The Dark Tower
Author: Stephen King
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Fiction; Horror; Science Fiction; Adventure; Westerns; Science Fiction Fantasy; Epic; Novels
Description: Creating "true narrative magic" ( The Washington Post ) at every revelatory turn, Stephen King surpasses all expectation in the stunning final volume of his seven-part epic masterwork. Entwining stories and worlds from a vast and complex canvas, here is the conclusion readers have long awaited—breathtakingly imaginative, boldly visionary, and wholly entertaining. Roland Deschain and his ka-tet have journeyed together and apart, scattered far and wide across multilayered worlds of wheres and whens. The destinies of Roland, Susannah, Jake, Father Callahan, Oy, and Eddie are bound in the Dark Tow
Publisher: Scribner

THE WHITE TOWER

THE ALDORAN CHONICLES

- BOOK 1 -

written by

MICHAEL WISEHART
www.michaelwisehart.com

Copyright

The White Tower is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN-10: 0-9981505-0-9

ISBN-13: 978-0-9981505-0-5

Copyright © 2016 by Michael Wisehart

All Rights Reserved.

1st Edition

Cover Art by Michael Wisehart

Illustration by Jack Adams

Editing by Mia Darien

Map by Michael Wisehart

No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part without the written permission of the author. To find out more about this author visit www.michaelwisehart.com

Table of Contents

THE WHITE TOWER

Copyright

Table of Contents

FREE PREQUEL

Map – West

Map – East

Foreword

Chapter 1 | Nyalis

Chapter 2 | Nyalis

Chapter 3 | Ty

Chapter 4 | Valtor

Chapter 5 | Ferrin

Chapter 6 | Ty

Chapter 7 | Ty

Chapter 8 | Kellen

Chapter 9 | Kellen

Chapter 10 | Ty

Chapter 11 | Ayrion

Chapter 12 | Ayrion

Chapter 13 | Valtor

Chapter 14 | Ferrin

Chapter 15 | Saleena

Chapter 16 | Kellen

Chapter 17 | Kellen

Chapter 18 | Kellen

Chapter 19 | Ty

Chapter 20 | Ty

Chapter 21 | Valtor

Chapter 22 | Valtor

Chapter 23 | Nyalis

Chapter 24 | Ty

Chapter 25 | Rhydan

Chapter 26 | Ayrion

Chapter 27 | Ayrion

Chapter 28 | Ayrion

Chapter 29 | Valtor

Chapter 30 | Ellise

Chapter 31 | Valtor

Chapter 32 | Ferrin

Chapter 33 | Ty

Chapter 34 | Mangora

Chapter 35 | Valtor

Chapter 36 | Nilla

Chapter 37 | Ferrin

Chapter 38 | Ayrion

Chapter 39 | Ayrion

Chapter 40 | Ayrion

Chapter 41 | Ayrion

Chapter 42 | Ayrion

Chapter 43 | Valtor

Chapter 44 | Lyessa

Chapter 45 | Ty

Chapter 46 | Valtor

Chapter 47 | Rae

Chapter 48 | Orlyn

Chapter 49 | Mangora

Chapter 50 | Ferrin

Chapter 51 | Rae

Chapter 52 | Ayrion

Chapter 53 | Dakaran

Chapter 54 | Ayrion

Chapter 55 | Ferrin

Chapter 56 | Ty

Chapter 57 | Valtor

Chapter 58 | Ayrion

Chapter 59 | Tolin

Chapter 60 | Dakaran

Chapter 61 | Merrick

Chapter 62 | Merrick

Chapter 63 | Orlyn

Chapter 64 | Ferrin

Chapter 65 | Ayrion

Chapter 66 | Tolin

Chapter 67 | Tolin

Chapter 68 | Tolin

Chapter 69 | Ayrion

Chapter 70 | Tolin

Chapter 71 | Asa

Chapter 72 | Ayrion

Chapter 73 | Asa

Chapter 74 | Ayrion

Chapter 75 | Dakaran

Chapter 76 | Tameel

Chapter 77 | Ferrin

Chapter 78 | Ferrin

Chapter 79 | Ferrin

Chapter 80 | Zynora

Chapter 81 | Ty

Chapter 82 | Ty

Chapter 83 | Ty

Chapter 84 | Orlyn

Chapter 85 | Adarra

Chapter 86 | Ty

Chapter 87 | Orlyn

Chapter 88 | Ty

Chapter 89 | Ty

Chapter 90 | Ty

Chapter 91 | Ty

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Author Note

Acknowledgements

About The Author

Glossary

FREE PREQUEL

Here is the first of the Aldoran Chronicle prequels:

~ Shackled ~

BORN IN A WORLD where magic is not only feared, but outlawed, Ferrin’s choice to use his abilities brings the Black Watch to his doorstep. While caged alongside a helpless band of half-starved wielders, he formulates a strategy to escape. Armed with nothing more than his sarcastic wit and a determination to never give in, Ferrin attempts the impossible.

The link to your FREE book is in the back.

Map – West

For a Free HD, full-color Map of Aldor, click below:

www.michaelwisehart.com/map-of-aldor

Map – East

Foreword

THIS SERIES IS NOT your typical follow-the-hero-on-their-journey story. It has a larger scope with multiple storylines that weave together as the series progresses. For those of you who prefer to keep up with each character as they read along, I have added a glossary at the back.

“What has been created in the laws of nature holds true in the laws of magic as well. Where there is light, there is darkness, and where there is life, there is also death.”

— Aerodyne: First of the Wizard Order

Chapter 1 | Nyalis

NYALIS COULD HEAR the faint rustling of the corax’s wings behind him, and the sound of their approach sent a shiver racing down his spine. The thought of what would happen if they found him was as chilling as the patches of ankle deep snow that threatened to slow his pace.

Over his shoulder, the towering stand of ancient redwood kept the creatures blocked from sight. Few could say they had ever seen their dark wings. Those that had, lived only long enough to regret it.

Nyalis, on the other hand, knew all too well what these creatures were capable of. They were the eyes of the White Tower, their watchers, a twisted amalgamation of night raven and reptile. As clear as the baying of a pack of bloodhounds, their dark guttural caws echoed off the mountain peaks behind him.

Pushing his fear aside, Nyalis willed his legs to keep moving. But with each new step, he found the task increasingly difficult. The frigid mountain air cut his face like a knife and burned his lungs with every inhale.

His foot caught a root and sent him tumbling. He clutched the tightly-wrapped bundle to his chest and turned his shoulder before smacking against the side of one of the massive trees. The pain was intense, but Nyalis managed to push himself up against the rough bark and cradle the squirming package in his arms.

Two little hands shot out of the small opening at the top and grabbed hold of his long, white beard. Nyalis clenched his teeth. The sharp pain of yanked whiskers nearly caused him to holler.

“That’s quite the grip you have there, little one,” he whispered, trying to untangle the babe’s tiny fingers.

After struggling to regain his balance, Nyalis promptly decided a short rest was in order. The force of his breath burned his lungs, offering him yet another sharp reminder of the inevitable deterioration of old age.

He lifted his head and studied the star-filled sky through the coverlet of branches above. He had been on the run for three days with no idea how much longer he could stay ahead of those tracking him. He knew the corax were close, he could feel them in the short hairs on the back of his neck. With the last of the sun’s rays having slipped over the horizon hours ago, he knew his best chance of spotting the Tower’s winged hunters would be their silhouettes against the brightly lit heavens.

If the stars began to wink, it was time to move.

Nyalis took another deep breath and wished he hadn’t.

“Pheww!” Holding his nose with one hand, he pulled down the babe's swaddling to discover it had been soiled . . . again.

It had been more years than he would like to admit since he had cared for a child. Nyalis had forgotten how demanding they could be. “I can’t continue to waste magic cleaning your backside, young man,” he said as if the drooling, wide-eyed face looking up at him was going to understand.

Nyalis huffed and rolled his eyes, but in the end he lowered his hand over the wrapping and spoke a few runic words. “Adama layestra.” The smell dissipated, along with the obvious stain. “That should hold for now.” He wrapped the swaddling back around the child's shivering body.

“Hmm.” The thick brows shelving the top of his eyes lowered when he noticed the strange mark developing on the back of the boy’s right shoulder. He ran his finger across the darkened area. “It would appear I was right about you after all, my little faeling.”

Nyalis took a moment to pat down the babe’s rather distinguishable head of white hair. After tucking the child’s arms back within the warmth of his covering, he tried rubbing the soreness from his aching calves. When that didn’t work, he stood and shook the loose snow from his robes before pushing on.

He had found the boy’s mother not five days past and helped her deliver, but even with hands as skilled as his, there was no stopping the outcome. Magic, like nature, demanded balance. When bringing something as powerful as this faeling child into the world, there was a price to be met, and his mother had paid it with her life.

Nyalis fought his way through the dense brush. He was nearing the edge of the tree line, which meant he was about to lose his temporary reprieve from the corax’s prying eyes.

Keeping hidden from the winged trackers was one thing, but behind them were the sniffers. Nyalis could feel their presence drawing steadily closer. They were monstrous beings, twisted and shaped by magic to serve a single purpose: to hunt down wielders, or, in the ancient tongue, the ven’ae.

The sniffers were grotesque creatures whose nests could be found in the northern parts of the Caldera. Their elongated features and dagger-like teeth and claws had been designed to inflict the maximum amount of damage. But for all their vehemence, it was not the sniffers forcing Nyalis to push himself beyond what common sense would have considered sane, it was what followed: their masters, the ones holding their leash.

They were called the bulradoer, which in the ancient tongue meant The Departed.

They were a dark sect of magic wielders who received their instructions from the White Tower. Nyalis had to admit it was quite the ingenious strategy. While the White Tower feigned its abhorrence of magic and championed the cause of ridding Aldor of its users, it in turn secretly recruited and trained those same wielders, coercing them to pledge their allegiance back to the White Tower for its own consumption.

He had his former pupil, Valtor, to thank for that. Valtor had found a way to elevate himself to the position of Arch Chancellor within the White Tower. Nyalis wasn’t the least bit surprised. Valtor always had an insatiable hunger for magic, no matter its origin or purpose. He was a very determined wielder even in his younger years. And from the unwavering determination of those chasing Nyalis at the moment, he could only conclude that his apprentice’s appetite hadn’t diminished with age.

Pushing his way through the last of the undergrowth at the edge of the small forest, Nyalis stared out at the open drop before him. The Northern Heights were one of the tallest of Aldor’s mountain chains. Their peaks stretched into the distance, completely hiding all traces of the horizon.

Careful not to slip on any of the loose rock and plunge headfirst over the side of the cliff, Nyalis skirted some of the larger boulders lining the front of the pathway and started down. The narrow snow-covered trail meandered its way back and forth as it descended in a serpentine fashion.

Even during the summer months of Toff, Kwàn, and Nor, the crests of the Northern Heights were covered in snow, but here at the beginning of Èldwin, the chances of an unexpected storm blowing in from the north increased. Nyalis prayed that the weather held out long enough for him to get off the mountain.

All around him, the summit was awash in soft moonlight and backlit with a million stars. The sight would have been breathtaking if Nyalis had any breath left to give.

With a slight groan, he turned away from the view and continued his descent. The path was familiar, having traversed its course not two weeks back, and the pale glow of the three-quarter moon gave him just enough light to see. Preoccupied with his thoughts about what stalked him, he stumbled over a small outcropping of rock and lost his balance.

Instinctively, he reached out with his free hand and grabbed hold of a small niche in the rock, pulling himself back against the mountain’s face. His hands were trembling as he glanced over the side where he had nearly fallen. It took a moment to calm his nerves. Deciding it would be wise to keep his mind focused on what was in front of him instead of what was behind, Nyalis pressed on.

With a solid wall on one side and a sheer drop on the other, there was little leeway for safe maneuvering. The trail he had chosen wasn’t much wider than his feet, and the rock was loose. With one arm out for balance, he hugged the child close and edged his way forward. His only consolation to falling at that point would have been a rather quick death once they reached the bottom.

The wind tugged at his robes like a ship’s mast, threatening to pull him over with every rising gust. With quick effort, Nyalis gathered the air in front of him and wove it into a hardened barrier, deflecting the dangerous drafts sweeping across the side of the mountain. The continuous push of the wind against his shield managed to stabilize his position as he descended. It was a basic weave taught to first year apprentices, but, he noted, sometimes it’s the simple things that work the best.

Nyalis balled his hands into fists and released, hoping to circulate the blood. When that didn’t work, he lifted his free hand to his mouth and tried blowing some warmth back into it. The thin air was proving rather difficult to keep in under the strain.

Up ahead, the path widened and ended in a two-way fork. He stopped long enough to readjust the tiny bundle in his arms. The soreness had lessened, but only because his arms had gone numb from holding the child’s weight.

Nyalis cocked his head to the side and listened. He could still hear the faint sound of the corax’s cries over the heavy wind. They were circling somewhere off to the west. Their steady, progressive sweep of the mountainside was heading directly for him.

Seeing this as a fortuitous opportunity to confuse his pursuers and slow their approach, Nyalis stretched out his hand and sent a fresh scent of magic flooding down the right fork in the path.

“That should keep the sniffers busy for a while.”

With a determined stride, Nyalis tightened his grip on the child and headed into the left crevice. He knew that sooner or later it would fissure its way out onto the lower foothills below. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured a ball of golden light to illuminate the way ahead.

Far above, like the parapets surrounding the great wizard’s stronghold of Aero’set, the rock towered over him, cutting off all sight of the night sky and hiding him from the watchful gaze of the corax.

He longed to once again be surrounded by the protection of Aero’set’s walls, to walk its many halls and feel its warm embrace. He yearned to spend days combing through the libraries sourcing out new information to aid him in his struggles.

Aero’set was a place of magic. It was a place where dreams were born, where young men and women came to study and train in order to earn the right to be named wizards. It was a place of wonder and excitement, but most of all, for Nyalis, it was home.

Unfortunately, those days had long since vanished into memory. Centuries had passed since Nyalis had last heard the steady patter of students’ feet in those long halls, of mages scrambling to get to their next classes, of wizards discussing the logical theory of magic, or apprentices exhilarated at having learned a new spell or incantation to test. Now, all was silent. The keep had been locked away out of time and reach for nearly a thousand years, awaiting the day it would once again be needed.

That day was not far off.

The child’s whimper brought Nyalis out of his momentary reverie and back to the hard reality of the situation. He took a moment to pull back the cloth blocking the babe’s view. That seemed to appease him, if briefly.

“Hungry again, I see. Wish I had something a bit tastier than costa root to offer you.” Pulling out a small belt knife, he snipped the stem of the moist root and allowed its somewhat bitter juices to run freely into the babe’s anxiously awaiting mouth. The child sucked on the end like he would his mother’s teat. His face puckered at the taste, but his hunger outweighed the lack of flavor.

Nyalis studied the stone walls ahead for anything recognizable. His pace was slowing. He had no idea how long he’d been traveling the claustrophobic footpath, but it felt like hours. He was beginning to wonder if he had taken a wrong turn when the flanking walls of granite finally began to widen.

Up ahead he could see the faint glow of an early morning sunrise, its colors washing across the open rock and signaling an end to the canyon’s passage. He let the ball of light that had been his guide dissolve.

From inside the shadows of the cavern’s mouth, Nyalis took a moment to get his bearings. Closing his eyes, he reached out with his mind and scanned the unprotected region ahead.

There were no auras to be felt.

In front of him lay a gradual slope of scree and small shrubs stretching clear to the forest below. There was a considerable amount of open ground to cross before reaching the large copse of Elder Pine at the bottom, and the thought of leaving the natural cover of the mountain didn’t sit well with Nyalis’s already frayed nerves. But if he could make it to the river and his awaiting boat, they would have a chance.

Placing the child in the crook of his arm, he left the confines of the rock and made his way down. His eyes continued to scan the naked expanse around him, looking for any sign of pursuit. Halfway down the slope, the child grew agitated and tried pushing his arms outside the cloth folding. Nyalis didn’t dare stop to calm him. Instead, he hugged him all the tighter and pushed on.

Without warning, the babe released a high-pitched squeal.

“Shhh.” Nyalis tried covering the child’s mouth with the cloth. “You’ve got to keep quiet.”

His efforts proved less than useful as the child released yet another tear-filled squeal. “What’s wrong with you? You’re going to get us killed.” Just then, he felt the air behind him tingle.

Nyalis spun around. A wave of energy plunged down the side of the rise. As quick as he could, he wove a protective barrier. The air in front of him hardened into an invisible wall, not much larger than himself, warding the two against the brunt of the impact. The bulradoer’s attack didn’t have quite the intended effect, but it did manage to send the wizard tumbling backwards across the hard rock as the wave impacted his shield.

Nyalis cried out in pain as he tried to protect the child with his body. Finally coming to a stop, he scrambled back to his feet. He didn’t believe anything was broken, but he knew by the end of the day, he would be covered in bruises. There was a nasty gash on his forehead. He could feel the blood running down the side of his face, and he quickly wiped it with his sleeve.

At the top of the rise, three bulradoer scrambled from the shadows of the open fissure he had exited earlier. Each wielder was robed in a black shroud with their hoods raised. How did they find me so fast?

In front of the bulradoer shuffled two sniffers. They stood at least eight feet in height. Their flat, nose-less faces were held high as they whiffed at the scent of his magic.

Nyalis was by far a match for any one of the dark wielders, but three, with a pair of sniffers, and a full praad of the Tower’s trackers—well, that was a different matter altogether.

Above him, the shrieks of the corax pulled his attention away from the bulradoer as they circled his position.

Not caring to stand around and face off, Nyalis raised his hand and sent a wave of fire in the bulradoer’s direction. The flames infused the brush in front of them and the smoke blocked their visibility. Nyalis used the distraction to make a hurried escape for the tree line below. He hoped to reach the river and his awaiting boat before they caught up with him.

Glancing over his shoulder, he could see them charging through the dying blaze and down the hillside in pursuit.

Overhead, the winged creatures cried out once more. They had discontinued their role as the passive trackers and were pulling into a dive. Nyalis forced his legs to go faster.

The first of the Elder Pine were only steps away.

He raced through the underbrush. Hopping a small log, he didn’t bother to slow as leafless branches reached out and slashed deep gashes into his face and forearms. Worrying only about protecting the child, he bore the pain and kept moving. Behind him, he could hear the corax passing through the outer perimeter of the trees as they followed him in.

With his one free hand, he conjured random pockets of air and sent them careening behind him, hoping to slow the large black-winged creatures. His efforts did little more than drive them into a state of frenzy, their cries echoing their desire for blood.

Giving up the futile attempt, Nyalis turned to face them head on. He reached out and wove a net of magic that stripped the rough bark off a dozen trees and sent the volley tearing into the oncoming gale of winged flesh.

The corax shrieked in pain as the wooden projectiles tore through their ranks, decimating half of their praad. Those that had succumbed to the initial barrage were scattered across the forest’s floor, many missing their wings, heads, feet, and torsos. The trees and ground were painted red with the spray of their blood. The smell of death was strong enough to choke on.

Clearly not wanting to circle for another round, the remaining creatures punched through the overhanging limbs above and disappeared into the early morning sky.

Nyalis took a deep breath to steady himself. In the distance, the sniffers and the bulradoer were just breaking through the first of the trees.

Hugging the child close, he turned and ran.

Chapter 2 | Nyalis

DAWN’S LIGHT BROKE through the forest as the sun guided his steps.

Nyalis wasn’t sure how much farther he had to go. The trees all looked the same, but somewhere in the distance, he could sense the water’s life and it urged him to keep moving.

Blood stained the side of his face, coloring his beard. The pain was unrelenting. He was beginning to wonder if all his efforts to keep the child out of the White Tower’s hands would be for nothing. Perhaps this would be the end of the Aerodyne wizard line, right here near the banks of Tara Springs in this remote clump of woods.

If it came to that, would he have the courage to do what was needed? Could he kill an innocent baby to save humanity? If this child were to fall into the wrong hands, it would mean the end to everything.

Nyalis could hear the water ahead, but the growling of the sniffers was closing fast.

Without warning, a wave of heat billowed past, singeing his hair, as a poorly aimed fireball struck the trees to his right. The thick bark ignited immediately. Nyalis raised his hand to ward himself from the heat as he ran past.

Breaking through the brush, his spirits lifted at the sight of the swift-flowing water, but his boat wasn’t there. He had exited too far north. Nyalis could see the small skiff down river, but it was too far away to reach before the bulradoer were on him.

He was out of options.

Frantically he spun around, his eyes darting from trees to brush to embankment as he searched for a place to hide the child. With no better options available, he tucked the babe up under the roots of a fallen tree.

Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves and focus his mind, Nyalis turned and marched back inside the small clearing. He let his magic seep into the ground as he waited, its tendrils spreading through the root systems of the giant trees. He extracted as much strength from their natural flow as he could to aid in what he knew was coming. The warmth of their life force flowed into him, giving him a renewed sense of power. His skin tingled as he drew it in.

The two sniffers slowed when they saw him standing there. Spreading out, they worked to flank his position. He let them come. He continued to infuse the root systems with magic as he waited for the right moment to attack.

Nyalis had been trained to survive.

He had studied the teachings of the great war wizards of old: The Five, as they were called—Pax’Sool, Rascalian, Telvarran, Ballidor, even the mighty Aerodyne himself. He had studied their stratagems, their tactics. Even though he could not wield half the magic they had been able to, he was dangerous nonetheless.

Behind the sniffers, one of the bulradoer stepped forward. “Give us the marked one, wizard, and we will let you live.”

“How very generous of you,” Nyalis said with a sneer as he took a moment to rub his hand down his long beard. “I have a counter proposal. You walk away, and I let you live.”

The bulradoers’ chuckles held a strong note of cynicism. Even with the rising sun, Nyalis could not pierce the raised cowls of the three wielders. “There are five of us and only one of you. Surrender the child and nothing unpleasant has to occur.”

“Yes, well, if I did surrender the child to the White Tower and its Arch Chancellor, very unpleasant things would definitely occur. So, I think I’ll just have to take my chances, if that’s all right with you.”

Nyalis readied himself for the attack. He was only going to get one shot at this, and he couldn’t afford to make a mistake.

The man in front turned his head in the direction of the sniffers and they charged.

No longer caring whether they could see what he was doing, Nyalis forced a final pulse of magic downward into the foundation of the trees. He ducked to the left to dodge the elongated claws of the first sniffer. He wasn’t fast enough to repeat the same with the second and caught the blow across his upper left shoulder. The force of it spun him around, and he nearly went down.

He cried out. The sharp pain of torn flesh was intense. He couldn’t expend his magic for healing, or even to lessen the pain. So instead, he used it to fuel his rage.

He hit the first sniffer with a blast of hardened air, throwing it into a nearby tree while maintaining his grip on the trees’ root system.  He dove to his left as the second swung for the side of his face. Its claws were close enough to feel wind from their passing.

He couldn’t wait any longer.

Leaping backwards to put as much space between himself and the sniffers as possible, Nyalis lifted his hands and the ground around the creatures’ feet split apart. The three bulradoer quickly backed toward the outer edge of the clearing and raised their shields as the deeply embedded root systems reached up and wrapped around the unsuspecting sniffers.

The creatures jerked and thrashed, trying to rip themselves away from the growing entanglement. The more they fought, the tighter the roots took hold. They howled in rage. Pretty soon their anger turned to fear and shrills of pain as the thick stocks plucked their limbs one by one.

Silence returned to the small glen as the trees finally withdrew back into the rich soil and disappeared from view. What remained of the two sniffers was scattered across the open glen.

The foul smell of death hung in the air as Nyalis fought to catch his breath. He could feel blood running down his back from the open wounds on his shoulder. The tension surrounding the glen was thick enough to bathe in as the three wielders cautiously made their way out to face him.

“That was a cute trick, old man,” the shorter bulradoer on the left said as she pulled back her hood to reveal a mop of frizzy hair. In the early morning light, it had the coloring of a bushel of radishes. “But you’ll find that we aren’t so easy to kill.”

Nyalis was stunned at the young woman’s age. She couldn’t have been much more than twenty and her unique raspberry eyes shone bright with gold flecks. As a wizard, Nyalis had traveled the four corners of the five kingdoms and some places further still, but he’d never seen anyone with eyes such as hers. For a moment, he had almost forgotten why he was there.

The other two removed their hoods as well. The man in the middle, who had been the first to speak, was taller than the others and about as plain as a loaf of bread. His smooth, pasty complexion helped add to the visage as it bore a similar resemblance to that of a newly baked loaf of white. He had a sharp face and an even sharper nose.

The man on the right was shorter, stockier, and wore a thick beard that covered the majority of his pockmarked face. His skin, unlike the others, was coarse and brown. It had seen enough sun for the three of them.

Nyalis re-wove his shield.

Instead of attacking, each of the three wielders pulled a single item from beneath their robes. The man on the right held out a thick silver shaft about the length of his forearm. It was etched in runes. The young woman on the left held two short rods, each engraved with similar markings, while the taller man in the middle gripped the hilt of a bladeless sword. It, too, was in like fashion as the others.

Nyalis was taken aback. How could they have acquired ter’aks?

Somehow the White Tower had managed to uncover faerie weapons used during the great Wizard Wars of the Second Age. Nyalis thought he was the only wielder still alive to carry one. He had been counting on this fact as a last resort. The mystical weapons were said to have been safely recovered and stored within the vaults at Aero’set.

Apparently, he was mistaken.

With the ter’aks being held at arm’s length, each of the dark wielders conjured their own unique weapon. For the man in the middle, a double-edged blade of orange flame protruded from its hilt. For the woman on the left, two fiery whips extended out and snaked across the ground, igniting the fallen leaves where they touched. Each whip held a remarkable resemblance to the reddish color of her hair. Lastly, the short man on the right conjured a blazing battle-axe from the tip of the thick silver handle he held in his right hand. Its greenish flames reflected in the shorter man’s eyes.

It had been almost a thousand years since the last time weapons of the fae were used in battle, and here he was facing three of them.

From beneath his robes Nyalis drew his ter’ak, and a double-edged longsword of golden flame stretched out from the hilt. Unlike most crafted weapons of wood and iron, the ter’aks could be wielded with a single hand. The only weight each possessed was that of the hilt, making them a very maneuverable and very dangerous weapon.

The three offered a formal bow and called out their names and birth kingdoms in ceremony from left to right, as if they were considering this an actual wizard’s duel as opposed to what it really was—a forced kidnapping.

“I am Lenara of Cylmar,” the redheaded young woman said as she kept a tight grip on the handles of her whips.

The taller man in the middle raised his hilt. “I am Bellar of Elondria.”

“And I am Tolvin, also of Elondria.” The stocky man spun his axe handle in his hand.

The heat from the weapons was already warming the small clearing, not to mention the patches of flames rising from where Lenara’s whips touched the ground. All three kept a sharp eye on Nyalis, pensive, careful not to take anything for granted.

Nyalis waited for them to finish before he spoke. “And I . . . don’t care.”

The bulradoers’ faces darkened.

“You aren’t wizards. You are a disgrace, an abomination.” Nyalis held out his sword, pointing to each in turn. “And if death is what you seek, you’ve certainly come to the right place.”

Lenara was the first to react. She drew back her whips and yelled as she lashed at him from the side.

Anticipating the attack, Nyalis conjured a shield of air with one hand and deflected her strike while at the same time parry-blocking Bellar’s sword with his own as the man brought it across with a clean sweep, hoping to sever Nyalis’s head from his body. The heat from the blade was intense, causing Nyalis to squint as it went by.

Bellar’s sword slid off at an angle and Nyalis moved to the right. He knew he couldn’t stay in one place. He wouldn’t last three flicks of a horse’s tail if he was forced to fight all three at once. The energy provided by the trees had helped, but he had no idea how long it would last.

Tolvin and his green battle-axe hung back, letting the other two bear the brunt of the initial attack while at the same time giving him a chance to move around to a better position.

Nyalis could tell the bulradoer were reticent in their opening moves, no doubt from having just witnessed their sniffers dispatched so brutally in front of them. Their robes were still decorated with the creature’s remains.

As fast as he could, Nyalis angled himself toward Bellar and unleashed a barrage of forward strikes and thrusts that forced the swordsman to go on the defensive. Each time the blades met, they hissed. The very air hummed with magic.

Nyalis sidestepped to the right, keeping the taller man between him and Lenara’s whips. She had the most leverage, and he wanted to keep her as far from reach as he could.

Nyalis angled his shield and struck away Bellar’s counter, driving his sword into the ground to his left. The leaves immediately caught fire. Quickly, Nyalis pulled away and spun to face his short but stocky axe-wielding assailant.

Tolvin, who had thought to circle around behind Nyalis and catch him off guard, was surprised when Nyalis suddenly turned and swung his ter’ak in a wide arc, forcing the shorter man to use his axe to block instead of strike. Tolvin grunted as Nyalis’s ter’ak hit his axe instead of his shield.

Not willing to let himself get flanked, Nyalis moved to Tolvin’s left, positioning the bearded bulradoer between him and the other two. All around, the trees were beginning to catch fire. Sweat poured from Nyalis’s brow as he fought to keep an eye on his attackers.

Tolvin was powerful. His axe swung with relentless fury. Even with the magic of Nyalis’s shield absorbing the brunt of the force, the attack was all but driving him into the ground.

In an attempt to turn the momentum around, Nyalis switched his feet as if to change the direction of his attack, but instead back-swung from the other side. The effort proved ineffective as the stout man lowered his double-sided axe in time to deflect the foray. The connection sent green and gold sparks flying everywhere.

Tolvin was strong but his moves were slow.

Still trying to gain an advantage before the other two worked their way around to his flank, Nyalis momentarily lost his concentration and missed Tolvin’s under-swing. He barely had enough time to angle his shield before the force of the strike threw him from his feet.

He landed against the base of a nearby pine with a grunt. The pain in his back was severe. He couldn’t be sure he hadn’t broken something, except for the fact he was still able to move.

The air had been knocked from his lungs. Gasping for breath, Nyalis attempted to shake off the sudden nausea rising from the pit of his stomach. His arm felt like it had been fractured. He tried using a healing spell but found he was far too weak. Tolvin was closing in. The other two stopped to watch as Tolvin moved in to finish him.

Remaining where he was, Nyalis struggled as if to stand and then fell back to his knees, letting his attacker believe he was too weak to move. The ruse wasn’t too far wrong. Tolvin, seeing his opportunity, charged. Nyalis rose to one knee, and instead of swinging out with his ter’ak, he threw his shield like a disk, letting it skim across the ground, throwing up leaves in its wake.

The bulradoer, clearly not expecting such a bizarre maneuver, didn’t lower his shield far enough and it collided about shin-high. Tolvin hollered as his legs were ripped out from under him. The force of his already forward motion flung him through the air where he landed face-first in front of Nyalis. His axe slipped from his fingers and the ter’ak’s blade immediately disappeared.

Nyalis sprang into action.  He leaped to his feet and plunged his sword through Tolvin’s back, severing the man’s spinal column and pinning him to the ground. His body didn’t even jerk. The skin around the blade hissed as the flesh melted. As always, there was very little blood. The heat from the blade had cauterized the flesh. It had also set his robes aflame.

There was a high-pitched squeal over his right shoulder. Without thinking, his reflexes rewove his shield and raised it just in time to deflect the lash from Lenara’s whip. The sound of it was like a crack of lightning. The tip ricocheted off the top and spun back around to strike her across the left side of her face, hissing upon contact.

She screamed in fury and the fire brand momentarily vanished. There was a deep, enflamed gash that once again left very little blood. All reason fled from her raspberry eyes as she conjured the long strand of red fire and struck at him with everything she had.

Tripping over his feet to get out of her way, Nyalis swung his shield left and then right, trying his best to keep her from splitting him in two. Lenara’s eyes shone hotter than her weapons as she swung from one direction and then another, searching for a way to break through his defensive barrier. He knew it wouldn’t take much. He was barely able to stand.

Nyalis coughed. The smoke from the flames surrounding the small open area was suffocating. It took everything he had just to counter her advances. His arms were tiring. Sweat continued to pour down his face. Complete fatigue was setting in. Even as light as the ter’ak and shield were, keeping them up and moving was proving more of a challenge than he feared he was capable of meeting.

“I’ve got the child!” a voice suddenly called out above the din of battle, bringing the two combatants to a premature halt. Both fighters seemed almost relieved at the forced break. Nyalis and Lenara struggled to catch what breath they could amidst the smoking ruins of their battleground.

With all his attention focused on the frizzy-headed young woman and her whips, Nyalis had lost sight of Bellar. Keeping his shield up between him and Lenara, he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the child’s hiding spot beside the fallen tree. Nyalis watched as the tall bulradoer lifted the cloth-wrapped bundle into the air.

Before he could react, Nyalis was forced to block another harsh barrage of lashes from Lenara’s whips. This time, she was looking to cut his legs out from under him. Dropping to his knees, he deflected the attack and then rolled backwards far enough to keep out of the way as they lit the ground around him. He was halfway to his feet, when Bellar’s unexpected screams brought the two fighters around once more.

They separated momentarily to see what was going on.

Bellar had managed to undo the babe’s swaddling and was attempting to hold him when he suddenly dropped the naked boy into the tall grass and held out his hands.

Nyalis squinted to get a better view of the tall bulradoer through the smoke. The flesh around the dark wielder’s fingers and palms began to dissolve, falling off in clumps around the bone.

Bellar hollered in pain as he ran for the river. He dove in, hands first, desperate to stop the deterioration. “What is happening to me?” he cried out.

Lenara spun around, hatred pouring from her face. “What did you do to him, wizard?” she shouted, raising one of her whips as if to strike.

Nyalis tried to catch his breath. “As much as I would like to claim credit,” he said, his words weak from exhaustion. “I did nothing.” He glanced at the bulradoer in the water and then at the unwrapped babe. “It was the child.”

Lenara aimed a whip in his direction. “What are you talking about?” She kept her distance. She was apparently as winded as he was and more than willing to use the unexpected diversion as a way to regather strength.

“The child is a faeling. He’s magic born.”

“We know what he is, you old fool!” she spat as she slowly encroached on his position. “What did he do to Bellar?”

“I suspect it was Bellar who did it.”

“Quit talking in riddles, you old white beard, or I’m going to cut you in half and feed you to the corax!”

The two continued to circle each other, just out of range for either of their weapons.

“The child’s magic is pure,” Nyalis said, attempting to drag out the explanation as long as possible in order to catch his wind. “It hasn’t been twisted into a perversion of what it should be as you and your master have done. So when Bellar touched the child,” he said, pointing off in the direction of the river, “I suspect his own polluted form of magic could not coexist with magic in its purity and it tried correcting itself by peeling off the taint.” Nyalis took a deep breath and shuddered. It was all rather fascinating. “Removing pieces of him, I guess, is just a side effect.” He lifted his arms out to the side. “What can I say . . . Lucky me.”

“Ahhh!” Lenara snapped her wrist and her whips flung into motion. Not bothering with his sword, Nyalis concentrated all his effort on holding back her violence with his shield. Back and forth he danced, ducked, spun, and rolled, giving every last ounce of strength his body possessed to hold her at bay. His arms were bruised and swollen from the beating they had taken by the strikes on his shield, and he was quickly losing blood from the gash on his forehead and the claw marks on his upper left shoulder.

His magic was nearly depleted.

Seeing a quick opening, he raised his ter’ak just in time for one of her whips to wrap completely around the blade and meld. Without waiting for what he had done to register with the young bulradoer, he snatched his arm back with all his might and jerked the whip from her hand. The fire immediately vanished as the silver rod hit the ground behind him. A look of shock crossed her face just before swinging out with her other arm and nearly taking off his head.

Nyalis dove to the ground and rolled as the whip flew over and sliced clean through a thick mountain fir. The enormous tree toppled, crashing to the forest floor and forcing the two of them to dive in opposite directions to prevent getting hit.

It was the distraction he needed.

Nyalis scrambled to his feet and ran for the faeling.  Scooping the babe up in his arms, along with the discarded blanket, he sprinted along the water’s edge with as much speed as his aged legs would carry him. His chest burned with every breath. Sparing a brief sidelong glance as he passed Bellar, Nyalis could hear the man’s sobs from where he sat neck-deep in the water, both hands still held under.

“That’s what you get when you mess with a real wizard,” Nyalis hollered on his way by, just before tripping on a protruding bit of rock that sent him sprawling into the soft mud of the riverbank. “You old fool!” he berated himself as he climbed back to his feet, checking to make sure he hadn’t injured the child in the process. “Serves you right for opening your big mouth.”

Up ahead, his boat was resting half on shore, water lapping against the stern.

Behind him, Lenara’s curses broke from the tree line as she ran after him. If he could reach the boat with enough time to toss the child in and push off, he might in fact escape with his life, something he had honestly not expected to happen up until this point.

Her younger, more stable legs were gaining on him. Continuing to half-hobble, half-run down the embankment, Nyalis could see he wasn’t going to make it in time. In a miserable sort of way, his mind briefly wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to just let her end it. A quick snap of her wrist and his problems would be over. No more sleepless nights, no more trekking over mountains, no more tireless pursuit of protecting a world which cared nothing for its own protection. Why was he killing himself anyway? Then he felt a slight tug on his blood-stained beard.

He smiled inwardly.

Reaching the boat, Nyalis placed the naked faeling on top of a stowed tarp and turned to face the young bulradoer. She was coming fast. What was he going to do? She was far too close for him to be able to make a safe push off without her whips cutting him in two. Frantically, he tried to think. His energy was too depleted to weave a shield, and too drained by far to conjure his ter’ak. The noise of the river’s flow pulled at his thoughts, sparking a slight possibility. It wouldn’t take much, he thought, just enough to slow her down.

Without wasting precious time pondering the validity of his idea, Nyalis reached out and emptied himself of every last bit of magic he had left. He stretched his hands out to the already flowing river and gathered some of its natural force. Using its energy, he swiped his arms sideways from right to left and sent a wave of water slamming into the side of the oncoming bulradoer. The unexpected attack threw her into the embankment, dousing both whips in the process and pasting every last strand of her frizzy locks to her face.

With a shove, Nyalis pushed the small skiff off the edge and into the fast moving current. He struggled over the side and collapsed into the bow. He didn’t have the energy left to even lift his head to see if the bulradoer had made it to her feet, or was giving chase, or if they were still close enough to the bank for her to reach them with her whips. At that moment, none of it mattered. He had expended everything he had and the rest he left in the capable hands of the Creator.

Pulling the child down into the bottom of the boat with him, Nyalis closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the river as he lapsed into unconsciousness.

Unaware of how long he had been out, Nyalis struggled to raise his head. Blinking against a late afternoon sun, he pushed himself into a sitting position. The sky was clear and the air warm as the current guided them along. His nap had resuscitated a little of his magic, and he could feel it struggling to build within him. He needed nourishment.

He pulled out one of the last remaining costa roots from his robe and bit off the end. He squeezed what milk he could into the babe’s hungry mouth. He watched the naked child squint against the light of the setting sun, bubbles seeping from a toothless grin.

The old wizard’s smile was loving and warm. “Well, that simply won’t do, now will it?” he said, staring at the boy’s head of white hair. The last thing Nyalis needed was to have gone to all this trouble to hide the child and then have something as mundane as the color of his hair give him away. “Hmm, let me see what I can do. I think I might have enough magic for this.” He placed two fingers on the soft part at the crown of the child’s head. Focusing his magic, he mumbled a few runic words and the boy’s hair shifted to a modest ash-blonde. “Yes,” he said, inspecting his work. “I believe that will do nicely. Once it starts to change back, it will be time for you to begin your journey.”

After spending a considerable amount of time squeezing the last drops of the root’s milk into the child’s mouth and dunking the boy’s backside in the river to clean yet another one of his gruesome bowel excretions, Nyalis rewrapped the ratty swaddling to stave off the evening air. Releasing a weary sigh of relief, he sat back against the seat and pondered his next move. The boy had to be protected, and for that to happen, he would need to be kept hidden as long as possible.

Nyalis knew the White Tower and its new Arch Chancellor would expect him to take the boy to Aramoor, the capital city of Elondria. It was, after all, the largest and most beautiful city in the five kingdoms and would no doubt make for easy hiding, but he couldn’t escape the fact that he would prefer the child not to be raised around all the politics and corruption that came with living in such a place.

Instead, Nyalis knew the child would need to stay close to the magic which helped bring him into being—the forest. He needed to be taught humility, not the advancement of power. He needed to learn how to respect and love those around him, not how to best use others for his own advancement.

Such values and behaviors were commonplace within the walls of a city like Aramoor, and he didn’t want this child corrupted by them. The boy’s destiny was far too great to risk losing him to the enticement of self-gratification. Aramoor was the most splendid of cities and its present High King was a just and fair man, as were many of its people, but the best way to keep out of trouble was to not be put in its path.

There was a small wielder community in Easthaven he was familiar with, bordering the great Sidaran Forest. He could leave the boy with them. They would be able to keep him out of sight for as long as it was needed, but more importantly they could rear him at a distance from all possible corruption of power. And being raised near a life source such as the forest would only help to spur the magic within him.

Raising someone as powerful and destined as this child would be difficult. Nyalis could only hope the boy’s new guardians would be up to the challenge. Glancing down at the now sleeping child, Nyalis was inundated with a wave of pity. He knew the enormous pressure that would one day be his to endure. The fate of Aldor rested on the tiny shoulders of this marked child. Gathering what small amount of energy he had garnered from his lapse of consciousness, Nyalis spun a funnel of air, pointed the boat east, and pushed ahead.

“Rest, little one, while you still can.”

For sixteen years, the old wizard watched and waited.

Chapter 3 | Ty

THE WOODS SURROUNDING the small clearing were silent, as if nature was holding its breath.

At least, that’s how it felt to Ty as he watched his brother, Breen, raise the limbs of his large ash bow and sight down the slender shaft.

A single bead of sweat slid toward the corner of his brother’s eye. Ignoring the salty sting, Breen kept his concentration locked on the target as he waited for the right opportunity to draw.

Ty had to admit, for all of his older brother’s shortcomings, he was indeed a natural born hunter. But no matter the amount of skill his brother could bring to bear, Breen would never feel the elements as he did.

Ty, who unlike the rest of his family had soft features and sandy blonde hair, always knew that he was different. He could see, hear, and feel things no one else could. Why this was so he didn’t care to speculate. He merely bottled it up inside and kept it hidden away as best he was able.

Living in a world where magic was not only outlawed but its wielders were hunted down and taken to the White Tower for purging, Ty had learned very quickly to keep his mouth shut and his abilities hidden. Even from those he cared about most—especially from them. It was his way of keeping them protected.

Closing his eyes, he reached out with his senses. His ability to communicate with the forest and the life it sheltered had grown over the years.

Everything slowed as he worked to isolate the voices. The whistle of the wind, the song of the birds, even the ancient redwood—monoliths of the forest—appeared to call his name. Shutting them out, he struggled to find his center.

One by one the chorus of life faded away, leaving only the rhythmic beating of his own heart. His pulse raced as his mind stretched across the wooded glen, searching for that lone voice. It was more feelings than words. And with years of practice, he found he could understand their communication . . . and return it.

Caution—Thirsty—Unfamiliar smell—Caution!

The stag’s head jolted upward as it sniffed the gentle breeze intertwining itself through the forest as gracefully as a single strand of thread is woven into a tapestry of color.

Ty watched from the corner of his eye as Breen held the nocked arrow between his second and third fingers. The rhythm of his breathing was steady. His brother’s broad shoulders slowly pivoted as he followed the large stag through the brush. Breen drew the hemp to his chin, and waited for a clear shot.

Perched like a big clumsy bird a pace or two up the bough, Ty reached out with his mind and enclosed the buck with a false sense of security.

Everything is quiet—You’re safe—Water is nearby.

Without warning, a searing pain shot through his right arm. Ty hollered and grabbed his shoulder, practically flipping himself backward out of the tree. Breen was so startled by Ty’s sudden outburst, he pre-released his arrow and missed the buck altogether.

As swiftly as it had appeared, the pain ceased.

Ty looked up, but the deer was gone. And so was his brother’s patience.

Breen turned around with fire in his eyes. “Ty! You sorry excuse for a pile of horse dung, that was our meal for the next couple of weeks!”

Ty flinched. His brother’s brown and green sleeveless tunic revealed arms layered in muscle. And they were straining at the moment. Ty had always wondered why he couldn’t have been born to look more like Breen. No matter how much he ate or spent time lifting the half-filled feed barrels from the barn, he was never able to come anywhere close to matching his brother’s size.

“I’m sorry, Breen. My arm . . .” Ty rubbed his fingers across the back of his shoulder. “It started burning again.” Ty had just passed into his sixteenth year, and the strange burning sensations had started not long after.

Breen combed a hand through his shoulder length, brown hair and studied Ty’s face. Rolling his eyes, he finally hooked his bow on a nearby branch and scooted his way up the bough. “Here let me take a look.” He yanked on Ty’s collar to see what the problem was.

“Hmm,” Breen grunted as he nudged Ty’s back with his thumb.

“What’s wrong? What do you see?”

His brother scratched at the three-day growth on his face. “Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say this birthmark of yours has gotten . . . bigger.”

Ty attempted to twist his head around like an owl. “What do you mean by bigger?”

“I mean it looks like it’s grown since the last time I saw it.” His brother released his shirt. “Maybe it’s not a birthmark at all?” Breen chided. “Maybe, it’s a gruesome skin disorder and pieces of you will start falling off, or perhaps it’s the mark of the Defiler.” Breen finished his ribbing by raising both hands and wiggled his fingers in Ty’s direction while making an eerie noise.

Ty punched him in the shoulder. “Quit it, Breen! That’s not funny.”

His brother smiled and slid his way back down the large limb of the old white oak and grabbed his bow. He slung it across his back and glanced at Ty. “We need to move if we plan on making it home by supper. Don’t forget that tonight’s Performance Night.”

Ty rolled his eyes. “How could I forget?”

“You’ll do great, little brother,” Breen said as he swung out of the tree. “They say the first time is always the hardest.”

“I’m not so sure I want to do this,” Ty admitted. His fingers instinctively ran across the wooden pipes of his homemade flute resting in his jacket pocket. “You know I don’t like playing in front of people.” Ty followed Breen’s example and dropped from the limb, not quite as gracefully as his older brother but at least he didn’t twist his ankle this time.

Running to catch up, he fell into step. “Sorry about the deer.”

His brother reached over and put his big arm around him. “That’s alright. We’ll get ‘em next time.”

Without the added difficulty of carrying fresh game, Ty and Breen made good time in getting back to the main road. They had barely made it through the dense foliage and onto the single dirt lane when they could feel the vibrations in the hard clay. Ty could sense the horses even before the sound of their hooves had taken form. There were at least nine or ten, he thought.

Stepping off the road to allow for clear passage, they spotted the riders in the distance. The hairs on Ty’s arm shot to attention. They were wearing the distinct white mantles of the Black Watch. And they were heading directly for them. Ty never did see the point in calling themselves the Black Watch if all they ever wore was white, but he wasn’t about to bring it to their attention.

“Don’t say anything,” Breen warned. His hands reached for his bow to loosen its grip. “If they stop, you let me do the talking.”

Ty didn’t say anything, only nodded. Everyone knew of the Black Watch, but living this far out from the White Tower, few had ever seen the white riders before. This was a first for Ty.

“I mean it, Ty! Don’t you say a word.”

“Fine.” Ty was getting flustered. Unlike his brother, the only weapon he carried was a large belt knife. Not much use against an armed contingent. “What do you think they’re doing out here?”

“Same thing they do everywhere, I reckon . . . Look for wielders.”

Ty counted ten riders as they reined in beside them. The cloud of dust from their passage blocked his view temporarily. He noticed a hidden rider at the center of the group, a woman. Her hands were bound and her mouth gagged.

“Saleena?” Breen mumbled half under his breath. He looked shocked.

“Saleena? Who’s Saleena?”

“Hush before you get us both killed . . . or worse.”

Ty wondered how it could get much worse than being killed. He also wondered why it was that his brother appeared to recognize the Black Watch’s prisoner. He had never seen her before.

“How far to the nearest town?” asked a rough looking man at the head of the group. His nose seems to be a mite crooked on his face. Ty noted the guard’s posture—as stiff as a newly dried tunic, fresh off the line. With back erect and nose in the air, Ty thought he had all the mannerisms of a bull-deer in rut and probably just as dangerous.

“The nearest town is Easthaven,” Breen said, pointing down the road in the direction they were headed. “Take this road to its end and then head north. Can’t miss it.”

The dark-haired man in front noticed Ty staring at their prisoner. “Get a good look, boy.” He sneered, one hand resting on the hilt of a large broadsword at his waist. “It’ll be the last time you’ll see this one. Chased her halfway across Sidara we did, finally caught up with her just east of Reed Marsh.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Have to gag ‘em like that to keep ‘em from using their dark powers on you.”

“What’d she do?” Ty asked, forgetting his promise to his brother as his curiosity got the better of him. Breen clearly didn’t share the same sentiment as his eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened near the corners.

“She’s been accused of practicing magic on children.” The big guard leaned forward, the rough leather of his saddle creaking under the weight of his movement. “Some townsfolk say they’d seen her offering unnatural healings and unholy charms.” He took a hard snort and then spat into the road before wiping a gloved hand across his rough goatee.

The lady fidgeted in her saddle. The tears rolling down her cheeks soaked into her cloth gag. She shook her head and opened her mouth to speak, but one of the other guards backhanded her across the face.

Ty started to move forward but Breen grabbed his arm and held him back. The sight of these paid hunters bloodying the woman’s face sent a shiver of rage down his back. There was also a strange warming sensation building from somewhere deep inside. He couldn’t explain it, but it felt as though it was growing. Biting down on his tongue, he fought to hold it back.

“Don’t get any wise ideas, boy!” The rider fixed him with a dark stare. “This one would sooner kill you as look at you. And we’re here to round up any of her cohorts.” Leaning back in his saddle, he wiped his forehead with the back of his glove where the dirt from the road had dried from previous sweating. “Either of you seen or heard of any magic being practiced round these parts?”

“There’s no one at Easthaven with magic,” Ty blurted out. The sleeve of his faded blue tunic nearly ripped at the seam as his brother’s grip tightened on his arm.

“Is that so?” The large man studied Ty’s face. “And I’m sure that two upstanding citizens like yourselves would be more than willing to do your duty and report ‘em if there were, correct?” He turned and winked at his comrades. Their snickers did little to help calm Ty’s anger. He could feel his forehead breaking out into a sweat. He took a deep breath. Something didn’t feel right. It was nothing he’d ever felt before.

“Yes, sir,” Breen interjected, not giving Ty the chance to open his mouth again. “We are good citizens of Aldor. We don’t hold to those who practice the dark arts. Dangerous folk they are. We’re mighty thankful to have the protection of the Black Watch.” Ty’s brother bowed his head toward the man, an obvious show of contrition which Ty found revolting, but unfortunately necessary.

Ty attempted to mimic his brother.

The man held Breen’s gaze for a moment longer before turning back to Ty. “What’s wrong with you, boy? You sick or something?”

Ty could feel Breen shaking his arm, but the strange heat building inside of him was keeping Ty from responding. He closed his eyes and took another gulp of air. What’s wrong with me?

“Don’t mind him, sir. He gets, uh . . . He gets nervous around strangers.” Breen cast a harsh glare in Ty’s direction.

The white rider stared at Ty a moment longer before grabbing his reins. “Well, you wouldn’t want us to get the impression you was keeping secrets, would ya?”

“No, sir, we wouldn’t want that,” Breen said.

“You know what happens to those who harbor wielders, don’t you?” The man lifted his thumb to one side of his neck and made a slow slicing motion across it.

Ty couldn’t help but quiver at the thought of what they had in store for the poor lady. He took another deep breath and the heat finally abated.

The lead guard raised his gloved hand and pointed in their direction. “I’m sure we’ll be seein’ the two of you again.” With a hard snap of his reins, the man’s horse leaped into action. The soldier’s dark hair flapped in the breeze as he headed down the road, his posse trailing right behind.

Breen waited until they had disappeared around the next bend before turning on Ty. “I thought I told you to let me do the talking!” he snapped. Ty could see the veins in his forehead start to bulge. It was never a good sign when his brother’s blood pressure rose to those levels.

“Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

“Obviously.” Breen pointed in the general direction of where the white riders had just been. “You don’t mess with the Black Watch. They have complete autonomy to do whatever they want. They could have taken you right then and there, locked you away in the White Tower, and there’s nothing any of us could have ever done about it. You of all people need to be more careful.”

Ty’s head rose. “What do you mean ‘you’ of all people?”

Breen looked surprised by his own comment. The stuttering didn’t help. “I . . . I just mean that . . . that you tend to get overly excited and let your gums go to flapping before you use your noggin.” Breen swiped a nervous hand back through his hair as he cast a sidelong look at Ty, no doubt hoping to see that what he was saying wasn’t just going in one ear and out the other. “I’ve heard it said the White Tower has more power than the High King himself.”

Ty didn’t respond, not because he was incapable of chasing down a new line of argument, but because he knew his brother was right. He had to learn to control his temper and his actions, especially when he knew he happened to be one of those very wielders they were searching for. He was not some great wizard, but he did possess a small ability when it came to communicating with other living things.

With the way people seemed to fear those with magic, his decision to keep his gifts hidden, even from his family, had proven to be the right one—at least so far. But with the Black Watch now threatening to eradicate Easthaven of all wielders, his days of going off into the woods to experiment were coming to an end. Worse yet, he had no idea what was happening with the sudden bouts of pain in his arm, or the growing mark on his shoulder.

If he couldn’t learn to control it, whatever it was, he was going to be in real trouble.

Breen picked up the pace. “We need to get back to the house. Father needs to hear about what just happened.”

Ty scrunched his nose. “Why? What’s he going to do? For that matter, how did you know that lady back there? Who was she?”

Breen didn’t respond.

“Breen, what’s going on? How do you know that woman?” Ty was growing more anxious by the moment. “Why aren’t you talking to me?”

Breen never slowed. “We just need to get home.”

Chapter 4 | Valtor

THERE WAS A HUSHED silence to the room as all eyes rested at the head of the white stone table.

All thirteen seats were filled. The heads of the Bulradoer, the Legate, and the Inquisition shifted nervously as they waited for the man seated at its crown to speak.

Valtor slammed his fist down on top of the polished stone. Backs stiffened in stone seats all along the perimeter of the long table. He enjoyed watching them squirm. “Sixteen years!” He scanned his audience, catching each eye in turn. “Sixteen years and what do you have to show for it? How hard is it to find one single child?”

“Apparently, pretty toad-sucking hard with you calling the shots,” one of the bulradoer near the end of the table mumbled to himself, not having expected anyone to hear.

“What was that, Medarin?” Valtor asked as he leaned forward in his seat and glared down the left side of the table. He could feel the mitre on top of his head tilt ever so slightly downward.

The short bulradoer sneered. “I said . . .” he glanced around at the other faces looking for support. “I said I’m tired of sitting on my hands. When Bezaleel was chancellor, you wouldn’t have found us sitting around here coddling each other. We would have been out there getting things done.”

The other members’ heads bobbed back and forth as they looked from Medarin to Valtor and back again. They were waiting to see what their chancellor’s response would be to such a blatant accusation.

Medarin had been an avid supporter of Chancellor Bezaleel back before Valtor had taken his seat, following the former chancellor’s untimely demise. The circumstances surrounding the passing of Valtor’s predecessor had been called into question by Medarin, and on more than one occasion, the bulradoer had attempted to gather those to his side who would be willing to denounce Valtor’s position as the new head of the Tower.

Medarin had one thing right. The time for doing nothing had long since passed. It was time to lance this abscess before it festered into something truly nasty. The last thing Valtor could allow was to have his authority undermined.

Valtor reached for his staff where it leaned against the arm of his throne-like chair. His fingers stroked the smooth, dark wood. Carved into the top and layered in silver was the head of a wolf with its maw spread wide. Securely wedged between its fangs was a bloodstone that had begun to pulse a deep red.

The little man’s eyes darted back and forth at those seated closest to him.

Not waiting for an answer, Valtor whipped out his arm in Medarin’s direction. The sleeve of his crimson robe retreated far enough to reveal Valtor’s thinning frame. He clenched his hand as if gripping an invisible object, and latched on to the bulradoer’s neck. Valtor raised his arm and Medarin was suddenly lifted into the air, his seat shifted backwards from where his feet kicked out under the strain. The man’s hands fought to tear away the undetectable clamp around his neck.

The others around the table quickly scooted back.

Valtor’s anger seethed. He held the black-robed wielder out over the table and watched as the little man danced the hangman’s dance in front of the others. Like a marionette on his master’s strings, Medarin’s legs flexed and kicked as he struggled to breathe, his body naturally convulsing from the lack of air. His face whitened and his lips turned a pale blue. He looked like a little fish with his puckered mouth opening and shutting as he tried crying out, but nothing came. The only sound to escape the bulradoer’s lips was a gurgling noise that was followed by a bubbly white paste.

A few more spasms and Medarin’s body went limp. His eyes were open and filled with fear, but Valtor could see there was no life within.

He released his grip and the dark wielder landed on top of the marble slab. Harsh grumbling could be heard around the entire table. The others passed judgmental glances, but no one dared speak loud enough to be heard.

“Does anyone else want to question my authority?”

The room fell silent once again as heads slowly shifted back to the front.

Valtor took a deep breath and rubbed the tips of his fingers down the soft gold-threaded seams of his chancellor’s robes. He sighed as he leaned back in his chair, the weight of his movement readjusting his hat. Now he was going to have to find another wielder to replace Medarin. Maintaining the bulradoer ranks was becoming quite tedious. “As I was saying, I want that faeling child found. Aerodyne has special plans for him.” The very mention of the first wizard’s name caused the others to squirm in their seats.

From the center of the table on the right, the Legate Superior leaned forward. “Is it true that the confinement spells have begun to fail?”

Valtor studied the woman as he determined the appropriate response. Her long graying hair boxed the sides of her round face, making her pudgy cheeks appear even more pronounced. Her eyes were drawn with dark rings. Clearly, she hadn’t seen a decent night’s sleep in a while. From the span of her waist, though, she had obviously spent that time rummaging through the Tower’s kitchens.

Still, he couldn’t see a reason for not answering her question. Aerodyne had been locked away for nearly a thousand years, after all. It had taken the sacrifice of nearly two dozen wizards during the Great Wizard Wars to assure his imprisonment. And now, after almost a millennium, the dark wizard’s presence was being felt once more.

Valtor was giddy with excitement, especially after his recent discovery of the Waters of A’sterith. They allowed him the ability to directly communicate with the ancient wizard. A lot had happened since that first meeting, and there was still a great amount of work to do in order to ready himself and the White Tower for Aerodyne’s return.

“It is true,” he said and then sat back to watch their reactions.

The room buzzed with whispered conversations. Faces animated to the numerous possibilities of their master’s return and the promised rewards for their faithfulness.

“The time is coming when we shall take our rightful place in this world,” Valtor said. “No longer will the ven’ae be the outcast. No longer will we have to skulk and hide amongst the dregs of society for being what we are. When Aerodyne returns it will be the jun’ri who bow to us.”

Echoes of acclamation filled the large chamber as the members resounded their ovation.

“What of Aramoor and the High King, Your Grace?” a bulradoer asked from the front. “Rhydan has never trusted the White Tower, and I don’t foresee him sitting idly by as we move to overthrow his rule.”

Valtor leaned forward and rested his elbows on top of the table’s cold surface. “There is more than one way to defeat an enemy. A strong leader would raise a force and engage them in open combat. However,” he added, punctuating his words with a raised finger, “a smart leader will manipulate his adversaries from the inside, and lead them to destroy themselves.” Valtor shifted in his seat. “Why fight an unnecessary battle when you can allow others to do it for you?”

There were more than a few raised brows and nodding heads as the others passed eager glances.

Valtor enjoyed playing the game. It suited him. He loved watching the pieces fit together as he manipulated the board. It was one reason he had always appreciated a decent hand of Batmyth, as long as he had a worthy opponent. It was a game that required cunning, skill, and sacrifice.

“How is our recruitment faring?” he asked as he turned his attention back to the Legate Superior. The members of the Legate were in charge of keeping the books for the White Tower. They were the oil that kept the gears moving in stable fashion.

“Enlistment is up, Your Eminence. We are seeing a fresh consignment of wielders coming in each month. The Black Watch has done an excellent job in sourcing out possible recruits. Those that join willingly have been growing in number. It seems the ven’ae are tired of being treated like criminals.”

Valtor let his fingers follow the contour of the wolf’s bared teeth on the top of his staff. “Excellent news. We can use their anger to our benefit. It’s not hard to convince a beaten animal to turn on those who are mistreating it.”

“There are still many however,” she said with a hesitant look, “who want nothing to do with our cause.”

Valtor nodded. He knew that to be all too true. Why couldn’t these people see that what he strived to do was in their best interest? He was going to reshape the world so that the ven’ae—those with true power—no longer feared the oppression of the jun’ri. How those without magical ability had managed to lord over those with it for so long was beyond him. The only thing the non-wielders had going for them was their numbers, but if he was to get his way, that would no longer matter.

There were always outliers, those that would continue to stand in the way of progress. He didn’t understand these wielders. They actually fought to protect the very people who wanted to destroy them. Their attempts at hiding potential wielders from the Tower’s grasp were becoming quite the nuisance. He needed to squash their resistance now before it grew into an all-out rebellion.

“And how are our dear brothers and sisters of the Inquisition handling these defiant wielders?” He shifted his gaze toward the white-robed delegation sitting at the far end. “Have you been able to motivate these rebels concerning the value of our cause?”

One of the inquisitors cleared his throat to speak. Valtor didn’t know his name, but then again, he didn’t know the names of half of those seated around the table.

“A few hours on the rack has convinced many to recant their ways, Your Grace. And those who haven’t have joined their fellow compatriots in the purging chamber.”

Valtor hated losing valuable resources to purging, but, at least with the guidance of Aerodyne’s grimoire, they were able to separate the non-compliant wielders from their abilities and store the magic for future use. The wielder, of course, never survived the process.

Valtor had managed to gather quite the collection of magical essence over the last couple of years as head of the White Tower, talents he would one day put to good use as he built his army and forged a new sect of magic wielders.

“We have one wielder, Arch Chancellor, which you might find of interest. He has managed to resist his inquisitors so far with remarkable force of will. His gift is unusually strong. Even more interesting is that he’s a metallurgist. Not only a metallurgist but a gifted weapon-smith to boot.”

Valtor raised his head. It had been years since they had found a true metallurgist. Evidently, a wielder who had the ability to manipulate metal ore was very uncommon. If this man was truly skilled in the art of crafting weapons, this could be a remarkable find for the White Tower.

“And who is in charge of his interrogations?”

The man glanced at his fellow inquisitors before replying. “Sylas, Your Eminence.”

Now that was a name Valtor was familiar with. “I hear he is quite talented in the art of persuasion.”

The inquisitor at the end of the table smiled. “He has a rather unique affinity for his work, Your Grace.”

“Yes, I’ve heard good things.”

“If anyone can get a man to talk, it’ll be him. I’ve never seen an inquisitor more dedicated to, or in love with, his job.”

Chapter 5 | Ferrin

THE SCREAMING HAD RETURNED.

They say the threat of pain is even more persuasive than the pain itself. Ferrin knew that whoever “they” were, they had clearly never spent an hour on an inquisitor’s rack!

“Ahhh!” Ferrin’s head slammed back against the metal rungs, flinging strands of red hair across his face. His eyes squeezed shut, tears swelling at the corners. He hated the sound of his own voice. He knew it offered his torturers a sense of undeserved satisfaction.

Snapping his mouth shut, teeth grinding against the pain, he watched in helpless wonder as the fat inquisitor worked the stone blade across the tender muscle of his upper left breast, spreading it wide like a loaf of soft bread from a hot oven. The blood was warm and thick as it ran down his muscular torso, saturating the top of his tattered trousers. “Urrrhg!” was the only reply he was willing to muster under the pain.

Ferrin had to say this for the White Tower—they were, if anything, proficient.

He could remember his first induction into the Chamber of Inquisition. They had marched all the new convicts in and made them watch while, one by one, the inquisitors questioned their fellow inmates. It was an experience not easily forgotten.

First, a light whimper could be heard, and from there, uncontrolled sobbing as the Tower guards fastened one unfortunate soul after another to the large wire-bound racks. The arrival of an inquisitor triggered the next phase in this ongoing cycle, leaving the victim to fall into one of two categories: beggar or spitter.

Wrists and ankles were spread and securely fastened by heavy iron clamps, allowing for easy access to the soft inner muscles, which were readily pricked, punched, sliced, or stabbed, or in some cases, ripped from the White Tower’s many occupants. At this juncture, true fear had not yet manifested itself. That was saved for later, and with it, the only guarantee was that “later” was undoubtedly coming.

The sound of endless screaming and the smell of urine, vomit, and blood was enough to frighten even the strongest of men, dissolving every last bit of courage and replacing it with a sense of helpless abandonment. Once hope had been destroyed, the only thing left was a complete willingness to capitulate to any of the White Tower’s demands.

From what Ferrin could gather, the Inquisition was comprised of two halves, which formed a sort of symbiotic whole: the Legate and the Inquisition. The inquisitor’s sole responsibility was to glean viable information concerning magic, and the wielders of it, from the countless victims apprehended by the Black Watch. The legates, on the other hand, were nothing more than glorified bookkeepers, accumulating the record of all practical information collected by the inquisitors.

Ferrin spat a colorful mosaic of red across the front of the inquisitor’s white robe, earning him a heavy backhand to the face. It’s the little victories that keep us going, he thought. His lips curled into a defiant smile, red teeth bared, and the salty taste of blood building at the front of his mouth.

“Why do you test me, sword-smith?” The inquisitor rubbed at his stained overcoat, further smearing the blood into the pristine garments before eventually giving up the attempt. “Just tell me what I want to know, and all these . . . pleasantries,” he said with a satisfied smirk, “will cease.”

At first, Ferrin had questioned the reasoning behind the Inquisition’s use of white robes. Surely the amount of work that must go in to keeping them clean would be a strong deterrent to using them in the first place, but after having an inquisitor step through the door for his first round of questioning, wearing a white robe spattered with sprays of blood from his previous interrogation, there was no longer any doubt in Ferrin’s mind as to the horrific effectiveness of their choice in garment.

The fat inquisitor, or Cheeks, as Ferrin so fondly liked to refer to him—since the ones on his face were as padded as the ones below—stared at him through his dark, swollen eyes. The man looked as though he hadn’t seen the sun in three or four decades. The skin around his hands and bald head held a rather pasty complexion, even against the warm light of the room’s torches.

There were thirteen torture chambers within the Hall of Inquisition. If you’d seen one, you’d seen them all. Ferrin would know. The rooms were small and circular. A man could stand in the center and walk no more than eight paces before hitting a wall in any direction. As it was, the metal rack took up the central spot, with a small table and stool for the inquisitors to display their tools of choice.

Cheeks paced in front of the rack, waving his blade around like a conductor with a baton, encouraging his musicians to give him more. “How many other wielders are there in your city? What are their names? What can they do? Where do they live?” The questions were endless and always seemed to work their way back around to one in particular, “What can you do for the White Tower?”

Like so many others before him, Ferrin fought to safeguard the identity of the wielders within his acquaintance. He was determined not to be the mouthpiece ensuring their future imprisonment and torture. Above all else, he knew he had to keep his mouth shut in hopes of protecting the one good thing left in his life: his twin sister, Myriah.

She was the only member of his family left to him, and he was determined to bear it for her. He also knew the body and the mind could only endure so much before giving in.

In the two weeks since his arrest and subsequent imprisonment within the White Tower, Ferrin had been questioned by every single interrogator within the Inquisition. He wasn’t sure why they had singled him out for such a privilege, but after just one session with Cheeks, he was sure they had saved the best for last.

Ferrin had also been surprised that he still retained all his digits. His only reasoning was that the inquisitor must be saving that particular pleasure for later, and that maybe his method was to start smaller and work his way up. Whatever the reason, Ferrin was thankful that nothing had been severed, at least not yet.

Most prisoners lasted a day or two before breaking, a week at most. Others were confessing their own mothers were the spawn of the Defiler before the manacles had even had a chance to click shut. Everyone has a different threshold for what they can endure. Ferrin figured his might have been set a little too high. Thankfully, though, the pain had begun to dull as it did after each of his cuttings, bringing with it the barest of respite and allowing his mind to work its way back to a semblance of coherence before being subjugated to another round.

Cheeks held out the small dagger. A drop of fresh blood fell from its tip and landed on his forefinger. He turned it around with his thumb. “So, what shall we cut today? Hmm?”

“How about my beard?”

Cheeks leaned back and roared with laughter, clapping his hands together in succession. He struggled to catch his breath, quite difficult apparently for a man of his size. “I see your sense of humor is in full force today, smith. Good, good. I have rather enjoyed our time together.”

He wiped the wetness from his eyes. Cheeks’ vibrant blue irises contrasted sharply with the decorative markings that had been tattooed across the majority of his face and bald head, signifying his upper rank in the Inquisition. Ferrin had no idea what the symbols meant, but one thing was for certain, at that moment he couldn’t have cared less.

The inquisitor’s blue eyes scanned Ferrin’s body. Like a map, it revealed the many afflictions Ferrin had already endured. Patches of white, hardened skin intersected his chest, arms, stomach, and legs, giving clear indication as to the previously explored territories.

Stepping from the rack, the inquisitor relaxed on a nearby stool. It groaned in protest. Ferrin wondered how much more pain and suffering the poor seat could endure before its legs finally buckled. “You have no idea how insufferable it can be to attempt to cut on someone who doesn’t quite have the . . . How do I put it?” Cheeks chewed on his lower lip in thought. “The proper constitution, if you know what I mean.”

“I completely understand,” Ferrin said through gritted teeth, “and you have my deepest sympathies.” He fought to hold back the wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm him.

“Yes.” The inquisitor grinned. “I believe you do understand.”

Swiveling in his seat, Cheeks unrolled a leather satchel across a short wooden table on his left. His fingers slid affectionately over each of the implements inside, much like a new husband admiring his wife’s curvature during their bonding ceremony—excited and nervous all at the same time.

Ferrin’s eyes hopped from one instrument to the next: a small poker, a short single-edged blade, two pairs of iron tongs, a ball-peen hammer, a heavy clipper, whipping straps, a sturdy saw, and an assortment of wooden wedges ranging in both size and girth. Quite the impressive selection, he thought.

And to think, only a short time ago he would have been going about his own daily routine of igniting the coals to his forge, arranging the hammers and tongs, collecting the strips of iron that needed smelting and the lengths of steel ready for shaping. He loved the blistering heat generated from his quaint smithy in the heart of Rhowynn. Now, here he was, nothing more than fodder for another type of forge, one in which they heated, hammered, and shaped human beings.

Cheeks pushed back from his doting, his seat squeaking nervously underneath him. “I have a surprise for you today, my proud smith.” He reached inside one of the inner pockets of his white garments and pulled forth, with an exuberant amount of theatrical flair, a new instrument. “I call it . . . the wiggler.” He waved it around in a taunting fashion for the benefit of Ferrin’s inspection.

Ferrin had to admit, it was indeed a work of beautiful craftsmanship. It had a robust iron handle with finger grooves for comfort, and soft leather gripping. But in place of a blade, it held a uniquely designed steel poker that curved in a circular fashion along its stem.

“I call it the wiggler, because once I punch it through the gut,” he said with a sharp thrusting motion, “I can wiggle it to the left and wiggle it to the right, and play with all kinds of fun things in there.” He giggled as if it were all a good joke.

“Your happiness brings tears to my eyes, Inquisitor.”

Cheeks’ smile was childlike. “Yes, I thought you’d enjoy that.”

If there was one distinction to be made about Cheeks, as opposed to his fellow brothers of the white cloth and tattooed faces, it would be that he not only took great pride in his work, but enormous pleasure as well.  “I want to introduce you to someone, smith.” The inquisitor hefted himself from the now wobbling stool and shuffled his way to the single wooden door at the front of the small stone room. Tugging on the latch, he yanked it open.

A young girl stood in the doorway. At least from where Ferrin lay prostrate on the iron rack she appeared to be a young girl. Her hands were clutched at the waist and her head bowed in an almost reverent manner. Her clothes were all but falling off. She appeared to be half-starved and there was some large bruising around her left eye. “Come in, come in.” Cheeks held out his arm, beckoning her forward.

With hesitant steps, she slid into the room, never once raising her gaze above the placement of her feet. She was definitely a sad sight to behold. “This is Rae.” The inquisitor put a sweaty hand on her shoulder and shoved her forward, practically forcing her on top of the rack. “She’s here for you.”

Ferrin raised his head, which at the time was about the only motion the rack would allow. “Well, I would give you my hand in proper welcome,” he said with a forced smile, “but, uh . . .” He wiggled his bound arms inside their shackles. “As you can see, I’m kind of tied up at the moment.”

Cheeks jabbed Rae in the shoulder. “See, I told you he had a sharp wit.” The girl’s head rose in sluggish fashion, allowing the warm light from the walled torches to wash across her face. She wasn’t quite as young as Ferrin had first believed, maybe early twenties. Her malnourished condition had given her thinning frame the impression of a teenage girl. He didn’t figure she had much longer for this world.

Her skin was the color of warm caramel, much the way Ferrin wished his would get during the hot summer months when he went without his shirt, but instead, his fair skin only seemed to redden and freckle.  He figured she was Cylmaran, or at least had come from one of the southern islands, Delga perhaps. Granted, he hadn’t had the privilege of being acquainted with any islanders before, but from what he had seen in passing, most had the same dark hair with eyes to match.

This girl’s hair, unlike his own red mop, looked as though someone had cut it with a dull knife after taking a dip in a barrel of hard ale. It hung at varying lengths. The longest strand nearly reached her shoulder.

Her face held no emotion, but her unusual pale green eyes screamed of loathing.

Ferrin’s forehead creased as the inquisitor’s words sank in. “Wait. What do you mean she’s here for me?”

“Don’t get your hopes up. She’s not here for that,” he said with a dirty wink. “At least not for you. No, she’s here to help me with my work.”

Ferrin sneered. “You’re going to make her watch?” He couldn’t believe the gall of this pig. It was bad enough to be doing what he was, but to take a helpless woman and destroy her innocence with his dark sadism was more than Ferrin could bear. “Does that make you feel more like a man? Is that the only kind of satisfaction you can get, you sick spawn of a faerie?” As soon as he had said it, he regretted it. He wasn’t supposed to let them get to him, or at least show it if they had. Keep your mouth shut, Ferrin! He bit his tongue.

“Now, now,” Cheeks said with a smile, “no need for name calling.” He waved his plump forefinger back and forth. “Even if she was a sorry excuse for a human being, she was still my mother.” The inquisitor stared at the far wall, obviously contemplating some distant memory. “Anyway,” he said, turning back around. “Where were we? Oh, yes. We were deciding where to cut.”

Stepping to the right of where Ferrin was bound, Cheeks grabbed hold of the large spiked wheel which operated the rack’s mechanisms and cranked it to the right. The bed shifted forward, raising Ferrin into an upright position. “Ah, that’s better.”

Roping off the wheel, the inquisitor turned back to the table and his array of finely assorted instruments. “My young friend here has quite a remarkable gift.” He pointed the wiggler in her direction. “Don’t you, my dear?” Rae stood in silence on the far side of the rack, watching as the rotund torturer shifted his attention back to Ferrin. “But unlike you, we have allowed her the use of a transferal. I would hate to think of the havoc you could wreak in here if you had been allowed to keep yours, what with all this metal for you to play with.” Cheeks slid his fingers down the long, thin shaft of the wiggler and around its double coils, coming to a final rest at its pointed tip.

Taking Ferrin’s transferal crystal had been the second order of business the Black Watch had completed upon his arrest, right after attaching a durma collar to his neck to cut off the flow of magic stemming from the small clear gem. Ferrin had never really understood how the little crystal was capable of allowing him to manipulate metal ore, or why when other people touched it, they were unable to do the same. He simply took it all in stride, never worrying over questions he could do nothing about.

Leaning forward, the tattooed inquisitor slid the tip of his twisted instrument down the front of Rae’s shirt, tugging lasciviously at her top button. He smiled as he withdrew a small crystal that swung like a pendulum on the end of a sweat-tarnished chain.

Ferrin recognized it immediately.

He had been given one of those rocks as a child after his own magic had become apparent. After his parents had died, his uncle, not wanting the fear of magic under his roof, or the wrath of the White Tower brought down on their heads, sold Ferrin to a traveling peddler named Pinon. It was the peddler who had given Ferrin his first transferal and explained that what Ferrin possessed was not a curse, but a gift. He had been warned to keep it hidden, especially with the White Tower escalating its search for wielders.

Obviously that hadn’t worked too well for him.

“Yes, she has quite a useful gift,” the inquisitor continued. “I would tell you all about it, but . . .” Cheeks leaned in. His warm breath wreaked of garlic and rotten meat. Ferrin had to swallow against the bile rising in the back of his throat. “It would be so much more fun to show you.” And with that, the inquisitor lifted the curved instrument and punched it straight through Ferrin’s stomach, ramming it all the way to the hilt.

“Ahhh!” Ferrin’s head flew backwards, his neck wrenching under the weight of its force as it bounced off the metal bars of the rack’s bed. Sweat broke out across his forehead and spittle flew from his mouth. Gasping for breath, he concentrated on nothing, everything, anything but what the inquisitor wanted—names. He must protect his sister. He must protect Myriah.

He could feel the inquisitor twisting his new instrument deep inside. He had never felt such pain before. In the back of his mind, he could hear Cheeks’ voice, “Who are the wielders in your city? Do you have any family? Are you ready to join the White Tower?”

Nausea swept over him like a tidal wave and he emptied what little remained in his stomach across his bare chest. Looking downward, he could see his blood bubbling out from around the wiggler as the instrument was slowly excised from his stomach. Wrapped around the twisted poker was a snaking of his intestine. Cheeks chortled with perverse pleasure. Ferrin could tell by the look in the inquisitor’s eyes that his suffering was taking the sadist to an even greater sense of elation.

Everything faded. Sounds became muffled. His heartbeat was deafening. The pain was beyond what he could bear. Ferrin could feel his body begin to convulse and then everything went black. There was silence, and at last, it was finally over.

Or, at least, he thought it was.

Ferrin’s eyes burst open and his mouth split wide as he inhaled a torrent of life-sustaining air. His eyes darted around the room but everything was enveloped in a thick haze. Sights, sounds, even his sense of smell was muffled and muted as he tried reasoning out what had just happened. He felt nothing, and the only thought that lingered was, I must be dead.

Cheeks’ pale face suddenly popped into view. “Ah, there you are. Almost lost you,” he chuckled.

Ferrin’s shoulders sank in despair. “Wha . . . What happened?” His voice was barely audible as he twisted his head around to where the inquisitor stood watching.

Without warning, all the pain and agony he had suffered from his previous cuttings came flooding back. It was overwhelming.

“Quite the rush, isn’t it?” The inquisitor evidently had been waiting for Ferrin’s senses to catch up.

Even through the pain, Ferrin felt something soft and cool slide across his chest. He tilted his head. Rae had the palm of her small hand pressed against the open wound from Cheeks’ stone blade. Her eyes were closed in concentration. Ferrin found himself caught in a confusing mix of emotions. He knew he should be screaming out in pain, but, at present, the only sensation he seemed to be holding on to was more intimate in nature.

The look in the Inquisitor’s eyes as he studied Ferrin, no doubt trying to determine where next to hurt him, should have overwhelmed Ferrin with fear, but as long as Rae’s gentle touch caressed his skin, he could think of nothing else.

“What is she doing?”

“Wait for it,” Cheeks said with a smile.

“Wait for wha—” A freezing sensation washed across Ferrin’s upper torso, and he gasped in shock. He had been completely unprepared for such a contrasting sensation. It was like hot and cold, night and day, two opposites colliding. He felt it burn, but at the same time it was soothing.

Looking down, he noticed a soft lavender glow had enveloped her hands. The light spread into the muscles and tissue of his upper chest. He watched in wonder as the sinew knitted itself back together.

The pain that had threatened to overwhelm him moments ago subsided to a dull ache. Much like the use of laudanum or cannabis, it left his whole body with a raw sense of euphoria. It was the most amazing feeling he had ever encountered. Her hands felt cool to the touch and left him at the point of almost being willing to go back under the inquisitor’s knife just to feel her magic once more.

Watching as she removed her now bloody hands from his chest, Ferrin noticed his skin had been completely resealed, leaving only the smallest of markings behind. Glancing at his side, the damage caused by the wiggler had also been healed.

He looked up and into the little healer’s pale green eyes. He was about to thank her when her legs buckled and she collapsed to the floor.

“Oh, for pity sake!” Cheeks wiped the remaining blood from the twisted poker. He took great care to make sure each tool was properly cleaned before placing them in their correct pouch within his satchel. He obviously cared more for his tools than he did for his help, Ferrin mused, glancing at Rae’s unkempt condition on the cold stone.

Finishing up with his tools, the inquisitor waddled across the small room. He opened the door and called to one of the white-cloaked members of the Black Watch. “Take Rae back to her chambers and see that she gets something to eat. Can’t have her dying on us, now can we?” Ferrin watched as a guard threw her limp body over his shoulder and carried her off. “Just think of all the fun I would miss out on if our detainees expired every time they received a little prodding.”

Waddling back to his table, Cheeks rolled his leather satchel back into place and tied off the bounding straps. “Guess we are through for today, my dear smith. How did you find my new device? And be honest now. Did it live up to its name?”

Ferrin scoffed. His brown eyes burned red-hot as he held the inquisitor’s gaze. “Why don’t you release me and I’ll show you.”

The rolls of Cheeks’ midriff bounced with his laughter, his hands held firmly to his waist for support. “I do so enjoy our time together, smith. More than any other, I dare say.” He started for the entrance but called over his shoulder, “You’ll make sure to get plenty of rest, won’t you? I want you good and ready for our next session.”

And with that he was gone.

Stretching his neck, Ferrin wiped the blood from his mouth on his bare shoulder while waiting for the Tower guards to arrive and take him back to his cell. He took a deep breath and let it exhale slowly from his lips. I’m definitely wearing them down.

Ferrin chuckled to himself with a morose sense of amusement that teetered dangerously close to the edge of insanity as he listened to the growing sound of heeled boots.

Chapter 6 | Ty

ROUNDING THE LAST BEND, Ty could see his family’s cottage ahead, tucked away rather cozily on the outskirts of the Sidaran Forest where his father was stationed as the overlord’s official gamekeeper and forester.

Their home was quite spacious for the average wood folk. It had three bedrooms, an indoor washroom, and a separate kitchen off the main room. The walls were framed with a crosshatch of cedar planking and river stone while the dense thatch roofing was all but unseen by the onslaught of greenery crawling its way across the top. The cottage gave the appearance of having grown right out of the forest itself.

“Breen, slow down! It’s not like the Black Watch are coming over for dinner.” Ty scrunched his face as he jerked his arm back from where his brother was attempting to rush him along.

“Hurry up. Father's going to want to know what just happened.”

“Why? What’s he going to do? Other than lock us in our rooms until they’re gone.” Ty groaned. The thought of being cooped up in the house for an extended period of time was excuse enough not to tell their father.

Ty followed his older brother up the stone path, ending at a covered circular archway outside the front door. He watched as Breen quietly flipped back the latch and counted to three before throwing open the door. His brother released a deep growl, startling their sister, Adarra, in the process. Breen always got some kind of perverse pleasure in watching her yelp. Ty had to admit, he rather enjoyed it himself.

Adarra, only a couple of years older than Ty, stiffened in her seat as her head jerked up from where she was reading another one of the large volumes she always seemed to have on hand.

“Breen! You did that on purpose!”

“Who me?” Breen put on a sarcastic face. “Never.” Ty chuckled at the playful banter between his siblings.

Adarra strained to hold her scowl, but when confronted with a look of such sweet innocence as what was reflected in Breen’s face, she couldn’t hold it long. Giggling, she shook her hand and swept aside a loose strand of chestnut hair, revealing a light dusting of freckles across both cheeks.

“I was beginning to worry,” came a soft voice from the kitchen as their mother, Nilla, stepped into the room, waving her dipping spoon in their direction. “Supper will be ready shortly.” Ty’s mother was a short woman with a kind face wrapped in the same straight, chestnut hair as Adarra, interspersed with a few lines of gray. She had always said that Ty had been the one to give them to her.

Ty closed the door as Breen unstrung his bow and laid it in the corner. “Sorry about that,” his brother said. “We ran into a little trouble on the road.”

