet the Ohric would not let him die. His body contorted, his muscles writhing with spasms even as green strength flowed into them, his arms thickening, bulging against his armor, and the helm burst from his head, unable to contain the massive growth of his skull.

The Ohric itself seemed to be melting into the flesh of this new monstrosity, arm and scepter becoming one, a massive bulge working its way up the limb until it vanished into the torso. Then Argus threw back his head and roared with a demonic voice, his eyes now gleaming red rubies, the metamorphosis complete. The being that stood there was a hulking ogre with demonic features, green pus flowing from its nose, its ears, its mouth, and yet it was still Argus, the servant of Bal now tied to the god forever.

“Even with the blessings of Bal, we cannot stand against Mraxdavar alone!” the Argus-Ogre roared. “So we shall summon an army with which to defend the gates!”

The Argus-Ogre raised its arms high over its head, and beams of energy shot out into a hundred separate rays that struck every one of the weapons on the walls, making them tremble in anticipation.

*

Mraxdavar turned yet another corner in the endless maze and came to a sudden stop, his human companions grateful for the pause that allowed them to close the gap between them, but they, too, froze when they rounded the corner. Before them were gigantic doors pulsing with a red energy that opened on a chamber that seemed to be gleaming with divine light, and across the room behind some kind of green barrier, the Avatar of the Giants was standing on the dais where a massive gem gleamed in anticipation. The titan was wielding a huge axe and was bringing it down with incredible force to smash through some invisible barrier.

They had barely had time to assess the situation, however, before the dragon launched himself forward again with a ferocious roar.

There was no time to waste. They rushed after the dragon, but they had no sooner crossed the threshold than the fury of battle erupted all around them. Off to the side was a hulking horror that appeared to be a mocking form of Argus, and this thing had raised its arms to the high vaulted ceiling as if entreating the gods themselves.

Down from the walls rained weapons, scores of weapons, hundreds of weapons, and nearly all of them plunged into the exposed body of Mraxdavar. The Eldest Dragon roared with fury, but it was as if a hundred warriors had struck him in a single moment, the weapons smashing through scales, slashing into open wounds, cutting into his head, his jaws, his eyes. With incredible strength, the Dragon Lord shook his body like a dog shaking off fleas, striking madly at these soulless assailants with his claws, his wings, and his tail, but the legion of weapons were wielded with the skill and cunning of heroes from the ancient wars that had each killed hundreds of foes in their time. They were forged now into a common purpose, and that purpose was the death of Mraxdavar.

The proper tactic would have been to draw back, to keep as many of his enemies before him as possible and unleash his breath in a sweeping arc that would have caught scores of these predatory birds in the flames, but even that would likely only delay the inevitable, the weapons too numerous and too skillfully aimed. Instead of retreating, Mraxdavar launched himself forward towards the green barrier, and while he did indeed unleash his breath weapon, he focused it entirely on destroying the power that separated them from the giant and the Gem.

“No!” screamed the Argus-Ogre, launching himself forward to drive a thick demon spear into the dragon’s exposed side, but Mraxdavar did not relent. His breath was a flaming torch burning its way through the green magic, and he held it steady despite the deadly blows he was receiving, cutting a massive hole that only he could create, accepting death to give others the slimmest chance of victory.

Jhan let loose a cancelling spell of yellow magic from the staff and caught a dozen weapons that were carving away at the dragon’s head, dropping them to the floor and allowing Mraxdavar to continue his task, the green wall thinning, weakening, melting, the power of the Ohric no match for the Avatar of the Dragons. Finally, the inferno subsided, the flames gone, and the emerald barrier had vanished into nothingness. Then the weapons swooped in for the kill, insuring the dragon could do no additional damage.

And the gesture by the Presence came at a deadly expense.

“So Malcolm, you have not learned your lesson,” said the Argus-Ogre. “Feel now the true power of the god!”

Argus raised his hand to send an enormous green beam blazing towards Jhan, who sent yellow magic leaping out of the staff to meet it, a perfect repetition of the previous struggle at the Battle of Champions. But Jhan realized immediately that the green radiance was a dozen times more powerful now than in that previous encounter, and it smashed through the feeble yellow defense, reaching deadly fingers for his heart, a killing magic that no counter spell could disrupt. The Ohric is inside Argus! the Voice screamed within him, and Jhan realized the scepter was now putting forth all its long-horded energies.

It is a killing energy, the Voice said. But it comes to kill only one being.

At the last possible moment, it seemed as if the Voice threw itself out of his body and into the staff, the movement so swift and easy that it must have been pre-arranged. The Staff gleamed in response and put a protective shield around Jhan’s body, insulating him against the green death and saving his life. But even as Jhan crumpled helplessly to the floor, the staff broke in his hands, consumed by the green power.