“What kind of trouble?” Ty’s father, Kellen, looked up from his seat by the fire as he continued digging into the side of a small chunk of wood with his knife. As always, he chewed on the stem of his long pipe as he concentrated on the wood. “Not more poachers, I hope?”

Ty walked across the room and sat in the rocker beside his sister.

“They were poachers alright,” Breen said as he plopped down on the wooden bench in front of the small bay windows and struggled to find a comfortable position, “poachers of the Black Watch variety.”

His father’s hand faltered with the knife. Ty heard a deep intake of breath come from the direction of the kitchen. Even Adarra lowered her book. There was more to this than he knew.

His father leaned forward in his seat. “The Black Watch, here?”

“Creator help us,” Ty’s mother said as she moved further into the main room.

“Yes,” Breen said. “And it gets worse.”

“Worse?” His father spared a troubled glance at Ty. “How could it get much worse?”

Breen took a deep breath. “They have that healer with them . . . Saleena.”

“Bog Toads!” His father jumped to his feet, startling Ty out of his deliberations. Kellen was a big man, and like Ty’s brother, towered over him. “I told that foolish girl to stay put. I knew when I went back for her and she was gone that she was going to get herself captured again.”

Now Ty was really confused. What were they talking about?

His father’s eyes widened as he pulled his pipe from his mouth and pointed it at Breen. “Did they have a sniffer?”

Ty fidgeted with the front of his light brown jacket. A sniffer? He rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead to clear a fallen strand of blond hair from his eyes. He had no idea what was going on. What was a sniffer? He was growing more addled by the moment.

“No, just the Tower’s guards. They said they found her east of Reed Marsh.”

His father leaned one large elbow against the stone hearth and scratched at the side of his head where the streaks of gray were most prevalent. “She must’ve gotten nervous and tried making a run for it.”

“Foolish woman.” Ty’s mother shook her head, swinging her ladle around the way she used to when threatening one of them with a good spanking. “If she would have just listened, we could have found her a safe place to relocate.”

“They asked for directions to Easthaven,” Breen continued. “They said they were looking for other wielders.”

A glimmer of hope registered in his father’s eyes as his fingers traced the edges of his groomed beard. “Good. My guess is they will search the city and surrounding community before making their trek back to the Tower. That might give us a few days to do something about Saleena.”

Ty couldn’t take it any longer as he hopped to his feet. “What is going on?” His arms lifted from his sides, adding a measure of frustrated urgency to his words. “Who’s Saleena and how do you all know her? And what’s a sniffer?” His eyes shot from one face to another, waiting for an answer.

His parents shared a hesitant look.

Ty’s mother shrugged. “He’s sixteen. I’d say he’s old enough.”

“Old enough for what?” Ty asked. “Will somebody please tell me what is going on around here?”

His father seemingly ignored Ty’s outburst. “Nilla, can you get my bag ready?”

“On my way, dear.” Ty’s mother headed for the kitchen. Halfway there, she called back over her shoulder. “Adarra, how about giving your mother a hand?”

His father spun around. “Breen, I need you to saddle my horse.”

“You want me to come with you?”

“No. You keep your plans and go to Performance Night. No need to draw any undue suspicions by not showing up. I’m going to work my way around town and see if I can’t get a feel for what our guests are up to before relaying any news to the council. Hopefully, we can determine a course of action that won’t put our entire community in jeopardy.”

With that said, Breen left, shutting the front door behind him and leaving Ty rocking anxiously from one foot to the other.

His father finally retook his seat and motioned for Ty to join him. A feeling of anticipation swept over Ty as he sat on the bench his brother had previously occupied. It was still warm.

There was a spark of fear behind his father’s sharp emerald eyes. Eyes, much like his brother’s, reminding Ty of how different he was. Ty’s eyes, while just as bright, were sapphire blue. He knew he wasn’t their real son. They had told him as much once he had reached an age where those differences had been recognized. However, when asked, the answer was always the same—they didn’t know who his birth parents were.

Ty used to daydream that he was the long lost heir of a wealthy nobleman, and that he had been kidnapped by a band of marauding gypsies and sold on the black market for food, which was loads more exciting than the truth—that he had been dropped off by a kindly old gentleman who had found him in the woods.

Having resigned himself to the fact that he would more than likely never discover who had given him birth, Ty didn’t press the matter further. He soon came to realize that he didn’t care who his birth parents were. This was his real family and they were all that mattered.

“Ty.” His father favored him with a careful gaze, judging his words before he spoke. “What I’m about to tell you is very dangerous. It’s a secret known only to a few. And there are a great many lives depending on it remaining so.” His father waited, regarding him with a serious look. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“Yes sir.” Ty nodded.

“Like your brother and sister before you, we were going to wait until we felt you were old enough before revealing what I’m about to share with you. In fact, your sister was nearly seventeen before we told her.” Ty’s father waved his hand. “But that’s beside the point. The White Tower’s reach is clearly spreading, evident by what you’ve told us already. And waiting any longer could prove even more dangerous.”

“Why would our family be in danger? We don’t have anything to do with the White Tower.” Ty was getting nervous. He wondered if his parents already knew of his ability to communicate with animals. Would the White Tower come after him if they knew? He couldn’t understand why they would. It wasn’t like he was anything special. How dangerous could it be to talk with a group of tree rats and forest conies?

His father took a deep breath. “Our family is part of a secret group that helps to hide wielders from the White Tower.”

Ty’s mouth opened slightly. That was clearly not what he had been expecting. His father paused as if to judge Ty’s reaction before continuing. “Easthaven, like a lot of other larger cities across Aldor, has places of refuge for magic wielders. We call them Harbor Houses. What you have to understand, though, is that most of these wielders haven’t done anything wrong. They are no more dangerous than you or me. But, because they were born with a special gift, or, like Saleena, have been spotted using a new kind of herb to heal what other physickers cannot, they get branded as ven’ae and are rounded up by the Black Watch.”

Ty leaned forward in his seat. “What happens to them?”

His father scratched the back of his neck with the stem of his pipe. “That’s a good question. We don’t really know. At one time they were held and tested, just to see if their gifts were safe or not. Those they believed to have non-violent abilities were released on their word they would never use them, while others who were said to be too dangerous to release were either locked away or executed.”

Ty shuddered at the thought, knowing it could one day be his fate.

“It was said that after the coming of the fae, back during the Second Age, Aldor was a land rich with magic. But what we didn’t know was that the magic they brought with them could turn even the most righteous of men into the vilest of tyrants.” Ty’s father studied his face for a moment as if looking for a certain response before continuing. “Magic can lead to corruption, son, and the more magic we allow around us the more dangerous it is for our world. If not for the Great Purge and the outlawing of magic, we might have completely wiped our race from history—”

“Yes, I know,” Ty interjected with dramatic flair, “and now we are living in the splendor of the Third Age, an age of peace without the dangers of magic.” Ty shrugged. “We already learned about the evils of magic in school.”

“Yes, but—” His father leaned forward and pointed the end of his pipe in Ty’s direction, making sure Ty caught what he was about to say, “is what you learned the truth?” His father’s eyes narrowed.

Ty was afraid to answer. He wasn’t sure if he would say the right thing. His father was obviously trying to make a point.

“The truth is, Ty, that magic is just that . . . It’s magic. It’s not good or evil. It’s a tool, like your mother’s rolling pin, or Adarra’s books, or even Breen’s bow. Evil does not come from the tool but from the one who wields it. Magic, like anything else in this world, can be used for good or evil.” His father cocked his head to the side. “Does that make sense?”

Ty considered for a moment. “Yes, sir. I never really thought about it like that. I just thought magic would eventually corrupt anyone who used too much of it.” Ty figured that was good to know. He had always been careful not to use his magic too readily; afraid of getting the taint he’d been warned about in school. “Then why are they telling people that magic is so dangerous?”

“Fear.”

“Fear?”

“If those who covet power can make you afraid of the very thing that has the potential to keep them from that power, then half their battle is already won. You’ll be surprised what people are willing to do, or give up, in order to feel safe.” His father laid his pipe on the stand beside his chair and stood as Ty’s mother entered the main room with satchel in hand. “It’s the oldest trick in the book, son.” His father took the bag and tucked it under one arm before turning to kiss his wife.

“There’s fresh bread, a couple slices of the white cheese, and a cut of salted pork for your supper, and of course some mulled cider to wash it down. Just promise me you’ll be careful. Do you hear me, Kellen?”

“Nilla, you are a blessing from the Creator.”

“I know.” She leaned in and kissed him once again, holding on for what Ty believed was an inappropriate amount of time while standing in front of their children.

“Okay, you can stop any time now,” Ty protested, eyeing the tips of his boots, trying to keep from watching the garish display of affection.

His parents chuckled as they parted and his father rustled the front of Ty’s hair.

Adarra made her way back into the main room and sat down to continue reading as the front door opened and Breen stepped through. “The horse is ready when you are.”

“Thank you, Breen.” His father laid a hand on Breen’s shoulder. “Oh, by the way, how was the hunt? Any game?”

Breen looked at Ty and cocked a single brow. “Not exactly.”

Ty sighed. “It was my fault,” he said, slumping a little in embarrassment. “Breen had a lock on a large rack, but . . . Well, my shoulder started hurting again.” Without thinking, he reached for the top of his arm and rubbed the marked area.

His father and mother shared an odd look that perked Ty’s curiosity.

“Guess we can’t get them all. We’ll go out again next week.” His father stuffed his pipe in one of the inner pockets of his overcoat. “Now you all have fun in town tonight. I’m sorry I won’t be there to see you perform, Ty, but I know you’ll do well.”

“Wait,” his mother said with a confused look. “We shouldn’t be going into town tonight, not with the Black Watch there.”

“I think right now the safest thing for us to do is to keep up appearances,” his father said. “There will be folks at the performance expecting to see us. We don’t want people getting suspicious and asking questions. I’m sure you’ll be alright for tonight.”

Ty sighed. He had almost hoped his father would have told them they didn’t have to go. The last thing he wanted to do right now was perform.

“Alright,” his mother conceded, still not looking like she was altogether convinced. “Your father needs to be on his way, and you need to get some supper in you before we head into town.”

“I’ll try to be back before morning. It all depends on how long it takes the council to discuss our options.” His father stepped through the door but then turned back around. “Oh, and, Breen, do keep your brother out of trouble.”

His father’s smile might have been meant as humor, but his tone was anything but.

Chapter 7 | Ty

IT WAS A GOOD three miles before the forest opened and Ty and the rest of his family made their way out of the surrounding foliage and onto the main road leading into Easthaven. They kept their horses to a slow jog. Ty’s mother didn’t want to ruffle her good dress.

Ty’s horse, Waddle, was more than happy to accommodate the slow pace. His name was honestly earned.

Straight ahead was the East Hill Orchard. Ty wasn’t sure why they called it an orchard since it held nothing more than a few sporadic apricots, a couple of mulberry, and a rather large cherry blossom that stood dead center of the others, giving it a sense of undo admiration, considering the last time it had actually produced anything of worth was nearly a decade ago.

Guiding their horses left, they skirted the edge of the orchard before cresting a small rise and catching a clear view of the Sidaran capital in the valley below. Easthaven, like a small jewel wrapped inside blue velvet, was nestled comfortably into the elbow of the East River.

The only access for miles was the East Bridge, giving travelers a stable entrance in and out of the city.  The bridge was constructed from the same river stone as most of the building’s foundations. It was a good fifty foot in length and its breadth could comfortably fit a pair of tinker wagons.

Ty watched a couple of flat barges pass underneath as they made their way across.

The city proper held a variety of shops, craftsmen, and residential living quarters that ranged from the upper-class estates just off of River Street to the back-alley shanties tucked out of sight near the outer perimeters. There was a full garrison, which throughout the year only maintained a trivial readiness of fighting men, a patroller building, which also operated as the local courthouse, and one good inn of note, which of course could only have been labeled as the East Inn.

Ty had just managed to fasten his horse’s reins to an empty hitching post outside the three-story inn when a small rock hit him on the top of his head.

“Ow!” Looking up, his eyes darted left and right as he tried to determine the culprit. “Which one of you threw that?”

From over the top of Waddle’s saddle he caught a glimpse of Breen eyeing him with a rather serious expression. His brother kept jerking his head to the left. Ty shifted his gaze and saw three white-clad figures trotting down the road in their direction.

“Blazes!” Following the others’ example, Ty ducked under the front of his horse and waited until they had not only passed, but had turned down the next street and out of sight. “That was close,” he said peeking out from under Waddle’s chin. His horse nibbled at the top of his head. Ty swatted him away and combed his hand through his mop of blonde hair, attempting to straighten what the horse had undone. Waddle had a smug look on his face. It was not a very becoming look for a horse Ty thought, and stuck his tongue out at the animal.

“Here, let me see it.” His mother walked over after licking her hand and wiped flat the part of Ty’s hair that was sticking up. “There, that’s better,” she said with a satisfied smile.

Ty left Waddle tethered between Acorn and Thistle and followed his mother up the front steps of the inn.

There was a small line already forming at the entrance. Ty’s mother stopped to chat with Bue Abaloff, the innkeeper, as he stood greeting people at the door.

“Ah, I see you’ve brought your pipes with you, Master Ty. Will we have the pleasure of you playing tonight? I’ve heard good things.”

Ty smiled and his hand naturally lifted to stroke the long wooden tubes rising from his outer jacket pocket. “I’m considering it, Master Abaloff.”

“Good, good. I look forward to it.”

Ty watched Adarra slide by their mother and inside the open foyer without a single glance in either direction as she held her latest volume up in front of her face to catch the light of the nearby lanterns. It was a wonder she managed to keep to her feet, Ty thought, with her nose constantly stuck in a book.

Once inside, Ty scanned the room for a suitable table. It was more difficult than he might have expected. The place was filling quickly. He glanced up at the surrounding second floor balcony but there appeared to be even less seating up there.

“I knew we should’ve left sooner,” Breen grunted in protest.

“It’ll be alright,” his mother said before spotting someone she knew off to the right. “You three find a table and I’ll catch up with you in a bit.” She waved at her friend and disappeared into the crowd.

The diffused light, settling across the main chamber from the large bay windows at the front and the two smaller windows on the right, aided the warm glow of the table lamps.

Ty pointed to an empty spot near the front. “There’s one up there.”

Breen turned around to see where he was pointing. “You go ahead and get us a table. I’m going to stay here and wait for Fraya.”

Adarra looked up from her book and grinned. Ty didn’t need to be told twice. Grabbing his sister by the arm, he started pushing his way toward the open seats. They passed a set of narrow wooden stairs on the right which led to the second floor and its two adjoining hallways. Each hall held a number of overnight rooms, accounting for a small percentage of the inn’s profit.

Ty’s quick maneuvering paid off as he grabbed the empty table just ahead of a group of elderly women who were still struggling to make their way through the crowd. Feeling a little guilty, he relinquished his rightful claim to the seats and opted for another table closer to the side exit.

The noise in the room was increasing and conversations became harder to keep, unless the parties were willing to lean across their tables to carry them. This result, under most circumstances, would not have been of much concern. However, on special nights like the one they were experiencing, the majority of the women were wearing their most inviting attire and would be subject to ridicule if they were forced to lean too far across and reveal a little more than was modestly accepted. Then again, Ty observed with a smile, that was probably one reason for the abnormally high turnout of men.

Ty was still scanning the room to see if he recognized anyone when Breen approached with a raven-haired girl on his arm. Ty had to admit Fraya was looking rather pretty this evening—maybe not beautiful, but quite appealing.

With his muscular size, Breen had never lacked for girls fawning over him. But he had never been one for the overly affectionate types. It was Fraya’s work ethic and positive attitude which had attracted Ty’s brother. Ever since her mother, Cassyna, had passed away, as well as the recent death of her older brother, Fraya had shouldered the load of keeping up the household for her father and three younger siblings. She never once complained.

“Good evening everyone,” Fraya said politely as Breen held her seat. Stepping around to the front of the chair, her hand brushed across the top of his fingers. “Why thank you, Breen, you’re quite the gentleman.” His brother’s face flushed around the edges.

Ty rolled his eyes. How can someone so strong fall completely apart around someone so . . . so soft?

“Hello, Fraya,” Adarra said with a warm smile as she lowered her book.

Ty echoed his sister’s greeting.

“My, don’t you look pretty tonight,” Ty’s mother said as she joined the others around the table. She smiled at Breen and winked, which only reddened Breen’s cheeks even more.

They had just finished taking their seats when a young serving girl stepped through the crowd and up to the table. “Can I get you something?” Ty couldn’t remember the girl’s name, but by her lanky features and auburn hair she was clearly one of the Aboloffs.

Breen looked at Fraya. “You want anything?”

“I could use some tea,” she said. “Do you have any mint?”

The serving girl thought a moment. “Papa said to tell people we’ve got mint and apricot.” She held her most cordial smile as she glanced around the table for a response.

“Then I believe I’ll have some of your mint, please.”

“And I’ll have the apricot,” Adarra said.

“Make that two,” Ty’s mother said.

The girl looked across the table at Breen and Ty, waiting for their orders.

Ty’s brother’s face had a drawn expression as he fumbled around the front of his coat.

“Get what you want, Breen,” their mother said as she dug around in her carry bag. “I can cover it.”

“No, I’ve got it.” Breen’s face was really glowing now. Nothing more embarrassing than having your mother pay for your beau’s drink. Breen’s hand finally hit something in one of the pockets and he relaxed. “I’ll take some cider if you have it?” The girl nodded and smiled.

Ty, not wanting to order the same drink as the girls, decided to follow his brother’s lead and ordered the cider as well.

“The tea will be a copper and the cider, two,” she replied as she scanned the table for approval. Breen offered it with a nod.

“Very good,” she said and performed a side-step that was meant as a curtsy but looked more like she had tripped on her left foot. “I’ll be right back with them.” She turned and disappeared back into the crowd.

“She’s such a sweet girl,” his mother said. Ty noticed she was looking in his direction. He pretended he didn’t notice.

Breen leaned forward in his seat. “We found out why the large crowd. Fraya heard that Lord Barl is planning on attending tonight. He’s coming to support his daughter’s performance.”

A sinking feeling opened in the pit of Ty’s stomach. “Lyessa’s going to be here?” She would pick tonight to show up, just to spite me.

“What’s wrong?” Fraya asked, noticing the change in his demeanor.

Adarra was the first to speak. “Ty was going to play tonight—”

“That’s wonderful,” Fraya said, leaning forward in her seat. “Breen has told me how well you play. I’m looking forward to hearing you.”

“Well, you’ll have to keep looking. Cause it won’t be happening tonight. Not if she shows up.” Ty could hear his mother’s sigh from the other side of the table.

Clearly realizing Fraya didn’t understand the situation, Breen spoke up. “Lyessa is sort of Ty’s—”

“Nemesis, tormentor, unending source of embarrassment and humiliation!” Ty stared down at the table and furiously rubbed the tip of his fingers against the rough edge of the wood.

“Lyessa and Ty were in school together,” Adarra explained, “at least until Father took him out to help with the work. There’s always been a rivalry between the two, ever since they were kids.”

“Yeah, she’s a stuck up, self-centered little—”

“Ah . . . Watch it, Ty,” his mother scolded.

“Well, she is. She treats me like . . . like I’m nothing more than her personal slave.”

“And I’m sure you’ve never once antagonized her?”

“No. Not really.” He spared a glance around the table. “Okay, maybe once or twice, but she deserved it.”

Fraya smiled. “I think I get the picture.”

The silence was thankfully broken by the serving girl as she returned with their tray of drinks.

Breen pulled out three coppers to cover his and Fraya’s drinks while Ty’s mother counted out four more to cover her, Ty, and Adarra’s. In all the excitement he had forgotten to grab his coin pouch before leaving the house.

“Thanks,” Ty said with a flip of the wrist. “I’ll pay for yours next time. I promise.” His mother raised an all-too-knowing eyebrow.

He had no sooner taken a clean swallow of his cider when the crowds at the back parted and Overlord Barl walked through. The leader of Sidara slowly made his way in the direction of his designated table at the front. Just behind her father was Lyessa, hanging off the arm of some guy Ty didn’t recognize. She waltzed through the parting throng, forcing Ty to twist in his seat to get a better view of her escort.

He watched as she glided across the room in such a manner as to attract every eye in the place. Her dress, even though quite modest by most standards, with its long silky sleeves and a neckline that didn’t plunge like the other young women, was the color of burnt gold.

Lyessa was almost the perfect cliché with her sparkling emerald eyes and long flowing curls, only instead of them being sun-kissed, they were an angry red. Ty figured the Creator had a sense of humor when matching her hair to her temperament. He hated to admit it, but she did strike a stunning figure.

She was a couple of years older than Ty, at eighteen, an obstacle which had not in any way hindered the two from indulging in their continual duels of wit. Ever since they were children, neither had been willing to concede a single defeat.

“Speak of the Defiler . . .” Ty mumbled, trying to put a hand in front of his face as they drew near. He hoped she would pass by without notice. Unfortunately, no such luck.

“Hello, Ty,” Lyessa said, making a beeline for their table. “I haven’t seen you here in a while.”

Lowering his hand, Ty smirked. “Lyessa.” He glanced to either side of her. “What, no poor peasants to flog tonight, I see.”

Adarra kicked him from under the table. “Ow!” His eyes flared at his sister. “What was that for?”

“Be nice,” she snapped under her breath.

“Oh, where are my manners,” Lyessa cut in. “Have you met Aiden Raycrest?” She snuggled closer on her escort’s arm. “His father owns half the millworks in Sidara.” She gestured to their table. “This is Breen, and Adarra, and their mother, Miss Nilla.” Lyessa offered a polite bow in Ty’s mother’s direction. “And of course we can’t forget Ty.”

“No, we wouldn’t want to do that,” he mocked under his breath. He noticed his sister seemed rather fascinated with Lyessa’s escort. Not only was there a sort of hungry look to Adarra’s demeanor, but she had actually managed to close her book, which said quite a bit about the state of her musing.

Breen stood. “It’s nice to meet you, Master Aiden.” He nodded with a bow which Aiden reciprocated, slightly.

What is he doing bowing to this foolish nincompoop? Ty gawked. Could this possibly get any more embarrassing?

Breen gestured across the table. “This is Fraya Lahorn.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your brother, Fraya,” Lyessa said. “He will be truly missed.” Ty was a little surprised. She actually sounded sincere.

Breen took his seat and Aiden offered a polite nod to the table.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Master Raycrest,” Ty’s mother said. “I hope you plan to stay a while. Easthaven has a number of natural beauties.”

Aiden tightened his grip on Lyessa. “Yes, there are many things about Easthaven that I find quite appealing.” Ty wanted to gag at his overt comment.

Across the table, Adarra presented her most affectionate smile as she continued to stare at the handsome newcomer. Ty didn’t know which was sadder, his sister’s bizarre infatuation with this tuft-up oaf, or Aiden’s lack of response to her more-than-obvious eye batting.

“I see you brought your flute, Ty,” Lyessa said, pointing to his chest. “Will you be gracing us with a melody?”

“Hardly.” He tried to cover the musical instrument with his other arm. “I just forgot to take it out of my pocket before we left.” His family looked at him curiously, but they didn’t say anything.

Lyessa shrugged. “Well, it’s probably for the best. I wouldn’t want you to feel discomforted by having to perform the same night as me.” Her challenge brought Ty’s blood to a boil. “Besides, my father just purchased me a half-harp and requested I break it in tonight.”

Unable to take it any longer, Ty cracked. “I wouldn’t care if your father could afford to get you a full harp with a ten-piece band and a pair of dancing tenors! It will take a whole lot more than that to challenge me.”

“Ty!” His mother was aghast.

Aiden started to fidget as he glanced nervously at the surrounding tables. Breen and Adarra merely shook their heads in embarrassment.

Lyessa released Aiden’s arm and pointed at Ty. “Is that so? You think you can show me up with your little wooden pipes, huh?”

“No, I don’t think it. I know it!”

Ty started to rise from his seat, but his mother held him down. “Ty, sit down!”

Lyessa took another step forward. “Then get up there tonight and prove it!”

“I will!” Ty exclaimed before thinking about what he was saying.

“Fine!” Lyessa said, allowing Aiden to forcibly lead her in the other direction.

“Fine!” Ty shouted, coming the rest of the way out of his seat, not willing to let her have the last word.

The table was quiet, and so were half the surrounding tables as all eyes were on him. He sank back into his chair.

Fraya cleared her throat. “I guess I’ll get to hear you play after all.”

“Wait . . . What?” Ty’s face hardened as he realized what he had just promised. Blazes! She did it to me again!

Adarra shook her head and sighed.

Breen lifted his drink and took a long swallow as he discreetly scanned the nearby tables to see who was still watching.

Ty glared at the back of Lyessa’s red curls. He watched as they bounced all the way back to her seat. He was determined to make her eat every word. His fingers rubbed at the ends of his flute. This was going to be a performance Easthaven would never forget.

Chapter 8 | Kellen

KELLEN ADJUSTED HIS HOOD, making sure to cover his face as he crossed the empty street. Turning down another dimly lit alleyway on the west side of town, he stopped outside a single wooden door and knocked with three short bursts. He waited a moment and then knocked once more.

“Who ith it?” came a rough voice from the other side, one Kellen recognized immediately by its odd impediment.

“It’s Kellen.” He could hear a bracer being removed from the inside of the door before it slid open, flashing a ray of light diagonally across his face. A moment later, it retracted the rest of the way. In its place, stood an elderly man with a thinning head of gray hair, a full beard, and a large double-crossbow tucked under one arm. He quickly ushered Kellen inside.

Kellen cast a quick glance back up the alley before stepping through the door. Eliab laid his large crossbow on the table and then bolted the door by dropping the heavy wooden strut back into place.

“Follow me, Mather Kellen,” the older man said with a wide, toothless smile. “They’re already here.”

“Thank you, Eliab.” He trailed his guide into a back room, which held a door leading to the storage cellar below. The lamp flickered a wash of light across the stone casing as Kellen shut the door behind them and followed the watchman down. The temperature dropped with each additional step. The open space at the bottom of the stairs looked much like any other shopkeeper’s cellar with boxes and barrels sprawled across the floor, each one properly labeling the contents inside.

Eliab led the way.

Both sides of the Harbor House’s open cellar were lined with doors where the council had constructed temporary housing for wielders looking for a place to stay before being moved to a safe location somewhere within the Sidaran borders. Each of the rooms held nothing more than a simple cot, a small table, and a chair.

At the back of the cellar was another door that leaked a trickle of light around its edges, giving it a somewhat haloed effect. Eliab knocked. Without waiting for a response, he turned the handle. “Mather Veldon.” The old watch-keeper deferred to a stout man sitting at the head of a long rectangular table. “Mather Kellen arrived.”

“Thank you, Eliab,” Veldon said in his low booming voice. “That will be all.”

“Very good.” Eliab made a passing bow as he shuffled past Kellen and out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Veldon, the local portmaster and official head of the Easthaven Wielder Council, rubbed his faded handkerchief across the slick top of his balding head. It was a nervous tick he tended to resort to when things got particularly bad. He had a thin jawline beard that did little to hide the girth of his cheeks. Two long silver chains hung from his neck. One had a small flint rod attached at the bottom, and the other, a wedge of steel.

The room never seemed to change that much. Three six-tiered candelabras lined the center of a long table in the middle, giving the space, and its occupants, an orange tint. The table’s cedar was heavily faded from use. There were four seats on either side and one on each end. Veldon sat at the head. A few pitchers and half-empty glasses were placed in front of the council’s seats.

Kellen noted that six of the chairs were filled, leaving four unattended.

Veldon motioned for Kellen to join them. “Well, this saves us the trouble of dispatching someone for you. How’d you hear about the white riders being in town?”

Kellen took a seat near the opposite end of the table and glanced at the other six members, one of which he didn’t recognize. By the faint creases around her eyes, she didn’t appear to be much younger than he was. Her short-cropped hair was as white as a midwinter’s snow, definitely an unusual trait for someone without great age. In fact, he’d only ever heard of one other person who had it.

The color and length of her hair, however, was not what kept his attention. It was her amber-colored eyes that seemed to absorb all action within the room. They were the restless eyes of a predator. Kellen looked away to not appear to be staring.

“My boys were returning from a hunt this afternoon when they came across the Tower’s patrol. Breen said they had Saleena.” Postures stiffened and sullen looks were exchanged. “The guards were bragging about having caught her up near Reed Marsh. They said they were planning on rooting out any other wielders in the area.”

Veldon grabbed the flint hanging from his neck with one hand and rubbed it between his fingers. The edge of the table jabbed at his midsection. “It appears you know more about the situation than we do.” He glanced around the room. “Have we heard from our recent batch of refugees?”

“None so far,” Reloria said, sitting across the table from Kellen. She rustled one of her brightly colored hats into place. Kellen couldn’t remember the last time he had seen the sweet shop owner without one. They never seemed to match her outfit. Either she was completely colorblind or she enjoyed making a rather pronounced statement. Knowing Reloria, it was probably a little of both.

“We’ve had no report of seeing the Black Watch from any of the others,” Orlyn added from his place between Reloria and the mysterious white-haired woman. The older man’s staff rested against the back of his seat. It was nearly as tall as he was. Carved markings ran the entire length of the wood and there was a large crystal fashioned into the top.

“Good.” Veldon released the flint and tapped his fingers on the table. “I would hate to think we had a leak that needed plugging.”

“Well, that’s all well and good,” Feoldor grumbled on Kellen’s right, angrily butting into the conversation with a heated scowl, “but what I want to know is . . .” He held off scratching at his bushy side whiskers and raised his arm to point at the white-haired woman on the opposite side of the table. “Who is this?” Feoldor, the city glassblower, had never been known for his couth.

When the portmaster’s answer wasn’t quick enough in coming, Feoldor continued. “This is council business, Veldon, and I demand to know who this woman is and why she’s being allowed admittance here.” Feoldor’s expression grew concerned as he glanced at the quiet faces around the table. “Blood and fire, people! The woman knows who we are! Am I the only one who sees a problem with this?” His eyes scanned the small group.

Orlyn shifted uncomfortably in his seat, especially since his chair was just to the left of the newcomer. “Feoldor has a point. Our secrecy is what keeps us alive and effective. This is highly irregular, Veldon.” Orlyn paused to straighten the front of his baggy, earthen-green robe. “It should have been discussed beforehand.”

“I agree,” Reloria said, adding her confirmation to the mix. “We should have been informed prior to this meeting.”

The only two members silent through the whole affair were Kellen and Gilly. The midget was seated between Feoldor and Veldon on Kellen’s side of the table. He seemed rather content to play the spectator. Kellen knew the socially-awkward man had little love for being around other people and preferred the solitude of his river, but with this being an important meeting, his presence had apparently been requested.

Veldon raised his hands to gather everyone’s full attention. “I apologize for the break in protocol, but with the Black Watch having now made it as far as Easthaven, I thought it prudent to skip some of our regular formalities.”

The portmaster lifted his gaze to the other end of the table. “Kellen, you’ve been rather quiet. Did you have anything to add?”

Kellen scanned the faces, each set of eyes watching him in turn, waiting to see which side of the coin he would fall with. He took a moment to consider the outcome of picking a side and decided on a more direct approach.

“I would like to hear more.”

The others seemed to agree as they nodded and turned to look at the new arrival, all but Feoldor of course. “Are you mad? She’s probably in league with the Tower. For all we know, she was sent here to infiltrate our group and turn us over to the Black Watch the first chance she gets.”

“Which is exactly why we should hear what she has to say, don’t you reckon? Wouldn’t you rather question her here with all of us present than, say, on your own one night in a dark alley when she finds you walking home from your shop?”

Feoldor huffed and went back to scratching his side whiskers.

Veldon, taking the momentary silence as his cue, rubbed the top of his head one more time before speaking up. “Her name is Sheeva, and she’s from Briston . . . Duport to be precise. She came to me about a week ago—”

“And how, pray tell, did she know who you were?” Feoldor asked. “Do you have a sign over the docks that reads ‘shipping on the left, wielding on the right’?”

Veldon rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. “Lugar, the head of the Duport Harbor House, who happens to be a trusted friend, told her who to contact here in Easthaven. When he heard of her predicament, he sent her our way.” Veldon leaned back in his seat. “If Lugar trusts her, that’s good enough for me.”

“What predicament?” Feoldor asked.

“I was about to tell you when you started running off at the mouth. Now kindly shut it so I can continue.”

Feoldor crossed his arms, but thankfully obeyed.

“Like I was saying, Sheeva came to me a couple of weeks ago with a little girl she had saved from an assassin’s knife. The child had been discovered as being a wielder and was slotted for extermination. The Overlord of Briston, as we know, has little tolerance for magic.”

“I was told he lost his wife to the healings of an incompetent charlatan this past summer,” Reloria said. “The man had promised to possess a rare herb that could cure plague, of all things.”

Orlyn, who also happened to be the local apothecary, shook his head. “What imbecile would make claims that outrageous?”

“A stupid one,” Feoldor added. Orlyn raised an eyebrow, but eventually nodded in agreement.

Most of those around the table remained pensive as they stared at the short-haired woman. Reloria popped a piece of hard candy into her mouth.

“Anyway,” the portmaster continued, “I received word a couple of days ago by barge that there was indeed a bounty being offered for the capture of this little girl as well as the white-haired woman harboring her.” He glanced in Sheeva’s direction. “And since it carried with it the royal seal of Briston, I would say her story appears to be true, at least on that account.”

“If I may, Veldon, sorry,” Kellen said, interrupting the portmaster as he scooted forward. “But if I’m going to place my life and the life of my family into the hands of this council, I’m going to need to know a bit more than that.”

“Aha!” Feoldor’s face brimmed with satisfaction. “You see. Someone around here finally shows a lick of common sense.”

Reloria rolled her eyes. “Oh shut it, Feoldor, and let the man talk.”

Kellen turned back to Sheeva. “I mean no offense, but I’m a little puzzled as to how Overlord Meyrose not only knows that someone is protecting this girl but also knows exactly who it is and what they looked like. How is it that he knows so much about you?”

All heads turned in her direction.

Her eyes looked up from their place on the table to catch his. “Because I was the assassin he hired to kill her.”

Reloria nearly choked on her candy and Orlyn made a strategic slide to the opposite end of his seat.

“Until recently, I’ve been in Lord Meyrose’s employ,” Sheeva said. Kellen thought he might have seen a hint of embarrassment or guilt flash across her golden eyes. “I’m very good at what I do, and this allows me a certain measure of leeway to pick and choose what jobs I want. But when I found that my target was an eleven-year-old girl, I refused. Needless to say, Meyrose didn’t appreciate my reluctance and put a bounty on my head in turn.”

“Well, that’s all we need,” Feoldor grumbled, “a wanted assassin with a price on her head, and by the flaming Overlord of Briston, no less.”

Kellen couldn’t fault Feoldor’s logic. This wasn’t the best time to have the eyes of an overlord falling in their direction.

“And what of Ty?” Reloria’s statement sparked a look of concern that quickly spread around the table.

“Aye,” Orlyn chimed in. “We’ve never had a full patrol from the White Tower in Easthaven before. We should keep him hidden, Kellen.”

Kellen leaned forward. “I don’t believe he’s in much danger at the moment.”

“Have you gone completely daft?” Feoldor spouted. “It’s those goat-licking vermin from the White Tower we’re talking about! Here in Easthaven. Of course he’s in danger!”

“Watch your language, Feoldor.” Reloria fixed him with a harsh glare from the other side of the table.

“It was Saleena they were after, and if she would have listened to me in the first place, they wouldn’t be here at all. But as it is, there’s not much we can do but keep an eye on them while they’re here. Besides, if I were to restrict Ty to the homestead every time there’s a whiff of danger in the air, there would be questions raised that I don’t believe he’s ready for.”

“It’s been sixteen years, Kellen,” Orlyn said. “We can’t keep him in the dark much longer.”

Kellen sighed and tucked a thatch of his chestnut hair back behind one ear. “I know. The wizard said that one day he was going to come for him. I’m afraid that time might be fast approaching.”

Reloria adjusted her scarf. “Perhaps it was a mistake to have kept this from him.”

Kellen didn’t agree. “Why lay such a heavy burden on such young shoulders. Is it so wrong to want him to feel normal, to have friends, fall in love, to live his own life?”

Veldon rested his forearms on the table. “No, it’s not, Kellen. But therein lies the problem. He’s not normal. I understand wanting to shelter him from the truth, but there comes a time that doing so will only prove more harmful. Ty needs to know who he is.”

Kellen lowered his head. He understood the reasoning behind his friend’s words, whether he wanted to admit it or not. In truth, he was more than a little worried he would somehow lose his son in the process. Like any father, he wanted his children’s lives to outshine his own, but with Ty, that reality was as dangerous as it was probable.

The White Tower was hunting him, and that alone was enough for Kellen to desire his son’s continual ignorance in such matters. He wanted to protect Ty from bearing such a burden. Kellen recognized, though, he wouldn’t be able to shelter his son forever.

Chapter 9 | Kellen

“NOW THAT WE’VE gotten that out of the way,” Veldon said, “formal introductions will be required.”

Kellen could hear Feoldor’s discontented mumbling.

Veldon turned to Sheeva. “With an association as dangerous as ours, we feel the best way to bring assurance to those we are working with is to require that each member of this council be wielders themselves. For with great risk, comes greater loyalty.”

Veldon scooted forward and cleared his throat. “I guess I will go first. My name is Veldon, and as you know, I own the Easthaven Dockworks. What is not so apparent is that I’m an incindi.” Everyone except Sheeva relaxed in their seats, waiting for what they already knew was coming. The assassin, on the other hand, remained poised as if to strike, or run, as she kept a keen eye on the portmaster.

Veldon raised his right hand. Around his second finger was a uniquely designed pewter ring with a small crystalline center. It pulsed a deep red as he stretched it out toward the flickering lights of the large tallow candles lining the center of the table. The flames blinked momentarily before detaching themselves from their wicks and raising a couple of feet off the table. Kellen had always enjoyed watching Veldon’s gift. The portmaster spread his fingers and the flames grew brighter.

Sheeva gave no sign of apprehension as she watched the flickering lights float above their heads.

From out of nowhere, a gust of wind whipped across the room and extinguished the light. Kellen sighed. He could hear Feoldor giggling in the seat next to him. On the other side of the table, Orlyn groaned, and Reloria clicked her tongue. A couple of sparks from the head of the table drew Kellen’s attention as they ignited into a ball of flame where Veldon had apparently used his flint and steel. The portmaster looked a bit put out as he sent the ball of flame down the center of the table, relighting the candles as it went.

Sheeva’s piercing gaze scanned the council members before coming to rest on Feoldor with his unruly mop of hair and rugged side-whiskers. Trying not to be too noticeable, Feoldor lowered his hand back to the table. Resting just outside the cuff of his sleeve was a brass colored bracelet with a single clear stone at its center.

Feoldor cleared his throat. “My name is Feoldor and I own one of the glassworks in town,” he said with a bloated sense of pride. “And as you can tell, I’m a vanti.”

“Which, in Feoldor’s case,” Reloria said, “means someone full of hot air.” The middle-aged woman always found every excuse to agitate the outspoken man, which of course, Kellen had to admit, was hardly difficult to do. Reloria and Feoldor had been playing this game for years, ever since she had lost her husband, and him, his wife. Most of the townsfolk had been laying stake as to when the two would finally overcome their petty bickering and tie the knot.

Feoldor gave a slight huff at her remark and went back to fiddling with his bracelet.

Leaning forward in her seat to get a better look at their guest, Reloria kept one hand on her hat as she offered Sheeva a warm, motherly smile. “My name is Reloria, dear, and I own the sweet shop in town. I’m a telasero, which I admit is not as glamorous as some of the others. In fact, most wielders have no idea what a telasero is. To put it bluntly, I have the ability to control taste.”

Kellen could tell by the look on Sheeva’s face that Reloria was going to have to demonstrate. She reached inside her rather large carry bag, which looked to have been fashioned from a number of dissimilar pieces of fabric, and pulled out a wrapped pickle. Cutting a slice, Reloria handed the wedge to Sheeva.

The small assassin lifted the pickle, cautiously took a small whiff, and promptly wrinkled her nose.

“Go ahead and try it,” Reloria urged.

Sheeva inserted the pickle into her mouth and bit down. Her face contorted slightly from the strong taste. It was the single largest emotion Kellen had witnessed from her so far.

Reloria rubbed her fingers across a small crystal amulet which hung loosely around her neck and closed her eyes. The stone sparked to life, emitting a faint golden pulse.

Sheeva’s countenance softened. “Tastes like an apple dipped in cinnamon.” Her lack of excitement left Reloria looking a little downhearted at the triviality of her gift.

“I guess I will go next,” Orlyn said with a raspy voice. “My name is Orlyn and I am the town apothecary. My simple ability lies with vegetation. I’m a floratide.”

“More than simple, I would say,” Veldon said as he watched Orlyn slip his hand into one of the many pockets of his baggy robe and pull out a small clay pot. It had always astounded Kellen the number of bizarre and utterly random objects Orlyn kept hidden away within his saggy attire.

The pot was filled halfway with a dark rich soil. Orlyn laid the small clay container on the table and held out his hand to reveal a small seed resting between his thumb and first finger. Gently, he tucked it into the soft dirt and pressed down with his thumb.

Reaching behind his seat, Orlyn retrieved his staff. It was uniquely carved with rows of vines wrapping around its diameter in a circular pattern from top to bottom, or depending on how you looked at it, from bottom to top. Interwoven within the vines were small runes. Kellen had asked the apothecary about them years ago, but the old man had only shrugged and said the staff had been handed down in his family for generations. He had no idea where they had come from or what they represented.

Ingeniously crafted into the staff’s tip was a large crystal that cast a light green flicker across the side of Orlyn’s face as he tilted the head of the staff downward and tightened his lips in concentration. Everyone shifted forward in their seats to watch as the dark soil around the seed shuddered. A small sprout poked its head above the dirt. Its stem enlarged and grew as petals burst from the top into a beautiful array of gold and lavender.

“I never get tired of that,” Reloria said, her eyes beaming with delight.

Orlyn slid the planter in front of Sheeva. “For you, my dear. A beautiful flower for a beautiful lady.”

Sheeva bowed her head slightly. “Thank you.” She left the gift sitting untouched in front of her. She looked as though she wasn’t exactly sure what she was supposed to do with it.

Kellen glanced around the room. That only left two more.

“Go ahead, Gilly,” Veldon urged. “Show the nice lady what you can do.” He glanced at Sheeva in an apologetic manner. “Gilly is rather shy. He lives by himself upriver and doesn’t usually come to town except on special occasions like today.”

Gilly was one of the shortest men Kellen had ever had the privilege of knowing. He couldn’t have been much more than waist high. What the little man lacked in social skills he made up for in kindness.

Veldon poured some water into Gilly’s cup and waited. The dwarf’s mouth held an infectious smile. It reminded Kellen of Adarra every time she discovered some new little tidbit of information from one of those countless books she was always reading.

“He generally helps us with the loading and offloading of refugees.” Veldon twisted in his seat to look at the dwarf. “Any time you’re ready.”

With small pudgy fingers, Gilly retrieved an uncut crystal from the inner pocket of his cloak. It radiated a pale blue when he aimed it at the cup. Everyone watched as the water began to whirl and stretch, forming what looked to be a miniature funnel as it rose over the lip. Gilly’s eyes were bright with laughter, like a child playing with a new toy. Abruptly, the swirling motion slowed and stopped as the water turned from blue, to translucent, to white, hardening into a perfect sculpture of ice.

Sheeva studied Gilly the same way she had been sizing up everyone else in the room.

Still beaming from ear to ear, Gilly confined his crystal back to the safety of his pocket without saying a word.

“Gilly’s a voda,” Veldon added, since the little man was clearly not going to speak up. “One of the strongest I’ve seen, I might add.” The portmaster turned to Kellen, and raised an outstretched arm. “I guess that leaves our gamekeeper.”

Kellen reached into his pocket and pulled out a small copper coin, holding it in the air for everyone to see. “Who wants to do the honors?”

No one volunteered.

From the other side of the table, Sheeva’s hand went up. Kellen tossed her the coin. She plucked it from the air as easily as plucking a book from a shelf. She looked it over and then cocked her head as she glanced back in his direction.

Kellen smiled reassuringly. “Just toss it in the air whenever you’re ready.”

Her eyes narrowed as if measuring the risk involved but, without hesitation, she flicked the small coin upwards. It almost reached the rafters above. It spun for a moment until gravity took over and brought the coin plummeting back toward the table below. Before it landed, Kellen reached inside his cloak and drew a small dagger from inside his jerkin. He flung it across the table, catching the coin in the middle of its rotation. The coin flew across the chamber and was pinned to one of the wooden beams that framed the four corners of the room.

Sheeva left her seat and retrieved the dagger from the wood. She slid the impaled coin free and inspected it further. “Impressive,” she said, flipping the dagger from handle to blade with the movement of one who was obviously familiar with its feel. After taking her seat, she leaned across the table and held the knife out to him, handle first.

“Thank you.” Kellen slid the blade back inside the folds of his jerkin.

“Master Kellen isn’t like the rest of us,” Veldon said. “He doesn’t require a transferal crystal to use magic. His magic is innate, a rare trait nowadays. And as you’ve just witnessed, his gift allows him perfect aim. He can pin a fly to the wall with anything you place in his hands. He draws quite the crowd during Easthaven’s archery competitions.” The portmaster winked at Kellen before turning his attention back to their guest. “That just leaves you, my dear, if you would be so kind?”

Sheeva returned a slight nod and without warning, the space around her body folded in on itself and she disappeared from view. Feet rustled and chairs scooted in all directions as the council members attempted to move to a safe distance. Feoldor jumped to his feet, looking around nervously as he made ready to bolt for the door, while Gilly ducked under the table. Kellen reached in his overcoat and had grabbed the handle of two of his knives when the space Sheeva had been occupying distorted, bringing her back into view, revealing she had never left her seat.

Once the room quieted down from the obvious chatter that accompanies someone vanishing right in front of them, Veldon spoke. “Well, there you have it,” he said as he wiped a few drops of perspiration from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. “After such a performance, I’m inclined to understand your previous employment.”

More than a few eyebrows rose at his offhand comment. “I figure someone with your ability could make a useful addition to our group.”

“If we can trust her,” Feoldor was quick to add.

Veldon didn’t reply. Instead he leaned forward, as far as his girth would allow, and placed his elbows on the table. “Well, let’s get down to business. How are we going to help Saleena without drawing attention to the wielders here in Easthaven?”

Heads turned, sighs were offered, and chins rubbed as they contemplated an answer to the dilemma they were now facing.

Kellen packed his pipe from a pouch he carried in his side pocket. He lit the end using one of the nearby candles and took a small puff. “I might have an idea.”

Chapter 10 | Ty

THE EVENING PROGRESSED with a bit more haste than Ty had hoped, given the growing anxiety he harbored at the thought of his upcoming performance.

He watched as Noreen Aboloff ascended the stage and gave her ritual greeting. She made sure to include a special welcome to Overlord Barl and his lovely daughter Lyessa for their faithful patronage. The audience rang with the noise of their admiration. The overlord raised a hand in gestured thanks, not bothering to stand from his seat.

Too preoccupied with finding a way to calm his nerves or sneak out the back while no one was looking, Ty barely noticed the weaver’s three daughters as they sang Breaking of the Dawn, a more difficult arrangement to perform than what they were capable of handling, but the crowd cheered graciously as they finished.

Next in line was a rather impressive flutist that mesmerized the audience as he rolled up and down the scales to a tune Ty didn’t recognize. Although dropping a few notes along the way, it was for the most part rather well played and Ty half-heartedly clapped with the others as the man left the platform.

After the flutist, Justice Tirfing’s wife recited a section from Islow’s Love of the Fallen, a depressing allegory of true love’s loss. There were a couple of sniffs, some eye wipes, and more than a few yawns from the men as she finished, bowed, and returned to her seat.

Ty stiffened in his chair. He just realized he had no idea what he was going to play. With the coming of the Black Watch, the news that his family was part of some secret sect of magic protectors, and his faceoff with Lyessa, he had completely forgotten to choose a piece.

Panic set in. His mind raced through an assortment of possibilities, each one viable in its own way, but none on the level of what was needed for tonight. Why did I ever open my mouth?

Three or four more selections were announced, and the performers came and went, but Ty didn’t notice. His mind was focused on more important matters, like how he could manage to sneak out the back door and still save face.

The innkeeper’s wife announced a short intermission and the serving girls made their rounds.

Ty had long since emptied his mug, and being too embarrassed to ask his mother to buy another round, merely contented himself with licking his lips.

The performances continued for at least another painful hour before Noreen made her way on stage to announce the evening’s three final performances. First was Master Ethen, a local carpenter. He shuffled through the tables on his way to the platform. After taking a seat, he opened a finely crafted case and removed a beautiful, hand-carved five-string vielle and bow. With careful precision he ran his fingers across the strings as he turned the tuning pegs at the top.

From the back of the room a voice rang out. “Play us a fun one, Ethen, and none of that highfalutin stuff!” More than a few hardy “Ayes” broke across the anxious crowd as Ethen accommodated his audience with a town favorite: Bart the Fool. The song had more verses than were actually written to page. Every family had a verse or two of their own passed down from generation to generation.

Lifting his bow, Ethen drew the crowd in by playing a couple of rounds with just the vielle. Once he was comfortable with the level of excitement building across the gathered faces, he unleashed his strong baritone and began to sing.

-There once was a fool named Bartimus, a wife he went to find.

-He left his home, his work, his friends, his family all behind.

-And on the way he met a fae who told him of a place,

-Where there were girls with golden curls . . . but growing from their face.

By the second round, the people were clapping and singing along. The way Ethen’s bow flew across the strings hauled Ty out of the despair he had been wallowing in and gave his feet reason to bounce under the table. His hands naturally clapped along. The driving rhythm made him want to get up and dance, but thankfully he wasn’t so far gone as to find himself acting on his flights of fancy.

-He plunged the depths, he scaled the heights, he crossed the Ozrin Sea.

-He fought a dragon in its lair, in hopes to set her free.

-But when he found fair maiden there, all chained up to her bed.

-He bent to kiss and wake her up . . . but fell and cracked his head.

By the third round, the townsfolk were out of their seats and standing in the aisles. There was a growing crowd of men up front who had locked arms in a line and were beginning to kick up their heels in a dance. Even Ty’s table managed to belt out a verse or two.

-Well, Bart the Fool he never quit, his searching carries on.

-From town to town he travels round, his stay is never long.

-So if he comes a knocking on your door . . . don’t let him in.

-But lock your daughters in their rooms and promptly warn your kin.

The crowd called for more, but Ethen waved kindly and replaced his instrument back in its case and let the next performer take their turn. Ty envied him for his remarkable choice of song. No performer had ever left the stage in silence after a few verses from Bart the Fool. Now if the Creator could only bless him with such insight.

Next to last were the Aboloff children as they laid aside their aprons and donned a set of rather uniquely arrayed costumes to enact a short scene from the Tales of Prysipitus, particularly an emotional fight scene between the hero and the evil sorcerer. Small pieces of confetti flew across the stage, landing on nearby viewers as the magical scene was revealed with brilliantly crafted special effects. The performance was well received and applauded as the children bowed and exited stage right.

Noreen climbed the steps one final time to make a full introduction for their special guest musician. She gestured toward a table near the front center. “And now we welcome Lady Lyessa as she has graciously offered the use of her harp to tickle your ears and your hearts this evening. Please give her a warm round of applause.”

The audience clapped with excitement as Aiden helped Lyessa to the stage, careful not to damage her instrument under his arm. Ty found himself wishing Aiden would trip and land on the stupid thing.

Lyessa took her seat and Aiden lowered the harp to her lap, then returned to his table where Lord Barl sat waiting with a proud grin.

From the moment her fingers touched the strings, the audience was hers. Each note demanded praise. The music radiated through the East Inn like dawn’s light greeting a new day—warm and filled with promise. Ty couldn’t help but gaze at the intricate way her fingers seemed to float up and down the strings, producing rhythms so enchanting they gripped his very soul. At that moment, he hated her and loved her all at the same time.

Time itself seemed to slip into darkness as his burdens and fears dissolved like new fallen snow across the embers of a dying fire. As the final notes faded into the ether, the people rebounded from their seats with an ovation worthy of the High King himself. It was honestly earned in Ty’s humble opinion, but depressing nonetheless.

Still under the trance of her music, he found himself wishing—no—pleading—for more. He was pulled from his daze by the sound of his name being called. Looking at the stage, Ty was once again faced with the reality of what was about to happen as Lyessa with her arm outstretched in his direction gave her introduction. “. . . and he has promised to make this night one we will never forget. Give him a big hand.”

The smug look on Lyessa’s face as she left the stage made Ty all the angrier.

The crowd erupted with applause. Ty glanced around the table at the half-hearted smiles drooping from his family’s faces. His mother even gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm. What could he do? He didn’t dare back down now. With no intention of hurrying his embarrassment along any sooner than was necessary, Ty stood from his seat and slowly began his arduous trek up the small flight of stairs toward the stage.

He still had no idea what song he was going to play. He tried rubbing his sweaty palms down the legs of his trousers. It didn’t help. He lifted the set of wooden pipes his father had made for him from his outer pocket and then turned to face the crowd. He tried swallowing but there wasn’t enough spittle in his mouth to accomplish the task.

A cough from somewhere in the crowd signaled the audience’s growing impatience.

Ty tried to smile but his lips didn’t want to part. They were frozen in place, much like the rest of his body. As stiff as the back side of Crystal Lake at the height of winter solstice, three-foot-deep and covered in snow. He had never experienced true panic before, and now that he had he hoped never to again.

A couple more coughs and a few murmurs broke the stillness as people went from a comfortable silence while anxiously awaiting the musician’s first notes, to something not-so-comfortable.

This wasn’t what Ty had expected. His glorious victory was falling to pieces all around him. He was going to be the laughingstock of the entire town—for the rest of his life! Every time he’d pass someone on the street, they would say, “Look, there goes the kid who froze.” He would no doubt spend the rest of his existence in utter humiliation. Worse yet, Lyessa would hold this over him—forever!

At that thought, an unexpected jolt of desperation drove the joints in his arms to lift the eight-stemmed flute to his dry lips. He had no idea what he was going to play, no idea where to begin, and no idea why he had ever volunteered to do this in the first place. He took one final glance around the room. Why couldn’t I have been born a powerful wizard? I could just wave my hands and wiggle my fingers and make everyone forget I was even here.

Not able to postpone any longer without taking the risk of some drunken sot throwing a piece of ripe fruit at him, Ty closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and blew across the open ends. He had been playing his pipes for years. His family all said he had a natural gift. No one had ever needed to teach him. The music was always there.

The notes were soft at first, dark and somber with a hint of nervous hesitation—simulating his present mood. However, from somewhere deep within, he could feel a stirring, like a wild animal desperate to be free of a poacher’s cage. It started as a warm tingling sensation and, much like throwing kindling on a pile of glowing embers, a flame ignited.

Struggling to hold at bay whatever it was that was fighting to break free, Ty’s music shifted to that of the forest. It was only natural, for it was always the forest which brought him a sense of calm, a respite of peace. It was the great canopy he would turn to when life would deal him a hard blow and he needed someplace to be alone to ponder the unexplained mysteries of his existence, or to simply cry out at some unforeseen frustration.

The music quickly took on a life of its own.

The rising fire within him found a release through the notes. He had never felt anything like it before, and it scared him. Without warning, the pain was back, searing deep into his right shoulder. But unlike his experience earlier that day, he wasn’t about to let it quench his momentum. So he pushed through the burning.

The melody was unfamiliar, but with each note he could see the swaying of the trees, the leaves dancing to the beat of the wind, the animals as they scurried about searching for the day’s food, birds snuggled in their nests singing in another day. It was mesmerizing.

Realizing he hadn’t heard a single peep from his audience, he peeked through his lids to see if the faces held any sign of enjoyment. Instead, what he saw brought him to sheer panic as his lips nearly slid off the wooden tips.

The East Inn was gone.

Or at least the building was. The people were all still seated in their chairs, or standing in the corners, or leaning against where the walls used to be. However, instead of a hazy, crowd-pressed room, they were surrounded by a quiet autumn glen. One Ty recognized. It was the hideaway spot he would sometimes frequent in the Sidaran Forest behind his house. The place he would escape to when he wanted to be alone to test his limited use of magic.

He couldn’t believe his own eyes. Fear alone kept him playing.

Strangely enough, no one seemed to be screaming in terror. There were no women fainting in the aisles, no children clinging to their momma’s skirts, no men reaching for their swords or hollering for the torches and rope to be brought out. Could they not see what was happening? Why was everyone just sitting there?  It was as though the entire assembly was in a trance.

Afraid of breaking the moment, he played on. Ty couldn’t help but wonder, though, if what he was seeing was real or just an elaborate illusion. Beads of sweat broke out across his forehead. His throat was parched and his lips chapped. It felt as though he had been playing for hours. He poured all his concentration into the music as his mouth flew up and down the ends of the pipe. The notes came forth like colors on a canvas, each one blending with the next to form a mosaic in time. Nothing like this had ever happened before. He couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he was the one in a trance.

The music continued to flow out of some unseen place inside him. It was a once-in-a-lifetime masterpiece, a masterpiece that was sure to cost him his life. For as soon as he stopped playing, the townsfolk would no doubt recognize what had happened and, without even waiting for the Black Watch, would most certainly hang him from the nearest tree. Probably kill his whole family for good measure.

Unexpectedly, the visage around them changed. The sky grew dark. The leaves which were once lush and green withered and fell from the trees. The birds no longer sang their happy tune, and a deadly hush fell over the small glen. His own emotions were visibly directing the music.

Dread took over. He could feel himself tiring. Reaching deep inside, he plundered what little energy he had left to keep going. If only there was a way to bring everyone back?

As if in answer to his plea, one by one the trees vanished and the small glen folded in on itself. In the blink of an eye, the dark-stained walls of the East Inn snapped back into place. Ty didn’t know if he needed to be impressed, relieved, or terrified—perhaps a little of each. Glancing around the room, everything appeared to be as it was before.

Time, he realized, had just run out. His breath was about to give way.

Ty poured everything he had left into the final notes of his song and then released the pipes from his mouth. His arms dropped like stone weights to his sides. “Please, don’t let them remember,” he prayed, reciting it over and over again as if his desperation would convince the Creator to be lenient. He continued mumbling the prayer under his breath like a chant to ward off evil sprites and dark faeries.

Giving up all hope, Ty closed his eyes, bowed his head, and waited for the inevitable.

He waited, but nothing happened. He waited longer—still nothing. No stampeding for the doors, no demands for his head, no sour fruits and vegetables smacking him upside his face. There was simply silence, which at the time seemed even more disturbing.

Before he had a chance to open his eyes, a roar of applause grew as it thundered across the tables, benches, chairs, and stools. It shook the platform he was standing on. Opening his eyes, he gazed across the smoke-filled room. There wasn’t an occupied seat in the house. Everyone was on their feet clapping, shouting, banging their mugs to the tops of the tables, waving handkerchiefs and ribbons in the air, whistling, and stomping their boots on the hard wooden floors. He didn’t know what to do, so he bowed. A bit clumsily, but not enough to cause embarrassment.

The crowd cheered all the harder.

He donned his best smile.

They cheered some more, so he waved his hand.

He couldn’t believe it, they loved him. Had the Creator answered his request? Was the audience completely oblivious to what had just happened? Even Lyessa was applauding with surprising vigor. And to think he had almost talked himself out of playing tonight. He continued waving to the crowd as he descended the platform.

It was like a dream. Maybe it was a dream. He had just performed some kind of unbelievable magic and no one had been the wiser. Apart from the terror of having used magic in the middle of Performance Night with the Overlord of Sidara sitting not two tables away, Ty felt quite exhilarated. He still couldn’t figure out why no one else seemed to realize what had just happened.

Stepping down from the stage, Ty wanted nothing more than to rush home and try out this new found ability. But, common sense catching up, he knew that would never become reality. Not with the White Tower guards let loose on Easthaven.

That realization brought with it a few more unpleasant thoughts. What if he couldn’t control what was happening to him? What if the next time he wasn’t so lucky?  Considering what he had just done, Ty didn’t know how much longer he could hide who he was from his family, or even if he should.

Chapter 11 | Ayrion

HUSHED WHISPERS COULD be heard across the inner courtyard of the royal palace in Aramoor, the capital city of Elondria.

Standing in the center of a circular patch of coarse dirt, Ayrion waited, clothed in layers of black that molded to his body like a glove to a hand. His three-button leather coat flapped loosely in the breeze as it hung halfway down his legs. Its folds covered his suede tunic and leather trousers. His dark hair rustled across the tops of his shoulders. Ayrion had opted to let it hang loose as opposed to tying it back as he would during training. It covered the sides of his face, hiding all but his neatly trimmed jawline goatee.

In each of his gloved hands he held a single-edged sword. The steel was as black as midnight with a unique design that eventually widened outward before cutting back to an angled point near the tip. He could see the reflection of everything around him in their sheen. From the cross-guard to the pommel, the swords’ grip had been fashioned in the shape of a dragon in midflight. Ayrion had never seen their like before, nor figured he would again. The twin blades were Ayrion’s signature mark.

As he waited for his challengers to step forth, he slowly scanned the outer courtyard. The stone squad was surrounded by Elondrian lancers, decked in their formal uniforms of deep crimson and gold. They were all waiting to catch a glimpse of the man in black, known by all as the Guardian Protector. Ayrion was the youngest commander in the history of the king’s elite fighting force—the High Guard.

In their black uniforms, bearing the crest of a silver falcon, the High Guard’s sworn duty was not to the protection of Elondria, as were the lancers, but solely to the protection of the High King.

Above the courtyard was a raised terrace that extended out from the second floor of the palace, overshadowing the uniformed officers beneath. On its veranda a crowd was gathering with bated breath. Men, counting themselves as lordly, pranced around in their fine suits and puffed lace as the women, arrayed in a medley of rich color, endeavored to draw the attention of their male counterparts in hopes of ensnaring a reasonable match.

From where he stood, Ayrion had a clear view of the center balcony. As always, the central gallery was reserved for members of the royal family and their guests. Rhydan, the High King of Aldor and its five kingdoms, sat head and shoulders above the rest, his gaze proudly taking in the scene below.

Ayrion held his king in high regard, not only because of Rhydan’s thirty-five years of rule, in which time he had garnered the respect of not only Elondria but every other kingdom under the purview of the High Throne, but because he was known to be a man of just values and fair council. Most importantly, he was much like the father Ayrion had been forced to grow up without.

On the king’s left sat the real intelligence behind his rule—his wife, Queen Ellise. Her hair was streaked with silver, but that did nothing to detract from the remarkable strength that could be seen in her sharp emerald eyes. The king rarely made a decision without first seeking her council. Her wisdom and compassion had been the guiding factors behind every move the king had made, and Elondria was the better for it.

Dakaran, their son and only living heir, sat rather stiffly on his father’s other side, his face fixed with a scowl. Ayrion couldn’t remember the last time he had actually seen Dakaran smile, except of course when trying to gain victory over his latest short-lived conquest, or when placating some member of the ruling aristocracy. His romantic endeavors never lasted more than a couple of weeks, which Ayrion always found rather odd, what with Dakaran’s long brunette hair and handsome face, not to mention his lofty position as crown prince.

Most likely it was Dakaran’s ruthless mannerisms which tended to drive away all respectable women. There were, however, plenty of ambitious contenders with eyes for nothing more than the prince’s wealth and position. They, on the other hand, would be more than happy to overlook his shortcomings on the off chance they might one day be chosen for his bride.

Behind Dakaran stood Valtor, the prince’s advisor and Arch Chancellor to the White Tower. He wore the crimson robes and mitre of his office with the insignia of a single blade piercing a rising sun. His long black hair cupped the sides of his gaunt face, giving his rimmed eyes a sunken appearance.

To the far side of the royal balcony sat the king’s honored guests, including ambassadors from each of the other four kingdoms. They rested comfortably on benches canopied by silk sheets while children scurried around the railing in front of them to gain a better view. Ayrion had a feeling that his present circumstances were due more to the ambassadors’ attendance than anything else.

The king held the highest seat of power, but only so far as the Provincial Authority would allow. Since the time of Torrin, no king was allowed complete authority over the entirety of Aldor. During his reign, Torrin had divided the land into five kingdoms, each with its own ruling body. He wanted to make sure that Aldor never fell under tyrannical rule. A single overlord from each of the four kingdoms: Sidara, Keldor, Briston, and Cylmar, with the High King over the fifth and largest kingdom of Elondria, formed what was known as the Provincial Authority.

The king could pronounce edicts and pass laws but they were subject to rejection upon a unanimous vote by the four overlords. The only kingdom the king had complete control over was Elondria.

Ayrion scanned the waiting crowd above. It wasn’t the pomp and grandeur of those seated above that drew his attention, though. His eyes were searching for someone else. He scanned the long line of nobility until finally coming to rest on a small group of young ladies off to the side, known to be the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. They held none of the outward show the other women at court so eagerly flaunted, but their dress could hardly be considered slovenly either.

Ayrion smiled when he saw her. Amarysia.

She was looking directly at him. Her rich honey-golden hair was waving in the afternoon breeze. Somehow, the thought of her watching him with those deep blue eyes kept Ayrion more off guard than the armed men he was about to face.

She smiled.

He pulled his gaze away before it became any more awkward.

Behind him he could hear the crowd parting with eager anticipation as five rather large men, wearing the Elondrian crimson and gold overtop of their leather body armor and chainmail, stepped out from the assembly and into the circular ring. Each man held a double-edged broadsword at least four feet from point to pommel.

Ayrion had a gift with weapons. His family was part of the Upaka, which, ironically enough, in the old tongue meant protector. A term one could hardly relate to his people. Whatever they were before, they were now a tribe of warriors who sold their services to the highest bidder. Mercenaries would be a more legitimate term. They preferred to remain separated from the influences and governments of the world, free to roam without limitation.  This—they believed—was their birthright.

Apart from their gift with weaponry, an Upaka could be recognized by their uniquely colored irises. Unlike most eyes of green and blue and brown, Upakan eyes were pale gray. It was said that the Creator had marked them this way to give fair warning to any who would dare challenge that they were dealing with one of the Upaka. Ayrion figured it had more to do with the fact that they lived underground in the ruins of the Forgotten City than some unique sign from the Creator.

Ayrion’s fingers opened and shut in sync around the hilt of his swords as he tightened his grip, waiting for the inevitable. Lowering his head, he closed his eyes and reached out with his senses as was his routine before every fight since he was a child. It was as though he could feel what his opponents were going to do even before it happened.

His father had always told him, “You have magic, son. And that gift is going to come with a price.” Of course, at ten years old, he had no idea what his father was talking about. All he knew was that he was better than the others, and there was nothing more glorious than to be the best. He soon discovered how wrong he was. It was that same arrogance which had eventually cost him his family, his home, and his very identity.

He took a deep breath.

Ayrion’s eyes opened as he felt the first wave of movement. From his right, one of the lancers lunged forward, striking from an overhead position and swinging at a downward angle from right to left, attempting a shoulder cut. He’s going to move left. With the speed and agility of a veteran, Ayrion pivoted on his right foot, spinning his body toward his attacker. He raised his right arm, parrying the oncoming strike and forcing the lancer’s blade to veer away from its intended target. His left arm was now free to counter. Head-strike, definitely a head-strike. Ayrion spun around and punched the unprepared guard in the face with the hilt of his left sword, dropping the man to the ground, unconscious.

Behind you! Ayrion used the momentum of his spin to deflect the next attacker who had thought to catch him with his back turned. The second lancer struck once, twice, three times, each with lethal intent, bringing all his strength to bear. But strength alone does not a champion make. Ayrion moved with remarkable skill. He used his right sword to not only block each strike but to beat-parry them away from his body with what seemed to be as little effort as swatting at an annoying fly.

Angered at the lack of exertion required by his opponent to counter his aggression, the lancer pushed even harder, hoping his sheer size and brute force would be enough to bring Ayrion down. But, as Ayrion’s father used to say, “Fighting is most often won with a head clear of emotions.”

Alright, watch for it. You need to go underneath. Ayrion used his attacker’s energy against him as the guard took one last lunging swing toward his midsection. Anticipating the cut, Ayrion reversed his position. He spun low and swept the lancer’s legs out from under him. The man hit the dirt face first. Ayrion quickly kicked him in the head with the side of his boot, just hard enough to make sure he didn’t get back up.

From the courtyard came a sense of awe as the armed lancers stood around shaking their heads in amazement. Wafting down from above came the sounds of clapping and giddy excitement as the high nobility watched in lustful anticipation. The lords, with their soft hands having never seen an honest day’s labor in their lives, clapped with eager praise, while some of the ladies busied themselves by hanging out over the railing, using their physiques as a way to garner his fervent attention. Ayrion scoffed at the ridiculous pomp of it all.

Only from the royal terrace was there a sense of respectful admiration as the High King and Queen sat back and judged the reactions portrayed by each ambassador. Ayrion could tell the king had more in mind than mere entertainment when he had called for this little exhibition.

Ayrion stepped over the second lancer and moved to face the last three. They had decided to use a simultaneous assault. He applauded their common sense.

Like the others, he could feel their courses of action, and with movement that did not seem humanly possible, he feinted left and then right. Parrying one sword while throwing back another. Blocking with his right and striking with his left. The whirl of motion left his dark blades as nothing but a blurry distortion to the average observer.

After the dust had settled, only the Guardian Protector remained standing while around him lay five lancers nursing their newly formed bruises and sadly depleted egos. Cheers erupted from the viewing audience as Ayrion slid his blades back into the sheaths he had strapped to his back. He turned and bowed toward the center terrace and the High King.

His eyes, however, were quick to drift away from the royal family as they searched out those of Amarysia. There was something about her that seemed different from any of the other women he had been introduced to at court. Of course, their first meeting hadn’t exactly been the grandest, unless you call bumping into one another in the hall and her running off, a formal introduction.

With the title of Guardian Protector, Ayrion was a highly sought-after-prize for many of the young, and not so young, ladies at court. Many beautiful pairs of eyes had blinked fondly in his direction, but he had never been one to be coerced by a pretty face. In fact, he would take a plain but kind woman over a spoiled debutante anytime.

From his experience, most beautiful women of means tended to be quite snobbish and annoying. He figured it must have something to do with the way they viewed themselves. In Amarysia’s case, however, her outward beauty was a reflection of what was truly inside. This could be seen in no greater way than her ardent service to her queen.

The remaining onlookers shuffled their way back indoors as Barthol Respuel, the High Guard Captain and Ayrion’s right hand, stepped into the ring. “Any idea what this was all about?” The big man helped an unsteady lancer to his feet and pounded the man’s back, trying to dust off the dirt. But with fists the size of stone hammers, Barthol’s helping was more detrimental to the poor lancer’s health than anything else.

Ayrion handed the lancer his sword. “My guess is the king wanted us to put on a show for the ambassadors.” He nodded toward the now empty terrace. “No doubt to instill a little trepidation in them before they report back to their overlords. Hopefully force them to think twice before planning any future incursions into Elondrian territory.” He shrugged. “But that’s just a guess.”

“A pretty close one, I’d wager.” They watched the long procession of lords and ladies follow the royal family back inside the splendor of the second floor ballroom. “You’re gonna need to keep an eye on that one.”

Ayrion turned to follow his friend’s gaze, but with the wave of bodies moving toward the large double entrance he couldn’t be sure who Barthol was referring to.

“The prince,” Barthol said, realizing Ayrion hadn’t seen who he had been pointing to. “If I were you I’d watch my back. Everyone knows he’s got an itch for that lady of yours.”

“First of all, she’s not my lady. And second, I’ve known Dakaran since we were children. He might be a bit high-strung but I don’t believe he’d take it that far.”

Barthol gave Ayrion a hard look and grunted.

Dakaran wasn’t the same person he used to be. He’d changed, grown more distant. A dark cloud had taken up permanent residence over his head. Part of it was this new advisor, Valtor. Something about the man didn’t sit right with Ayrion. He was always smiling. Ayrion didn’t trust a man who smiled that much. “I think the Arch Chancellor is having a bad effect on him.”

“Bet your bottom he is,” Barthol barked. “Now there’s a right nasty piece of work for you. What bog hole he came slithering out of I’ll never know. But he done hooked his barbs into the prince, and there’s no denying that.”

Ayrion nodded. With someone like Valtor weaseling his way into the royal family, he couldn’t imagine what kind of problems they were all going to be facing down the road.

Chapter 12 | Ayrion

AYRION WAS HALFWAY back to the palace, passing under an arched trellis of hanging wisteria with its purple spray floating around him in the breeze like a fine mist, when a member of his guard rounded the corner and approached.

“Sir, the High King requests your presence in his study.” The young ranker saluted with his right fist crossing his chest. Ayrion returned the gesture before dismissing him.

He was a little curious as to the summoning. Knowing the king, he probably wished to congratulate Ayrion on his performance and, in a roundabout way, check to make sure he was unharmed. Ever since the king had taken Ayrion in as a boy and given him a position in the palace, he had kept a close eye on him. The king’s attention had in no small part helped make up for the loss of his own family.

Ayrion walked across the courtyard and through the statue-lined pavilion toward the main floor of the foyer. If Aramoor was considered the jewel of the empire, then the royal palace was its splendor.  Its towers and halls, courtyards and gardens sat protected, an island on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the Bay of Torrin. It could be seen for miles in any direction. The capital city lay spread in a semi-circular pattern out from the palace, like a bride’s train spreading outward behind her.

The sound of Ayrion’s boots echoed off the checkered marble of the atrium as he headed in the direction of one of the grand staircases on the far side. The stairs split as they wound their way up to the second, third, and fourth floors. He followed the inlaid railing to the top and made his way down a labyrinth of warmly lit hallways and corridors, each as lavishly decorated as the next. The king’s study was located on the northwest side of the palace.

Ayrion stepped out of the final stairwell and rounded the corner. He could see the prince waiting in the corridor ahead, a large goblet resting in one hand. He looked to be well on his way to full intoxication. Ayrion hated dealing him when he was like this. Dakaran had always resented his father’s affection for Ayrion. The older they had gotten, the further that wedge of jealousy had been driven.

“Well, if it isn’t the great Ayrion,” Dakaran said, his words already beginning to slur. “The king’s Guardian Protector. I see you managed to outshine your opponents once again.” He raised his glass in salute. His unsteady hand dumped some of its contents onto the lush gold and crimson carpet.

“I did what was asked of me, nothing more.”

“Yes, the pride of Elondria. The Dark Warrior. The man who can’t be beaten. Tell me, how does it feel to be my father’s champion? His favorite little lap dog.” Dakaran snickered. “Does he pet you on the head when you’re good?”

“You’re drunk, Dakaran.”

“So glad you noticed.”

“I’m not talking to you when you’re like this.” Ayrion moved to walk around him but Dakaran cut him off, pressing Ayrion up against the wall. His breath was as strong as a vintner’s.

“What makes you so special, huh? Even as children you always got away with everything. The perfect little boy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Our adventures. You remember our little adventures, don’t you?” Dakaran patted Ayrion on his cheek with his free hand. “Sneaking outside the palace walls with Kira and Reevie and Po, you remember. Except . . .” Dakaran glanced down the hall as if he were about to divulge some great political intrigue. “Whenever we were found out, you were conveniently never around.” He smiled and took another sip of his wine.

“Dakaran, we were kids, and the only reason I was rarely caught was because I was never foolish enough to brag about it. Now if you don’t . . . mind.” Ayrion tried pushing Dakaran to the side.

“Oh, I mind, I do. You know, you might have everyone else around here fooled, but not me.” He sloshed some more of his drink, this time catching part of it in the laced tie around his waist. “Not me. And I’ll tell you something else, I’m going to let that little lady friend of yours . . . What’s her name? Amarysia? I’m going to let her know all about our little Ayrion.” Dakaran patted Ayrion’s shoulder. He wiped a few leftover flakes of sand from his black leather coat. “You better be careful,” he said as he leaned in to whisper in Ayrion’s ear. “Someone might just come along and steal her away.”

Ayrion clenched his fists and bit his tongue to keep from lashing out at the open threat. The prince took a step back and made a swooping bow, gesturing for Ayrion to be on his way. Ayrion didn’t hesitate. He wondered how long Dakaran had been holding that in, obviously a while. If it hadn’t been for the wine, he’d probably still be carrying it.

Ayrion stopped in front of the ornate, golden oak doors leading into the king’s study. On either side stood a member of the High Guard, trimmed in black and silver livery. Each had a shortsword strapped to his waist and one to his back. A halberd rested comfortably in the hand furthest from the entrance, allowing for free access to the doors’ handles. As much as Ayrion had complained about the archaic ritual of holding those large obtrusive weapons, the High King was a stickler for tradition.

The two guards saluted. Ayrion waited as one of the soldiers stepped forward and opened the door to announce him. “Master Ayrion to see you as requested, Your Majesty.” From the other side of the door, Ayrion could just make out the sound of hushed voices. “Good, send him in.”

The guard took a step back to let Ayrion pass, but before Ayrion made it halfway through the door, Dakaran shoved his way by and sauntered over to where a small group had assembled in front of the fire. Taking the empty seat in the middle, he promptly had one of the servants refill his glass.

The king’s study was a large room with a vaulted ceiling layered in crosshatched beams of rich, mahogany cedar. To his right was a wall of inlaid shelves crafted of the same dark wood, housing an impressive selection of books of all shapes and sizes. There was an enormous hanging on the far wall, depicting a detailed cartography of Aldor along with its five kingdoms, natural landmarks, and an updated collection of outlying cities, towns, and villages. Ayrion had spent many an hour studying and memorizing the illustration.

At the head of the room was an enormous stone hearth, large enough for a grown man to walk around inside. The High King stood beside it, nursing a glass of wine.

Turning his attention back to the front, Ayrion took a few steps into the room then bowed. “You sent for me, Your Majesty?”

“Guardian, please.” Rhydan motioned for him to approach. “I would like to introduce you to our esteemed guests.” All four of the ambassadors remained seated. The high-back chairs had been positioned in such a way as to best enjoy the heat of the fire.

“It would be my honor, Your Majesty.” Ayrion walked around to the front of the small gathering and bowed, low enough to be considered respectful of their position, but not so much as to be groveling for attention.

The king started from left to right. “We have Ambassador Gyin from Briston, Ambassador Belkor from Cylmar, Ambassador Lanmiere from Sidara, and Ambassador Nierdon from Keldor.” The king motioned in Ayrion’s direction. “Gentlemen, I give you, Ayrion, Guardian Protector to the king.” Rhydan glanced at Ayrion. “They were most impressed with your display earlier and requested an introduction.”

Ayrion bowed once more. “I thank you. Although, I’m certain these gentlemen have no doubt witnessed more impressive displays of swordsmanship than what I have bestowed.”

Nierdon, with his long face and beady eyes, crossed his right leg while spinning his finger around the stem of his goblet. “Ah, a self-deprecating warrior . . . You’re a dangerous man, sir.”

“Only to those who wish harm to my king.”

“And loyal, I see.” Ambassador Lanmiere ran his fingers through his neatly groomed beard. “It is indeed reassuring to see the king has shown such wisdom in his choice of champion.”

Ayrion nodded in the Sidaran Ambassador’s direction. “I thank you for your kind words.”

The Briston Ambassador, a rotund individual with a flushed face, no doubt due to his unhealthy aptitude for merriment, lowered his goblet. “Wherever did you find him, Your Majesty? Hup,” he half-burped, half-hiccupped. “His eyes are quite . . . unique.”

The king raised his glass. “You are perceptive, Ambassador Gyin. He’s Upakan.”

Belkor, the ambassador from Cylmar, spit his wine. “May the Defiler take all Upaka, mongrels that they are!”

No one moved.

Gyin gulped as he tried swallowing his latest mouthful.

The Cylmaran Ambassador’s brow lowered as he fixed Ayrion with a harsh glare.

Ayrion smiled. It hurt, but he was used to the constant slights to his heritage. He knew his people were quite often despised for their choice of profession as mercenaries, especially those on the receiving end. He could only imagine that the ambassador, or someone he knew, had undergone such an experience.

“I’ve always found, Ambassador, that it is the mongrel which tends to be the most dangerous. They have not been bred into servitude and stupidity as some,” he said with a rather obvious undertone, “which makes them . . . unpredictable.” Ayrion took a deep breath. “Yes, I believe if I were a betting man, I’d take the mongrel over the pedigree every time.”

“Ha!” The Sidaran Ambassador laughed. “He’s got you there, Belkor.” He gestured with his glass. “If I were you, I’d think twice before insulting one of the Upaka with nothing more between you and him than a beaker of fine wine.” He continued chuckling as a few of the others nodded their agreements.

A fleeting smile crossed the king’s face as Rhydan held out his arm. “Well, I believe adequate introductions have been observed. Thank you for your presence, Guardian.”

Ayrion bowed. “Thank you, Your Majesty. By your leave?”

The king nodded and Ayrion turned and offered a bow to the ambassadors, if not quite so formally. “Gentlemen.”

Ayrion couldn’t help but notice the anger written on Dakaran’s face as he turned back toward the door. Retracing his steps, Ayrion wondered what type of maneuvering the king had been hoping to achieve with that uncomfortable discord. With eagerness to be gone from their political pandering, he hastened his steps to the door and left the gentry to their fire and drinks.

Chapter 13 | Valtor

VALTOR BUSIED HIMSELF with perusing a few of the ancient manuscripts he had uncovered in the underground tunnels below the ruins of the Forgotten City. They held key information to the power of the Old Ways, which had long been forgotten and believed destroyed during the Great Purge. The three adjoining rooms he had been assigned in the top of one of the northeast towers were uncomfortably dark and damp, having only a couple of arrow slits for natural light and no assigned staff for cleaning. The rooms were staunch with the smell of mildew, a perfect atmosphere for his unique form of herbalism.

The space had been converted from an old storage chamber into his personal quarters following his rise in station to the prince’s chief advisor a little more than a year ago. Valtor’s strategic maneuvering was finally beginning to bear fruit. He prided himself on the masterful way he had set the pieces in motion. The outcome eventually leading him to saving the prince’s life outside a local brothel Dakaran was known to frequent.

After having swooped in at the last moment to make a heroic rescue from a pre-arranged mugging, Valtor was awarded a place on the royal staff. From there it was easy to catch the prince’s ear, as Dakaran enjoyed nothing more than someone willing to agree with his every whim.

So now, when he didn’t find himself spending his days wiping the prince’s nose, Valtor spent a great deal of his time overseeing the events at the White Tower while doing his best to stay out of the High King’s purview. He didn’t need Rhydan getting a whiff of what he had planned.

It had been generations since the White Tower had received an oversight inspection from the throne. Now, it was solely autonomous and under his direct authority. Valtor was thought by many within the palace to be nothing more than a mere physicker of natural remedies, but instead of a simple apothecary, he had turned his secluded workroom into a functioning alchemy lab and den of dark relics and even darker incantations.

Valtor lifted the large quill and dipped it in the ink. He was about to scribe a few notes regarding his latest findings when his chamber doors flew open and Prince Dakaran stomped through in a rage. “The arrogance! The audacity! Who does he think he is?” Dakaran didn’t bother shutting the doors after his grand entrance.

Valtor’s fingers tightened around his feathered plume, nearly snapping the instrument in half. “Who do you think you are, barging in here like a spoiled child and disturbing my work?” was what Valtor wanted to say, but didn’t. “Who are we talking about?” Valtor wasn’t too worried with anyone overhearing their conversation. No one ever visited this part of the palace. But not wanting to take a chance, he walked over and closed the doors.

“The guardian!” Dakaran said as he paced the floor. Valtor could see the prince had been at the wine again. His speech, although coherent, was dragging. “And my father . . . Well, he just peppers him with praise! Blind old fool.” The prince’s temper was at its peak. “Doesn’t he see what Ayrion’s doing, weaseling his way into power? The man can do no wrong in my father’s eyes. You’d think he was the crown prince and not me!”

Valtor used his thumbs to massage his temples. “I can see the appeal.”

“What was that?” Dakaran spun on his heels.

“I said . . . I know how you feel.”

Dakaran studied the chancellor a moment then shook his head and continued. “I want Ayrion gone.”

Even drunk, Dakaran’s rage bled through in his eyes. This was the first time the prince had directly voiced such an aggressive action. Valtor wondered if all his hidden implications and circuitous urgings were finally taking hold.

“And I’m sure that with the guardian out of the way, you will be there to lend aid to a certain young lady’s maid?”

Dakaran didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. Valtor already knew the answer.

The prince made his way over to Valtor’s mixing table and began rummaging through some of the loose papers. “I want Ayrion gone.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Valtor finally capitulated, “and might I ask how Your Highness would suggest that this happen?”

Dakaran swung his blue velvet cape from his shoulders and laid it across the nearest chair. “I don’t care if you have to stick him while he’s sitting in the privy doing his morning business. Just do something.”

After Valtor bowed in acquiescence, Dakaran moved around to the other side of the mixing table where Valtor kept shelves of supplies and artifacts needed for his incantations, and scanned the glass jars scattered haphazardly on top. The vases came in a variety of shapes and sizes and held anything from pickled human remains to deadly insects and poisonous plants. “Don’t you have something you can use in all of this . . . stuff?” he asked as he continued his inspection. “Preferably something painful.”

“I’m sure I do.” Valtor closed the large volume he had been studying as the prince walked over to the table. “But I wouldn’t advise it, at least not at present.”

“And why, O illustrious advisor, would you not?”

“The last thing we need is to have an assassination of the Guardian Protector and put everyone on high alert. Suspicions would begin to fly and the High Guard would be even more vigilant than they already are, making it rather more difficult for us. Not to mention an uprising of the citizenry. You don’t want to dismiss the people’s admiration for him.” Valtor straightened a few of his papers. “Patience is not a virtue to use sparingly, my prince. Your time will come. Acting too hastily without a wise course of action will only land us in the dungeon, or worse, the chopping block.”

“What in the name of Aldor is this?” Valtor turned to see what the prince was referring to. “What dark nightmares were these conjured from?” Dakaran was sifting through a large, leather-bound volume he had pulled from Valtor’s small library of antique tomes.

Valtor’s breath caught in his throat when he saw what the prince was holding. It was a grimoire penned by the dark wizard, Aerodyne, himself. How did that get out here? I thought I had put that away. He quickly made his way to the prince’s side and confiscated the book. Valtor glanced at the pages the prince had been riffling through, hoping that it hadn’t been too revealing. Each one depicted sketches of strange humanlike creatures. The borders were lined with ancient runes which the prince could not have hoped to read, let alone understand. On either side of the drawing were scribbled notes indicating the creature’s name.

“Ah, these are merely bedtime stories used to frighten naughty children, Your Highness, nothing more.” Valtor closed the book and laid it back on the shelf as though nothing were wrong before changing the subject. “Where are we with the Cylmaran Ambassador? Belkor, isn’t it?”

Dakaran examined a ceremonial dagger on the next shelf up and then replaced it. “Yes, he has agreed to meet with us on Seventh Day after the evening meal.”

“That’s good news. We are going to need Cylmar’s help if we ever plan on getting you your throne.”

The prince shrugged as he lifted his cloak and threw it across his shoulders.

“We need to make sure the ambassador understands what we are asking from Overlord Saryn,” Valtor said.

“I’m sure it’ll all work out. You worry too much, Valtor. You’re going to give yourself a palpitation.”

Valtor sighed as the prince left his chambers. He was beginning to wonder if he had made the wrong decision in his choice of allies. Only time would tell.

Chapter 14 | Ferrin

FERRIN SPAT THE REMNANTS of blood collecting between his teeth and lower lip.

He was secured hand and foot across the wire-bound rack. Apart from a few noticeable differences—like the torch holder being fastened to the right side of the door instead of the left, and the rack being offset to one side of the entrance as opposed to the other—the interrogation rooms were exactly the same. Ferrin would have sworn the large blood stain on the floor even had a similar design to it.

I’m still alive, he kept telling himself, a chant of hope to ward off the desperation threatening to consume him. The strong fecal smell emanating from where the previous victims had lost their bowels under the pain of the inquisitor’s cruelty overpowered the burnt pitch of the nearby torches. Cheeks had graciously spared him the wiggler during this session, probably due to the intense reaction of nearly dying during the previous one. Ferrin knew it wouldn’t be his last encounter with the rather horrific device, though.

Not letting his disappointment of refraining from the wiggler get to him, Cheeks had instead decided to move on to Ferrin’s reaction to heat. His experiment consisted of testing the length at which he could maintain Ferrin’s hand over a torch’s flames before Ferrin either passed out from the agony or his hand melted through. With Ferrin’s unfortunate luck, he hadn’t passed out.

After the demonstration was over, Cheeks had Rae fix the damage while he packed his tools and moved on to the next victim.

Ferrin grimaced as two of the guards hefted his aching body from the rack. They took a moment to grab his worn tunic from where it had been tossed on the floor in readiness for Cheek’s work, and quickly pulled it over his head. His sweat-soaked red hair was plastered to his face by the time they finished.

Flanking him on either side, they each took an arm. “Looks like they couldn’t get you to talk again,” said the guard on his left. “I told them not to bet against the smith, but would they listen? No.”

“Give it time,” the other guard cut in. “They all talk eventually.”

“Yeah,” Ferrin said, “I’ve got them right where I want them.”

The guard’s laughter held an edge of pity.

Too weak and battered to move his legs, Ferrin let his feet drag across the stone flooring of the dimly lit passageways as the Tower guards carried him toward his new accommodations. Several times he found himself shivering on an outside battlement as they moved him from one building to the next.

“So . . .” he began, his breath coming in shallow rasps against the lingering pain in his chest. “What shall I . . . be dining on . . . this evening?” Rae’s gift of healing did wonders for the outward afflictions to the body, but did little to affect the inward soreness of fatigue and hunger. “A few hours . . . on the rack can really . . . work up a man’s appetite.”

The light from their one torch danced across the walls as the guard in front turned his head. “You’ve got a sense of humor, smith, I’ll give you that. How long you keep it, well, that’ll be a different matter altogether.”

From the silhouette of the torchlight, Ferrin had to admire the captain’s rather bulbous nose. It was a snout of indescribable proportions. It was an incredible work of art. The masters would have charged double to paint such a portrayal. It would have taken a rather difficult amount of work to bring it back to some form of normalcy. Why Ferrin was wasting his time dwelling on his captor’s nose was beyond him, but alas, what else did he have to think about. Nostrils. Hmm, that sounds like a good fit. He played around with the idea a moment longer before coming to an agreement. Yep, Nostrils it is.

The higher they ascended, the more his teeth quivered. The temperature continued to drop the further they climbed. “Maybe this time I’ll get a room with a view.”

Since his arrival, he had occupied four separate cells, each one a mirror image of the last—cold, dark, and damp. He remembered his first impression of the mountain fortress known as the White Tower—a solitary pillar of stone protruding straight out of the ground and nearly touching the sky. It was a monument to another age, an age of wonders, an age of true power, an age of magic.

Surrounding the central pier was a vast network of crenulated walls, stone parapets, towers, and halls, each connected to the other by long open walkways. Most of which had been built right into the side of the mountain. The construct was both ancient and unnerving.

There was an overall strength to the design that had given him the impression of dragons. He wasn’t sure why, considering the mythical creatures were just that: mythical.

If he had not found himself so overwhelmed with fear at the time, Ferrin would have been quite impressed. The Tower held no outer defenses, for none were needed. The entire fortress was completely encased by sheer-sided cliffs with nothing more than a solitary pass leading in or out and a monolithic bridge connecting the two. There was a large garrison stationed on the outskirts, and from the number of new faces appearing each day, Ferrin guessed it was growing.

There were many who said the White Tower was an enigma unto itself. While it feigned the removal and destruction of magic, it had in turn put that magic to other uses—dark and unspeakable. Ferrin had even heard it rumored by some of the guards that the new Arch Chancellor was a powerful sorcerer in his own right, and used his position as head of the Tower to gain an even greater control over the five kingdoms.

Of course no one had ever been able to prove the legitimacy of that claim. However, as one of those poor unfortunates unlucky enough to claim the White Tower as his permanent place of residence, Ferrin was inclined to agree. He wondered if the High King knew about what was going on here, and if he was sanctioning it. Ferrin figured he must. He had learned long ago never to trust an aristocrat.

Landing hard on the stone floor where the men in white had tossed him, Ferrin curled into a fetal position and silently prayed in the hope that someone up there was listening.

“As for your meal, it will be along shortly. Hope you have a strong appetite. I heard the cooks are whipping up a special treat for tonight.”

“That does sound delightful, gentlemen. However, could you do me the favor of informing the cooks that they forgot to remove the whiskers on the last one they served?”

“Get some rest. You’ll need it for tomorrow.” The guards left, swinging shut the heavy door behind them. Once again Ferrin found himself alone in the dark with nothing but his memories to keep him company.

For the uninterrupted silence of a single night’s sleep Ferrin would have happily given his right arm. His mind was beginning to crack. He could no longer tell which of the voices were real and which were byproducts of the torture. Death would have been preferable to yet another night in this place where hope had been removed and fear was a permanent state of being.

Struggling to open his eyes, he settled with a mere squint through his left, which was only slightly less swollen than the other. Darkness encased the room, lit by the occasional appearance of the moon through a lone arrow-slit high above any reachable distance. Well, so much for the view.

The stone walls seemed to bleed moisture, keeping the status of its occupant’s health somewhere between sick and dying. A pallet of straw had been strewn across the cold stone floor, allowing for the residents to find a small escape from the damp and thereby stave off their eventual passing long enough to complete their interrogations.

Lifting the bulk of his torso on one thick forearm, he scanned the room. It was fairly similar to the others. He grunted at the stabbing pain in his lower chest. Broken ribs no doubt. He lifted his torn tunic and carefully prodded the rest of his upper body. “Oy! Yep, they’re broken.” The little healer had expended her magic earlier that day. By the time she had made it around to Ferrin, she only had enough left to tend to the more serious damage while leaving the injured ribs for another time.

The room came into view as his eye adjusted to the light, or lack of it. The pungent odor produced from the combination of human waste collecting in the corner and the stink of unwashed bodies was, at first, unbearable. Now it was but a mere irritation, dulled by time.

“What’s your name?”

Ferrin’s head rose with a start. His good eye darted around the room for the origin of the raspy voice. He came to rest on the far corner where a figure lay buried beneath the shadows. Struggling to focus, he managed to outline the shape of a man shackled to the far wall.

“Ferrin,” he replied, hesitantly.

“Ah, Ferrin.” The old man repeated his name, rolling it around in his mouth as if sampling some new exotic delicacy. “It’s a strong name,” he said, “a name that bears with it a true calling and purpose.” Ferrin cocked his head and snorted his rather obvious doubts as to the legitimacy of the man’s claim. “I see a solitary stone,” the man said, “which if removed will collapse a kingdom. I see a future that rests in balance on a single thread, tipping one way and then another, never quite revealing its outcome. Hmm, most curious indeed.”

Ferrin strained to get a better glimpse of his cellmate. “Try seeing us a way out of here while you’re at it.” Poor fool, Ferrin mused. He’s obviously lost what little mind he had.

“My name is Azriel de’ Torsa,” the voice said, ignoring Ferrin’s snide remark while forcing himself into a seated position. His chains clanged heavily on the stones around him, while the glint of the moon divided his upper half in its soft pale light. Ferrin grimaced at the sight of the man’s face. Withered with age, it held a gauntness that presented a clear picture as to the state of malnourishment he suffered. But it was not the skin-wrapped skull, or the scars of prolonged cuttings, or even the patches of hair that had fallen away from disease which drew Ferrin’s attention, it was the emerald reflection emanating from the old man’s eyes. They were the brightest green he’d ever seen, and for reasons unknown to Ferrin, it made him want to turn away, as if they were gazing right into his very soul.

“I am a seer. And I have been waiting for you far longer than I care to admit.”

Ferrin allowed the man’s statement to burrow its way into the back of his mind. “For me? What are you talking about?” His expression tightened, rather unsettled at the old man’s sudden proclamation. He really has lost his mind.

“We all have a destiny to fulfill, my young friend, if we would follow the Creator’s path. My destiny is to guide others like yourself on their way. There are many who stray from the path to follow their own desires, which in turn leads to their destruction. However—” He pointed out with a single bony forefinger. “—The Creator is not limited to a single path, and instead, might give that person’s destiny to another. One who is willing to accept the role no matter the hardship.”

“There’ll be no further talk of the Creator here, old man. He has abandoned us.” Ferrin was sick and tired of hearing about how the Creator loved them, how the Creator had a plan, how there was some overall grand purpose as to why the Creator had put them there. That was all he had been listening to from the other prisoners for the last three weeks and he’d had enough.

To Ferrin, it was nothing more than a weak man’s attempt at justifying why he was being strapped to a metal bed and his body used as a whetstone for the inquisitor’s blades. The Creator was having nothing to do with any of them. The reason they were in the White Tower wasn’t because of some divine will. It was because they just happened to be the unlucky dupe whose neighbor, or wife, or not-so-close friend thought they’d make some easy gold by turning them in, or in Ferrin’s case when the Blacksmith Guild in Rhowynn had grown jealous of his desire to strike out on his own without their explicit permission.

“Nonsense, the Creator is everywhere.”

“Then he has turned his back on us. What kind of benevolent being would subject us to a fate such as this? Answer me that.”

“It is not for us to know His ways, only to believe they are for the best. It wouldn’t be called faith, otherwise.”

“Blind faith you mean.” Ferrin sneered.

“I do not pretend to know why He has put you here, but my journey has already been laid out.”

“To sit here and suffer? Is that the purpose your Creator has for you? I would say you got the short end of the stick there, friend.”

The old man chuckled. “I guess it would appear that way to those without faith, but we all have free will. We all have choices we can make. Always remember, with every choice there is a consequence. So be sure your actions are just.”

My actions? “What are you trying to say, old man? That you think I have some special divine appointment by the Creator?” Ferrin would have belted out a hard laugh if his chest didn’t feel as though it had been trampled on by a herd of desert sherakin. “I am nothing more than a poor sword-smith who now finds himself locked in the White Tower awaiting the purging chamber . . . and for what? For nothing more than being born with some worthless gift, which under the present circumstances feels more like a curse.”

Ferrin knew he should have never used his magic to create those twin blades. But no! You just had to build something better than everyone else, didn’t you?

Azriel, again, raised a finger. “Do not make the mistake of believing your gift worthless, son. The Creator does not endow such blessings without purpose. The outcome of an entire battle could fall on the edge of a single sword, no matter its size or strength. Have patience, my young friend, for I believe your time is coming.”

“Time for what?”

“For your destiny to begin, of course. What have we just been talking about?” The old man shook his head and released a heavy sigh. “Did you think you were here by accident? Ha! Whether you choose to believe or not is immaterial. You are here for a reason, son. Best you start finding out what it is.”

“Is that something you have seen?” Ferrin mocked.

“Possibly.”

“Possibly? How could it be possibly? Either you saw it or you didn’t?”

“I’m a seer,” Azriel said with a slight shrug, “and what I see can be interpreted in different ways. Sometimes what I perceive is not always . . . accurate.”

Ferrin shook his head in disbelief. Great, I’m sitting here taking advice from a crazy, inaccurate seer. What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 15 | Saleena

“I WON’T ASK YOU AGAIN. Who’s been helping you? Are they from Easthaven?”

Saleena didn’t know how much more she could take. She hadn’t slept in what felt like weeks, ever since the Black Watch had managed to run her to ground just east of Reed Marsh. She knew she had no one to blame but herself. If she hadn’t been so frightened and just listened to the big woodsman’s advice and stayed put, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. She was so thirsty. If only they’d let her have a drink of water. Treacherous thoughts formed in the back of her mind. It frightened her just how far she might be willing to go to have just one single sip. But then again, she figured that was the point.

“I told you. I don’t know anything.” She tried smacking her lips, but her swollen tongue was making it difficult. She struggled to work some saliva back into her mouth, but after three days without water, it was a hopeless effort.

The storage room in the back of one of the Easthaven barracks’ buildings, where they had her tied to a chair, was cramped. The smell of men’s sweat and burnt pitch permeated the small room. Although, in her weakened conditioned her senses were somewhat blurred to the effects.

“I don’t believe you.” The Black Watch guard struck her across the face with the back of his gloved hand. The pain was sharp, but soon dulled as it filtered in amongst the other such beatings she had sustained over the last few days. Thankfully, they hadn’t taken it any further . . . yet. She figured it wouldn’t be much longer until they got around to her clothing.

Saleena wondered what she looked like. She knew what she felt like, but she was strangely curious as to how her pain would translate in a mirror. Had there been any permanent damage done? She was still young enough to catch the eye of available men, but old enough to know that those looks were swiftly fleeting. If she didn’t act on them while she had the chance, she might be spending the rest of her days as an old spinster healer. That is, if the Tower’s guards didn’t kill her first.

If she had the energy, she would have laughed. Here she was tied to a chair, being questioned and beaten by the Black Watch, knowing that the only future that awaited her was a slow and painful death inside the White Tower, and yet, instead of trying to figure out how she was going to get out of this mess, she was spending her time contemplating whether or not men would still find her attractive. Oh well, she thought, it was better than thinking about the pain.

She had always been too preoccupied with learning and experimenting with the natural use of herbs to think about courtship and marriage, but sitting there, bound hand and foot with the constant threat of a slow death looming, she found herself contemplating life’s missed opportunities.

After her parents had passed during an outbreak of winter fever when she was ten, Saleena had gone to live with her aunt and uncle in Kariss. Her uncle had been the town physicker, and her natural curiosity encouraged him to teach Saleena his trade. She had been a quick study, soaking in all the information she could. She loved to learn about the symbiotic relationship between the forest and the creatures living within.

It was exciting to see how a single root or piece of bark or leaf, if used properly, could cure illness, calm emotions, increase vitality, and in some instances halter death. Unfortunately, it was her unending curiosity that had attracted the White Tower.

Once her uncle had gotten to the point that his age hindered him from keeping up with the work, Saleena took over the business. Her studies and use of tonics and tinctures had earned her quite the reputation as a healer. More often than not, she was found traveling from one village, or town, or city to another.

Pretty soon her name became synonymous with miracle worker. She would find a way to cure those that other healers could not. And to save their reputation, those same healers, instead of asking her advice and accepting the knowledge she would have gladly provided, began claiming she was using the dark arts to do it. Maintaining their reputation was clearly more important than the truth. Pride and greed were the downfall of all men.

“Are you listening to me?” Another hard slap across the face sent her head reeling to the left and her thoughts scrambling. She could taste blood. In some small way, she was thankful for it. The blood made up for her lack of saliva. She rolled it around on her tongue and then swallowed. “Are there sympathizers here in Easthaven? Are they the ones who were hiding you?” The head guard doing all the talking, Captain Hatch as he called himself, stood off to the right near the entrance and watched.

“No one . . . was helping me.”

“Then how do you explain your escape? Are you saying that you overpowered five of my men and disappeared into the woods in the middle of the night without help?”

She tried moistening her tongue with her blood once again. “Yes. It was me. I did it on my own.”

“Is that so? Then why do my men talk of seeing a large hooded man leading you off?”

Saleena didn’t respond. It had been pure happenstance that she had been spotted by the lone woodsman. She couldn’t remember much about him other than he was one of the biggest men she had ever seen, but also one of the gentlest. He had swooped into their camp in the middle of the night and carried her off like a phantom spirit. Now that she thought about it, maybe he had been a spirit . . . or a dream. Maybe she was still dreaming.

She shook her head. No. He was real. The woodsman must have been an experienced tracker, because he managed to lose the Tower’s guards in the forest fairly quickly. He had left her in the hollowed out stump of a fallen tree and told her to stay put; that he would be back for her after he led them off. But the longer she waited the more worried she became that her rescuer had been taken and the guards were now coming for her.

Not able to take the silence any longer, Saleena had crawled out of her hiding spot and tried finding her own way. It had obviously been a poor decision on her part. If she’d only stayed put like the man had told her, she might not be in this predicament.

Her head lobbed to the side a moment. Unless, of course, it was a dream. Apart from the big tracker’s rather notable size and gentle spirit, the only thing Saleena could remember of him was his name: Kellen.

Chapter 16 | Kellen

KELLEN KNEW THEY were running out of time.

The Black Watch, having finished most of their inquiries in town, had already begun questioning a few of the residents on the outskirts of the city limits. It wouldn’t be long before they were scouring the countryside as well. If the council had not managed to pull off a rescue by the time the Tower’s guards were through, they were going to lose their chance for good.

Easthaven might have been the capital city of Sidara, but its size was nothing compared to that of Aramoor, or Rhowynn for that matter. Kellen knew it wouldn’t take the Black Watch long to complete their work and be on their way. For his family’s sake, he would like nothing better than for the white riders to be done and gone, but for Saleena’s sake, he needed them to remain where they were long enough for the council to pull off their heist.

There were still a few pieces to the puzzle that needed to be put into place before they were ready to attempt something as crazy as liberating a prisoner right out from under the Black Watch’s noses, especially considering they needed to accomplish the task while leaving the Black Watch to believe that no outside force had been involved.

Gracefully, Kellen swung himself off Your Highness, a chestnut-colored stallion with a royal temperament that earned him his name. Tying the horse to an empty hitching ring, Kellen headed up the steps of the East Inn.

He decided to stop and see if there was any new information to be gathered concerning the Black Watch’s activities in town. One positive feature about living in a city like Easthaven was that a person could always find ready gossip if they knew where to look, and there was no better place for uncovering loose lips than the East Inn.

Stepping inside, Kellen scanned the room as he let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. Sadly, the place was rather empty. There were a few scattered regulars around the bar, and a single table near the front with a couple patrons enjoying what looked to be a late breakfast or possibly an early lunch.

Kellen sighed. He didn’t see anyone he recognized. He was about to leave when he spotted a lone figure sitting at a table near the back. The individual was strategically placed against the wall, keeping an eye on everyone while she ate. Recognizing the short-cropped white hair, he started across the room.

Sheeva watched him like a hawk. Her posture stiffened as he approached.

Kellen could see the flicker of the table’s candelabra reflecting in her amber-colored eyes. “Mind if I join you?” He gestured to an empty chair on the adjacent side of the table.

She nodded her approval with enough enthusiasm to cause any other sane person to take the hint and walk away. But Kellen had never been accused of being conventional, and so he pulled out the wooden chair and sat down. She kept a watchful eye on his hands. He folded them on the table for her benefit.

After ordering a warmed cider from one of the Aboloff’s younger brood, Kellen turned back around to study the overly-cautious assassin.

“I hope you’re finding Easthaven to your liking?”

“It’s . . . quiet,” she remarked. Her eyes were full of energy. They appeared to be the only part of her that held any hint of emotion. But it was enough for Kellen to tell how dangerous she was.

After spending an evening watching the woman’s lack of reaction to the council’s questioning of her admittance, Kellen had decided to take a more direct approach. “You’re a Night Walker.” His remark wasn’t left as a question.

Before he had a chance to say anything more, her figure warped and then vanished.

“Hold on, I want to show you something.” Scanning the nearly empty room to make sure no one was watching, Kellen reached behind his head and withdrew a silver chain he had wrapped around his neck. He pulled the pendant out from where he kept it under his tunic and laid it on the table, its jewel facing upwards. He rested his elbows on the uneven wooden planks in front of him as he waited for her response, already knowing what it would be.

“Where did you get that?” came an invisible voice to his left. Her words carried the first sense of emotion he had heard from her since their introduction.

Kellen didn’t move. He continued to stare straight ahead. “If you would be so kind as to retake your seat, I’ll be happy to tell you.” His voice was calm and reassuring, much like when trying to coax a wild animal out of its hole.

The little waitress reappeared with his drink. She slid the coins from the top of the table into her palm, and curtsied. “Thank you most kindly, sir,” she said, glancing at the empty chair across from him. “Did your lady friend leave?”

“She’ll be right back,” he said with a wistful smile. The little girl nodded and then took off for the kitchen doors.

Kellen sat in silence and continued to wait, staring patiently at the wall in front of him. Suddenly, he was no longer admiring the grains of wood paneling but a detached face that couldn’t help but betray a strong sense of curiosity.

“I have never seen a moonstone in the hands of another,” she said, rubbing her fingers across its smooth pearl-like surface. “It signifies a great debt.”

“There has been a story passed down in my family for generations,” Kellen said, “of the birth of the Night Walkers. Few have heard the tale or know of their existence. And in my own defense, the story has possibly degraded a bit with the telling, but the amulet is proof enough of their presence.” He momentarily glanced at the stone. Much like Sheeva’s eyes, it appeared to release a faint glow.

The white-haired assassin listened, her eyes revealing both trepidation and delight.

“The story takes place over a hundred years ago, deep in the heart of the Sidaran Forest. My great-great-grandfather told of the time he saved a Night Walker from a band of poachers.”

Sheeva’s face twitched. Kellen couldn’t tell if it had been a smile or a frown.

“Now everyone knows that Walkers are said to be part wraith. They walk through walls, make themselves invisible, fly through the night air feasting on the blood of their victims, and the only time you ever see one is the moment before you die.”

He interpreted her eyes, and was pleased to see the amusement he found there. “However,” he said, “I don’t exactly put much stock in folklore, faerie tales, or children’s stories. I have, however, come to realize that even the most bizarre of legends have a kernel of truth buried somewhere deep within. But I digress.”

He cleared his throat to continue. “The evening was cool and the moon was bright, and my grandfather had been tracking a ruthless band of poachers for three days near the foot of the Angoran Mountains. From the overturned leaves and displaced brush, he knew he was getting close.

“He had just skirted a dense copse of pine when he caught a glimpse of their campsite, or what was left of it. There were bodies everywhere, most scattered around the dying embers of their cook fire. It didn’t take my grandfather very long to see there was no life left in them. He was about to leave the protection of his hiding spot when he caught a glimpse of another one, half-sitting in the shadows. He appeared to be wounded. He figured there must have been some kind of falling out, and this one had been the only survivor. The man didn’t look like he was going to make it through the night.

“My grandfather was turning to leave when he heard a voice call out behind him. The injured man said he could see my grandfather and that he might as well come on out. As quietly as he could, he made his way out from the shadows and skirted the tree line to where the figure waited with his back propped against an old stump.

“By the time my grandfather reached the man, he had gone silent. His head was slumped to the side. Naturally, he thought the man was dead and started to feel for a pulse when the man’s eyes opened. And there they were, two glowing yellow orbs staring back at him, like a large mountain cat. He too had a full head of white hair.”

Sheeva shifted in her seat ever so slightly as Kellen paused to take another sip of his cider. “Well, to make a long story short, my grandfather had grown up hearing the scary tales of the Night Walkers, but he just couldn’t bring himself to leave the man there to bleed out, so he managed to build a sleigh with thick palmetto leaves and drag the man back to a small cabin he occasionally used on his longer treks. It took three days before the night walker’s fever broke and his breathing steadied. He had several knife wounds, some cracked ribs, a broken arm, and what looked to be deep bites in the bottom of one leg from a steel bear trap.”

Kellen took another slow pull on his tankard, not wanting to rush the story. “My great-great-grandfather had lost his first wife in a raid, so he had plenty of time to help nurse the man back to health again. Living on his own like he did, he probably enjoyed the company.

“It took at least a week before the Walker would say more than two words, and even longer still to get a complete sentence out of him. But, with time and trust, he eventually opened up. The man said his name was Arnoni. With a simple crutch, my grandfather constructed out of a large limb, the two of them spent hours walking through the forest discussing the similarities of their lives. My grandfather told of his family and the tragedy they had endured, while Arnoni told of how he had come to be snared by one of the poacher’s traps.”

Kellen could tell Sheeva was rather entranced in the telling and wondered what life experiences had brought her, a Night Walker, to live as an assassin. “It was during one of those long walks that Arnoni told my grandfather of the Night Walkers and their origins. He told of how they had been created near the end of the Second Age at the height of man’s use of magic. How their blood had been mixed with that of dragons, or some such creature which had come through the tear between realms, along with the fae, in an attempt to create the perfect soldiers for the wizard’s armies.

“He also confessed that after centuries of being used as warriors and assassins, his people had eventually turned on their masters and fled to the mountains, vowing never to use their abilities for killing again.”

Kellen finished the rest of his cider with a short swallow, giving Sheeva time to process the expanse of knowledge he possessed of her people. Her eyes betrayed both anger and guilt. “It was at that time, Arnoni gave my grandfather the amulet,” Kellen said as he slid his fingers around the silver chain and lifted it to take a closer look. The amulet dangled provocatively between the two. “He told him it was a life-bond between them, and it signified the bearer as a friend and brother of the Night Walkers.”

“It’s a lovely story,” Sheeva said rather coldly, retaining her perfect pose, “but for all I know your father was the poacher, and after killing Arnoni, took the amulet for himself.”

“Well, as we both know, the amulet can only be given, and never taken, or it loses its translucence.” Sheeva’s eyes narrowed slightly. Kellen placed the amulet back around his neck and tucked it safely under his tunic. Sheeva watched, with a hint of longing, as the jewel slid underneath his garment and out of sight.

“I see you know your lore, Master Kellen. And when do you plan on sharing this information with the others?”

Kellen leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I won’t . . . if you can tell me a story in return.”

Sheeva glared. “What do you want to hear?”

“I want to know why a Night Walker has forsaken her path and is now selling her services to the highest bidder.”

Sheeva lowered her eyes to the table. “I had a twin brother.” She took a deep breath and didn’t say anything for an uncomfortable amount of time. Kellen was wondering if maybe he had pushed a little too hard when she finally continued. “Some hunters found him playing in the woods, and recognizing him for what he was, they thought they’d have some fun with him. So they gave him a head start and then hunted him down like an animal.”

Sheeva’s voice quivered. Kellen could see her anger swelling. “I found him two days later. They had hung him from a tree and gutted him like a deer.” Kellen closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath himself. His stomach turned uncomfortably at the image.

“I tracked them for three weeks through the Slags to a city called Norshag at the foothills of the Northern Heights. I spent days watching them, studying them—their movements, their habits, where they liked to eat, where they spent their evenings drinking, and their nights carousing. I knew them better than they knew themselves. And I used it against them.

“With the first one, I slipped a very painful toxin called hemporvine in his evening meal. It’s a slow and excruciatingly painful way to die. I sat with him in his room for hours, feigning to be a physicker of rare herbs, while wiping the sweat from his brow as the poison devoured his insides.

“The second man was the first’s younger brother. And he wasn’t exactly all there in the head if you know what I mean. I took mercy on him and slid my blade through the back of his neck while he slept.”

“The third man, though, I saved for last. He was a cruel sort of creature. Every night he would visit the same whorehouse to claim the kind of attention he could never receive from any respectable woman. By the time his activities were finished, the poor girls were left bloody from vicious beatings.

“One of those nights, I managed to switch places with one of them. She thanked me profusely and left the room in a hurry.” Kellen was starting to worry where this was heading, and hoped for her sake, and his, she had not taken her role-playing to the extreme.

“I waited until he had stripped himself and was demanding my full attention before I gave it to him. I spread his arms and legs and restrained them to the bedposts. The pig thought it all quite exciting.” Sheeva’s smile was disturbing at best. “It wasn’t until I had him good and bound that I revealed to him who I was, and who my brother had been. The look on his face held somewhere between confusion and arousal. His teeth were bared and he actually growled at me.” She cocked her head to the side. “I don’t think he realized what was about to happen, that is, until I raised my blade and made the first incision.

“I took my time with him. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard such colorful examples of language as what poured from his mouth when I started with a simple castration. After passing out a few times and being revived with a bottle of hartshorn, his language went from something coherent to mere garbles, and spats, and screams. I worked my way up from there.” She leaned forward and let her elbows rest on the table in front of her. “I am quite skilled with a knife, you know.” Her face had once again retaken the emotionless state he was used to seeing. Kellen figured it must be a survival trait.

Kellen didn’t know if he should be impressed, or horrified.

“As you can imagine, because of my actions I was no longer allowed to return home. So now I do what I’ve found I’m good at—killing.” She looked back down at the table and studied the chipped edges. “How’s that for irony? I tracked down and killed the three men who murdered my brother, and then took their place.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Kellen wasn’t quite sure what to say. “If there is one lesson I have always tried to impart to my children,” he said, “it is this. With every choice there comes a consequence, and we have to be willing to live with the ones we make and, hopefully, learn from them.”

She regarded him with an unreadable stare. “I’ve never taken a mark that didn’t deserve it. I know that’s not a justification, but maybe more of a clarification as to what little honor I still have. When I realized my latest target was nothing more than a young girl with wielder abilities, who, because of the way she was born, threatened a powerful man, I took her and ran.”

“Where is she now?”

“I left her in Master Veldon’s care. The kind of life I live doesn’t lend itself to children.”

“Then maybe it’s time to consider a change?”

Sheeva didn’t respond. She stared at him a moment and then glanced back down at the table, clearly not wanting to maintain eye contact any longer. She was hopefully contemplating what he had suggested. Whether she would take it to heart, though, was an entirely different matter.

“Well, Sheeva, it was nice talking with you.” He pushed his seat back and rose from the table. “I hope you plan on sticking around for a while.” He nodded and then turned and headed for the front doors. He could feel her eyes on his back as he crossed the room.

Once outside, with the doors shut firmly behind him, Kellen shook his head. “Well, that was . . . intense.”

“Ah, just the man I was looking for.”

Kellen turned around. His back stiffened at the sight of three men stepping out from around the other side of the Inn. Their white mantles rustled in the early afternoon breeze as they approached. Kellen crossed his arms, letting his hand slowly slide beneath the front flap of his overcoat. His fingers slid around the handle of his largest blade as he waited.

“I’ve been told you’re the man I need to see concerning a forest guide.”

Kellen released his grip on the concealed knife and withdrew his hand. “I’m the overlord’s gamekeeper,” he said as the men stopped a few steps away. “The name’s Kellen.”

The large man at the front regarded Kellen with a scrutinizing gaze. “Aye, you have the look of a hunter.” The Tower guard ran his hand down his dark goatee. “My name is Captain Hatch, and as I said, we’re in need of someone who knows their way around these woods. We’ve been instructed to search the city and surrounding countryside for wielders, or those harboring them. Do you have a horse?”

Kellen glanced to his left where Your Highness stood watching them with a strong air of indifference. “I do.”

“Good. Make yourself available this afternoon. Be at the barracks in an hour.”

Kellen held his emotions in check. “Yes, sir.” He offered a respectful bow. “I would be more than happy to assist our Black Watch protectors with anything they need.”

Hatch studied Kellen’s face. The captain was clearly a cautious man. Satisfied by what he must have seen, Hatch turned and walked away. His subordinates flanked him as he went.

Kellen left Your Highness in front of the inn and quickly made his way across River Street. This might be the break they had been looking for. He needed to let the council know to be ready.

Chapter 17 | Kellen

AN HOUR LATER, Kellen rode through the front gates of the Easthaven Barracks. After tying off Your Highness, he scanned the buildings for any signs of the Black Watch. There were a few armsmen wearing the green and yellow livery of the Sidaran Lancers scattered around the outer buildings, but no sign of the white riders anywhere. Kellen stepped into the main barracks’ offices.

An elderly guard lifted his head from where he was busy fussing over some papers at his desk. “How can I help you, sir?”

“My name is Kellen, and I have a meeting with Captain Hatch.” Kellen glanced around the empty waiting room. With winter approaching, most of the Sidaran Lancers had already gone home to be with their families. A small regiment of men from Easthaven were kept on duty as they rotated assignments during the colder months from Èshan to Nùwen.

It had been a long time since the Kingdom of Sidara had been required to recall its troops. Kellen couldn’t help but wonder if such complacency would eventually be their downfall.

The guard laid his quill across a stack of loose parchment on which he had been scribbling. “I’ll see if the captain is available.” He gestured to an empty bench along the adjacent wall. “It shouldn’t take long.”

Kellen thanked him and took a seat.

The guard marched down the back hallway and knocked on the last door on the left. Not waiting for a reply, he stuck his head inside. Kellen couldn’t quite make out what the man was saying, but he did hear his name mentioned somewhere in the conversation. The officer closed the door and returned to the lobby area where he plopped himself back on his stool. “The captain will see you now.”

Kellen left the sitting room and walked down one of the back corridors. Bracketed torches lined the stone walls to either side as he made his way to the last door on the left. He knocked and waited for a reply.

“Come.”

Kellen opened the door and stepped inside. The room was rather plain for an office, not much more than a desk, three chairs, a small shelf, and a window that had filmed over from lack of proper cleaning.

“Right on time, I see,” Hatch said. “I like that.” The captain pushed his disorderly fall of brown hair from his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. “It shows a strong moral character. I believe you can tell a lot about a man by his time of arrival. For example . . .” He tapped his fingers on the desk in front of him. “Arriving late shows a total lack of respect for the other party as well as a lazy and self-indulgent attitude. However,” he said, raising his finger to emphasize what he was saying, “a man who arrives too early demonstrates fanaticism, which leads me to believe they are either eager to get our business over with, or they are attempting to curry favor by overcompensating.” Hatch leaned forward. “But, a man that shows up precisely when he is expected validates my belief in his attention to instruction.” He dotted the end of his speech by rapping his knuckles on the wood.

Kellen conceded with a nod. Hatch had obviously given the subject some considerable thought, and he didn’t want to appear less than lackluster about the man’s well-thought-out argument.

The captain studied Kellen a moment longer before rising from his seat to grab a large piece of rolled parchment from the top of a nearby shelf. He spread it out on his desk and used a few random items to hold it in place. Kellen glanced at the thick material and recognized it as a map of the southeastern section of Sidara, including Easthaven and its surrounding countryside.

“This is where we’ve searched so far.” Hatch circled a couple places on the map with his finger, which included territory as far west of Easthaven as Reed Marsh, and as far south as the border between Sidara and Briston. “How familiar are you with this territory here?” He pointed to the woods in between Reed Marsh and the southernmost side of Crystal Lake.

“Very familiar,” Kellen said. He had been raised in those woods his entire life. He had taken on the role of the overlord’s gamekeeper after his father’s mysterious disappearance back when Kellen was no older than Breen. He knew the land like the back of his hand.

“Good. We’ll leave after lunch then,” Hatch said, excitement flickering across his face.

After a quick meal, seven of the original ten riders were mounted and making their way through the barracks’ north gate with Kellen riding alongside Hatch at the front. They rode north along a pre-determined search grid Kellen had designed to meet the captain’s strict specifications. Thankfully, he knew the surrounding area and those who were settled there, which gave him the advantage of steering the troop away from any qualified suspects they might find of interest.

“I thought there were ten of you?”

“Three of them have been assigned to our prisoner.”

“Three men just to watch one bound woman?”

Hatch stiffened in his saddle as he turned to look at Kellen. “And how did you know it was a woman?”

Kellen’s stomach tightened and his mind raced for a plausible explanation. He attempted to laugh it off. “Captain, even a city our size would be hard-pressed to miss a contingent of the Tower’s guards riding through, especially when they’re escorting a young woman as their prisoner. We might be the capital city of Sidara but gossip still travels faster than a race horse around here.”

The answer seemed to appease the captain as he shifted his attention back to the front.

“I still don’t see how someone as small as she is could be so dangerous.” Kellen was trying his best to appear ignorant to matters concerning the ven’ae. He needed to coax the good captain into revealing something useful for the council to use in Saleena’s rescue.

“I see you have never run into a wielder before,” Hatch scoffed, glancing sideways at Kellen. “Thank your Creator for that. I’ve seen a single wielder take down an entire company of battle-hardened armsmen without so much as breaking a sweat.”

“How is that possible?”

“They call on the powers of the Defiler, of course. They’re all full of dark spirits, and it’s our job to weed them out through purging.”

“Purging?” Kellen cleared his throat. “I hate to sound like a backwoods simpleton, Captain, but what exactly is this purging you speak of?”

Hatch gave Kellen a beleaguering look of astonishment. “Easthaven might not be the largest capital city in the five kingdoms, but surely it’s not so small as to be completely ignorant of the White Tower and its mission?”

“I beg your pardon, Captain, I did not intend to imply I knew nothing of the Tower or its benefit to our land, of course. But I was just unfamiliar with this term of purging.”

“Ah, I see. Well, the purging is just another name The White Tower uses for the process they put the wielders through to extricate them from their dark spirits, giving them a chance to then live a normal life.”

“That sounds . . . interesting.” Kellen’s curiosity was piqued. “How does it work?”

Hatch scratched at the dark hair on his chin. “Well, I’m not exactly sure. That’s the job of the Legate and the Arch Chancellor. I’m just here to round them up. Anything after that is above my purview.”

“Hmm?” Kellen pondered his musings out loud as he tried to keep the conversation flowing. “Have you ever seen a wielder return home after this purging process has been completed?”

Hatch was about to reply, but held back. He twisted the leather straps of his reins around in his gloved hands. Kellen could see he had caught the man off guard. “No,” he finally replied. “I guess not. But that’s no surprise, since we spend most of our days out in the field. It’s not my job to keep up with them after I’ve turned them over to the Tower. That responsibility belongs to someone else.”

In a way, Kellen could understand the man’s sentiments. After apprehending poachers on the overlord’s property and turning them over to the city patrol for confinement, Kellen’s job was done. He had little say in the justice that was levied on the poachers afterward.

The rest of the day went about the same. Kellen led them away from any potential targets while gleaning any vital information he could from Hatch about the White Tower and its aims. But after an entire day of direct and indirect questioning, the only item of value Kellen had managed to learn was how ignorant the Black Watch truly was to the inner machinations of their work and those who ultimately made the decisions. As long as they got their coin, they didn’t seem to care one way or another as to what else took place. They had been kept in the dark to prevent them from asking too many questions.

Most of the guards had joined because of either a strong misguided belief in the corruption of magic—which over the last thousand years the people of Aldor had been brainwashed into accepting as truth—or because of a direct encounter with a wielder that had ended poorly, as was the case with the good captain. Hatch relayed the story of his brother’s death by a rogue wielder in one of the skirmishes between Elondria and Cylmar, and his subsequent joining of the Black Watch.

“As long as there are wielders out there, our lands will never be safe,” Hatch said as they rode back through the barracks’ south gate. “So I will get up every morning as I did the last and do whatever I must to ensure our people’s protection.”

Kellen almost felt sorry for the captain. It wasn’t so much the man as it was the false narrative he had been taught to believe that had the potential to destroy them all. But as Kellen already knew, ideology was a most difficult nut to crack, and many times left the one clinging to it ruined.

Chapter 18 | Kellen

THE NEXT COUPLE of days proved no more fruitful than the previous. Kellen would escort the Watch through the surrounding countryside while they scoured for wielders. But other than the occasional farm house or valley cottage, the majority of their time was spent navigating the forest and enjoying the scenery. Kellen had managed to lead them across a rather large swath of the encroaching forest without so much as a flicker of magic in sight.

“I’m starting to believe this part of the world is so secluded that even the ven’ae won’t come here,” Hatch remarked as they rode back through the barracks’ gates empty handed once again. “I believe your services will no longer be required, Master Huntsman.” Hatch swung off his horse, something Kellen would have thought to be more difficult than it appeared, what with the captain’s long white cape hanging down across the back of his painted stallion. “We will be heading south tomorrow into Briston.”

Kellen offered Hatch a polite bow. “I’m glad to have been of service, Captain, if there’s anything else you might—”

Kellen didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence when a bell rang out from somewhere within the thick stone walls of the barracks main building. A white-clad figure burst from one of the far structures. Their hood was raised and face covered. The uncharacteristically small guard glanced in his direction, and then at the white riders who were now fully dismounted and standing on the porch. The robed individual sprinted for the north gate.

“Who was that?” Hatch hollered as he ran in the direction of the building the cloaked figure had just exited. “That building holds the cells! Check on the prisoner! Hurry!” Two of his guards drew their swords and charged into the building. Kellen dismounted and headed in their direction. He glanced over his shoulder as the runner exited the north gate.  Run, Saleena, run.

“Everything alright, Captain?” Kellen asked with feigned concern as he watched two of Hatch’s men emerge from the building.

“That was the prisoner, sir! Soren, Jaylen, and Heglith are lying unconscious on the floor, and her ropes look like they just fell off, sir. It must have been her magic.”

“Leave them where they are,” Hatch bellowed, his eyes burning with anger. “The rest of you follow me!” Hatch turned around and called over his shoulder. “Huntsman, we might have need of your services. Bring your bow.”

“Yes, sir!” Kellen ran back to his horse and retrieved his bow and quiver before rushing to catch up.

Kellen reached the south gate in time to see Saleena darting down a back alley three or four streets up, heading east in the direction of River Street.

“This way!” Hatch motioned, charging down an adjacent lane. “We’ll head her off!” Kellen offered a silent prayer for Saleena to reach the dockworks in time. He followed the captain and his men down another side street, parallel to the route Saleena had just taken. They followed the avenue till it ended at an intersecting alley, which they took left and then cut back right again down the first adjoining street. The passageway angled them back to the main thoroughfare leading toward the shopping district.

Kellen, with his long legs, caught up with the captain as they tore out of the side alley and onto River Street, just a few shops down from Me’Zard’s Chandlery. He glanced to the left, catching a glimpse of Saleena sprinting down the opposite side of the street and into a dark alley at the corner of Orlyn’s Apothecary. Kellen followed the captain as he cut across the street, dodging horses and small carriages as they ran toward the alley’s entrance. Shoppers hurriedly scattered to make room for the white-robed figures with their swords drawn.

“Father!” Kellen stopped at the sound of his name and turned. Ty was coming out of Reloria’s Sweet Shop a few doors down with a small bag of something in one hand.

His youngest son started in his direction.

“No! Go home, Ty!”

With his bow still firmly gripped in one hand, Kellen turned back around and ran. He spared one more glance over his shoulder. Ty was still moving in his direction. “Go home!”

Kellen didn’t have time to wait around and see if his son would obey or not, but knowing Ty, Kellen said a quick prayer of intercession just in case. Ty was a good boy, but his curiosity sometimes got the better of him. He hoped this wasn’t one of those times.

The quiver of arrows bounced against his back as he ran to catch up. He followed the men down another small cobbled lane which was masked in darkness by the three-story buildings rising to either side, keeping the early evening sun from shining through.

Hatch picked up speed at the sight of Saleena ahead. Kellen could see she was struggling to maintain her pace. Her arms and legs flailed around in the large white trousers and tunic. He was afraid she was going to lose balance at any moment and go tumbling. Miraculously, the young woman managed to keep to her feet, as wobbly as they were.

He suddenly had a sense of déjà vu. This wasn’t the first time he’d been involved in trying to rescue Saleena from the clutches of the Black Watch. The last time Kellen had managed to spirit her away, she had disregarded his warning and managed to get herself re-caught. He had thought she’d been taken to the White Tower already. He was happy to be wrong, even happier at another chance to try to save the young woman’s life. Hopefully, this time, things would work out differently.

Kellen watched as Saleena burst from the head of the alley and on to Lynden. Pausing to catch her breath, she glanced back over her shoulder. Run, you silly woman, run! She had just managed to turn when a lantern hanging from one of the walls in the alley exploded. The flames ignited a stack of crates which had been spread conveniently across the roadway. It completely barred their passage.

Hatch shouted in anger as he came to an abrupt halt, his men stumbling into him as he pulled back from the blaze. Kellen held his hand in front of his face to buffer the heat.

“It’s the Dark One’s own fire!” one of the men bellowed. “She’s going to roast us alive!”

“Pull yourselves together, you spineless dogs!” Hatch roared. “Or I’ll give you something to really fear!”

Kellen could barely see Saleena through the smoke as she crossed Lynden and headed east on Bullmar.

“She’s making for the river!” Hatch spun around and pointed to his left. “Down there!” The running started once again, back the way they had come. This time the captain took them left down another narrow street where they dodged half-empty boxes and barrels of litter as they cut across to a parallel road. Eventually, they made it back around to Lynden. Passing by the blaze of rubble in the next alley up, they crossed the road and continued after Saleena.

Bullmar ended at the edge of Veldon’s dockworks. In the distance, Kellen could see Saleena making her way down the wagon trail toward the three wooden piers below. “Hurry, we can’t let her reach the water!” Hatch bellowed, motioning for his men to follow.

Kellen slowed so as not to outrun Hatch. The captain’s breath was coming in large gulps, attributed to his having spent most of his time in the saddle, no doubt. After the incident with the alley fire, the captain was clearly on his guard. He slowed his pace as they approached the open loading bay in front of the piers.

“Careful,” Hatch cautioned, raising an arm to warn the men behind him. “They say an animal is most fierce when cornered.” Hatch cast a wary look at Kellen. “Have your bow ready, Huntsman, in case we need it.”

Kellen threaded a shaft onto the string.

Saleena was standing on the far end of the pier, watching to see what they were going to do as they approached the front end of the docks. She kept looking to the water, as if judging whether or not to leap in. Don’t do it.

The men cautiously stepped onto the wood-slatted platform and scanned the surrounding water as they edged their way forward. “Stop!” Hatch brought them to a halt with a wave of his hand. “What’s that noise?” He was looking out over the water. The others followed his gaze across the wide expanse of the East River and watched as waves began surging toward the piers. A heavy gust of cold wind hit the men and they nearly lost their balance, scrambling for something to hold onto. The force of it pushed them backwards, practically knocking them off their feet.

Kellen held his hands in front of his eyes to shield himself from the torrential wind. He watched as Saleena stood there with her arms stretched out in front of her. Her mouth was moving, but they couldn’t hear anything over the gusts of wind. A hand grabbed hold of his shoulder. “She’s conjuring a whirlwind!” Hatch shouted. “Shoot her before she destroys us all!”

“I’m only here as a guide!” Kellen hollered above the noise of the storm. “No one said anything about shooting unarmed women!”

“Are you blind? She’s a wielder, and she’s going to kill us all! Now shoot her! That’s an order!”

“Father! Don’t!” Behind them, Ty came running out of the storm like a specter, causing more than a few of the guards to jump in fear, nearly swinging their swords at him out of a sheer panic. Kellen could feel the blood rising to his head. Of all the times to pick to disobey, this was the worst. Ty’s insatiable need to always know what was going on was about to get them both killed.

Ty moved between Kellen and the pier. “You can’t kill her!” His eyes were steady and hard, his blonde hair whipping across his face.

Hatch didn’t hesitate. He reached over and grabbed Ty by the scruff of his tunic. Whipping out a knife, he placed the blade against Ty’s neck, drawing blood.

“You shoot her, Huntsman, or I kill the boy!” Hatch hollered over the prevailing wind. His eyes were seething with anger and desperation.

Kellen could have been blind and still have seen there was no subterfuge behind Hatch’s threat, it was as open and unveiled as it could have possibly been. The Black Watch captain was going to kill Ty if Kellen didn’t do something and quick. Kellen turned back around; his arrow nocked, and glanced in Saleena’s direction. Her arms were still waving. Drawing back his pull, he hesitated.

“Father, no!”

“Shut your mouth, boy!” Hatch took a couple of steps forward, giving Kellen a clear view of his son’s face with the dagger pressed against his neck. Ty had tears rolling down his cheeks. He kept shaking his head back and forth, urging Kellen not to do it.

By then, the water was covering the majority of the pier. “I said shoot her or I slit your boy’s throat right here and toss his rotting corpse into the river!”

Kellen looked back down the dock at his target. “Creator forgive me,” he said as he released the string.

“No!” he heard Ty yell as the arrow flew from his bow.

Everything went deathly still.

The wind and the waves evaporated into thin air as if nothing had ever happened. On the end of the dock, Kellen and the others watched as Saleena, with a look of both shock and horror on her face, glanced down at the large shaft protruding from her upper chest. Her body went limp and her eyes closed as she fell backwards into the chilly waters below.

Kellen was the first to reach the end of the pier. He watched as her body was pulled beneath the rolling water. A few bubbles made their way to the surface, and then there was nothing.

“The Arch Chancellor isn’t going to be happy with us losing such a powerful wielder,” Hatch grunted as he took a deep breath.

One of the guards stepped forward to take a look. “At least she can’t do any more damage.”

Hatch watched the water lap against the pier’s footings. “True,” he said before releasing Ty back to Kellen. “An excellent shot, Huntsman, my compliments.” Kellen and Ty watched as the captain and his men made their way back down the pier, their boots shuffling on the loose boards as they went.

“I can’t believe you killed her.”

Kellen took a moment to steady himself as he leaned against one of the pier’s braces. His heart pounded from what he had just been forced to do. Apart from the maelstrom of nerves rolling around inside, he wasn’t sure he knew how to respond to his son’s obvious disappointment in him. “I’m sorry, Ty. I didn’t have a choice. They would have killed you if I hadn’t.” He watched as Ty stood there staring at the empty space on the dock where Saleena had been standing just moments earlier. He tried putting his arm around his son, but Ty shrugged it off.

Kellen took a deep breath. “I believe it’s time I introduced you to some people.”

Ty lifted his head. “Who?”

Chapter 19 | Ty

THE SUN HAD FINISHED its long journey for the day.

An array of deep orange, purple, and gold waned from the sky, being replaced by a dusky charcoal which in turn would soon be exchanged for a blanket of soft starlight.

Ty took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He tried focusing on the zigzag of the cobble in front of him, studying each stone as he passed. His mind kept replaying the moment Saleena had been struck by his father’s arrow, the look on her face as she saw it protruding from her chest. She had locked eyes with Ty for a brief moment just before slipping back over the side of the pier and into the icy waters of the East River. Would he ever forget that look?

“Who was she?”

“What?” His father had been silent the entire walk back from the docks to the East Inn.

“Who was the woman you . . .” Ty didn’t finish the statement.

His father stopped, taking a moment to study the nearly vacant streets. It was an uncommon sight, especially at closing time. Ty assumed it had something to do with the armed-banned of Black Watch running through the center of the pavilion earlier, or possibly the alley fire. Either way, it was clear his father was being overly cautious as to who could be listening in before answering Ty’s question.

“She was someone I had rescued from the Black Watch a few weeks back on one of my poaching runs. I hid her while I led the guards off in another direction. When I went back for her, she was gone.”

“Why were they hunting her? What could she do?”

“The sad thing was she couldn’t do anything. She wasn’t even a wielder.”

“What? Then why were they after her?”

“Because someone claimed she was. They saw her use some new kind of treatment to heal a child. It was a technique the other physickers had never used before. And nowadays all it takes is for someone to be suspected of being one of the ven’ae to make it so.” His father snorted in disgust. “The White Tower has everyone so scared of the idea of magic that one can hardly sneeze around here without worrying they’re going to be turned in for associating with hobgoblins or some such nonsense. It’s like we’ve lost the ability to reason or trust. The White Tower has managed to turn us all against each other.”

They continued down the left side of River Street. A few of the shop owners were closing their doors as the last of their customers made their way home. Ty had left his horse tied in front of Reloria’s Sweet Shop. They were only a couple storefronts down when his father stopped and headed across the street.

“Where are you going?”

“Leave Waddle. We’ll come back for him later.”

Waiting for a covered carriage to pass, Ty followed his father across Easthaven’s main thoroughfare. This late in the day, there were very few carriages and carts. The only traffic was a single wagon making its way in the direction of the East Bridge. The next street over, they headed south before slipping down a side street that ran adjacent to the tannery.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you to meet the council.”

Ty’s breath caught in his throat. His pulse raced with excitement. He was going to meet the council. Ever since first hearing about their existence, he had wanted nothing more. He wondered if maybe they would have some answers as to what was happening to him, but then he changed his mind. He still hadn’t found the right time to tell his family yet, and he wanted them to be the first to know.

He was also curious as to why his father was even on the wielder council. As far as Ty knew, his father didn’t have any magical abilities. He could only conclude that it was because his father was the overlord’s forester and his knowledge of the land was used to help relocate the ven’ae from one place to another.

“I believe you deserve some answers,” his father said as he spared a passing glance over his shoulder. Ty couldn’t have agreed more. “Everything might not be as it appears.”

Ty was left wondering what his father had meant by that last statement as he picked up the pace to keep up with Kellen’s long strides. They traversed half a dozen back lanes and side streets before finally making their way down a small alley behind an artillator shop.

Ty found the air in this section of the city to be somewhat rancid, as the smell of human waste lined the small trenches on either side of the streets where the resident’s chamber pots were emptied. Holding his nose with one hand, he pushed forward.

They passed down another dark alley. A few lanterns hung in front of the entryways, revealing a row of doors lining the back of some obscure shops and personal residences. His father stopped in front of the second to last on the right and knocked three times, waited a moment, and then knocked once more.

“Who ith it?” called a rough voice from the other side.

“Kellen.”

Ty could hear scraping noises coming from the other side of the door just before it opened. Not wanting to linger in the dingy alley any longer than he had to, he followed his father inside.

“Ith good to thee you, Mather Kellen,” the older man said before sticking his head out the door to see if anyone was about.

“It’s good to be seen. Especially after the evening we’ve had.”

“Aye, I geth it ith.”

Ty found himself enamored with speculating the cause of the man’s slurred speech. After dropping the wooden beam back into the metal bracers, the elderly man turned and smiled. His toothless grin said it all.

“Eliab, I’d like to introduce you to Ty, my youngest.” He felt his father’s hand grip his shoulder. “Ty, this is Eliab, he’s the gatekeeper for the council. In his younger years, he was the overcaptain of the Sidaran forces.”

That must have been a long, long time ago, Ty thought as he watched the old man smack his toothless gums. It reminded him of a weasel he had once seen as it was preparing to relieve some poor creature of its eggs. “It’s nice to meet you, Master Eliab.” Ty started to hold out his hand but there was a momentary sense of hesitation as he took in the large double-bolt crossbow tucked under the man’s arm.

Eliab took his hand and shook. “Ith good to meet you, Mather Ty. Mighty fine young man you have here, Mather Kellen.”

“He is, indeed.”

“After hearing about thith eveningth predicament, I can thee why you brought him by.” Eliab laid the crossbow back on the table and headed into the next room. “The counthil ith already here and waiting.”

“Good.” His father motioned Ty forward with a nod. “This is one of the Harbor Houses we have in Easthaven. It’s also the primary location we use for our meetings.” They followed Eliab into a back room and down a flight of stone steps into the cellar below.

“We use this location to hide wielders who have been discovered and need a safe place to stay until they can be relocated.” Navigating their way around the maze of boxes and barrels, they came to a stop outside a closed door.

Eliab knocked.

“Come in,” came a low voice from the other side. Eliab opened the door and stepped back to let Ty and his father pass.

“That will be all, Eliab, thank you,” said a short but stocky man standing at the far end of a long table.

The old toothless gatekeeper laid an encouraging hand on Ty’s shoulder as he passed. He shut the door on his way out. Ty stepped out from behind his father to get a better look at who all was in the room.

“Mother? Why are you . . .” Then he saw Breen and Adarra. His whole family was there. He started to scan the room as he hopped from one face to the next. Why was everyone staring at him? He recognized a few of the people as local shop owners. His eyes widened at the sight of Miss Reloria. Her head was topped with the same bold yellow and lavender lace bonnet she had been wearing earlier when he had visited her shop. He definitely hadn’t expected the sweet shop lady to be a council member.

There were others he didn’t recognize, including a strange woman with short white hair and yellowish eyes glaring in his direction. He pulled away from the harsh stare and continued counting the faces until his eyes caught the end of the table. His mouth dropped. He took a step back. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It wasn’t possible. Sitting in a chair on the far side of the room, talking softly with Fraya, was Saleena, and she was very much alive!

“What? How?” was all Ty could get out as he gawked at the formerly dead woman looking in his direction.

“Master Kellen, I thought that was you.” Saleena tried standing but her legs collapsed and she landed back in her seat. “I don’t know if I should hit you or hug you.” She actually had a smile on her face as his father, who strangely enough didn’t seem all that surprised, walked over and knelt down beside her.

“I am glad to see you alive, Saleena,” he said with a warm smile, gently patting her hand, “but the next time I tell you to stay put . . . do it.” Saleena bit her lower lip. She looked embarrassed. She nodded and then glanced down at the table to avoid further eye contact.

Ty, still mesmerized by her miraculous rise from the dead, took a step forward. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s a long story,” his father said, “but one I’m sure you’re going to enjoy.” He stood and gestured to some chairs on the left side of the table. “Take a seat. We have a lot to discuss.”

Around the room, the others exchanged eager glances as they moved to find their seats. For some reason, Ty felt this had more to do with him than Saleena. He was bubbling over with excitement. This was going to be the night; he just knew it. He would never find a better time to reveal his secret than right now. He had just been granted entrance into the inner sanctum of the Easthaven Wielder Council and, apart from that, his whole family was here.

After everyone had found a place around the large rectangular table, Ty’s father leaned forward in his chair and turned to him. “First of all, Ty, you need to know that nothing which happened tonight was your fault. Everyone here had a hand in tonight’s events.” His father’s eyes lowered as he thumbed his chin in thought. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t we have everyone take a moment to briefly mention the role they played in pulling off this rather complex ruse.” He turned back to Ty. “I think you’ll find it rather interesting.”

His father didn’t say it but Ty could see the pride of what the council had managed to do reflected in his eyes. “I guess the best place to start would be at the beginning,” he said with a quick gesture across the table at the tall, gray-headed man with the baggy robes and carved staff.

The older man nodded politely and folded his hands on the table in front of him. “My name is Orlyn and I own the apothecary on River Street,” he said, clearly more for Ty’s sake than anyone else. “And your father gave me the task of rendering our jailors cataleptic.”

Ty’s face contorted. Cata . . . what?

“Huh?” The man sitting next to Orlyn, with the disheveled hair and side whiskers, grunted. “What in the name of Aldor is cata . . . lep . . . whatever? Speak plainly, man, or the boy ain’t gonna have any idea what you’re talking about.”

Orlyn raised one of his bushy eyebrows. “Well, for the lesser educated in the room,” he said as he cleared his throat, casting a sidelong look at the man sitting next to him. “It means unconscious, inert, lifeless.”

The man next to the tall apothecary folded his arms and mumbled something under his breath. Ty wanted to chuckle but resisted the urge.

“As I was saying, my job was to find a way to render Saleena’s captors useless. And being the skilled apothecary that I am, I can think of no better way to accomplishing this task than with some well-placed yularis in their evening ale. And since I happen to be on good speaking terms with the barracks’ cook, after I managed to help him with a particularly nasty abscess in a rather precarious location, I was able to slip my cocktail in their drinks.” Orlyn finished with a slight bow from his seat, signaling the end of his part in the tale.

“Which leads us to the next stage of our story,” his father said, pointing in Miss Reloria’s direction.

With a loving smile, the sweet shop owner introduced herself and expounded further. “The only unfortunate downside to Master Orlyn’s concoction was that a mere whiff of it would have sent you into convulsions by its unbearably foul taste. And so I was tasked with taking a pitcher of rancid ale and reconstituting it into something fit to drink. I also topped it off by adding a light touch of cloves and honey. It was undoubtedly the finest drink they will ever have the pleasure of forgetting.”

Ty had no doubt that if Miss Reloria had anything to do with it, the drink would have been worthy of the High King himself. People traveled from all over the kingdom to sample her sweets.

The excitement around the table seemed to build as each member continued to reveal their individual part in the overall plot. All that was, except the white-haired woman who proceeded to sit in her chair with all the animation of a corpse suffering from three-day rot. His father kindly offered her objective. “As the cook walked into the cells with the Black Watch’s evening meal, Sheeva followed him in.”

“And how did she do that?” Breen asked, leaning forward in his seat on the other side of Ty. Ty leaned forward to get a look at his older brother. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who had been kept in the dark concerning tonight’s events.

“Ah, I’m glad you asked.” His father gestured to Sheeva. “If you would, please.” Ty wondered why everyone was looking at his family, and then he noticed that the air around the woman’s seat had started to warp, and in the blink of an eye, she vanished. Ty was speechless. His mouth swung from its jaws once again.

“What the—” Breen’s chair slid back from the table as his hand defensively went for his bow.

Ty’s mother gasped and so did his sister as they stared at the empty chair in disbelief. “It’s one thing to hear about it,” his mother said, “but it’s quite another to actually see it.” Ty couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his mother so unnerved.

Moments later, the place around Sheeva’s seat distorted and she reappeared.

“That was amazing, Miss Sheeva,” his sister said as she pulled out one of her journals and began scribbling something inside. “Could you tell me how it works? What does it feel like? Have you always been able to—”

“That’s enough, Adarra,” Ty’s father interrupted. “You can question the poor woman later. As I was saying, once inside the barracks’ cells, she waited until the guards had thoroughly drunk the entire container and were lying face down in their own dribble on the floor. After they were safely subdued, she unbound Saleena’s ropes, helped her into one of their white robes, and had her run for the docks.”

“And that is where I take over!” the boisterous man beside Orlyn chimed in.

“Not quite,” said the barrel-chested man at the front of the table. He wiped his hand over the bald area on the top of his head before fiddling with a small piece of metal hanging around his neck.

“Veldon is correct,” Ty’s father cut in. “As fast and determined as our beloved Captain Hatch was, he and his men managed to gain considerable ground in their chase—”

“And would have intercepted our fugitive,” Veldon said as he waved his hand over the flame of a nearby candle, causing it to stretch to nearly three times its normal height, “if not for a timely explosion that forced them to back-track their route.

Ty remembered the alley fire that had blocked their way. He had no idea there were people who could manipulate fire. It was all so incredible. Beside him, he could hear Adarra scratching away in her journal.

“This of course added just enough time for Saleena to make her way down to my docks.”

“True,” his father said, glancing at the man on Master Orlyn’s left, “which in turn leads us to Feoldor.”

Feoldor, with a grin that spread clean across his face and quite possibly around the back of his head, clapped his hands together. “Right! Now for the good part.” Some of the others rolled their eyes. “My job was not only to keep the Black Watch away from Saleena, but to do it in a way that would leave them believing she was going to destroy them all if they didn’t act. And let me tell you, son,” he said, looking directly at Ty, “that was no mean feat. I had to keep them from getting close enough to notice that she was not the real threat. And I did it with this.” He raised his hand and a sharp gust of wind whipped around the room.

“Feoldor!” Feoldor quickly lowered his hand when he saw the look on Reloria’s face as she tried holding her hat in place.

“Sorry about that.”

“I guess I’m next,” his father said as he rested his elbows comfortably on the table. “It was my job to kill Saleena.” Ty was stunned by his father’s matter-of-fact confession. “Or, at least, appear that I had.” His father’s smile quickly vanished when he looked at Ty. “What I did not expect was to see my son come bursting out of the storm set to save the fair damsel like Felix the Great.”

Breen clapped Ty on the back and winked.

“Ty the hero,” his sister added.

Ty, feeling rather flushed, merely smiled and shrugged as if it had been nothing. He was glad no one except his father had actually witnessed the incident. If they had, they would have seen how completely terrified he had been.

“Which I must admit,” his father said, “that even though it did wonders in selling my part as the wayward hunter who was being commanded to murder a wielder under protest, it brought my heart to a stop when Hatch grabbed him, pulled out a knife, and then demanded I shoot Saleena or watch him open my boy’s neck in front of me.”

There were more than a few gasps to be heard around the table, followed by proud stares. His mother reached across Adarra to squeeze Ty’s hand.

His father continued, “So I pulled back my bow, took aim, and released—”

“And that,” Feoldor butted in, “is when I cut off the wind and waves in order for it to appear as though it had indeed been conjured by our young Saleena here.”

“It was most convincing,” Ty’s father acknowledged with a firm nod.

Ty watched as Saleena’s hand rubbed across the mark on her chest where the arrow had been. “I guess it’s my turn,” she said, “since I was the one standing there with a piece of wood sticking out of me. Although I must admit, I don’t remember much of anything after that.” Her eyes seemed to glaze over as she relived what had happened. Tears streaked her cheeks. “I remember pain,” she said, “and falling. It seemed like I was falling forever, and then, darkness.”

Fraya reached out to grasp Saleena’s hand as the woman wiped her eyes and lifted her head from where she had been staring at the table in front of her.

Reloria pulled out a swatch of material from her handbag, unfolded it, and removed a small piece of what looked like green taffy. Saleena graciously accepted the sweet and stuffed it in her mouth, smiling at its soothing power.

Ty could only see one flaw in their story. “If you shot her, then why isn’t she dead? You never miss.”

“Ah, you’re right, I don’t miss. My shot had to be precise. I had to make sure that I not only kept from piercing something vital but that I gave her time to finish the last two steps of our journey.”

“Last two steps?” Ty was confused. “But we all saw her sink into the river and disappear downstream. Even if the arrow didn’t kill her, she would have drowned.”

“That is where I pass the story off to our little friend over there.” His father pointed toward the small man seated on the other side of Orlyn at the head corner of the table. “Gilly, if you would.” Ty had almost forgotten about the little dwarf.

“When the beautiful lady fell into the waters, I caught her,” Gilly said with a smile so warm Ty couldn’t help but be drawn in. “I made a bubble for her to breathe on the soft bottom. And I carried her away from all those mean men.”

“And he walked her right out of the river like a water faerie,” Fraya added with a bright smile down the table for Gilly, who playfully waved in her direction. “And brought her to where I was waiting in a small wooded area outside of town. After I pulled the arrow from her chest, I went about healing her wound.”

Healing her wound? Ty looked at his father and then back at Fraya. “Are you saying you’re a . . . a . . .”

“A wielder?” Fraya smiled. “Yes.”

Ty couldn’t believe it. Was everybody a secret wielder? Why was he the only one who didn’t seem to know about any of this?

“Thankfully, Master Kellen is an excellent shot or my job would have been impossible,” Fraya admitted. “There are some wounds so severe they can potentially kill the healer as well as the victim.”

Ty was taken aback at hearing how dangerous what she had done was. He wondered if Breen had known about her involvement. Ty turned to look at his older brother, but Breen was too busy smiling like a love-sick oaf at Fraya to notice.

“And from there, we know the rest,” his father said, joining the others in a relaxed pose. No one spoke for quite some time, content to sit in their solitude and revel in a job well done.

Ty, on the other hand was bursting with questions. He had his own secrets, and he was desperate to share them. This was his chance. He tried running over in his mind what he would say, like he had so many times before. He just couldn’t figure out where to start. He clenched his fists around the legs of his trousers for support and took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. He opened his mouth, but before the first word ever came out, his father spoke.

“Ty, there is another reason why I brought you here tonight.” His father cleared his throat and rubbed his hand across his thinly trimmed beard. He appeared to be having a difficult time trying to think of what to say, which was unusual for his father. Ty’s father always seemed to know exactly what to say. “There’s something we’ve been meaning to tell you for some time now, but . . .” His father shared a look with Ty’s mother and she nodded for him to continue. Ty didn’t think he could take it any longer. “Ty,” his father said, “you’re—”

“A wielder!”

Chapter 20 | Ty

THE ROOM WAS QUIET.

No one said a word, probably too stunned by Ty’s sudden outburst. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t exactly how I had meant to say that. I actually had this nice little speech prepared, but . . .” He didn’t know what else to say so he shrugged.

His mother reached over, patted him on the arm, and smiled. “We know.”

Ty raised his head. “What? What do you mean you know?”

Ty scanned the faces around the table. They all seemed to share the same sympathetic expression. Did everyone know? How did they find out? He had been so careful in keeping it hidden. Until recently, he had only used his ability in the seclusion of the forest.

“Ty, there’s something you need to know about how you first came to live with us.”

Ty started to feel a little nervous, especially with so many unfamiliar people sitting there staring at him. He fought back the urge to prattle on as he often did when he found himself in an uncomfortable situation. Instead, he forced himself to remain calm and listen to what his father had to say. He had a feeling that whatever it was, it was going to change his life. He just wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

“We told you that you were given to us by an elderly gentleman who had found you lying in a basket outside his home. We said that he had no idea who had left you there and because of his age he didn’t feel he could properly raise a child, so he decided to give you to us.” His father took a deep breath and sighed. “Well, that wasn’t exactly the whole truth.”

Ty looked at the other members of his family. Each one glanced away when their eyes met.

“The truth is, Ty, the man who gave you to us, his name is Nyalis, and he’s a wizard.”

A wizard? Did wizards still exist? Ty didn’t know what to think. He wasn’t even sure what he was feeling: excited at having learned some new secret about his birth, relieved at having finally shared the burden of his magic, and terrified at what all this could mean.

“In fact,” his father continued, “he could be the last of the wizards. When he first arrived in Easthaven, you couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old. He looked like he’d just walked out of the Pits of Aran’gal after spitting in the Defiler’s eye. He said he had rescued you from some very evil wielders who worked for the White Tower.”

“The White Tower?” Ty was stunned. “Why would there be wielders working for the White Tower? I thought you said the White Tower purges wielders. Wait. Did they know I was a wielder? Were they trying to purge me?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that. Nyalis said the White Tower has begun collecting wielders instead of purging them. They’re raising some kind of wielder army. Those that submit, pledge their allegiance to the new Arch Chancellor, and those that don’t . . .” his father shifted nervously in his seat. “Well, you get the idea.”

“Why doesn’t somebody do something about it? Why doesn’t the High King put a stop to it?”

“He probably doesn’t know. There are few who do. We knew nothing of it until Nyalis showed up.” His father waved his hand. “Regardless, the point is that the White Tower is looking for you in particular. They want you for some reason. You’re special.”

If Ty wasn’t afraid before, he certainly was now. “Me? They want me? Why am I special? I’m nobody. I’m not some powerful wizard. I can only talk to animals; why would they want me?”

“You can talk to animals?”

The other members of the council scooted forward in their seats.

“Well, yes, sort of. It’s not like they talk the same way we do, but I can understand their thoughts and communicate with them.”

“That’s very impressive, son.”

“Not really.” Ty rolled his shoulders. “It’s not like I can summon fire or conjure a windstorm. Although, I did have something happen to me during Performance Night that I’d never had happen before.”

“Oh? And what was that?” Adarra asked while scrawling some additional notes in her pad.

“What happened, sweetheart?” his mother asked, more out of personal concern than educational interest like his sister. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” He caught himself rubbing his hand over the mark on his upper right arm. It was close to covering the entire shoulder now, and from what he could tell, was beginning to work its way down his arm. “I don’t know what happened. I was in the middle of playing my pipes when . . .” He bit his lip as he stared at the table.

“When? When what?” Breen asked.

Ty wasn’t sure how to explain it. He didn’t understand it himself.

“Well, speak up, boy! Don’t just leave us hanging!” Feoldor’s face looked ready to pop.

“When . . . I sort of made the East Inn disappear.”

The look of astonishment on everyone’s face made Ty slink back a little further in his seat. Even Adarra’s pen had halted in its scribbling.

“You did what?” The sleeves of Orlyn’s robe flopped across the table as he moved to the front of his seat.

“I don’t know. One moment everyone was sitting there listening to me play, and the next, we were all sitting in the middle of the Sidaran Forest.”

The tall apothecary studied Ty. His bushy brows hung low over his eyes. He reached up and gave a tug on his beard. “What happened next?”

“Well, at the time, I was sure I was about to be arrested for wielding, so I . . . uh. I closed my eyes and started praying that everything would go back to normal and that no one would remember what happened.”

“And did it?”

“I probably wouldn’t be sitting here if it hadn’t.”

“Ah, good point.”

“I don’t remember any of that?” Breen said, clearly perplexed by the situation.

“Do you know something about this, Orlyn?” Ty’s father asked.

“I believe I do. I think Ty is both a pusher and a puller.”

His mother looked concerned. “A what?”

“I believe Ty can plant thoughts in people’s minds as well as extract them—a pusher and a puller.”

“That’s amazing, Ty!” his sister said. Her eyes never once left her parchments.

“It’s a very dangerous weapon to possess,” Veldon said from the head of the table as he wiped his hankie across the top of his head. “I’ve never known anyone to have such a gift.”

“Aye,” Orlyn cut in. “That was a skill the Defiler was rumored to have used against his enemies, those whose minds were weak enough to be controlled.” Ty didn’t like the sound of that. Being compared to Aerodyne was hardly something to boast about. “Be very careful how you wield that, young man. If used in the wrong way, you could cause great damage.”

“So, do you think that’s why the White Tower wants me?”

“To be honest, Ty,” his father said, “the wizard was a little less forthcoming than we would have liked. What he told us was that you were special and that we were to keep you safe.”

Ty’s mother poked her husband in the side with her elbow. “Tell him the rest.”

“I would if you’d give me a chance.” His father sighed. “Nyalis also said that when the time was right, he’d be back to get you.” His father lowered his gaze, clearly finding the last bit somewhat hard to get out.

“Get me? What do you mean he’s coming to get me? You mean leave here?”

His father wiped his hand across his face. “I’m not really sure. He didn’t exactly specify.”

“What if I don’t want to go?”

“Don’t you worry about it, Ty,” his mother said. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Ty’s head was reeling. He felt like everything was spinning out of control. Here he had been worried this whole time about telling his family that he was a wielder, and now he finds out that not only did they already know, but they had been keeping an even greater secret of their own. He didn’t want to leave his home. He didn’t want to leave his family. Who was this wizard anyway? If Ty was so important then why hadn’t this Nyalis person raised him himself? Why had he left Ty to grow up in Easthaven?

Orlyn stood from his seat and grabbed his uniquely designed staff. “It’s getting rather late and I must be up early to open my shop. Besides, by the look of it, I think our young Ty here has had quite enough good news for one night.”

“I believe you’re right, Master Orlyn,” Ty’s father said as he followed the older man up. “I think we could all do with a good night’s sleep.”

Feoldor stifled a yawn and scratched at his side whiskers. “Mind if I walk you home, Reloria?”

The sweet shop owner twisted her hat back and forth on the top of her head to make sure it wouldn’t be flying off with the first decent gust. “Well, since you asked so politely.”

The rest of the council said their goodbyes, all except for the strange white-haired lady who had somehow managed to sneak out while no one was looking.

Ty was in a daze, his mind struggling to accept everything he had been told. Yet, above all the noise and confusion, one thought seemed to repeat itself over and over and over again. Why couldn’t I have been born someone else?

Chapter 21 | Valtor

THE NORTHEAST QUARTER of the palace was typically quiet this time of the evening as the royal family were no doubt making ready for bed. Most of the staff was either turning down their own sheets or busy conducting last minute preparations to ensure the next morning’s duties went off without a hitch.

Valtor’s staff tapped steadily along as he trudged his way down the lonely corridors, occasionally passing the random kitchen scullion or palace maid. No one dared cast an eye in his direction. Most went out of their way to keep to the opposite side of the passage as they scurried past.

Rounding the corner, he stopped in front of a brightly colored drapery against the left wall. It was one of many that lined the palace corridors, spreading bits of cheer with its ghastly array of profuse colors. It reached clear from the ceiling to the floor. The passing breeze following in the wake of the chancellor’s halting motion caused the heavy material to move ever-so-slightly. Its golden tassels tickled the corridor’s white-marble floors like the fingers of a celebrated musician as they moved across the polished ivory of a pianoforte, an instrument prevalently seen during the Second Age, but of no use during the Third as the ability to perform manual upkeep was forgotten with time.

He took a moment to listen for the padding of nearby feet as he glanced in both directions. Once he was satisfied that he was alone, Valtor reached behind the fabric and flipped a hidden release. There was a soft click and the wall gave way, revealing a secret passage behind. A draft from the hidden tunnel threatened to shift the mitre on top his head. He readjusted the headpiece to give it a tighter fit. With practiced motion, he moved the drapery aside with his staff and stepped through, sliding the hidden panel shut behind him.

Valtor lifted his hand and a soft orb of green light lifted from his palm. With its light, he navigated his way through the narrow passages.

Dust covered the hem of his scarlet robes as they dragged across the back of the steps on his way down the empty stairwell. The silence enfolded him like a coffin. It gave him time to contemplate his thoughts as he anticipated the night’s activities.

He kicked at a large rodent as it ran under his feet. “I hate rats.” Turning around, he sent a ball of flame into the helpless creature, searing it to the side of the wall. With a smile he shifted his robe and continued on, leaving the burnt smell of cooked flesh hanging in the air behind him.

It had been a stroke of luck having found these hidden passages years ago.

Forced to leave home under the most strenuous of circumstances, Valtor had spent the better part of his childhood living on the streets. He had discovered the tunnels as a teenager, after stealing a small skiff in an effort to dodge the city patrollers.

With the discovery of the small caverns on the back side of the palace inlet and the adjoining tunnel system within, Valtor had spent years mapping out the labyrinth of channels and passageways. There was a great maze of corridors woven throughout the stronghold, forgotten by time. It was amazing that something so intricately constructed, like a web of veins running throughout the palace body, could go so completely unnoticed. All it took was for a single generation to not pass on the knowledge for it to be lost.

The secret passageways’ use in gathering information was limitless. He attributed most of his rise in position to its secrets—listening in on private meetings of state, catching officials in compromising positions, even the occasional assassination was not completely out of the question.

Yes, he had put the network to great use over the years. They had obviously been built as a safeguard against an enemy breach centuries earlier, following the devastation incurred from the Great Wizard Wars.

During those horrific battles, the palace walls were said to have been taken by Khul hordes coming out of the far north. Its occupants had been put to the sword, and its towers and bulwarks, halls and chambers had been left a smoldering ruin.

But, from the ashes as they say, a phoenix rose. Its new form took on a more fortified and grandiose visage, more breathtaking and visibly intimidating than any previously built. The palace had been constructed separately from the city itself with its hindermost battlements nestled against the face of the Sandrethin Mountains, giving it an impermeable defense of natural design.

Dividing the capital city from the fortification was a large chasm which dropped into the Bay of Torrin. Spanning those dark waters was a monolithic bridge. Its ramparts were of solid stone and its domed gates were said to be impenetrable.

Valtor had no doubt the old Wizard Order had played a primary role in the construction of the new palace, probably sometime during the end of the Second Age, prior to the uprising of the Great Purge.

He shivered at the thought.

His deliberations were cut short when the all-too-familiar smell of rot and mildew brought his mind out of its not-so-pleasant wanderings. Striding across a small landing, he moved toward the center stairwell on the opposite side and continued downward. There were torches lining the stone walls of the lower passageways. In the distance he could hear the faint sound of human cries. Valtor released his hold on the sphere and watched as it faded into nothingness.

Salty moisture saturated the air the deeper he went. The rear tunnels flooded periodically throughout the day as the tide came in, leaving a constant state of impermeable dampness within the lower reaches.

“Curse these infernal rats!” Sidestepping another of the hairy vermin, he sent out another lick of flame, narrowly missing the rodent as it scurried into the safety of a nearby hole. Up ahead, Valtor could see the end of the winding passage. His feet and legs nearly cried out for joy as he reached the main level and stopped.

Sparing a glance at the winding staircase behind him, Valtor’s fingers tightened around his wolf-head staff. He knew he would eventually have to climb his way back to the top, unless of course he decided to take one of the boats docked in the channels further down. But that would mean having to be rowed all the way back out and around to the entrance of the bay, and from there rent a carriage back up to the palace. He didn’t care for the wasted time or coin. Releasing a heavy frustrated breath, he limped his way forward, the silver tip of his black staff clicking as he entered the chamber.

Other than where he had entered, only one other passageway led from the open lobby. It was positioned on the opposing wall. Two white-clad guards stood sentinel on either side of its archway. Against the right wall there were three adjoining tables, each surrounded by black-robed members of the Legate. Much like their duties in the White Tower, the Legate were assigned to collect information on the subjects of his experimentation.

The robed figures bowed upon his approach.

“How is our collection coming?”

“Splendid, Your Grace. A new shipment was boated in last night.”

Valtor couldn’t remember the man’s name—not that it was important—but he did strive to make his laborers feel personally included. “Excellent news, Legate.”

The man motioned him toward the open doorway leading into the lower dungeons. Valtor had converted these lower vaults for his own personal use years ago. He found that the screams emanating from his subjects were completely veiled from anyone above, allowing him the rare opportunity to work as long and as hard as he wanted without the threat of being caught.

They left the Legates’ collection chamber and headed down another flight of stairs toward the lower holding areas. The stench was strong. Valtor enjoyed watching as new recruits were stationed to this posting. Most spent the first week over a bucket while the remainder focused on breathing through the mouth. For Valtor, though, it smelled like fond memories.

The wails of fear, the demands for release, and the incessant cries for mercy coming from the cages were beginning to weigh heavy on his already stretched nerves, pulling the thread to the point of unraveling. He placed a bony finger against his right temple and pressed, trying to relieve the growing ache.

The first set of cells he passed was built with an open design, nothing more than mere iron cages. Further in, they were replaced by stone rooms with heavy wooden doors.

At the end of the long hallway was a large chamber, barred by an enormous iron door that was corroded to the point of discoloration around its outer edges. It was this room that caused not only the prisoners, but the guards as well, to tremble with fear.

They called it Tir’Ross Moktor—the room of a thousand nightmares.

The legate pushed open the door and stepped out of the way so Valtor could pass. “Ah, home at last,” he said as he took it all in. “Did you miss me?” At the back of the room was a closed door. Behind it, he could hear the mixture of clanging metal, scraping wood, and feral noises all harmonizing like a pharyngeal choir. It was both disturbing and alluring all at the same time.