“Malcolm,” he whispered desperately, hopelessly, already knowing there would be no response. “Malcolm!”

Silence, silence that overwhelmed even the roar of battle around him. A silence that would nevermore be broken. Silence, as if a part of himself had died.

A vast store of knowledge still resided in Jhan’s memory, the priceless trove from which he had been excluded for so long, but no one now stood guardian over that treasure. The green magic had been sent to kill a wizard. It had ended with his death.

*

Darius paused for just a moment at the threshold of the room, stunned by the devastation before him. Eyes that had beheld the spirits on the Plains of Desolation could now make out the ghostly figures of champions long dead who were wielding the weapons they bore in life with deadly effect, and he was staggered by this dreadful army arrayed against them.

We pass the last portal, Inglorion, Sarinian said abruptly. We shall not again emerge from this place.

A sentence of death, pure and certain.

“Then let us make an end worthy of the life we have lived,” Darius replied.

Courage was ever the fuel that powered Sarinian, and the sword responded with a burst of golden radiance that blazed brilliantly in the rarified air of this chamber of the gods. They charged forward as one, the weapons falling as the illumination touched them, for even here in the Hall of Deities, the spirits of the dead fled before the light of the Avenger.

The dragon reared and thrashed off to the side, giving the Paladin an unobstructed view of the dais, and Darius stopped abruptly as he realized what was happening. Though the being had been transformed from the black titan he had rescued from the depths of Hell, his heart recognized the gigantic figure agonizing in the center of the room, understood everything in a sudden burst of clarity and inspiration.

“Illoghen!” he cried, and from across the room, the giant paused and turned, hearing the shout through the ragged passage the dragon had created.

But though there seemed to be recognition in the creature’s blazing eyes, it was long past the point where any choices applied. He turned back to the wall, the Sphere, and the goading voice of the Red Priest.

A huge green form leapt in front of Darius, obscuring his view of the dais, an ogre-sized monstrosity with gleaming red eyes and a horrid caricature of Argus’ face leering at him. It wielded a massive hammer in one hand and a battle-axe in the other, and it swung both with terrible strength and a deadly skill. Darius ducked beneath the hammer, but the battle-axe cut through the armor on his right side and inflicted a telling wound.

“We die together, Paladin!” the Argus-Ogre roared through gaping fangs even as it spun both weapons around with a speed that prevented any counter-stroke. This time Darius parried the hammer and tried to dodge the axe, but the brute’s sheer strength was astonishing, and the axe struck home again. Desperately, Darius lunged forward with Sarinian in a wild thrust that cut into his foe’s side, but the Argus-Ogre was spinning with impossible speed and brought the hammer smashing into Darius’ extended arm. There was a sickening crack as the bone broke, and the Avenger drooped from a useless arm.

*

Across the room, Jhan peered through eyes that were now exclusively his again, the Voice gone forever, taking its power with it. He was sprawled helplessly on the floor, and they were all moments away from death, the flying weapons impossible to counter. But there, only a score of paces away, stood Argus towering above them all, relishing his triumph even at the cost of his own life. Jhan, however, did not see the monstrosity. He did not see the unholy glee. He saw only its brown leather boots.

Leather. Like the jackets of the magical tomes he had summoned to him in the study room of Llan Praetor. The protected books he had still pulled into his hands.

As a final gesture, he reached out his hand and summoned the boots, just he had summoned the leather books.

The simple spell caught Argus completely by surprise. With a bellow, he fell to the floor as his boots were pulled out from beneath him, but it was a meaningless attack, almost a prank, and he snarled with deadly rage at this insult by the boy.

*

Adella saw the Paladin fall, and she pivoted away from the slashing weapons around her, turned her back to them which would deprive her of any further chance to counter, and sprinted across the room with all the strength her legs contained, coming to Darius’ aid. But as she ran, she saw Argus drop to the ground and recognized their one, slim chance. She threw herself onto the floor, sliding across the surface towards the Argus-monstrosity and even as she slid, coming parallel to her prostrate foe, her arm snapped sharply and sent Bloodseeker flying across the floor at the head of her enemy.

Argus turned his head at the sound, and the last thing he saw was a gleaming silver point just before Bloodseeker slashed into his left eye and buried itself in his brain.

The weapons began to fall from the air, the magic that incited them ended.

Adella looked at the twisted and startled face of Argus with Bloodseeker protruding from his eye, and she snarled softly, “That score is settled at last.”

But even as Argus died, a green glow materialized above him, a glow in the vague form of a rod or scepter, and it flashed across the room to join the body of Al-Luthrax, the High Priest of Bal. The man’s body writhed in convulsions, but it seemed to open itself, to welcome the corruption that had destroyed Argus. Instead of an ogre-thing, the priest seemed to lose his own form, becoming a blinding green light that had barely retained arms, legs, and head.