He hobbled over to the two, waist-high restraining tables that stood in the centermost part of the chamber. Propping his staff against one of the loosely slung leather straps, Valtor turned to the legate who stood waiting just outside the door.

“Fetch me one of the younger ones. They tend to be more resilient.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and send for Rowen. Tell him his training continues.”

“Right away, Your Eminence.” The black-robed legate turned and disappeared from view, leaving Valtor alone with his thoughts as he tried his best to drown out the incessant whining, begging, and fits of crying wafting from the nearby cells. Unable to do so, he finally decided to shut the iron door. The previously annoying sounds were now dimmed to that of a slight muffle.

“Much better,” he said with a smile as he turned back around to face Tir’Ross Moktor. “Time to get started.”

The light from the bracketed torches sent eerie shadows around the large stone room. The many desks, tables, and random cabinets placed intermittently about the chamber held an array of three, four, and five-stemmed candelabras. Their light shed luminance on whatever objects lay on top while at the same time adding to the room’s overall glow.

There were no tapestries, no murals, no paintings of any kind to add a dash of decorative color to the chamber’s visage. The only additional contrast supplementing the drab grays and browns of the stone and wood was that of the red decoupage that stained the floor around the two tables.

Winding his way through the rows of shelving, he reached the barred door on the far side of the room. Producing a large metallic key from an inner pocket, he slid the object into the door’s mechanism and turned. A loud snap could be heard as he spun back the latch and pushed open the door. Light spilled into the darkness beyond.

Stepping inside, the chancellor skewed his face and pinched his nose. He needed to remember to have Rowen muck this place out. What was the point in having a pupil if you couldn’t put him to good use? Valtor waved his hand through the air and the darkness dissipated as a couple of torches flared to life.

The storage room was lined with cages, pens, and crates of all sizes and shapes, each holding a unique specimen. With the onset of the light, the creatures grew restless, producing a wide cacophony of sounds.

It was a menagerie of rare collectibles.

Near the front were the more common everyday animals: dogs, cats, rodents of all kinds, birds, snakes, frogs, lizards and a slew of other smaller creatures only found in the wild, untamed areas of Aldor. Farther back, the cages grew in size as did the animals within.

At the far back, hidden within the shadows, were Valtor’s most prized collections. These were creatures unlike any seen by human eyes in over a thousand years. They were of his own design.

They were a twisted blend of many varieties, much like throwing random ingredients into a bowl and tossing the contents into a large oven hoping the outcome would be edible. Clearly, it rarely was. The corax had been one of his first, but clearly not his last, success.

Valtor closed the door and twisted back the key, listening for the clicking of the lock before removing it and placing it securely within the confines of his inner cloak. He patted the area with his hand—a natural reflex.

With a clear image of what he needed to do stuck in his mind, he strode across the room in the direction of the two ceremonial tables. He stopped at a winged podium at their head and opened a large leather-bound volume resting on top. Leaning over the lectern, he proceeded to shuffle through the pages. The tome was one of a set he had found, along with numerous other items of ancient magic.

The relics had been waiting patiently within the Chambers of Purging for someone to finally come along and unearth their hidden treasures. It had been his grandest achievement to date, having discovered them while excavating the hidden tunnels below the White Tower.

The ancient manuscripts were written in a very old dialect of Fae. It had taken him years to translate, and even then only a partial translation. The grimoire was penned as an instruction manual for the manipulation of magic in ways long since forgotten and outlawed. Its author, Aerodyne, had not only been one of the original founders of the Wizard Order but had been named First Wizard as well. He was a powerful sorcerer who was eventually banned from the Order after a few of his side projects had come to light.

Aerodyne, in turn, formed his own society. Their ranks grew from those wielders who didn’t want to be limited in their use of magic and felt that those who wanted to regulate its practice were no better than the ever growing Jun’ri Council.

Jun’ri, a term used for those natural-born humans who had not been twisted by the supposed evils of magic, basically meant, in its simplest form, pure ones. Although, as Valtor so often, and with great malice, liked to point out, “there was nothing pure about them.”

Hearing the sound of the metal door creaking on its rusted hinges, Valtor lifted his head. Walking through the entry was a skinny young man, barely twenty. His clean shaven face gave him the appearance of a mere youth if one could overlook the grotesque deformity on the left side. It was like a thick blister that had been left to continue growing, each year getting a little bigger. It was quite a work of art. It reminded Valtor of one of Raguel’s later paintings once he had taken to the bottle after the death of his wife. The man was a master with the brush. Even his morbid depictions of humanity showed an uncanny appreciation for accuracy.

“Ah, Rowen, do come in.” The chancellor waved his young acolyte over. “I have a list of items I need you to collect from the shelves while I prepare for our first subject.”

A broad smile rested on his protégé’s mouth as the boy rushed over to collect the slip of parchment and set about gathering the necessary items. Valtor was most pleased with himself for finding such an apprentice. The young man was astute, earnest, a quick-study, and above all else, completely loyal. Rowen would do anything for Valtor. It was amazing what a small amount of positive attention could do for someone who had never known it.

The left wall was lined with two rows of symmetrical shelving. Each in turn held a wide variety of strange and disturbing artifacts, books, relics, and potions necessary in the use of his dark craft. He watched a moment longer as Rowen set about his scavenging before turning his attention back to the monolithic book in front of him as he continued to sift through the pages, until finally coming to a stop on a string of rune markings representing the word Shak’tor.

“Ah, here we go.” His gaunt finger scanned the ancient text that skirted the edge of a horrific image which had been hand-drawn to illustrate the finished product. “Yes, this will do nicely.” The image was quite disgusting.

“What is it?” Rowen’s head peeked over the top of a four-layered shelf a few rows down. “What are we going to make this time, a six-legged lizard-goat, a winged constrictor? I know, what about a two-headed chirping donkey? That might be rather interesting, don’t you think?”

“Interesting, perhaps. Useful, no.” Valtor’s finger continued to work its way down the page. “We will be attempting something no one has accomplished in at least fifteen hundred years.” He paused for emphasis, glancing up from his place in the book. “We are going to create a Shak’tor.”

Rowen’s head peeked over another shelf on the right. “A what?”

“A Shak’tor.” Valtor sighed, realizing he was going to have to explain. “The Shak’tor were first created back during the Second Age, at the height of the Wizard Order. It was highly forbidden, though, as it involved the blending and manipulation of not just animals, but humans.”

Rowen stepped out from behind the row, his attention obviously perked. “Is that even possible?”

“Yes. But it’s not without its risks. This is by far one of the most dangerous incantations developed.”

“Why’s it so dangerous?”

“Because we are dealing with a living human soul. Definitely not something to be taken lightly, but—”He glanced back down at the open page. “—with the right elements, the spell has proven extremely effective in the past.” Valtor continued to scan the document. “Hmm, this is alarming. It says here that during their earlier trials, the wizards found they were incapable of controlling them, and they were destroyed.”

“Who was destroyed? The wizards or the creatures?”

Valtor grimaced as he studied the text. “Doesn’t say.” He scanned further down before flipping the page. “Ah, hold on, here we go. Evidently, they determined that in order to control the beasts, they had to use their own blood in the mix.” His eyes continued to scan along with his finger. “Yes, they wrote that in doing so, whoever’s blood was used, that individual would be granted the ability to bend the Shak’tor’s will to their own.”

Valtor clicked his fingernails across the top edge of the podium. “Interesting.”

Rowen quickly shuffled his way over to where Valtor was reading. “What is it?”

“It says here the more willing the participant, the more successful the transformation.”

“Willing?” Rowen laughed. “And who in their right mind is going to willingly volunteer for something like this?”

“It’s all about the presentation, my young apprentice. You’ll be surprised what people are willing to do under the right circumstances.”

“So when do we start?” And just like that, a knock resounded from the other side of the metal door, sending its echoes vibrating across the bare walls around them.

Valtor lifted his head. “Come in.”

The door opened with a noticeable whine as the legate stepped inside with two white-clad members of the Black Watch following close on his heels. In between the guards stood a little boy, shivering from either cold or fright, or both.

“No, please, I don’t want to go in there!” the boy cried, trying to pull himself back, his bare feet scraping across the stone floor. He couldn’t have been much older than ten or eleven. His garb, what there was of it, was dirt-stained and worn, and his skin had discolored splotches from living on the streets. Valtor had a sudden flashback to a time in his own distant past, when he too had suffered the cruelty of being without a home.

He recognized the look on the boy’s face. It was the look of hopelessness.

He shook himself from the unpleasant memory and smiled. “Excellent choice, Legate.” He gestured toward the wooden table on his right. “Let’s get him situated, shall we?”

“No, please!” the boy cried. “Please, don’t hurt me! I promise never to steal from the bread-cart again!” Tears freely rolled down both dirty cheeks as his sobs became more energetic. “I don’t want to die!”

“There, there now.” Valtor said in a soothing voice as the guards were busy lifting the boy into place. “No need for those tears. I have no intention of killing you.” He laid a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder, who at the time was squirming on the edge of the table while thrashing his legs from the side. “I’m going to give you a gift.”

The boy’s head lifted. “Really?” He wiped a torn sleeve across his wet nose and sniffed. His red eyes looked up into Valtor’s. “What kind of gift?”

“The kind that won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

The child paused a moment to think, looking down at his bare feet as they swung back and forth over the table. Valtor could see the wheels in the child’s head turning. “You mean like Master Sil’foren?”

“Master Sil’foren? Does he hurt you?”

“Yes, he’s a very bad man. He hurts all the street kids. If he catches us, he makes us work in his mill. And he beats us if we don’t load the sacks fast enough.” The boy raised his shirt to show the ugly scars.

“That’s terrible,” Valtor sympathized. “He’s an evil man indeed to hurt little boys like you.”

The child sniffed another run of snot. “He is.”

“Well, where are my manners? My name is Valtor,” he said with a sweeping bow. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Rat.”

Valtor grimaced. “Rat? What a horrible name.”

“They call me that ‘cause I can squeeze into places most others can’t.”

“Well, I’m not calling you Rat. I hate rats. Don’t you have another name, like Narris, or Jin, or Dezryk?”

“My mother used to call me Tate.”

“Tate. Yes, now that’s a good solid name,” Valtor said, placing his gaunt hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I like you much better as a Tate.”

The boy smiled, but after looking at the men surrounding him, he quickly let it fade. “So . . . where’s my gift?”

“Ah, I have it right here,” Valtor said as he walked back to where the thick volume lay open. He raised it into the air for the boy to see.

“A book? How is a book going to keep Master Sil’foren from hurting me?”

“It’s not just any book.” He raised a finger. “It’s a book of magic.”

Tate’s eyes widened with excitement. “You can teach me to do magic?”

“Well, not quite. But I can use magic to make you big and strong so that Master Sil’foren won’t be able to hurt you. In fact, when I’m done, he will be afraid of you.”

“He will?” Tate obviously liked the sound of that, but Valtor could tell he was still reticent.

“Of course, if you are too afraid to help your friends, that’s understandable.” Valtor knew exactly how to lay on the guilt to guide an answer he desired.

“No. I want to help,” the boy said with a little more enthusiasm. “I want to be big and scary. Then I can protect the other kids.”

Valtor smiled. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” Turning away from the boy, he caught his pupil’s eye and winked. “And that, my dear Rowen, is how it’s done.”

Chapter 22 | Valtor

ROWEN’S SMILE WAS CRUEL. It accentuated his misshapen features. “I bow to the master,” he said as he bent at the waist.

Valtor returned to his book. “Have the legate bring me one of the older ones.”

“As you wish.” Rowen left to have a word with the legate while the guards laid Tate in a supine position on the wooden table and fastened on the leather straps.

“Why are they tying me?”

“It’s only for your protection,” Valtor said from the podium. “We wouldn’t want you falling off and getting hurt, now would we?”

“I guess not.” Tate’s eyes still showed a modicum of fear.

“Nothing to be worried about, my boy. Pretty soon you’ll be big and strong, and then you can protect your friends.” Valtor’s words seemed to soften the boy’s nerves. Tate’s shoulders relaxed and his fingers, which had been scrunched into a ball, uncurled.

“Is it going to hurt?”

“Like my father always told me when I was about your age, ‘nothing great is ever accomplished without a little pain.’ And we are about to do something great. You’re not having second thoughts about wanting to protect your friends, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Good, good.” Valtor walked over and patted the top of the boy’s head, and then regretted his decision after seeing how dirty it was.

The hinges on the metal door squeaked and the black-robed legate, whose name Valtor still couldn’t remember, returned with an old man—a vagabond by all appearances, as so many of those they brought in were. The filthy vagrant half-limped, half-stumbled across the room as each of the guards held tight to an arm.

Valtor watched as his young apprentice quivered with excitement while snapping shut the final bracelet on the old man’s legs, securing him firmly to the drainage table.

The drainage table was constructed of rough metal and molded into the shape of a man. Instead of straps, it held iron manacles for the fastening of the wrists and ankles. Down through the center of the table was a thin furrowed-out rut that stretched from head to toe. It stopped at a small funnel which had been bored through to the bottom side, with a collecting trough underneath.

Valtor walked over to get a look at their work. The elderly man proved to be quite a bit shorter than the mold, but since the construction of the anklets had been designed to be adjustable, it didn’t make much of a difference.

“Shall we begin?”

“Absolutely, Your Eminence,” Rowen said, bouncing from one foot to the other. His expression was more than eager.

Valtor took a moment to contemplate what they were attempting. He was about to shape a living body and soul to his own will. How those first wizards during the Second Age had ever come to understand such levels of magic was beyond him. He could only guess it had been revealed to them by the faerie creatures that had broken through the barrier, back before the Wizard Order had resealed the breech.

“. . . big and strong.” Tate’s voice brought Valtor out of his momentary observations. He realized the child was trying to explain to the old man what was happening. “That way I can protect my friends. Once he uses his magic on me to make me scary, I can stop Master Sil’foren from hurting the other street kids.”

“Son, nothin’ good comes of magic. And I’m tellin’ you. You can’t trust anything these people be sayin’.”

“No! You’re wrong!” Tate shot back. “He’s a nice man, a good man, and he wants to make me strong so I can help my friends!”

“No, boy, he doesn’t. I’m tellin’ you. He wants to experiment on you and turn you into somethin—”

“The boy has heard quite enough of your lies!” Valtor broke in, stopping the old vagabond from saying any more. “You’re just trying to keep our Master Tate here from doing what he knows is right.” He stepped around the podium and walked between the two tables. He leaned over the old man, careful to keep his back to the boy, and whispered. “If you say one more word to scare him, I’ll have my assistant there slit the boy’s throat and go get another. You understand?”

The old man glanced over at Rowen, who had somehow produced a hidden dagger from the sleeve of his robe and with meticulous effort was running his thumb along its outer edge. The man bit his trembling lip. His entire body shook with anger, his eyes were drowning in it, but he kept silent all the same.

“Do we understand each other?” The vagrant nodded. Valtor smiled. “Good.”

Valtor glanced at Rowen, but the blade had vanished. I need to keep a closer eye on him. His brows furrowed with a slight unease as he made his way back to the podium. He was beginning to realize how little he knew about his apt pupil.

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s begin.”

The nameless legate took a seat at one of the far corner desks. Pulling out his quill and ink, he readied himself to capture the evening’s activities.

Two guards positioned themselves at the closed entrance. Their hands rested loosely on the hilt of their swords as they kept a keen, but wary, eye on the proceedings. Their posture portrayed that of battle-hardened warriors, but their faces gave all the appearance of defectors ready to cut and run at the first sign of trouble.

Valtor pointed to the back of the metal table where the old man lay quivering. “Stabilize the collector. We don’t want to contaminate our product and be forced to start over.”

Rowen knelt and rotated the clay pitcher directly underneath the table’s funnel. “Got it. Now what?”

“Now, when I tell you to, I want you to start adding the ingredients from the list I gave you and place them into the stone basin.” Valtor raised a finger of warning to his assistant. “Now listen to me. This is important. You must add the elementals in the order I gave you and at the exact amounts I gave you. Nothing more. Nothing less. You understand?”

Rowen spared him a glance from where he was busy aligning all the items in a row on the table beside the stone caldron. He nodded his understanding.

“I mean it. At the exact amounts I’ve written.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

The stone-carved basin looked more like a hollowed out altar than anything. It looked to be forged straight out of the floor itself. Waist high, it stood with four sides.

“And I’ll need you to wait to add each item until I tell you. I have to match each elemental with a specific rune, and in precise succession or this isn’t going to work. Worse yet, it could kill everyone in here.”

The room grew very quiet. Even the old man and the boy had stopped their fidgeting to twist their heads around.

“If done improperly, the text says we could risk unleashing some kind of horror into our world.” Valtor scanned the words on the page. “Doesn’t exactly say what kind, but I prefer to err on the side of caution.”

Rowen peered over the top of the empty basin and looked in. “This seems a bit silly. I feel like we’re making a witch’s brew.”

“Silly or not, if this is what the book says to do, then this is exactly what we’re going to do.”

The room remained eerily silent as they began. Valtor grabbed a piece of chalk and stepped over to the large basin where Rowen was pouring in the first ingredient. Leaning over, he took great care to see that his inscription on the flat side of the stone was accurate, capturing every line and curve and space of the first rune, precisely as it was diagramed in the book.

Finishing the first, he stood and called out its name in the old tongue. The markings sparked to life as the first element inside the caldron ignited and bubbled. The rune on the side of the basin took on the glow of the chalk being used. As swift as it had flared, the rune faded and vanished. The chalk, as well, had disappeared completely from view, making room for the next.

Moving along, Valtor had Rowen add the next elemental on the list, and then the next, all the while portraying each arcane symbol in both its picturesque and phonetic forms. Each new rune blazed in grandeur as its name was called forth before vanishing into the ether like all the rest.

As the components merged within the makeshift caldron, their essence kindled an initiation of life. Sparks burst from the top, floating upwards before eventually burning out, much like cinders from an open fire.

Rowen took a few steps back and glanced at Valtor.

There was a distinct hum now emanating from the stone as Valtor maintained his concentration on the runes and their utterances. He had no idea if he was doing anything wrong, or if what was happening was as it should be. He could only place his trust in what was written within the ancient text.

He paused momentarily when a low rising mist poured over the lip of the stone and rolled across the floor around them. The legate lifted his feet off the ground from where he sat scribbling his notes.

Within the vapor Valtor could feel life, and it was far from pleasant. He guessed it was too late to turn back now, and if it took dealing with the darkness to get what he needed then that was what he intended to do. He was determined to find a way to keep magic from being exterminated as the world had tried to do so long ago. Even if it required him to lose his own soul in the process, he would never let the jun’ri win again.

Rowen added the last of the elementals to the already bubbling amalgam, and then stoppered the empty vial before laying it alongside the other empty containers.

Valtor could see the hunger flaring to life in his apprentice’s eyes. The nervous caution was there as well, but, much like a kettle drum to the soft resonance of a single chime, the one clearly overpowered the other. Rowen’s insatiable hunger for magic would always win out over his common sense. That is going to be his downfall one day.

After watching the last of the runes spark to life and fade away, Valtor stepped back to the open book. Line by line he scanned the written text once more, making sure he had not forgotten some little tidbit of information that could put the entire spell into jeopardy, not to mention their lives.

Satisfied that all was in order, he raised his head from the age-dyed pages and nodded at his assistant. “We have completed the first half.”

“Now what?”

“Now we add the final ingredient,” he said as he stepped around the podium toward the drainage table.

“Please, you don’t have to do this,” the old man said. “I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t hurt the boy. He doesn’t deserve this. Have mercy, sir.”

Rowen snickered.

“I assure you I have no intention of hurting the boy,” Valtor said, laying a gentle hand on the man’s trembling shoulder. “Like our young Master Tate said, I only want to make him strong so he can defend those in need.”

The old man’s eyes were as sharp as a Kul’s blade. “You may be able to fool the child, but you won’t be foolin’ me. You’re an evil monster struttin’ around like a wolf in sheep’s skin, actin’ like you was all righteous. May the Defiler take your soul!” He spat at Valtor and caught him right in the face.

“Ah! What the—” Valtor took a step back as he wiped the spittle with his sleeve. He barely had time to right himself before Rowen leapt on the old man and started punching him in the face, the chest, the arms, and anywhere else his fists could land a solid strike.

Valtor had to pull his pupil off of the old beggar before he killed him. “That’s enough. We need him.”

Hearing Valtor’s voice put an end to Rowen’s advance. If there was one thing Valtor could say about his deformed apprentice, it was that he was very protective of his master.

After regathering his focus, Valtor continued his instruction. “There is a balance in everything. Where there is life there is death, where there is sickness there is health, rich and poor, free and bond, light and dark. Nature must hold a balance. If we are to alter the life of one, it must require the sacrifice of another.” Valtor smiled, but not quite as much as Rowen did when the slick dagger once again reappeared within his hands.

“Blood.”

“Yes.” Valtor agreed. “Blood.”

“What’s going on?” Tate asked, his voice beginning to tremble. “Why were you beating him?” The boy was staring wide-eyed at Valtor’s pupil as Rowen hovered near the old beggar. “I thought you were going to make me big?”

“Don’t you worry, that is exactly what we’re going to do.”

“Why doesn’t that man like you?” Tate asked Valtor as he worked his way over to the young boy’s table. “Why is he so mad? Why did he say those mean things about you?”

Valtor leaned over the table and rubbed his fingers through the boy’s matted hair. “He said those things because . . .” He paused to think of a good response. “Well, because he’s a friend of Master Sil’foren, and he doesn’t want you becoming big and strong. He doesn’t want you to protect your friends, because he knows that if you do there won’t be anyone left to work in their mill.”

Tate’s eyes grew violent. Hatred smoldered in him like a searing heat from an unquenchable fire.

“I’ll leave it to you,” Valtor said. “You only have one of two choices. Do you want me to have mercy on him and release him so he can go back to his warehouse of urchin workers—”

“No!”

“Or do you want me to rid the world of such an evil man? A man who wants to hurt little kids.” Valtor could see the boy wrestling with an answer. He had put him on the spot and he knew which choice the boy would make. He just needed to see how long it would take for him to admit it.

“I don’t want him to hurt us anymore.”

“So just to be clear, you want me to get rid of him, is that correct?”

The boy looked over at the old man who was now lying there with tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Y . . . yes.”

“Very well, if that is what our brave Master Tate wishes, then that is what he will get.” Valtor turned to Rowen and nodded.

Rowen slid his way over to the old man and waved his blade just above the bridge of the vagrant’s nose.

The elderly man turned his head to the boy. “Close your eyes, son. You don’t need to see this.”

Tate tilted his head away and pinched his lids, but Valtor grabbed him by the cheeks and turned his head back around. “Nonsense! You need to watch this, Master Tate. You need to feel the victory of watching this evil man meet his end, the same way he has put an end to so many of those street kids, I’m sure.” Valtor held tight underneath the boy’s jaw and twisted his little head toward the metal table where Rowen was waving his blade.

“Quit playing with him and get on with it!”

“I don’t think I want to watch anymore,” Tate called out.

Valtor held the boy’s head in place. “If you want to be brave for your friends, then you need to start now. Are you going to be brave for them?”

“Yes,” he whimpered.

Rowen placed his right hand over the old man’s forehead to hold him down, leaving a well-defined area to work from. With his left hand he placed the edge of the blade on the far side of the man’s neck and pressed down. Blood squirted into the air as the old man hollered for mercy, his body thrashing like a stuck cod on a fishman’s table.

“I changed my mind!” Tate cried out. “I changed my mind! Please stop! I take it back!”

Valtor smiled as he held the boy’s head down. “Too late. You made your choice.”

Once Rowen finished, the old man’s body convulsed a couple times more before finally going still.

The blood flowed freely into the thin trough underneath the body, and made its way toward the lower funnel and out into the clay pitcher.

Valtor could feel his arm shaking and realized it was Tate’s head where his hand was still firmly gripping the side of his jaw. He released him. The boy held his eyes shut and cried.

Draining the blood took longer than he had expected. Instead of sitting around and drinking in the sight of the old man’s bodily fluid draining from his lifeless corpse as his apprentice was, Valtor busied himself with the second half of the incantation.

“It’s done,” Rowen said as he hefted the clay pitcher out from under the metal table and placed it on the rim of the hollow altar. Rowen’s fingers tapped impatiently on the side of the warm urn while Valtor glanced back at the open pages in front him.

“Right.” Valtor left the podium with book in hand as he stepped alongside the stone caldron and glanced inside. The mixture continued to bubble as mist overflowed its rim. He motioned for Rowen to pour in the blood. Stepping back, they both prepared for whatever reaction might take place, but in the end nothing happened, and they both peered back over the edge.

The concoction had now taken on a decidedly red hue as it continued to bubble and spout.

Valtor held out his hand. “Let me see your blade.”

Rowen, a little hesitant at first, produced the sharp instrument with a flick of his wrist. The swift feat still made Valtor a little uneasy. Grabbing hold of the handle, Valtor raised his hand out over the brewing amalgam and produced a thin slice across the inside of his palm. After handing the knife back to his assistant, he balled his fist and squeezed out a healthy amount of his own life’s blood to finalize the mix.

Glancing over his shoulder, Valtor could see Tate’s eyes, like all the others in the room, were fixed on the stone caldron, no doubt wondering what was going to happen next.

“Dip me out a cup.” Valtor said as he walked over to where the little street urchin lay bound and sobbing. He took a moment to spare a glance at the old vagabond. He could hear the drip, drip, drip of what remained in the metal trough as it fell through the small furrow and out onto the floor beneath. Looking at the man’s ravaged neck, he had to wonder why he had aligned himself with such a sadistic apprentice, but then he reckoned it was because only someone sadistic would be willing to follow.

Rowen quickly returned with a steaming cup of their newly created potion.

“Cut back his shirt,” Valtor said. “And mind you don’t cut him.”

Rowen flicked his wrist and the knife reappeared. He slid the blade from the top of the boy’s tattered sweater to the bottom, giving access to his bare and rather dirty chest and stomach.

“What are you doing?” Tate asked, between fits of tears and sniffles. “Why are you taking off my shirt?” He was back to his crying again.

Valtor laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I told you I have no intention of harming you,” he lied. “I’m going to keep my word and make you big and strong.” Tate sniffed another long run from his nose. “But in order for that to happen, you will need to be strong for me. Do you think you can do that?”

Tate shook his head no.

“Oh, sure you can. You’ve come this far, haven’t you? I thought you wanted to protect your friends. I thought you wanted to keep Master Sil’foren from hurting them and sticking them in his mill.” Valtor shrugged. “I guess I was wrong about you. I guess they will have to go on suffering because you didn’t care enough about them to help.” He turned and started to walk away when a trembling voice reached his ears and brought him to a halt.

“Wait. I . . . I am brave.” Valtor spun around. “I want to protect my friends. I’ll do it.”

“Excellent. I knew you had it in you.” Returning to the table, Valtor stuck his finger inside the cup of bloody liquid. It was warm to the touch. He sketched a single Rune across the boy’s chest.

“It tickles.”

“Yes, well . . .” Not for long. “Alright, there is only one more thing you need to do, my boy.”

“What’s that?”

“Drink the cup.”

Tate’s eyes bulged. The little boy’s mouth pinched tight as he began shaking his head with an emphatic—No!

“Come now, Tate. Don’t let something as simple as taking a drink stand between you and stopping Master Sil’foren from hurting your friends. The power is there for you to have. Just take a drink and you will be big and strong.”

Valtor watched as the wheels in Tate’s head went to spinning. He needed the boy to do it voluntarily. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of waiting, the boy’s head tilted. The nod was small, but it was a nod nonetheless.

Tate’s fist clinched tight to his pants as he watched the cup draw near. His mouth opened and when it had reached its apex, Rowen, not wanting to take a chance on him closing it, reached over and pinched the boy’s nose shut to keep it open and poured the steaming mixture inside. Tate spat and coughed, but as long as his nose was shut off, he had no choice but to start draining the hot bloody tonic. The front of him was now splattered in crimson as the last of the cup was drained. Rowen released his nose and Tate progressed to heaving.

By this time, the guards at the back, along with the legate, had moved forward to catch a better view of the proceedings. To Valtor’s surprise, nothing happened, except of course Tate falling back into his incessant crying. If Valtor hadn’t needed the boy so badly he was half-tempted to take Rowen’s knife and cut Tate’s throat himself, if only to stop the whining.

Suddenly, the boy spasmed and his entire body went taut. His back completely arched off the table as his chest pushed against the leather restraints.

“What’s happening?” Rowen asked, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

“Wait and see,” Valtor said with a smile as he added a bit of mystery to his voice. Of course Valtor had no idea what was happening, but he wasn’t about to let his protégé know that.

The boy’s restraints buckled under the strain of his arms until one-by-one they snapped, causing everyone in the room to back away. Valtor almost went down after tripping over his own podium. After righting himself, he grabbed his precious grimoire from its resting place and hugged it close to his body.

Tate’s skin darkened and his hair sprouted in matted clumps.

“What’s happening to me?” came a guttural growl of a voice, barely understandable, barely human. It was rather disturbing, more so than Valtor wanted to admit. Hearing it come from a child that was being transformed in front of him was most definitely pushing the outer limits of his own boundaries. Even still, he found it all quite fascinating.

The boy’s arms and legs grew in size and thickened. The straps holding his legs in place ripped apart as he rolled off the table and onto the floor where his limbs continued to twist. All the joints in his body snapped and he howled in pain. “Make it stop! Please, make it stop!” He cried out with a voice that sounded like rocks being rubbed together. His limbs continued to twist and stretch and the skin around his body appeared to be ripping in places as if it was too tight to hold what was growing inside.

The cries and growls and screams faded after a while. Tate, or whatever it was, appeared to be dead. It lay prostrate on the stone floor.

No one moved. They were all too afraid of it jumping up and tearing them limb from limb simply out of spite, Valtor among them.

The creature finally stirred. It no longer bore any resemblance of humanity, except maybe in the eyes as its head rose and it scanned the room, marking those who stood near. Gradually, it pushed its way up on its haunches. It was easily two times the size of any man, with claws the size of a human finger.

Raising its matted head, it sniffed the air and then spread its lips, baring its massive canines. It was truly a remarkable creation. Valtor couldn’t help but feel a little proud. Pulling himself together from the shock of it all, he stepped forward. The movement brought the creature’s attention around with a swift snap of the head. Bracing its shoulders, it scrunched down on its haunches and then without warning, leapt into the air, over tables, and chests, and cabinets, landing directly in front of Valtor.

Valtor tripped over his own feet as he fell backwards against a standing shelf. His mitre went flying in the opposite direction.

Rowen rushed the creature in protection of his master. The Shak’tor backhanded Rowen and sent him flying through the air where he landed on a table and went still.

Valtor couldn’t move from his place on the cold stone. He could feel his knees clapping against each other with such force that he was afraid they were going to chip the bones. The creature looked down into Valtor’s face and Valtor could see the fierce hatred within. But before the creature could strike, Valtor raised his cut hand and showed his mark to the creature.

He wasn’t sure what was required to control it, or if he had gotten the incantation right, or if whoever had scribed the book had added that part just to play a sick game on the one stupid enough to try it, but he figured he had no other choice, and so, with arm outstretched, he waited while the creature leaned its muzzle over and sniffed his open palm.

Valtor figured it would either work or he would soon be missing a good hand. To his relief, the creature appeared pacified as it bowed its head toward him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Valtor could see Rowen’s body begin to stir from where he had landed on the table. Realizing he had been holding his breath the entire time, Valtor exhaled as he slowly struggled back to his feet. He looked deep into the creature’s eyes and smiled.

“Ah, my dear Tate, I told you I would make you big and strong.”

Chapter 23 | Nyalis

WITHIN THE CONFINES of his unseen garden, Nyalis opened his eyes.

He could feel a trembling in the Life Web. An awakening of something dark that had, until now, remained dormant for centuries, for millennia.

They found the grimoire.

Across his small sanctuary there in the heart of Y’tarra—the realm between realms, hidden to both world and time—the old wizard strode to the ancient reliquary. Up the steps he climbed into the fallen ruins, stopping in front of a large obsidian basin, built into the top of a white-marble dais. Around the bowl’s outer edge were runes etched in gold. They were glowing. Inside the basin, the Waters of A’sterith stirred and Nyalis gazed upon the images summoned. They were dark, full of violence and death.

“Worse, they have conjured a transformation. Fools! Do they not know the power they are meddling with?”

He wiped his hand across the silvery water, clearing the dark foretelling before spinning back around. His white hair stirred like a mantle behind him as he moved toward the edge of the platform and looked out over his garden oasis, the lush colors that carpeted the ground, the violet blooms that laced the low-hanging branches of the surrounding willows, the slowly moving stream that hugged the outer edge, and beyond, the massive wall of protective trees, so thick he couldn’t see past the first few rows.

He took a deep breath and sighed. “The board is now set and the first move made.”

Nyalis could feel the abrupt stirring of the waters behind him. He turned and walked back to the basin. There was a presence rising. Leaning over the edge, he peered inside. “I know you are watching.” Nyalis leveled his hands over the placid liquid, causing the sleeves of his robe to retract past his wrists. He whispered into the silence. “Iryseth a’ Daomon.”

Lowering his arms, Nyalis took a step back and waited. From over the rim the Waters of A’sterith rose and took shape, its thick silvery liquid molded into the contour of a hooded cloak. There was no face, no hands, no feet. Only darkness rested beneath its folds, for which Nyalis was well aware as he waited for the apparition to retake its corporeal form.

“I see the years have not been kind to you, Nyalis, last of the wizards?” The booming voice rose out from under its fluid robe, filling the small glen with its echo.

“Ah, my dear Aerodyne, where else but from you could I find such a jousting of wit.”

“You mock me, wizard?”

“I mock what you have become,” Nyalis said with a sharp gesture toward the basin. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

“You will speak differently soon enough.”

Nyalis didn’t respond. Instead, he studied his opponent with careful scrutiny. The thick fluid continued to roll across the shadow’s formation, much like honey as it courses down its comb, collecting at the bottom. The shade shifted slightly, causing a momentary change in the liquid’s path. “Why do you keep the child hidden from me, Nyalis? Even from here I can sense the stirring of his power. You know I will find him eventually.”

“Perhaps.”

“You cannot keep me bound forever.” The image slid forward in the basin. “The confinement spells are weakening. They are eroding. You know this is true. What will become of your precious humans then, with you no longer there to direct them, to protect them?” He raised the empty arm of his robe. “Shall I tell you, Nyalis? Shall I tell you all the wonderful details of what I am going to do with them once I have been freed?”

The thought of Aerodyne being loosed on the world once more was frightening. To his regret, Nyalis knew the dark wizard spoke the truth. The protective barrier holding the dark wizard’s essence had begun to deteriorate. It had been over a thousand years since the wizard covenant was established. Countless wizards had sacrificed their lives in the creation of the barrier. It was built as a prison deep beneath the Pits of Aran’gal. A place known only to the Wizard Order. Its name in the Fae tongue was Taerin nu’Cyllian—Tomb of the Abandoned.

“They may yet surprise you.”

“Hah! Their minds are weak and pliable. They will serve me before the end.”

“Almost a thousand years and yet you have not changed.”

“Oh, but I have.” Aerodyne turned and lifted the sleeves of his robe. “I am no longer bound by flesh and bone. I am truly immortal.”

“But at what cost?” Nyalis took a step forward. “Every choice has a consequence as the Creator designed, and I fear yours has cost you everything.”

“Is that empathy I detect in your voice?” Aerodyne’s tone held a hint of sarcasm, mingled with loathing. “Hah! Your feelings are wasted on me, wizard.”

“That wasn’t always so. There was a time when I would have called you . . . friend.”

The silvery phantom slid back toward the center of the basin. “Those times are no more.”

Nyalis watched as the former First Wizard sank beneath the rim, leaving the Waters of A’sterith to lie dormant once again. The gold runes faded.

If there was one thing Nyalis agreed with the dark wizard on, it was that time was indeed running out.

Chapter 24 | Ty

DAWN CAME EARLY the next morning as Ty woke to the sound of Breen dressing.  Not feeling quite as energetic as the day before, he waited until his brother had left the room and shut the door before stretching and throwing back his covers. The light was just creeping in over the sill as he fought to open his eyes.

With most of his chores already completed, Ty finally had a day free to do whatever he wished, and after the traumatic experience of the previous evening, his mother had agreed to let him sleep in. He lay on his back and watched as the early morning rays pressed their way through the split shutters of his bedroom window. The particles of dust sparkled as they slowly floated from one beam to the next.

After spending some time in earnest reflection, Ty concluded that he wanted to devote the entire day to himself, one day of complete and utter alone time, one day to just get away from it all and relax—

“Ty! Are you in there?” Adarra bellowed from the other side of the door. “We have a lot to talk about today!”

“Ugh.” Ty rolled over and pulled his covers back over his head.

After a leisurely breakfast of hot porridge and honey, dipped with a fresh loaf of white bread his mother had just pulled from the oven, and some cold dairy to wash it down, Ty headed for the woods. Unfortunately, he was accompanied by an overly energetic older sister who was acting like she had just been bequeathed the royal library in Aramoor. Her lust for the knowledge she thought he possessed flickered in her eyes as she followed him across the small wooden bridge behind their cottage.

Adarra looked a lot like their mother must have when she was younger. Apart from the freckles on her cheeks, she was short like their mother, and had the same straight brunette hair that fell halfway down her back. Giving up on an attempt at blowing the strands from her face, Adarra finally tucked them behind her ears so she could see to scribble on the loose sheets of parchment she carried with her.

Taking a seat on an old log, Adarra laid her small stack of sheets on top of a thick hardbound book she used for stability when writing. “So, when was the first time you knew you had magic?”

Ty huffed. “Do you really need to keep a written record of my life? What happens if someone reads it and discovers what I can do?”

“Who would ever want to read my journals?” She had a naïve sort of point there, Ty thought. She had no friends for that very reason. She spent all her time doodling, and documenting, and contemplating deep thoughts. “Besides, once I finish writing it down, I’m going to burn it anyway.”

“What? Why would you go to the trouble of writing it down if you’re just going to burn it?”

“It’s the only way I can remember it.”

Ty cocked his head to the side. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does if you’re a memoriae.”

“A what?”

“A memoriae. Someone with the gift of memory.”

Ty perked. “You have magic?”

“Of course, doofus, why do you think I’m constantly writing everything down?”

“Because you’re weird?”

Adarra rolled her eyes. She looked like she wanted to throw her quill at him but refrained. “No, it’s because my gift allows me to remember everything I see. So if you were to simply tell me how your magic works then I’m likely to forget it later, but if I write it down where I can see the words on the page then I’ll remember it forever.” She narrowed her eyes trying to read his face. “Understand?”

“I guess. Seems like a strange use of magic, though, just to be able to remember things.”

“Hardly,” she huffed. “Knowledge is power. Think about how long it takes a physicker to learn his craft. Imagine how much better it would be for someone who didn’t need to spend precious hours poring over old medical journals in order to make a proper diagnosis while his patient was dying in the next room? If he had my gift, he would have the answer in moments.”

Ty conceded with a bob of his head. “I guess you’re right. So, you can really remember everything you’ve ever written down in your journals?”

“I can remember anything I’ve ever read or seen.”

Ty rubbed his smooth chin between his thumb and first finger. “What book is that?” he asked, pointing down at her lap.

“Scagoria’s Guide to Herbalism and the Art of Natural Healing.”

“How many pages does it have?”

“Three hundred and nineteen.” Her eyelids narrowed. “Why?”

Ty leaned over and grabbed the book before she could stop him.

“Hey, what are you doing?” she asked as she tried to catch the loose parchments that had been on top.

“I want to see for myself.”

She offered a mischievous grin. “Don’t believe me?”

He opened the book to somewhere in the middle and scanned the left side. “What does it say on page one hundred and forty-eight?”

Adarra’s lips pursed as she glanced down at the mulch of early winter leaves lining the small path ahead. “Which paragraph?”

Ty looked up from the book. “Are you serious?”

“Which paragraph?” she asked again. “There are five. Should I recite them all?”

Ty glanced back down at the heavy book. She was right. There were five paragraphs. Could have been a lucky guess, though. He scanned the opposite page to count the number of paragraphs there. Most pages probably had only five or six. That wouldn’t be too hard to figure out. “Alright, what does the second sentence of the third paragraph say?”

Again her lips stiffened. “It says ‘the elderberry has been traditionally used to treat pain, swelling, infections, and skin conditions’.”

Ty huffed. He closed the book and handed it back to her. “That’s pretty incredible.”

Adarra merely smiled as she placed the heavy novel back under her papers.

“To answer your question, I’m not really sure when I first knew I had magic.” He gazed into the distance, trying to recall the earliest moments he had recognized his gift for what it was. “When I was younger, I didn’t understand that what I was doing was magic.” His feet lighted across the fallen leaves on the small path as he paced back and forth, the dry ones crunching underneath.

Like the flickering dance of a red flit hummingbird, Adarra’s fingers flew across the paper with rampant speed as she attempted to capture every detail he had to offer.

“Honestly,” he continued, “I can’t remember a time when I haven’t been able to communicate with the life around me. I guess I always thought that everyone else could as well.” He stopped to watch a couple of tree rats scurry through the branches over their heads, playing a hazardous game of tag. “It didn’t take long to figure out that I was the only one who could hear them.”

He kicked a couple of rocks down the path, watching them skip and bounce and finally come to a stop. “I figured it was probably best to keep it to myself.” He shrugged. “I didn’t want everyone to think I was . . . weird or something.”

Adarra shook her head at the verbal poke in her direction. “Well, we already knew you were an odd one.” She snickered as she playfully kicked a small pile of leaves in his direction. “So when you talk about listening to nature . . . What’s that like? Can you actually understand the animals when they make noises? You said they don’t talk like we do, so how do you know what they’re saying?”

“They don’t exactly communicate with a spoken language. It’s like they talk with their emotions or instincts. I can hear when they are hungry, or tired, or scared. I know if one of them has a mate or a family.” He shrugged dismissively. “I can’t explain it other than that.”

“Interesting.” Adarra waved her hand for him to continue.

“Now with the trees and plants, it’s even more instinctive—”

“Whoa, wait!” His sister’s head shot up in the middle of her scribing. “You can talk to the trees? You can actually hear plants? Ty, that’s amazing.”

He grinned at the bout of praise.

“When they communicate, it’s mainly of their basic needs at the time. Like sunshine, water, air, good soil, that sort of thing.” He watched his sister’s expressions go from anxious, to excited, to exhilarated, with each new tidbit of information she managed to copy down. “They tell me when they are thirsty or content, when they are enjoying the nutrients of the sun or feel the rise of a storm.”

“With so many voices all talking at the same time, doesn’t it get . . . I don’t know, rather confusing, or loud?”

“At first it was overwhelming, but I’ve managed to find a way to drown them out, at least the ones I want to. Just don’t ask me how I do it.” He shrugged. “I’ve got no idea.” He stopped for a moment to try coming up with a logical metaphor. “It’s like when you hold something in your hand for a long period of time without moving it and pretty soon you can’t tell it’s there anymore. It’s the same way with the noise. I sort of grow numb to it.”

Adarra finished scribbling a couple more lines before dropping her arm and fixing Ty with a look of absolute determination. “Push me.”

“What?”

“You know, with your magic. Push me.”

Ty sighed. He had been wondering how long it would take before she got around to asking about that. As hesitant as he had been in letting out his secret, he found he was actually enjoying this chance to share his powers with someone else. He had not realized how much of a burden it had been keeping it all bottled inside.

After taking a moment to clear his mind, Ty tried focusing on a single image—the same small glen where he had taken the people during Performance Night. Nothing happened. He tried again. This time he searched for that strange warming feeling he had experienced when he had pushed everyone the first time. Again nothing happened. Ty opened his eyes and shook his head. “It doesn’t seem to be working.”

“Why don’t you try playing your pipes? That’s what brought it on the first time.”

Ty had forgotten about his flute. Grabbing the wooden instrument from its place inside his pocket, he closed his eyes and let the music flow out of him. Immediately the warming sensation returned. It was like a small burning in the pit of his stomach that spread upwards and out, sending a wave of heat throughout his extremities. He conjured the image of the empty vale surrounded by white birch in his mind. The sound of Adarra’s gasp forced him to open his eyes. He had done it again. They were back inside his hideaway spot.

“Ty, this is unbelievable.” She laid her parchment, quill, and ink aside and stood up. “It looks like we are really there, or here, or I’m not sure how you would describe it.” As soon as she stepped away from the log, it disappeared, along with her writing utensils. She quickly felt around for them, and when her hands touched them, they reappeared. “Hmm? That’s clever.”

Adarra let her parchments disappear once again. She turned back around to where Ty was still playing. “See if you can stop playing and keep the image here.”

Ty wasn’t sure if that was possible, but he gave it a try. Instead of stopping altogether, though, he slowed the music, and then softened until it was barely audible. The mirage was still in place. Finally, he released his lips and held his concentration on the image. It remained.

“You did it.”

“I did.” He was beaming. “It worked.”

“Let’s try something else,” she said. Ty could see the wheels turning in her head. “Instead of a location, try picturing an inanimate object.”

Ty released his hold on the magic and the glen folded in on itself. “You mean like a spoon or something?”

Adarra crossed her arms. “I’m sure you can get more creative than a spoon.”

Ty thought about it for a moment, and after making his choice, he held out his hands and concentrated. The space above his palms shifted, much the same way it had when Sheeva had vanished. A moment later a large hardbound book appeared.

Adarra’s eyes widened as she grabbed it out of his hands. Glancing at the front cover, she quickly turned around to see if her volume of Scagoria’s Guide to Herbalism was still resting in its place on the old log. It was. And yet she held a complete replica in her hands.

“Ty, how did you . . .” She opened it up and the pages were filled with text. “You realize what this means, don’t you?” Ty shrugged. “You’ve only seen one page of this book and yet you somehow replicated it down to Scagoria’s very own hand strokes. That means you must be using my memories to create this.”

“Is that good or bad?” Ty wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing. His sister probably knew more about his magic than he did at this point. He was just captivated by the novelty of it all.

“I don’t know. But it’s fascinating. I’ll have to put some thought to it. Try something else.”

Ty didn’t even have time to think about another object when a large bowl appeared in his hands. Steam wafted over the rim and a wooden spoon stuck from the top. He glanced inside. “I guess I was hungry.”

Adarra cocked her brow. “You’re going to have to be careful what you think about. Who knows what you might conjure.”

Ty hadn’t thought about that until now. “That’s a good point. This could get really—”

Adarra let out a yelp as she raised her hand to her mouth. Ty turned around and yelped as well when he saw Lyessa standing there beside him. She was dressed in a full evening gown, but unlike the long cut of her normal style, her lavishly colored dress was rather provocatively revealing. Ty’s face turned red. “What the . . .” Quickly he wiped his hand through the image and it vanished.

Adarra lowered her head, pretending to look at her parchment, but it did little to stop her giggling.

“I can explain.” Ty’s face was completely flushed. He could feel his temperature rising. The burning sensation inside had grown considerably.

“Ty! What is that?”

“What?” He spun around to see what she was referring to. “I don’t see anything.”

“No! Your hands! Look at your hands!”

Ty raised his hands and yelped again. They were on fire. But unlike any fire he’d ever seen, these flames were a vibrant blue. As fast as he could, he waved them in the air, trying to extinguish the image like he’d done with Lyessa, but this time the push didn’t leave.

He began to hop around as he flailed his arms in an attempt to get rid of the flames. “Help! It won’t quit!”

“Ty, let me see that!” Adarra hopped up from her seat and headed in his direction. “I don’t think that’s a push.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ty, I can feel the heat.”

“I don’t feel anything.” Ty glanced at his flame-covered hands. There was no warmth at all. His hands felt normal. They tingled just a little bit, but that was all. “Well, when I made you see the book, did you feel it?”

“You’re right. I did feel it.”

“Then how do we know if it’s real or not?”

Her brow wrinkled in thought. “Try using it to affect something here,” she said, glancing around the small dirt path, “something real.” She looked over her shoulder. “Like those leaves over there.”

Ty turned to see where she was pointing. There was a small pile of leaves in front of a large palmetto. He started toward the pile but only went a couple of steps when a ball of blue flame unexpectedly flew from his right hand and ignited not only the leaves but the large bush behind it as well.

“How did you do that?”

“I don’t know.” He went to hold his hands out for Adarra to inspect, but she swiftly dove out of the way.

“Watch where you’re pointing that thing! Are you trying to kill me?”

Ty quickly lowered his hands and the flames disappeared. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

She struggled back to her feet. “Oy!” she said as she slapped her forehead. “You’re going to be the death of me.” She turned and walked over to the bush where it continued to burn a greenish blue. “I think we can safely say that this is no mirage.”

Ty could feel the heat emanating from the flames. “What is happening to me?”

Adarra twisted her head around. Her expression was sympathetic. “I don’t know, Ty. No one has ever had more than a single gift before that I know of. I would say you’re lucky, but given the circumstances, maybe not.” She shook her head. “I wish I had a better answer. I’m afraid that, apart from the White Tower, that wizard who found you is probably the only other person who knows why this is happening.”

As sincere as his sister was in her effort to console him, Ty found her attempt to be less than comforting. She was right, though. He needed to find Nyalis. He had to get some answers. Why was he so different from everyone else? He was sure it had something to do with why the White Tower was supposedly hunting him.

Chapter 25 | Rhydan

HIGH KING RHYDAN rolled onto his side, wrapped his arm around his wife and pulled her close. “I don’t want to get up. I decree we stay in today. You think anyone would notice?”

“Of course not. Who would notice the king and queen missing?” Ellise rolled over to face him. “Though it would be nice.” She ran her hands through his hair, which had long since gone gray with age. “Do you have anything special planned for the ambassadors’ last day?”

“I thought about taking them on a hunt. The grouse are good this time of year and our spaniels could use a little exercise—”

“They aren’t the only ones,” Ellise said with a small poke to his waistline.

“Watch it, woman—”

“I’m trying not to.”

Rhydan couldn’t help but chuckle. “A diversion would be a welcome change from these constant meetings where nothing of value ever gets accomplished, unless of course you count new and creative ways of insulting each other without appearing to do so.” He grunted with exasperation.

“Just make sure they don’t shoot each other,” Ellise said with a teasing smile. “Although, I don’t believe there would be too many who’d complain if a stray arrow were to strike the Cylmaran Ambassador.”

Rhydan laughed. “Treacherous talk like that keeps me thankful you’re not my enemy, dearest.”

Ellise playfully touched Rhydan’s nose with her finger. “And don’t you forget it.”

“You wouldn’t let me.” He pulled her close and let his lips hold tight to hers.

After taking breakfast in his room with Ellise, Rhydan dressed and retreated to his study where he drew up a formal request for each of the ambassadors to join him on a hunt that afternoon. Upon dispatching his notices, he sent a runner to inform both Commander Tolin and the Guardian Protector of his desire to meet with them straightaway.

Within less than ten minutes, both men were standing outside his study door awaiting announcement by one of the duty guards. Commander Tolin was a large grizzly bear of a man, almost a head taller than the guardian. He had a short, well-groomed beard that covered his strong features. His face bore the scars of previously fought battles. His thick hair, which was showing more than a touch of gray at the sides, was pulled back and tied off with a red strip.

The duty guard stepped inside and acknowledged their presence. With a fist to his chest in salute, the guard waited for the two men to pass.

Rhydan stood from behind his finely crafted desk and pointed to a grouping of prearranged chairs. Each was cut from the same black walnut as the desk and held a splat of interwoven, hand-carved vines and leaves around the outer edge. “Take a seat, gentlemen.” The two waited for him to sit before reclining onto the soft velvet cushions. “I will be joining the ambassadors on a hunt this afternoon at first hour.” Rhydan crossed his right leg as he sunk further into his seat. “Commander Tolin, I would like you to arrange for a full lancer escort.” He raised his hand. “Now before you say anything, I know it’s not customary to use a full guard for a simple hunt, but I would like to present our guests with a strong show of force before they leave.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Might I suggest Overcaptain Asa with second company?”

“I’ll leave the details in your capable hands, Commander, although I would like you to join us.”

Tolin bowed his head. “It would be my pleasure, Your Majesty.”

“I’m sure you will need to see to your men, Commander, so don’t let me keep you.”

Taking the gentle hint, Tolin stood and offered another deep bow. “By your leave, Your Majesty.”

Rhydan nodded his approval. It was easy to see why Commander Tolin was so respected by the lancers. The man was a paragon of virtue. His actions spoke volumes. He never had to raise his voice for his orders to be carried out. His men would follow him into the Pits of Aran’gal if he wished it. Rhydan was truly thankful for the commander’s support.

Once the doors had completely closed behind Tolin, Rhydan shifted his attention to Ayrion. “Considering your last encounter with our esteemed ambassador from Cylmar, I want your presence felt at every available opportunity.” He leaned forward. “Overlord Saryn has been testing our resolve for the last two seasons by paying off armsmen to raid our outlying villages. The only thing men like Saryn respect is someone more dangerous than they are. We need to present such a visage, and hope Ambassador Belkor will relay those sentiments before more drastic measures are required.”

“As your guardian, it is my solemn duty to stand by your side, Your Majesty.”

Hearing the guardian’s declaration filled Rhydan with pride. His face softened. “I would like to believe it is for more than mere duty that you do so, Ayrion.”

This sentiment caught Ayrion off guard. “Your Highness, there is no one I respect more or hold in higher esteem.” Ayrion cleared his throat. “You saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself. You gave me a purpose as well as a home, and for that I could never begin to repay you except through my service. I could never hope for, or expect, more.”

Rhydan leaned back in his seat with a heavy sigh. “There are times I wish . . .” He lowered his head. “Well, no matter. No sense dwelling on what is not.” He smiled at the young warrior in black. “Your service honors me, Ayrion. It always has. If only my own flesh and blood could do the same.”

Ayrion’s face tensed. “I am sure the prince cares, Your Majesty.”

Rhydan lowered his head. “If only I could believe that. I fear I’ve been far too lenient in his upbringing.” Because of his own forceful upbringing, by a father who cared more for his position than his family, Rhydan had always said he would not do the same with his own children. He was beginning to wonder if that had been a mistake as well.

He took a deep breath and released it. Rhydan could tell the topic of conversation was making Ayrion feel uncomfortable so he shifted it to something a little more upbeat. “The queen tells me you have been seen on more than one occasion in the gardens with a certain young lady.”

Rhydan had caught his guardian off-guard. “Oh. Uh . . . yes, Your Majesty. I find her company quite . . .” He looked like he was struggling to find the appropriate word. “Rewarding.”

“Rewarding?” Rhydan laughed. “Not quite the word I might have used for a beautiful young woman, but maybe things have changed since I was young and in love.”

It was painfully obvious to Rhydan the uncomfortable nature the conversation was having on Ayrion as the young man felt the sudden urge to study the intricate weave on the arm of his chair. Ayrion would rather take on an army of Scorvinians from out of the Westlands than find himself discussing matters of the heart. “Well, I’m sure you have plenty to do before the hunt,” Rhydan said, letting Ayrion off the hook. “So I will release you to it before I embarrass you further.”

Ayrion, not quite leaping, stood to his feet. “Yes, Your Majesty, I mean, no, Your Majesty, I mean . . .” Apparently too flustered to continue, he simply bowed. “By your leave.”

Rhydan nodded. His eyes flickered with a trace of humor as Ayrion made a quick retreat.

With the last of his appointments for the morning taken care of, Rhydan decided that instead of a written invitation, he would personally invite his son to attend the hunt. It had been a long time since Dakaran had accompanied him anywhere. His son had grown more distant over the last few years. No matter how much he tried to include Dakaran in the royal affairs, the prince never seemed to find the interest. He was either too busy, or too tired, or too full of wine. Rhydan couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his son without a glass in his hand. He had hoped that a little of Ayrion’s personality would have rubbed off on his son. It was one of the main reasons he had chosen Ayrion as a playmate for Dakaran as children. There had always been something special about the little street rat.

Rhydan had hoped that Dakaran’s recent act of choosing a personal advisor had signified that he was going to turn his life around and finally start taking on some accountability, but instead, he seemed to be getting worse. Ellise had counseled him to use a firm hand with their son, but Rhydan knew from experience with his own father that a firm hand wasn’t always the answer. And now, Rhydan was afraid that it might be too late to make a difference.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked on his son’s door and entered.

The prince’s chambers were lavish and perhaps a bit extravagant in their décor, which was just another indicator marking the many differences that separated them. Dakaran enjoyed the finer pleasures life had to offer and had no timidity in flaunting such.

In the next room, Rhydan could see his son lying prostrate upon his enormous canopy bed. It was centrally butted against the right wall of his sleeping chambers. A set of ornate doors, connecting the prince’s private chambers to the large sitting room where Rhydan waited, stood open.

Dakaran slid off the bed and bowed. “Your Majesty.”

Rhydan could see his son was already in a mood. “Dakaran, in private, I’m your father, not your king.”

“Rather hard to distinguish the two,” the prince said as he sauntered into the sitting room, his cloak hanging half-off one shoulder.

With a regretful sigh, Rhydan lowered his head. “And perhaps that fault lies with me.” Dakaran looked stunned. He also looked to be readying himself for a sarcastic riposte but evidently thought better of it. “My father was ambitious, to say the least. And more often than not it was his family who paid the price. I didn’t want that to happen with mine.”

Rhydan took another step into the room and waved off his statement. “Enough about old history. I was hoping you would join me and the ambassadors on a hunt this afternoon. I would enjoy your company. It’s been quite a few seasons since we’ve shot together and I thought it might be a way for us to spend some quality time.”

“Is this a request, or a command?”

Rhydan felt his composure begin to slip. “It’s a request from a father to his son. I’ll leave it to you. We leave at first hour.” He didn’t wait around for another argument. He hoped his son would accept his offer, but he wasn’t going to hold his breath.

Chapter 26 | Ayrion

FIRST HOUR OF the afternoon arrived much sooner than Ayrion had anticipated.

Shade, Ayrion’s spirited stallion, was saddled and waiting for him when he arrived at the High Guard stables. Holding the muscular warhorse’s reins was Loren, one of the royal hoslters. He was a little taller than Ayrion and lanky, with loose brown hair and a smooth face. He held out the thick straps of leather for Ayrion as he approached. “Here you are, sir.”

Ayrion took the reins and walked around to face the magnificent animal. Shade gently nuzzled Ayrion’s palm as he reached out to rub his head. “Hello, old friend. I’ve missed you too.” He was indeed a magnificent animal. Bred in the wild on the Rymiran Plains, the horse was the epitome of strength, endurance, and intelligence. His midnight color was accented by a single strip of white that ran directly down the bridge of his face, from his forelock to the tip of his flaring nostrils.

Ayrion glanced over his shoulder. “Has he been fed?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve also taken the liberty to warm him for you. I’d hate to see a beautiful animal like Shade injured because of improper grooming, sir.”

Ayrion stepped into the left stirrup and mounted. “You’re a good hostler, Loren. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Your feel for the animals does you credit.”

“I thank you, Guardian. I only wish there were more like you who actually understood the bond between horse and rider.”

Ayrion smiled. He rode toward the front gates. His horse’s shoes echoed off the courtyard stone. Commander Tolin was saddled and chatting with Overcaptain Asa, as Ayrion made his way to the front of the two lancer companies that were waiting directly behind the gatehouse walls.

Despite being labeled as a commoner, Overcaptain Asa had quickly risen through the ranks. He was short but well-built. The full ducktail beard hanging from his chin tapered into a sharp point, and the jagged scar that ran from the top of his right eye down and across the side of his right cheek gave him the distinct appearance of a man you didn’t want to mess with.

The overcaptain had opted for not wearing his eye patch. He occasionally enjoyed touting his empty socket for no other purpose than to make those around him nervous. From the way Asa continued to glance over his shoulder at the ambassadors, this was clearly one of those times.

Ayrion reined in beside Tolin. “Everything in order?”

Asa twisted in his saddle. “Everything but those royal pains in my backside, the all high and mighty ambassadors.” He spat on the ground in front of him.

The commander smiled. “I can’t say that I disagree with the sentiment, Overcaptain, but we have a duty to perform, and we will perform it to the best of our ability no matter how distasteful we might feel it is.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Asa said, twisting the reins around in his gloved hands, “I never meant to suggest we wouldn’t. I just don’t got to enjoy it, that’s all.”

Tolin chuckled then looked at Ayrion. “Everything’s in order. You?”

“I left Captain Barthol in charge while we are gone, so I suspect everything should be just fine.”

“Good man, Barthol,” Tolin said.

“He is. Wish I had a hundred just like him.” Ayrion turned at the sound of approaching hooves. The High King, along with the ambassadors, made their way toward the front of the procession. Ayrion left the commander and overcaptain to make his way to the front in order to better protect the king.

The caravan was moving toward the outer palace gates when a solitary rider rounded the south bailey. Ayrion shifted in his saddle to see Dakaran trotting up to take his place behind his father. Ayrion couldn’t help but notice the king’s smile.

Behind the ambassadors rode the High Guard, their black capes billowing out behind them, keeping close assurance to the king’s safety. Following the Guard was the royal gamekeeper, an older man bent with age. He was in charge of making sure to locate the best possible habitats for the grouse they would be hunting. After him were the crossbowmen and the veneur, carrying the spaniels used for the rustling of the grouse. And lastly, bringing up the rear, were the Elondrian lancers. The sun reflected off their helms as they rode two abreast.

Altogether, it was quite the impressive entourage that made its way under the arches of the central gates and across the high bridge. Below the mighty Shemoa River was met with the force of the bay’s tide.

Passing over the causeway, they made their way through the streets of Aramoor. With welcoming smiles, the citizenry waved at the High King as he passed. Rhydan smiled politely and nodded as they traveled along the chief thoroughfare leading out to the city’s Eastern Gate. Rhydan was the first king in anyone’s memory that cared more about them than he did himself.

Ayrion had spent countless hours attending the open-door sessions the king held in the throne room where he encouraged the citizens of Aramoor to come and make their petitions. Mostly, the king and queen enjoyed spending time with their people, getting to know their needs. Obviously, with a city the size of Aramoor, it would have been impossible to personally tend to everyone, but the gesture didn’t go unnoticed.

Ayrion could remember a time when the king had personally ordered his own coffers used to help a struggling home for unruly boys. Having been one of those boys years ago, Ayrion appreciated the sentiment.

It took nearly an hour for the rather large party to wind their way through Aramoor and pass outside the city’s fortifications. The Elondrian capital was surrounded by a massive wall that spanned the entire perimeter. It was a marvel of engineering. The wall was thick enough to stand three men at the top, fully abreast. Ayrion could only guess at the scope of manpower and magic that must have been used in its shaping. Those living within were all but guaranteed a peaceful existence. For since its construction after the Wizard Wars, the wall had never been breached.

Turning north, the hunting party followed the Tansian River as they made their way toward the foothills of the Sandrethin Mountains and the lower woodlands.

It was the perfect day for a hunt. The sun was shining and the cool breeze blowing in off the upper snowcaps kept away most of the insects populating the upper lowlands. The ash, silver maple, and slippery elm became more infrequent the higher they climbed, making way for the sugar pine, fir, spruce, and mountain hemlock.

Ayrion watched as the old gamekeeper left the assembly and rode on ahead to scout possible locations for their hunt.

Periodically, Ayrion would turn in the saddle to make sure he had set a reasonable pace. The king was busy working to keep a steady conversation flowing with his son while the ambassadors were more than content to talk amongst themselves, pointing out the landscape or the occasional animal which happened to pass within sight. Only one of the ambassadors maintained a steady eye on Ayrion. He could feel the Cylmaran’s hatred stabbing at his back like a hot iron poker. Ayrion wondered what was driving such overwhelming hatred.

About an hour into their journey, Ayrion caught sight of the royal gamekeeper standing beside his mount off to the side of the main road. He signaled the hunting party to a halt.

Ayrion shifted in his saddle. “I believe the gamekeeper has found our quarry, Your Majesty. We should go on foot from here.”

Ambassador Gyin, who was barely managing to stay on his horse as his weight bounced around at every dip and turn, was the first to speak. “On foot? I can’t see why we shouldn’t be able to shoot these birds from a horse just as easily as from the ground.”

“If you’ll permit me, Ambassador,” Ayrion said. “The noise produced from a contingent of horses such as these would undoubtedly frighten off any creature long before we were within a respectable shooting distance.”

“Well, just how long of a walk are we talking about here?”

“As long as it needs to be, sir, but I would hope not that far.”

The king gracefully swung down from his horse. “Come now, Gyin, I’ll be more than happy to entertain those at dinner this evening with the heroic tale of our hunt, not leaving out, of course, the fearless ambassador who stayed behind to watch the horses.”

Gyin grumbled under his breath as he awkwardly dismounted.

The lancers held the horses as Ayrion motioned for the crossbowmen and the dog-handlers to approach. He addressed the veneur first as they lowered the spaniels. “Follow the gamekeeper up the trailhead and see if the dogs can find a scent. The bowmen will ready the weapons as you do.” Without question, the dog-handlers headed up the path the old gamekeeper had just taken.

Each of the bowmen loaded a broad-head quarrel into the groove of their crossbows after first using the stirrup to pull back on the string and lock the hemp in place.

As soon as the bows were ready, the small party made their way up the gentle sloping track, winding further into the lower foothills of the mountain’s base. Ten lancers selected by Overcaptain Asa were left in charge of the horses while those remaining followed the party up the trail, keeping to a safe distance in the rear so as not to startle the hunter’s game.

One by one the hunters exited the trail. They were standing in a large meadow. The veneur kept a tight rein on the dogs, allowing the High King and ambassadors the time needed to catch up.

After a brief discussion with the dog-handlers and the gamekeeper, Ayrion walked back to the eagerly awaiting huntsmen. “Our gamekeeper seems to believe there is a decent size covey nesting in those low lying shrubs on the far left side of the meadow. He believes if we keep our noise to a minimum, we should be able to approach within at least thirty paces before he orders the veneur to release the dogs. Once the dogs are released, you’ll have only moments before they hit the tree line and the birds fly. You’ll only get one shot, two at the most.”

Nierdon, the ambassador to Keldor, took a step forward. “What happens if we miss?”

“Then you will need to hand your crossbow back to the bowman and he’ll hand you a fresh bow and re-load the spent one for you.” Ayrion scanned the faces of the small group. “Don’t get too upset if your first shot is a miss. Many times, I’ve been told the grouse will fly only far enough to perch in a nearby tree, and if all else fails this is still only the first stop.”

“First stop?” Gyin’s head lifted. “I hope you don’t expect us to just go traipsing all over the mountainside like a pack of wild goats?”

“For pity sake, Gyin,” Lanmiere interrupted, “the fresh air might do you some good, not to mention the exercise.” The Sidaran Ambassador looked a bit put out by the Briston Ambassador’s whining.

A couple of the other ambassadors stifled a chuckle while Gyin huffed at the remark about his weight and tugged on his trousers.

“Ambassadors, if you would, please take your crossbows,” Ayrion said. “We will be walking in silence the rest of the way. I’ll raise my hand when we get within shooting distance.” He demonstrated the hand motion. “When I lower it, the veneur will release the dogs and the rest will be up to you.”

The king took hold of his crossbow. “Thank you, Guardian, I believe they get the picture.” Ayrion hoped so. He was getting a bit tired of acting like a mother hound trying to explain the use of its teats to a passel of ornery pups.

With nothing left to say after the High King’s statement, the rest of the party retrieved their weapons and formed a simple line formation to make sure no overenthusiastic hunter released his quarrel into another’s unsuspecting back—whether by accident or not.

Without a word, the small party advanced, and with each new step, Ayrion could feel the tension building. With the amount of raw vitality pouring off the ambassadors, one would have believed they were marching into battle against a horde of rock trolls and not a nest of defenseless grouse.

Commander Tolin, Overcaptain Asa, and the main lancer company kept their place at the entrance to the large meadow, not wanting to disturb the nobility’s sport, but clearly staying within eye-shot in case the need should arise. The High Guard accompanying the king kept a few steps behind the small party, giving them plenty of space to enjoy their hunt, but close enough that they could reach the king within a moment’s notice.

Ayrion, a few steps in front of the gentry, watched the old gamekeeper as he tried reading a few of the tracks in the soft dirt. The old man turned his head around to signal something to Ayrion, but stopped when the forest went still. Both the gamekeeper and Ayrion froze. Ayrion could feel it. Something was wrong. They were being watched. Quickly, he raised his fist, signaling the hunters behind him to stop.

“What’s wrong?” Ambassador Gyin asked under his breath. “Where’s the birds?”

“Hush, you fat fool,” Belkor spat.

With eyes scanning the forest ahead, Ayrion cautiously backed his way toward the rest of the men as he drew one sword and then the other from the sheaths on his back.

The dogs were now baring their teeth and growling at something ahead. The veneur quickly set the spaniels back on the ground. They studied the surrounding trees, trying to find the cause of the dog’s unexpected behavior.

Ayrion moved alongside the king, who was keeping a watchful eye on the trees as well. The king’s finger gently stroked the tip of his crossbow’s release clamp. “What’s going on?”

The ambassadors were all looking his way.

“Something’s wrong. Do you hear it?”

“I don’t hear anything,” Ambassador Lanmiere said.

“Exactly.” Ayrion didn’t like what he was feeling. “We need to close rank.”

Chapter 27 | Ayrion

NO SOONER HAD the words escaped his lips than an enormous, misshapen creature, standing at least ten feet tall, leaped out of the thick brush at the edge of the trees and stuck five massive claws through the old gamekeeper’s chest. The man didn’t even have time to cry out before he died.

Ambassador Gyin shrilled in terror.

With blood still dripping from its dagger-like claws, the creature retracted its hand from the gamekeeper’s chest and let the old man’s body drop to the ground. The creature reared on its haunches and let out a bloodcurdling roar. The sound could best be described as something between the howl of a feral beast and the cry of something so badly formed that every movement brought with it intense pain.

In all the battles and hard campaigns he had fought and endured, Ayrion was, for the first time, truly afraid. But it wasn’t the type of fear that petrified a man into a state of immobility; rather, it was the fear of the unknown. The fear of facing something he didn’t understand or even comprehend. Ayrion pushed the thoughts from his mind. Defeat was not an option, not when the life of his king weighed in the balance.

Ayrion studied the beast. It was more than twice the size of a man when it stood on its back haunches. It was poorly fashioned, a conglomeration of many different species all pieced together. It was human in shape, but twisted with a fusing of other animalistic features. Wrapped in layers of muscle, its skeletal structure bulged in some places, as if the bones wanted to push through the skin.

Halfway through its roar, the dogs tucked tail and ran. Behind him, Ayrion could hear Tolin shouting orders for Asa to bring the horses. The commander and his men were no doubt on their way across the large field, which left only Ayrion and his Guard to hold the creature off until they arrived.

The creature scanned the now circled group of men before coming to a final rest on the High King. Ayrion was dumbfounded. He could see a sense of intelligence at work behind its dark eyes. It was not mere quirk of fate that had directed this beast across their path. Moving into a defensive posture with his swords out in front, Ayrion closed his eyes and reached out with his senses as he waited for what he knew was coming.

Beside him, the king pulled his sword. The steel rang as it slid free of its scabbard. Dakaran, as well, had his sword out and at the ready.

The small hunting party was twenty or thirty paces from the edge of the brush where the creature stood. It roared once more and then charged.

Most of the ambassadors, never having faced real combat before, triggered their crossbows without so much as taking aim. It was only by a twist of fate they managed to keep from shooting each other. Behind them, the veneur, deciding their dogs had more common sense than they did, fled in the same direction. In an overwhelming state of panic, Ambassador Gyin threw down his bow and left the rest of them to their fates.

“Gyin! You coward! Get back here!” Ambassador Belkor hollered after him before turning back to face the charging monster.

The creature was more agile than Ayrion would have guessed for something its size. It closed the distance between them with a few strong lunges. Ayrion could see it had no intention of stopping, and there was no way to stop something that large once it had built up momentum. As fast as he could, he threw himself into the king and prince, knocking them to the side as the beast barreled through the High Guard. It missed its intended target and rolled to a stop.

Two of Ayrion’s men went down in the initial impact, trampled under the beast’s hind feet. The remaining four hacked at the creature as best they could, fighting to stay clear of its deadly reach. The bowmen quickly reset the quarrels from the ambassadors’ first volley and fired again. The bolts protruded from the creature’s thick hide, but with little to no effect. Ayrion wondered where a creature like this had managed to stay hidden.

Ayrion ducked as the beast back-swung its right arm with tremendous force. It caught one of his guards in the chest and threw him through the air, where he landed a good ten paces away in a heap. Ayrion dove underneath its next swing and cut a deep gash along its lower arm. Rearing back in pain, the creature turned and grabbed a second guard, biting through the man’s neck and throwing his body over its shoulder before the guard had a chance to even swing his sword.

Ayrion couldn’t believe the power the creature possessed. He had to find a way to kill it, if not for the king, then for his men. It ripped at his heart to watch those under his leadership being torn apart without being able to stop it.

Twisting around, the creature locked eyes with Ayrion. It bared its blood-soaked fangs in defiance, letting Ayrion know his time was up.

Ayrion saw this as an opportunity and angled himself to the left in order to draw the beast’s attention away from the king and the ambassadors. He needed to give Tolin and his lancers enough time to get into position. He watched the creature, the way it moved, the reach of its claws, and the position of its attack. As inhuman as it was, there was something about its eyes that kept drawing his attention. They were almost sad. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought the creature had no more desire to be in this battle than they did.

Unable to determine why the monster had him so unnerved, Ayrion felt the tug of his magic and steadied himself for the attack. Sure enough, the creature dove. Ayrion spun to the side, ducking underneath the creature’s arms, and cut deep into the thick muscle of its left leg. The creature reeled in anger and caught Ayrion in the arm. Its claws tore clean through Ayrion’s leather coat and opened a nasty gash diagonally across his upper shoulder. The pain was intense, but Ayrion’s fingers remained locked in place around the hilt of his sword.

The creature struck again, its massive claws reaching for the kill. Ayrion sidestepped and deflected the creature’s arm with his swords, hoping to hit the beast from behind, but instead, he tripped over a fallen guard and went down. Without hesitating, he rolled. His instincts saved his life as the creature buried its claws into the back of the fallen guard beside him.

Flipping back to his feet, Ayrion watched as the half-animal, half-human monster shook the dead guard from its hand and twisted around to find him. Over his shoulder, Ayrion could see that Tolin had managed to get a contingent of his lancers around the royal family and their guests. The commander approached with a squad of polemen, their halberds were held out with tips aimed at the creature.

“You look like you could use some help.”

“Could have used it a while ago.”

The creature continued to circle their position. It seemed to be drawing them away from the main group, but as long as the beast continued to put distance between itself and the king, Ayrion was more than happy to accommodate.

Tolin and his men formed a line on either side of Ayrion. The commander grunted. “I tell you, these grouse get bigger every year.”

Ayrion almost laughed but the sound of another set of roars tore the urge right out of him. “What in the name of . . .” All heads turned at once as two more creatures flew out of the trees behind them and hit the rear flank of the lancer guard protecting the king.

The sudden diversion gave the first creature the opportunity to attack, but instead of coming directly for Ayrion, it lunged at the commander and his squad. Half a dozen lancers were ripped apart before Tolin managed to thrust his halberd into the creature’s left shoulder and force it back. The creature screamed in fury as it split Tolin’s halberd in half and caught the commander in the leg, knocking him to the ground. Before it could finish him off, Ayrion was there blocking and countered the creature’s strikes.

“Protect the commander!” Ayrion hollered at the remaining lancers. “I’ve got to save the king!” Breaking off his engagement with the first creature, Ayrion ran toward the growing foray on the other side of the large meadow. The two creatures were fighting to reach Rhydan, but were momentarily being blocked by what remained of the High Guard and the Sidaran lancers. Ayrion could see it wasn’t going to be enough.

From the corner of his eye, Ayrion saw Asa come riding out of the forest path near the front of the valley. His lancers were right behind him, each leading two or three horses apiece. He could hear the rugged overcaptain barking his orders. “Sergeant, take some men and help the commander! The rest with me!”

By the time Ayrion reached the others, Rhydan and Dakaran were swinging widely at one of the creatures, fighting as best they could to keep out of the way of its deadly claws. Ambassadors Lanmiere and Belkor were standing over top of a wounded Nierdon, defending their position with a couple of the polearms they had retrieved from the fallen.

Sheathing his swords, Ayrion reached down and grabbed a fallen halberd being held in place by a severed arm. Not taking the time to remove the bloody limb, he pushed his way in front of the king and drove it into the creature’s unprotected abdomen. The beast recoiled, causing Ayrion to lose his grip as the wooden shaft hit him in the chest and sent him spinning. It didn’t penetrate as far as he would have liked, but it did force the beast to momentarily retract.

Ayrion could see that one-on-one tactics were not going to do much in this fight. They were going to need to rely on numbers and brute force. A cut here and a stab there wasn’t going to get the job done. He needed to find a weak spot.

The creature spun on Ayrion, but already anticipating the attack, Ayrion pushed the king out of the way and rolled underneath as the beast severed the head of the lancer that had been standing next to him and skewered a second with its right claws. Ayrion’s shoulder was throbbing. He could feel blood dripping from his hand as he fought to keep the numbness at bay. He had to do something. These men’s deaths were on him if he didn’t.

Hopping back to his feet, Ayrion turned to find the creature staring down at him. It appeared to be smiling, or as close to it as it could manage. Ayrion held its gaze. He suddenly realized he had just found a weak spot.

The creature reared back to strike, but the sound of harsh language being spewed from an even harsher one-eyed overcaptain forced its attention elsewhere.

Asa rode in with his cavalry reserves, swinging his heavy battle-axe in one hand while keeping a tight rein on his horse with the other.

Ayrion moved the king and the prince behind what was left of the lancer formation. He left them there as he circled back. Pulling one of his black blades, he waited for the beast to turn in his direction before launching it directly at the creature’s head. As he had so many other times before, Ayrion could feel the accuracy of the throw from the moment it left his hand. The creature screamed as the steel buried itself to the hilt inside its right eye. Its body stiffened as it hit the ground.

Witnessing the death of one of their own, the two remaining creatures fought all the harder. Rage with deadly purpose drove them to the extreme, acting on sheer impulse instead of instinct as if they were being compelled without a will of their own.

The second of the two beasts, still battling to reach the king, was being brought to bear with the new arrival of the mounted troops. The overwhelming numbers were managing to not only hold it at bay, but drive it back.

The creature tore at the soldiers with the fierceness of insanity. It satiated its hunger on the gore of both man and horse. All around, lancers were being ripped apart. Their remains coated the ground.

The creature managed to thwart the cavalry’s advance by slashing at their horse’s legs to bring them down. Ayrion retrieved his blade and swung himself onto Shade. His enormous warhorse had found his way to Ayrion without prodding. Ayrion spared a quick glance across the field where Commander Tolin was limping heavily on one leg while he and his men did everything they could to hold the first creature back.

Ayrion directed Shade straight at the second beast.

Asa took a hit to the midsection and was thrown from his mount, spouting insults the whole way down. Ayrion dug in his heels and Shade charged directly into the side of the creature just as it was about to take a swing at Dakaran. The force of Shade’s body, and a precise thrust of his blade into its side, knocked the creature sideways, giving the lancers a chance to skewer its legs with their halberds. With a cry of pain, it fell backwards.

“Kill it while it’s down!” the king shouted as he charged forward and thrust his long blade into the beast’s side. Dakaran, Belkor, and what remained of the lancers joined the king. Within moments, they had hacked the creature apart.

A furious cry resounded from the first creature on the other side of the meadow as it punched its way through what was left of the commander’s lancers, scattering them like leaves in the wind. Ayrion could see it was making one final effort to reach the king. Without hesitating, Ayrion kicked Shade into motion.

As if sensing his rider’s urgency, Shade bounded forward toward the coming creature. With nostrils flaring and dirt flying in all directions, the dark warhorse fought to give Ayrion every last bit of speed it had. The two had fought side by side so many times before that they could almost sense each other’s needs.

Fifteen paces. Ten paces. Five. Ayrion stood from the back of his saddle and leaped into the air with both blades out and ready to strike.

Realizing that there was no backing down now, the creature turned its head and roared as Ayrion came down on top of it. The speed of his descent drove both his blades straight through and out the back of the creature’s neck. In one fluid motion, Ayrion landed, rolled, and was back on his feet with both his swords outstretched beside him, tips to the ground.

The creature’s last breath came out as an eerie sort of whimper.

“Close rank! Close rank!” Tolin hollered as he limped his way across the meadow to what remained of the king’s hunting party.

Those still standing quickly formed a small circle, shoulder to shoulder. No matter their title, whether king, ambassador, or ranker, they stood side by side with sword and lance in hand waiting to face down whatever might be coming. Ayrion, along with his one remaining High Guard, stood in front of the king, both swords drawn.

After a long stretch of silence, Ayrion could feel the tension beginning to lift. He reached out with his senses but they came back empty, which he figured didn’t mean a whole lot since his ability only gave him a few seconds warning. But from the stillness, it appeared they had weathered the storm.

Chapter 28 | Ayrion

THE LARGE CLEARING smelled of turned earth and death.

The metallic stench was only slightly abated by the cool breeze coming off the mountains behind them. The wind whistled through the surrounding trees as the noises of the forest had once again returned, bringing with it a renewed sense of hope and gratitude at having been given a second chance at life.

After sending a few men out to scout the surrounding wood, and finding no other creatures lying in wait, the king ordered them to start gathering the wounded. Tolin suggested setting up a small encampment near the center of the open valley which would put as much distance as they could between them and the surrounding tree line in case of further attack.

Ayrion’s arm ached from the deep lacerations he’d received in the attack. He had cleaned them as best he could and packed some material under his coat to keep the bleeding contained. His coat, on the other hand, was a different matter. It was going to need a good tailor.

After helping Tolin gather the fallen for the healer to attend, Ayrion sat down to clean the blood from his blades. As he did, he kept a close eye on Rhydan. He wasn’t about to let the king out of his sight. Ayrion had never faced anything like this before. Their entire party had nearly been wiped out in just a matter of moments. The realization of what had happened shook him. How could he protect the king against an enemy for which he knew nothing?

“Those have got to be the best investments I have ever made,” Rhydan said as he walked over and sat down. Ayrion started to rise but the king motioned for him to remain seated. Rhydan lifted one of the short, tempered swords from Ayrion’s lap and inspected the black steel. “If I had only known the extent of craftsmanship going into them, I would have ordered one for myself. I still might.”

Ayrion could tell the king was trying to sound upbeat. Rhydan had always been one to instill a sense of strength in those he led. “They are indeed beautiful weapons, Your Majesty.” Ayrion raised a hand to block the setting sun from his eyes. “I never did ask you where they had been procured.”

“I was told they came from a small shop in Rhowynn, nothing too special about the place, or the smith for that matter, except he was known to forge steel in a way that made it near indestructible. Of course, I was a bit skeptical at first considering the price. But . . .” He shrugged. “I figured it couldn’t hurt to try. Besides, if they had turned out to be less than worthy, I could have always given them to one of the overlords as a gift.”

Ambassador Belkor grunted, apparently not finding the king’s humor to his liking.

Ayrion balanced the other blade in his hand. “I would say he lived up to his word, Your Majesty.”

“Aye, indeed he did.” Rhydan ran a gloved hand through his gray beard. “With talent like that, I’m going to have to track the man down and offer him the position of Royal Weapons Smith before someone else recognizes his abilities and steals him away.”

Commander Tolin limped his way over with a little help from a large halberd.

“Do we know how many casualties yet, Commander?”

Ayrion finished wiping down his other sword and stood as Tolin approached. “We lost all but two of the High Guard, Your Majesty.”

Tolin shook his head and sighed. “We also lost the better part of two companies of lancers and three of our five bowmen. The last time we saw the veneur, they were chasing down their dogs, probably halfway to Aramoor by now, much like our Keldoran Ambassador. From what I saw, he was fleeing into the woods like the Defiler had called his name.”

“We need to send some men to make sure he’s found,” the king said. “It’s easy to get lost in there.”

“I’ll see to it, Your Majesty.” Tolin bowed and limped in the direction of Overcaptain Asa, who was still tending to their fallen.

Rhydan waited until Tolin was out of earshot before turning back around to Ayrion. “To be honest, I can’t much blame the ambassador. One look at those creatures and I was nearly ready to join him.” He took a deep breath. “I can’t tell you the last time I’ve been so frightened. Not just for me, but for my kingdom, for all our kingdoms. Something is changing,” he said as he pushed his fist into his gut. “I can feel it in here.”

Ayrion didn’t know how to respond except to nod in agreement. To hear the king speak in such a manner was frightening enough, but knowing he was right was even more so.