The Priest moved forward, embracing Illoghen with his green glow, and together, they broke through the battered barrier at the point weakened by the giant’s pounding, creating a narrow doorway and putting the Sphere nearly within his grasp.

“Now is the cycle complete!” came the echoing voice of Al-Luthrax from the green light. “Now nothing shall keep the Sphere from you!”

*

“Take up the Sphere!”

Illoghen heard the cry, but it hardly mattered. The voice was no longer that of the lowly human priest or the glowing green presence. It was the cry of a thousand dying giants, the voice of his creator, the commandment of his god. Slowly, in the last act of his short existence, Illoghen passed through the narrow passage he had broken in the wall and reached out for the Sphere of Life, the power of a dozen gods swirling and sparkling within the crystal.

Even as the creature’s arm extended, the glowing green form of Al-Luthrax was moving towards Illoghen, mimicking his pose, taking his form. The green light was vibrating at an impossible rate, shaking the last of the Priest out of existence, leaving nothing but the pure energy of the Ohric.

The green light continued forward, a luminous specter, and even as Illoghen open himself to seize the Sphere, the ghostly form passed into his dying body, taking possession in this one moment of vulnerability. The body of the giant jerked once, twice, three times, the spasms breaking his flesh, his bones, his very soul. The figure dropped to its knees, Illoghen passing out of existence, but a force still animated his body, still keeping it erect. Still grasping the Sphere of Life, grasping even as it burst into its full power.

“It is Bal!” Darius roared, and the words seared terror into all their souls.

*

Darius had struggled back to his feet, staggered by this horrible merger of priest, scepter, and giant. Despite his gaping wounds and broken arm, he charged the dais like a mad bull, taking the Avenger in his left hand. He had failed, failed utterly, the purpose of the Ohric now fulfilled, and he had only moments in which to reach the enemy before it had fully mastered its new form. But as he approached the hole created by the giant in the field of force, emerald light poured from the titan’s once-yellow eyes as he raised the Sphere in his burned hand.

“Fool,” the giant said, its voice thunder in the hall. “Die in agony.”

The Sphere blazed with white power and a beam of death passed through the narrow opening in the barrier and roared down upon Darius, consuming him utterly. The one blow should have obliterated him, the power of the gods separating flesh from bone and soul, but a final, rebellious ember of Illoghen’s failing spirit surged one last time, roused by the memory of this Paladin carrying a dying priest through the depths of Hell, of being rescued from the madness of the Battlefields, of a bond forged and never forgotten, the faint but undeniable tie of friendship. The vanishing spirit welled upward in that final burst of will power against his destroyer and restrained the full annihilating power which he had sought to unleash. Darius was crushed to the ground, his body intact, but all life gone.

Bal snarled with rage at the intervention, but he got no chance to correct the error. The area directly beside the pillar burst into white light as if the sun itself were descending into the room. The air was torn asunder by the brilliance, a portal to a land that was the origin of light, and a figure stepped through that portal, a man dressed in pure white, carrying a staff of two intertwined dragons in one hand and a Sword of Light bearing the flawless radiance of the Blessed Realms in the other.

Bilan-Ra, the Messenger of Mirna and Lord of the Chosen.

Bal swung around to bring the power of the Sphere to bear and close this portal, but the traveler had arrived before he could exert the Sphere’s power.

“This is sacrilege against the will of the gods,” Bilan-Ra said. “Only Mirna may designate the Avatar of Humanity. Return the Sphere to its pillar and be gone!”

“I am human spirit but giant flesh,” replied Bal triumphantly. “Let Mirna scream his impotent rage! I am master of the Sphere and therefore Lord of the Mortal Realm!”

*

Shannon watched her Father fall, and she felt the scream filling her chest, her throat, her very soul, a scream acknowledging that she could not bear to lose him again, could not bear to have him ripped from her life a second time. But the scream never escaped from her lips. The long road had hardened her, had forged a fine steel from her gentle youth, and instead of a cry of despair, she found herself thinking, “Sarinian. I must summon Sarinian.”

Oddly, there was no answering surge within her heart, no instant call which would pull the sword to her. Rather her eyes were drawn to the ruined body lying at her feet that had once been the Duke of Corland, but it did not focus on the battle axe held in his dead hands or the gory hilts of Bloodseeker that extended from his skull. They locked instead onto a small gleaming talisman that dangled from the thing’s neck, an item of silver and light that seemed untouched by the horror that surrounded it. She reached down, and it felt as if the amulet fell away from the corpse of its own will, welcoming a pure and honest hand.

Energy flashed from her palm as she grasped the talisman, and in that instant, she knew she held power, power that just might affect the outcome of the struggle.

Adella, too, had seen Darius fall, but her eyes were only on the holy sword that lay at his lifeless side, as useless as if it had been on the moon. She knew the sword could restore him if she could but get it into his hand, but a deadly retribution awaited her if she dared to touch the sword, a lightning triggered by her past crimes. There was only one possible hope, and it stood very close at hand.

“Shannon!” she cried. “The sword! Sarinian! It can restore your Father!”

The time was now for Shannon, Daughter of Darius. Her heart screamed to answer Adella’s call, to summon Sarinian to her as she had before and use it to restore her Father to life. But she could not tear her eyes away from the battle of gods occurring just beyond the gleaming barrier of energy that still stood between them, and in her mind, she heard again Stalbus’ words on their first meeting: The choice will come down to your Father or your world. Choose wrong, and it will cost you both.

She wanted her feet to move towards Darius. She commanded her arm to reach out towards the sword. She summoned the words from her deep memory that would bring Sarinian tumbling across any distance to her waiting hand.

Instead, she found herself turning away, raising the hand that held the talisman, and bringing it down onto the head of the dying dragon lying behind her.

There was an explosion of energy as the talisman disintegrated into light, a light that disappeared into the savaged head of Mraxdavar.

A device intended to restore life to a mortal could do no more than cause a flicker of viability in the massive body of the Eldest of Dragons. Yet that spark was enough to rouse Mraxdavar to one last, ultimate effort, the great heart surging in answer, to try to complete the task for which he had expended his life. The dragon lifted his mangled head and sent forth a final burst of fire from the failing inferno that burned within him, the power once again focused and aimed at the weakened area above the passage the giant had punched in the wall. It was nothing near the volcanic rage that had savaged Illoghen on the mountaintop of Llan Praetor or destroyed the green wall the Ohric had put in place, but it was enough to fracture the broken barrier into a hundred shards and bring it crashing down in total ruin.

Off to the side, Adella faced an impossible challenge. Any last embers of life that still burned within Darius were quickly fading, and the means to restore him lay there right at hand. Shannon was not coming, was not answering her cry, was bent upon another hope, another destiny. There was no one left but her. She reached down, her arm stiff with anticipation, and seized the hilt of Sarinian the Avenger, accepting the devastation she so richly deserved.

There was an angry surge of light, and she felt the deadly pricks of a thousand needles threatening to impale her hand, but the holy lightning that should have blasted her backwards never came. She lifted the sword, the thief and the Avenger that had ever wished her death in a momentary tableau, and in her mind, she heard a voice speaking, a harsh, unapologetic voice of cold justice.

It would seem the Inglorion was right about you from the start. And I was wrong.

There was no time for answer or reflection, no time for anything save action, and she pressed the hilt of the sword into Darius’ dead hand.

And the Avenger gleamed with light.

*

Bal unleashed the full power of the Sphere onto Bilan-Ra, covering him with destructive energy that came from the very source of the world, the manna of the gods themselves. The White Warrior set forth his Dragon Staff, a wedge to divert rather than challenge the power, and the stream was deflected to either side of him. The giant did not relent but bore down still harder on the Sphere, intensifying the stream of energy and driving the divergent rivers back together.

Bilan-Ra tried to match the power, re-doubling his own efforts, but the manna of Mirna himself had been used to form the Sphere, the very source of Bilan-Ra’s own might now turned against him. The streams contracted, his destruction closing in upon him, and at the last moment, he blinked and was gone, the tiny zone of safety collapsing behind him.

Bal never paused. With flawless accuracy, he spun on his heels and brought a murderous giant fist crashing down on what appeared to be empty space. Empty until Bilan-Ra materialized into it. The blow smashed into the head of the White Warrior before he had any chance to use the Sword of Light, driving him to the ground. The Dragon Staff fell from his hand, and Bal kicked it aside. Then the titan held out the Sphere to deliver the killing blow.

*

Darius’ chest heaved with the first breath of new life, and he jerked to an upright position as if electricity had shot through his body. He was facing the pillar of the Sphere, so his first sight was of Bilan-Ra crumpled before the towering body of Illoghen, Bal reaching out to destroy him with the very power of Mirna.

He staggered to his feet, his heart still pounding irregularly, life not yet fully restored to his body, a score of paces from the enemy, helpless to reach him in time. But the clear barrier had been brought down, opening the area and giving Darius one last chance to intercede. Even as the light began to burn from the Sphere, Darius lifted the great sword in his left hand, the golden radiance exploding about him for this one last blow. He felt the rage and the fear in the weapon, an exact duplicate of his own, their old antagonism forged into one final, desperate dread, and he raised the sword over his head and threw it forth with all his remaining might, crying “Sarinian! Ehrak Parnak Avra!”

The sword flew through the air with unfailing aim, for it was being as well as sword and knew perfectly its intended mark. Magics were about the body of the titan, protections to divert any normal missile or magical spell, but Sarinian had been forged to dispel all such powers and took no affect from them. And the light that gleamed now from the Sphere was the light of Mirna himself that would deflect any holy weapon directed at it. But Sarinian knew not Mirna and flew boldly and perfectly into the light.