After sliding his blades into their sheaths, Ayrion followed the king over to where the prince knelt, studying one of the downed beasts. “I don’t know what to believe,” Rhydan said. “I’ve always heard stories growing up about the creatures that were here before the Great Purge, but to be honest, I never believed them. I thought they were just old tales the common folk used to gain a few drinks at the tavern, or scare their children into obeying, but here we are standing next to not just one, but three.” He placed his foot on the top of the closest and tried shoving it to the side to get a better look. “These things don’t look natural.”

Ayrion knelt across from Dakaran to get a closer look. “I agree. They look to have been created by the darkest of magic.”

The prince stiffened at the mention of dark magic.

Ayrion lifted his head. “Did you notice the way they seemed to be focused on you, Your Majesty?”

“I did. But I was hoping I was the only one who noticed.”

“There was definitely intelligence behind their actions, but it seemed to be driven by some sort of need.”

“I don’t like the implication.”

“Neither do I, Your Majesty.” Ayrion stood back to his feet and looked out across the meadow. “Neither do I.”

Rhydan turned to his son. “You’re mighty quiet, Dakaran. What are your thoughts?”

The prince didn’t raise his head. He slid his fingers down one side of the creature’s bloody claw. “I think we need to start allocating more resources into the White Tower’s efforts of ridding Aldor of magic.”

Rhydan didn’t say anything. He merely grunted. Ayrion knew the king had little love for magic, but he had just as little love for the White Tower. The last thing any of them needed was for the crown to divvy out more resources to the Arch Chancellor.

When his father didn’t respond, Dakaran added, “I think we are lucky to be alive.”

Rhydan reached over and laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Truer words were never spoken.”

Ayrion left the prince to his musings as he joined the king in checking on the ambassadors. Tolin and Asa were there as well, tending to their wounded.

“Your Majesty.” Tolin bowed at the king’s approach. “We’ve sent riders in search of Ambassador Gyin. I also sent lancers back to Aramoor to procure wagons to carry our dead and wounded.”

“Good thinking, Commander. I want to make for Aramoor as soon as possible. I won’t feel safe until we are back behind our walls once again.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, and assemble the men. I’d like to say a few words.”

“Right away, Your Majesty. I’m sure they would appreciate that.”

Ayrion shadowed the king. Everywhere they went, he could hear the nervous whispers of the men as they discussed the horrors of what they had seen.

A good quarter-hour had passed before all were assembled and Rhydan stepped out to address them. He raised both his arms to gather their attention. “Soldiers of Elondria,” he started with a regal air but then let it fall away with a heavy sigh. “Men . . . I want you to know that a grateful king stands before you today. A prouder king you could not find in all of the five kingdoms for the sacrifice and courage you have shown here. There are no finer warriors in all of Aldor than those of our Elondrian Lancers and High Guard, and I consider it my privilege and my honor to be counted among you.

“Our loss today is great.” Rhydan paused to scan the battleground where many of their fallen still lay. “Many of you will bury friends, comrades, fellow soldiers in arms.” He took a deep breath. “But they were more than that. They were our brothers. There is a bond that is forged in battle that cannot be broken, and there is no time that union is felt more than when they are taken from us.”

Rhydan’s disposition hardened, his words becoming more punctuated. “I do not know from where these creatures came, nor what we have yet to face, but this one thing I promise you. As long as we stand side by side those that seek the destruction of Elondria and its people will rue the day!”

The men raised their fists to their chest in salute. Rhydan stared at them, many were barely standing, some only with the help of fellow armsmen. Ayrion could see the pain reflected in the king’s eyes. Ayrion knew that pain. He felt it. It was the pain of losing men under his command, men who trusted him, followed him, men who had given their lives for him.

Rhydan bowed his head. “May the Creator gather our heroic fallen into his bosom. May He grant them rest from their labor and peace from their troubles, and may we strive to live our lives in a manner that will not bring them shame.”

A soft rumble of agreement passed through the ranks as the king, having finished speaking, turned and left.

“A moving speech, Your Majesty,” Ambassador Lanmiere remarked. He had a sling wrapped around his arm.

“No more than they deserve.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ayrion caught sight of a group of men exiting the forest. He recognized them as the search party that had been sent to find Ambassador Gyin. Those in the hunting party quickly gathered to hear their report. The sergeant dismounted and approached, bowing to the king.

“Your Majesty, we found the Keldoran Ambassador. Unfortunately, it appears the creatures found him first. He must have run right into them as they were preparing their surprise attack from behind. We collected what little we found to return to his family for burial.”

The king lowered his head. “I feared as much.”

The sergeant bowed again and stepped away in the direction of his men.

“This isn’t going to sit well with Overlord Meyrose. I will need to send a dispatch to him as soon as we get back.”

The prince spoke up. “It might also be prudent to leave out the details of the ambassador’s overabundance of self-preservation.”

“Self-preservation?” Belkor spat. “The man was a spineless coward and a glutton to boot. He got what he deserved, if you ask me.”

The king’s eyes flared. “Then I guess it’s good we’re not asking you, Belkor, and as much as I hate to admit the rather distasteful manner in which Ambassador Gyin behaved, I agree with the prince. For the sake of peace, I will merely declare him as one of the many fallen during the battle.”

“Your Majesty,” Tolin said with a slight bow of his head as he waited to see if he was interrupting anything important. When Rhydan turned around, the commander continued. “The lancers are ready to escort you back to Aramoor, sire. I’d prefer not to get caught out here after dark.”

Rhydan nodded. “I couldn’t agree more, Commander.”

It was dark before Ayrion and what was left of the hunting party rode back through the palace gates.

They were met by the queen and her staff as she anxiously waited for her husband’s safe return. Not able to hide the urgency of her steps, the queen strode across the courtyard, her head high and face calm. Her eyes scanned the king’s body. “Are you injured, my lord?” His blood-stained garments clearly not escaping her attention.

“Nothing worthy of song,” Rhydan said as he reined his horse in.

“And how is my precious son?” Ellise asked as she took a moment to study Dakaran.

He was halfway off his horse before the animal had come to a complete stop. “He’s alive, if barely,” Darkaran offered with a strong note of agitation before turning and stomping off toward the palace.

Ellise offered a relieved smile. She turned to her husband and placed a hand on his leg.

“If I had known you’d be so passionate over my returning,” Rhydan said, “I’d try being gone more often.” The king dismounted and engulfed his queen in a full embrace.

“I save it for times when I am in deep distress over your safety, my lord. Don’t expect such treatment every time you leave my sight.” She pulled out of his arms to inspect him once again. “You are truly well, then?”

“I am, and it is truly good to be home.”

“And it is good to have you home, dearest.”

“There were many who were not as fortunate I’m afraid.”

“They died protecting you, their king. There could be no greater honor.” She linked arms with her husband and led him toward the palace entrance, “Come inside, I’ll have some hot water drawn and you can tell me all about it.”

Ayrion was about to help Tolin unload their fallen when he felt the cold chill of a pair of eyes watching him. He turned to find Amarysia standing at the outer edge of the courtyard. Her posture was stiff and she appeared apprehensive as she curled a strand of her blonde hair around her fingers.

When she saw him acknowledge her presence, she rushed over and threw her arms around him. “I was so worried. As soon as the lancer sergeant delivered his message to the queen about your attack, I feared the worst.”

Ayrion held her embrace for a moment before pulling away and glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone had been watching. His cheeks flushed at such an outright show of affection in front of the king’s soldiers. As much as he enjoyed having her arms wrapped around him and her head pressed against his chest, he couldn’t allow himself to be caught up in the emotion of it all. He was the Guardian Protector, after all, and with that responsibility came a strong sense of obligation to maintain a proper decorum. A warrior just didn’t go running around grabbing women in the middle of his duties.

“I told you there’s no need to worry about me.”

“How can I help it, Ayrion, when I know you as I do? If there is fighting, you’re going to be in the middle of it, and that brings me a terrible amount of unease.”

It warmed him to know how much she cared. But duty came first. “You better catch up with the others before the queen sees you’re missing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Amarysia sighed. “Ever the soldier. You know, for once it’d be nice if you’d act like a normal man.” She reached out and laid her hand on Ayrion’s arm before hiking her skirt and taking off across the lower courtyard.

Ayrion watched her fall into the back of the small processional as it made its way toward the southwest pavilion, passing through a row of covered colonnades directly connected to the palace. Once she had moved beyond sight, he turned and walked over to the wagons where Commander Tolin was busy directing the unloading of their men.

Tolin cast a wary eye in Ayrion’s direction. “Do you ever get that uneasy feeling like the stars are out of alignment?”

“Not until recently.” Ayrion moved alongside his former mentor and watched the lancers lift the bodies of their fallen off the wagon beds and lay them in neat rows across the lower bailey for their families to claim. White sheets were placed respectfully over each. Ayrion, suffering from a sudden bout of melancholy, thought they looked like white caterpillars, all lined in a row waiting for their cocoons to open, but knowing they never would.

“I don’t know what it is, but something in my bones is telling me we haven’t seen the last of this.”

Ayrion breathed in the cold night air and released. He felt the same.

Chapter 29 | Valtor

VALTOR’S CHAMBER DOORS flew open, swinging backwards and smacking against the adjoining wall.

The Arch Chancellor, who was once again behind his mixing table pouring a dark bubbling liquid into a small glass vial while struggling to keep his red sleeves from dipping into the dirty concoction, flinched and spilled part of the contents across the top of the worn hickory, very near where he had placed his mitre. There was a slight hissing noise as the liquid ate through the wood, leaving behind a somewhat distasteful odor.

Valtor didn’t need a seer to know what was coming. He had already been anticipating it. He lowered the tube back into its tray and watched as the prince crossed the room. Dakaran’s sword was gripped firmly in his right hand. His eyes were fierce. “Ah, Your Highness,” Valtor said with a nervous bow. “I’m glad you’re alright, I feared the worst.” Valtor slowly retreated toward the back wall as the prince headed directly for him.

“Are you, Valtor?” Dakaran seethed. “Are you glad I’m alright, or are you disappointed I managed to survive?” Dakaran raised his blade to Valtor’s throat, forcing him against the cold stone.

Valtor gulped. He feigned a look of distress. Not an emotion he generally showed, so he wasn’t sure how well he was pulling it off. “What’s all this about, Your Highness?”

“You know good and well what this is about, you maggot! I was almost mauled to death by three creatures that looked to have come straight out of the Pits of Aran’gal.”

Valtor tried to appear horrified, the words flowing from his mouth with enough lubricant to maintain a dung-hauler’s wagon wheel. “What does that have to do with me, Your Highness? I . . . I don’t understand why you would think I had anything to do with it.”

“It has everything to do with you!” Dakaran spat. He pressed the blade tighter.

Valtor felt the pinch of its edge drawing blood, but he restrained from killing the prince on the spot. As much as he would have liked to choke the life from him, he needed Dakaran.

“At first, I thought I was dreaming. Monsters as tall as a single story home, living in the woods just outside of Aramoor, and no one knows anything about it? How is that possible? Then I remembered a certain book of drawings I had found on your shelf the other day. Those creatures looked pretty flaming similar!” Dakaran leaned forward, their noses practically touching. Valtor could taste the prince’s earlier meal on his breath. Surprisingly enough, there was no hint of wine. “Now you better give me an explanation to alleviate my misgivings or I’m going to let this blade slip.” The prince’s grin was soaked in bloodlust. “And I suggest you hurry, because after what I’ve just been through, my arm isn’t feeling so secure.”

Valtor swallowed. His act wasn’t doing the job. For the first time in a long time, Dakaran was as sober as a Wengoby Priest. His eyes were no longer cloudy, but on fire. A different, more direct, tactic was required. One he had hoped not to resort to. He would rather the prince come around on his own without having to resort to compulsion, but right now, Valtor needed to calm the man down before he did something stupid like try to slit Valtor’s throat. “Alright, I admit it. It was me. I conjured the creatures when I heard the king was taking the ambassadors on a hunting trip and the Guardian Protector was going to be joining them. After our last encounter, you made it quite clear that you wanted the guardian and your father gone, so I—”

Dakaran pushed his elbow against Valtor’s chest. “Ayrion, yes, but I said nothing about trying to kill my father. Let alone me!”

“How was I supposed to know you would be going on the hunt? Honestly, when was the last time you and your father did anything together? By the time I found out you were going, it was already too late.”

Dakaran loosened his grip, slightly.

Valtor opened himself up to his magic and let the compulsion gently caress the prince’s thoughts, steering his general desires. It was a trick he had learned from the grimoire he had recovered in the Purging Chamber. He hadn’t quite mastered its uses, but to some small degree, he was able to manipulate another’s emotions depending on how strong, or, in this case, how weak their will was. Lucky for him, Dakaran wasn’t exactly known for his strength, although at the moment, the prince’s temper was making it rather difficult to push through.

The sword retracted a few inches from Valtor’s neck, but Dakaran didn’t lower it altogether.

Valtor needed the prince to let go of whatever ties of loyalty were still holding him to his father. The pieces were falling into place, and in order to make the next move, Valtor needed Rhydan gone and Dakaran holding the crown. “Do you want to be king or not?” Valtor asked. He could see the hesitancy in the prince’s eyes. He was obviously going to need more persuading.

Valtor rubbed his neck where the sword had been and his hand came away with a smear of blood. He stroked the back of Dakaran’s mind, letting his magic worm its way inside to coax a directed response. “You know that as long as he is alive, your father will never turn over his throne to you. The kingdom grows weaker by the day. I know you see it. Rhydan’s an idealist. He believes that everyone should be equal under the law.” Valtor chuckled. “Can you believe that? You, the prince, equal to a common fisherman, or carpenter, or bricklayer. If your father were to get his way, the people would be ruling themselves.

“Aldor needs a new king, Dakaran, a king with an open mind, one willing to see and embrace the benefits of change, and not run from them. Aldor doesn’t need a king stuck on antiquated traditions set up by men who haven’t been around in centuries. Our world is changing, and so should we.” Valtor longed for that change every day.

Dakaran’s posture relaxed as Valtor’s magic embedded itself.

“Elondria needs strength. Just look at the way Cylmar mocks us by pillaging our borders. Every day, Overlord Saryn grows bolder. And your father does nothing. He is seen as weak.” Of course, Valtor knew all too well that Rhydan was anything but weak, which was why Valtor was focusing his efforts on shaping the king’s drunkard of a son instead. “Pretty soon the other kingdoms are going to rise up and we are going to be pushed into the sea.

“Elondria doesn’t need an idealist, they need a leader. They need someone like you, Dakaran. Someone who can see the problems and not be afraid to do what is necessary to correct them.” If there was one thing Valtor knew that Dakaran enjoyed hearing, it was his own praise.

Dakaran took a step back, running his hand through his light auburn hair and tucking one side behind his ear. “I don’t know. This is all happening a little too fast.”

“Not fast enough,” Valtor sneered. “If you want to implement change, you need to make those standing in its way, move.” He waited to see if his words were sinking in. “We had a plan, a way to bring the kingdoms of Aldor back under one rule, starting with Cylmar. You know that. That’s why this meeting with Ambassador Belkor is so important. We’re going to need to rely on Overlord Saryn’s greed if you plan on taking your rightful place as High King.” Valtor continued to press the prince’s mind. He could feel Dakaran’s grip slipping. “Cylmar is a kingdom under oppression, ruled by a tyrant. They are looking for a benevolent leader to direct them down a different course.” Valtor smiled. “Who better than you?”

Dakaran stared at the floor in silence, lost in thought. Finally, as if in answer to Valtor’s urging, he took a step back and sheathed his sword, allowing Valtor to finally breathe a little deeper.

Dakaran was halfway to the door when Valtor stopped him. “Oh, by the way, how did our good friend Ambassador Belkor fare? I trust he wasn’t too grievously wounded, was he? I would hate for that to affect our meeting tomorrow.”

“Belkor’s fine. He’s one of the few who managed to walk away without so much as a scratch. But after what happened today, I have no idea as to his state of mind. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow night if and when he shows up, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

The prince left, not bothering to close the doors behind him. Valtor rested his hand on the top of the table and smiled. Even with the setback of losing three of his Shak’tor, things were progressing. The compulsion had worked better than he had expected. Dakaran’s jealousy over Ayrion’s relationship with his father was proving quite the effective tool.

Chapter 30 | Ellise

ONE LOOK AT the state of her husband and the queen demanded as many buckets of hot water as the servants could carry. He was covered from head to toe in sweat, soil, and blood. If it had been up to him, Rhydan would have plopped right down in their bed, bloody clothes and all, and fallen right to sleep. Ellise wasn’t about to let that happen. Besides, she still had no idea what had occurred on his hunt and she knew it would be better to discuss it while it was still fresh on his mind, that way she could allay any of the worries he had about the horrible incident.

She helped Rhydan remove his clothes as the servants filled the large washing pool in the center of the room. It had been built directly into the floor during the palace’s reconstruction after the Great Wizard Wars. It was one of her favorite amenities.

Centuries ago when magic was still permitted, the open pipes on the far end of the square tub had allowed for the use of running water as opposed to the strenuous, time-consuming effort of carrying heated buckets from one side of the palace to the other.

Rhydan started down the marble steps into the foaming water and promptly began to dance around. “What are you trying to do to me woman, cook me alive?”

“Hush your whining, you old goat, there isn’t enough hot water in all of Aramoor to soften you up. You’re about as tender as old boot leather.”

The amber light from the candles she had instructed the servants to place randomly around their ornate washroom reflected off the marble flooring, adding a warm ambiance to the soporific mood. She hoped the warm bath, the soft light, and the aroma of mint from the eucalyptus she had placed in his water would lessen some of the day’s burdens. He always enjoyed the mint baths, even though he’d never openly admit it.

Rhydan grunted at the remark, but soon whimpered as he eased into the tub. Foam poured over the sides and onto the slick floor. A moan of satisfaction escaped his lips. Ellise allowed a small smile of triumph. She took her seat on the cushioned stool in the corner, giving her husband a chance to unwind his body and clear his mind.

After offering him sufficient time to get settled into the tub, she leaned forward. “Start from the beginning, dear.”

Having overcome the initial shock of the heated water, Rhydan rested his arms on the sides and leaned his head back against a folded towel that had been placed on the floor just behind him. He closed his eyes and divulged the events of the day, starting with the opening hunt, to the first appearance of the creatures, and the ensuing battle for their lives. He told of the heroism of his men, the remarkable feats of the Guardian Protector, even the sad outcome of the poor Keldoran Ambassador. He didn’t withhold a single gory detail from his telling.

Throughout the entire presentation, Ellise listened carefully, never interrupting. She soaked it all in. Not until her husband had finished his last sentence did she finally respond, and even then, it wasn’t without due reflection. The line of discussion she wished to open was one she knew would incense him. In this point, unlike all others, her husband had always been content to bury his head in the sand. She knew how much it disturbed him to speak of such matters, but after what had happened today, they were well beyond the point of simply ignoring it.

“I fear we are at a crossroads,” she said. “A beginning of sorts.” She pursed her lips in thought. “Or maybe, more accurately, an ending.” Her head lowered and she nibbled on her lower lip.

The king cocked his head and blew on a small mound of bubbles gathering under his chin. “Whenever you go to biting that lip, Ellise, I know I’m about to get an earful. So let’s have it then, an ending to what? Have you been in that library reading through those cursed histories again?”

“History teaches us lessons we ought not to forget. How else will we learn if we disregard the mistakes of our past?” She rose from her seat and walked over to one of the large windows looking out across the Bay of Torrin. The bay had been named after the first High King of Aldor. Fitting, she thought. Like the waves of the Rhunarin Ocean as they formed the inlet with their mighty currents, Torrin had repurposed the land as well, cutting away the rugged terrain to create a city that had no equal in Aldor.

With no argument ensuing from the naked man behind her, she knew her husband agreed.

Ellise stared out across the moonlit breakers. She could see the ships moving across the harbor as they carried their supplies up and down the southern coast from the Isle of Delga to the Blue Isles off the coast of Briston. With her shoulder resting against the gilded edge of the window’s frame, she kept her eyes transfixed on the movement of the water as it crashed against the rising pillars of rock holding back the swelling tide. “I believe we are reaching the end of another age, my love.” She turned to face him. “And quite possibly the beginning of a new.”

Seeing the troubled look on his face, she pressed on. “I found some texts in the library dealing with the First Age and how the barrier between our realm and the Realm of Fae weakened, and how their magic was—”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, here we go again,” he barked, splashing more water out of the tub with his hand. “I knew it was going to come back to this. What is it with you and your incessant curiosity with faeries, and magic, and years gone by? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had an affinity for the ven’ae. Sometimes I wonder if you wouldn’t have rather preferred being born back during the Second Age as opposed to now.”

Patiently, she waited for him to finish his ranting, knowing it was always better to let him get it out of his system at the first, leaving him clear to listen and consider her words later. After spending over four decades with the man, she had long since learned the best way to handle his temperament. She loved him deeply, but sometimes he could be quite the stubborn oaf.

“Are you quite finished?” she asked, crossing both arms under her breasts. His grunt was the only answer she knew she was going to receive. Her husband had always been a man of action. He lived in the moment. If he saw something that needed fixing, he fixed it; a problem that needed solving, he solved it. It made him a strong king. But those same characteristics also made him narrow-minded. His focus was always on the present. If it wasn’t something pertinent to the here and now, it was disregarded.

“Those histories I’ve been reading have proven quite interesting, and considering what you’ve just told me, the information they hold should be of grave concern to us.”

Rhydan looked up from where he was busy rubbing a thick horse-hair brush down his blood-stained arms and hands. “Oh? How so? It’s ancient lore. What does it have to do with right now?” He smacked the brush across the top of the water to add emphasis.

“It seems to me that there is a direct correlation between the end of the Second Age and what is happening now. It wasn’t until the rise of the dark wizard that such monsters as you described today had ever been seen before. Do you think that’s just coincidence? Are we not repeating the cycle once again?” Crossing the room, she pulled her seat toward the edge of the small pool. The metal-tipped legs of her stool scraped across the tile with a grating noise. “Hear me out.”

“It appears I don’t have much choice. You’ve got me bound to my bathwater.”

Her brows narrowed over her eyes and he wisely said no more. “I know you don’t like discussing the mistakes of your forefathers and the outbreak of magic, but after what happened today, I would think if there was ever a time you should want to start, it would be now.”

Rhydan sighed. “Ellise, it’s not that I don’t care. It’s just that . . . Well, I don’t understand it.” He stopped his scrubbing. “Look at me. What I know is what I can hold in my hands, see with my eyes, and hear with my ears.” Brandishing the scrub brush like a weapon, he continued. “I understand the feel of a sword, the weight of its balance, the edge of its blade, and the dance with death it brings in combat.” His eyes glazed over as if reliving a particular memory from days gone by. She could also see regret mirrored there, the same regret she so often felt when contemplating the difficulties that came with aging.

“I know nothing of magic,” he admitted, lowering the brush back into the soapy water. “How can I begin to combat something I don’t understand? And to be honest, I’m just too old to go learning something new.”

“Hogwash!” She leaned forward and splashed a handful of dirty water on his face. “You’re not too old, you big lout. If you’re too old, then that would make me too old. And I’m not too old, I assure you.” She went to splash another handful of water on him but before she could get her hand in the water, he grabbed her by the arm and jerked her clear over the edge and head-first into the soapy bath, silk nightgown and all.

She screamed from the other side of the tub as her head burst from the surrounding bubbles. With all her might, she tried to punch him in the chest but her fist met nothing but air, having been unable to see anything with her face completely covered by a mop of wet curls. Sloughing her drenched tresses aside, she went to hit him again but instead found herself somehow wrapped in his arms.

“You brute!”

“A brute, am I? Maybe I should act more like it.” She felt her head being jerked to the side as he ferociously started nibbling at her neck. She broke into a fit of laughter, kicking her legs back and forth underneath the water at the way his beard tickled the side of her face and neck.

“Alright, stop it!” she demanded after pulling away from a sloppy kiss. “I’m trying to have a serious discussion with you. If I didn’t know any better by the way you’re acting, I would have thought you’d been into the brandy again.” After receiving a small peck on the tip of her nose, she was finally released, and, not wanting to get back out of the warm water now that she was in it, she decided to scoot to the other side of the tub and finish their conversation. Pulling off her sodden nightgown and dropping it on the already soaked tiles, she scooped up the bar of soap and started running it across her stiff shoulders.

“Many of the histories tell us, among other things, that the Second Age of Aldor was an extremely prosperous time. They thought magic was the answer to everything. Not rich enough? Well, a simple spell here, an incantation there, and voila your financial worries are over. Someone is sick? Then let’s call one of the gifted healers to lay their hands on them. You have someone you’re infatuated with and you want them to feel the same? No problem, we’ll just whip together a special potion and they’re yours.”

“If only it were that easy,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What was that?” she asked, poking him under the water with her big toe.

“Oh nothing, nothing.”

Her sharp glare lingered a moment longer before continuing. “Like I was saying . . .” She glanced down at the bubbles around her shoulders. “What was I saying?”

Rhydan laughed. “You were saying how our problems were finally over.”

“Oh, right. Magic had come and they couldn’t have been happier. There were wondrous accomplishments, the edifices they constructed, the depths they explored. Did you know they had even built flying ships?”

The brush in Rhydan’s hand stopped its scrubbing as he passed an amused look across the tub. “You’re having me on.”

“No, really,” she said adamantly as she motioned with her hands over the top of the bathwater. “They had huge schooners that could float on the air like ours do on the water. They also had magical ways to instantly cross great distances in the blink of an eye. They built great cities with vast networking tunnels leagues below the surface of our land, long forgotten to anyone today. There was wealth beyond anything we could imagine, and food in such supply that all of our vast warehouses could not contain it.”

“Alright, slow down before you give yourself a spasm. This all sounds a little overreaching. I think I would have known about flying ships if they had existed.”

She splashed him hard. “And just how would you have known, you old sot? You’ve made it perfectly clear you have no interest in what took place during the time of magic. I’ve been trying to tell you about this for years and all I ever get from you is some regurgitated nonsense you were spoon-fed by your advisors about how magic only corrupts and so you want nothing to do with it.”

“If it doesn’t corrupt, then how do you explain what happened to us today?”

She took a moment to gather her thoughts. “Magic is just a tool. And like any tool, what is used to create can also be used to destroy. No amount of magic can cure us of our own nature. We are human, after all. And where there is humanity, there is always the potential for great evil.”

“That’s a pretty harsh view of your fellow man, my love.”

“Harsh, yes, but realistic. There are a few of the histories, though not the ones used for teaching in our schools today, that claim it was our own greed and not magic that nearly destroyed us.” Ellise took a deep breath. She was starting to feel like a scholar giving voice to what should have been a commonly understood problem. “No matter where you go there will always be people who crave power, those who want to subjugate others to their will, and it usually starts by preying on the weak-minded, those who have no desire for honest work or life, but instead want something for nothing. They are the easiest to lead,” Ellise said with a sneer. “Promise them free goods, and they are yours to control.”

Rhydan rubbed his hands through his beard, leaving behind traces of soapy residue. “Unfortunately, we are seeing more and more of that around Elondria, even here in Aramoor, what with the Warrens trying to establish their own domain.”

“I’ve also found references to the dark wizard himself.”

“The Defiler?”

“Yes. It was his lust for power that led to the great Wizard Wars in the first place, and eventually the jun’ri uprising and the Great Purge.”

“The Great Purge.” Rhydan shivered. “Yes, now there was a dark time in our history if ever there was one.” He lifted his left foot out of the water and massaged a lather of mugwort from a nearby bottle onto his heel. “But why all this talk about the Defiler? He’s been dead for nearly a thousand years and his bones long since turned to dust.”

“So we’ve been told, but there are also prophesies that speak of a return.”

Rhydan lifted his hands to his temples and rubbed. “Ellise, you’re giving me a headache. Next you’re going to be telling me that there are pixies in the walls and trolls under my bed. Is there a point to all of this or are you just having a bit of fun at my expense?”

Ellise grunted. Her husband could be so infuriating. He wasn’t a stupid man, but whenever it came to the topic of magic, he would rather be kept in the dark than face the inevitable conclusion: that perhaps his ancestors had been wrong in their outlawing of magic and those that wielded it. The atrocities that had taken place during the time of the Great Purge, if the stories were to be believed, had been horrific indeed. Rhydan didn’t care to think of his forefathers as being homicidal maniacs, but from what she had read, the facts were hard to deny.

“The point, my dear husband, is that it now seems that magic is beginning to reveal itself once more, and I believe we are coming full circle.”

Rhydan exhaled slowly as he stared at the flicker of the candles on the left side of the room. Their light cast elongated reflections across the marble tile that swayed to the movement of the flames. “I can’t argue with that,” he said as his eyes shifted back to hers. “Your foresight has always served us well, my dear. If you say this is important . . . I believe you.”

Ellise smiled. She could see the weariness in Rhydan’s eyes. She slid to the other side of the pool and up against her husband, letting her head rest against his shoulder. “You are a great king, my darling, and I love you very much.”

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and hugged her tight. “I wouldn’t be half the king I am without you.”

She lifted her head to look into his eyes and silently wondered how many of these moments they would have left.

Chapter 31 | Valtor

VALTOR TRUDGED TO the back corner of his workroom and grabbed hold of the thick piece of material he had placed conveniently over a large rectangular object. He ripped it back. The covering fell to the floor in layers, kicking up a spray of dust that brought with it a short fit of sneezing. Raising his head after the final convulsion, Valtor stared at his reflection. The mirror was old, very old. Its casing was melded in gold filigree, colored with age and engraved with ancient glyphs from which only a handful of scholars could decipher, let alone read.

It was one of the lost Mirrors of Maon, better known as the traveling mirrors. They were created nearly two thousand years ago at the beginning of the Second Age when magic was freely used as a way for wizards to travel throughout the realms to keep the peace. Never knowing when a wizard might make an appearance was a great deterrent to revolt. But at the end of the age, after the Wizard Wars when the jun’ri turned on the ven’ae, most of the mirrors were destroyed.

Valtor had spent years searching for them. In all his efforts, he had only managed to uncover two. A few of the ancient manuscripts spoke of a stronghold built by the Wizard Council, along with some of their faerie allies, which was said to have been the birthplace for many such magical items, but he could find no definitive reference to its location, only to its original name: Aero’set. The keep was thought to be hidden somewhere within the Angoran Mountains.

Valtor had scoured every known library, book merchant, and back alley dealer for a rare text that gave any mention to its exact whereabouts; but, just as if it had never existed, his search had turned up fruitless. Even the White Tower, with all its vast knowledge, provided little in the way of helpful information. It was obviously being shielded by some form of magic, or perhaps had been destroyed during the final battle of the Wizard Wars.

Thankfully, for Valtor’s purposes, two mirrors were the minimum number needed to make a crossing. Each mirror had its own unique name. As long as a person knew the names of the mirrors they were traveling from and to, all they had to do was call them out in succession and step through unharmed. Each mirror’s name was etched in runes above the glass.

The glyphs were written in Fae. Valtor had spent hundreds of hours calling out various possible names, hoping to somehow awaken a third mirror. He considered himself a fair linguist, but even he could see its futility. The names for something as valuable as these mirrors would have been extremely hard to decipher, making it nearly impossible for someone to randomly decode.

Valtor placed his ceremonial mitre on top of his head and reached for his wolf-head staff. He called out the names of the two mirrors, starting first with the one in front of him. “Galaerion Sugethru. Nathleen Filaurel.” He had always wondered if the names were of actual faeries that had lived back then. The way they sounded as they rolled off the tongue felt proper.

The glass sparked to life.

His reflection vanished, being replaced by the image of an empty room. A lone torch resting in its holder near a closed door cast shadows across the stone walls and floor. Once the last of the mirror’s vibrations had ended, Valtor took a quick glance around his chambers and stepped through. It felt like walking through a puddle of water, and yet remaining dry. It sent a run of bumps up and down both arms.

Once on the other side, Valtor watched the image of his chambers in the palace fade, leaving nothing more than his own dark reflection in the glass. He had always feared the possibility of one of them failing while he was halfway through. Shaking off his momentary unease, he headed for the door. He didn’t have time to worry about it now.

Before stepping into the cold hallway beyond, Valtor held out his hand. An orb of greenish-blue light lifted in front of him, easing his passage as he wound his way downward through the dark upper corridors of the White Tower. It was the ultimate contrast to his life in the royal palace. From lavishly decorated chambers, gilded in gold and draped in velvet, to discolored walls of cracked stone draped in layers of web and dust. He took a deep breath and smiled. He had come home.

Upon reaching the central levels, he extinguished the orb as many of the lower rooms and adjoining hallways were already aglow with bracketed torchlight. Rounding the final corner, he stepped out into the Tower’s throat. It was a large, open circular area at the center of the construct, as if it had been burrowed out by a giant orm, one of the enormous sand worms found in the outer regions of the Wengoby Desert. It started from the ground level and ran its way clear to the uppermost chambers. It was quite a dizzying view. A drop from even one of the lowest levels would be fatal.

Each level outside the circular opening was gated by a row of massive pillars made from the same dark granite found in the Razor’s Spine. They comprised the main support structure for the next level’s foundation. Each of the fluted columns would have taken half a dozen men with arms outstretched to reach around.

Moving past the towering stone structures, Valtor crossed the open second floor walkway. He could see the Black Watch below as they rotated positions while standing guard over the front entrance. Sparing a glance upwards through the heart of the stronghold, he chuckled at the whole idea of the White Tower. It was a living, breathing hypocrisy unto itself.  While having been used as a means to subjugate magic by either its removal or destruction, the Tower only existed because of the use of that same magic. It had been created by Aerodyne and his followers centuries ago in their pursuit of alternative magic, but had then been repurposed by the jun’ri as a means to stop, or at the least control, the flow of magic throughout Aldor.

Valtor left the outer walkway and crossed beneath the adjoining arches on the other side. He was tired and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, but he had a meeting with the Legate Superior that he had put off long enough.  He followed the corridor to its end. Just ahead was a set of double doors guarded by two of the Tower’s guards. The two men moved to allow him passage. He listened as they heaved the doors shut behind him. The sound reverberated off the stone walls before finally fading away, leaving him completely alone with his thoughts.

The room contained an enormous vaulted ceiling. Brass chandeliers, tarnished with age, hung from long-rusted chains above. The outer walls were lined with thick pilings which lifted from the floor straight to the ceiling. Torn draperies rustled from a slight breeze in front of elongated stained-glass windows that stretched across the back wall, while cloth banners, yellowed with mildew, hung sporadically throughout the open room.

He had never allowed any of the staff to replace or repair the ancient age-worn adornments. There was something about surrounding himself with originality, knowing that he was looking at the same things the ancient wizards of years past had looked at each time they had entered the room. It gave him a sense of purpose, a thin link to those he so admired.

Moving across the cold stone, Valtor’s red robes billowed out behind him like a shade on an evening breeze. He raised his hand toward the large open hearth on the left side of the room. “Voyestra.” Flames erupted from the previously stacked kindling and logs. In front of the fireplace was the long white marble table they used for Tower meetings. Surrounding the table were thirteen straight-backed chairs made from the same smooth stone. The last time he had been in this room, he had killed one of his bulradoer. Hopefully this time he didn’t end up with one less legate.

“Guards!”

The doors opened and the two men stepped inside. “You called, Your Eminence?”

“Notify the Legate Superior I would like to see her immediately.”

“Right away, Your Eminence.” Both guards bowed and left the room, closing the doors behind them.

Leaving the warmth of the fire, he stepped into an enclosed staircase decoratively built into the back wall.  The flight of stairs led up to the second floor rooms, comprised of his private study, washroom, and modestly decorated sleeping chamber. Much like his workroom in Aramoor, his study held a large assortment of shelving for all manner of oddities he had managed to accumulate in his search for lost pieces of magic.

Long wooden tables lined the back corner, each lit with thick tallow candles that bled their colored wax down the brass casings, fastening them hard to the tables underneath. Open volumes lay scattered across the top of each, like an out-of-sorts covering struggling to keep the ever falling dust from its wood.

There were copper pots, pewter urns, and cruses of every size and shape, most only half-filled with ingredients for what would have been an unbearably distasteful stew. Some of the containers held large insects of all varieties, both living and not. Others held pieces of human bodies, some fresh, but most not. A few of the urns held selections of heavily decomposed mire and sludge which gave the smell of having come from the foulest of bogs, while others were filled with rich clean topsoil or sand.

Valtor opened one of the three glass-enclosed cabinets on the far wall. The shelves were lined with vials holding a wide variety of tinctures, tonics, distillations, and extracts for every possible use. It would have made the most avid of apothecaries weep with envy at having such a rare selection available.

Pulling out a crystal decanter, he poured a dark amber liquid into a nearby goblet after first blowing off the dust and wiping the rim with the hem of his outer robe. He replaced the stopper and put the bottle back inside before shutting the case. Taking a quick sip of the strongly spiced wine, he slid into his favorite chair in front of another dead hearth.

Why can no one manage to keep a simple fire stoked around here? Irritated, he raised his hand toward the chilly stone encasement and flames ignited around the stacked lumber. “Much better.” He released a long, slow exhale as the warmth of the crackling flames invaded his skin.

Gathering his thoughts, Valtor waited for the legate to arrive. He knew he wouldn’t have to wait long. He could hear the doors to the main chamber below opening.

Tilting back his head, the chancellor drained the rest of his goblet, giving the Legate Superior enough time to get in and settled while allowing Valtor a rare moment’s rest for his feet. With a grunt, he lifted himself from the comfort of his cushioned spot in front of the fire and placed the empty glass on the small three-legged stand beside his chair.

With repetitious effort, he straightened his robes. This being an official meeting with the Legate Superior, he grabbed the crimson mitre from its place on the shelf over the hearth and adjusted it on the top of his head. He needed to keep up appearances. Even here amongst his inner circle he found it imperative to maintain a proper amount of not just decorum, but authority. His father’s words were there as a constant reminder. Like a shadow from the past, they haunted him. “If you ever want to get anywhere in this life, Milo, you must look the part.”

His father had been a tailor to a wealthy nobleman. Perception to him was everything. He used to say even the poorest waif picked from a back-alley street, if placed in a new suit of clothes, could instantly change his status among the people. No longer would he be the ignored guttersnipe. No longer would he be beaten and spat at, kicked and abused. He would be respected and admired. Men and women would look him in the eyes when he passed. They would offer to open his door, pull his seat, shine his shoes. “It’s all about perception, Milo. And the way to achieve the perception you want is through the clothing you wear.”

Valtor made his way to the enclosed stairwell. He let his fingertips slide down the thick velvet folds of his robe, enjoying the texture as he descended the steps one at a time. With his head high and back fully erect, he emerged once again into the main assembly chamber. His father had gotten at least one thing right; perception is indeed the first step to power.

The Legate Superior, donning the gold-trimmed black robes of her position, bowed from the waist as Valtor strode across the room toward the head seat at the table, the back of his chair facing the open flames. His seat was larger than the rest and a bit more ornate, clearly signifying his rank as Arch Chancellor. The legate waited for him to sit before lowering herself into her own chair.

“So what does my keeper of information have to report?”

The short, round elderly woman stiffened in her seat. Her hands remained folded in her lap as she proceeded to answer his question. “The flow of information has been quite steady, Your Grace. The inquisitors have been rather profitable as of late in recruiting new wielders to our cause and garnering useful confessions. It seems there are indeed a growing number of ven’ae throughout not only Elondria, but Keldor, Sidara, Cylmar, and Briston as well.”

“That is good news indeed.” Valtor leaned forward.

“Confessions, however,” she pointed out, “can be tricky to sort through. It’s quite amazing how loose the lips become when faced with an inquisitor’s touch. Because of this, however, what is being confessed will many times be misleading if not outright false. There are those who’ll confess to anything, whether it be the truth or not, just to escape more time on the rack. If we were to act on all such information, we would be rounding up half the population.” She chuckled lightly.

Valtor slammed his fist down on the table, startling the legate and ripping the smile from her face. “Then round up half the population! I need wielders in here if we are ever to have a chance of protecting ourselves and further generations from another open purging!”

Her voice stuttered. “Yes, Your Grace, of course.” The legate bowed her head, keeping her wide eyes lowered to the table. “But if we initiate such an aggressive posture, won’t the High King start asking questions? He might decide to re-implement the Inspection Squads.”

“The king is about to have more on his plate than worrying about the rantings of a bunch of peasants. Don’t you worry about the throne. Leave that to me. You need to deal with the increase of stronger wielders.

“And while we are on that subject,” he said, arching his brow slightly, “how is our newest recruit doing? Has there been any progress in bringing him over to our cause? It’s been a long time since we’ve had a true metallurgist at the Tower.”

“The smith is proving to be . . . well, quite challenging in his willingness to cooperate, Your Eminence.”

Valtor watched as her body tensed. She grabbed the folds of her robe and twisted. “His tolerance for pain has been remarkable, to say the least.”

Valtor’s smile broadened. “I’m glad to hear it. He sounds to be a worthy trophy, indeed.” He leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers together. “The stronger they are, the more useful they become.” Valtor stood from his seat. “Keep me apprised on his progress. I want you to focus all your energy on this man. He’s important to me.” Valtor corrected himself. “To all of us. We are going to need his abilities in the very near future.” He turned and headed back to his upper chambers.

“Don’t fail me, Legate,” he said in warning over his shoulder as his wolf-head cane echoed off the hard stone.

“No, Your Grace. We won’t.”

Chapter 32 | Ferrin

SNAP!

“Ahhh! Okay, okay, okay, I’ll talk, I’ll talk!” Ferrin tried to swallow, but his throat was too swollen from screaming. “What do you want to talk about? You want to discuss the weather? Fine! We’ll talk about the weather.” Sweat poured from Ferrin’s brow. “You want to discuss the lack of proper sanitation in this place? You’re right, it’s appalling. Anything you want to talk about. Let’s talk!”

Ferrin gritted his teeth and glanced down at his ruined finger. It was bent upwards and poking awkwardly to the side in the most grotesque fashion. His knees buckled under the pain and his heart was racing faster than the prize stallion at the Rhowynn Festival of Lights on its final turn into the home stretch.

He had always loved the city festivals, everything about them: the changing of the fall colors during the month of Kùma, the overabundance of exotic foods, the garish decorations, an atmosphere which leant itself to the belief that anything was possible. It was a time of magic, well, not in the literal sense of course. It was a time to drop the cares and worries of everyday life down the deepest, darkest well and spend a few days focusing on nothing more than oneself.

Ferrin closed his eyes and tried to will himself there. He tried to remember the sights, the smells, the sounds of excitement and laughter. People enthralled in the joy of putting aside their work and reveling in a bit of honest distraction.

He had been particularly fascinated with Overlord Agnar’s annual tournaments. The games were a continual source of enjoyment for Ferrin, especially those centered on the sword. The handcrafted works of art being displayed, the clanging of the metal with each precise swing, the blades being dulled, bent, and chipped as the sparks flew upwards. It was exhilarating.

He strained to hold onto the pleasant memories, to keep his focus on anything but the present.  But the intense pain kept pulling him back, like a dirty secret not wanting to remain hidden—the frustration was overwhelming.

“Why aren’t you talking?” Ferrin muttered. His eyes were bloodshot and his mouth was as dry as a sun-bleached bone. “I thought you wanted to talk! I’m ready, come on, you flatulent pot licker, let’s talk!” His lips smacked with the need for water.

“My dear smith, I assure you, we will talk. But I fear you aren’t quite ready yet.”

Cheeks slid his finger down Ferrin’s forearm, across the steel manacle holding his wrist in place, and lightly stroked the top of his hand. The touch was tender. As soft as a lover’s caress. Ferrin closed his eyes trying to picture what that would be like—the touch of a beautiful woman who loved him. Drat! She wouldn’t even have to be beautiful. She could be as ugly as a barnyard porker and he wouldn’t have cared, just so long as it kept his mind off the pain.

Snap!

“Ahhh! Stop! Wait . . . just wait!” The tears were swelling, blurring his vision of the bald, tattooed-faced man in front of him. “Please, just wait!”

He tried to catch his breath, sucking back deep inundating gulps, hoping the pain would subside before what he knew was about to happen, happened. He couldn’t believe how similar the sound was to that of a thick twig being split between two hands. A simple bending of the wood until the tension reached its breaking point, and then—

Snap!

He screamed again, his back pressing so tight against the rungs of the rack it actually drew blood. The pain was overwhelming. His eyes squeezed shut, too afraid to look down at his disfigured fingers for fear it would bring even more reality to the agony he endured.

“Now let’s start again, shall we? Who are the other wielders living in Rhowynn? I’m sure you can give us some names. A city that size is bound to have at least one wielder council if not two or three.”

Concentrate. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Ferrin fought to control his sanity. He was on the verge of losing consciousness. He prayed, begged, and pleaded for it. But unfortunately the Creator, if there was such a being, remained silent. Ferrin had his doubts. Maybe I could just give him one name. That wouldn’t be so terrible, would it? Someone I don’t even like . . . perhaps Garreth. Yeah, I could give him Garreth’s name then maybe he’d stop. The battle to give in raged on. No! You can’t do it. Hold out just a little longer. He took another deep breath.

“I told you. I don’t know of anyone else.” His voice was shaking under the pressure. “I mainly kept to myself.” Sweat poured down his face, dripping from the tip of his nose. “It’s not like we all get together on Sixth Day for a game of Batmyth or something!” Actually, that’s exactly what they did. He did have those he knew within the hidden wielder communities there in Rhowynn. Those he considered friends. A few were rather close. He couldn’t betray them, especially not Myriah. His twin sister looked up to him, relied on him. He was in many respects her mother and father. He had looked after her since they were kids. He had to live, if for any reason, to get back to her.

Cheeks ignored Ferrin’s sarcasm as he paced in front of the large upturned rack with his hands folded behind his back. “Why do you fight it, smith? You will tell us what we want to know. It’s inevitable. Everyone breaks. I have dedicated my life to the study of this phenomenon. How much torture one body can accept before its mind betrays its heart?”

An image of Myriah flooded Ferrin’s thoughts—fair skin covered with thick red curls, her soft features, those sympathetic eyes, the way she could just look at you and make you forget all your problems. What he wouldn’t give for a glance from those eyes, or a single hug.

She was the one good thing left in his life. The one person who had stuck with him even after the other wielders had shunned him and eventually exiled him from their gatherings. They didn’t want someone like him being associated with their assembly—someone who used his abilities in such an open manner. He had always argued that the Creator had given them those gifts and they shouldn’t be afraid to use them.

In retrospect, he should have paid a little more heed.

Ferrin needed to find a way to escape. He wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer. The only reason they hadn’t sent him to purging already was because he was still valuable to them. His ability to forge steel in a way that made it nearly indestructible was a talent the White Tower obviously desired. How long they would be willing to wait before killing him and moving on, he didn’t know. If it came down to it, would he be willing to help the Tower in order to spare his life long enough to find a way to escape?

The inquisitor stepped to the other side of the rack and started to stroke the fingers on Ferrin’s other hand. “How about a change of subject then, maybe that will stimulate some answers?”

Ferrin knew exactly what the inquisitor was going to ask.

Cheeks slid his hand around Ferrin’s small finger and waited. He seemed to be taunting him, or maybe he was just testing his resolve. Ferrin didn’t know. But at the moment, he just wished the sadist would hurry up and get it over with.

“Go on! What are you waiting for? You got a question, or do you just enjoy holding my hand?”

Snap!

Ferrin cried out involuntarily.

“Now that wasn’t a very nice thing to say, was it?” Cheeks paused to inspect his work. “Have you given any more thought to joining our good cause? The White Tower could use a man of your talents. Why put yourself through this, smith? Join us. If not for yourself, then do it for all those other ven’ae out there who are unable to stand against their jun’ri oppressors.”

Ferrin laughed through gritted teeth. “Do you even hear yourself, you pompous offspring of an overfed dung beetle? You open your mouth and what comes out might as well be pure gibberish for all the truth it brings. You want me to join the White Tower to help the Ven’ae, and yet it’s the White Tower that is hunting us down, you stupid sack of orm larva.”

Snap!

“Ahhh!” Ferrin roared over the pain. “I’m going to kill you! You hear me! Before this is over, you are going to beg me for death!”

Snap! Snap!

Ferrin’s head bounced on the wire-bound framing of the bed as his screams echoed off the stone walls around him. Hatred poured from his eyes, while the contents of his stomach poured from his mouth.

Cheeks squeezed the fingers on Ferrin’s left hand, bringing him to the point of nearly biting his tongue in half as he clamped down under the nausea threatening to take him.

The inquisitor finally stepped back. “Clean up this mess, Rae!” he ordered the little healer who had been quietly watching from the far corner of the room. Cheeks donned his richest smile. “I want to do this again.”

The inquisitor strolled over to his table of instruments and scanned the lot, one at a time. “You will eventually come to understand the value of working with the White Tower. The Arch Chancellor is a patient man, but only to a point. I would encourage you not to waste his time. It is in your best interest that you accept his offer.”

Ferrin thought he could hear a hint of fear in the inquisitor’s words.

Whatever happened, Ferrin knew his only chance was to find a way to escape, or find a way to take his own life. No one had ever escaped the White Tower, a fact that he was repeatedly reminded of as a way to detour the very notion. As much as he wanted to be there for his sister, he couldn’t take a chance on her being used as a way to force him to do the White Tower’s bidding. He’d rather die than betray his friends or family.

“Everyone has a weakness, smith. I will find yours.”

Ferrin took a deep breath. He had to hold out long enough to find a way to escape.

Chapter 33 | Ty

A DELIGHTFUL AROMA brought Ty to a sudden halt as he glanced across the street at a colorful sign that read Reloria’s Sweet Shop. It was outlined with painted images of sugar sticks and chocolate drops. His mouth salivated on cue.

After glancing at the list of items his mother had asked him to purchase, and realizing he was nearly through, Ty folded the slip of paper and stuffed it back inside his brown overcoat.

Pushing on, he reached the last shop on the west side of River Street before catching a glimpse of the white dome of the Sidaran Assembly. The building clearly marked the end of the shopping quarter. Just beyond, Ty could make out the larger dwellings of the upper residential districts, home of the Sidaran ruling élite as well as a few of the more prominent business owners.

Wrinkling his nose, he caught a whiff of the sickly-sweet smell of fermentation drifting from the vintner’s place of business on his left and, not wanting to linger around such an abrasive odor, he started across the street. Master Orlyn’s shop was the next one down. The sign out front depicted a couple of jars filled with fresh herbs on a green background. Overtop of the images were gold letters spelling out, APOTHECARY.

Stopping partway across the street to allow one of the upper-class carriages to pass, Ty turned at the sound of horse hoofs. Four riders directed their mounts out from behind the Justice Hall. Their white mantels bearing the insignia of an open blade piercing a rising sun was enough to send Ty into a panic.

He dodged around the carriage and hopped onto the sidewalk, nearly colliding with a well-dressed lady who was busy balancing a large number of bags and small packages in her arms. Apologizing quickly, Ty leaped inside the apothecary and shut the door. His hands shook as he peered out the front window at the men riding by.

The riders passed the shop and kept going. Once content with the fact that they had continued on instead of stopping to drag him kicking and screaming off to the White Tower, Ty breathed a deep sigh of relief.

He turned around to see if anyone had been watching and realized this was the first time he had ever been in Master Orlyn’s shop. The inside smelled of the forest. It was invigorating. The walls of the shop were lined with ivy. Colorful blooms of gold and lavender sprouted from each vine. It gave the appearance of having stepped into a small glen as opposed to a city shop. There were even a few shoots rising between the floorboards. Ty took a moment to glance around at the jars of aromatic plant life that lay spread across multiple isles of shelving.

“Well, hello, young Ty. How are you today?” The apothecary’s familiar voice rang out from the front of the shop. Ty poked his head out from around one of the aisles. The older man was heading in his direction. His baggy robes swept the dust from the floor as he came.

“I’m doing well, Master Orlyn.” Ty stepped away from the shelf of plants he’d been studying to retrieve his list. “I was told to get some sage, some mugwort, rosemary, and also some cor . . . ee . . . nder.” Ty struggled to pronounce what his mother had written before giving up and handing Orlyn the folded parchment.

“Ah.” The apothecary pointed at the sheet with a flicker of amusement on his face. “Coriander.” Master Orlyn inspected it further. “Hmm, I should have all of this. If you’ll give me just a moment, I’ll pull them for you.” And before Ty had time to even nod his thanks, the man was off.

A doorbell at the front rang out, signaling the entrance of potential customers. Ty could hear the two ladies gossiping away as he quietly moved to one of the back corners and started rummaging through a couple of the lower shelves, trying to get a closer look at some of the goods on the bottom.

“Yieee!” came a high-pitched shrill from a few shelves over. “There is magic being used in this shop!” Ty tripped over one of the jars he had been looking at and fell face first into the adjacent shelf, nearly tipping it on his head. From his hands and knees, he peeked through a dusty niche to see what was happening. He caught a glimpse of Master Orlyn quickstepping down one of the aisles toward the two overly-dressed women.

“What seems to be the problem, madams?”

“There is magic being used in this establishment,” the plucky lady on the left huffed, her raised chin holding steady at an upward angle as she tried managing a position that would allow her to look down at the apothecary. A rather difficult task, Ty observed, since Orlyn was nearly twice her height. “I have a mind to report this to the magistrate.”

Ty slouched behind the closest shelf. This was starting to turn serious.

“Madam, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

“Poppycock!” she said, wielding her small handbag like a weapon at the tall apothecary. “I know magic when I see it. And I am a woman who knows her duty. I will see every one of you evil wielders drawn and quartered before I let you try taking over my town! Filthy creatures!” At that pronouncement, Ty was now attempting to crawl under the shelf.

Orlyn produced a kerchief from his robe and wiped his brow. “If you would be so good as to explain what you saw, I will be only too happy to help you in any way that I can. But I’m sure the city patrol would be quite put out to find you had wasted their time without evidence.”

“Humph!” She crossed her short arms over her chest. “Are you accusing me of seeing things, Apothecary?”

“No, ma’am.” Orlyn nervously tugged on his long beard. “I just want to keep you from looking a fool by bringing something to the officials without having investigated it further.”

The lady and her friend seemed to consider his words a moment, but not wanting to concede the point, they merely nodded.

He bowed slightly. “Thank you, madam. Now please explain what it is you think you saw.”

“I didn’t think I saw anything! I saw what I saw! Isn’t that right, Fetunya?”

“It is indeed, Helene,” her friend said. “It is indeed.”

“My apologies.” Orlyn wiped his forehead once again. “Please forgive an old man his fumbling use of words.”

The ladies appeared to be satisfied as the short thin one with the big mouth stepped forward and pointed at one of the potted plants. “Right there. That’s where I saw the magic.” Ty tried peering out from underneath the lower shelf in hopes of catching a glimpse at what they were talking about.

“Ah, now I’m beginning to see.” Orlyn stepped around to the yellow stained clay pot and pulled it from the shelf. “Yes, you have a good eye, Madam Helene. Did you see the petals move?” Both women began nodding at once. “Ah, I see. Well, this is a rare form of flora known as Dragon’s Breath. And even though it bears the name of a mythical creature, it harbors no magical properties. It was so named because of its aversion to heat. It only blooms in cool climates. My guess is you got a little too close and your breath caused it to retract, hence its name,” he admitted with a look of humorous guilt, “Dragon’s Breath.”

“Why, I never!” she scolded, her eyes bulging as she struggled to determine how to refute his accusation. Not being able to produce a witty rebuttal, she merely grabbed hold of her companion’s arm and scurried out the door. Ty couldn’t help but laugh at Master Orlyn’s joke. The old man winked in his direction, and then went about replacing the plant.

“Too many people like her have been indoctrinated for so long that magic is evil and all wielders should be disposed of. It’s sad really.” He shrugged and shook his head before launching himself back into acquiring the rest of the ingredients on Ty’s list.

Ty had to acknowledge the ease with which the old man moved from one shelf to the next, knowing precisely where all his merchandise was located, something Ty would have believed rather difficult considering the vast selection he possessed. But before Ty had managed to find the end of the first shelf in his perusing, Master Orlyn had returned to his desk at the front of the shop where he signaled for Ty to join him.

The apothecary individually wrapped each of the herbs in oiled parchment before rolling the entire bundle in a wax sheet and tying it off with a piece of string. “That will be two silvers and three,” he said.

Ty counted out the few remaining silvers and coppers in his pouch. I hope I have enough left for a sugarstick.

The tall apothecary slid the coins into his hand as Ty grabbed the wax bundle.

“Thanks, Master Orlyn, for the help.”

“You’re most welcome, young Ty. Visit anytime.”

“Thank you, I will.” Ty closed the door behind him and stepped back out onto the crowded sidewalk. Heading back toward Wood Lane, he attempted to dodge the other townsfolk as they went about their business. He wondered how people could stand living in such a crowded place. He struggled to weave in and out of people’s way as they meandered by, heavy in their conversations and completely oblivious to his presence.

He made it back to the main intersection at the center of town and turned left on Wood Lane. The spice merchant was the last shop on his list and it was still about five or six shops down on the far side of the road. Passing by Pela’s Bakery, Ty once again found his mouth watering at the smell of freshly baked pies and soft bread.

He crossed the street trying to avoid an oncoming wagon. It was laden down with a fresh supply of pumpkins, which he figured was probably heading for Mezard’s Chandlery.

Once inside the shop, Ty dug out his list and rummaged through the jars of spices, while at the same time struggling not to sneeze in response to the strong odor that enveloped the crowded place. How the owner could handle working in there every day, he would never know.

Thankfully, he was able to gather what he was looking for in short order. He gave the owner his money and left, stepping around a few customers on his way out. With his shopping completed, Ty opened the small coin pouch to find enough coppers left over to make one last stop at Reloria’s.

He was just tucking his coin pouch back into his tunic when the sound of a familiar voice from somewhere in the crowd ahead caught his attention. Laughing rather loudly, Ty could see Lyessa making her way across River Street with a couple of friends, but instead of continuing on, they turned and were now heading straight for him. He couldn’t tell if she had seen him yet or not.

Spinning around, he wove his way through the oncoming crowd and turned down the first alley. The sign over the closest door was so faded with age that it offered no clear hint as to the shop’s purpose. But, at the time, all that mattered to Ty was finding a place to hide. He tried the knob. It was stuck. Putting his weight into it, it finally gave way. He had just moved across the threshold when Lyessa and her friends started past the small lane. Before he could get the door shut, she had turned and looked right at him.

He quickly closed it the rest of the way, leaving only a crack to peek from. Had she seen him? He couldn’t see how she would have missed him. Lyessa wiped a fold of red hair from her face as she studied the fronts of the small shops on both sides. Shrugging, she eventually moved on.

Ty exhaled his relief before backing away from the door and turning to get a better look at his surroundings. The room was dark. The windows had been draped over, and the only light came from a few candles placed haphazardly around the shelving. He was reaching for the handle to exit when an aged voice from the back broke the silence.

“The shop’s open, boy, if you care to look.”

Turning back around, Ty could see someone slouched in a rocking chair near the back. Half her body was masked in the dark shadows of the corner where she sat. The floorboards under her chair creaked as she continued rocking back and forth. A black shawl fell across her lap.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, feeling a growing sense of unease.

Not wanting to cause offense, Ty decided to have a quick look around and then be on his way. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he started making his rounds. The room held an impressive assortment of oddities, including some gaudy jewelry, dusty chalices, crystal orbs, daggers with strange emblems, and an unusual mixture of exotic herbs and insects. After seeing a cluster of what looked to be shrunken heads hanging from some string in the corner, Ty quickly turned to make his exit, but a small shelf of old tomes caught his eye. Before long, he found himself excitedly flipping through the titles written on the fading spines. He quietly read each one to himself as he thumbed through them. The Foresight of Divination, Poison: The Lost Art, Reshaping the World, Elixirs of Life, The Marked Ones . . .

“Who or what are The Marked Ones?” Shrugging, he kept looking. It was a rather strange assortment of titles to have in a public shop, Ty thought. Then his eyes caught the second to the last volume, and the hair on his arms stood up. The Hidden Magic of Fae.

“Magic . . .” Ty wondered how it was possible that a shop like this could be allowed to operate when the very use of the word magic brought with it both fear and trepidation, as well as armed guards in white uniforms.

Ty pulled the volume from the shelf and opened it, dust flying into the air and around his head. He sneezed after his first inhale. Wiping his nose with his sleeve, he jumped when he realized the old lady was suddenly standing beside him. How long had she been there?

“What’d you find there, boy?” she asked as she hobbled a little closer, her cane tapping on the wooden floorboards. She reached out with what had to be the oldest, most shriveled hand Ty had ever seen and proceeded to turn over the cover. “Ah, I see’s you have an interest in that which is most dangerous.”

“Uh . . . no, I was just looking.”

“More like you were drawn,” she said as she studied his face.

Ty swallowed. “What do you mean . . . drawn?”

She cackled. “Not just anyone can find this place. Only those with the gift.” She winked in his direction, before handing him the book.

“It’s not that hard to miss,” Ty pointed out. “You’re right in the middle of town.”

“Ah. That’s the fun part. What you see as a shop, those of the jun’ri see as nothing more than a door-less extension of the building next door.”

Ty cocked his head to the side.

“Don’t believe me? Then ask yourself why your little redheaded friend didn’t see you.”

“How did you know about . . .”

The old woman smiled. “It’s not just that those without the gift don’t see the shop, they are compelled not to. A little bit of magic I learned years back.” The shopkeeper took another step closer to Ty. “Let’s talk about you, shall we. There’s something different about you, isn’t there?”

Something about the old woman gave Ty a tingling sense of dread. He wasn’t sure whether it had more to do with the way she had crossed the room without him knowing, or the repulsive way her wrinkled flesh seemed to hang from her bones, or the fact she kept inching her way in his direction when she thought he wasn’t looking, but the entire place lent itself to the idea of a creature’s den more so than a simple shop of trinkets.

Suddenly, the old woman’s head tilted back and she sniffed the air like an animal hunting its prey. Yeah, it’s time to go! Slapping the book shut, Ty tossed it on the shelf and turned to make a speedy retreat. He didn’t make it two steps before the old lady had a hold of his wrist.

He tried to pull himself free, but stopped when he heard a simmering sort of sound coming from where she was grabbing his arm. It sounded like a wedge of pork grease being dropped into a hot pan. The old woman’s eyes widened in shock. She jerked her hand away and let out a horrific shrill that turned Ty’s blood to ice. She lifted her hand and gawked as the skin around her fingers and palm started molting in clumps and sloughing to the ground. “It’s you!” she screamed, pointing a bony digit in his face.

If Ty’s eyelids had opened any further, his eyeballs would have fallen out. Terrified senseless, he bolted for the front of the shop, threw open the door, and ran like he’d just seen an old lady melting in front of him. He didn’t even take the time to spare a glance behind to see if the old woman was in pursuit.

Ty charged out of the alley and plunged headfirst into Lyessa, knocking her clean off her feet and into the arms of her three companions.

“Ty! What the blazes?” she cried out, trying to gain her composure as well as her footing. “I thought that was you I saw turning down here earlier.” She dusted off the long sleeves of her rumpled dress. “Where’d you go?” Noticing the look on his face and the direction in which he nervously kept glancing, she peered behind him and back down the narrow lane. “What are you looking at?” Her expression was just as befuddled as his. “You look like you just tried absconding with the butcher’s daughter.”

Without saying a word, Ty turned and half-walked, half-ran in the opposite direction.

Lyessa left her friends standing on the corner and chased after him. “Where are you going?” she demanded as she tried catching up. “The least you could do is have the decency to talk to me after you practically assaulted me back there!”

“Sorry, I’ve got to go.” Quickening his steps, Ty abandoned the entire notion of stopping at Reloria’s and was focused solely on making it back to Waddle, and getting home.

“Sorry? Is that all you have to say?”

They finally reached his horse where he promptly untied the reins. “What more do you want?” he asked as he jumped into the saddle. He turned back around to get one last look at the small alley beside the spice shop. “Besides, your friends are waiting for you.”

“Well, a simple conversation would be nice.”

He was a little taken back by her openly expressed desire to talk with him, but after what he had just experienced in that mad shop of horrors around the corner, he had no intention of sticking around for anything else. “Sorry,” he said as he turned Waddle’s head around, “but I have to go.”

“What? Right this very moment?”

Kicking with the heel of his boots, Ty spurred his horse into action and shouted back over his shoulder. “Maybe some other time!”

Ty glanced over his shoulder. He could see Lyessa still standing there on the side of the street with her arms crossed and a look of payback written on her face. He knew she was going to make him regret that sooner or later, but at the moment, he had more important things to worry about, like who was that old woman and why did she seem to know who he was, and why in the name of the Dark One did her hand start dissolving right after touching him? Was it something he had done? Had he somehow invoked his strange blue fire and didn’t notice? He almost felt sorry for having hurt the old lady, but then he remembered the hungry look in her eyes when she had grabbed him and he took it back.

He needed to get home and tell his parents.

Chapter 34 | Mangora

MANGORA HOBBLED AS fast as she could across the rickety wooden planks of her shop and threw open a large double-shelved cabinet. Quickly she began knocking items around, throwing things to the side, not caring in the least whether they were fragile or not. Her hand wrapped around a large pewter vase in the back and after ripping off the top, she sunk her hand into the moist concoction.

She could feel the pain immediately begin to ease as her hand slid further in. She had caught it before the necrotic tissue had eaten its way clear to the bone. Even with the additive of her magic, the pain was intense. Thankfully, she still had enough of the Hedimari loam left from her travels into the Blasted Lands to reverse most of the damage.

She couldn’t believe what had just taken place. They had been looking for the faeling for over sixteen years and here he up and walked right into her shop. She knew there was no such thing as coincidence. She had always said that Nyalis wouldn’t have taken him to Aramoor, that he would have raised him somewhere a bit more secluded, and she had been right.

With her hand still covered in healing mire, Mangora wrapped it with a clean cloth and made her way into the backroom. She shut the door behind her. She wasn’t much worried about future customers.

The backroom lay in darkness, encased in a silence that was not just heard, but felt.

“Voyestra.” A flash of light from a large candle flickered to life, casting shadows across the small wooden table where she sat. The deep red wax of the newly lit candle warmed, slowly releasing its blood-stained drops onto the table below. A singular object lay in front of her: a black crystal.

Her robe lifted and a hooked finger with enflamed knuckles protruded from the folds.  She glanced at her ring. It was made of silver hematite, in the shape of a great spider with eight legs that wrapped around the wearer’s finger, but in place of an abdomen was a large bloodstone which glowed red at its core.

“Ocnubian . . . Valtor.” Her harsh voice rang out as the sharp words pierced the silence. The crystal on the table jerked to life, revolving in place. Within moments the spinning was beyond what the human eye could perceive as the crystal rose off the table and liquefied, forming a circular pattern in the air about two feet in diameter. The black substance glimmered as an image sparked into existence. Much like looking through a window, Mangora watched as a tall, gaunt-faced man robed in crimson stood behind a long wooden table surrounded by shelves of archaic objects. He was busy leafing through an old manuscript.

Valtor’s face hardened. He grabbed an identical crystal from a nearby shelf and threw it on the table, then reached for his staff. The bloodstone inside the wolf’s maw pulsed. He aimed the head of the staff toward the crystal.

“Avalda!”

The crystal burst to life. It spread as it rose into the air and bonded with her crystal. The image was now two-way. “What do you want, Mangora?” he barked, laying his staff against the table.

“The boy has been found,” she said with a dry cackle.

“Boy? What boy?”

“The boy,” she emphasized.

The thick brows over his gaunt eyes rose. “Are you sure?”

Mangora raised her bandaged hand. “Very sure.”

She remembered how displeased Aerodyne had been with the news of their failure to capture the faeling the first time. The Dark Wizard had been even more upset once he learned who had taken possession of the child. Thankfully, from within his prison, Aerodyne was incapable of affecting the physical world. If not for that fact, Mangora was sure a swift death would have been a mercy.

She had never known why the Dark Wizard had wanted the strange human-faerie anomaly. If Valtor knew, he never revealed it. Faelings weren’t like other of the ven’ae. They didn’t need incantations or runes to enact spells. They didn’t need transferal crystals to release hidden gifts. And unlike those wielders who possessed innate magic, these faelings were born, not with magic, but of magic, giving them an almost divine-like mastery over its use, capabilities hindered only by their own strength. Mangora could only imagine what they could do with someone like that working with them.

Because of their power, these marked-ones were extremely dangerous and, when found, had been immediately eradicated. Mangora had no idea what dark purpose their master had in store for the young faeling, but she was sure it would be most unpleasant.

Aerodyne had been alive for almost two thousand years. He had been around when the first of the faeries had broken through the barrier that separated their realm from the Realm of Man. He had helped establish the first Wizard Order. He had been there when the faerie creatures had been pushed back to their own realm and the breach sealed. He had fought in the great Faerie Wars, and then in the Wizard Wars that followed. He obviously had insight beyond anything they could comprehend.

“Where is he?” Valtor asked.

“Easthaven.”

“Easthaven?” A small spark of understanding flashed across the chancellor’s face. “Of course, Nyalis wants to keep him close to the forest.” He glanced downward at the sprawl of papers and tomes covering the top of his table. “We should have anticipated this sooner.” He slammed his fist onto the top of the table, spilling ink from a nearby jar and scattering a few of the loose parchments. “Aerodyne will not be pleased at our failure in finding him sooner.” His eyes grew sullen.

“What would you have me do?” She didn’t like it when Valtor lost his temper, he tended to lash out.

The chancellor regained his composure and straightened his robes. “Keep your eyes on him.” He raised his brow. “All your eyes.”

Mangora smiled. “They are already watching. When should I expect you?”

Valtor arched his back and his face grew stern. “I cannot leave. My task is progressing here. By winter’s end, Aramoor will be broken and a new High King established. One who can be easily molded to fit our plans. The seer has foreseen it.”

“And you trust this seer?”

“Of course not.” His smile curled at the ends of his mouth as he tapped his fingertips together. “But, I have very persuasive methods of extracting the truth.” Valtor took a step back. “It will be up to you to bring the boy to me. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Are you questioning my abilities, Valtor?”

“No, but we have had others try and fail. We cannot afford to act too hastily. It could drive the boy back into hiding, or worse, give cause to alarm Nyalis. I don’t want that timeworn fool of a wizard getting in my way.”

“He’s only one man, Valtor. We can handle him.”

“Don’t underestimate him, Mangora. Those that have, never lived long enough to regret it.”

Mangora grumbled. “Patience is a virtue I have in ample supply, Chancellor, but patience can also be construed as procrastination . . . or worse, defiance. I would prefer not to face the master’s wrath if I were to let the boy escape my grasp when I had the opportunity to do otherwise.” She scooted forward in her seat, letting the age of her face be seen by the light of the candle. Her lips parted to reveal a row of poorly tended incisors. “My pets are always hungry.”

Valtor grimaced. “Do what you must.” He retrieved a few of the scattered documents on his table and righted his ink well. “Do you have those you can trust to help you with this?”

“I have all I will need to get the job done.”

“Then let me know when it’s finished.” He fixed Mangora with a hard glare. “And for all our sakes, you better not fail.” He swiped his hand in front of the image. “Sikreeyo Padorum.” The liquefied crystal reformed and fell back onto the table, rolling gently to a stop.

From beneath her robes, Mangora extended a withered hand. She slid her fingers around the crystal and tucked it safely away within the confines of her robe. She was getting tired of Valtor’s constant belittlement. She was a powerful sorceress in her own right. She might not be his equal, but she deserved more than his not-so-subtle rebukes and contempt.

A clicking noise stirred from behind her seat—fast, repetitive, and growing louder. She raised an outstretched hand to her side as an enormous brown spider stepped out of the shadows and under her grasp. She slid her fingers across its furry back.

“You hear that, Syglara? It seems your children are needed once more.”

Chapter 35 | Valtor

“THAT OLD TURNIP better not muck this up,” Valtor groused.

Stepping back from his table, he grabbed his staff by the wolf’s head and made his way down the open stairwell of his chambers in the White Tower. Its clacking on the stone tile ricocheted off the walls and ceiling as he passed. Waving his hand, the large double doors at the front of the assembly room opened, giving passage to the outer hallway beyond.

The two guards in their pristine white uniforms jumped to attention and stepped aside as he swept by. His course was set—no delays, no deviations, no distractions. Valtor knew what he needed to do. He knew where he must go. His grip on the staff tightened, biting into the palm of his hand as he tried to keep them from shaking.

On through the torch lit passageways he strode. On through the winding stairwells he climbed. Countless doors passed in the dark as his steps directed him to a small corridor off a grand intersection. Raising a hand, he closed his eyes and spoke an incantation to lower the protective wards that guarded the room on the other side. A dark layer of green mist materialized and then lowered into the floor, allowing him passage beyond.

There had been many wards placed throughout the ancient keep, preventing access to all but those with the capability of diffusing such magic. A few of the wards were of Valtor’s making, but many had been conjured centuries ago. Some of them were well beyond his capabilities to master and thus the contents of those rooms remained a mystery, untouched by time. They had been created by wizards of the Second Age, wizards whose power and control over the elements matched those of even the fae themselves.

He had discovered the warding of this particular room in one of the many journals of magic he had secretly confiscated from the libraries at Aramoor. No one had any idea as to the amount of information stored within those shelves. Valtor had been only too willing to put it to good use. Of late the only person bearing any interest at all in the ancient lore was Queen Ellise. He only hoped her affinity for the magic of the Second Age didn’t cause problems for him down the road.

Opening the door, he stepped into the dark room. He waved his hand and the torches resting in their rusted out wall racks burst to life. The outer perimeter of the chamber floor was comprised of the same dust-covered stone as the corridor outside. Its center, however, was covered in white limestone. Around the smooth surface was a circular row of dark red pillars with veins of black marble diverging out from around their massive trunks like branches from a gnarled tree spreading upwards in search of the sun.

Sitting atop the pear-shaped pillars rested thirteen stone-faced gargoyles, each one as haunting as the next—part human, part animal. The Watchers they were called. They too had been warded in case of a breach. If someone were to step within the circle of white with an aura that read of hostility, the stone creatures would come to life and destroy them.

Breaching the white tile had always given Valtor pause. He found himself staring at the immobile statues above, wondering if they too were looking down at him. A couple of times he could have sworn he saw their eyes move. Pushing his qualms aside, he crossed the white stone. There was a platform waiting at its center. Mounting the steps, he made his way to a stone altar at the core of the dais. Each stone bore a unique rune used in the conjuring of what lay on top.

Encased within the top of the altar was a large onyx basin wrapped in intricate gold runes. The reflective black bowl was filled with a silver liquid. The Waters of A’sterith, the journals had named it. He remembered the first time he laid eyes on the basin and its contents, how excited he had been at the prospect of what he was about to do. Stretching out his hands to conjure life into the bowl’s placid state, he whispered, “Iryseth a’ Daomon.”

Stepping back, he lowered his hands and watched as the waters within stirred to life. He knew what was coming. He had seen the figure rise from its depths before. There was no mistaking the Dark Wizard’s presence.

Valtor kept his head bowed. “Lord Aerodyne, I await your command.”

“Why do you summon me?” The dark wizard’s voice filled the chamber. Its resonance alluded to the authority it held. “What failings have you come to report?”

Valtor took three steps back before raising his head to face the Defiler. “My lord, I wish to report that the faeling child has been found.” He lowered his eyes waiting for a response. When none came, he hazarded a quick glance toward the basin where the stationary image of his master stood waiting, buried beneath a silvery shroud. “We have reason to believe we now know the whereabouts of most of the wielder councils as well, my lord.”

“Good. Deal with them appropriately.”

“Of course, my lord. I am also pleased to report our plans for Aramoor and the throne of the High King are also coming to fruition. The crowned prince is more pliable than even I had anticipated. He will be easily controlled.” At least Valtor hoped he would. Dakaran had a way of rearing his head when least expected. “Even now he has initiated talks that could soon lead to the war between Elondria and Cylmar that we have long sought. Both kingdoms will soon be under our governance.”

“Where is the boy?”

“He is in Easthaven of Sidara, my lord. The same place we believe one of these wielder councils now hides.”

“Of course he is.” The room boomed with laughter. The sound was neither joyous nor pleasant. “Nyalis has wisely kept him close. He is of course using these ven’ae to keep the faeling hidden and protected.”

Valtor nodded his agreement. His back, however, was not so inclined. It was beginning to grow weary of the bent posture he had taken. Valtor hoped to see a quick end to this little meeting and soon.

“Nyalis is the last of his kind, a dying breed,” the apparition continued. “In his effort to tend to my prison, he has resigned the opportunity to train another. The line of the Aerodyne Wizards will soon come to an end, and my long desired freedom will be at hand.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Aerodyne lifted his robed arm and pointed directly at Valtor. “I want the faeling alive and unspoiled.” The silver figure shrunk back into the basin once again. “Failure will be dealt with most severely.”

In shock, Valtor fell to his knees as an onslaught of pain exploded through his mind. It was as though someone had reached inside his head and squeezed. He had never felt anything like it before. Dropping his staff to the floor, he raised both hands and pressed them against his skull. His breathing had gone from sporadic, to chaotic, to not at all as he leaned forward and screamed in agony.

And just as quick as it had appeared, the pressure was gone.

His breath came in ragged bursts. Drool dripped freely from his mouth and his face was drenched in sweat. He rubbed his hand across his wet chin and found it was covered in blood. There was a sharp metallic taste in his mouth, and upon quick inspection, he found there was blood seeping from his nose, ears, and even eyes. What did this mean? Aerodyne had never been able to touch the land of the living before. His prison must truly be deteriorating.

For the first time, Valtor felt a moment of doubt, hesitancy in what he was attempting to do. He wondered if maybe his path was leading him in a direction he would soon regret.

Chapter 36 | Nilla

AFTER HEARING ABOUT Ty’s harrowing experience in town with the peculiar shop owner, and how the old woman had somehow recognized her son, Nilla, along with her husband, insisted a council meeting be called to discuss what action should be taken in order to ensure Ty’s safety.

Before the meeting, Nilla decided to stop and check on Saleena to see how the young healer was getting along. The poor woman was holed up in the cellar of the Harbor House with no clear indication of how long she would be forced to remain there, or where she would go once the Black Watch had left Easthaven.

If half of what Ty had told them was true concerning his experience in town, there was great cause for concern. The last thing they needed was for someone to recognize Ty for who he was: a wielder. The only positive outcome to having the Tower’s guards in town would be that this strange shop owner, whoever she was, might be hesitant to get involved in case they decided to take her as well.

From the description Ty gave of her shop, with its bizarre artifacts, books, and weapons, to the desiccated heads hanging in the corner, it was pretty clear the woman leaned toward the darker side of magic and more than likely had no intention of giving the Black Watch cause to take notice.

Every day it seemed the walls of their secrecy concerning Ty were closing in. With the Tower’s goons roaming the open streets, to this possible sorceress spotting Ty and claiming recognition, Nilla feared it was time to get the wizard involved. She wasn’t sure how much longer Easthaven would be able to safely harbor her son.

Nilla crossed over Aldcliff and back behind a couple of the lesser frequented shops on the northwest side of Easthaven, heading for the residential district. She had left her horse tied in front of Mezard’s Chandlery and opted to tote her basket of baked goods instead of trying to direct her mare through the tight passageways between buildings on this seedier side of town.

A stray alley cat knocked some trash from the top of a barrel, causing Nilla to jump. “Pull yourself together,” she berated as she chuckled at her own anxiety. She would be the first to admit she was a worrier, always had been.

Being married to someone like Kellen, who rarely let anything get to him, had been both a blessing and a curse. Her husband’s calm demeanor had mellowed her over the years, but when it came to her family, calm demeanor or not, her nerves stayed on edge.

When her parents had told her they had found her a husband, it had taken everything she had not to run away from home. The last thing she wanted was to be tied down to some big oaf who wanted nothing more than for someone to cook and clean for him. At least, at the ripe old age of fifteen, that was what she had believed marriage was supposed to be about for a woman. She blamed the misconception on her own parents.

Her father wasn’t the kindest of men. He ran his house with a heavy hand, and a leather strap when he felt the situation called for it, which tended to be whenever he had stopped by the tavern on his way home from work.

She remembered the first time she had seen Kellen. He was the biggest man she had ever laid eyes on. She said man, but in reality, Kellen wasn’t but a year or two older than she was. His mother had passed on when he was just a child, and his father had run out on him by the time he reached his teen years.

Even as a young man, Kellen was the best tracker this side of Reed Marsh. His father, and his father before him, had been gamekeepers and woodsmen for the Sidaran Overlords. It ran in his blood. Along with Kellen’s inheritance of title and position came a rather large cottage with a piece of land that had been provided by the overlord to his family. As long as Kellen remained as the overlord’s gamekeeper, the property would be his to pass on to future generations.

Well, one look at Kellen’s station in life and Nilla’s father was first in line to sell her off. Kellen had always been shy around the other young girls. He never took to the traditional view of courtship, and was normally too busy to bother. Trying to get two words out of him was like trying to wrestle a razorback off its nest. In fact, the first time the two of them had spoken was the day before their wedding. Kellen had come out to the house to see about any final preparations.

He had pulled her off to the side, with her father’s permission, to speak with her alone. Nilla was shorter than the other young women, which made his height even more dramatic. The size of his hands frightened her. The thought of what they could do to her if he ever got upset was terrifying. She craned her neck just to look into his eyes when he spoke. His words, however, for the first time gave her hope that what awaited her was possibly not as bad as what she was expecting. He told her he wouldn’t force her to marry him if she didn’t want to.

Looking into his eyes, she saw something she had never seen in her father’s: compassion. One look and Nilla knew she wouldn’t have said no, even if he looked like he was ready to throw her over his knee and paddle her right there. The fear of what her father would do to her if she did was more than enough for her to go through with it.

As it turned out, it was the best thing that had ever happened to her.

Nilla smiled as she thought about how much she loved her gentle giant of a husband, and how much he adored her. She quickened her pace as she moved along the dark lonely back alleys. The icy wind, on more than one occasion, threatened to strip her of her basket. That same wind seemed to be keeping the good citizens of Easthaven in doors, providing her with an easy road of access to the Harbor House.

Once inside, she followed Eliab down the stone staircase toward the dark cellar below.

“Mith Thaleena ith right thith way, Mith Nilla.” The old gatekeeper had his double crossbow tucked under his arm like a third appendage. Nilla couldn’t remember ever seeing him without it.

Eliab stopped outside the second door on the left and knocked.

“Just a moment,” a voice called out from the other side.

Nilla turned at the sound of a door being opened behind her. She passed a quick glance over her shoulder in time to see Sheeva stepping into one of the guest rooms on the other side of the cellar.

Saleena’s door opened, bringing Nilla’s attention back around. The young healer’s long, dark hair cast shadows over the extent of bruising she had suffered at the hands of the Black Watch. Fraya had managed to save her life, but she was letting Saleena’s body take care of the smaller injuries on their own.

“Please come in,” Saleena said as she gestured for Nilla to enter.

Eliab bowed his head to the two ladies and headed back for the staircase.

Crossing the small room, Nilla laid her basket on the bed and pulled off the food’s protective covering. “I brought some roast venison, fresh rye, and a wedge of cheese. I hope that it’s satisfactory.” There she went to worrying again. She needed to make a mental note to hold it in check. Nilla took a seat on the edge of the bed and gestured for Saleena to join her.

“It’s more than satisfactory, Your Ladyship.”

“Ladyship?” Nilla laughed hard enough to draw tears. “Well, that’s the first time I’ve ever been referred to in that way. Just call me Nilla.” She pulled out the loaf of dark rye and pinched off a piece. She offered it to Saleena who then gulped it down as soon as her fingers wrapped around it.

“Sorry . . . Miss Nilla, but Master Orlyn, he might be one of the sweetest men this side of the Angoran Mountains but he can’t cook worth a hoot, and they won’t let me out of here long enough to do it myself.” A look of horror crossed Saleena’s face. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’m very grateful for everything you are doing for me.”

Nilla chuckled as she patted the young woman on the leg. “Don’t you worry about it, I completely understand.” She almost chuckled again at having to tell someone else not to worry.

Even sitting down, Saleena was at least a head taller than Nilla. Apart from the deep bruising, she seemed to be a fairly pretty girl. She wondered if she had anyone waiting for her back home. Then Nilla wondered if she’d ever be able to return.

As if reading Nilla’s thoughts, Saleena asked, “How long do you think I’ll need to stay down here?”

“As long as it takes, I guess. Now that the Black Watch believes you are dead, they will be moving on soon enough. Once they do, we’ll have to find you a new place to live, you’ll have to change your name, but most importantly, you’ll have to give up medicine.”