Even as Bal held out the Sphere, Sarinian slashed right into his extended wrist, cutting through the giant flesh as it had the Juggernaut, severing the hand that held the Sphere.

Bal screamed with agony and spun to see who had done this thing, fury gathering the green power to destroy his attacker utterly. But as Bal turned, Bilan-Ra seized his one chance and threw himself upwards, burying the Sword of Light into the titan’s exposed chest. The body of Illoghen froze in place, white light now emanating from its eyes, its mouth, its ears, the radiance growing, encapsulating the entire body, burning it clean with the Light from the Blessed Realms, the Light Bal had spurned and now feared beyond all else. The Light detonated to blanket the entire room so that even Bilan-Ra was forced to avert his eyes, and when the light was gone, so was Bal and the body of Illoghen.

On the ground where the titan had stood was the evil scepter known as the Ohric, and as they watched, it seemed to melt into a green ooze and soak into the ground, leaving no trace behind.

As the sustaining power of the Avenger left his hands, Darius staggered and fell, his body incapable of sustaining him.

“Father!”

Shannon rushed to join Adella at his side, lifting him, holding him, their arms embracing him, cradled by the two women he loved.

“There is no open wound,” said Adella. “Are you injured inside? Where is the pain? Speak to us!”

Darius could only shake his head, words beyond him.

“There is no healing for the wound he has suffered,” Jhan said, coming up slowly and choking on the words even as he spoke them.

Adella launched herself upwards and seized the boy by the throat, nearly lifting him from the ground in her desperation.

“Enough of the disguise!” she snarled at him. “You are Malcolm or at least have Malcolm’s power! Use it! Use it now!”

But the boy just shook his head, his eyes only on the fallen Paladin.

“He was struck down by the power of the Sphere,” Jhan explained, making no effort to resist. “By the power of Mirna. Don’t you understand? The very power that sustained him through all his trials, that gave him the strength of a dozen men, has now cleaved flesh from spirit. The Avenger could restore that bond for only a moment, but there is no power in all the world to heal such a wound.”

Shannon looked down at her Father in horror, and she whispered, “I made the wrong choice! May Mirna forgive me, I chose wrong and will now lose my world and my Father both!”

Darius shook his head, even though he felt his death upon him. He reached up a weak hand to gently caress her arm, and whispered, “Your choice was wisely made. Sarinian could not have passed that barrier without your aid, and I am glad of the answer you chose. My time now is ended, Daughter. By your aid, my oath is fulfilled and my duty done. Shed tears for our parting, but not for my fate.”

Shannon mouth was trembling, her eyes brimming, but someone was standing over her, looking down at Darius. Bilan-Ra was smiling down at the fallen Paladin with pain, compassion, and pride all etched into his face.

“Did I not say there would come a time when we drew sword together?” the White Warrior said softly. “You are indeed the greatest of my sons, and your name shall be the inspiration for generations yet unborn.”

“And what is the good of that?”

They all stopped and turned to see the steely eyes of Adella on Bilan-Ra.

“He has endured the hatred and loathing of your entire Church, faced death by burning as a heretic, and passed through the full length of the Nether Regions to save you and save us all, and all you can offer in return is fame?” she demanded. “Is that the currency of the Blessed Realms, the regard of strangers not yet born?”

Bilan-Ra’s expression did not change, but he looked down at Darius and asked simply, “Your Quest is fulfilled, and the glory of the Blessed Realms is now within your grasp. That is the dream of every Paladin. But you have ever been more than Paladin and more than mortal man. What is your choice, Inglorion?”

Darius paused to look up into Shannon’s tear-streaked face and the hopeful, hopeless expression of Adella, and then he turned back to Bilan-Ra, “I choose life, my Master. The Blessed Realms may be ready for me, but I am not yet ready for them.”

Bilan-Ra nodded slowly, but his face was heavy. “Then there is a final test you must pass. There is only one means by which your life can be restored, and that is the means by which it was taken.”

“The Sphere of Life,” muttered Darius in understanding.

“Aye. But it is not only Mirna’s power that resides within the Sphere. If you fail to master the Sphere, it will consume you utterly, and there will be nothing left in this world or the next.”

Darius looked at the two women who were both staring with shock at the staggering alternative placed abruptly before him, but he never hesitated. He looked at Bilan-Ra and said, “I will stand the test of the Sphere.”

The White Warrior held out his hand, and they were astonished to see it grasping three rings attached to a steel mesh that cradled the Sphere of Life.

“It is said that Mirna never selected an Avatar for Humanity, the one who would stand forth as the true Champion of Men, but that is not true,” Bilan-Ra said. “He has declared the Avatar shall be one who has earned the right to ascend into the Blessed Realms and yet chooses to stay in the world of Men. Only one of the purest heart may hold the Sphere and survive all the corruptions of the flesh.”