Saleena’s eyes widened. “Give up medicine. I don’t think I can do that. It’s my whole life. It’s who I am.”

“It won’t be much of a life if you’re taken to the White Tower. I’m not pretending I know all of what goes on up there, but I have a feeling you won’t be doing much healing from your cell.”

Saleena exhaled slowly. Her mood darkened, which showed as she relinquished her earlier appetite in exchange for simply staring at the food in front of her.

“My dear, you have your whole life ahead of you. There will be other things to perk your interest: finding a good man, settling down, raising a family. These are all wonderfully fulfilling things. Besides, life isn’t just about having an occupation. You’ll be surprised how fast things can change. Who knows, maybe those skills of yours will be called on sooner than you think.”

The two women finished off the rest of the food before joining the other members of the council around the long table in the next room. Most of the council was there save for Gilly, who enjoyed the solitude of his river to an overcrowded chamber, and Reloria who was too busy at her sweet shop to get away.

Nilla took a seat next to her husband.

After Ty’s encounter the day before, Nilla and Kellen had thought it best that Ty stay as near to home as possible for the time being. Breen and Adarra stayed behind to keep him company.

Feoldor scratched the side of his face. “I’m telling you it’s time to contact the wizard.”

Orlyn leaned forward in his seat on the other side of the table and glanced toward the head. “As much as I hate to admit it, I have to agree with Feoldor. We need to let the wizard know that it is no longer safe for Ty here in Easthaven.”

“There, you see,” Feoldor said as he pointed in the apothecary’s direction, “even gray beard knows when to see reason.”

Orlyn reached for his rune covered staff. “Call me gray beard once more, you sorry excuse for a vanti. And comb your whiskers. You look like a chipmunk.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Veldon said from the front, clearly not in the mood for petty banter. The portmaster nervously fiddled with the piece of flint around his neck.

Nilla wasn’t feeling much in the mood either. Too much was at stake. It seemed like the cards were stacked against them, everything seemed to be piling up all at once. She took a deep breath. She didn’t know why she kept getting herself so worked up. Did she think they would just spend the rest of their lives in protected bliss; that the White Tower would eventually give up their search; that Overlord Barl would somehow keep the Black Watch from ever entering their city? It was a fool’s fantasy, and while it did feel good to be a fool every now and then, sooner or later you had to face reality.

She looked up as she felt Kellen’s fingers interlock with hers. Her hand seemed so small in his. She smiled. Her husband always had a way of dispelling her worries.

“Kellen.”

Her husband broke eye contact with her to look at Veldon.

“What are your thoughts? This is Ty after all. Do you believe his account of the old woman and her shop?”

Kellen glanced at Nilla to get her response. She nodded. They didn’t need a long conversation to get their thoughts across to one another. After so many years together, a simple look was enough most of the time. “I believe him,” Kellen said. “He hasn’t given us cause to doubt his word before.”

Veldon nodded, and then rubbed the top of his head. “Then I’d say we haven’t much choice. Nyalis told us to use the horn if we were ever in need, or felt there was an imminent danger to the boy.”

Nilla tightened her grip on her husband’s hand as she addressed the group. “A couple of us need to check in on this woman’s shop. If she knows Ty, then it’s likely she would recognize myself or Kellen.” Nilla looked across the table at Orlyn. “Perhaps . . .”

“No need to say anything more, “Orlyn said. “Me and Feoldor will check it out.”

Feoldor huffed. “Oh, thanks for volunteering me.”

Nilla cleared her throat loud enough to get the glassblower’s attention. He squirmed in his seat after their eyes locked. “Of course, I’d be only too happy to help,” he said with a slight smile. Feoldor started fiddling with the bracelet on his wrist, the one holding his transferal crystal. It was an automatic reaction to contemplating something dangerous.

Orlyn reached into his robe and withdrew a rectangular box about the length of a man’s forearm. He placed it on the table in front of him. There didn’t appear to be a lock, or hinge, or seal of any kind. In fact, Nilla thought it looked like nothing more than a simple block of smooth wood. Apart from a couple strange symbols carved into what she figured was the top, there was nothing extraordinary about it.

Orlyn reached for his staff. The crystal at the top radiated a vibrant green as he placed his free hand on top of the block. Nilla had been there the day Nyalis had first presented them with the magically sealed case. She listened as Orlyn repeated the same incantation the wizard had instructed them to use in order to release what was inside.

“Vera Sintorum.”

Nilla, along with the other members of the Easthaven Council, watched as the gold runes brightened along the outer edge of the box, revealing the shape of a lid. A latch from inside the container clicked. Orlyn released his staff and the crystal faded. With both hands he reached out and lifted the top of the box and laid it on the table. Inside was a curved horn made of ivory. The ends were gold plated. Orlyn lifted the horn, but instead of putting his lips to the instrument, he leaned forward and held it out for Kellen to take.

“Ty is your son. It should be your choice.”

Kellen took the beautifully sculpted artifact and studied it for a moment, turning it over in his hands. He looked at Nilla and handed her the horn. “You decide.”

It was cool in her hands, delicate. She was suddenly inundated with doubt. Did she really want to do this? Was it truly necessary? She knew the wizard had said he would be back one day to take Ty. Did she really want to take the chance? She knew her answer. There was nothing more important than her son’s safety. She lifted the small end of the horn and pressed it to her lips. Taking a deep breath, she blew.

The horn didn’t make so much as a peep.

The members cast quizzical glances around the table. “What happened?” Feoldor finally asked. “Did you blow?”

“Yes. I blew as hard as I could.”

Kellen took the horn and examined both ends. “I don’t see any blockages.”

Feoldor grabbed the horn from Kellen. “Oh, here, let me show you how it’s done.” He sucked in a large gulp of air and expelled it as hard as he could. His face turned red by the end of his blow. Again, nothing happened. Feoldor huffed as he shrugged his shoulders, obviously embarrassed at having done no better. He handed it back to Kellen. “Wouldn’t that be just like that old codger to give us a defective horn.”

“What now?” Veldon asked.

Orlyn took the instrument and placed it back inside the box. “Now we wait and see.”

Chapter 37 | Ferrin

FERRIN FELT A PRICK on the side of his forearm, bringing him fully awake.

He lay there for a moment, trying to decide if what he had felt was real or just another dream from one of his occasional bouts of half-sleep. The cold wind blowing in from the one lonely arrow-slit above kept the room in a state that left him with a constant shudder—muscles tight and teeth chattering. The eerie howling it produced as it wafted through the stone’s slender opening was the only noise provided for lulling him to sleep. Rather ineffective.

He felt it again. This time, the sharp pain was more than a simple prick. Spinning around with the opposite hand, he smacked at the source like he would at a blood gnat trying to fill its belly on his vital fluids. However, instead of a squishing sound there was a squeal as his hand wrapped around a large rat. It had apparently decided that Ferrin was more appealing than the bucket of dung sitting in the far corner of their cell. He could hardly fault its logic.

Grabbing the head with his other hand, he snapped its neck and then threw the creature into the corner. He listened as the clanging noise of the pail let him know he had hit the mark. He smiled, reflecting on how one could find humor in the simplest of things.

“I see you finally caught our little friend,” Azriel said from his side of the room. His chains clanged against the stone floor as he struggled to lift himself into a sitting position.

Ferrin wiped his red hair from his face. “Yes. Unfortunately for him, he mistook my arm for a serving tray.”

“Ah, I guess he finally realized what little meat covers my bones was too tough to chew and decided to move on to greener pastures.” Azriel’s laugh turned into a fit of coughing. Ferrin made his way across the room to see if there was anything he could do to help the old seer, but Azriel waved him off with a couple flaps of his gaunt wrist. “Don’t you worry yourself over me. I’m too ornery to die.” The old man smiled as his coughing abated.

Ferrin grunted. “Now that I can believe.” He turned back around and sat in his prickly bed of tuft straw, the only place on the cold stone that helped to ease the discomfort, and not by much.

Ferrin watched the old man shift his weight, trying to find a more relaxed position. His back was against the wall and his legs stretched out in front. “You never did tell me why they keep you chained like that.”

Azriel’s hand lifted on instinct to rub at the thick manacle around his neck. “Because they fear me. I’m a powerful sorcerer, after all.”

Ferrin’s breath caught in his throat. “Really?”

“No. What’s wrong with you? Do you think I’d still be sitting here if I was?” Azriel shook his head with a look of pity. “I thought you had a brain in that thick skull of yours.”

No one had a talent quite like Azriel de’ Torsa for making Ferrin feel like an ignorant schoolboy. “They have me chained because not long after they brought me here, I managed to escape.”

Ferrin’s head snapped to attention. He tried to say something but nothing came out.

“What’s wrong with you, boy? You look like you just sucked a bad egg.”

“You escaped? How did you do it? How did you get around the guards? How did you find a way out? For that matter, how did you get your hands on a transferal?”

“Alright, slow down. One at a time. This old mind doesn’t run as fast as it used to.” Azriel paused to take a breath. “First of all, I’m a seer. I see things.”

“What do you mean you see things?”

Azriel rolled his eyes. “Think, boy. Use your noggin. What did I just tell you? I’m a seer. I see things. I see past things. I see present things. I see future things. Actually, I guess the future things are more like possibilities than actualities, but that’s a whole other topic. We’ll save that for another time.” Azriel looked at Ferrin. “I can see by that glazed-over look in your eyes you have no idea what I’m talking about. Am I right?” Ferrin nodded. “Good. I’d be afraid if you did. You’re not a seer, after all. Unless there’s something you haven’t told me.” Azriel stared at him with a questionable look in his eye. “No, I didn’t think so.

“As I was saying, I see things, things no one else can see: like when they were going to send only a single guard to escort me to the Chamber of Inquisition, like when he would be startled by a rat on his foot and turn his back to me, like which corridors and stairwells to take and at what times to elude the next guard on watch. I could see it with such clarity, I could have done it with my eyes closed.”

“Not to state the obvious, but,” Ferrin pointed out, “why are you still here then?”

“Well, no one’s perfect. Although, I like to think that some of us are a bit closer than others.” He offered Ferrin a quirky sort of smile. “Anyway, once I reached the outside, I figured I was in the clear and didn’t need to keep relying on my inner sight.” Azriel shook his head. “Boy, was that a mistake I lived to regret. I hadn’t made it halfway to the stables when a guard with a sudden bout of indigestion spotted me on his way to the privy. Imagine that,” the old man baulked. “All that work, and I was caught on account of a poorly made minced stew.” Azriel threw his shackled hands in the air. “Now you can’t tell me that wasn’t some kind of higher providence or something. The Creator had a good laugh that day at my expense.”

Ferrin was astonished. This crazy old man had managed to actually breach the outer walls of the White Tower. No one had ever gotten so far before.

“Well, my boy, are you going to say something? A moment ago, I couldn’t get you to shut up.”

“How did you get your hands on a transferal?”

“Ah, now that’s a good question,” Azriel acknowledged with a raised finger. “And I guess the easiest answer is . . . I didn’t.”

Now Ferrin was confused. “What do you mean you didn’t?”

“I mean I didn’t have to. My gift is innate. I don’t need a faerie rock to initiate it.”

“Faerie rock?”

“Yes, faerie rock. Those little shards of crystal that give you access to your ability?” Azriel smiled sadly and shook his head when he saw Ferrin’s expression. “Oh, boy,” he grunted and then slapped his forehead. “You mean to tell me you’ve never heard the term faerie crystal before?” Once again, Ferrin had to shake his head no. He was beginning to understand how in-the-dark he truly was. Ferrin had never been one to go for all that deep thinking drivel. He had never cared how the world worked, or what was the purpose to life, or if there was some higher plan or destiny for him. He figured if there was a Creator, he’d just leave it to Him.

“Where did you think your magic came from? It came from the fae when they busted through to our realm thousands of years ago.” Azriel pursed his lips in thought. “Not exactly sure if that was a blessing or a curse.” He scratched at his thinning scalp. “You got to remember, our world had never seen magic before. To us, it all looked like something from the Divine.” He paused to think. “Which, to be honest, I guess it was, since everything is created by Him.

“Anyway, some of the early faeries were happy to share their knowledge with us. Others, not so much. Evidently, everything about their realm is based on magic, and the transferals, as we call them, are pieces of their realm brought over to help aid us in our use of magic.”

“So my gift with metallurgy isn’t me, it’s just a piece of rock?”

“Well, no, it’s mostly you,” Azriel said, rubbing his hand down his long, disheveled beard. “Once magic had been introduced to our realm, it started to seep into things, living things. We were no exception. Pretty soon we started noticing changes. Much like the fae, there were humans who were being born with special abilities as well—magic rivaling their own. This brought about a conflict which gave rise to the first Wizard Order.

“Like everything in life, you have good and evil. Many of the faeries were content with keeping the status quo and holding to the peace, but there were some who looked at us as you would a family pet, or a plow horse, and believed they should be able to rule over us, which they did for a while, until the rebellion. And with the help of some of our faerie allies, the Wizard Order drove the rest of them out and resealed the breach.”

“And how is it you know all of this?”

Azriel smiled. “I keep my ears open.” Ferrin wondered if there was supposed to be some kind of deeper meaning behind that. “Anyway, what was I talking about?” Azriel scratched the top of his head once again. “Oh right, you asked about your ability as a metallurgist. Let’s see if I can explain this in a way that makes sense.” He took a deep breath as he pondered what to say. Ferrin beat him to the punch

“How do people know they have magic?”

Azriel raised his head. “Ah, now that’s a good question, and I guess a good place as any to start. Those born as ven’ae are born with a single gift.” Azriel raised his hand to point in Ferrin’s direction. “You, for example, were born with the ability to manipulate metal ore. But even before you had ever come in contact with a transferal, I bet you could sniff out metal like a basset hound to a fox. Most people have no idea they have magic at first since what they feel is something they’ve had since birth and don’t know any better.

“Those born with a certain gift are able to sense that gift but not manipulate it. Right now, you can probably tell me where every piece of metal in this room is, the type, consistency, and probably age, but,” he said, raising a finger, “you can’t manipulate it. You could stick a voda in the middle of the Wengoby Desert and they could point out precisely where the water is under the sand, but they couldn’t bring it up.” Azriel’s brow lowered over his eyes. “Does that make sense?”

Ferrin nodded. “I’ve never had anyone explain it to me before.”

“Well, not to be too confusing but there are a few individuals, like myself, who were born with what we call innate abilities. We don’t need the use of a transferal for our gifts to work. Our magic is solely self-contained.” Azriel sighed. “Now understand, I’m not saying that my magic is more powerful, it just isn’t hindered by a dependency on the crystals. And before you ask, I have no idea how or why that works.

“There are also different forms of magic. For example, there are runes and incantations. These are all forms of magic that can be learned—”

“So, can anyone do magic then?”

“No. Only those with an aptitude for it. You have a propensity for metallurgy. So, given the right amount of time and study, you could eventually learn other forms and variations of magic as well. The difference though is that those with an aptitude for a certain gift will have a stronger control over that gift than those who merely learn to manipulate it through runes and incantations. For example, you could learn to control fire, but you would never be able to employ it the way a true incidi could with the use of a transferal. Also, I don’t know this for sure, mind you, having never been able to test it myself, but I believe there is a correlation between the amount of power one can wield and the size of the crystal. But, like I said, I don’t know that for sure.

“Either way, this learning of other magical forms is how wizards were made in the old days. There were great schools of wizardry where the ven’ae could go to learn, but the Great Purge put an end to them centuries ago.”

Ferrin didn’t say anything, he just sat in silence absorbing everything he was being told. There was so much he didn’t know. He wondered if his whole attitude of “blissful ignorance” was something that might have been better described as “complete stupidity.” After all, he was here because of these strange gifts. Would it be so bad to understand more about what they were and where they came from?

“What you ogling at, son? I know I’m not the prettiest thing to look at, but I’m a far sight better than you?”

“Oh, sorry.” Ferrin shifted his gaze to his lap. He hadn’t realized he had been staring. His thoughts had drifted to the question of why the inquisitors seemed to have singled him out, kept him alive while so many others that had come in with him on the wagon had been taken for purging—at least those who survived the torture. What made him so different? “I was just thinking,” he said finally.

“Independent thought, hmm.” Azriel’s emerald eyes brightened with sarcasm. “A rather dangerous pastime to be sure. It can lead a man into all kinds of trouble. Take me for example. I thought I should use my gift to help others. Now look at me.” He raised his iron-bound arms into the air. “I’m chained to a dungeon wall with nothing more than a dead rat and you to keep me company. And don’t ask me which is worse.” He coughed out another laugh.

Ferrin smiled at Azriel’s tenacity. Over the last couple of weeks, he found himself growing rather fond of the old man. Ferrin only hoped he could bear his time in the Tower with as much dignity as this withered old seer had. “If only I could get my hands on one of those crystals.”

Azriel’s head leaned back against the stone wall, watching him with a gaze intense enough to be staring straight into his soul. “Oh? And what would you do with the crystal if you had it? Unlock my chains? Rip open the door? Storm the castle?” He cackled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Do you even know where you are?”

“Where I am? What kind of stupid question is that? Of course I know where I am. I’m locked in the White Tower with nothing but a dead rat and you to keep me company. And I can tell you which is worse.”

Azriel laughed. “But do you know where in the Tower you are? I’m sure that once you managed to get beyond that door, you have an escape route planned? Of course you know where the guards are, what their rotation is, how many on and off duty, where to find supplies, clothing, and transportation to get you beyond the Pass of Arnon. For that matter, do you even know where the front door is?”

Ferrin was feeling quite the tail-end of a donkey at this point. He hadn’t given it much thought beyond breaking free of his cell. “Okay, I get your point.” He scratched at his thick red beard. I really do need to start using my head more. Of course he’d never admit that in front of the old man.

“As I was saying, thinking can lead to trouble, my dear Ferrin. However, if those thoughts are nurtured, cultivated, and well planned, they could lead to great accomplishments. Every amazing achievement man has wrought began as a single idea. Independent thought is what differentiates us from the animals.

“Unfortunately, our thoughts can be self-centered as well. They can betray us, manipulate us, and turn us away from the Creator’s path. We are covetous creatures, after all. Just remember, every form of evil we find in our world started as a single thought as well.” The old man shook his head. “Listen to me, preaching again. I’m probably the last person who has that right.”

Ferrin lifted his head. “No, you’re right. There is wisdom in what you say. I’ve always been one to act with little thought to the outcome, as evident by me being here in the first place. Unlike you, I decided to use my gift, not so much for the betterment of others, but for the betterment of myself. I realized that with my ability I could create weapons that were lighter, stronger, and more durable than my competition. My reputation grew, and so did my head. Once I started to see the gold coming in and the recognition from important people for my work, I couldn’t stop.

“In fact,” he admitted with a slight grunt, “it was my crowning achievement, of being contracted by the High King himself for a pair of swords, that landed me on the Tower’s watch list in the first place.” He shrugged. “And the rest is history. I lost my home, my gold, my business, and will probably lose my life, all because, as you say, I didn’t stop to think.”

“Well, we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t make mistakes, my boy. Thankfully the Creator can take our lapses in judgment and use them for something good.”

Ferrin took a deep breath. “I’ll be honest—”

“That is a wise choice,” Azriel butted in with a smile. “It’s always good to be honest.”

Ferrin ignored the old man’s attempt at humor and continued. “Right now I’m having a hard time seeing what that could be.” Ferrin watched the seer’s snowy-white head lower in thought. A moment later, it lifted, a hint of amusement flashing across his childlike eyes.

“Well, just think, if you hadn’t been so selfish and went and got yourself caught by the Black Watch and imprisoned in this stinking cesspool of refuse only to await a slow and excruciating death, you would never have had the great privilege of meeting me.” Azriel’s smile was so pitifully sincere that Ferrin immediately laughed, which in turn brought on a spell of hilarity from the seer, ending in a fit of coughing, gagging, and eventually hiccups, which in turn brought on even more laughter.

Ferrin continued chuckling as he rolled over on his back and waited for the guards to bring in their supper. He was daunted by how little he knew about himself, why he was able to do the things he could, why the White Tower was so eager to have his gifts.

He wondered if it was luck or something else that had landed him in the same cell as this crazy old seer. Either way, he was determined not to waste what time he had. He needed to find out more about why the Tower was so interested in him.

Chapter 38 | Ayrion

IT WAS LATE.

Ayrion took a deep breath and closed the door to the king’s study. It had been a long meeting. But with the troubling events of the past week, he had half-expected the discussions to last clear through the night. As it was, the king wasn’t feeling well and had suggested they resume their talks in the morning. Ayrion, for one, was more than happy to take a break and try to get some rest for what he knew would be another grueling session with Commander Tolin and the High King on the morrow.

Other than those of the High Guard on night patrol and a few of the night staff working to have things prepared for the following morning, the palace was asleep. Ayrion found the empty halls somewhat refreshing. It allowed him to gather his thoughts regarding the evening’s rigorous deliberations.

He decided to take a less traveled route back to his chambers. In a place the size of the royal palace, there were plenty of avenues a person could take to get from one destination to another, some less frequented than others, and a few that were untraveled altogether. As one of the former street rats of Aramoor, Ayrion had, at times, found ways of sneaking into the palace to pinch food, clothing, blankets, and on the not-so-rare occasion, an item or two valuable enough to sell at market.

It was during one of those raids that he had first run into Dakaran. The prince, having no one else his age to play with, had forgone the pleasure of turning Ayrion and his friends—Reevie, Kira, and Po—in to the palace guards to be flogged and imprisoned, and instead had invited them to spend that time rummaging the halls playing various forms of hide and seek. It had been tremendous fun. In the process, Ayrion had learned a great deal about the inner passageways flowing throughout the palace.

The memories brought a chuckle to his lips. He recalled the first time the queen had found them. He thought for sure they were going to spend the rest of their days locked away in some dark and scary dungeon. Much to his surprise, she had in its place treated them to a banquet, or at least what seemed like one to a thirteen-year-old boy. Afterward, they were each given a new change of clothes and sent on their way.

Even to this day, the queen’s disposition had not changed. She was one of the most giving, and forgiving, of women Ayrion had ever known.

Ayrion came to the end of another quiet hall. The wall sconces in that section of the palace were not as maintained as the more frequently traveled areas. More than a few had burned out, leaving the lonely corridor cut in shadow.

Turning right, he planned to take one of the east stairwells down to the next floor when he spotted a figure up ahead slipping out of one of the storage rooms. There was a large sack slung over their shoulder. Whoever it was wore a dark cloak with its hood up, hiding the person’s face from Ayrion’s view.

His suspicion piqued, Ayrion quickly moved against the wall and watched as the figure entered the stairwell on the far end of the passageway. Already planning on taking that route, he quickly followed, making sure to keep to the shadows as he moved down the corridor. What was someone doing back here at this time of night? Whoever it was clearly didn’t want to be seen, and knew the palace well enough to maneuver around the staff.

Ayrion followed the hooded figure down the stairwell, but instead of getting off at the next floor, they descended all the way to the bottom, which led to an outer passageway behind the kitchens. Up ahead, Ayrion could see the person stop just outside the cook’s entrance and press their ear against the door.

For a brief moment, Ayrion had the feeling of being a child once again, chasing his friends around the darker recesses of the palace looking for where they had been hiding. He was half-tempted to jump out and holler, “Gotcha!” But as fun as it might be to scare the blazes out of whoever this mysterious person was, he decided to hold back and watch. If this turned out to be something more than one of the cleaning staff helping themselves to a couple extra blankets, then he wanted to let it play out and see if there were any others involved.

The sneak-thief shifted the half-filled sack to the other shoulder and stepped through the door. As a child, the palace kitchens were one of Ayrion’s favorite places to hide. The smell of the exotic foods being prepared was beyond anything he could have ever imagined living on the streets. Ayrion had been sure that when he died, the afterlife couldn’t have fared much better.

Slipping into the room, he worked his way along the back wall behind large crates of fresh sea crab and watched as the thief went about filling their sack with whatever food they could get their hands on. Ayrion was reminded of how many times he had done the same. Whoever the cloaked individual was, it was clear they were not a child. In fact, even with the heavy material, it was hard to conceal the figure of the woman inside.

Ayrion moved a little closer, hoping to find a better vantage point to see who was behind the hood when he realized he had lost sight of the woman altogether. His eyes darted around the room, but the piles of boxes and barrels and stacks of fresh crates from the ocean markets kept her from view. With great care to keep to the shadows, he worked his way through the maze of food stores, poking his head up every now and then to see if he could spot the food bandit, but he had somehow managed to lose her.

To his left, he heard one of the loading doors creak. They led out to the lower courtyards right across from the stables. Ayrion smiled. This was a route he had taken on several occasions himself. Quickly, he worked his way around to the back entrance and slid the door open just enough to peek through. He could see the woman crossing the yard toward the back of the stables. She must have a horse already waiting for her.

He was enjoying this cat and mouse game a little too much.

Opening the door the rest of the way, he stepped out and stood with his back against the stone wall. He wanted to keep out of the light from the standing torch poles that lined the inner courtyard. Within moments, the cloaked thief rode out from behind the stables. She looked to be heading for the main gate.

The direction she was taking would lead her right past where he stood. He flattened himself against the wall. He could feel his swords pressing against his back. He hoped his dark clothing was enough to keep him hidden.

As the woman passed, she turned her head just enough for him to catch a glimpse of the face beneath. His mouth dropped. He couldn’t have been more surprised had it been the queen herself, but there was no mistaking those bright green eyes and tuft of golden hair. It was Amarysia. The woman who had stolen his heart was now stealing the king’s biscuits. What in the world did she need with a bag of food? She lived at the palace, ate at the palace, waited on the queen hand and foot, and yet here she was sneaking around in the middle of the night pilfering wares like a common bag-snatcher.

This was far too interesting to leave unresolved. Ayrion raced across the courtyard and grabbed the closest mount. Being the Guardian Protector had its perks. Not being questioned by the palace stable hands was one of them. Without saddling, he seized a handful of mane and leaped on its back. He dug in his boots to spur the horse forward as Loren, the royal hostler on duty, watched in silence.

Ayrion took the central route past the upper gardens and across the front courtyard. He wanted to make sure he didn’t lose her before she crossed the palace bridge. If she made it into the city before he did, there would be no following.

Thankfully, he reached the outer bailey in time to see her horse passing under the main gates. Urging his own mount on, he followed her across the enormous structure connecting the island of rock to the mainland, and from there into the city.

He could feel his blood pumping. His earlier fatigue had vanished. His mind raced at the prospects of where Amarysia was going. Seeing this unexpected side of her was a little troubling, but also a little rousing.

He spent the next hour making sure to stay far enough back not to be seen, or heard, as their horses’ shoes echoed off the empty streets. She didn’t seem to be in a great hurry. After passing through the upper north quarters into Bayside, with its wealthy mansions overlooking the harbor, she skirted the west side of the merchant districts and headed south into Cheapside.

Cheapside, for those living in the lower regions of Aramoor, was known as The Maze. It was a city within a city. The compact housing of the lower class was fraught with interconnecting ways, streets, side passages, and narrow alleys hardly large enough for a grown man to fit through. For those unfamiliar with its design, a person could get lost for days, never finding their destination.

Ayrion knew The Maze like the back of his hand. Memories of his former life flooded back with each new direction they took. He could remember his time with the street tribes: the battles fought, the friends made, the lessons learned, many of which had help him rise to where he was today.

He could remember The Temple, home of his former street tribe, Hurricane, and their weasel-faced leader Spats. Hurricane had been the first tribe Ayrion had joined after entering the city. It was hard to think about his brief time with the tribe without also remembering The Pit, where he had first faced Flesh Eater in battle and lived to tell about it.

Ayrion took a deep breath. The salty air coming off the water was strong, and familiar in a way that drew him back to his childhood, and the time he’d spent at The Granary with Reevie. It had been Reevie who had first befriended him, saved him actually. The little crippled healer had found Ayrion bleeding his life away in a puddle after having been attacked by a street tribe known as Wildfire. Its leader was a strong-willed girl known to all as Red because of the blood red vest she always wore, but Ayrion eventually came to know her as Kira.

So many memories. It seemed a lifetime ago, or maybe it had been someone else’s life altogether. It had been too long since his last visit with Reevie. Ayrion’s duties as protector had forced him to neglect his best friend. It was something he felt a heavy sorrow for.

Ayrion urged his horse a little faster to close the distance. He was growing concerned. This was a rough section of Aramoor. A person could get mugged, stabbed, and tossed into the bay without anyone being the wiser. Up ahead, he knew they were approaching one of the old shipping districts that had long since gone under. There were a number of abandoned warehouses that had been repurposed by the local street tribes as housing for their members.

Amarysia pulled back on her reins in front of one of the smaller stone buildings and climbed down. Part of its walls had begun to collapse from neglect. The building had been an office at one time, running the operations of a few of the nearby depositories. What was she up to?

Ayrion led his horse off to the side of a building a few streets down. Quietly, he worked his way around to the building opposite of where she stood. He kept his eyes open, scanning every window, every door, every dark corner and hole for signs of movement. A person who let their guard down this close to the Warrens was a person not long for this world. With practiced feet, he moved along the fronts of the derelict structures, his black leathers melding him within the cover of a clouded night.

He felt as though he was coming home.

His first full year in Aramoor was spent in a small room under an abandoned warehouse not three blocks from there. The time he had spent there with Reevie as a twelve-year-old boy was some of the best and worst times of his life.

The front door of the building Amarysia was facing opened and three cloaked figures stepped out. One was a little taller than she was, the other two were shorter. Ayrion crouched in front of the next building over and waited. The three figures didn’t appear menacing. Their hands were empty at their sides, and their posture, though alert, was non-threatening.

The taller individual exchanged a quick greeting. Ayrion was too far away to hear what they were saying, but soon after the exchange, she turned and unhooked the large sack from her saddle and dropped into step behind them as they entered the three-story building.

“That’s just great,” he mumbled. “How am I going to get in there without being seen?” Frantically, he scanned the building, looking for the path of least resistance, when he noticed that the second floor balcony door on the side was ajar. Taking a moment to study the surrounding buildings to make sure he was alone, Ayrion raced across the alley. He hopped up on a pile of loose crates and, using them as leverage, he leaped into the air and performed a move like one of the circus performers for the royal court by grabbing hold of one of the crossbeams sticking out from under the floor of the balcony and swinging himself up to the railing. From there it was a quick leap up and over.

He smiled. He hadn’t done something like that in a long time.

As quietly as he could, he opened the door and moved inside. He could hear voices in the distance. Careful to keep to the outside edge of the narrow hall and away from the creaking floorboards at the center, he followed the corridor till he came to an opening that overlooked the main floor below.

The room was lit with a smattering of thick tallow candles and a couple of brass lamps with polished reflectors. Amarysia stood at the center, still holding her large grain sack. She didn’t appear to be apprehensive, but from where Ayrion stood it was hard to tell. All around the room he could feel the presence of eyes watching her. Even though he couldn’t see them, he knew she was surrounded. What had she gotten herself mixed up in?

The location alone was enough to tell him this was one of the Cheapside street tribes. Which one, he didn’t know. They seemed to rise and fall every year, something he knew plenty about having been the head of his own tribe years ago.

There was something going on underneath the balcony on which he was currently standing. He couldn’t see what it was but he could hear raised voices. He needed a better vantage point.

Very few entered a street tribe’s lair without first being invited, and even then it was typically for some kind of parlay with a representative from another tribe. Amarysia kept her back straight. She showed no outward sign of fear. Fear on the streets was like blood to a school of sharks. They could smell it a mile away.

Directly below, a group walked out from under the balcony. At their head was a large brute of a boy. Unlike most of the others, he had lighter hair which made him stick out from the rest. He was clearly this tribe’s chieftain. Ayrion couldn’t tell much from where he was, but what he could see was the large mallet the boy was holding behind his back. Amarysia stood there completely oblivious to the danger she was in.

Ayrion couldn’t wait any longer. He moved to the far side of the walkway to get a running start. Taking a deep breath, he counted to three and charged.

Chapter 39 | Ayrion

THE FLAPS OF Ayrion’s black coat opened behind him as he dropped from the second floor balcony and hit the ground directly between the approaching convoy and Amarysia.

Amarysia cried out in surprise and dropped her sack. Street kids everywhere dove for their cubby holes. Their leader, clearly startled by Ayrion’s sudden entrance, whipped out his large hammer as the rest of his underlings fought to brandish whatever crude weapons they had stowed beneath their threadbare garb.

“Ayrion? What are you—” Before Amarysia could finish her sentence, the tribal chief howled sharply and charged. Ayrion sidestepped the heavy implement and watched as the large head of the hammer swung to his left.

The boy was stronger than he looked. Using the momentum of his first swing, the kid spun back around for another try, this time aiming for Ayrion’s head. Ayrion ducked and spun, letting the heavy maul hit nothing but air. The boy didn’t stop. He continued to attack, howling as he went. Amarysia was hollering from the side for them to stop, but neither one had any intention of doing so.

Ayrion never once pulled his blades. Instead, he continued to dance around the room, weaving in and around each swing of the hammer, while at the same time allowing his assailant to wear himself out. The boy wouldn’t be able to keep it up much longer, and Ayrion knew he wasn’t about to stop of his own volition. The boy couldn’t. His entire tribe was watching. His reputation as their leader was on the line. Ayrion hated embarrassing the kid like this, but he didn’t see that they were leaving him much of a choice. Besides, he didn’t take kindly to the threatening way he had approached Amarysia.

“Ayrion, don’t hurt him!”

Having chased Ayrion from one side of the open floor to the other with nothing to show for it, the tribal chief was beginning to look a bit winded. He left himself unprotected on each of his backswings. Waiting for the right moment, Ayrion sidestepped the hammer once again and then kicked the boy square in the chest, hard enough to send him flying across the room with a different sort of howl. His hammer flew through the air in the opposite direction and into a pile of chairs in the corner.

The other boys ran to help their chief to his feet, but no one attempted another approach.

Ayrion headed across the room to where Amarysia was standing, wide-eyed and a bit more upset than he would have expected from someone whose life he had just saved. Instead of throwing her arms around his neck and thanking him for her rescue, she flew by him and threw her arms around the street thug instead.

“Are you alright?” she asked as she reached down to help him up. He pushed her hand away and growled.

Ayrion rolled his eyes. Didn’t she know any better than to treat the boy like a sick puppy in front of his tribe? She turned and planted both fists firmly on her hips, fixing Ayrion with a harsh glare. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Ayrion didn’t move, quite astounded at her unappreciative statement and angry demeanor. “Saving your life, what does it look like? What do you think you’re doing coming down here alone in the middle of the night? Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Ayrion kept his eyes on the growing crowd of kids on the far side of the room as they started coming out of the woodwork, literally. They crawled out from under the tables, from behind the support posts, through back doorways, even small holes in the walls.

They were all staring at him in wonder. Some were pointing, others whispering.

“And what exactly did you think you were saving me from?” she asked, her fists still maintaining their spot on her hips.

“From that bruiser behind you with the nasty looking sledgehammer.”

“You mean Howler? The boy whose ribcage you very nearly squashed.”

The chief leaned his head back and howled. “I am no boy!” Ayrion could see where he got his name.

“Oh shut up, Sedgewick! You are a boy. Now do you want this food or not?” Amarysia left the young chieftain standing there with an angry pout on his face to collect her sack of pilfered goods.

Even with the large sack of food in her hand, it wasn’t Amarysia everyone was staring at.

“You’re him, aren’t you, mister?” one of the little boys at the front suddenly asked. “You’re . . . Death’s Shadow.”

Ayrion smiled. He hadn’t heard that name in a very long time. Not since he wasn’t much older than most of them. It was the street name given to him by The Guild, and justly earned.

“I am.”

Howler gulped.

Ayrion walked across the room. Dust shot up from beneath his black boots as the loose floorboards bent under his weight. “Now will someone kindly tell me what is going on here?”

Amarysia crossed her arms up under her breasts. “Well, I would have if you hadn’t decided to interfere.” Some of the boys gasped at the way she addressed him.

Ayrion almost laughed, but thought better of it after gauging the expression on her face. “Interfere? And what was I supposed to do, pray tell, when I catch the queen’s lady-in-waiting sneaking around the palace in the middle of the night plundering the food stores, and riding off like a common burglar?”

“You were to trust she had a reason for what she was doing.”

Now it was Ayrion’s turn to cross his arms. “And that reason is?”

“None of your business.”

Ayrion sighed in exasperation. His eyes narrowed as he studied her face. She obviously wasn’t budging. If there is one thing he knew from experience, when a woman made up her mind, there was precious little he was going to be able to do to change it. Taking a step back, he gestured for her to continue.

“Thank you.” Without waiting for a response from him, she turned around and started handing out the food and blankets. The boys and girls started clawing at the bag to get their hands on the supplies until Howler stepped in and, after cuffing a couple on the back of the head, he called a halt long enough to divvy out the goods himself.

Ayrion remembered what that was like, having to be responsible for a group of unwanted street kids. It brought back painful memories of the friends he had given up to be where he was today. Those friends had been his family.

Amarysia moved back beside Ayrion as she watched the tribal chief pass out the blankets and food. “Sedgewick, I mean Howler, is my little brother. Although, I guess he’s not all that little anymore.”

“Your brother?” Ayrion glanced at Howler then back at Amarysia. There was a resemblance. Sedgewick’s hair was lighter. Not quite as golden as Amarysia’s but clearly a family trait. He also shared her blue eyes. His features, though, weren’t soft like hers. He had a strong chin and higher cheekbones. Now that Ayrion had a chance to actually compare the two, he could see the relation.

The question now was how did a lady-in-waiting to the queen have a brother living on the streets as a common guttersnipe. Ladies-in-waiting were chosen from noble families. Had he been mistaken as to Amarysia’s heritage? Not that it would have mattered to him. He wouldn’t have cared had she been born to a pig farmer.

“When Sedge and I were younger, we used to go with Mother to hand out food and blankets to the needy. She had a very large heart, you know.” Amarysia stared straight ahead at nothing.

“Had?”

Ayrion’s question pulled her back from her musing. “There was an outbreak of cholera on board one of the ships coming back from Delga. My father was on board. He didn’t realize he had caught the disease until after he had already passed it to my mother. Sedge and I were lucky enough not to have caught it.” She didn’t need to say more. The haunted look in her eyes was enough.

“I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to grow up without family.” Ayrion watched as Howler continued to hand out the goods. “So how did your brother end up here? Where is your family’s holdings?”

Amarysia chuckled. “Even as a young kid, Sedge always had the romantic notion of running away from home and joining a troupe. Making friends with some of the street kids we were helping was about as close as he ever got. When our parents died, our properties were repossessed by the crown.”

Ayrion wrinkled his brow but didn’t say anything.

“Apparently, our father was great at organizing parties of fashion but not at keeping up with the family estate. Our taxes and debts were so far in arrears, Sedge and I were lucky to keep the clothes on our backs. Thankfully, I had already been chosen as a lady-in-waiting to the queen. It was more out of a favor to my mother than anything, I believe. Even after hearing of the scandal behind our family’s sudden lack of position, the queen kept me on as her personal attendant. She has told me more than once of the deep respect she had for my mother, and how sorry she had been that my father’s poor managerial choices had sullied our good name and standing within Aramoor.” Amarysia shrugged with a sigh. “What’s done is done. I’m happy, and strangely enough, so is Sedge.”

Hearing her story gave Ayrion a new respect for her. “I would say your mother’s heart lives on in you.”

She turned and looked him in the eyes. “That was a beautiful thing to say.” She stared a long moment before speaking. “Those gray eyes of yours really are unsettling, you know.”

He chuckled. “My Upakan heritage at work.”

“You never told me how you ended up in Aramoor. Did your family die as well?” An embarrassed look crossed her face. “Oh, sorry. That didn’t exactly come out the way I had wanted. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Ayrion knew from experience that when a woman said that, what she really meant was ‘I’m trying to politely tell you that you better talk to me.’ And after she had just opened up to him about her family’s sullied past, how could he not? “Not exactly,” he said with a heavy sigh. “But I’m dead to them all the same.”

Amarysia looked puzzled. “I thought the Upaka always stayed together?” She shrugged. “But what do I know? You’re the first one I’ve ever met.”

“They do . . . except for the rare occasion of banishment.” Ayrion took a deep breath. He could feel her eyes weighing his response. “It was a long time ago, probably best left in the past.”

“I can tell it bothers you.” Ayrion lifted his head when he felt her hand enclose his own. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t care.” Again, another polite hint that he could keep talking.

Ayrion was about to continue when Howler walked over and interrupted. He had his heavy mallet up over one shoulder. “Thanks for the grub, sis,” he said, forgoing any outward affection in front of his boys. “We needed it. Food’s as scarce as a warm smile these days. Seems people are hoarding what they have. There’ve been rumors of a possible war with Cylmar.” He glanced at Ayrion as if looking for confirmation.

“Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that,” Ayrion said, “but I would be lying to say the signs aren’t there.” He didn’t want to give the boy any immediate information. Ayrion knew how fast news traveled in the tribes. However, a looming war with their neighbors was the very topic the High King had him and Commander Tolin discussing all night.

Her brother smiled. He had a handsome face even if he preferred to wear a gruff scowl while around his underlings. “Best you were gone, sis, before you’re missed.” Sedgewick started toward the door, clearly wanting them to follow. “We wouldn’t want that queen of yours waking up without her toddy, now would we? Oh, and thanks again for the vittles.” Howler opened the door and stepped aside for them to pass. “I just wish you’d quit taking so many risks. One of these days, you’re gonna get caught, or worse, lead the patrollers here. You don’t need to worry about us. We’ll be fine.”

Amarysia huffed. “You’d starve, you mean. Now come here.” She engulfed him in big hug. There were a few stifled chuckles from the kids behind them, causing an embarrassed Sedgewick to pull away with a grunt.

Amarysia just smiled.

Her brother held out his hand to Ayrion with a roguish grin on his face. “Sorry about the warm welcome, Protector.”

Ayrion shook the boy’s hand. He had a firm grip. “Any time. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask. I know a little something about the streets myself.”

“A little?” Sedge snickered. “There’s not a street rat in Aramoor who doesn’t know the name Death’s Shadow. Thanks for sparing my life.” He bowed low, showing Ayrion proper street deference.

Ayrion acknowledged Howler’s actions with a smile before walking out the front door, giving Amarysia a moment alone with her brother. Ayrion maintained his decorum in front of the boys. It came naturally. Behind him, he could hear Sedge whispering to his sister.

“You didn’t tell me that Death’s Shadow was your suitor?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call him my suitor—”

“Well, what would you call a guy who follows you all the way into Cheapside just to make sure you’re safe? Does he do that for all the girls up there at the palace?” Ayrion wanted to see the look on her face, but he forced himself to keep walking.

“Stop it, Sedge, he can hear you.” Ayrion smiled at the playful tone in her voice. It sent a run of prickles up his arms. “I’ll try to come by next week.”

Once outside, Ayrion collected Amarysia’s horse and they walked up the street to where he had left his mount around the back side of a small depot.

“So, what would you call me?”

She glanced at him and lowered her brows. “Huh?”

“You said you wouldn’t exactly call me your suitor. So . . . I was wondering what would you call me?”

She poked him in the ribs with her elbow. “I’d call you annoying.” She tried hiding her smile. “Hey, you never finished your story about how you ended up in Aramoor.”

Ayrion shook his head. She had done a superb job of avoiding his question. But instead of pressing, he took a deep breath and tried to decide where to start. He guessed at the beginning. “To understand what I’m about to tell you, there’s something you need to know first. As an Upakan, there were many rules. Rules about strength and endurance, rules about how to survive, how to fight, rules of etiquette and social behavior, rules on how to cook food, how to do the tasks assigned to you in order to keep the assembly functioning. But, above all the rest,” he said with an air of conviction, “there was one underlying law. Like the lifeblood of our entire existence, it’s what defines us, what makes us strong, what keeps us separated from every other society that walks the face of Aldor. And that law is: You are never to kill another Upaka.”

Ayrion stared into the distance as if watching the clouds of his memory unfold. “I wasn’t particularly strong for my age, but I wasn’t altogether ungifted. Upaka are trained early in the art of war and combat. It’s what keeps us alive.”

Amarysia never spoke or interrupted. She let Ayrion reveal what he wanted when he wanted. She was a great listener. He liked that about her.

“When you’re young, and as gifted in the art of combat as I was, you tend to get a bloated sense of self-worth. And, unfortunately, mine was quite overfed. There was an older boy, Flon, sort of the unofficial leader of our small pack of kids, who took it upon himself to be the one to bring me down. He couldn’t understand how someone as small as me could best someone like him. And during one of our regular sparring matches, he felt my time had finally arrived.

“It didn’t help that the exhibition happened to be part of his final testing for advancement, or that it had drawn a large crowd, or that the boy’s father, who happened to be the leader of the Upaka, was in attendance. Flon was determined to set a strong example. Regrettably for me, and him, he did.

“Flon fought harder than he ever had before. He had a lot to prove. As much as he tried, he was never able to push past my defense. So in a final, desperate attempt to catch me off guard, he tried pulling off an advanced pinning maneuver he had never attempted before. It was a dangerous move using a back-spinning vertical jump. He had planned to wrap his left leg around the back of my neck and use his weight to throw me onto the ground and into a locking pin.” Ayrion lowered his head and sighed. “I should have just let him win, but I was too proud. I saw what he was about to do and used his momentum to throw him off balance. Instead of getting his leg up and around, he fell and landed on the side of his head. The force broke his neck.”

Ayrion didn’t say anything for a while as the two continued to walk their horses down the loose cobble of the empty street. Their horse’s shoes echoed off the stone, leaving behind a sense of loneliness. The moon peeked through the clouds and cast a pale glow across the way. “No matter how much my mother begged or my father threatened, the final verdict was set in stone. I was to be banished.”

Ayrion stopped and got a spare piece of rope from one of Amarysia’s saddle bags and tied it around his horse’s neck. “In hindsight,” he said, “I guess I can’t blame my family for allowing it, or their decision not to leave with me—”

“I can. That’s horrible. Family should stick together.”

Ayrion tried to figure out the best way to explain the situation. “You have to understand. The Upakan society is our family. It’s our food, our shelter, and our protection from a hostile world that wants nothing more than to be rid of us. Besides, my parents had my brother and sisters to think about. I don’t blame them.”

Amarysia tugged on a lock of her blonde hair and started wrapping it around her finger. “It still doesn’t make it right.”

“Maybe not, but they did provide me with provisions, and my father gave me what money they had saved. He said it would be enough to get me to Aramoor. He figured with my particular set of skills, I’d stand a better chance here in the capital city than anywhere else. I guess he was right.”

Ayrion had directed them to an adjoining street lined with three and four-story homes that had remained unoccupied for the last decade or two when his horse tripped in one of the numerous potholes and whinnied. He stopped to make sure the animal hadn’t done itself any permanent damage.

Amarysia kept walking, not realizing he had stopped.

He was busy feeling along the animal’s thick tendons when he heard a muffled shriek.

Ayrion looked up in time to see two men pulling Amarysia away from her horse and back toward a dark alley between two of the larger buildings.

His hands reached for his blades on instinct. This was about to be the worst day of these sellswords’ lives, Ayrion mused as he ripped the dragon-hilted weapons from their sheaths and started forward.

Chapter 40 | Ayrion

AYRION SLOWED WHEN he noticed moonlight glinting off the edge of a dagger pressed against Amarysia’s throat.

“Toss the weapons.”

The voice came from the shadows of one of the nearby brick buildings. Ayrion turned to look at the man holding Amarysia. He could see there was no way to reach her before the angry looking thug slit her throat. So, instead, he concentrated on his breathing, burying his emotions deep inside the way his father had taught him when he was a boy. Ayrion lowered his twin blades to the ground and waited.

Out of the darkness, three more ruffians took shape. This was no street tribe of orphaned children they were dealing with. These were clan members.

The men shuffled their feet as they pulled him into the darker recesses of the narrow lane. One grabbed Ayrion’s swords as the others attempted to thoroughly pat him down for any other weapons he might have hidden on his body.

Amarysia didn’t move. Her eyes remained strong.

“Don’t worry,” Ayrion said, hoping to impart what hope he could under the circumstances. “Everything will be alright, I promise.” He couldn’t understand why his gift hadn’t alerted him. He should have sensed something was going to happen before they had been within five paces of that alley.

Looking around, it didn’t take long for his eyes to adjust. There were more of them than he had at first anticipated, possibly over half a dozen, depending on how many others there might have been hiding further down the alleyway.

No one said anything.

He watched as they slid a gag over Amarysia’s mouth and tied it off, no doubt trying to keep her from alerting the city patrol. Not that it would have mattered. The patrol never ventured this far south into Cheapside.

“What do you want?” Ayrion asked, his temper beginning to rise.

“Well, looky what we have here. If it ain’t the all high and mighty dark warrior himself, come to pay us humble folks a little visit.”

There was something in the voice that Ayrion recognized. It belonged to a tall, shabby individual near the front of the ominous-looking group. The man’s dark hair fell halfway across the side of his face.

Grabbing Ayrion by the wrists, they twisted his arms behind his back and started to tie them off with a thick strip of leather binding.

“What do you fools think you’re doing? Do you know who this is? Use the manacles.” Tearing his slender frame away from his companions, the thin-faced young man stepped forward and with a scrutinizing glare, walked a complete circle around Ayrion. There was a familiarity that Ayrion thought he recognized in the man’s eyes, but couldn’t quite place.

The cold iron clamped shut around Ayrion’s wrists. He took a deep breath. This was going to be a bit of a problem.

“Bring ‘em!” the spokesman called out before doing an about-face and marching off in the opposite direction.

Without warning, Ayrion was being shoved deeper into the darkness. Twisting around, he caught a quick glimpse of Amarysia being steered in the same direction. Their horses were being led away. He was thankful he hadn’t taken the time to saddle Shade.

Given nothing more than the freedom to move his head, he tried his best to memorize their path in case they were afforded an opportunity to escape. However, the farther into the maze of side streets they went, the more hopeless their situation became. He knew where they were being taken: the Warrens.

The warrens was a city within a city. A labyrinth of back thoroughfares, dark alleyways, abandoned warehouses, dilapidated buildings, and degraded people. Even the city patrol, comprised mostly of former Elondrian lancers, had enough sense to steer clear of the Warrens.

Ayrion had only ever set foot in the place a few times in his life, and none of those occasions had left him with pleasant memories. He trembled at the thought, not so much for himself, but for what Amarysia was about to be subjected to.

Every city had its poor, whether by choice or circumstance. The larger the city, the larger the collection of those underprivileged—and where there were men and women of low standing, there were always those willing to prey or profit on their situation. In a city the size of Aramoor, that population was considerable. One thing he knew for certain, the farther they walked the less likely their chances of making it out were going to be.

If the royal palace was the heart of Aramoor then the Warrens was its lower gut, the place housing all the dross of society, as the elite would have called them.

There was a certain sort of freedom in living on the streets, Ayrion guessed. Not having to worry about responsibilities, doing whatever you wanted, when you wanted. Having lived in both worlds, however, Ayrion had to admit he would rather take on the added duties accompanying a hard day’s honest labor if it meant not wondering where his next bed and meal would be coming from.

Unlike the rest of those he associated with in the palace, Ayrion had a different view of the streets and those unfortunate enough to be living there. Many, like him, had been given no option as their livelihoods had been stripped away by death or loss of work. However, there were plenty whose lives as vagabonds had been by choice—those who had no desire to profit from an honest day’s work; those who sought their possessions through more unsavory means. On the streets, there was a different set of rules. Life was harder and far more dangerous. Property belonged only to those strong enough to hold on to it. It was a harsh life, but one in which Ayrion was very familiar.

The small escort came to an abrupt halt outside a metal door, barring entrance to what appeared to be a simple stone outhouse, at least from the exterior. Ayrion knew all too well where this led. He curled his hands and quietly worked his wrists back and forth in hopes of pulling free of the metal cuffs. He hoped to dig deep enough to draw blood and use it as a lubricant, but the manacles were still too tight. He knew that once inside, there would be no turning back.

The lanky man in front waited for one of his men to throw back the latch and open the door. After grabbing a torch off one of the inner walls, the man with the straight dark hair turned and winked in Ayrion’s direction before marching inside. Ayrion wondered what that was all about.

He watched as the man’s head melted into the shadows and disappeared from view. One by one, the others entered and disappeared as well until it was finally his turn.

Instead of finding a rancid set of privies, there was a circular stone stairwell leading down. With a firm push, Ayrion was shoved forward. He glanced back over his shoulder to make sure Amarysia was still there. He could see her being guided through the entrance above. The knife was no longer at her throat, but the man holding it kept her close as she stepped onto the open landing and started to make her way down.

The light from the torches reflected off the moisture seeping from the walls around them. The air was strong with the scent of burnt tar, but free from the sharp odor of unwashed bodies and emptied chamber pots which clung to the streets above. For that, at least, Ayrion was thankful.

Downward they climbed, one foot in front of the next. Their muffled steps echoed off the stone encasement. Apart from an occasional grunt or groan, it was the only sound to be heard. The stairwell finally opened into a small antechamber housing a large iron door. Unlike other entranceways, this one was uniquely shaped. It was circular, like a great iron disc. The front of the door was decorated with a raised arrangement of intersecting lines, similar to a cartographer’s charting of a city’s streets. Ayrion knew it to be a complete mapping of the underground tunnels within the Warrens.

Two sentinels flanked either side of the entrance, guarding what lay beyond. They spared a quick glance at Ayrion, taking measure of the newcomer’s potential risk. With each man standing at least a head or two above him, the assessment didn’t last long. Ayrion was disappointed by their nonchalant view of his stature. However, it was understandable, as their attention was quickly diverted toward the open stairway where Amarysia was just stepping into the room’s light. She had a gift for drawing attention.

The angular man at the front took a step toward the door and both guards drew their swords. Sweat-stained muscles glistened in the dancing light. Ayrion gawked at the size of their falchions, each twice the width of a normal blade. They looked more like troll cleavers than weapons, that was if there were such things as trolls. One of the sentries raised his blade and pointed at the skinny, dark-haired man.

“Password.”

The head of their small troop crossed his arms and tapped his foot repeatedly on the floor. Tap tap tap . . . tap tap tap. “You’re kidding.”

Neither guard budged.

“We just came through here, dimwits.”

Still no movement.

The lanky man turned to look at Ayrion. “You would think as long as I’ve lived here, these two nincompoops would have the good manners to recognize my face and let me through.” He took a moment to glare at each guard in turn. “Oh, very well,” he groused before straightening his shoulders and clearing his throat.

“When hope is all but lost,

And light has turned to dark.

There will a sign be given,

The rising of the marked.”

Ayrion recognized the passage from a book his parents had read to him as a child. He had lost it years ago, back when he had run the streets of Aramoor. How odd that it would be used here, in the middle of one of the deadliest places in Aldor.

The spokesman combed an impatient hand through his straight hair and huffed, clearly embarrassed at having to recite a silly children’s rhyme.

The two guards slid their weapons back into the sheaths at their waists then grabbed a large lever connected to the outer edge of the door and flipped it back. There was a loud metallic clicking sound as the locking mechanism was released.

Ayrion felt a twinge of dread as the rusted-out piece of hinged-metal started to open. The Warren Underground was not known for mercy. They had their own set of laws, carried out by tribunal, where the heads of the clans would meet to exact their own form of justice.

Ayrion couldn’t imagine what the clans would possibly want with him. Sure, he was the High King’s protector, but what did that have to do with the Warrens?

Over his shoulder, he could see that Amarysia was watching him. He was proud of the way she held herself, not showing any fear. It was quite the accomplishment, considering their present circumstances.

Ayrion cast a quick glance to the left of her at the man holding his swords. He wanted to keep him in sight at all times in case the opportunity arose for him to make a play for his weapons. Ayrion knew the barbarism practiced in this place, and there was no way he was going to let them do to him or Amarysia what he’d seen done to others in the past. He’d kill Amarysia before he let the men down here get their hands on her, and she would thank him for it.

The giant guards each placed a shoulder against the door and shoved. Light poured from the opening and bathed the small antechamber in a warm glow. As best he could, Ayrion craned his neck to see around the men and get a peek at what lay beyond.

Their tall, slender guide took a few steps into the next room and then bowed toward a raised platform with five seats. The platform had three tiers. Two high-backed chairs rested on opposite sides of the first rise, two more chairs sat atop the second rise, and a solitary throne-like seat, much larger and grandiose than the others, sat at the top.

The Warren Tribunal was similar to the political structure of Aldor and its five kingdoms. Each clan had a single head or representative that held one of the ruling seats on the tribunal, and just as Aldor had a High King, there was a Clan Chieftain whose rule stood above the rest. The only way to negate a chieftain’s order was by a unanimous vote from the remaining heads.

The downside to being chief, however, was that unlike the civility of a king’s ordination, the clan’s chieftain was chosen by the Right of Oktar. Any one of the clan heads could challenge their chieftain to combat for the throne. Some found the exercise barbaric, but when you are vying for the right to lead the less civilized members of society, all polite considerations are thrown out.

The five seats were unoccupied at present, which meant Ayrion wasn’t being brought before the council. However, the assembly chamber, which was more like a throne room than a tribunal hall, was beginning to fill.

It had been a number of years since he had stepped foot in this place, but he didn’t think it had changed all that much. Maybe a bit more decorated than the last time he was there, but then again, the last time he was there, the room’s décor had been stained with blood and viscera.

Stepping through the doorway, there was an arched set of pillars lining the outer perimeter, holding back the untold amount of earth above them. Ayrion had always wondered by whose hands these underground lairs had been constructed. By the wear of the stone, they looked to have been created centuries ago when magic was readily used as the foundational building blocks of such edifices.

Colorful tapestries rimmed the outer walls, bringing a sharp contrast to the mellow gray of the stone room. The heavy woven material bore the markings of formal crests. Each one was set apart by different colors, emblems, and symbols. Gathered around each of those banners were men and women, adorned in garments fashioned of similar color and design. Although not apparently hostile, each group kept a wary eye on the others as they waited for whatever proceedings they had been summoned for to commence.

The tension of those gathered could be seen in the shuffling of their feet, in the stiffness of their movements, in the way their eyes darted from one person to the next, watching the placement of each other’s hands. You couldn’t have found a more cutthroat looking assembly in all of Aldor than what was now gathered in this underground room.

Each of the members was heavily armed. Ayrion could have used a few of these gruff underbellies during his recent battle with the creatures outside of Aramoor, had he not been more worried of getting a knife to the back than a claw to the front.

On the streets, whether in the Warrens or not, Ayrion knew the ultimate code was survival of the fittest, and life balanced on three things: the size of your arms, the smarts in your head, and your supply of luck. Of the three, the last proved, more often than not, to be the most valuable.

From inside the doorway, Ayrion continued to struggle with the metal cuffs. The edges cut into his wrists, but still didn’t budge. He was going to have to figure out a way to defend himself with his hands quite literally tied behind his back.

Amarysia was moved forward and placed to his left.

Angling away from the guard, Ayrion pressed his shoulder against hers, hoping to relay a little reassurance in her direction. Now if he just had someone to do the same for him. He noticed they had removed the gag from her mouth.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“I’m fine.” She glanced around the room. “What do you think they want?”

“I wish I knew. We’re not dead. I guess that’s something.”

He felt ashamed for not having been able to better protect her. Here he was the Guardian Protector to the High King and he was waylaid by a ragged group of common street thugs. How could he have let this happen? Once more he was brought back to the question of why his magic hadn’t worked. He could only think of one other time in his life it had done that before, back when he was just a child playing on the streets with—

Ayrion’s eyes widened. His head shot up as he looked around for their lanky captor. Surely that isn’t? Their guide’s back was to him as he talked to a group of angry looking clansmen near the front. But then, he shifted his stance to point in their direction. When he did, Ayrion was afforded enough time to really study the man’s face.

Po? He couldn’t believe it. His heart raced. It was him. At least he thought it was. That small, chubby boy that used to follow him around everywhere he went, emulating everything he did, was now this tall lean man who appeared to hold some kind of weight within the Warren Clans. How did that happen?

There had always been something about Po—a hidden gift—one that even Po might not have known existed. Whenever his former childhood friend came within a certain distance, Ayrion’s magic disappeared. It was as if Po had the ability to negate the magic of others. Ayrion had always found it unsettling, but figured it was what made Po such a good negotiator. There was always a level playing field whenever he was around.

“Bring them,” the grown-up-version of Po said as he motioned for the men guarding Ayrion and Amarysia to follow. They left through one of the tunnels at the back which had been blocked by the free-swinging draperies holding another of the colorfully designed crests. Each of the other banners held similar tunnels behind them, each clan with their own entrance and exit.

Pulling the heavy material aside, Po waited for the others to pass. “She wants to see them,” was all he said before turning around and marching down the dark corridor.

Ayrion decided to put his theory to the test.

“Po?”

The young man’s shoulders flinched. “So you finally figured it out, huh?”

“Well, give me some credit, the last time I saw you, you were waist high and three times as wide.”

“Amazing what a little time and a life on the streets can accomplish.” There was a clear undertone of disdain stemming from his words.

“Hey, it wasn’t my choice for the king to give me—”

“No!” Po spat, turning completely around to look Ayrion in the eyes. “It was your choice to leave!” Ayrion was unsure how to respond. Po didn’t give him the chance as he turned around and moved into another tunnel.

“I haven’t changed, Po.”

“Hah!” Po lifted the tips of his fingers to his mouth.

“I see you still bite your nails when you get upset.”

Po quickly dropped his hand.

They came to a stop outside a wooden door. There was a shield with a brightly colored red crest on the front just above the latch.

“Don’t pretend like you know me, Ayrion, Guardian Protector of the High King.” Po’s last words felt like daggers being jabbed into him.

Po took a deep breath and knocked on the shield.

“Enter,” said a muffled voice from the other side.

Po pulled back on the latch and slid the door open. He handed his torch to one of the guards waiting in the hallway. Ayrion and Amarysia followed him in. The room was larger than Ayrion had expected, with an almost royal feel to it. Expensive furnishings were strewn haphazardly around the space. Large swaths of satin, silk, and velvet were hung and draped across every inch of the room so that the colors of red and gold inundated its occupants.

Walking across the fur rugs lining the cold floor, they made their way to a standing hearth where a fire was busy snapping and popping as the smoke meandered its way up the flue. How the engineers had managed to forge out a chimney so far underground was truly amazing. Oddly enough, even this far beneath the surface of Aramoor, the room carried a strong scent of burnt pine and cinnamon. It was a rather provocative mixture, one Ayrion would not have expected to find amid such a tumultuous sea of cutthroats. And yet the smell was oddly familiar.

Ayrion scanned the room for the source of the voice. Nothing about the place gave the impression of a meeting hall. It felt more like someone’s personal chambers. Mounds of soft pillows lined sections of the outer wall. A hefty four-post bed sat near the back, covered in fur. There were no lit candles, no lamps, no torches of any kind, just simple firelight. It gave the impression of a campfire where friends would gather and talk of times long past. Only now, Ayrion wasn’t sure if talking was what his former friend had in mind.

“What’s going on, Po?” Ayrion asked. “Why have you brought us here? Who is it you want me to see?”

“Well, he hasn’t changed much, has he, Po?” a voice said from somewhere in the back behind one of the hanging tapestries. “Always looking for answers.”

Ayrion recognized the voice immediately. It was somehow deeper, fuller, more seductive, but still the same. “Kira?”

Chapter 41 | Ayrion

OUT FROM BEHIND one of the crimson draperies, a slender woman proceeded into the firelight. “I would recognize those gray eyes of yours anywhere, Ayri,” Kira said as she unashamedly batted her long lashes at him. Her deep hazel eyes reflected the light from the hearth. She had grown into quite the woman. She wore brown leather pants and a white laced tunic, but it wasn’t her tight fitting trousers and top that grabbed Ayrion’s attention. It was her long leather overcoat, an exact replica of his apart from the color. Unlike Ayrion’s, hers was a deep red.

Ayrion felt embarrassed at the unexpected attraction. He remembered the first time he had seen Kira in red. It had been the day he first set foot in Aramoor as a twelve-year-old boy, the day she had beaten him unconscious and stolen, quite literally, the clothes off his back.

With Ayrion and Amarysia’s hands bound behind them, Kira ushered the guards out of the room. One of the men handed Ayrion’s swords to Po before shutting the door behind them. Ayrion could hear the latch flipping back into place.

Po moved off to one side of the hearth and proceeded to nurse a half-empty glass of wine as he busied himself studying the unusual black steel. “I’ve always wondered what these looked like up close. Amazing work. Who made them?”

“A smith in Rhowynn, I was told.”

Kira, like a lioness having her den intruded upon, slowly circled the two.

“It’s been a long time, Kira,” Ayrion said, watching the oil from her leathers glisten in the light of the fire. “You going to say something, or just dizzy us with your prowling?”

Kira finally stopped and turned to Po. “Why are there two people here? I told you to get Ayri. Was there a sale? Kidnap one and get a free hussy on the side?”

Amarysia shuffled her feet with a huff.

Po swallowed his wine. “He was right where you said, Red. He just wasn’t alone.”

Ayrion was confused. “How could you have possibly known where I would be? I hadn’t even planned on leaving the palace this evening.”

“Well, we didn’t. That’s why I had people watching at all hours over the last two days, waiting for you to come out. It just happened to be tonight.” Kira walked over to look Amarysia over. “So, who’s this pretty little strumpet, huh?” With a harsh glare, she reached out and flicked a lock of Amarysia’s blond hair with her finger. “I never imagined you wanting a blonde, Ayri. Your taste always ran a little . . . darker.” With that, Kira swung her own long, raven hair around the front of her shoulder and ran a hand through the waves just to add to the tease.

Amarysia planted her feet and arched her shoulders. “Like a fine wine, a man’s taste betters with age.”

Ayrion could see the fires building behind Kira’s eyes, and he knew from experience it was best not to get her riled up. But instead of placing a piece of cold steel through Amarysia’s breast bone, Kira stepped in front of Ayrion, wrapped both arms around his neck, and kissed him hard on the mouth.

Ayrion was left speechless. Something about Kira’s lips sparked a repressed desire and distant passion he had long since forgotten existed. Kira separated to catch her breath. Licking her lips with the tip of her tongue, she savored the moment while smirking at Amarysia.

Apart from the embarrassment he was feeling at having just been taken complete advantage of in front of the woman he was building a relationship with, Ayrion was feeling guilt for not only enjoying the short-lived connection, but not wanting it to end.

Amarysia kept her eyes locked on Kira, matching her stare for stare.

“So why am I here, Kira?” he asked, hoping to douse some of the tension building between the two women.

Kira ended their competition to look at Ayrion. “The name’s Red. Only my friends can call me Kira.”

“I thought I was your friend.”

Kira’s eyes darkened. “You thought wrong.”

Ayrion remained silent. She was right. He had been the one to leave. But when the king offered him a position in the royal palace, how was he to refuse?

“Things change,” she said, breaking his dismal reminiscing.

He nodded. “I’d say. Look at you . . . Clan Chieftain. I mean, how does something like that happen, anyway?”

“Let’s just say that after you left, it didn’t go so well for the rest of us. And when you’re living on the streets without home or family, and you don’t have anything else to lose, you’d be surprised what you’ll do to survive.” Ayrion could hear Po grunting his agreement in the background. “Ruthlessness is a commodity held in high regard around here. Turns out,” she said with a nonchalant wave of her hand, “I seem to have a knack for it.” She smiled. But instead of warmth, Ayrion felt a cold tremor crawl up his spine.

“More than a knack, I’d say,” Po added, waving his goblet to her in salute before downing the last remaining gulp.

Ayrion was stunned. Here he was, reunited after such a long time with his childhood friends and instead of emotional hugs and tender words, he was standing—bound—in front of two people he hardly recognized.

Ayrion’s face must have betrayed his thoughts, for Kira’s eyes narrowed. She took two steps forward and punched him square in the jaw. The force of the impact spun him around, nearly causing him to go to one knee.

“Don’t you dare look at me with pity!” she hollered. “I’m not ashamed of who I am or what I’ve done. I did it to survive. Look at me! I’m the Warrens’ Chieftain! Me! Little ol’ Kira. I didn’t need you after all. I got here all on my own, so don’t you look at me with those self-righteous eyes. You think you’re better than me because you rub shoulders with the king, or live at the palace, or walk around town with soft, blonde-headed tarts like this? Well, you’re not, Ayrion, you’re not!”

By this time, she was panting and her entire body trembled with anger.

“You’re right, Kira,” he said, licking the blood from his mouth. He was tempted to spit it across her white rug, but decided against it. “I don’t know what you’ve been through. I’m sure I can’t imagine. Probably don’t want to. If there was a way I could go back and do it over, I would. You, Po, and Reevie were as close to me as any family.” He paused a moment to take a breath and let his words sink in. “I’m sorry, Kira, truly.”

Kira’s shoulders stiffened as she turned away from his gaze. “Curse you, Ayrion. You always did have a slick tongue in that beautiful mouth of yours.”

Amarysia kept her eyes on the Clan Chief. Ayrion could see she was uncomfortable having to listen to Kira’s overt declaration of past feelings.

Ayrion glanced around the room once more and it occurred to him that someone was missing. “Speaking of Reevie, where is he?”

The name brought Kira up short. She kept her back to him, staring into the flames as if searching for the answer hidden amongst the burning timbers.

She accepted a glass of wine from Po and turned back around. “That’s why you’re here.” The look in her eyes wasn’t lustful, or even vengeful, but contemplative, as if she was trying to decide whether or not she had made the right decision in bringing him down to talk.

“What’s wrong?”

She took a long swallow. After wiping her mouth, she laid the glass on top of a two-drawer cabinet used for nothing more than holding her serving trays. There were quite a few.

“He’s missing.”

Ayrion’s chest tightened. His thoughts immediately drifted to the small clumsy kid with the gimp leg and big heart that had taken him in so many years ago, the one who had saved his life more times than he could recall. It was Reevie who had shown him how to survive on the streets when he had first arrived in Aramoor as a child. It was Reevie who had shared with him his hidey hole under The Granary, who had kept him fed as he taught Ayrion how to maneuver within the seedier segments of the enormous city.

“What do you mean he’s missing?”

Kira looked at Po and then back at him. “Now I know I don’t speak all highfalutin’ like little miss prim and proper here, but I thought I was pretty clear in what I said. Do I need to spell it out for you? He . . . Is . . . Missing,” she said, punctuating each word. “No longer among us. Completely unreachable. Vanished from sight and—”

“Alright, I get the picture.” Aryion was getting frustrated. He wanted to know what had happened to his childhood friend, not listen to her livid ravings.

Kira shook her head and regarded him with a cool, speculative glare. “You know, Po, I think maybe we made a mistake. He’s not the same Ayri we used to know. He’s been . . . civilized.”

Po’s demeanor darkened as he spat a mouthful of red wine at the fire and watched the flames react. “This was a waste of time.” Part of the burgundy liquid landed on one of the closer rugs.

“Watch it, Po!” Kira backhanded him in the chest. “I just had those furs cleaned.” Her scowl brought some soberness back to his eyes.

Po went back to refilling his glass. “I told you this was going to be a waste of time.”

Kira turned back around to look at Ayrion. “Yeah, maybe you were right. He’s clearly lost his spark.”

Aryion’s brow tightened in frustration. “Just tell me what happened. Was he taken by a rival clan?”

Po wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “No. Well, we’re not sure. He disappeared around the same time that the vanishings started.”

“Vanishings?”

Kira paced across the room, her face cut in shadow. “The last anyone saw of him was four nights ago near the upper docks between Bayside and King’s Way West. He was looking for a group of street kids that had gone missing the night before. You know how sentimental Reevie is toward the street rats.”

Ayrion could almost picture it—Reevie with his gimp leg limping through the streets, helping children where he could. His eyes almost misted as a wave of memories washed across his mind.

“I know that look, Kira.” Ayrion could tell by the way she was striding back and forth in front of her long sofa that she had something on her mind. “You have your suspicions. What aren’t you telling me?”

Dropping onto the cushions, Kira let one of her legs dangle from the end. “There’s been talk about people disappearing. No one knows what happens to them, at least not for sure. We’ve heard rumors of masked men roaming the streets at night and rounding up the homeless from some of the outer districts, mainly the ones closest to the water. Until now, we’d figured it was just some of the wharf rats down by the waterfront complaining about not getting enough help with the coming frost, but there’s even been talk of seeing them in the Warrens now.”

“So you think whoever is taking these people is responsible for Reevie?”

Kira nodded.

“I don’t mean to be blunt, but what exactly is it you think I can do? This is the Warrens we’re talking about. It’s not like I can just walk around and interrogate people. I wouldn’t last long enough for Po there to finish his drink.”

“He’s got that right, Red.”

Kira flipped around to where both her feet were now planted firmly on the rug in front of her. “I don’t need you here in the Warrens. I need you talking to the king. These are his citizens after all. They’re his responsibility.”

Ayrion nearly laughed. “Are they? The clans have made it pretty clear that apart from bringing an army down here, no one is going to enact any kind of justice over the Warrens. You pride yourselves on living outside the law, doing whatever you want regardless of how it affects everyone else. And yet now, when you need something, you kidnap me at knife point and demand that it is somehow my responsibility to take care of it?” Ayrion’s eyes narrowed. “I think you have sadly misjudged the situation, Kira, if you think I’m going to bow to your whim just because you have managed to crawl your way to the top of the food chain down here.”

Kira was on her feet before Ayrion could bat an eye. A knife appeared from one of her sleeves. “I’m not ashamed of what I’ve had to do to survive!” Ayrion could feel the cold anger behind her gaze. “I did what was needed, and now look at me,” she said as she gestured with her knife to the lushness of her living quarters, “chieftain to the Warren clans.” Kira pointed her dagger at him. “You’ll either swear right here and now to go to the king, or you and your hussy will never leave the Warrens again.”

Ayrion took her at her word and readied himself. He pulled down on the manacles, nearly forcing his shoulder joints out. He couldn’t believe how much Kira had changed. By the look in her eyes, he had no doubt she would make good on her threat, but he wasn’t sure how far she would go if pushed. And he needed to push her. He needed to force her to let her emotions take control just for a moment.

“You’ll find I’m not so easy to push, Kira. Unlike the rest of those you surround yourself with, a wag from your skinny tail is hardly going to tempt me to do anything.”

“Ahh!” She rushed him. Ayrion knew he had crossed the line that time and smiled as he drew her in. He waited until her momentum couldn’t be stopped before he acted.

Dropping to the ground, Ayrion curled into a ball and rolled backwards. The tight positioning of his body allowed him to bring his arms down and around his lower half. He quickly tucked his legs through the manacles and brought his arms back out to the front. Continuing the roll, he pushed off with his hands and landed on his feet in time to meet her head on.

Using the manacles as a weapon, he wrapped them around her knife hand as she thrust it toward his gut before dropping once more to the floor in order to throw her over his head.

Kira was so surprised by the attack she didn’t even have time to scream as her momentum carried her completely over Ayrion where she landed with a heavy thump across one of her bearskin rugs. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, and her knife clattered to a stop near the door.

Ayrion was on top of her before she had time to turn over.

Po dropped his glass in shock, pouring the remainder of his drink across the front of his tunic as he reached for the closest available weapon, Ayrion’s blade.

“Touch it and you lose your chief,” Ayrion said as he kept a firm lock on Kira’s neck with his iron bindings.

Po froze.

“He’s bluffing, you idiot.”

“You want to test that theory?” Ayrion had no intention of hurting Kira, of course, but he knew the way Po felt about her would keep him from forcing Ayrion’s bluff. Po had always been smitten with Kira, even as kids. He had just never been bold enough to admit it.

“Amarysia, can you be so good as to get Kira’s knife for me, please?” Ayrion watched as she walked over to the door and dropped to her knees. With her hands still bound behind her, Amarysia had to plop down onto her backside for better leverage. Curling her fingers around the handle, she rocked herself back to her knees and then to her feet. She crossed the room and laid the dagger in the palm of his bound hand.

Ayrion stood and brought a reluctant Kira up with him. He kept the dagger close to her throat. “Now for the keys, Po.” Aryion moved behind her in order to keep her between Po and himself.

“You better kill me,” Kira threatened, “‘cause if I ever get out of here, Ayrion, I’m coming after you.”

Ayrion lowered his head and whispered into her ear. “Then I guess it will feel like old times, won’t it.”

His chuckle produced an irritated grunt from her.

Po laid the sword back against the hearth and reluctantly started forward.

“That’s close enough,” Ayrion said when Po got within a couple of steps. “Now toss Kira the keys.” Po obeyed. Ayrion tightened his grip around Kira’s neck, gently prodding her to unlock the cuffs. As soon as the metal bracelets hit the ground, he moved her back a few steps in the direction of the door and away from Po’s reach.

“Now what?” Kira asked.

“Now, I want you to uncuff Amarysia.”

Ayrion took the loose manacles that had been around Amarysia’s wrists and placed them on Kira’s.

“Po, do me a favor and walk over to Kira’s bed, will you please?”

“Well, seeing as how you asked me so nice and all,” he grumbled before slowly making his way over to the left side of her large overstuffed mattress.

“Now turn down the sheets.”

“What?”

“You heard me, turn down the sheets.” Kira squirmed with irritation at the sight of Po dressing down her bedding. “Alright, that’s good. Now let’s get you tucked in for the night, shall we.”

“What?”

“Am I stuttering? I said get in her bed.”

“Don’t you dare get in my bed, you dirty oaf!” Po stopped with one leg halfway under what appeared to be silk coverings.

Ayrion pressed the knife a little tighter against Kira’s neck, putting a temporary halt to her tongue. Tapping his foot, he nodded for Po to finish climbing in.

“Wonderful,” Ayrion said. “Now, I don’t know what kind of uncivilized behavior you’re used to down here, but somehow, I doubt you sleep fully clothed.”

Po’s eyes widened.

“That’s right. Take them off.”

“But, but I’ll be . . . naked.”

“Nothing gets by you, does it?”

“You get naked in my sheets and I’ll skin you alive, right after I cut you somewhere very unpleasant,” Kira hissed.

“Now now, Kira, what kind of hospitality is that to offer an old friend.”

Amarysia giggled but quickly stifled it with her hand when Kira glanced her way.

Everyone watched while Po stripped, careful to keep the blankets and furs high enough to stave off any embarrassment.

“Come on, Ayri, is this really necessary?” Po tossed out the last of his undergarments and tucked the sheets under his arms. “It’s a bit chilly in here.”

“Why did you have him do that?” Amarysia asked.

“To keep him otherwise occupied. Now grab his clothes. We’re going to take them with us.”

“Ayri, have a heart. You wouldn’t walk off and leave me here in nothing but my skin, would you?”

“They’ll be returned in good order, I promise. If not, I’ll get you a new set.” Amarysia walked over and grabbed Po’s clothing, holding them out for Ayrion to inspect. “Phew.” Ayrion wrinkled his nose. “By the smell of them, you could use a new set anyway.” Pulling Kira over to the fireplace, Ayrion retrieved his swords. He replaced one of them in its sheath on his back and kept the other out to ensure Kira’s cooperation. After handing Kira’s dagger to Amarysia, he instructed her to use the shackles to bind Kira’s hands behind her back.

“This is what’s going to happen. We are going to walk out of here the same way we came in, except this time, instead of Po leading us out, it will be Kira who kindly volunteers. After her little threat of us never leaving here again, I don’t plan on taking any chances. Once we are safely out of the Warrens and back on our way to the palace, I promise to let you go. I don’t take kindly to being kidnapped and threatened, and nearly stabbed to death for speaking the truth.”

“But what about Reevie!” Kira snapped. “I need your help to find him.”

“See, now was that really so difficult?”

Kira gritted her teeth and huffed.

“You know I’d do anything for Reevie. For that matter, I’d do anything for any one of you. But,” he said, taking a deep breath, “as a word of caution, next time, try asking first. It’ll save us all an unwelcome headache.”

Ayrion kept the blade close to Kira’s throat. “Now, let’s just hope your men out there love you as much as I do.”

He pointed Kira toward the door and the waiting guards on the other side.

“Now move.”

Chapter 42 | Ayrion

AYRION KEPT HIS sword to Kira’s throat as they approached the door.

He knocked once and then glanced back at the bed. “Po, it really was good to see you again. Hopefully next time it will be under . . . better circumstances.”

Po grimaced.

Kira’s door opened. The guards standing in the hallway saw their chief with a blade to her throat and quickly drew their weapons.

“Tell them to drop their swords and take off their boots.”

Kira sneered but obeyed. “Do as he says.”

Ayrion had them toss their boots inside her room. “Now I want you to drop your trousers.”

No one moved. Questioning looks were exchanged as they tried to determine whether or not he was serious.

“Do you have some kind of aversion to clothes?” Kira asked. “I don’t remember you being so exciting when we were younger.” She playfully rubbed her body up against his. “You want mine as well?”

Ayrion tightened his grip on her arm. “Just tell them.”

Kira rolled her eyes. “Do it!”

Once her guards had undressed down to their smallclothes, they escorted Ayrion, Kira, and Amarysia back to the main room.

As they stepped through the outer archway and into the main gathering hall, there was an abrupt outburst of laughter at the sight of a parade of half-naked men. The hilarity of it all continued until Kira stepped through at the edge of a blade. Suddenly, everyone was on their feet with weapons pulled and eyes drawn.

“What’s the meaning of this?” one of the larger men at the front demanded. By his colorful dress and demeanor, he was no doubt one of the clan heads. Ayrion knew this was an all or nothing situation. Either they respected Kira’s position as chief and let them pass, or they wouldn’t, and this was going to get real ugly real fast. He knew he was a match for anyone in the room, but with this many hardened cutthroats all in one place, there was no way he could fight his way out and manage to keep Amarysia alive in the process.

“I would think the meaning should be fairly obvious.”

Amarysia grabbed his shoulder and whispered in his ear. “I don’t think it would be wise to poke a hornet’s nest while we’re standing in the middle of it.” Unlike Amarysia, Ayrion knew these weren’t the type of men and women you tried to placate. What they respected was strength.

Ayrion smiled, ignoring Amarysia’s warning. “But for those of you who are incapable of comprehending the meaning of my sword to your chief’s neck, I will try to speak slowly. I am planning on walking out of here the same way I walked in—unharmed.” Ayrion scanned the room. “Did everyone catch my meaning?” He slid his blade up a little higher on her neck, forcing Kira’s back to stiffen all the more.

She snarled. “Do as he says!” It was clear that even under the disadvantage of being used as a human shield, Kira was still maintaining the illusion of control. In her position that was a luxury she couldn’t afford to lose.

Ayrion and the two women slowly started across the room. The large circular door on the far side was still a ways off. Amarysia pressed as close as she could while making their way through the wall of angry, well-armed clansmen. Ayrion continued to scan the faces of those they passed, watching for the first sign of aggression. He knew the next few steps were going to be the determining factor in whether they made it out alive.

They were about three-quarters the way across when a booming voice near the platform rang out. “I demand the Right of Oktar.”

Ayrion’s muscles tightened. “I was afraid of this.”

“How dare you challenge me like this, Kerson!” Kira shouted, not caring one whit about Ayrion’s blade at her throat.

A head moved through the crowd. It was easily seen since it stood above the rest. The big man pushed his way through, but he didn’t have to push hard. The others were quick to get out of his way. He wore an outfit of leather strapping. His arms were sleeveless and for good reason. It would have cost a fortune to tailor a tunic to the size of them. Ayrion had to get control of the situation before the man’s bravado seeped its way into the surrounding gathering, giving them all cause to question the validity of their chief’s position.

“Since she is under my . . . well, my care,” Ayrion cut in. “I will accept that challenge for her by proxy.”

The man stopped about ten paces away. “Huh?” The fierce mammoth cocked his head to the side, obviously confused. He pushed a wad of scruffy hair out of his eyes, revealing a number of nasty scars across the top of his forehead and face. He had clearly seen one too many ends of a knife.

Ayrion rolled his eyes. “Oh for pity’s sake, in other words, I will be her substitute. No wonder you all are living underground. With people like this—” He pointing directly at Kerson. “—wanting to be your leader, I’d be embarrassed to show my face too.”

Kira kicked him in the shin. “What are you doing, you idiot?” she muttered under her breath so only he could hear. “You’re going to get us all killed. Shut your mouth.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Obviously not. Kerson’s never lost a fight. I don’t care if you are the Guardian Protector. He will eat you alive and then look to me and your hussy here for dessert.” She stared into his eyes, studying his face, and then cocked her head to the side with a quizzical look. “Or is Death’s Shadow about to make an appearance?”

“I am not a hussy!” Amarysia snorted.

Ayrion didn’t respond to either woman as he watched Kerson for his agreement. In the Warrens, a show of force was the only respect they acknowledged. Much like his challenge to Captain Barthol while climbing the High Guard ranks years ago, Ayrion needed this to be a spectacle. But unlike that encounter, which ultimately ended in the forging of a close friend and confidant, Ayrion knew this fight would only be concluded with one or both lying in a pool of blood.

“Well, do we have an accord?” Ayrion smirked. “That means deal, by the way.”

Kerson looked Ayrion over and smiled. “If you want to die so badly,” he said with a gruff, booming voice, “then I’ll be more than happy to oblige. That means . . . yes.”

“Very good.” Aryion handed Kira over to Amarysia as everyone backed away, leaving them an open area in the center of the chamber. Ayrion made a show of stretching his muscles by bending over and touching the tops of his boots before swinging his arms around in a rather clumsy fashion as if to warm up.

Many of those standing around chuckled, if not openly laughed. They no doubt expected him to suffer a quick and brutal death. Ayrion, as was his ritual before a fight, pulled a long strip of crimson cloth from the back pocket of his black leather trousers and proceeded to tie back his hair.

He left the two women on the edge of the circle and walked to the center of the ring where Kerson eagerly waited.

An elderly man with a large ceremonial staff stepped from the crowd and joined them in the middle. “Let it be observed that we have a challenge for the right of chief. Any man who interferes will forfeit their life in turn. This challenge, once invoked, cannot be undone. Are you both in agreement?”

Kerson was the first to answer. “I will squash him like a bug.”

Ayrion nodded to the old man.

“Very well. Under the Articles of the Clans and the agreement of both parties, I declare this challenge initiated.” The old man was quite spry for his age as he rushed back into the awaiting crowd and out of the way of any loose weapons.

Kerson unhooked a battle-axe from his side. Ayrion had rarely seen a weapon of such girth, and being a weapon’s master, that was saying something. The handle looked as broad as some small trees. If he was to gain this crowd’s respect, he had clearly picked the right man to challenge.

“After I cut you in half, I’m going to take your women and show them what a real man is like.”

“You just try it, Kerson!” Kira hissed from the side, “and I’ll cut off your testicles and feed them to you!”

The big man bellowed with laughter and turned his attention back to his opponent. “Let’s get this over with quick so I can enjoy the spoils.”

Ayrion left both his blades in their sheaths. “Are you going to talk me to death or are we going to lock steel?” he asked, baiting Kerson into acting—and act he did. Kerson roared and swung his huge axe around in hopes of lopping off Ayrion’s head, but instead of flesh ripping, bones snapping, and blood soaking the crowd, his blade hit nothing but air as Ayrion ducked and spun underneath the big man, coming out at his side.

Without losing momentum, Kerson swung his axe over his head and down as if wanting to make good on his promise of cutting Ayrion clean in half. Ayrion side-stepped the swing and let the axe plummet to his right.

“Is that all you’ve got? I thought you were going to squash me like a bug.” Ayrion moved back to the center of the ring and waited. He still hadn’t reached for his weapons, both blades resting snugly on his back.

“Well, if you’d face me like a man and not some little grasshopper, hop, hop, hopping around, I would!”

“Alright. I promise this time, I won’t move from this spot.”

“Ayrion, what are you doing?” Amarysia hollered from the side.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, hussy,” Kira said. “Just watch.”

Kerson circled, not quite as willing to go charging in this time, wondering if this was some sort of trick. The crowd cheered the big man on, hungering for the kill. Ayrion felt sorry for Kira. He wondered how she had gotten herself tangled up in this mess. He only hoped he was going to be able to keep her alive long enough for her to go back to it if she so desired.

He needed the big man enraged. “The more emotion one brings to a fight, the less clearly they are able to think,” his father had often said. Ayrion closed his eyes and cleared his mind, as he’d done so many times before.

He could hear Amarysia shouting at him from off to the side. “Ayrion, open your eyes! Open your eyes!”

“Hush it, hussy!” Kira shot back. “Just wait. Death’s Shadow is finally making his return.”

Ayrion left his swords in their sheaths and let his magic take over. Thankfully, with Po still locked in Kira’s chambers, he was able to use it once again. He could feel Kerson’s movements; hear the big man’s anxious breath. The vision engulfed him, and he saw what he needed to do.

Opening his eyes, he watched as Kerson charged across the ring. Stopping him would have been like stopping a boulder plummeting down the side of a mountain. Bracing himself, he let the huge man get within a couple paces and readied himself for the swing. Sure enough, the axe blade just cleared Ayrion’s head with a loud swoosh as he dropped into a ball and waited for the inevitable impact of Kerson’s legs slamming into him.

With all the force he could muster, Ayrion pushed upwards with his legs and flipped Kerson clean over his body. The huge man flew into the crowd behind him, cursing the whole way through the air. It happened so fast, most of the onlookers were unable to dive out of the way before Kerson’s thick frame slammed into them, snapping them apart like dried cornstalks.

Ayrion could see that if he wanted to survive this, he was going to have to do something overtly impressive, something that would silence any others who dared make challenge. With this in mind, he untied the strip of cloth holding back his raven hair, and tied it over his eyes instead. He knew how ridiculous he must have looked, but then again that was the point.

Hushed whispers flooded the room as the onlookers gawked at the sight of Ayrion standing there with a blindfold over his eyes.

“What is he doing?” he heard Amarysia ask.

“He’s about to make a fool of Kerson,” Kira answered. Ayrion could almost hear Kira’s smile from her tone.

Concentrating to drown out the noise, Ayrion reached over his head and pulled free one of his black, dragon-hilt blades. His fingers tightened over the grip. The sword was now an extension of his arm. It was a part of him.

Ayrion readied himself. Kerson was good and mad now. The big clansman had been belittled in front of his peers. It wouldn’t take long for retribution to be demanded. He could hear Kerson’s harsh language as he threw people off of him and pushed his way back to his feet. He could hear the sound of the enormous axe blade scraping the stone tiles as Kerson retrieved it from where it had fallen.

Clearly not waiting a moment longer to regain his lost pride, Kerson attacked. He swung the battle-axe at Ayrion’s midriff. Ayrion danced to the left, letting it make a clear pass before spinning to the side and out of the way of Kerson’s countering backswing. Again he missed. “Stand still, you cockroach!”

Ayrion planted his feet, waiting for the right maneuver. Kerson spun around, both hands wrapped around the axe’s handle, all of his strength behind the swing. Before the big man was halfway through his lunge, Ayrion lashed out with his blade. One swift cut, like the strike of an adder, and the black steel sliced straight through the wooden handle without the slightest effort. The steel head flew over the crowd and impaled one of the stone beams on the far side of the room.

Before Kerson had a chance to realize he had just lost his weapon, Ayrion side-kicked him in the knee, snapping the bone and dropping the big man to the ground. Ayrion lifted his blade to strike when Kira’s voice cried out from behind him.

“Stop! I demand the Right of Life.”

Ayrion removed his blindfold and stepped back from where Kerson lay writhing on the ground, trying to cradle his ruined knee. The room was as quiet as a catacomb as Kira, with her arms still bound behind her, walked across the ring to stand over Kerson.

“Do you accept my offer of life?”

Ayrion had seen this before. If an enemy’s life was spared in fair combat, they were given the choice of either pledging the remainder of it to the victor or taking a swift death. It was considered the most shameful of actions to betray such a pledge. Those that did were not given a swift death, but instead, a very long and very painful one that was used as an example to discourage others from following in the same steps.

Kerson slowly scanned the surrounding faces of the clansmen and clanswomen as they all waited to see what he would do. He took a moment to glare up at Ayrion and the blade hovering just above his neck before turning back to Kira and offering a single nod.

“I accept.”

“Good,” Kira said before turning around and marching back across the ring to where Amarysia was waiting. “I believe it’s time we were going.”

The crowd parted in silence as Kira, with her hands still bound, led Ayrion and Amarysia across the room and out the heavy iron door. Everyone was quick to give Ayrion a wide berth. No one wanted to get to close to his blade. Whispers filled the chamber behind them as they passed through the small anteroom outside.

Without another word, the three ascended the stairs and under Kira’s direction, moved through the streets like ghosts floating on an evening wind. It didn’t take as long getting out of the Warrens as it did going in. Ayrion figured Kira must have taken them down a more direct path.

“Now what?” Kira asked as they stood just outside the central arches of the stone bridge connecting the palace to the mainland.

“Now, I untie you and let you go.”

The hardness in her eyes softened. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“You aren’t going to arrest me or something?”

“Not at the moment, provided you return my horse—”

“Our horses, you mean,” Amarysia was quick to add.”

“Yes, our horses.” Ayrion’s face hardened as he looked Kira in the eyes. “And if I find that Shade has been harmed in any way, the Dark Wizard himself couldn’t stop me from raining destruction down on you.”

Kira batted her lashes. “Oh, how I’ve longed to hear you talk about me in such a way.”

Ayrion rolled his eyes and sighed. “Kira, believe it or not, it was actually nice to see you. And as I promised, I’ll do whatever I can to help find Reevie and those responsible for taking your people.”

Kira rubbed her wrists after Ayrion unlocked the manacles. She took a moment to stare into his eyes. “I believe you,” she said. From her finger, she removed a large gold ring and held it out to him.

“What’s this?” he asked as he turned it over for a quick evaluation. It was set in diamonds. At its center, engraved in red, was a symbol that Ayrion recognized as the crest of the clans.

“If you ever have need of me, the ring will grant you safe passage through the Warrens. No one would dare harm anyone wearing that ring. It symbolizes the clan’s protection.”

“What happened with your threat of coming after me?”

Kira favored him with a measured gaze. “You just took my greatest competitor and turned him into my own personal slave. I’d say we’re even.” She started to say something more, but opted for a not-so-subtle kiss instead. “I’m glad to see you using magic again, Ayri.”

Ayrion’s eyes widened as he choked.

Amarysia’s head rose after having averted her eyes to keep from seeing Ayrion’s lips being caressed by another. “Magic? What magic?” She looked at Ayrion then at Kira then back to Ayrion. “You have magic?”

Kira raised her hand to her mouth. “Oh my, you didn’t know? How clumsy of me. Guess he doesn’t trust you, hussy, as much as he does me.”

Ayrion’s temper flared. Hailstones, Kira! She just had to find one last way to stick the knife in. Kira never could leave without getting in the last word.

“Keep him out of trouble, will ya?” Kira said with a grin.

Before Amarysia could respond, the Clan Chieftain was dashing off down the street. Ayrion felt a twinge of regret as he watched the lithe woman in her dark, red leather coat bound toward the nearest alleyway and vanish into the night.

Ayrion turned back around and stumbled for the right words. “I’m sorry about that. It’s . . . It’s not that I don’t trust you. I . . . I just prefer to keep certain things about myself private.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Ayrion. After tonight, I think we both have come to realize there are things about our lives that we’ve kept hidden.” She placed a hand on his arm. “For my part, I’m glad you found out about my . . . uh, excursions into Cheapside. It means a lot that you got to meet my brother.”

Ayrion took her hand in his, letting their fingers slide together. “It’s nice to be able to share my secret with someone I care about. If your brother or his tribe ever has need of help, just let me know.”

Amarysia ended their evening with a soft, emotional kiss. Ayrion felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders as he escorted her back to the palace. Their walk was quiet as he contemplated Reevie’s disappearance.

Chapter 43 | Valtor

ON THE THIRD FLOOR, Valtor and Dakaran sat waiting as a knock resounded on the outer door of the old library—a room undisturbed at this time of the evening. Valtor rose from his comfortable position in front of one of the many marble hearths surrounding the enormous three-story chamber and ushered in the Cylmaran Ambassador. Late as usual, I see, Valtor mused as he smiled at the ambassador and bowed. No doubt wanting to assert his dominance.

“So what’s with all the secrecy?” Belkor asked as he pushed his way past Valtor and then took a moment to gawk at the walls of books connected by gold circular staircases and overhead walkways that crisscrossed from one aisle to the next. The rich rosewood shelving provided quite the contrast to the deep blue and gold coloring of the room. “Your manservant had me traipsing through every back door and side stairwell in this place.”

“We apologize for the theatrics, Ambassador,” Dakaran said as he gestured to an empty settee across from his. The steady blaze was just what they needed to break the evening chill, “but we wanted to make sure you were not spotted by one of our illustrious High Guard. They have a tendency toward loose lips, especially when around my father.”

The ambassador took his seat. His eyes were intent as he waited for someone to speak. “Well, I take it I’m not here to discuss the latest fashion in women’s undergarments . . . so let’s get on with it.”

“Fine,” Dakaran said. “I see you’re a man who doesn’t like to mince words. I can respect that. So I’ll get right to the point. Overlord Saryn needs an ally on the throne of Elondria. Something he obviously won’t find in my father.”

“Oh?” Belkor’s voice held a tinge of amused curiosity. “But I take it he will in you, Prince Dakaran?”

“Yes.”

The ambassador’s eyes swung from one face to the other. “And what’s to keep me from leaving here and going straight to the king with this news?”

Well, that would be me sucking the air from your lungs before your hand reaches the door. Valtor leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingertips together in rhythm. “Greed, for starters.”

Belkor cocked his head and raised a brow. “Go on.”

“Cylmar is a poor kingdom,” Dakaran said. “Its people are starving and you have few natural resources to speak of. I could change that.”

“And how do you propose to make that happen?”

“I suggest a trade of favors.” Dakaran leaned forward. “If Saryn will help me succeed my father’s throne, I will turn over the mining rights to the Black Hills.”

Belkor grunted. “As you have previously stated, Cylmar is a poor kingdom. How do you propose we accomplish such a feat?” He chuckled. “Lead an all-out assault on Elondria?”

“Precisely.”

Belkor’s jovial demeanor dissipated. “Are you mad? Cylmar would have no hope of winning in an open conflict with Elondria. Why would we ever agree to something so foolish?”

“Because, unlike your overlord, my father feels it his duty to attend any major battle fought by Elondrian forces. So it won’t have to be a full scale assault, just enough to draw my father in.” Dakaran casually leaned back in his chair. “From there, I have a select group of lancers who are loyal only to me, and would like to see a few favors sent their way whilst I’m on the throne.”

Belkor leaned forward in his seat. “In other words, a group of mercenaries you’ve paid off to do your dirty work, is that it?”

“Like I said, you don’t beat around the bush.”

“You are correct. I prefer plain speech. So here’s mine. If Cylmar has to bear the brunt of this agreement, by laying its people’s lives on the line for your ascension to the throne, then we will want more than just the mining rights. We will want the Black Hills themselves.”

Dakaran bolted forward in his chair. “You can’t be serious! I will not give away a piece of Elondria as a bargaining chip!”

“Wake up, boy! How did you think this was going to work? That we were going to send our armies over here to get slaughtered just so you could claim your daddy’s crown, then what, trust you’d be generous enough to let us cut some rocks out of your mountains in exchange?”

Impulsive fool! Dakaran is going to blow this entire endeavor before it even gets started. Valtor reached over and put a hand on the prince’s arm, holding him back from losing it altogether. “It is an intriguing proposal, Ambassador Belkor,” Valtor offered. “His Highness will give you his answer before you break for home.”

Belkor relaxed. “It had better be hurried. I’m planning on leaving at first light.”

Valtor rose. “We thank you for your time, Ambassador, and wish you a pleasant night’s rest.”

“One can only hope,” Belkor grumbled. “Until tomorrow, Your Highness?” The ambassador nodded as he left the room.

Dakaran’s glare was fierce. “Don’t ever treat me like that again!”

Valtor bowed. Quit acting like a spoiled toddler and I won’t have to. “I apologize, Your Highness, but the ambassador has a point. It will be Cylmar who has the most invested in this endeavor. It will be their right to demand what they will. And of course, yours as to whether you want to accept it.”

Dakaran regained what little composure he had. “What is your advice?”

Valtor yawned. “My advice is to go get some sleep.”

Dakaran looked at him like he was crazy.

“Ultimately, none of it is going to matter, Your Highness. Once we see this through, there will no longer be a Cylmar to worry about. So if we need to placate Overlord Saryn for the moment, then that is exactly what we do. We offer him our hand in peace so he doesn’t notice the other one stabbing him in the back.” Valtor smiled and bowed. “Rest well, Your Highness.”

The next morning came all too quickly as Belkor’s small escort of armsmen readied themselves for the rough trip west to Cylmar. The ambassador had just settled onto his horse when a palace courier rode across the courtyard, angling in his direction. The young boy lifted a tri-folded parchment, sealed with the prince’s stamp.

Valtor stood in the shadows of one of the second floor balconies and watched as Belkor promptly tore open the wax and unfolded the letter. The ambassador’s eyes scanned the short document. The corners of his mouth curled upward as he read.

Chapter 44 | Lyessa

LYESSA STRUGGLED TO catch her breath as she turned to face her attacker. She might have been the overlord’s daughter, but that did nothing to stave off the determination in her opponent’s eyes.

Sweat from her brow streamed down the side of her face and was flung into the air with every swift move of her head. Her long red hair was tied back to keep from blocking her view. Senses alert, she circled. The man towered over her lean frame like a giant bent on devouring her whole, but instead of a thick wooden club, he wielded a wicked looking rapier.

Pieces of her outfit lay open, revealing a number of exposed lacerations where her blood had stained through the material.

He lunged.

Lyessa managed to dive out of the way just as the sharp steel flew past, missing the side of her arm. She rolled, and let the forward motion help lift her back to her feet as she spun around to meet the next strike. Her arms felt too heavy to lift and her chest was on fire, every breath a battle. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold off his attack.

She made the mistake of looking into his eyes. They were hard, cold, and unblinking. He was a man committed to finishing his goal, and that frightened her more than anything. She continued to circle. Her short-sword hung loosely from her hand. She wasn’t sure if she had the strength to heft it one last time. She dug deep, drawing from her well of determination one last cold drop.

Pulling her eyes away from his, she watched and waited. She struggled to read the movement of the muscles in his thick arms. His broad shoulders and bare chest warned of the coming foray.

She waited until she saw it. There it is, she thought, the twitching in his upper right shoulder. He was going to attack from the right. Bracing herself, she carried her sword low, trying to give him a false sense of security, a belief that she was too exhausted to raise her blade to an appropriate height. If only he knew how close to the truth that really was.

He attacked, right arm swinging in a cross-cutting fashion.

His sword angled for her head, but she had already anticipated the move and brought her own steel up to deflect it away. He swung again and she countered. His moves were precise. Hers were floundering. She would never beat him with the sword. He was too fast, too experienced. Then it hit her. Don’t use it.

She waited for his attack. She blocked twice, each time his sword coming a little closer to her body. She took a half-step to the left, telegraphing her move and giving him cause to think she was striking from that side. His body automatically went into a defensive stance as he brought his sword around. But instead of swinging her blade, Lyessa did something no fighter in armed combat should ever do. She dropped to her back on the ground in front of him.

Leveraging all her weight into a single kick to the front of both his shins, she rolled to the side as the big man’s legs were ripped out from under him and he came crashing down beside her. Before he had time to roll, she had her blade across the back of his neck, held at the ready.

“I yield, I yield!” he said.

She flipped him over. His eyes seemed to show no remorse, no fear, not even the smallest sense of anxiety.

Pulling her blade away, she stood to her feet.

Beside her, the big man cautiously rose, planted his sword tip-down in the dirt, and without warning, reached out and engulfed her in his arms. “I’m proud of you.”

Lyessa closed her eyes and smiled. It was a wonderful feeling.

All around the courtyard, many of the servants and staff were clapping and cheering. No one clapped as hard as her father, or donned a more satisfied smile, unless, of course, you counted her sparring partner. Darryk released her from his grip. “By the powers, girl, I do believe your old man couldn’t have done a better job.” She beamed with pride at his words. Darryk had been her instructor since she was old enough to hold a blade. With no brothers to eventually take over as man of the house, her father had been determined to make sure Lyessa was ready for the duty.

As if on cue, Lord Barl strode across the open courtyard and wrapped a proud arm around her shoulders, pulling her in tight. Lyessa tucked her head under his chin while laying her cheek against his chest, a favorite spot of hers since she was a little girl sitting in his lap. “You make your father proud, my daughter.” He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “One day, you’ll thank me for putting you through all of this. Sidara needs a strong leader, and you’re smarter and stronger than any son your mother might have had if she had lived longer. I wouldn’t trade you for the world.” He kissed the top of her head and then wrinkled his nose. “Now go get a bath. You stink.”

Darryk made no effort to hide the amusement inspired by her father’s statement.

“What are you laughing at, you old grizzly?” her father said, sniffing the air. “You smell worse than she does.”

“Hey now, I don’t smell that bad.” Darryk raised his arm and took a whiff. “There you see, sweet as honeycakes.”

Her father grimaced before turning his attention back to her. “Besides, we have guests to entertain this afternoon. You might want to take some time to freshen up.”

“Oh, and who might that be?”

“I’ve asked our gamekeeper and his two boys over to discuss the troubling reports of dead animals in the woods.”

Lyessa’s head lifted. She released her grip around her father’s waist and took a step back. “They’re coming here?” That meant Ty was going to be there. She felt a sudden flush in her cheeks at the thought.

“Yes, why do you think I mentioned the bath?” He smiled and shook his head.

“And you’re just telling me this now?” What was he thinking? He’s a man, she bemoaned, they don’t think.

“And see that Gina bandages you good and proper, you hear,” her father said after taking in the rips and gashes dotting the front and sides of her leathers. “We don’t want you bleeding all over our company.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Making a swift retreat toward the back patio doors, Lyessa glanced down at her state of dress. It was going to take hours to get herself ready. It was times like these when she wished her mother were still alive, not that she didn’t wish it all the time, but there were occasions like right now when she could have used her advice.

Before she had managed to reach the double doors leading into her father’s study, she could hear him calling out behind her. “And have one of the servants tell Aiden, if he’s even awake yet, that it would be nice if he were there for this meeting as well.” She waved her hand, letting him know that she had heard him, before slipping inside. Waking Master Lethargic up, she mused, now that’s a chore I’d never want.

She was tired of her father trying to marry her off. She was her own woman. If she ever decided she wanted to marry, it would be for love and not for political maneuvering. At least, she dreamed it would be.

Closing the doors to her chambers, Lyessa began leaving a trail of garb all the way to her washroom. She could hear Gina riffling around in her changing room, no doubt reorganizing her dresses once again. “Gina, I need your help.”

“I already have your bath prepared, Miss Lyessa,” the elderly amah said from the other room.

“Good.” Lyessa pulled off the rest of her underclothes and dropped them on the floor.

“Child, what have they done to you?” Her nanny stood in the doorway staring at all the new bruises and cuts lining Lyessa’s chest, arms, and back. “I’m gonna have to have another talk with that father of yours,” she said with a disapproving click of her tongue as she placed both fists to hips.

“I’m fine, Gina. It’s not as bad as it looks.” Lyessa smiled at the old woman. Gina had been her nursemaid and nanny since birth. Although, apart from the years Gina had spent in Easthaven, Lyessa didn’t know much about her amah’s past. Gina didn’t speak of it and Lyessa had never wanted to pry. She did know that Gina came from one of the Blue Islands off the southern coast of Briston. Every now and then, Lyessa would catch a hint of Gina’s natural accent bleeding through.

“Well, you better get that pale little backside of yours into that bath before I turn it on your head.” Gina stood there holding one hand over her nose.

“Hey, my backside is neither pale nor little.” Lyessa twisted around to get a look at her naked rump. “It’s just firm and . . . and not very dark.” To Gina, all Sidarans were pale compared to the naturally tanned skin of her island upbringing.

Slumping her shoulders, Lyessa took Gina’s advice and climbed into the tub, letting the warm water ease the pain and tension she felt in her throbbing shoulders, back, arms, legs, and every other part of her body.

She released a stiff moan and let her head rest against the back of the rim. “Gina, what does it feel like to fall in love?”

“Child, you are too young to be talking about love.”

Lyessa opened her eyes. “I’m eighteen, a grown woman. What better time is there?”

Gina stopped her fiddling. “I guess you are. Sometimes it’s hard to think of you as all grown up. Seems like just yesterday you were running around here causing all kinds of ruckus. Oh, wait,” she said with a snicker, “that was yesterday.” Lyessa splashed some of her water at the old woman. “Yep, time just keeps rolling right on by, it does, leaving poor old Gina here to watch it go.”

“Gina, you still haven’t told me what it’s like. Does it leave you kind of dizzy and lightheaded?”

“I guess it can,” Gina said as she pulled up a stool and started washing Lyessa’s thick head of red curls. “It can leave you breathless, make you feel all giddy inside when you’re around him. Sure sign to tell when a girl’s in love, though, is the giggles.” Lyessa craned her neck around. “Yep, when a girl starts a giggling for no good reason, you can just bet she’s got herself a fella.

Lyessa smiled at the thought. “It must be wonderful.”

“What’s that, child?”

“To be able to marry for love. To spend the rest of your life with someone who actually likes you. To wake every morning in each other’s arms.” She wrapped her arms around her naked body as if trying to emulate the feeling.

“Yes, it is,” the old woman agreed. “I remember my Tomas. We had a love to fill two lifetimes.” Lyessa tilted her head back in time to see her nanny wipe at a tear before it had time to run.

“I’m sorry, Gina. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Upset me, sweet child? No, not upset. Me and Tomas had forty-three wonderful years together, couldn’t ask the good Creator for more than that.”

“I don’t love Aiden, you know.” She felt her nanny stop tugging at her tangled strands.

“Well, sometimes marriage isn’t about what you want or what makes you happy, it’s about what’s good for everyone else. In your case, honey, unfortunately, it’s about what’s good for Sidara.”

“But why can’t it be both? I want to marry someone who loves me. Someone who can make me feel—” She sighed. “Oh, who am I kidding? It was only ever a dream.”

Her amah patted her sympathetically on the shoulder before stepping into the other room to find her a gown to wear.

That was all Lyessa had ever sought. She wanted what her mother and father had, and what Gina had. The only boy she had ever had any kind of feelings for was Ty, and those weren’t exactly the kind of feelings she had been discussing. At least, she didn’t think they were. When she thought about Ty, other words sprang to mind, like annoying, aggravating, or conniving.

He was cute, though. There were times when she had caught herself watching him in class as he tried to study. His face would get all tense in an adorable sort of way when he couldn’t figure something out; however, taking an interest in one of his personal quirks didn’t mean she liked him or anything. Besides, he always knew exactly what to say to get under her skin. He could be a real bull-headed lout sometimes. The more she thought about their tug-o-war relationship, the higher the corners of her mouth curled.

She remembered the look on his face when she had arrived at Performance Night on Aiden’s arm. She had seen it in his eyes, the trollish-green hint of jealousy. That above everything else had made her heart soar and her pulse race.

“Which of these dresses will you be wanting to wear, Miss Lyessa?”

Lyessa never even paused to think. “The green one.”

Chapter 45 | Ty

THE LAST FEW DAYS had come and gone with a speed that had taken Ty by surprise. Before he knew it, the week was almost over and he found himself sitting atop Waddle as they trotted down River Street.

Flanked on both sides by his brother and father, Ty managed a quick glance down Wood Lane as they passed. His eyes naturally slid to the dark alley beside the spice merchant where he had encountered the scary old woman’s deadly trinket shop.

Was he expecting to see the old lady just standing there waiting for him? He didn’t know. The council was supposed to send someone to check out his story. He wondered if the old woman was even still there or if having been discovered, she had moved on. Somehow, he doubted it.

A few miles north of town they crossed back into the Sidaran Forest. The abundance of life within the trees breathed a fresh sense of vigor into Ty’s spirit. There was something different about it though, a hint of danger that had been growing over the last couple of weeks. Ty wasn’t sure what it was. He couldn’t help but wonder if the change of mood was merely a manifestation of his own fears at learning that the White Tower was looking for him, or if it was something else.

Turning east, his father led them down a dirt lane that cut further back into the surrounding woods in the direction of the East River. The road eventually opened into a large clearing which held an extensive estate that Ty could have only described as a palace, or at least as close as his imagination would take him, having never actually seen one before.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the overlord’s estate, at least from a distance. When Ty was younger, he had thought to play a prank on Lyessa, but didn’t make it out of the surrounding woods before a couple of the Sidaran lancers on patrol had nabbed him. It had been a little more than embarrassing for him and his family, especially when his father had been the one to have to retrieve him. He hoped the overlord had forgotten about that.

The main building was at least four stories in height. Its white stone glistened as the sun peeked out from behind another cloud. Fronting the main house was a well-kept garden, equipped with fountains, pebbled paths, and strange birds with large feathery tails. Each bird stood on a pair of legs that looked to be nothing more than two painted sticks.

Surrounding the estate were a number of smaller outbuildings, each of which was at least three times the size of Ty’s family cottage.

It was truly impressive.

They followed the path around the garden. It led in a circular fashion back toward the front of the main building and the open courtyard. A couple of attendants, dressed in the formal Sidaran green and gold, were there to meet them. After dismounting, the groomsmen walked the horses to the stables.

The stairs leading up to the main entrance were lined with magnificently carved statues. At the top, the double doors opened and an angular gentleman dressed in the same green and gold as the staff trotted down the stairs to greet them. Along with his fancy suit, the man wore a feathered hat and a pair of white gloves. “Welcome, Master Kellen,” the lanky man said with a swooping bow. “Lord Barl has been expecting you.”

“Thank you, Piel.”

Ty was impressed. It was the first time he’d seen someone show that kind of deference to a member of his family.

“If you would be so good as to follow me.” The tall man gestured toward the front doors and started up the steps.

Ty fell in behind the others as they made their way up the steps and through the doors.

The open foyer held two circular staircases leading to a second floor walkway that encircled most of the room. The front wall was lined with windows. The place was a veritable cornucopia of exquisite furnishings. Expensive, breakable items littered every nook and cranny. Ty didn’t think it was a very practical room. There was no place to stretch out.

The décor was heavily accented in the rich tones afforded by the extensive use of wood to which many of the residents of Easthaven had chosen to give prominence. It was a traditional choice stemming from their love of the Sidaran Forest.

Tilting his head down, Ty smiled, and his reflection in the polished marble smiled back. He had known Lyessa was rich, but he had no idea it was anything like this.

The chamberlain led them between the center of the two staircases and toward an adjoining hallway. While passing directly underneath the balcony, Ty gawked at the enormous brass chandelier hanging directly above.

“Lord Barl will receive you in his study,” Piel stated without turning.

Rounding the corner, the chamberlain came to a stop in front of a set of golden oak doors. Opening, he stepped through and allowed his guests room enough to follow. “Master Kellen and his sons to see you, my lord.” The chamberlain bowed. Ty was surprised to see that the man’s feathered hat had not fallen off in the process.

“Thank you, Piel.” The overlord stood from his cushioned seat in front of the fire.

The room was well lit as the afternoon sun poured in from the open draperies on the far side. There was a set of glass-framed doors at the back that gave Ty a perfect view of the open courtyard beyond.

The overlord’s study didn’t appear to resemble that of the rest of the estate, however. There were no shiny marble floors. No colorful tapestries. No exotic furnishings of any kind. Instead, the room had a strong rustic flavor, with full-scribe log walls decorated in natural colors and surrounded by an array of stuffed mounts from the lord’s previous hunts. It was the epitome of a man’s place to escape. Warm light from the open hearth at the front of the room flickered across their faces as the three took in the splendor.

From the other side of the room, Lord Barl broke off his conversation with the man sitting across from him and stood to greet them. “Master Kellen, it’s so good to see you again,” Barl said as he reached out to shake Ty’s father’s hand. The overlord was at least a head shorter than his father, but well-built with a hint of gray showing in his beard and hair. Ty, of course, naturally assumed this was Lyessa’s doing and smiled, up until the point he noticed the amount of gray in his own father’s hair.

Ty was rather astonished at such a friendly greeting from the overlord. Ty had always figured him to be of such a station that would not allow him to pay mind to those of common birth. But instead, Lord Barl appeared to be quite hospitable, if not downright friendly.

“I’d like to introduce you to our Sidaran representative, Ambassador Lanmiere.” The other man was a good ten years older than the overlord and wearing a sling on his right arm.

Ty’s father extended his opposite hand so as not to disturb the ambassador’s sling.

“Master Kellen is my personal gamekeeper and forester.”

“Ah, then it is a real pleasure to meet you, Master Kellen, and I thank you for your service.” The ambassador had a very approachable way about him.

Ty’s father bowed. “It’s my pleasure, Ambassador.”

“And these must be your boys?”

His father stepped back to introduce them. “Yes, this is my eldest, Breen.” Breen followed with a proper bow.

“Yes, quite the strapping young man,” Barl commented as he sized Ty’s brother up.

“And this is my youngest, Ty.” Ty managed a slight bow without looking too awkward.

Glancing in Ty’s direction, Lord Barl’s face brightened. “I believe I had the opportunity to hear our young Master Ty perform for us a couple of weeks back. Quite the talent you possess with those pipes of yours, son. Don’t believe I’ve heard better.”

Ty, feeling a little self-conscious from the praise, forced a polite smile. “I thank you for your generosity, milord, as undeserved as it is.” He had all but forgotten that the overlord had been seated front-row center for his musical debut.

“No need to get embarrassed. If I ever told you what Lyessa did the first time I made her perform in public, she would probably lash me six ways from Eighth Day.”

“Yes, she would,” came a curt reply from directly behind them. Ty spun around to find a perfectly poised Lyessa standing in the doorway, wearing what looked to be layers of soft green chiffon with white lace trim poking out from beneath her collar and cuffs. The material clung to her figure in a way that nearly made him blush for looking. To Ty’s dismay, on her left stood an even more impressively arrayed Aiden. Why is he here?

Lyessa’s eyes brightened as they met Ty’s. “Some things are better left secret. Wouldn’t you agree, Ty?”

Ty’s eyes narrowed. He refused to capitulate to her teasing. She turned her head and the light revealed a powdered-over bruise on her right cheek just below her eye. Ty suddenly found himself enraged. If Aiden had laid a hand on her— Clenching his fists, Ty fought back the urge to do something stupid. Besides, he had no idea what had taken place. As clumsy as Lyessa was, she might have just fallen out of bed that morning.

“Where are my manners?” Barl interrupted, stepping around to where his daughter and Aiden stood waiting in the doorway. “Master Kellen, this is Aiden Raycrest. His family is from Riverton. They own most of the lumber milling in Sidara. Aiden, this is Master Kellen. He’s our gamekeeper.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Master Aiden,” Ty’s father said, offering Aiden his hand.

“The pleasure’s mine,” Aiden replied with a shake.

“I believe you know everyone else,” Barl said as he motioned for the party to take their seats in front of the fire. “Aiden is staying with us for a few weeks while he inspects his family’s lumber holdings here in Easthaven.” Ty wanted to roll his eyes. Lord Barl was obviously proud of finding what he thought was a suitable match for his daughter.

By the time they had all found a seat around the hearth, a couple of serving girls stepped inside with trays of light snacks and some pitchers of drink. All the men, save Ty, helped themselves to a glass of the strongly spiced wine, while Ty and Lyessa opted for the apple-melon punch with a touch of honey. It was some of the best Ty had ever tasted.

“By now I’m sure you’ve noticed that our good ambassador has been recently injured,” Barl said as he caught the eyes of those sitting around the small circle. “One of the reasons I requested your presence today is that I would like for him to divulge the circumstances behind those injuries.

“If you’d care to elaborate, Lanmiere,” Barl said with a nod in the ambassador’s direction. “With as much traveling as Master Kellen and his sons undertake throughout the year, it might be prudent for them to have some insight into what you witnessed during the king’s hunting excursion. We don’t want them being taken completely unawares.”

“I’d be happy to, Your Lordship,” Lanmiere said as he lowered his glass and shifted slightly in his seat. Ty leaned forward, anxious to hear what the man had to say.

“I had been included in a small expedition, hosted by his majesty. We were hunting grouse, not that that has any bearing on the horrific events that took place, but for clarification. The party consisted of myself, three other ambassadors, the High King, the prince, the Guardian Protector with a few of his High Guard, and a Commander Tolin with at least two company of lancers.”

“That’s a mighty large procession for a simple bird hunt,” Ty’s father remarked. “It’s a wonder there was any game to be found with such a force.”

“Yes,” the ambassador agreed with a smile, “but I have my suspicions it was more for show than for effect. The Overlord of Cylmar has been growing more aggressive in his assaults on the Elondrian borderlands, and I have no doubt the king wanted to set an example.” Lanmiere took another sip from his goblet to wet his throat, which was starting to sound a bit hoarse. “But I digress. We were hunting in the woodlands at the foot of the Sandrethin Mountains, north of Aramoor, when we were attacked by a creature so grotesque, it hinders accurate description.” He stopped and focused on the red liquid inside his glass as though in staring hard enough, the drink would somehow magically refill.

“I am not ashamed to say it was the most terrifying experience of my life. Had I not witnessed the courage of the Guardian Protector and his men, as well as the commander and his lancers, I might have followed the example of one of the other ambassadors and thrown down my bow and run.” He paused again to consider. “Thanks be to the Creator’s mercies I did not. Little did we know there were two more creatures waiting in the forest just behind us. The ambassador, whose name I will not belittle, fled into the surrounding woods and was ripped apart by the other two. They hardly recovered enough of him to send back for a proper burial.” He glanced in Lyessa’s direction. “Pardon the description, my lady.”

“No, please.” She raised a hand. “I find it all rather fascinating.” Ty for once, had to agree. Ambassadors being torn limb from limb, horrifying creatures, mutilated bodies, heroic battles—what’s not to love?

“Master Ayrion, the High King’s protector, was nothing short of miraculous. The way he fought was like something out of legend.” Lanmiere swung his good arm around as if gripping an imaginary blade, jostling some of his wine in the process. “If not for him, I believe the king would have fallen that afternoon.”

“Pardon the interruption, Ambassador,” Ty’s father said, “but did these creatures fight individually or as a pack?”

“Ah, a perceptive question,” the ambassador said, raising his glass in acknowledgement, “and much to be expected from a master huntsman.” He took another sip of his wine. “It was neither, sir. It wasn’t instinctual, it seemed tactical.”

The look on Ty’s father’s face was disturbing. “Are you saying they were intelligent?”

Lanmiere finished what was left in his glass and laid it to the side. “I’m saying, when I looked into their eyes, what I saw was terrifying. I saw . . . understanding.” He slumped back in his chair.

“Those creatures were anything but natural. There’s no mistaking dark magic when you see it. Those things had been created for a purpose, and it was more than obvious they were there to assassinate the High King, and quite possibly the prince as well as the ambassadors.”

“The most dangerous of opponents,” Lord Barl interjected, “is one which holds no fear, and lives only to complete its goal.” The overlord pursed his lips in thought. He turned to Ty’s father. “Have you or your boys seen any signs of creatures such as these?”

“Nothing, milord. If we had, you would have been the first to know.”

Lord Barl seemed pensive. “There have also been reports within the last week or two of strange animal deaths.” The overlord waved his hand flippantly. “Normally I wouldn’t bring something so trivial to your attention, but the list of sightings seems to be growing. Have you any knowledge as to the validity of these claims?”

Ty’s father leaned forward in his seat. “I have recently been made aware that a few of the outlying farms have found some of their herd missing. We could have another pack of timber wolves migrating down from the north. If so, better to catch them before they move on to larger prey.”

Ty didn’t think there were any timber wolves around Easthaven. If there were, he would have felt their presence. He wondered if these deaths had anything to do with the strange sense of foreboding he had felt emanating from the forest of late.

“Furgus was telling a few of the men at the East Inn how he had found a string of ravaged conies in the woods just north of town,” Breen said as he scratched the side of his face. He had taken to letting his beard grow in a bit thicker ever since Fraya commented on liking a little scruff on a man’s face. “There have been dogs missing as well, and a local traveler found a dead horse just off the west road about three to four miles out of town. Something had devoured it down to its bones. What was strange was that the horse hadn’t been there when he had ridden through earlier that morning.” Breen looked around at the others watching. “I’ve never seen a carcass completely cleaned to the bone in just a few hours.”

The glow of the fire tinted the top half of Ty’s father’s face, revealing a layer of deep lines creasing his brow. “I think we might need to take a look around tomorrow.” Ty could tell there was something else weighing heavy on his father’s mind.

“Is there something else?” Lord Barl asked. Ty was obviously not the only one noticing his father’s hesitancy.

Ty’s father took a deep breath. “There is a story,” he began with a hint of mystery, much like he would when Ty was young and his father would sit on the edge of his bed at night and tell him of the great mages of old and the battles of magic waged between them during the Second Age, “that my father told me when I was just a boy. Like now, the townsfolk began finding dead animals around the forest. It started first with small rodents, and then a few cows here and there. Pretty soon they started finding family pets missing, and eventually, a few of the residents living on the outer rim of the city vanished as well.”

The light blonde hair on Ty’s arms stiffened the further into the story his father went. “And then, one day, it just . . . stopped. They searched high and low for those missing families but they were never to be heard from again, almost as if they had never existed at all.”

“What caused it?” Lyessa asked, her fingers nervously clutching the cup in her lap.

Ty’s father shook his head. “No one ever knew. My granddad, and his father before him, were excellent gamesmen, but they never found a single track.” He leaned back in his seat once again. “We’ll make sure to search the surrounding woods to see if we can find any sign of whatever this is. Rest easy, Your Lordship, we will deal with the problem.”

Ty glanced at his father. Thanks for volunteering us.

“Good.” Lyessa’s father slapped a hand to his knee and leaned back against the seat’s cushion. “Do let me know what you find, Master Kellen.”

“You have my word, Your Lordship.”

“I will call a meeting of the Sidaran Assembly,” Barl finally said as he glanced at Ambassador Lanmiere, “to discuss the disturbing events surrounding the High King’s attempted assassination, as well as the growing concern of war between Elondria and Cylmar. We want to be prepared for any repercussions it could inflict on Sidara.”

The ambassador crossed his legs and readjusted the sling on his arm. “I believe that would be a prudent move, Your Lordship. We are seeing an uncomfortable rise in aggression from our neighbors of late. We might need to consider recalling the guard and maybe even look at the possibility of conscriptions.”

The overlord’s face twisted. “You know how I feel about conscripting, Lanmiere.”

“I do. The same as myself, I reckon, but we might find it a necessary evil nonetheless.”

Ty wondered if he and Breen might be pressed into service should it become necessary. Great, something else for me to worry about. It wasn’t like he didn’t have enough on his plate as it was.

Chapter 46 | Valtor

LEAVING THE PRINCE to his machinations, Valtor made his way to the top of the north tower. He slid shut the heavy wooden doors to his chambers and slumped against them. Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, he pushed himself from the door and made his way across his living quarters to his workroom. The tip of his wolf-head staff clicked every third tile.

He marched to the rear of his private chambers and pulled back the covering of the large travel mirror. Calling out the mirrors’ names in sequence, the glass sparked to life.  Valtor’s reflection vanished as it morphed into another image, that of a dark room lit only by a single torch on the far wall. As the mirror finished its transformation, he stepped through.

The liquid glass sent a slight shiver through his body as he came out the other side. He turned and watched the image die.

Down through the corridors, stairwells, and tunnels, Valtor marched, never having to guess which one to take. He knew exactly where he was going and why. Deep into the lowest chambers he descended until finally, stepping out from the tunnel, he came to a large chasm lit by phosphorus crystals. They had been planted thousands of years ago when the underground network had first been discovered. Ahead of him lay a stone bridge spanning a subterranean gorge.

The Arch Chancellor started across.

The far side of the chasm held enormous pillars and archways, vast hallways leading off into the darkness beyond, and at their center reared a pair of massive gold-leafed doors. All light within the cavernous space seemed to bend in their direction.

Standing in front of the ancient portico that barred all passage into the mountainside, one would have almost believed the stories told of giants roaming the land of Aldor. Valtor took a brief moment to appreciate the looming structures before waving his staff in an arc.

The great doors shook, raining bits of dust and debris around its outer frame as he heard the sound of wood and metal scraping together from the other side. Lowering his staff, he waited and watched as the doors split at the seam and then parted.

“Voyestra.”

Torches all throughout the chamber burst alive, revealing a massive domed cavern, hewn from the mountain itself. In front of him lay a great ring of stones marked with ancient glyphs. At the center of the stones stood an ominous looking tree with its leafless branches spread out in all directions like little tendrils searching for the light of a sun they would never find. Near the back of the colossal chamber lay a pool of black liquid, placid as glass.

Valtor took a seat on a nearby stone and waited. He could hear the sound of approaching feet echoing off the rock from outside the double doors. Hustling with all the speed a pair of stubby legs could muster while supporting such a heavy physique, a pale inquisitor waddled in. His face was half-covered in tattoos, symbolizing his place within the Inquisition, and his white robes were stained with blood and dark patches of sweat from his quick descent from the tower above.

“Your Eminence,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath. “How can I be of service?” Valtor was both fascinated and disgusted by the inquisitor’s improbable size. He had to be one of the fattest men Valtor had ever seen. It was a wonder he didn’t keel over and die right there.

“How is your work with the smith coming?”

“The smith? Ah, well, it’s moving along quite nicely,” he lied unsuccessfully with a smooth smile.

“That’s good news.”

The inquisitor took another step closer and Valtor promptly wished he hadn’t. The man smelled of perspiration, blood, and rotten cheese. “I’ve heard rumors that progress has been rather slow of late?” He raised a questioning brow.

“Ah, well, you can’t believe everything you hear, Arch Chancellor.”

“Yes, well, the more you speak, Inquisitor, the more I’m willing to believe that is the case.”

The inquisitor’s left eye twitched. “He has proven to be rather difficult of late. I’ve never questioned one so . . . so—”

“Difficult?”

“Yes, difficult.” He bowed once more in deference.

“I was told you specialized in cases like this, which is why I chose you specifically to work with him. His gift will prove useful to me. We haven’t had a true metallurgist come through the Tower in ages, let alone one who is already a capable weapon-smith. We need him. I don’t care what it takes. Torture him. Threaten him. Bribe him for all I care, just get him to agree to work with us.” Valtor stopped to consider. “Does he have any family or friends we can exploit?”

“He has no family that I know of, Your Grace, but then again, he hasn’t exactly been the most cooperative of patients. I’ve never had one last as long on the rack as the smith. He’s quite the specimen.” Valtor watched the man’s eyes as they seemed to glaze over in thought, as if lost in some fantastical dream of future mutilation. It was clear the inquisitor had a certain attraction or fondness for the sword-maker, much like a cat playing with a mouse before sinking its teeth into it.

“Find something we can use as leverage.”

“Yes, sir. I will push him even harder. There is a girl—”

Valtor’s head rose. “A girl?”

“Yes. She’s a healer. I use her on some of the tougher cases to push them to the brink, and bring them back for more. I believe there could be a spark there if I give it a chance to grow.”

Valtor could tell the man was grasping at straws, but at the moment, so was he. He wanted the metallurgist’s talents put to use in arming his soldiers. The smith had the capability of creating powerful weaponry, more so than he probably realized. The Guardian Protector’s swords had more than proven that. Valtor could only imagine what he would be able to accomplish with an army wielding such weapons.

“Very good.” Valtor bounced the tips of his fingers on the top of his staff. “I believe that might be worth pursuing. In fact, I believe it might be time for me to have a chat with our stubborn friend as well.”

The inquisitor’s eyes lit with excitement. “Yes, Your Eminence, splendid idea. If there was ever a man who could talk a snake out of its hole, it would be you,” he said with another sweeping bend at the waist.

Valtor didn’t know if he should be pleased or offended at the inquisitor’s comment, but he did so enjoy watching the man grovel.

Chapter 47 | Rae

RAE HESITATED, her quivering hand held at the ready, fist clenched and knuckles white as she tried hiding her hatred, her fear, and her self-loathing before continuing. She took a deep breath to steady herself, realizing she was left with no other choice.

Rap—Rap—Rap. The sound of her knuckles hitting the chipped wood faded as she stood there with both hands clutching the hem of her worn dress. She tried wiping the palm of one hand across her short-cropped hair. No matter how much she tried to coach it into lying down, it seemed to have a mind of its own. Giving in to the realization that the sandy-colored mop was only going to do what it wanted to, she dropped her arm back to her side and squeezed another fistful of dirty material between her fingers. Somehow the feeling of those pleats of ripped cloth comforted her in a way nothing else could.

She struggled to hold in her temper as she waited for the door to open. If she was good and held her tongue, maybe he would let her spend some time with Suri. She hadn’t seen her daughter in a couple of days and it showed in the circles under her eyes and the stiffness in her limbs from the sleepless nights she’d spent pacing the cold stone of her chamber floor. She was crazy with worry. Was her child alright? Was she being fed? Did she have a warm place to sleep? Those worries kept rolling around in her mind like a millstone at the grind—constantly moving, but going nowhere.

She knew that Suri would be kept with all the other children bred within the walls of the White Tower. She knew it all too well, having been raised there herself.

Her body tensed at the sound of the latch being pulled back from the other side of the door.

Light spilled into the dark hallway, its glow enveloping her with warmth. The smells emanating from the room beyond were sickly familiar. She was a frequent acquaintance of these dismal chambers, and had been since she was old enough to notice the physical changes in her body. She had it memorized—the crackling sound of the fire, the damp feel of the cold stone beneath her bare feet, the meticulous layout of his precious tools neatly strewn across the tops of the shelves, even the smell of the sweat-stained mattress in the corner. The thought of what had been done to her on that mattress threatened to release the pent-up emotions she strove to keep at bay. Her pride, however, was not as important as Suri.

“Ah, come in, my dear. I’ve been expecting you.”

With head lowered, Rae stepped past the fat inquisitor. Not daring to look him in the eyes, she stopped in the center of the room and waited for further instruction. It had been at least three weeks since her last visit to his chambers. With the growing number of young female wielders being brought in from the outside to service the needs of the Black Watch ranks, she had hoped her days of use were finally numbered.

It appeared her hopes had been naïve. If there was one lesson her miserable life had taught her, it was that men were pigs and she wanted to spit every last one of them and roast them slowly over a fire. The way they dominated her, the way they leered at her, the way they used her as a toy to play with one day and pass on to someone else the next fueled the fires of rage inside her soul. That hatred had kept her alive, until Suri.

She had heard stories from some of the other women about love, about men they had left behind when taken—men who had cared for them, men who had protected them, men who had adored them. Ha, she thought, fools, the lot of them. They always had the same silly notions when they first arrived. “My pa will come for me.” “My husband’s going to rescue me.” “My brothers will save me.” She would listen and laugh. They were men, and men only did one thing—what was right for them!

She heard the door shut behind her and on reflex, she started unbuttoning the back of her torn dress. She knew how upset he got when she wasn’t submissive, and she couldn’t afford to make him upset, not today. She wanted to see her Suri. She had managed to unfasten the last button on the back and was pulling down the top when she felt a meaty hand slide across her neck.

“Not tonight.”

She froze. She didn’t know what to do. He moved around to the front and sat in his rocker by the fire, watching her for a moment. She wasn’t sure if this was some sort of test, if he was just trying to see how willing she truly was, so she continued to pull her arms from her sleeves, one at time.

“Did you not hear me? I said not tonight.” His tone was more forceful this time. He was unmistakably agitated. This wasn’t a good sign. He was already in a foul mood. What would he say to her asking to spend time with Suri? Quickly, she lifted her top and redid the buttons.

She couldn’t help but feel the slightest relief, though.

“I need your help,” he said.

She was taken aback. Help? When had he ever needed her help? Her body, maybe. Her magic, quite often. But never her help. Her spirits lifted, and her mind raced. If I can help him then maybe he will let me see her. A surge of hope flooded through her small frame, and she knew right then—she would do anything he asked.

Chapter 48 | Orlyn

“WHAT IN BLAZES could have possessed Ty to go in there?”

Orlyn stood outside the small trinket shop and stared up at the faded sign swinging out front. Both sides of the gloomy lane were surrounded by three and four-story buildings that blocked all light from the sun. There were very few shops in use down the narrow passageway, and those that had taken up residence were of such a nature that traffic up and down the dimly lit lane was all but nonexistent.

“I don’t see any lights on inside,” Feoldor said in a relieved sort of tone. “Maybe she’s gone.”

Orlyn grunted as he shifted his weight to his other foot. “If only we could be so lucky.”

Feoldor pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders. He pinched the material at the neck to hold in the warmth while at the same time blocking the wind that whipped its way in and around the larger structures. “This place gives me the shivers.” He eyed the darkened second story windows. “And in more ways than one.”

“Aye,” Orlyn said as he glanced at his longtime friend. Feoldor’s hair was even more tousled than usual, strands sticking out in all directions. “Are you ready?”

Feoldor raised his hand, palm facing outward towards the lonely stretch of dark alley behind them, and the breeze immediately ceased, leaving behind an eerie sort of calm. “Now I’m ready.”

Orlyn scanned both sides of the quiet lane. After assuring himself that there was no one coming, he held his staff out in front and concentrated. The intricate weave of runes encircling the length of wood, like a beetle vine growing around the trunk of a large pine, pulsed a soft green. “Let’s go.”

The two men slowly made their way toward the front entrance. Carefully, they inspected the door, windows, and archway looking for any sign of hidden traps or magical weave. Once they were satisfied, Orlyn reached out and twisted the rusty handle. He gave a small push and the door opened.

A bell hanging from the top of the door jamb announced their arrival. They waited a moment to let their eyes adjust to the darkness before stepping inside.

“You see anything?” Feoldor asked, arching his neck around the other side of the door to get a better look.

“No, I don’t, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t someone here.” Orlyn was the first to step inside. He raised his staff and the runes brightened.

Feoldor followed him in. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s here.”

“Keep your eyes open. If this woman is a dark witch and has managed to stay hidden all this time, I doubt she is without talent.”

“We could have really used Veldon on this,” Feoldor said as he shuffled through some dusty odds and ends on a nearby shelf and came away with a small lamp, “if not for any better reason than to give us some additional light. Here, loan me your tinderbox, will you?”

Orlyn sighed. “Where’s yours?”

“I didn’t figure I’d need to carry one what with you and your walking storage robes.”

Orlyn rolled his eyes then dug around in one of the many inner pockets woven into his baggy garments and handed a small box over to Feoldor. The glassblower quickly lit the lamp’s wick and, raising it high enough for the light to reach clear to the far side of the room, he started forward.

“I’ll take this side,” Orlyn said as he started working his way down the left aisle. He stopped every couple of steps to listen for any sounds coming from the back-room or the apartments above, but the place seemed devoid of life. It felt to Orlyn like walking through an undisturbed tomb. The boards under his feet groaned as he shifted his weight.

Ty wasn’t exaggerating when he had talked about the unique assortment of dangerous looking artifacts. Orlyn held up his staff to get a better look at the small shriveled faces hanging in the corner. “Interesting?”

“What is?” Feoldor asked as he finished his survey of the right side of the room and walked over. “I found an odd assortment of weapons and a couple shelves of old tomes . . . Wow! Are those real?” He joined Orlyn in staring at the heads. He spared a quick look down the counter in front of where Orlyn was standing before turning his attention back to the shriveled craniums. “Anything of value over here?” Feoldor was clearly having just as hard a time pulling himself away from the desiccated faces as Orlyn.

Orlyn finally managed to direct his attention elsewhere. “We should check the back-room and the residential chambers.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.” Feoldor groaned at the idea but kept to Orlyn’s heels as they headed for the open doorway at the back. The room was all but empty save for a four-legged table, a single stool, and what looked like a black piece of quartz lying on top. Orlyn was about to head over to the table to get a closer look at the rock when Feoldor grabbed his arm.

“Did you hear that?”

Orlyn stopped. He strained his ears, hoping to catch what Feoldor had heard. He scanned the dim room, moving his staff in a circular pattern to chase away the shadows from the dark corners. He looked at Feoldor and shook his head.

“I don’t hear anything.”

Feoldor slowly released the air he had been holding. “I don’t like this. Something about this place doesn’t feel right. It feels like we’re being watched.”

Orlyn couldn’t argue with that. He had been struggling with the same sensation ever since they walked through the front door. Slowly, they did another sweep of the room and again came up empty. There was a door at the back leading up to the living quarters. Orlyn pointed his staff at the door and Feoldor reluctantly nodded.

Moving up the stairs, they kept to the outer, less noisy, edges. The stairs were narrow and the ceiling lower than Orlyn would have liked. He found himself bending at the waist so as not to rake the top of his head. It didn’t take long to make a sweep of the rooms. Most were empty. There was a single bedroom with a modest trundle bed, a small dresser, and a large chifforobe. Everything was layered in dust and blanketed in cobwebs. It was as if no one had stepped foot in this section of the building for at least a decade.

“I’m starting to wonder if anyone’s lived here in years.”

Feoldor grunted. “Maybe she’s a ghost?”

Orlyn rolled his eyes and forced out a breath that vibrated his lips. He passed a final glance around the untouched room before heading back downstairs.

With a sigh of relief, they left the shop and shut the door behind them. Stepping out into the vacant alleyway, they turned back to stare at the rundown building.

“Well, that seemed … lackluster,” Orlyn said, feeling almost disappointed at not having found something more.

“I’m telling you there is something about this place.” Feoldor made a chattering sound with his teeth.

“I know what you mean.” Orlyn stared at the old curtains hanging from the bedroom window on the second floor. He thought he caught some movement, but after a while, he chalked it up to his own imagination. “I think we best keep an eye on it all the same.”

“That would be a good idea, and since your shop is the closest, I volunteer you for the job.” Feoldor patted Orlyn on the shoulder before heading back up the narrow lane.

Orlyn, finally pulling himself away from his examination of the bedroom window, grunted and quickly followed him out.

Chapter 49 | Mangora

“MOVE OVER, you giant oaf, before I boil you from the inside out!”

Mangora pushed the huge Tallosian back from where he had been standing on her foot. The bell at the front of her shop had long since hushed its ringing, signaling that the two men had not returned.

“You do,” he said in his rough, broken form of Aldoran, “and we not fight.”

Mangora was half-tempted to take him up on his threat and roast him right there. But, like any other great tactician, she knew it was always the wiser choice to place the more expendable soldiers on the front line. So she held her tongue. Besides, she knew how desperate Baeldor’s people were. His lust for gold and the promise of open pillaging was more than enough to garner his complete loyalty as well as the loyalty of those warriors in his tribe that followed his brand of violent leadership.

The Tallosians were a savage race that had broken off from Aldor centuries ago, at the height of the Wizard Wars. They hated magic, believed that it ate the souls of men. They wanted a pure, more simplistic form of life. Under this notion, they left Aldor and took up residence in the northern mountains on the Isle of Tallos, eventually earning them the name Tallosians or Northmen.

Their settlements remained primitive in nature and their language had reverted to a twisted dialect of the original tongue. Many of their tribes were ruthless, which made them perfect for what Mangora had planned.

Their brutality was most apparent in the garments they wore. Their cloaks were the pride of every male warrior. They were sewn together from the scalps of their victims. The Tallosians believed that in wearing another warrior’s hair, they would garner that person’s strength and ability—the larger the cloak the more prestigious the warrior. The more prestigious the warrior the more women he would naturally attract.

From the size and thickness of Baeldor’s cloak, it was clear to Mangora why he had been named chief of his tribe. He was as ruthless as he was ugly.

“They go. Why we still in hole?”

“Because I want to make sure they’re not coming back.” Mangora rolled her eyes and huffed at the other’s impatience. She was starting to get a bit flustered herself, and not wanting to spend any more time cramped in the small hidey-hole alongside the smelly, illiterate Northman, she finally released the trapdoor latch. She pushed up on the hidden floorboards with her cane and crawled out.

Having two members of the wielder council paying her a visit so soon after the faeling child had stumbled into her shop only deepened Mangora’s suspicions that the ven’ae in Easthaven had been hiding him all along. She could have probably taken the two of them in a fight, but she didn’t much care for the look of that rune-covered staff the older one carried. And why take the risk when you can just hire others to do it for you?

“How close are your men?”

Baeldor closed the trapdoor and followed her out to the front of the shop where her collection of questionable oddities was displayed. “Close. North of town. Near river’s fork.” Mangora was having a difficult time understanding his accent. She had to angle her head to better catch what he was saying. “My men no fight magic.” She could tell by his tone and the strong position of his body language that he wasn’t bluffing on that account. She knew the Tallosians were a very superstitious people when it came to all things magic.

“I can assure you that you will not have to,” she said as she stepped over to thumb through the books on her shelf to see if anything was missing. “I have some associates on their way to deal with the wielder infestation in this city. Your job is to get me the boy.”

“You said he magic.”

“Yes, but as young as he, is I doubt the boy has had any practice in the use of it. From the fear that I saw in his eyes the other day, I would be surprised if he even knew he had magic in the first place. He probably has no idea who he is.” Mangora turned back to where Baeldor watched her from the other side of the room. “The wielder council was in all likelihood instructed by Nyalis to keep the boy’s secret hidden from him.

“Whatever we are going to do,” she said, “we’ll need to act quickly. If the council believes the faeling has been discovered, they will begin to close ranks, if not whisk him away altogether.”

She paused a moment to stare at the large spider-shaped ring on her right hand. She couldn’t afford to lose the child now, not with such an incredible opportunity being dropped in her lap. How could she face Aerodyne if she lost her opportunity to grab him because she wanted to play it cautious?

“And how many men did you bring with you?”

Baeldor straightened as he rested his hand on the top of his battle-axe. “All.”

Mangora’s mouth twisted upwards. That was exactly what she wanted to hear.

Chapter 50 | Ferrin

FERRIN WOKE TO the sound of scraping metal.

The locking mechanism on his cell door clicked. He rolled onto his side and the stone floor pushed against his bruised ribs, forcing his breath to catch in his throat as he lay there waiting. He could hear Azriel stir from the far corner. Here we go again.

There was a dull snap as the final pin released. The sound of rusted metal grated on his already raw nerves as his cell door swung open and three members of the Black Watch stooped their way inside.

The first guard held out his torch, providing just enough light for the other two to make their way across the room.

“So what’s on the schedule for today?” Ferrin asked as they each grabbed a stiff arm. “A nice stroll around the gardens perhaps, or maybe some tea by the fountain?” The guards chuckled as they hefted him to his feet and clapped the iron bracelets around his wrists.

“Guess you’ll find out soon enough.”

Ferrin glanced over his shoulder as they marched him toward the open door, hoping to catch a quick glimpse of his cellmate. “Don’t wait up. I might be a while.” The old man shook his head, his face twisting into what Ferrin believed was a grin before the light from the torch flickered from view and they stepped into the narrow hallway beyond.

The shuffling of their feet echoed off the hollow interior of the Tower corridors as they made their way through dark passages and circular stairwells, winding ever downward, each step driving with it the almost hopeful longing of reaching an end. Suffocating underneath a growing mountain of melancholy, questions resurfaced: would this be the day he gave in? Would this be the one time he faltered? Would these be the last moments of his pathetic life?

Momentarily distracted by another company of guards shutting a nearby door, Ferrin turned to look at his surroundings. The inner hallways all looked the same: square passageways of stone with doors lining both sides. Ferrin always knew when they had reached one of the outer corridors, since the doors on one side would be replaced by the occasional arrow slit.

There seemed to be an endless supply of cells to fill. He could tell which of the rooms were occupied by the sounds of prolonged suffering wafting eerily from underneath the doors as they passed. Men and women cried out in despair, holding on to what little hope still remained—that one of these days, the guards would show a little mercy and drive a sword through their chest, or maybe drop them from the walls of the Tower and let them hit the rocks below. Either would be a kindness.

It was how Ferrin felt most of the time.

However, he was determined that as long as he drew breath, he was going to resist. After all, they didn’t want him dead. They only wanted him to suffer long enough to agree to join their cause and help them create more of his magic-enhanced weapons.

He wouldn’t succumb. All he had left was his sense of humor, and he would wield it to the bitter end. He would cut, and whack, and jab with it until those around him were doubling over under its use. He laughed. He wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe he was finally willing to accept his fate, maybe Azriel’s prophetic rantings were somehow taking hold, or maybe he was just losing his mind.

“So . . .” He raised his head, his eyes hopping from one guard to the next. “What does a fellow have to do to become a member of the Black Watch anyway? I hear the pay is pretty good.” His head made a circular motion around the gloomy dungeon walls. “And just look at these accommodations. You can’t get this in the city.”

The guard in front turned his head as they continued their steady march. “I’m going to miss you, smith. It almost seems a shame to have to break a wit as dry as yours.” From the displaced shadows of the torchlight, the guard’s silhouette held one remarkable feature—his schnozzle. Good ol’ Nostrils! Someone you can always count on being there when you need him the least.

Nostrils stopped in front of a large iron door and pulled a ring of keys from his waist. Ferrin recognized the door from the numerous times he had stood waiting, like now, for a similar guard with a normal looking nose, of course, to unlock the bolts and swing wide its hinges. Like the mouth of a great dragon, it promised all those who entered a sure and painful end.

With a shove from behind, Ferrin nearly tumbled down the stone steps toward the Hall of Inquisition below. The sound of the screaming enfolded the small group as they stepped from the enclosed well onto the final landing. Walking down a short hall, they entered a large circular room—cavernous in nature, and surrounded on all sides by pillars of stone. The central floor held a conglomeration of stone tiling that formed a unique image at the center, which Ferrin took as the crest of the White Tower.

Surrounding the room were thirteen doors, each with a guard posted just outside the entrance. Some rooms stood open, others were shut. It didn’t take a great imagination to guess what was happening behind the shut ones. The sounds of human agony were unmistakable.

In the center of the enclave sat three desks where the black-robed members of the legate were busy transcribing and documenting whatever information was being retrieved from those rooms with the closed doors. The guards marched him forward. “Prisoner Ferrin’s here for questioning as you requested, Legate.” Nostrils bowed his head in deference, awaiting a response.

“Very well,” said the elderly man at the center table. He paused in his scribbling to take a quick look at their prisoner. Ferrin knew him as Sticks. It was a name he had given the old legate after having caught a glimpse of the man’s bony arms poking out from beneath his dark robes. They were very similar to a pair of birchwood branches he had played swords with as a boy. After a brief hint of recognition crossed Sticks’ face, he scanned through some of the papers on his desk. Having found what he was looking for, he gestured to his right. “Room eleven, move along.”

“Yes, sir.”

The guard standing outside the door bearing a carved “eleven” in the top turned as they approached and twisted the already-inserted key. With a dull snap, he pulled back the latch and opened, leaving plenty of room for Ferrin and his armed escort to slip inside.

The door whined as it closed behind them, causing Ferrin to once again cringe at the sound of rusted metal. Inside, Cheeks was resting on his favorite stool in front of an already filled rack.

“I see you already have company,” Ferrin said. “I’ll just come back at a more convenient time.” He turned to leave, but two of the guards held him in place.

Cheeks shifted his weight on his stool and turned to look at Ferrin. “Ah, my dear smith, you’re just in time.” The inquisitor motioned him forward. “Come, come. Take a seat. You might enjoy watching my work from a different perspective. Perhaps it might give you a greater appreciation for my gifts, yes?”

“I think I’ve had enough appreciation of your gifts already. How about I take the rest of the day off?” Cheeks shook with laughter, almost pitching himself backwards from his rickety stool.

“You will be the death of me, smith.”

“If only,” Ferrin scoffed under his breath. No one else in the room had heard him save Nostrils, and Ferrin could have sworn the man had smiled. One of the guards walked him forward and motioned him to the empty seat on the opposite side of the rack. Making a quick pass of the room, Ferrin noticed the little healer was nowhere to be seen.

Cheeks pushed up from his stool and waddled over to his small table of tools. Lifting the ball peen hammer, he looked it over and pursed his lips in thought before glancing in Ferrin’s direction. “You see, pain comes in all shapes and sizes, and since we are all created differently, our tolerance for certain kinds of pain has different levels. For example,” he said, stepping over to the rack, “our friend here has managed to withstand the knife fairly well, at least on the outward parts, but as you know, it’s the hidden, protected areas of the body which bring the most pain.” He offered Ferrin a twisted wink. “Those are, however, the worst places to apply torture. The subject tends to lapse into a state of unconsciousness all too soon after the pain is applied. No, I learned long ago that the most sensitive areas are not always the best to prod.

“I should like to explain this to you later, but for now,” he said as he stepped away from the table and walked over to the rack, “I am going to use a different form of discomfort. The knife is rather elegant in its use, slicing asunder our meats, puncturing and probing our inward parts, but with it, you get a searing pain, sharp, and relatively confined. However, this,” he continued, stepping in front of the prisoner and raising the hammer, “this is not so confined. It tends to spread throughout the entire limb, like so.” Cheeks swung the hammer downward with speed, force, and precision, connecting the ball point tip with the man’s kneecap. There was a dull cracking sound, like that of a rotten floorboard giving way under the weight of a heavy step. The man’s knee shattered. Ferrin recoiled under the recognition of what had just been done.

Cheeks raised his fingers in succession, “One, two, th—”

“Ahhh!” The poor victim’s head bounced backwards off the metal rungs as he screamed in pain.

“You see!” Cheeks’ smile widened. “There is a time delay before the pain is registered.” Ferrin had never been forced to witness the torture of another before. He had to admit that if it hadn’t been so appalling, he might have found it a little intriguing. Ferrin quickly shook his head, as if in doing so he could rid himself of the fleeting thought.

The inquisitor’s brow rose. “Hmm?” He dropped back onto his flimsy stool. “Perhaps I should pen a book.” His face lifted, eyes sparkling. “Yes, that’s a wonderful idea,” he said as he thumbed his chin. “I could pass on this wealth of information as a learning guide for new inquisitors.”

“Please!” the man begged. “I’ve told you everything I know! Please stop!” Tears poured down the prisoner’s cheeks, dripping onto his bare and bleeding chest. Snot was running freely from his nose and Ferrin watched the complete and utter collapse of the man’s dignity as he cried out to the inquisitor, to the Creator, to his mother.

“I believe I know which two topics I should like to begin with,” Cheeks said, still focused on the possibility of authoring a book. Coming out of his dazed introspection, Cheeks turned his attention back to the helpless prisoner restrained in front of him. “Yes, yes, I believe you,” he said with a flippant wave of his wrist. “You’ve told me everything you know.”

“Then, I can go?” The poor man sniffed some of the fluid draining down his upper lip. “You are through with me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you. I have a wife and children, and they will surely starve without me.” Cheeks was already lost in thought again. Ferrin could see the wheels in his head turning. No doubt working out the opening lines to his new book.

“Guard!”

The latch to the door turned and the sentry stepped inside. “Yes, sir?”

“I’m through with this man. I’ve acquired everything I can. I believe his wielding days are over.”

Ferrin watched as the prisoner’s shoulders relaxed at the inquisitor’s words. “Yes, sir, I know now that using magic is evil. I will never do it again.” There was a spark of hope ignited within the man’s eyes. Even over the excruciating pain, Ferrin could see the tears he now shed were stemming from the excited hope of being released.

“Yes, that is most certainly true.” Cheeks rose from his seat and walked back to his table of displayed instruments and replaced the hammer within its slot. “Take him for purging.”

“What?” The prisoner’s eyes bulged as his spark of hope was snuffed out and replaced by one of terror. “But, you said I was done . . . That you believed I wouldn’t use my magic anymore?”

“You are correct. You are done, and I know you will not use magic anymore since we will be ridding you of it.”

“But what about my wife and child? They will starve!”

“I guess they should have thought about that before getting involved with a wielder.” Cheeks rolled his tools into a neat bundle and tucked them under his arm. “Now send Rae in. I want his injuries mended.” The sadist turned and smiled at the prisoner. “We need him to be strong for the purging process.” After Cheeks left, one of the guards pushed Rae through the door.

Nostrils, not really sure whether he should stay or leave, took up a position to the left of the entranceway. Ferrin remained on his stool, staring helplessly at the poor wretch in front of him. The man wasn’t much older than he was. Though thinned by a lack of food, Ferrin could still tell he had been a new recruit to the Tower. The marks on his body were nowhere near as extensive as his own. The man was obviously not much of a fighter. Pinching the edge of his seat, Ferrin felt his hackles rise at the thought of the man’s supposed lack of strength. How could he be so willing to give in? he wondered.

Realizing his anger was being channeled in the wrong direction, and feeling more than a little uncomfortable at just sitting there watching the man’s agony like an audience at a Tinker Show, Ferrin left his seat and walked to the far wall, keeping his eyes on the little healer as she entered. Rae never once looked in his direction as she stepped onto the base of the rack and laid her hands on the man’s wounds.

Her hands were glowing and Ferrin recognized the shuddering effect of her magic as it forced its way through the prisoner’s body—eyes widening, neck stiffening, sharp inhale, and then complete relaxation as the broken bones and torn flesh worked to knit themselves back together.

As Ferrin watched the man, he found himself wishing there was something he could do for him, but he knew better than to get involved. You get involved and it might be you heading to the purging chamber instead of him.

Ferrin watched as Rae finished her work on the man’s knee and slunk onto the nearby stool. “Please help me!” the man begged, but the healer kept her eyes on her feet as she struggled to maintain a stable breath. She was clearly exhausted. Ferrin wondered how many others Rae had been forced to heal before this man.

Nostrils knocked on the door, alerting the guard outside that they were ready to take the unfortunate soul off for purging—whatever that was. The door opened and the second guard stuck his head in.

“He’s ready.” Nostrils’ voice held a tinge of sympathy as he helped the guard unshackle the man and drag him toward the doorway while his feet scrambled to try blocking his forward motion. “Please, have mercy! My wife! My child! They’ll starve! Please!”

The second guard punched into the side of the man’s gut, causing him to halt his struggling and go limp. A trail of tears and light whimpering marked their passage as they slid him through the doorway and beyond.  With the sound of the lock being snapped back into place, Ferrin stood there, motionless, haunted by the man’s lingering pleas of desperation.

Glancing around the room, Ferrin found himself in the unique position of communicating with Rae without the worry of prying eyes and ears. He had to wonder why they had been left alone. Weren’t the inquisitors worried he would try to escape? But then he realized it would have been a rather impossible task, to say the least. Even if he used Rae’s transferal stone to release the metal locks and open the door, what then?

He was deep underground and the main room held dozens of well-trained guards, not to mention the legates and inquisitors. And even if he was somehow able to manipulate the metal in their blades, the guards were still more than capable of overpowering two underfed prisoners with their bare hands.

For the first time, he was at a loss for words. The only sound was the flickering of the torches positioned on either side of the room. The soft crackling of their flames produced a rather calming effect. He watched Rae’s chest lift and fall under the weight of her struggling breath. Sitting on the inquisitor’s stool, she held herself up by the edges, knuckles white under the strain. Ferrin could tell she was having difficulty just managing to stay upright.

“Are you alright?” Of course she’s not alright, you imbecile! She’s been locked in the White Tower and forced to watch humans being carved on every day. What a stupid question!

“I mean is there anything I can get you?” Ferrin rolled his eyes. What am I possibly going to get her? Deciding his best course of action was to overlook his two previous attempts at simple banter, he moved on. “Do you remember me? My name is Ferrin.”

Silence.

“Where are you from?”

More silence.

Alright, not exactly the booming conversationalist. “I’m from Rhowynn,” he offered. “I own—” He frowned. “—Or I guess, used to own, a small sword-smithy. It wasn’t exactly Central Square. In fact,” he chuckled, “it wasn’t exactly much at all, but I had plenty of business and the work was fun. Have you ever been to Rhowynn?”

She shook her head. Well, that’s a start.

“It’s a beautiful place to live, nestled there between The Northern Heights and Lake Baeron.” Leaning with his back against the wall and one knee bent with his foot propped for balance, Ferrin closed his eyes and let his descriptions take flight. “The mountains are capped in snow all year round and the changing of the leaves during the fall adds such a contrast to the blue waters that it takes your breath away.

“During the summer, I used to take a skiff out on the lake and just float around for hours. There’s no place quite as peaceful. Paddle out far enough and the only sounds you’ll hear are the waves lapping against the sides of the boat.” He took a deep breath and exhaled, hoping to release some of the tension and unease from his current situation. “It’s a wonderful place to live.”

Opening his eyes, he was surprised to find her staring at him. Her pale green eyes were filled with curiosity, and something else, which he couldn’t quite put a finger on.

He smiled.

She looked away.

Chapter 51 | Rae

HIS SMILE WAS revolting, Rae thought. Fake. Like all the others.

There was something in the way he had described his home, though, that gave her pause. It had sounded . . . genuine. She rolled her eyes. She knew better than anyone that it was just a trick. It was just the way men were. Their mouths would open and out would flow some sweet promise of truth, only to discover it had all been a lie to manipulate her for their own gain.

Men were liars. They would stop at nothing to get their way, to gratify their lust, to satiate their passions. They were no better than animals, big hairy animals, walking around on two legs instead of four. She could see through them. They didn’t fool her. They tried using their lies to get what they wanted. And she knew there was only one thing a man wanted from a woman.

Now it was her turn.

She was going to use it against them, well, at least one of them. He probably thought that all his talk of his pretty home, and his pretty mountains, and his pretty boat on his pretty lake was going to turn her heart and make her swoon into his arms. He no doubt figured he would look at her fondly with his deep brown eyes and she would simply give in.

She was going to teach him differently.

She was going to show him she could take his desires and turn them against him. She saw the way he looked at her, the way his body convulsed when she would touch him with her healing. She knew what he wanted and she was going to use it to get what she wanted: time with her daughter. That’s right, she said to herself, two can play at this game.

Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she rose from the rickety old stool and turned to face him. There was a look of curiosity in his eyes, and she had no doubt it was in regard to what lay beneath her loose garments. It was so obvious what he wanted. She almost laughed at his trying to hide it by looking at her eyes. There had been others who had thought to use that trick against her, but she was never fooled.

With exaggerated movement, she ambled over to where he stood against the wall. She sauntered her hips, making sure to turn them out with a noticeable thrust on each step. Men enjoyed being enticed. She caught his fleeting glance at her midsection and strutted even more.

His expression was puzzled, as if he couldn’t understand what she was doing. Well, if he couldn’t tell, she wasn’t going to explain it to him. Maybe that was just the way his face naturally looked. Hard to tell with all that red hair covering his mouth and chin. She hated men’s hair, so rough against her skin. It would always leave her red and burning.

She stopped in front of him. He was big, one of the biggest men she had ever seen. He towered over her. She had to crane her neck just to look into his eyes. Not that she wanted to. It was time to get what she had come for. Sylas had promised to let her spend time with Suri if she was able to get the prisoner to talk. Not that she actually believed a single word that came out of the fat inquisitor’s filthy mouth, but what choice did she have? It was the only hopeful possibility given her.

She reached out with her hand and, pushing aside the tattered ruins of what remained of his blood-stained shirt, she laid her open palm against his bare chest. Despite his malnourished condition, he was muscular. In fact, the leanness of his body brought even greater definition to his contours. With his size, there was no doubt in her mind that had he wanted her, she could have done precious little to stop him. “Tell me more about your home,” she said as she worked her thumb back and forth against his stretched skin, rubbing gently across the remains of a previously healed laceration.

His body twitched. But, it didn’t seem to be the usual sway of a man who wanted more. It was instead the tremble of someone who felt uncomfortable. She was impressed. This one was playing hard-to-get, feigning virtue to put her off her guard, but she was not so easily fooled. She had seen it all before. There was no depth to how low men would sink in order to get what they wanted from her.

His big hand reached out and found hers. She knew it. That didn’t take as long as I’d expected. The sooner she could get this over with the sooner she—

Wait, what’s this? Instead of taking her hand and pulling her to him, he had removed it from his chest and released it. What was he playing at? He was taking his role a bit too seriously. She was starting to lose patience. She needed to spend time with her daughter. Taking a step back, she decided to wait him out.

“My home is quite plain by most standards,” he said. “No lavish furnishings, no expensive coverings, I was never one to go for all the extra fluff, if you know what I mean?”

She found herself nodding.

“My house and smithy are in Cheapside,” he continued. “It’s farther away from the overlord’s estates, but closer to the water, which suits me just fine.” He had a concerned look on his face, probably embarrassed at having admitted to his low station. Most men liked to brag about possessions and abilities that far exceeded their reality. She never did understand how lying about one’s wealth would entice a woman into bed.

“It’s alright,” she said, trying to comfort him. She stepped forward once again and placed her hand against his stomach. She playfully outlined the wave of his muscles with her finger. “I don’t care how much coin you have, I only care about you.” She figured that would win him. Men loved it when you told them that your feelings stemmed from the way they looked and not from the size of their purse.

She stared into his eyes. She had to admit they were strong, and yet somehow soft. He reached down and laid his warm hands on her waist. Finally, she thought, here we go. But instead of the rough embrace she had expected, she found herself being lifted off the ground and moved backwards a pace or two.

This was getting confusing. She had never had a man respond to her like this before. She glanced at her attire. Was it the dress? Did he not think she was attractive? Most men didn’t care what she looked like. Although once in the throes of passion, they always told her how beautiful she was.

“Look, I’m not sure what you’re expecting,” he said, “but I think you’ve gotten the wrong impression.”

She took a deep breath. This was getting more awkward by the moment. “I’m not expecting anything,” she lied. “I just wanted to hear more about your home. Did you have any family back there? A wife or maybe children?” Maybe he was already taken and that was why he shunned her advances. Although, there were plenty of men who didn’t let that stop them.

He lowered his head. “No. I never married.”

“Are your parents still alive? Did you have any brothers or sisters?”

His eyes narrowed, but she continued to push. She needed the information. “How does your magic work?”

“Why do you ask?” There was a slight edge to his voice that signaled warning.

“Well, you’ve seen mine, I was just curious as to what your talent is? Does it hurt to use? What does it feel like? How often did you use it?” She could sense this wasn’t going quite as she had hoped. He simply wasn’t opening up to her. She couldn’t understand it.

“What’s going on here?” he asked. His brows hung just above his eyes. She could tell he was getting suspicious. This wasn’t working. She had to go all in. It was her only chance to change his mind. She had to make him want her. It was all she could think to do to make him open up. Every man she had ever known had been willing to tell her anything she had wanted to hear as long as she made herself available to him.

She started forward. Her hands quivered against the buttons on the front of her dingy top. Looking straight ahead, she kept her focus on his hands. She had no desire to look into his brown eyes and see what was reflected there. She was disgusted enough with, once again, having been forced into this, but the only way she could make it through was to keep her attention off of him and what he was going to do, and focus on Suri, on holding her in her arms, kissing her forehead, telling her how much she loved her.

She had made it to her third button and was pulling open the front for him to see, when he took a quick step forward and pulled her hands aside before re-buttoning her top. She was all but trembling. She could feel tears burning at the sides of her eyes, desperate to fall, but she struggled to hold them in. She couldn’t show weakness. Not to him. Not to a man! Yet there was something different about this one. She stood there, unmoving, as he finished with her last button. After straightening her collar, he took a step back.

“You don’t need to do this.”

She kept her gaze on her bare toes as they peeked out from underneath her tattered skirt.

“I’m sorry you’ve been placed in the middle of this,” he said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sylas was going to be furious with her for not getting him to talk.

“Well, somehow I doubt it was your idea to come prostituting yourself to me for information. This has the fat one written all over it. Only he would get some sick pleasure out of hurting you to get to me.”

She kept her head lowered. She tried to think of what she could say to get what she needed. There must be a way to make this work. He was different from the others, sure, but he was still just a man.

“Look, I’m not saying you aren’t attractive. You’re a very pretty girl, but I was raised to respect a woman and never take advantage of her virtue. I would never want someone taking advantage of my sister like that, so I would never do the same.”

Her head shot up. There it was, one of the answers she had been waiting for. He did have family—a sister. She wondered if he realized what he had just said or not. It didn’t appear so. She wondered if this would be enough to make Sylas allow her time with her daughter. She couldn’t help but stare into his coffee-colored eyes. For once, she didn’t see lust, she didn’t see desire, she didn’t see the look of a man who wanted to strip her naked and use her to fill his appetite. She saw concern, she saw remorse, she saw eyes swelled with empathy so strong that it turned her stomach at the thought of how she intended to betray him.

She looked away. She couldn’t bear his kind gaze any longer.

At the sound of the bolt and latch being released behind her, Rae scurried over to the entrance. The door swung partway and the guard with the big nose peeked inside. “Time to go,” he said, motioning toward the big man with the sad eyes.

“Ferrin,” she said to herself, quietly, trying for the first time to use his name.

“What, no questioning today?” Ferrin asked.

She watched the guard walk over and place the iron cuffs back on Ferrin’s wrists. “Guess not.”

“Hmm? I guess there’s a Creator after all.”

The guard shook his head. “If there is, He doesn’t visit this place.”

Not waiting around to see what would happen next, Rae spared a quick glance at the scruffy prisoner who happened to be staring directly at her, before slipping through the door and back into the main chamber. She moved as fast as her short legs would carry her in the direction of Sylas’s quarters.

She had information to share.