Slowly, Darius reached out his hand and grasped the Sphere of Life, and the light of gods shown forth, bathing all who beheld it. He rose to his knees, strength returning to his body, the wound inflicted by the Sphere now cured by the same. He filled his lungs with breath, life flowing once more through his mind, his heart, his very soul. He climbed back to his feet, Shannon weeping for joy, Adella standing in stunned wonder.

“I shall linger yet awhile in this mortal realm,” Darius said. “But I shall lay aside the burden of Sarinian, the Avenger. That weight I shall leave for others to bear.”

“That burden shall fall to no one ever again,” Bilan-Ra said slowly. “As it cleaved the flesh of a god, the spirit within the Avenger was extinguished. It has passed forever from the world.”

Darius said nothing, his heart twisting with both despair at the loss of a gallant ally and relief at being free of the thing at long, long last.

“Lord Darius,” called Jhan, and they turned to see him standing by the fallen Mraxdavar. “The dragon still lives.”

They all turned back to the huge creature, but it was immediately clear it lay on the very brink of death. He lay in a spreading lake of golden blood, his throat cut open, his eyes gone, death awaiting only a few more beats of that mighty heart. Darius slowly walked back towards the creature, struck by the overwhelming size of the beast, majestic even in its ruin, deadly even at its end. Mraxdavar’s head shifted slightly at his approach, his eyes blinded, but his nostrils flaring to catch the scent of the one approaching.

“Be swift with your final blow, Paladin,” the beast whispered. “My body lingers, but my spirit has already fled from a world that has no place for my kind. This is the proper setting for my end, and you are the proper medium to send me forth to Oberon.”

Darius stared at the massive body that had terrorized mankind throughout the long centuries, the teeth, the claws, the lingering stench of sulfur from the fires that had destroyed untold thousands, and he knew his duty, knew it more clearly than he had ever known anything. This monster could not be returned to the skies, could not be allowed to prey upon humanity, could not be permitted to darken the hearts of men with fear.

He raised the Sphere over his head, and the gleaming light went forth into the dying dragon, the power of the gods slashing out, the manna of Oberon used on his most loved child.

“What in Mirna’s name…?” breathed Bilan-Ra.

The gashes along the sides of the dragon were vanishing, the cruel wounds in his throat and underbelly were healing, the golden blood was seeping back into the body, and the eyes, the dread eyes of Mraxdavar the Great, were opened again in the massive head. The Eldest Dragon stirred once more to life, rising from the site of his death, thrashing his head upwards as his strength and vitality returned to him.

“What treachery is this?” demanded Bilan-Ra, stepping forward with sword drawn, torn between striking the dragon or the one who had restored it to life.

“I sought to heal the Master of the Walls, and he asked why I would be so foolish as to restore life to one who was pledged to kill me,” Darius answered softly. “I said the power is given me to heal those who take harm in Mirna’s cause, not to choose those that live and those that die.”

“This is a monster that preys on people, not a dedicated monk of Mirna,” Bilan-Ra said. “To heal Thelmar, you put only your own life in danger. By healing the dragon-lord, you put many thousands at risk.”

“I am the Avatar of Humanity, am I not?” asked Darius.

“You are.”

“This being fought against Argus and the designs of Bal, and only by his sacrifice were the two walls breached and the chance of victory offered,” he said. “I will not be the instrument of its death. Nor will I begin this new age with an act of killing.”

He turned and looked at the behemoth who towered above them all, and he took a deep breath when he said, “Dragon-Lord, you see before you one who has killed more than my share of your kind. Those deaths I cannot regret, for they were the slayers of my people, and I did as my duty required. But for the service you and your folk have rendered, I tell you now that I will no longer seek out dragons to slay. I will kill only those who come forth to kill us.”

Mraxdavar studied this man who had returned him to life and who now spoke words he had never thought to hear from the lips of a human.

“Your wisdom forsakes you, Paladin,” the Eldest Dragon rumbled. “You cannot undo centuries of strife and hate with a single action, no matter how generous. Men in their hundreds will seek out my children and slay them, and dragons, in turn, will wreck vengeance on innocent villages. And so the cycle will continue until one of our species is dead.”

Darius, however, shook his head.

“Malcolm trusted you and said I was the monster for killing without discrimination,” he said. “I think now he may have been right. I cannot undo the slaughters of the past, nor can I prevent all the killings that may still lurk in our futures. But this much I do know. Somewhere the killing must stop. If it is not to be when the last of a species finally passes from the earth, then it must come from trust, or at the very least, from understanding. There is no treaty possible, no chance of a binding obligation, for we both know that words cannot heal the wounds that lay between us. Only actions can hope to do that. This is but my promise to you of a new start for a new age.”

Mraxdavar watched him carefully, the man enduring the dragon-eyes without flinch or fear, a man armored with the truth. Finally, the Dragon-Lord said, “I have seen eons of blood and butchery as the advantages of war shifted first one way and then the other. Nothing has changed. Nothing can change. But I will not deny the honest offer of a noble heart. I shall kill no more humans, unless they bear sword against me. I shall hold all my children to that pledge and renounce those that break it willingly. On this, you have the solemn oath of Mraxdavar, Avatar of the Children of Oberon.”

Darius bowed in acknowledgment, and he then turned and walked up the steps of the dais to where the golden pillar stood. Grasping the three rings that cradled the Sphere, he carefully placed it once more in its designated spot. He then turned to his Master and said, “Mirna is the very substance of wisdom, for he knows that one who has the ability to claim the lordship of humanity will have no desire to do so. I do not lay aside the burden of the Avenger to take up the burden of the Sphere.”

Bilan-Ra frowned at him. “I’ll grant the Sphere is in no danger here with the death of the Avatar of the Giants. But can you be so sure of the acquiescence of the Avatar of the Dragons?”

“I can see some sort of bond on the dragon, a power that separates him from the Sphere. I know not its origin, but it will ever keep the dragon-lord from claiming the Sphere even if his heart changes.”

“That is the blood-oath he swore to the dwarves before the Battle of Baramalon,” Bilan-Ra said slowly. “So it still binds him. Mraxdavar, then, is no threat to seize the Sphere.”

“But what of Bal?” asked Jhan. “He has failed in this attempt, but will not that failure make a second attempt all the more certain?”

“Have no fear there. The Sphere has been fairly claimed and willingly relinquished, and the power of the gods shall join to keep the renegade from ever again reaching for this prize.” Then Bilan-Ra’s expression turned quizzical, and he said, “But there is power in this Sphere that can help mankind as well as control it. Why hide away that which can be of such wondrous service?”

“There is too fine a line between helping and controlling,” said Darius. “Mankind needs freedom most of all. In the darkest and most desperate of times, I shall take up the Sphere for its proper use. But until that day, let it rest here as the gods intended.”

“So let it be,” said Bilan-Ra. He sheathed the white sword and with a gesture brought his staff of entwined dragons into his hand. “A long and fruitful life to you, Darius Inglorion. We shall not meet again upon this world of pain. But a joyous meeting still awaits us in the Blessed Realms.”

With that, there was an explosion of light, and the White Warrior was gone.

Adella was frowning at Darius as she slowly circled the pillar like a hungry lioness stalking prey.

“So you really plan to walk away and let the Sphere just sit there?” she asked. “All the wealth and power you could ever want, and you plan to leave it behind?”

“I already have all the wealth and power I could ever want, thank you,” he smiled back.

“And just what exactly are you planning to do with all this wealth and power?”

“That we must now discover,” Darius replied. He turned and looked to Mraxdavar. “For weal or woe, the Second Battle of Baramalon is likely long since settled, Dragon-Lord. Shall we go and attend the living and the fallen?”

“Aye,” said Mraxdavar. “Let us go as friends, that the world might see the start of the new age.”

EPILOGUE

When they arrived at the battlefield, even Mraxdavar sucked his breath as the devastation unfolded beneath them. The forest of the Spindle had been burned to the very limit of sight, leaving nothing but charred trees and smoking ruin behind, the fires having consumed everything. Within the ravaged trees and on the plains around them lay the bodies of the races of men, giants, and dragons, all broken and sprawled where death had left them.

“Dear Mirna,” whispered Shannon. “Did none survive?”

“There are survivors,” replied Mraxdavar, his voice short and clipped. Five of them were perched easily on the dragon’s back, Darius and Adella, Jhan, Shannon, and Father Joshua, and they gained an ever clearer view of the slaughter as he came again to land.

Slowly, reluctantly, they dismounted, the view more limited now than from the air, but far more intimate, far more terrible, the bodies now individuals who but yesterday had been alive and vital.

Out of the forest of charred embers came a small group of men, made one by the uniforms of soot and blood they shared, and other groups emerged to the left and to the right, survivors who could not quite yet credit the test of battle had passed and left them alive.

Lord Fallon led the battered group in front with Henlik, tall and proud despite his many wounds, on one side and the stout figure of Duke Mandrik, ax in hand and fire in his eyes, on the other.

“We offer you our thanks, such as it is, Dragon Lord,” Fallon said. “Without your brave folk, we would surely have fallen and the giants would have emerged triumphant.”

“They were our enemies as well,” said Mraxdavar. “But what news of the dragons?”

“More lived than perished,” Fallon assured him, “including their huge golden leader.”

“Bramaclese!” said Jhan with relief, and Mraxdavar let out the tiniest sigh in response.

“After the battle, the armies of Argus closed to finish us off,” grunted Mandrik. “The dragons swept them once, and the cowards took to their heels!”

“How many of your men still live?” asked Darius.

“A few hundreds from Norealm,” answered Henlik. “And the men of Warhaven suffered the same. Gemsbrook fared better, it seems, but the Lady Clarissa took grievous hurt, though it is said she may yet live.”

There was silence, a respect in every heart for the fallen, but when Darius spoke, his voice carried clearly across the battlefield. “Let it be known that Argus of Corland is dead, and the black plans of Bal have been overthrown! The hellish scepter is gone from this world, and will not trouble us again within our life-spans or the life-spans of our children!”

A ragged cheer greeted the words, but they came from too few throats.

“I shall help with the wounded as I can,” said Joshua, even though his own tunic still bore the blood-stains from his newly healed wounds. He looked at Darius and offered a small smile as he added, “There are some parts of the Church’s duty that will remain unchanged.”

With a small bow to the others, Henlik lead Joshua off to where the wounded had been sheltered. The Dragon-Lord scanned the skies and saw that they were empty.

“I go then to seek my children,” said Mraxdavar. “Long may our pact of understanding hold, Lord Darius.”

“The work your folk did this day has cemented that bond better than any words or deeds of mine,” Darius answered.

“Aye,” grunted Mandrik. “But what good the dead achieved is more than I can say.”

“The toll you took from the giants enabled my folk to triumph in the end,” replied Mraxdavar. “But I think that service may have done more good than any of us can know. The Scepter of Bal intended the battle with the dragons to sway Illoghen to take up the Sphere. Seeing the truth of their defeat with the aid of men made him hesitate. And that one moment of hesitation may have changed all that followed after.”

“A terrible tally,” murmured Darius. “But on a tab that must be paid.”

Mraxdavar nodded. “We shall hold those who fell today in proper honor, be they man or dragon. It may yet be that your vision and your wisdom will prove the truer in the end, Lord Darius.”

Jhan looked up at the Dragon Lord and said quietly, “After you have found your children, My Lord, I would travel with you back to Llan Praetor and put seals upon its doors that will never again be broken. It is now the memory of a dead race, and it should be left forever in peace.”

Mraxdavar’s eyes glittered as he saw deep within the boy and recognized an old power that beat now in a young heart.

“So it shall be,” the Eldest Dragon answered and took once more to the air.

Shannon turned to Jhan and looked him over carefully. “So are you Jhan? Or Malcolm? Or both?”

“Malcolm was slain by the power of the Ohric,” he said with a shake of his head. “But he had let the boundaries between us lapse so far that I feel much of him still lies within me. It is a part I shall always cherish and honor.”

“Does part of that contain his store of magical knowledge?”

“Some part,” he admitted. “Though I do not know the full extent. I think, however, I may have found my life’s work. Though it will not be conducted on a lonely mountain top.” He looked deeply into her eyes and asked, “And have you found what you sought?”

She paused to consider this before saying slowly, “Throughout the time of war, I felt a calling that no battle or struggle could resolve. The time of healing is at hand. Perhaps it is now that I shall find the resolution for that calling.”

Jhan nodded in understanding, then cocked an eye at Fallon who was deep in conversation with Mandrik. “So are you planning to look to the woodlands for your future? Or to the mountains of Norealm?”

She grinned in answer. “I have a time yet before I must decide that. But my first love shall always be the woodlands.”

Adella looked at Darius and asked, “So do you know yet what you will do with all that wealth and power?”

Darius let out a long sigh, his eyes going into the distance.

“The Southlands lay in the ruins of battle with the deep scars of civil war that will be hard to heal,” he said. “Jalan’s Drift is broken, the Fey is laid waste, and the lives of many have been destroyed. This is the time to rebuild, and that is a harder but more rewarding task than war. And you, Good Thief? Will you come and be a part of that life?”

The woman looked at him in honest puzzlement. “You expect me to help re-build the Southlands?”

“You struggled mightily to defend this land, and all would have been lost without your aid,” he answered. “You have as much a right to help in the rebuilding as any.”

“You make such an offer to…one of my profession?”

He laughed. “Where there is money, there shall ever be thieves. This much scant wisdom I have acquired in my time.”

“And better the brigand you know than the brigand you don’t?”

“Better the friend I know, and the sword I trust,” he answered. “The Paladin perished with Sarinian in the Hall of the Gods, and all obligations perished with him. This is a new life in a new world. Shall we make a start together, you and I?”

Adella smiled her old smile as she took his proffered hand. “In that case, I will come gladly. For what better disguise could I wish for than as the trusted companion of the savior of the Southlands?”

HERE ENDS THE TALE OF THE PALADIN…
…BUT NOT THE TALE OF DARIUS…