Chapter 52 | Ayrion

AYRION STEPPED OUT of the High King’s study just behind Commander Tolin, feeling a bit weary at the possibility of a full-on engagement with Cylmar in the near future. He couldn’t understand what would be driving such a small kingdom to consider actions like this, which carried the potential for such catastrophic consequences.

Cylmar wasn’t quite a third the size of Elondria, and even if they conscripted every able body to join ranks, they wouldn’t be much more than half the size of the Elondrian forces. It just didn’t make any sense. There had to be more going on than what they were seeing.

After a lengthy discussion of the actions required in dealing with their neighbors, Ayrion made a point of bringing the king’s attention to the matter concerning the strange disappearances in the Warrens. He was surprised to find that word had already reached the king’s ears about the peculiar kidnappings.

For the last month, the High King had heard testimony after testimony of strange hooded men taking people in the night. Concerned citizens had filled the throne room each week to relay the news in hopes of garnering the king’s assistance. Evidently, the kidnappings had not been confined to just the Warrens as Kira and Po had thought, but had branched out from there, moving north and south along the waterways.

The king agreed with Commander Tolin’s suggestion to allow a contingent of his lancers to accompany the city patrollers in flushing out the culprits even if it meant working with the Warren Clans to do so. Ayrion, on the other hand, had agreed to try reaching out to his contacts in the underground to see if they would be willing to accept the help offered. After assuring the king of his belief in the clans’ cooperation, Ayrion thanked the king for his assistance and, along with Commander Tolin, left Rhydan to his work.

Ayrion had always been amazed at the lengths Rhydan would go to help the citizens of his kingdom. He had never heard of any other king willing to listen to the individual pleas of his people. They came from all across Aramoor to petition their requests. Some came just to pay their respects. “The stronger the ties with my people,” Ayrion had heard the king say on numerous occasions, “the stronger the kingdom will be.”

More than that, Ayrion knew Rhydan was a good king. And unlike his predecessors, his benevolence was more than just show. It stemmed from a heart which truly cared. Ayrion also knew a great deal of that credit went to Queen Ellise. The pair of monarchs had been the best thing to happen to Elondria in some time, and the people knew it.

One of the king’s first decrees after taking the throne was to make sure that his people had a safe and expedient way to travel. Rhydan not only worked to keep the roads maintained, but he posted continual patrols in order to force highwaymen to seek other venues by which to make their profit. With the roads being made accessible once again, the kingdom grew.

Rhydan also gave back by cutting the previously established citizen tax by over half, allowing the people of Elondria more coin with which to buy and sell. Permitting the people to keep larger portions of their income encouraged a growth in commercial enterprise. People, who were at one time too fearful to strike out on their own because of a lack of means, began taking risks. Businesses sprouted like weeds all across Elondria, and the kingdom prospered because of it.

The only complaints were from some of the more prominent ruling class who had grown dependent on the previous bribes they had received from the additional taxes.

Trade also increased. Export ships that had been half-full were now overflowing with a fresh variety of goods to sell in markets throughout the five kingdoms.

Strangely enough, there was more gold flowing into the royal coffers now, with fewer taxes, than there had been while the taxes were increased.

Ayrion walked alongside Tolin as they made their way down one of the northwest corridors. The silence between them had Ayrion on edge. He noticed the commander’s pensive demeanor. Tolin had been just as perplexed by the situation with Cylmar as he had been, but when faced with the testimonies from nearly every community running up and down the Pyruvian River, from the Black Hills to the Rhunarin Ocean, one could hardly deny the truth.

“Do you truly think this is about mining rights?” Tolin finally asked. “If so, then why all the raids on poor villages along the border?”

“Does it really matter?” As much as Ayrion enjoyed his position as Guardian Protector, he was beginning to wonder if his life would ever consist of anything other than violence. He found himself contemplating this enigma more often of late, especially within sight of a certain beautiful young woman. “If the king says we fight, then we fight.”

Tolin rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “True, but I’d rather know what I was fighting for, wouldn’t you? It might better help determine the extent to which Cylmar will go into an all-out confrontation.”

“Can’t argue there,” Ayrion said. “It doesn’t make much sense to me, considering their size and lack of manpower. There must be something else we aren’t aware of, but I trust Rhydan to make the right decision.”

“Aye, there’s no one I’d be more willing to go to battle for or with.”

“In the meantime I’ll see what I can do to reach out to the clan heads.”

Tolin nodded. “Your background on the streets has proven a valuable commodity in your job. It’s hard to believe, had things been different, it might have been you leading the clans instead of taking on the role of Guardian Protector.”

Ayrion started to smile, but then his thoughts shifted to Kira and what she might have been required to do in order to get to where she was, and it soon faded. He didn’t care to think about it.

“You’ll need to come by the house for dinner sometime. Tirana was asking about you the other day, complaining how we never do any entertaining. You’ll have to invite Captain Barthol and his wife as well. I believe my wife formed an attachment the last we dined. Kensey was very kind to Tirana.”

“I’ll be happy to. Barthol mentioned how much his wife enjoyed the company.”

Tolin started to walk away but turned back. “Oh, and be sure to invite Amarysia.”

Ayrion flushed. “She would appreciate that.”

“Good. I look forward to making her acquaintance.” Tolin turned down the next corridor and disappeared around the corner, leaving Ayrion to his thoughts. He could hear Tolin whistling all the way down the hall.

Ayrion chuckled and shook his head. Tolin had been hinting to Ayrion for some time that he needed to move his relationship forward with Amarysia before someone else snatched her up. Ayrion wasn’t sure why he had been holding back. He cared for her, and she was more than open in her feelings for him, but he was afraid that because of his line of work, he would make her a soon-to-be widow.

As he rounded the next corner on his way to his office and the awaiting stacks of paper begging for his attention, Ayrion’s mind kept drifting to the problem in the Warrens and his rather abrasive reunion with his childhood friends. He needed to make contact with Kira to let her know about the king’s decision, but after their last meeting, he wasn’t sure how wise that would be—for his sake or hers. The strong emotions she had awakened during their short visit had troubled him. Worse yet, was the question as to whether he should let Amarysia know of his intentions to meet with the strong leather-clad chieftain or keep it to himself so as not to cause any unnecessary concern.

Chapter 53 | Dakaran

THE QUEEN’S GILDED chamber doors opened without a sound.

Dakaran watched as Amarysia stepped through and out into the corridor beyond. Careful to keep her footing, she fastened the door behind her while at the same time shuffling to balance a tray of empty cups, a few small plates, and a crystal decanter of what looked like his mother’s favorite apricot tea.

Quietly, he moved up behind her. Sure enough, she turned and hit him mid-stomach with the edge of the tray. “Oh, Your Highness. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

Dakaran grabbed hold of the salver to keep its contents from pouring across the front of his white lace tunic and vest. “Here,” he offered, “let me help you with that.” He couldn’t believe his luck. He had been trying for weeks to get her alone, and here she was, not only without escort but in need of his help. “Where are you going with such a heavy tray? You shouldn’t be doing this kind of work,” he scolded. “We have servants for that.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Nonsense. That’s what we pay them for.” Taking the tray from her hands he turned and handed it to one of the guards outside his mother’s door. “Here. Dispose of these.” The guard nearly dropped his halberd trying to steady the unexpected tray.

Amarysia looked as perplexed as the guard. “Uh . . . thank you, Your Highness.”

The guard obviously wanted to follow the prince’s instructions and get rid of the drinks, but at the same time, he couldn’t leave his post. Dakaran thought it all rather humorous.

“I’ll just be on my way,” Amarysia said as she bowed and started to leave.

Dakaran cast a longing eye over her figure. He wasn’t about to pass this opportunity up. “Actually, I find myself free at the moment.” His meeting with his mother would have to wait. It probably wasn’t all that important anyway. “I’ll walk with you, in case you have further need of my assistance.” He admired her beauty. Her chest rose and fell with increased breath.

“There’s no need for Your Highness to accompany me. I’m sure there are other things you’d prefer to be doing.” She was always so caring of others. Dakaran knew in his heart she was the one he had been waiting for. All the others meant nothing to him. They were mild distractions at best. Amarysia rose head and shoulders above the other ladies at court. Just the thought of her as his future queen sent a rush of blood to his head.

“Accompanying you takes precedence over everything else.” He placed a sly hand on her lower back as he directed her down the hall. “Meeting like this must be fate.”

Amarysia cleared her throat and offered another smile. “Um, yes. I’m . . . I’m sure it was.”

“You’re the most beautiful woman in the palace, you know.”

Amarysia lowered her eyes. “The prince is too kind.”

He waved it off. “Not at all. In fact, I could be a whole lot kinder if you allowed me.” His grip tightened. He could feel her body flinching under his touch. He couldn’t help but admire the curvature of her form, how the cut of her dress hugged firmly across her breasts, her golden tresses teasingly hiding them from view. Those pouty lips, never before had seemed to be calling his name as they were right now, daring—no, begging— for him to partake.

His eagerness at finding an opportunity to seduce Amarysia pulled all focus away from where they were heading. It wasn’t until they had passed through the open atrium on the main floor and down the officer’s hallway that he snapped out of his fantasizing and turned his attention to their surroundings.

Unfortunately, by the time he realized where they were, she had already come to a halt in front of Ayrion’s office. Ayrion was standing outside the door, chatting with one of his High Guard. Drat! How did we get down here?

Dakaran could see the look of discomfort in Ayrion’s eyes at the sight of him with his arm around Amarysia. He found it rather amusing. He enjoyed being able to tease Ayrion for once.

“Your Highness.” Ayrion bowed his head, slightly, before turning to look at Amarysia. He never would show proper deference to Dakaran’s station, which infuriated Dakaran to no end. “I was just coming to look for you, my lady,” Ayrion said. Dakaran could see the unease tightening across Ayrion’s brow. “Are we still on for dinner?” Ayrion’s eyes shifted questioningly back to Dakaran as if he wasn’t completely sure what her response would be.

Dakaran didn’t give Amarysia a chance to reply. “I’ve just asked the young lady to join me for a meal in the banquet hall,” he lied. He tightened his grip. He could hear her breath catch in her throat.

“I . . . uh . . .” She glanced at both men, not sure what to say. “I . . .”

“I understand,” Ayrion said. The guardian glanced sympathetically at Amarysia as if having dinner with Dakaran was something to be pitied, as if the very thought of sharing a meal with the High Prince of Aldor was somehow revolting. Dakaran had had enough of Ayrion’s pretentious self-confidence. It was time to put him in his place.

“And what is it exactly that you understand, Ayrion? That an offer from the High Prince holds more value than that of my father’s guard dog?” Dakaran pulled Amarysia even closer, making her wince.

Ayrion’s gray eyes dropped all pretenses and darkened. “You’re hurting her, Dakaran. Back off.”

“How dare you order me, and in my own house no less! Who do you think you are, street rat?” Ayrion’s shoulders tensed at the name. Dakaran shifted his gaze to Amarysia. “I bet you didn’t know that our guardian here was nothing more than a worthless street scamp when my father found him, a thieving little pickpocket.”

Dakaran turned his attention back to Ayrion. “You always were a phenomenal liar, Ayrion. Tricks of the trade, I take it? Ever since we were kids, you thought yourself better than me, always had your nose stuck in the air. Well, who’s the loser now?”

“Let her go, Dakaran. It’s me you’re angry with. Leave her out of it.” Ayrion stepped out to the center of the hall and angled himself.

“Yes, you would love that wouldn’t you? To have me face you in open combat so you can cut me down? That might work on the battlefield, but here in the palace, we do things a bit differently. For example, all I need to do is call the guard and have them put you under arrest for open defiance against the state, for threatening the royal family, for . . . well, anything I want, actually.” Dakaran’s smile was confident. “It would be the word of a guttersnipe against the Prince of Elondria. Who do you think they’ll believe?”

“They’d believe the guttersnipe,” an all-too-familiar voice rang out from somewhere down the hall behind Dakaran. He turned to see his father heading in their direction. He had the stride of a man marching into battle, and the look on his face was none too happy. “You might be the crown prince, but I’m the king, and as long as I am, a man’s word will be measured by his actions and any witness to those actions. Something I have obviously been unsuccessful in teaching you.”

Rhydan turned to Ayrion. “Guardian, would you be so kind as to take our young Amarysia here to the kitchens for a bite to eat? She looks nearly faint.”

Dakaran reluctantly released his hold on Amarysia. The warmth of her body dissipated as she stepped back and followed Ayrion down the hall. The look of affection on Ayrion’s face as he wrapped his arm protectively around her made Dakaran’s blood boil. He hated Ayrion with every fiber of his being.

“What are you doing, Dakaran? You have an entire court of women throwing themselves at you and you have to go after the one woman who is already taken.” His father stared at him a moment with his arms crossed in a disapproving manner. “This has nothing to do with Amarysia, does it? This is about you hurting Ayrion.

“I thought I taught you better than to try stealing another man’s woman. You can steal a man’s house, his wealth, and his job, but you try stealing his woman and you’re liable to end up with more than you bargained for.” His father lowered his arms. “Now I believe your mother was expecting you in her chambers some time ago. Better get a move on.” His father turned and continued on down the hall.

Dakaran was seething with torturous thoughts of what he would do when he got his hands on Ayrion, and at the moment, he wouldn’t have minded the same outcome for his father. How dare he side with that street trash against him!

“Snap out of it!”

Dakaran jumped at the unexpected presence behind him. Turning around to put a face to the voice, he found his rather annoyed chief counselor staring back. Valtor’s cheek bones were looking leaner than normal and his eyes appeared to have sunken another half-inch, if that was possible. He was still sporting that hideous looking wolf staff, though. Dakaran never did like the way the vicious animal seemed to be looking back.

“You need to get your mind off that scullery maid and on to more important matters,” his counselor scolded.

Dakaran raised a hand as if to strike him but then thought better of it. “Do not ever speak of her in that manner in front of me again! Do you understand?” His glare was hard for a moment or two, but like an unripe honey melon hanging from the vine in the middle of a summer’s drought, it quickly withered and died.

Valtor grinned.

It was a look Dakaran found most unsettling. The Arch Chancellor scanned the empty hall before leaning in a little closer. “With Cylmar answering our call by ramping up their strikes across the border, there is the possibility of a full-scale confrontation. I’ve received word that your father just met with Commander Tolin and the Guardian Protector about it. This is what we’ve been waiting for. Our chance to get them all out in the open at one time where there is a great likelihood of certain fatalities, the Guardian Protector being among the first.”

Dakaran felt a twinge of excitement. “You always know exactly what to say to cheer me up, Chancellor.”

Valtor bowed his head. “I would be a poor advisor if I did not.”

Chapter 54 | Ayrion

AYRION SAT ALONE in the dark.

The park bench was cold and stiff, much like his present mood. All during his meal with Amarysia, he had debated whether or not to mention his upcoming meeting with Kira. Her perception had been especially well-honed this evening. She asked him twice if there was something wrong before their food was even ordered. He assured her there wasn’t, but he could tell she didn’t believe him. To her credit she didn’t revisit the topic.

At one point before they had kissed goodnight, he almost broke down and admitted to the meeting, but by that point it would have made him look even guiltier for not having mentioned it earlier.

He hated giving harbor to such confused feelings.

He was a man who enjoyed order, routine, discipline. His life was simple and structured, and he wanted to keep it that way. If this was what it was like to be in a relationship, he wondered if maybe he had acted too hastily. All these feelings were clouding his judgment, and he knew a foggy mind in his line of work could get him killed, or worse, those under his protection.

“Why does it have to be so complicated?” he asked the star-filled sky above, watching his breath mist in front of his face as he wiggled around to find a more comfortable position on the bench’s wooden planks.

“Because life is complicated.”

Ayrion twisted in his seat. He recognized Kira’s dark, throaty voice. Across the street, a shape detached itself from the corner building and started in his direction. He hated her ability to keep him feeling on edge. He watched her red leather coat glisten in the light of the street lamps as she made her way across the lane and into the park. He couldn’t help but notice the extra bit of undulation coming from her hips as she sashayed up to his bench and took a seat.

“Talk to yourself much?” she asked with a humorous grin.

“After having been kidnapped and dragged underground, I find myself doing a number of strange things of late.”

“Oh?” she asked, batting her long eyelashes.

“Like checking every alleyway and side street for ruffians before crossing.” He smirked. “Like double checking the latch on my chamber windows at night, in case I found some overly presumptuous woman scaling the palace walls trying to break in. Like making sure to carry a few extra weapons on my person when I go into town to dine.”

“Well, I’m glad to see I’m having an effect.”

“Like a bad rash,” he mumbled.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “Here.” She handed him back the clan ring he had sent to her as an invitation for their meeting. “As much as I enjoy sitting here admiring your beautiful face, Ayri, it’s getting chilly.” She ran her hands provocatively down the front of her breeches. “Cold weather and leather don’t mix well, you know.” She looked at his black leather coat and smiled. “So, what do you want?”

Blunt and to the point. Same old Kira. “I spoke with the king.” He watched as her expression changed.

“I’ll be honest,” she said. “I’m surprised. I didn’t actually think I’d hear from you again after what happened last time, let alone that you’d actually meet with the king on our behalf.”

“I told you I would. I keep my promises.”

She continued staring, her brown eyes boring a hole straight through his face. The silence was getting awkward. “Why would you think otherwise?”

She glanced down at the small pearl-handled dagger she had been spinning between her fingers. “I guess I’m not used to it. Honesty, that is. Not exactly in great supply in the Warrens, unless of course you’ve promised to do somebody harm, then you better act on it or you’ll look weak.” She rolled her shoulders. “And that can lead to all kinds of trouble.”

Ayrion felt sorry for her and Po. He was glad Reevie had managed not to get sucked into their world. He wished there was some way to help get them out of the clans and into an honest profession. He could probably find work at the palace for them, but he had serious reservation as to whether any of them would accept. The thought of Kira waiting tables and turning down bed sheets was more than a little humorous.

“What are you smiling at? You think what I said was funny?”

“No, I was just . . . thinking.”

“Well, quit it! The last time you went to thinking, I ended up bound by my own shackles in front of my men, and Po ended up naked in my bed.” She scrunched her nose. “Not exactly the outcome I had envisioned. Even if you did manage to put a stop to that traitorous son of a faerie, Kerson, it still doesn’t negate the fact that you and thinking just don’t belong in the same room together.”

He smiled. She hadn’t changed a bit, still clinging to that fiery temper and loose tongue.

“There you go again with your smiling. Every time you do it, it makes me want to either slap or kiss you.”

“Sorry.” He wiped it from his face as best he could and steered the subject back onto its proper course. The last thing he needed right now was to be sidetracked by the thought of her kissing him. “The king agreed to help. He’s willing to send in a company of lancers, along with a contingent of the city patrol, to work with the clans in flushing out whoever, or whatever, is behind this. From what he told me, the disappearances have spread outside the Warrens and into the main city.”

Kira hesitated. “That’s news to me.”

“So, if you can get the clan heads to agree to work with us we might be able to make something happen. At the very least, the extra armsmen on patrol should give these malefactors cause to slow their actions for the time being.”

Kira stared at her little belt dagger as she continued to spin it around her knuckles. “I think I can do that. I’ll hold a meeting of the heads to discuss the possibility.” She cast a sideways glance. “How will I be able to get back in touch with you?”

He thought about it for a moment then pulled his High Guard ring from his finger, the one given to him on his induction into the king’s service. The silver ring had a smooth black stone bearing the High Guard symbol of a white falcon. “Here, use this. After you meet with the clans, get this ring to Loren. He’s one of the royal hostlers, and a friend. He’ll be able to get it to me.”

She took the ring and turned it over with her fingers and then glanced at his other hand and smiled. “Not that ring?”

Ayrion lifted his right hand and stared at the plain, black onyx ring. It had tribal markings from his former Upakan family etched in white around the center of the band. His father had given it to him on the day Ayrion had been banished from his home. He told him it would always be there to remind him of who he was.

He grunted at her.

“So touchy. You act as though you’re afraid I might steal it or something.” She twirled her fingers through her black hair and batted her lashes.

“Imagine that. Since it was you who stole it from me the first day I stepped foot in Aramoor. If memory serves me, you left me lying in a puddle of rainwater, half-naked and waiting to die.”

“Oh, don’t be such a sour puss. At least we left you your small-clothes,” she said with a wink, “which is more than what you left me, if I remember correctly.”

Ayrion half-choked. “Yes, well, water under the bridge.”

Kira unbuttoned the top of her leather jacket and tucked his High Guard ring into her brassiere with a shameless smirk. After twitching back and forth to make sure it wasn’t going to fall back out, she scooted across the seat and leaned in his direction. Blazes! I knew this was coming.

Without thinking, Ayrion reached out and grabbed her shoulders. They were strong, much stronger than he would have imagined. They were certainly not the shoulders of a genteel woman, but of a woman who had struggled and fought every day of her life for the chance to continue living. Instead of pulling her to him, though, he pushed her away. The shock on her face mirrored his own as he cleared his throat. “I’m with someone, Kira.”

She grinned. “Not right now you’re not.”

He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Be that as it may, and as much as I might like to, it’s wrong. I care about Amarysia too much to hurt her like that.”

“She wouldn’t have to know.”

“I would know.” He stood from his seat and took a step back, trying to prove he had the fortitude not to give in to temptation. She remained where she was. “Maybe if circumstances had been different—” He didn’t finish the sentence. He knew she understood. “I’ll be waiting for that ring.”

When she didn’t respond, he turned and started to walk away.

“She’s a lucky woman.” Ayrion stopped and looked back over his shoulder. Kira was now standing beside the bench. “Faithfulness is a rare virtue these days.” She turned and started back toward the open street, but stopped when she heard Ayrion call after her.

“If you want our help, be sure to meet with the clans soon. The king is preparing a declaration of war against Cylmar. We will be heading to the border as early as the end of next week. Arrangements are already underway.”

“War?” She looked tense. “I take it you’ll be going?”

“Of course. Where the king goes, I go.”

“You better bring yourself back.”

“Why, Kira . . .” Ayrion looked aghast. “That almost sounded like you care.”

“I don’t,” she said with a smirk. “But I just gave you my best ring.”

Ayrion shook his head as he watched her disappear back into the night.

Chapter 55 | Ferrin

THE SCARS, welts, and scabs across Ferrin’s body were beginning to add up.

Even with Rae’s healing abilities, he had still managed to collect a healthy number of leftover blemishes that marked the areas of his body where the inquisitor’s tools of trade had roamed.

As the days passed, Ferrin and Azriel continued planning his escape. He had tracked the guard’s rotations—how many there were and how often they cycled. He had memorized as much of the White Tower’s layout as he was given access to, which wasn’t much, but included a few of the tunnels, the stairwells, and all corridors coinciding with his movements to and from the Hall of Inquisition, as well as any direct routes leading to a potential exit point.

His transportation to and from the Inquisition, however, wasn’t exactly expansive. It wasn’t as though his captors were going to give him the guided tour. Ferrin figured he was going to need to persuade one of them eventually, in the gentlest of fashions, to show him out.

He could be quite persuasive when he needed to be.

Ferrin had prodded the guards in between his travels to and from the chambers below, attempting to glean whatever information he could concerning their numbers within the Tower, as well as where the food stores were kept, the closest exits, the inquisitor’s sleeping chambers, where they kept Rae and how often she was allowed free time. It was amazing how much information one can accumulate through the simple art of sarcastic banter.

When you feel you have total control over those around you and no reason to ever believe otherwise, you tend to be a bit more careless with your actions. No one had ever escaped the White Tower. It was a record that easily justified the willingness for some of the guards to be a bit more forthcoming than they should have been concerning their duties, a failing for which Ferrin was more than happy to take advantage. So, as the days pressed on, he continued his gentle acquisitions.

He discussed multiple scenarios with Azriel, as they had little else to occupy their time but to lay there and moan about the miserable state in which they found themselves. They conferred for hours about the routes he could take, the optimal times of day or night to breach the outer walls with the least visibility, what supplies he would need, where he might find them, and what transportation was available.

Thankfully, Ferrin had spent many of his summers working with some of the local woodsmen in Rhowynn and was capable of living off the land if needed; however, he also knew traveling through the middle of the Razor’s Spine would leave him with limited options for foraging. Mountain conies and tusca roots would probably be the extent of his fine dining, though it would be a far cry better than the fetid gruel and maggoty bread he was getting at present. It would be slim, but at this point, what did he have to lose? The longer he bounced his ideas off the old seer the more excited he became. This just might work!

Everything hinged on a single element: he had to find a way to get his hands on a transferal, which made Rae his one and only hope.

Ferrin woke to the sound of Azriel groaning in his sleep. Turning over to see if the old man had twisted himself up in his chains during the night, as was his common practice, he crawled over to check on his cellmate. Ferrin had just reached out to shake the man’s shoulder when Azriel lurched forward, startling Ferrin enough to cause him to stumble back and land on his backside.

The old man’s eyes were open and he seemed to be in some kind of trance. Both eyes had gone white and he was babbling incoherently. Ferrin could only guess he was having a vision. It was the first time he had seen one, or at least the side effects. He had to admit the glowing white eyes were quite the impressive sight.

Not exactly sure what he needed to do, Ferrin kept his distance and watched. Pretty soon Azriel stopped mumbling. He blinked a few times, coughed, and then glanced around the room as if not quite sure where he was. When his eyes lighted on Ferrin, recognition gave way to a mournful sigh. His irises had returned to their normal emerald-green. “What are you looking at, my boy?”

Ferrin tried explaining what he had just witnessed. Azriel merely smiled. “You are correct. I did have a vision.”

Ferrin reclined on his haunches and waited for the old seer to continue. When nothing else came, Ferrin grew impatient. “Well?”

Azriel’s brow rose. “Well what?”

“Well, are you going to tell me about the vision or are you going to keep it to yourself?”

Azriel studied Ferrin for a moment. “It wasn’t clear. Actually, the images couldn’t have been more confusing had they come from a drunken Tonga troll.” Ferrin tried picturing one of the mythical greenish beasts with a barrel of stout ale in its hand and then gave up. “I will say this, though. Your time here is coming to an end, one way or another.”

Ferrin’s heart pounded in his chest. “So are you saying I’m going to manage an escape?”

“I’m saying you’d better try, and soon.”

Ferrin could feel his body deflating. What did that mean? Were they going to be sending him for purging? He had to find a way to convince Rae to part with her transferal. But after their last rather passionate and very awkward meeting, he wasn’t sure how he was going to manage it.

“Oh, and whatever you do, don’t antagonize him.”

“Antagonize who?”

The lock on the door snapped open and the latch pulled back.

“You’ll see,” Azriel said, offering Ferrin one of his uncomforting smiles.

Ferrin rolled his eyes. Crazy old sot.

Unlike his previous transportation to the torture chambers below, today, the Black Watch ushered him down a different route. Scanning every new chamber, hall, and passageway, Ferrin worked to memorize their movements, repeating to himself the succession of doorways they maneuvered through, as well as any noticeable architecture or adornments which might help later in his recognition of the place.

Unfortunately, if you had seen one hallway in the White Tower, you had seen them all. The extent of the open décor consisted of rusty torch rings, thin arrow-slit windows, and the occasional rat which scurried from one cell to the next, nibbling on its occupants as it went.

He had hoped to find something useful to aid in his escape—a supply room for food, blankets or weapons, a passageway leading toward the outer walls, or any sign of people coming and going. Alas, no such luck.

The air around him grew stale, more so than was normal for this deep within the Tower. The sound of his boots on the cold stone echoed off the walls as they continued to circle their way further into the bowels. He had never been this far down before.

Gradually, the air started to warm, his teeth quit their random chattering and the chill bumps along his arms managed to recede. The torches on the walls, which had at first grown farther apart, now stopped altogether. The darkness left him with the eerie feeling that wherever they were going, any foreknowledge of the situation would have left him begging to be taken back to the Hall of Inquisition, strapped to a rack, and left to enjoy the tender touches of his pasty tormentor.

The flickering light from the handheld torch at the front of the procession revealed walls and ceiling not of stone, but of compact earth and rock. There were small roots poking their way out of the packed crevices. The smell of the rich soil, encircling the tomb in which they walked, left him feeling a bit homesick. He closed his eyes for a moment and envisioned a warm summer day spent wandering the forests that bordered the western edge of Rhowynn: the birds in song, the cool breeze sweeping off the Northern Heights, the soft pine needles rustling under foot.

Taking a deep breath, he was jolted back into reality as the sharp pain of a stubbed toe tore through his right foot. Biting down and taking a few hops on the other leg, Ferrin waited for it to ease. It was nothing compared to the agony of what he was used to, but then again, pain was pain. With his footwear practically falling off from misuse, he could hardly afford to destroy them any further.

Just ahead, a soft light gave clear indication that they were coming to an end of the tunnel network. Stepping out from the confined space of the rocky outcropping, Ferrin’s jaw dropped in wonder. He was standing on the far side of a stone edifice that bridged a vast chasm. Leaning over one side, he gaped at the river of molten lava far below.

From this height, the blazing liquid appeared to be nothing more than a simple string of light rambling its way through the cavernous fissures. It didn’t take much to realize they had tunneled their way into the Razor’s Spine and were now somewhere deep within the mountain’s core.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Ferrin shifted his gaze as Nostrils took a hesitant step closer and peered over with him.

“It is,” Ferrin admitted.

Rays of bluish-green light washed across the bridge, giving its passengers a clear guide for their footsteps. Tilting his head, Ferrin found the source of the extraordinary light: large crystal formations that seemed to be growing straight out of the rock’s crevices. Amazingly enough, each one produced a form of iridescence in a place otherwise devoid of all natural light. Incredible.

The walkway was massive. Ferrin couldn’t imagine the work and planning involved in creating something on this scale. It had obviously been built during a past age. Most likely during the time of the first Wizard Order.

At the far end of the bridge stood an impressive bulwark, carved straight out of the mountain itself. Barring its passage was a gated structure with pillars and arches towering far overhead. Nostrils came to a halt in front of two enormous gilded doors. Their gold plating sparkled fiercely in the light of his torch.

Each door was engraved with scenes from someone’s worst nightmares—twisted creatures of inhuman shape around a circle of marked stones. At the center of the stone rose a leafless tree, and in front of the tree, two men. One was bound hand and foot by the tree’s branches, his head tilted back and mouth split wide as if screaming in great pain. The second was hooded, with a large book held open in one hand. With the other, they appeared to be pulling the first man’s soul straight out of his mouth.

Ferrin shivered.

The next image on the door was an obvious extension of the first as it displayed the bound man, now lying motionless underneath the overhanging limbs, while the other, standing over top, looked to be stuffing the soul inside his own mouth. Directly behind the stone ring lay a body of water which churned with shadowy forms bursting from its depths.

Ferrin shivered again. Could this get any more disturbing? He didn’t want to find out.

The second door, and the depictions engraved there, were just as dark as the first. The bare tree was surrounded by the same ring of stone; however, this time there were twelve robed individuals encircling the inside of the ring, with a thirteenth at the center. An altar had been erected, which held a lifeless body. The robed figure at the center seemed to be beckoning one of the shadowy forms from the dark pool to enter the prostrate corpse. The dead body, as best as Ferrin could make out, looked to be reanimating. What in the name of all that’s holy is going on down here?

Both doors were bordered with inlaid blocks of gold, each block inscribed with a unique glyph or symbol, the likes of which Ferrin had never seen before, and hoped never to see again. “What is this place?”

Nostrils turned to look Ferrin in the eyes. “This is the Chamber of Purging.”

The hesitation of the guards in opening the double doors spoke volumes about what he was going to find within. Instead of handles and latches, each door had a large, gold-plated ring. Four members of the watch stepped forward and, joining six others, grabbed hold of one of the rings, planted their feet, and pulled. The door parted and a flood of amber light shone through. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark underground passageways they had previously traversed. He did note, however, the lack of noise coming from the six great hinges holding each door squarely to its frame.

The chamber, much like the Hall of Inquisition, was cavernous. Glancing upward, the ceiling, if there was one, was lost in darkness. There were lime-formations scattered about the open space, pointing downward from the dark shadows above, as well as upward from the solid rock below. Like the teeth of a great beast, with the doorway for its maw, they gave warning to their helpless victims and bid them enter at their own peril. Ferrin could only speculate as to how they had managed to find this cavern so far underground. Then again, he could feel the answer to his question. This place was dripping with magic.

Near the center of the room, at least the part visible to the naked eye, lay the ring of stones depicted on the outside of the two doors. Behind the stones and surrounding the back side of the enclave was a large reservoir of dark liquid. Its placid surface gave no reflection to the light of the surrounding torches. It had all the appearance of tar.

Resting inside the pavilion was something more disturbing than the rest: an enormous tree, its limbs spread forth as if beckoning for all to come and take shade under her branches. Something about it made Ferrin’s skin crawl.

Walking along the outer rim of the stones were two men. Ferrin recognized the bloody robes of his pale tattooed-face inquisitor instantly, but the other man he did not recognize. The stranger was a good head taller than Cheeks, and even through his thick scarlet robes, Ferrin could tell the man was quite thin. His dark sunken eyes fit right in with his long angular face. The tall figure turned and looked Ferrin over before continuing his conversation with the inquisitor.

Cheeks promptly bowed, and with such deference that had he bent any further, it would have required two men to lift him back up. Ferrin lowered his head and coughed, trying to hide the chuckle that wanted so desperately to break free. Kind of nice to see him groveling for a change.

The inquisitor turned and waddled to where Ferrin stood. One of the guards had a tight hold on the shackles holding Ferrin’s hands behind him. “If I were you, my dear smith, I would wipe that grin from my face and listen very carefully to what the Arch Chancellor has to say. They could well be the last words you’ll ever hear.” Straightening his shoulders, Cheeks moved on. The guards followed, pushing the doors closed behind them.

Glancing around, Ferrin realized they were alone.

“Ferrin, isn’t it?” The robed figure raised a hand in his direction. “You won’t be needing those.” His cuffs snapped open and fell from his wrists, clanging loudly on the rock below and sent a reverberating echo in all directions. Well, that answers the questions about the chancellor’s wielding capabilities.

Stretching his stiff lower back, Ferrin massaged his tender wrists, attempting to work the circulation back into them. “Forgive me,” the man said, taking a couple of steps forward. “Where are my manners?” He laid an open hand to his chest. “My name is Valtor. I’m the Arch Chancellor of the White Tower.” He stretched out his arm and pointed directly at Ferrin. “And I need your help.”

Ferrin was stunned. Not exactly the direction he had pictured this going. Ferrin, as always, finding himself completely unable to refrain from opening his mouth, did so. “And why for the love of Aldor would I ever want to help you or your Tower with anything?” Too proud to back down now, he maintained his hard glare at Valtor.

The chancellor grinned. The mitre on his head, much like a crown, held steady as he moved. “I was told you were one to speak your mind.” He rubbed the tips of his thin fingers together. “Good. I don’t care to mince words either.”

Ferrin remained silent, but was poised to run or attack if he felt the need arise. Not that he figured he would get very far with either approach. The chancellor was obviously a man who had little doubt of his own capabilities and had no fear of what Ferrin might attempt to do.

“I would like to tell you a story, Ferrin, if I may.” Not like I have a choice. “It’s about a little boy who was born . . . Well, different from everyone around him. He could do things no one else could do, and because of this difference, he was hated and shunned by not only other children his age, but by his own family. Those who had promised to love him and protect him wanted nothing more than to be rid of him.”

Ferrin’s brow tightened. This story sounds all too familiar.

“Do you know why they did this?” Valtor asked. Fear, Ferrin surmised. “Fear,” the chancellor said, echoing Ferrin’s thoughts. “They were afraid of what he could do, yet at the same time, were jealous of his gifts.” Valtor’s face had long since lost its smile and was now twisting into something more like scorn. “They secretly wanted the power he had. The little boy didn’t understand what was going on or why they were treating him the way they were, but helpless as he was, he tried his best to fit in, and in doing so, forced himself to contain his abilities. He locked them away in a dark place deep inside, never to be let out again.

“However, as with all magic, the boy soon discovered it was impossible to contain who he was. His determination to restrain his abilities couldn’t have been any more useless than if he had decided to stop breathing.”

Ferrin’s shoulders slumped under the weight of what he was hearing. Having to relive his worst memories was tougher than an hour under Cheeks’ knife, quite possibly even the wiggler.

“And so, one night, he found himself awoken to the sound of familiar whispers and a large sack being shoved over his head. They stuffed his entire body inside the sack and carried him to the river. He could hear the voice of his father trying to console his mother as she cried. He could also hear his two older brothers laughing as they followed nearby. He didn’t understand what was going on. He thought it was some sort of game, until the arms that were previously carrying him disappeared, and he plummeted from the bridge into the icy waters below.”

Ferrin’s face reddened. He knew all too well the pain of having those dearest discard you like a piece of worn-out cloth.

Valtor lifted his head. “I was that little boy.”

A heavy blanket of silence enclosed the cavern as the chancellor studied Ferrin’s face, obviously hoping to have connected in some way.

“Wow!” Ferrin scoffed. “You had me going there for a moment, what with that whole little-boy-hated-by-his-family routine. Playing on my childhood experiences in order to gain sympathy? Bravo,” he said, clapping his hands together, “masterful performance.”

The muscles in Valtor’s face tightened as Ferrin continued, “Now if you have any aspirations of me believing a single piece of that rubbish you just touted as the truth, then I’ve only one question.” Valtor sneered but eventually nodded. Ferrin took a deep breath and tried to calm the rage inside, but with little success. “Why in the Defiler’s name are you hunting down, torturing, and murdering the very people you should be protecting?”

The smile slid back across the chancellor’s face like a snake through tall grass, attempting to catch its prey unaware. “Because, my oh-so unobservant friend, there is a war coming, a confrontation which has been building for centuries—a battle between the ven’ae and the jun’ri, those with magic and those without. It will be a battle the likes of which we have not seen since the time of the Great Purge, and I will do everything in my power to see our side victorious.”

Pacing back and forth, the chancellor continued. “The White Tower was built by the great wizard Aerodyne and his followers near the middle of the Second Age after the Faerie Wars. However, it was repurposed after the Great Wizard Wars had demolished the wielder population. It was reestablished under the authority of the jun’ri, or as we call them, the ungifted. It was used for the purpose of separating wielders from their magic, forcing them to relinquish the one piece of themselves that defines who they are.

“During those earlier years, thousands of our kind were butchered for nothing more than being different. Wielders were used as a show of entertainment for royalty. We became the sport of the jun’ri kings. They had special arenas made where they would pit one against another. They would organize great hunts, where instead of chasing stag or boar or bear, they would chase wielders and then mount their heads as trophies.” Ferrin’s stomach turned the more he listened. He had no idea it had ever been so bad. But it still didn’t excuse what was happening here.

The chancellor grew more adamant. “The faerie, while they were here, had created a device for collaring ven’ae that cut them off from their source of power.” Valtor seemed to quiver at the thought. “They were called durmas. The collars were forged in ancient magic, something out of the end of the First Age. They were despicable creations, and with them—”

“Alright.” Ferrin raised his hand. “I get it. Magic good . . . collars bad. And before you take me down another series of history lessons from two millennia ago, how about explaining to me what you think you are doing here! From where I’m standing, you’re no different from them.” Ferrin counted off his fingers in succession. “You hunt wielders, you imprison them, you torture them, and the Defiler only knows what you do to them down here. How are you any different?”

“What I do, I do for the greater good, not because I want to.”

“The blazes you do! Leaders have been using that excuse to justify their actions since the dawn of man!”

“The difference is,” Valtor said, “I will use what I gain here to fight against our oppressors, and protect future generations from suffering another Great Purge. And if a few of us have to be sacrificed for that to happen . . . then so be it.”

Ferrin sneered. “Then start with yourself, why don’t you?”

Valtor’s smile was repulsive. He tapped the fingertips of one hand against the fingertips of the other in simple progression. “Like all the rest, I am offering you a choice. I have been waiting for a metallurgist for some time to help me create weapons for our armies,” he said, pointing at Ferrin, “and look what providence has dropped in my lap. Not only are you a metal wielder but a sword-smith as well. So here is my proposition.” He raised his left in an outstretched manner. “Help me forge our weapons, or . . .” He raised the other. “Undergo the purging process where we will take your abilities and use them anyway.”

Ferrin studied Valtor’s face. “If you have a way of taking my magic from me, then why are we even having this conversation? I assume there’s more to it than merely killing me and taking what I possess?”

Valtor chuckled. “They said you had a head on your shoulders, and for once they weren’t exaggerating. You are correct. It is one thing to gain another’s powers, but it’s something altogether different when trying to use them. And since you already possess a working knowledge of weaponry, it is in my best interest to keep you whole.” He raised a finger in warning as he passed Ferrin on his way to the entrance. “But make no mistake, whether you cooperate or not, I will have your magic. I suggest you choose wisely. I can’t afford to have wielders giving their services to the other side.”

The chancellor raised his arm and the double doors swung open for his passing. “I will return in a couple of days for your answer,” he called back over his shoulder. “Be sure it’s the right one.”

Ferrin was left standing there in the silence of the empty chasm, listening to the sound of his own thoughts as though they reverberated off the stone around him.

“Azriel was right. I have got to get out of here, and soon!”

Chapter 56 | Ty

TY STIFLED A YAWN.

Breen’s wakeup call came early. Ty wasn’t used to rising before the sun, but after a cold wash and a quick meal of last evening’s leftovers, they packed their gear and made an early start of it.

The sun was just peeking through the trees as they made their way into the outer edges of the Sidaran Forest, hoping to find some clue as to the predator that was killing off the wildlife. Their father had planned to join them, but the council called a meeting to decide what should be done about the witch’s shop. With his presence being expected, he sent Ty and Breen on without him. Ty didn’t much like that decision.

They each carried a strung bow, a quiver of arrows, a long dagger sheathed at the waist, and a boot knife. On their backs were small travel bags with some simple hardtack and a bladder of water each in case they didn’t return until after dark. Breen carried an extra brace of knives inside his overcoat. Ty had declined the knives since he knew he couldn’t hit the broad side of their barn at five paces. For all of his abilities, throwing a knife wasn’t one of them. The last time Breen had attempted working with him, even the horses had had enough good sense to get out of the way.

Ty reached out with his magic and let it drift into the forest ahead, searching for any hint as to what they were looking for. He wasn’t sure what it would feel like, but he had the distinct impression that if it showed up, he’d know it. So far, he felt nothing out of the ordinary.

It was all kinds of exciting in a disturbing and scary sort of way: the White Tower, the Black Watch, melting witches, strange beasts attacking the High King, and now a creature lurking in the surrounding woods. As thrilling as it was, he would have gladly traded it all in for the simple, mundane life he had before.

As the noonday sun warmed the forest around them and their breath was no longer visible, a nagging sensation started to build in the pit of Ty’s stomach and manifested itself in the hairs on both arms. They weren’t alone.

The brothers crossed the East River in a roughhewn dugout boat their father had built for his travels back and forth through the Sidaran woodland. The traveling was slow, but steady, as they made their way against the current. Ty was thankful they weren’t attempting this during the rainy season. The river’s course would have been considerably more difficult to navigate.

They pulled the small boat up onto the other side and Ty took a moment to watch the river as it slowly meandered along, cutting a trail through the thick forest.

Traveling the waterway with Breen had always been one of Ty’s fondest pastimes. They would spend days fishing, swimming, and exploring the vast expanse of its ever flowing body. His father had always said it was one of the great natural beauties of Aldor. The water was cold but clear, right down to the rocky bottom. The overhanging forest on either side maintained a constant shade during the day for the bargemen as they carried their freight up and down its water.

They continued in a northwesterly direction, carefully searching the densely sylvan area between Easthaven and Reed Marsh. At one point, Breen raised his hand and brought them to a quick halt. Ty watched as his brother took a fallen branch and speared something just off the trail. Lifting the stick back into the air and spinning around, Ty found himself face to face with the bone-picked remains of what had once been a large tree rat.

“Look at the markings. What do you see?” Breen held the skeleton for Ty to get a better look.

Ty pinched his nose. “From the smell, I would say fairly recent.”

“Maybe a day or two.”

“But these markings . . .” Ty raised the spinal column with a gloved hand to get a better view. “I don’t recognize.”

Breen nodded. “Good eye. They’re teeth marks,” he said, swinging the end of the branch back his way. His brother took a long look at the skull, which happened to be the largest bone structure on its body, lending him a flatter surface to study. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.” Breen’s eyes narrowed as he continued to study it. “I don’t even care to speculate.” With a grunt, his brother tossed the branch, along with the remains, back into the brush. “Let’s keep moving.”

By the time lunch rolled around, the smell of death had increased considerably and the number of animal remains had grown in both size and number.

“We need to check in on ol’ Dorbin,” Breen said as he bit off a chunk of dried meat and passed the rest to Ty. Ty took a small bite and passed it back. “His cabin’s not too far from here and I’d feel a whole lot better knowing he was alright.” Breen was always thinking of others. He couldn’t help it. It was in his nature. Ty remembered the day Fraya had bought Breen a wedge of chocolate for his birthday, and before the evening was out, he had made sure everyone in his family had received a piece. Thankfully, Fraya hadn’t been there to see it or she may have put a stop to it before Ty had gotten his.

After taking a quick pull from his water pouch, Ty signaled he was ready. Reaching out with his senses he once again came back empty. He knew there was something out there, he could feel it in his gut, but he couldn’t tell what it was or even where it was. It was as though something was masking it from him. His eyes tightened as he scanned the trees and surrounding foliage. Even more than the sensation of being watched was the complete and utter silence of the normally thriving habitat.

Twice the brothers came across what appeared to be a feeding ground, the forest floor glistening with a mound of small animal-sized bones. “This doesn’t feel right,” Ty exclaimed, not having meant to give an audible voice to his thoughts.

“I agree.” Breen kept his voice barely above a whisper as he lifted his bow and nocked an arrow. “Not much farther. We should be able to see his place from the top of the ridge.”

Cresting the small rise, their legs froze in place when their eyes fell across the quiet valley below. Ty felt a hand grab hold of his shoulder and jerk him down behind some loose brush. The entire floor of the glen was covered in white bones. Dorbin’s cabin lay at the center, untouched and silent as the grave.

There was a strange clicking sound off in the distance, like a knife puncturing the brittle bark of an old hemlock.

“What could have possibly done this?”

His brother shrugged his large shoulders and whispered, “We need to find out.”

Ty rolled his eyes. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

Breen pointed toward the front of the rickety cabin. Ty followed his aim to see what had drawn his attention, and then regretted it. There on the front porch, lying in a fetal position, were the remains of a human carcass. Unlike the rest of the smaller animals, Dorbin had not yet been completely devoured, only from the waist down. Part of his backbone hung below his opened stomach. The rest was obviously being saved for later.

Ty swallowed hard against the growing surge of bile threatening to overwhelm him and quickly reached out to the approaching presence. This time he was met with a response, one solitary thought—Hunger!

Sweat broke out across Ty’s forehead as he rushed to follow his brother back down the side of the hill, careful to avoid any loose twigs or branches that might give away their presence to whatever was out there.

Without a word, the brothers moved backwards along the path, retracing their steps, before Breen angled them west in the direction of the noise they had heard earlier. Ty’s eyes darted in all directions for any sign of movement, and their pace slowed the closer they drew. Every hair on his body was standing on edge. The hunger for blood this creature possessed was anything but natural. There was magic involved. There had to be. He only prayed that whatever bit of power he possessed was enough to protect them.

They were close.

Breen raised his arm, and with an open hand motioned them down to their stomachs. Ty maneuvered himself forward with his hands and knees as they crawled through a thick patch of undergrowth. The clicking was coming from somewhere on the other side. Sliding alongside his brother’s large frame, he peered through the brush, but there was nothing there. His eyes darted from one side of the small clearing to the other. He could feel it. Whatever it was, its hunger was growing.

On the other side of the bramble lay a hidden alcove of rock with a tunnel-like structure at its center, burrowing deep into the earth. Ty wrinkled his nose. The place smelled like rotting flesh and moist fur.

He lay there in silence, completely immobile, for what seemed like an eternity, waiting and watching until finally he received a slight nudge in the side. Slowly twisting his head around, he noticed a single finger raised off the ground and pointing to the left of the giant burrow. From the darkness of the trees just beyond, there was movement. Something stepped out of the shadows, revealing eight hideously enormous legs as it made its way back inside the hole.

Ty tried to swallow but his mouth was as dry as the sands of the Wengoby Desert. He felt a tapping on his arm and realized he had been holding his breath. Releasing it slowly, he followed Breen’s example and edged his way backwards. Neither so much as blinked an eye as they crawled their way out of the undergrowth and back the way they had come.

The clicking noise, and the creature producing it, faded into the distance. They quickened their pace. Once safely back across the river, Ty helped Breen drag the boat onto the south bank. “We need to warn the townsfolk and the outlying farming community to stay out of the forest.” Breen was slightly out of breath as he gulped down a large swallow of his water. “Once we get back to the house, I’ll saddle Acorn and go north of town. I’ll start with Fraya and her family and then work my way back toward Easthaven from there. Make sure to keep Adarra out of the woods. You know how she gets when it comes to searching out new plants and animals for her studies. She’d likely crawl down that creature’s hole just to have a look at it.” Breen shook his head.

Ty wiped the water from his mouth and stoppered his bladder before placing it back in his throw sack. “We need to let the council know.”

Breen replaced his water-skin and pulled the thick protective canvas back over the small boat. “I’ll stop by there on my way back from Fraya’s. Hopefully they can come up with a way to combat this new threat before more people end up like Dorbin.”

Ty grimaced as the image of the old hermit lying there on his front porch replayed in his mind. Hefting his bow, and senses on highest alert, Ty followed in his brother’s footsteps as they sprinted south toward home.

Chapter 57 | Valtor

VALTOR STOOD MOTIONLESS at the center of a large circular chamber.

With his arm outstretched, he concentrated on the smooth stone resting loosely in the palm of his hand. It was quite cool to the touch. Calling out in the ancient Fae tongue, Valtor watched as the rune etched into the top of the oval rock glimmered. Its pale green ambience lit his face as well as a small section of the central platform where he now stood.

Surrounding the stage were thirteen rune-covered pyres, each holding a thick layer of coal and ash at its pedestal. The symbols stretching down the front of each pulsed to life. He lowered the stone back to his side, but took care to keep it pressed against his skin. The Scrying Stones would only work when in direct contact with the inductee.

He waited.

One by one, each of the thirteen pyres burst to life. Flames of the same pale green rose into the air and filled the room with their light.  Shadows danced across every wall. The flames eventually abated, stabilizing after their initial discharge and taking on more definable shapes. The robed figures of the bulradoer were now clearly present within them, each a translucent body atop one of the pyres.

“Why have you summoned us, Valtor?” Mangora was the first to speak. Her raspy voice at the head pyre was unmistakable. It had always reminded him of a lonely swamp toad croaking for a mate. The sudden thought of her mating sent a deep-seated chill through his body.

“Remove your hoods,” he demanded. “We have no secrets here.” Each of the dark wielders pulled back the cowl of their black robes and stood facing him. “For those of you who don’t know, the faeling has been found.”

There were a few whispers among the others.

“Where is he?” came a demanding voice over his shoulder. Valtor shifted slightly and locked eyes with a woman on the fourth pyre to his right. She had a rather definable scar on her right cheek, but it was mostly covered by her full head of frizzy red hair.

“Ah, Lenara, I understand why you of all people would have an interest in the child’s whereabouts. However, given your colossal failure in retrieving him the first time, I have another task in mind for you.” He watched her cold raspberry eyes glower in his direction. He didn’t care how much she hated him, only that she obeyed. Idle hands and idle minds tended to give underlings time to conspire, and he was having none of it.

“I will have need of your services here at the Tower. There is a particularly interesting wielder that I would like your help with.”

“Who is this wielder?” another of the bulradoer asked from directly behind him, bringing Valtor fully around.

“He is a metallurgist who, more importantly, happens to be a gifted weapon-smith. And we have need of his abilities in the armament of our troops.”

Some of the others nodded their approval, a few merely shifted their feet.

“Speaking of,” Valtor said as he turned his attention to a small weasel of a man on his left who never seemed to cease rubbing his hands together. “How goes it with our recruitments?”

“Ah, Your Eminence, it goes well. Yes, it goes very well indeed.” He even sounded like a weasel, Valtor thought. “The numbers are up, up, up. We are seeing a steady flow of enlistment from three of the five kingdoms, although we are definitely seeing the largest influx coming out of Cylmar. I don’t think the citizens much like the way their overlord treats them like second class citizens, you know. Sidara, however, is proving to be the most difficult of the five.”

“Pah.” Valtor waved a hand. “Sidara is nothing more than a kingdom of backward woods folk. I believe we can survive their indifference.”

“Yes, yes, yes, I see your point, indeed I do. However, it is their open indifference I believe that encourages many of the ven’ae to seek sanctuary within the Sidaran borders.”

Valtor’s lips pursed in thought. “Hmm, you have a valid point.”

“What do you need from me?” Lenara asked, interrupting his train of thought.

Realizing she was asking about the metal wielder, he responded, “I will need your help with a possible purging if we can’t get the smith to cooperate.” Valtor turned back around to the front. “I’m also going to send five of you to Easthaven to help Mangora root out this wielder council who has been protecting the faeling child.”

“What do you want done with them, once they are found?” asked a large man to the left of Mangora. He had dark skin and a strong face.

“Extract as much information as you can and then kill them. I want a permanent Black Watch contingent in Easthaven. As Horvah has so graciously pointed out, it is the only kingdom so far in which we haven’t been able to build ties. Overlord Barl hasn’t been the most receptive of hosts. Let’s see that we change that. I hear he has a rather beautiful daughter.” He raised both arms in a questioning manner. “I’ll let you use your own imagination there.”

All around the thirteen pyres, bulradoer chuckled with excitement, especially the men.

“And what is it that our illustrious leader will be engaged with during this time?” Mangora groused from the front.

“I will be accompanying our young prince to the battlefield.”

“So, your war has finally come to fruition,” Horvah said, coming out more as a question than a statement. “And what is to be gained from this maneuvering, Your Eminence?”

Valtor turned. “A new king.”

Chapter 58 | Ayrion

THE TRAVEL FROM Aramoor to the front lines had taken less than two weeks, and considering the sizable caravan escorting their forces toward the Elondrian border where the skirmishes had already begun, that was saying a lot.

Ayrion rubbed his hands together. There was a slight chill to the morning air as the last of the leaves had relinquished their stubborn hold on life. Autumn was coming to an end and winter was just around the corner. Stepping from his tent near the center of the encampment, he let the front flap fall back into place, his breath visible in the early morning mist.

On his left was Commander Tolin’s shelter, a bit larger than his own, but then again, the pavilion was the central command post for the entire army. At any given time, a steady stream of officers and runners could be seen entering and exiting with their orders, making preparations as to the next engagement with the enemy.

Directly across the heavily trafficked pathway was the temporary shelter for the High King, with Prince Dakaran’s on the king’s right. To his credit, the king had never been one for requesting elaborate furnishings. He had always resigned himself to sleep with no better accommodations than the officers serving under him. This, along with the fact that he would frequently be seen taking his meals with the common rankers earned him the respect of his men.

Aryion made his way through the bustling city of canvas, weaving in and around the bivouacs and small cook fires already lit for the lancers’ morning rations. The encampment was a city unto itself. Apart from the ranks of fighting men and the cooks to keep them fed, there were wranglers to tend the horses, healers to patch the wounded, wagoners to transport the provisions, as well as an entire supply train of craftsmen and tradesmen alike, all of which were necessary to meet the needs of an ongoing campaign.

There was a small rise in back of the Elondrian forces where they had set up a staging area for the king. The crimson and gold shelter with its entire front tied open permitted the king a perfect view of the Cylmaran army on the other side of the valley. The height allowed for optimal planning and swift tactical decisions.

At the base of the rise, positioned as a safeguard to the king, was the High Guard encampment. Ayrion’s men in their black and silver uniforms were preparing their breakfast as he passed through. Those closest stood at attention and saluted.

Ayrion nodded and moved through the ranks, stopping briefly at a small outcropping of rock about halfway up the steep mound. From the edge, he glanced out across the two opposing armies. The open expanse of borderland between them lay in peaceful silence at the moment, which was a rare occurrence of late as men clashed from one battle to another, culminating in this final confrontation just south of the Black Hills and west of the small town of Belbridge.

How did we get to this point? He watched the trails of smoke rise above the vast expanse of their army and mix with the low hanging clouds above. Cylmar had been pushing to extend its borders for years, but had never been this aggressive before. They would raid a few of the outlying villages, mostly pilfering the crops, cattle, and the occasional farmer’s daughter. The raids would continue, until the closest detachment of lancers could be summoned to drive them back across their borders.

Everyone knew Saryn, the Overlord of Cylmar, held a lustful eye on the Black Hills. They were rich in iron-ore, something heavily used for military purposes as well as for profiting trade. The iron mines were located near the northwest border of the two kingdoms, but on the Elondrian side. A garrison of lancers had been established within the Black Hills to protect their miners, and the ironworks, from falling into Cylmaran hands. As tempting as those mines were, Ayrion still couldn’t understand what would make Lord Saryn decide to engage in a full-scale confrontation now.

Reaching the peak of the rise, Ayrion walked out toward the edge and took a moment to close his eyes and let the early morning sun warm the back of his neck. The conglomeration of noise rising from the forces below reminded him of a wave battering itself against an unrelenting bluff. Taking a deep breath, he turned around and stepped through the front opening of the large canvas awning where the High King and commander stood, overlooking some parchments with hand drawn battle plans for the upcoming skirmish.

Passing Dakaran on the way in, Ayrion tipped his head in acknowledgment, hoping to pacify his royal obnoxiousness, at least for the time being. Dakaran merely sneered from his seat in the corner as he nursed his glass of wine. Like his father, Dakaran had donned his royal battle armor, including a chest plate finely engraved with the Elondrian crest—a high sun overshadowing a golden crown.

Ayrion couldn’t imagine why the prince had chosen to come. It had been a shock to both Ayrion and the king. Ayrion could see the glint of joy it gave Rhydan to have his son at least passively involved in Elondrian affairs, but Ayrion couldn’t help wondering if that involvement would have a positive result.

The king and commander looked up as Ayrion stepped inside. “Guardian, I’m glad you’re here.” The king motioned towards the table. “We were just looking over the plans from last night.” Ayrion stepped to the opposite side and looked down at the well laid blocking. “What are your thoughts?” The king’s arms rested on the table while he stared intently at the inked drawings in front of him.

Ayrion scanned the scrolls of vellum. “I believe our cavalry, right here—” His finger circled an area on the map. “—and right here—” He circled another. “—are going to play a heavy determinant in this conflict. I also believe, as I stated last evening, the commander has done a remarkable job in designing a realistic offensive.” He paused as if to say more, but instead continued perusing the drawn out plans.

Tolin cocked his head to the side. “I’m sensing a ‘but’ here.”

“To be honest,” Ayrion admitted with a little reluctance, “I find myself asking, why?”

Both heads shifted in his direction, waiting for him to expound.

Ayrion turned to face the opening and raised his arm toward the battlefield. “Why all of this? Why now? Saryn has allowed his people to cross our borders for years, there is no denying it, but he has never risked an all-out confrontation with Elondria. He knows he would lose. Furthermore,” Ayrion continued, stepping back toward the table, “Saryn has never been known to actually make an appearance in battle before. He prefers to keep to a safe distance from any and all excursions, and yet, here he is, on the front lines, fighting a battle hardly in his favor.” He paused to let what he was saying sink in. “So again I ask you . . . Why?”

No one moved, except the prince as he leaned forward in his seat with an uncomfortable look on his face.

“Saryn is no fool,” Ayrion continued, tapping a finger on the table in front of him, “and I can’t imagine he would be here if he didn’t believe that somehow he stood a chance of winning.”

“Perhaps Saryn has finally reached the point of desperation,” Dakaran said, motioning with his glass. “It’s no secret his people are starving, and he knows the Black Hills could produce enough reserves to support his kingdom for years to come.”

“My son brings an interesting observation,” Rhydan acknowledged. “Most animals would rather run and hide than fight, but you back one into a corner and . . .” He shrugged.

Tolin crossed his arms. “Our scouts have reported no hidden armsmen. No extra recruitment. No reinforcements of any kind.” He gestured out the front of the shelter in the same direction Ayrion had earlier. “What you see lying before you is the extent of their offensive.” The others followed his gaze out across the battlefield toward the opposing army.

Ayrion turned around. “All the same, I would feel better if we kept the king here, behind the lines.”

“I will not sit idly by and watch as my men fight and die while I do nothing.”

“We do not consider your presence here as nothing, Your Majesty,” Tolin said with a proud look. “Having you with us is a show of strength for our men.”

Dakaran stood from where he had been reclining, “I agree with the commander, Father.” He laid his glass aside. “You need to be kept safe. If something were to happen to you, it would be just as great a tragedy for the kingdom as losing the battle.”

For once Ayrion agreed with Dakaran. “And I will be here to see to that protection, my king,” Ayrion said, nodding his agreement.

Dakaran appeared hesitant. “Do you think that wise, Guardian?”

All three turned to look at Dakaran.

“What I meant to say is, I would have thought your talents would be better used to see a swift end to this conflict on the battlefield.” He moved a step closer to his father and smiled. “My guards and I can protect the king.”

“The duty of the Guardian Protector and High Guard has always been to the king and his safety alone,” Ayrion said, leaving no room for argument. “Commander Tolin and his lancers are more than capable of handling the offensive.” He offered a polite nod in Tolin’s direction.

Dakaran smiled and graciously bowed his head. “Of course, you are correct.”

“Enough of this bickering,” the king said, gathering the attention of those around the table. “It’s settled then. I will direct from here, Ayrion and his men will guard the rise, and the commander has the field. Now, Commander, how about showing me once more what you had planned for this third division here.”

All eyes returned to the pre-laid plans Tolin had scribed earlier, all eyes except Dakaran, who, after refilling his goblet, retired to his seat in the corner and continued to sulk.

Chapter 59 | Tolin

BREAKFAST WAS HASTILY eaten as the lancers formed ranks in preparation for the upcoming battle. The division heads met with Commander Tolin to review the strategies and receive their orders. Once all discussions had been made and orders given, the officers proceeded to their assigned stations to begin briefing their men.

Tolin stepped from his tent, which had officially become the garrison’s headquarters. “At ease.” He returned the salutes of two sentries posted outside to keep watch over the battle plans, as well as oversee the protection of their commander. As much as Tolin detested war, he did enjoy the excitement it brought with it.

Tolin was a man of strict order and discipline. He held firm to the belief of always being prepared. The only way to win was to set a contingency for every possible outcome and mitigate the likelihood of surprise. He loved to watch a well-drawn plan come to life, all the pieces of the puzzle fitting in their places and functioning as a whole to bring about the desired outcome. It was thrilling. He hoped that didn’t make him a sadist. He didn’t enjoy seeing his men hurt or killed, but he did enjoy the game. As long as his side came out victorious.

Tolin found Ayrion and Captain Barthol near the front lines. Moving alongside the other two, he gazed across the open field at the black and red uniforms of the Cylmaran forces on the other side.

“They seem to be waiting for something,” Ayrion said, acknowledging Tolin’s arrival.

“Any idea as to what?”

“None. That’s what has me worried.”

Tolin understood. “I’m beginning to get that uneasy feeling myself,” he admitted. “The Cylmaran forces are nothing more than a rag-tag group of mercenaries who have been well paid out of the pockets of overtaxed citizens. They have neither the resources nor the manpower that we bring with us, and yet, here they are.”

“My mam always warned us boys before we went a-courtin’,” Barthol interjected, “‘Just because she looks sweet and smells sweet, don’t mean that she is’.” He crossed his massive arms as he rocked back and forth. “It’s the so-called easy victories that tend to be the most difficult, and costly.”

“Aye,” Tolin agreed. If it seemed to be too good to be true, it generally was. He turned to Ayrion. “I’ve had word the scouts we sent out last night have returned. I’d like you to sit in on their debriefing, if you have the time. To be honest, I’m a bit worried by their late arrival. I had expected them back hours ago.”

“I’ll see to the guard while you do that,” Barthol said as he took one last gander at the opposing army before turning around and disappearing back into the sea of rankers.

“He’s a good man, Barthol is,” Tolin said as he directed Ayrion back toward the lancer command post.

“To a fault.”

“Reminds me of Overcaptain Asa. I wouldn’t be half the commander you see here today without Asa’s support and loyalty.”

“Barthol has been more than my right arm, that’s for sure. He’s one of the closest friends a man could ask for.”

As they made their way through the encampment, Tolin could feel the weight of unease in the air resting heavily on the lancers as they waited for something to happen. He would have almost preferred the fighting to the unending apprehension of waiting for it. What his men were not saying spoke volumes as to their state of mind as they maintained an active presence around the outskirts of the battlefield.

The two sentries pulled back the canvas partitions to the lancer staging area and stepped aside to allow them entrance. Ayrion was close on his heels. Stepping into the dimly lit room, Tolin wrinkled his nose as he was overpowered by the smell of hard sweat and old horse. There were four men standing in front of his desk. By their appearance, they looked to have seen some hard miles and rough road over their evening’s excursion.

The scouts were not arrayed in the same livery as the lancer core. Instead they were given the opportunity to wear what best suited their needs in remaining unseen while traveling through enemy territory. Each man wore an assortment of thick furs that covered most of their bodies. From a distance, they looked more like a pack of ratty badgers than a team of Elondrian lookouts.

Tolin sat behind his desk and gestured to an empty chair at the side for Ayrion. On the left side of the doorway stood Overcaptain Asa, scratching at his eye patch as he waited for the scouts to relay their findings.

Tolin directed his attention to the man on the right. “Terris, let’s start with you?”

A middle-aged man with disheveled hair draping his shoulders and a full beard covering a long face stepped forward and pulled off his fur hat before offering a quick salute. “Sir, Ellson and I, we rode south along the Pyruvian River at least a good ten miles before cutting west and around the Cylmaran forces. We spent the remainder of the night in Cylmaran territory looking for signs of additional armsmen, but I’m happy to report we found none. There were no signs of heavy-crossings along the river, only local traffic.” He saluted again and stepped back.

Tolin felt distinctly upbeat about the news.

“Did you follow the main road into Cylmar?” Overcaptain Asa asked.

“Yes, sir,” Terris replied. “As well as a few of the local fields and surrounding forests that would have also lent a possible route in case they tried concealing their movements, but still nothing.”

“Very well,” Tolin said as he glanced at the other two. “Merrick, what about you and Bayle? Any sign of movement to the north?”

Merrick, a short, round man with a square-cut goatee that didn’t quite fit his chubby face, stepped forward and saluted. “Sir, we headed north toward the base of the Black Hills and then cut west around the Cylmaran ranks, but as the others, we found no signs indicating any additional forces.” The scout saluted and stepped back beside his partner.

Tolin couldn’t help but appreciate the very blunt and very brief report the short man had laid out regarding their findings. He also couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the others. “I thought there were three sets of scouts?”

“There were,” Asa replied, taking a moment to adjust his eye patch, “but the third team hasn’t returned as of yet, which has me a little troubled since they had the least distance to travel.”

“Where were they sent?”

Asa scratched his chin, rubbing his fingers down his perfectly shaped ducktail beard. “I sent them to scout the passes in the Black Hills.” Turning to his side, the captain coughed up some phlegm, and not seeing a place to spit, he reluctantly swallowed. “We don’t want those flamin’ Cylmarans sneakin’ up our backsides in the night.”

Tolin took a deep breath and turned to the scouts. “I hate to do this to you, but if something has happened, we need to know before we find ourselves in a situation from which we can’t fight our way out.”

Merrick saluted. “I can ride, sir. Roan and Arnst are friends, and if something did happen to them, I want to know.” The other three sounded their enthusiasm as well.

“Excellent.” Tolin stood from his seat. “How soon can you leave?”

“We’ll need fresh mounts and supplies,” Merrick said as he pursed his lips in thought. “I would say within the next half-hour.” He looked at the others for verification. They nodded.

“Very well. Keep up the good work, gentlemen. You’re dismissed.” The scouts raised their fists in salute and left. Tolin could only hope that what they found was nothing more than a lame horse, but something in his gut said differently. He had a bad feeling about this whole situation.

Chapter 60 | Dakaran

PRINCE DAKARAN RETREATED to his temporary dwelling at the center of the encampment.

One of the white-clad guards of the Black Watch lifted the flap aside, allowing him passage. He walked around the privacy wall toward the back and was startled by a tall, lanky figure robed in crimson. The mitre atop his head reminded Dakaran of one of the palace spires.

“Where have you been?” Dakaran demanded with a noticeable slur as he reached for his glass and poured some more wine. “I was looking for you earlier, but it seems no one saw you leave.” It seemed his counselor was always lurking behind closed doors or pulled shutters. He wondered if he might have made a miscalculation in his choice of advisors. Oh well, he mused, his eyes glistening over the rim of his fluted chalice as he lifted it to his lips, I can always have him disposed of after I take the throne.

“I can come and go without being seen, Your Highness,” Valtor said with a very small bow, his eyes dark around the edges from an apparent lack of sleep, “a most helpful trait if you find yourself enabling two opposing forces.”

Dakaran seated himself and threw his feet on the table. “So tell me, oh great mediator, is everything in readiness?”

“It will be.” Valtor turned his attention to the table at the back, which held a few of his dark tomes. “I have a few minor details which need some smoothing.”

Dakaran raised a brow. “That doesn’t quite fill me with confidence.”

“You might want to go easy on the wine, Your Highness. You’ll need a clear head if we are to be successful in this little coup.”

Dakaran finished off the glass with a long, slow gulp. “Stop worrying about my drink, and start worrying about those wrinkles you need to smooth. The only reason Saryn promised his forces was to give us the opportunity to oust my father under the guise of war, but with little ol’ righteous Aryion always hanging over my father’s shoulder, it’s going to be rather difficult.”

“Don’t worry about the guardian. I have something special planned for him and his men.”

Dakaran’s enthusiasm rose, along with his brows. “Oh? Do tell.”

“I’d rather let it be a surprise, Your Highness. But as you know, men die in battle all the time, as do kings.”

Dakaran raised his glass with a wobbly hand. “And so do Guardian Protectors.” Leaving his seat, the prince placed his goblet on the table and headed for the back of the cramped dwelling. “I’m going to get some rest. Wake me if anything important happens.”

“Wise decision, Your Highness.”

Dakaran watched from his bed with a careful, yet blurry, eye as Valtor grabbed a couple of books and packed them into his riding satchel.  He also collected his disturbing looking staff with its wolf-shaped head before making his way to the front of the tent.

“And where are you sneaking off to?”

Valtor stopped at the entrance and turned. “I’m on my way to iron out a few of those wrinkles, Your Highness. Nothing to concern yourself with.” He bowed slightly. “By your leave?”

Dakaran waved his hand in dismissal before rolling over on his back and staring at the designs stitched into the material overhead. He could hear the tent flap dropping back into place. I don’t like him, Dakaran mused with a sneer. He makes me nervous. There’s something shifty about his eyes, or maybe it’s those bony fingers, always tapping. Hmm? Yes, he will definitely have to go.

With the wine taking its toll, Dakaran drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 61 | Merrick

TRUE TO HIS ESTIMATION, Merrick and the other scouts were on their way out of the encampment with fresh horses and additional supplies within half an hour. The sun was just peeking out from the hills behind them. Its light did more than guide their path. It promised to curb the chill of their overnight excursion.

They headed north along the main road, skirting the waters of the Pyruvian and continued in the general direction of the Black Hills and their connecting passes into the Kingdom of Cylmar.

After a couple of hours of hard riding, without seeing another living soul, the scouts reined up at an adjoining crossroad. It wound its way back across the Cylmaran border, avoiding the Black Hills altogether.

Terris hopped off his horse. He and Ellson had followed the road last night when scouting the northern side of the Cylmaran flanks. “It appears to be just as we left it.” Terris knelt in the dirt beside his horse and thoroughly scanned the rough terrain. “I don’t see any additional movement here, Merrick.”

“We best press on, then.” Merrick turned his horse northward.

They rode through the rest of the morning and into the afternoon before reaching the opening to the first pass leading into the mountains. The dark deposits of granite were a clear indicator of how this range had received its name. The two passes in and through the Black Hills had been opened for the use of mining operations. However, because of the increase in raiders coming out of Cylmar, they were closed for the season.

The pass was wide enough for two haulers, but no more.

Merrick, Ellson, and Terris dismounted and carefully scanned the mouth. There were deep rutted grooves in the flooring of the rock where the heavy wagons, laden with the newly mined ore, would travel. The fresh deposits were then taken to Aramoor for processing.

“I’ll be a scoutin’ ahead, boss,” Bayle said in his deep seafaring accent. He moved his horse into the pass and trotted toward the first turn.

Merrick nodded and turned to the others. “Ellson, can you ride north and make sure nothing is moving south from the second pass? I would hate to get stuck in here with no way to retreat.” The young scout nodded and swung his horse north. He kept to a good pace as he continued up the main road.

After feeling assured there had been no large-scale movement of men in any recent days, Merrick and Terris mounted and made their way into the pass. The echoes from their horse’s hooves reverberated off the solid walls rising hundreds of feet into the air around them. Like an enormous tomb, the passage held an eerie sense of finality.

During the winter months, the caps would cover in snow, periodically avalanching through the pass and blocking all access. For this reason, they kept the ironworks closed through the colder season, usually cutting off production near the beginning of Akòsi and not starting back up until the middle of Manù.

Rounding the first corner, Merrick could see Bayle up ahead kneeling beside his horse and scanning the path for recent activity. Merrick reined in alongside. He watched as the stout sailor moved a few rocks out of the way while checking for tracks. “I be seein’ two recent sets leadin’ in,” he said, still glancing at the grooves in the overlaying dust, “but I don’t be seein’ any leadin’ out.”

Merrick took a deep breath and released. He didn’t like the feeling worming around in his gut.

“If I remember correctly,” Terris said with an understandably apprehensive tone, “the pass splits a couple miles ahead. The left will take you out toward the Cylmaran side of the mountains, and the right takes you back toward the mines.”

Bayle swung back into his saddle. “Shouldn’t we be a waitin’ fer Ellson?”

“We’ll take it slow,” Merrick said as he twisted in his saddle to glance at the passageway behind them. “If he hasn’t caught up to us by the time we reach the fork, we’ll leave a marker for him to follow.”

The other two flanked him as they continued down the pass toward the next curve. All three kept a close eye on the trail for any indication as to what had happened to their missing comrades.

The shallow padding of their horse’s hooves was the only sound present within the vast corridor of stone. A sense of unease slithered down Merrick’s back like fingertips stroking his skin. Raising a gloved hand, he rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t like this at all.

The silence was beginning to eat at them. The farther in they traveled the jumpier they became. “What be that?” asked Bayle, bringing the small group to a halt for the third time. They strained their ears for a hint of anything, but the only sound was the howling of the wind as it occasionally whipped through the tunnels from the peaks above.

“That be your imagination,” Terris mumbled, sounding more than a little frustrated at the constant stopping and starting.

By midafternoon, they had managed to reach the forked split. They climbed down from their mounts and scoured the open ground around both trail heads, trying to piece together which direction Roan and Arnst had taken the previous night. “It appears they took the pass toward the mines,” Terris said as he moved a few rock fragments with the toe of his boot to get a good look at the hoofprints underneath.

Bayle held the horses while Merrick checked the left side. “I’m not seeing any recent tracks heading back toward the other end of the pass.”

“That be makin’ not a lick a sense,” Bayle said. “Why would ye be a-headin’ toward the mines, if ye be a lookin’ for armsmen comin’ from Cylmar? That trail be only one way.”

“Well, something obviously gave them cause to search the ironworks.”

The tension in Merrick’s neck was growing more pervasive. “Let’s eat a quick bite and give Ellson a chance to catch up before moving further in.” He pulled out a small bundle of wrapped cheese and sliced meat with a couple of hardtack biscuits on the side. The other two followed his example, washing it down with a little brandy from their corked bladders.

A quarter of an hour passed and still no Ellson. Merrick re-wrapped the rest of his food and stuffed it back in the satchel. “We need to keep going.” He watched Terris walk over to the right fork and with a nearby rock, draw a simple mark in the dust, signaling the direction they were taking.

Merrick waited for Terris to remount before the three headed in.

“How fer be these ironworks?” Bayle asked, trying to break the uneasy tension.

“I’m not sure,” Terris replied. “I haven’t been here since I was a child. My father used to work these mines years ago.”

“The mines are hard work, there’s no denying that,” Merrick said as he watched the ground in front of his horse. “They say it takes a special breed of man to handle them. Because of the intermittent coal deposits, most end up dying from black lung.”

“My father didn’t last long enough to get black lung,” Terris said, his voice a bit hesitant. “He was killed trying to rescue some men from a partially collapsed tunnel when a secondary shaft buckled on top of them.”

“I be right sorry to hear that.”

Terris nodded his appreciation in Bayle’s direction. “They say he didn’t suffer, that it would have been a quick death.”

“You can be thankful for that,” Merrick chimed in, not knowing what else to say to console his comrade.

“Aye,” Terris agreed. “He died saving his men. You couldn’t ask for more than that.”

“That be the truth there, ain’t no denyin’.”

They continued in silence. An hour later, the pass widened and eventually opened into a large canyon which held the mines, the ironworks, and the distribution center. Littering the canyon floor were a number of wooden shacks, serving as a small functioning community for the workers. In the off season, however, everything lay vacant.

“Right spooky it is,” Bayle remarked as he scanned the gorge. “Remindin’ me of them forgotten cities in the northeast region of Keldor after Ash Mount done blew her top. The cities all still be there, but with all them dead, the people decided they wasn’t about to be returnin’. They up and left with nary a look back. Now, only mercenaries, bandits, and maybe some of those Upaka be goin’ near ‘em.”

“Let’s split up and see if we can’t cover more ground,” Merrick said. He pointed at the ground. “There’s too much damage on this floor to pick up a decent trail.” He glanced at Terris. “You take Bayle with you around the right side and I’ll start here and head left. We’ll meet in the middle by those loading docks on the far side.” He pointed toward a couple of dilapidated buildings corralled together near the back of the gorge.

Terris slid off his horse. “I suggest we keep the noise to a minimum. Obviously, we aren’t seeing any soldiers, but I still don’t like this strange disappearance by Roan and Arnst.” He pulled his sword from its sheath. “Better to look a fool and live, than to not and die.”

“There is wisdom in that,” Merrick stated, untying his bow and quiver from his horse. “I’ll see you fellas on the other side.” He nocked an arrow and started toward the first outbuilding. It looked like one of the main barracks built for the workers to find a cot while waiting for their next shift in the mines.

Stepping onto the rickety wooden porch leading to the front door, he faltered as his foot broke through one of the rotten boards. Pulling his leg out, Merrick glanced over his shoulder at Terris and Bayle to see if they had witnessed his embarrassing slip. They were apparently too preoccupied with their own search to look his way. Merrick could see a glint of sun reflecting off of Bayle’s large battle-axe as the two trackers cautiously approached their first building.

Moving forward, Merrick kept a closer eye on where he planted his feet. The windows he passed had all been shuttered, which left no clear light for visibility inside. He reached out, still maintaining a solid grip on his bow, and pushed down on the latch to release the door. It slid open with a slow, annoying creak. “My great gran’s knees don’t sound that bad,” he said, trying to lighten the mood and stave off the fear which had been stalking him ever since they had first made their way into the lonely mountains.

Quietly, he stepped inside. Swinging his bow left and then right, he scanned the room. The place was dark, save for the rays of light piercing through the cracks in the shutters. They revealed a heavy amount of dust floating in the air, but nothing else. It was indeed a barracks, with small empty cots lining the two outer walls, leaving a narrow walkway down the middle. Not finding any signs of life, he left, firmly closing the door behind him before headed on to the next.

One by one, they checked every building around the perimeter of the ironworks, but to no avail.

With no other options, Merrick led the other two in the direction of the mines. He was hoping not to have to visit the dark tunnels, but under the present circumstances, they couldn’t afford to leave any stone unturned. With weapons out and at the ready, they stepped inside the largest.

“Here you be,” Bayle said as he reached into a pile of discarded tools and pulled out an old lantern. Terris lit the wick with a striker from his pocket and secured the glass covering as Bayle swung the lantern around, working to get his bearings.

“Hold it steady,” Terris scolded as he tripped on one of the cart rails that lead down into the bowels of the mountain. “It’s hard enough trying to walk around in here with nothing but a lamp, but you swinging it all over the place makes it nigh on impossible.”

“Oh, sorry ‘bout dat,” Bayle said, glancing nervously in all directions. “I’ve kind’ve got me a fear of small dark spaces. Why’d you think I first be a-choosin’ the sea as me trade.”

Merrick coughed from the amount of dust floating in the air. “I hear something ahead,” he whispered to the others, struggling to maintain a steady focus on putting one foot in front of the other. The noise grew in volume. It was strange, almost like an underground river with its waters echoing off the inside of the rock walls, but more sporadic. They slowed as they could tell they were getting closer to the source. “It has to be just around the next corner.”

Merrick started forward, but a loud crash behind him brought him up short. He turned to see their lamp rolling on the ground in his direction and Bayle lying flat on his face.

“What happened?” Merrick helped Terris haul the plucky man back to his feet before collecting the still rolling lantern.

“By thunder!” Bayle barked. He brushed off his knees and turned around to see what had happened.

Merrick retrieved the lantern and walked back to where the other two were staring at something on the ground. He lowered the light to get a better view of the obstacle.

“Merciful Creator,” Terris exclaimed. His eyes bulged.

“What in the name of the Defiler be that?” Bayle asked, his eyes just as wide as Terris’s mouth.

Merrick leaned in a little closer. The smell alone was suffocating, reeking of death, and there was a strong, metallic taste in the air. “It’s a piece of a leg, I think,” Merrick said as he tried moving it some more. He raised the light a little further and a couple more pieces of flesh came into view. Battle-hardened as he was, it was still difficult to take in. “I guess we found Roan and Arnst. I recognize Roan’s belt knife. He won it off me a couple years back in a card game.” He retrieved the small dagger and stuffed it into the back of his pants.

“I be thinkin’ it be about time to go,” Bayle said as he nervously glanced at the others, clearly trying to keep his eyes from looking back down at the array of familiar pieces below him.

Merrick wanted nothing more than to be gone from the place as well, but he couldn’t make himself turn and leave. “I want to see what did this.” Sticking to the pads of his feet, he crept his way toward the next corner of the tunnel. “I owe ‘em that much.”

“Have you plum lost what little sense your mama gave you?” Terris called after him.

Reluctantly, the others followed.

There was a sliver of light ahead which bounced off the wall in front of them, coming from somewhere around the next bend. They quickly realized the noise, which was beginning to sound more garbled now, was not coming from a single source but from multiple sources. Laying the lantern down so as not to give notice to their arrival, Merrick stepped closer to the edge of the rock wall and shifted his body around one of the wooden bracers.

“What’s that noise?” Bayle whispered. “It be soundin’ like . . . like . . .”

Without saying another word, they peered around the corner. Their bodies went rigid. On the other side was an enormous cavern, its walls lined with multiple tunnels, each heading in a separate direction. In the center of the cavern was a large fire pit where flames cast eerie shadows across the entire hollowed-out fissure. And surrounding the pit was the source of the dark grating sounds.

“Hor’hounds.”

Chapter 62 | Merrick

MERRICK COULD BARELY believe his eyes.

Legends told of a time when these creatures were said to have roamed the outer fringes of Aldor. They had been created during the Wizard Wars but were driven back into the Northern Territories and sealed beyond the Great Wall of Bel’Taag after the fall of the Second Age.

Hor’hounds were said to be one part canine, one part wolf, and one part dark magic. They were three times the size of a full grown mountain wolf and just as ferocious. Seeing them with his own eyes, Merrick figured the stories didn’t come close to doing them justice.

The entire place smelled of moist rock, burnt coal, and wet dog. A unique and mind-numbing combination to say the least.

As frightening as it was to see these dark creatures, something else caused his bowels to squeeze. Stepping through the horde of enormous beasts was a solitary figure draped in a dark shroud and carrying a silver tipped half-staff. The wraith-like apparition was too far away for Merrick to notice any discernable features, and he wasn’t about to attempt getting any closer in hopes of doing so.

“Patience, my friends, your time is coming,” the robed figure consoled, his voice booming across the granite surfaces. “Tomorrow, you will feast on the flesh of kings.” All across the cavern, they answered his promise with the sounds of their voracious appetites.

Merrick edged his way back from the corner in preparation for a hasty withdrawal when he and Terris realized Bayle was nowhere to be seen. The former sailor had apparently left them standing there as soon as his eyes lighted on the hounds. He was probably halfway back to the entrance by now.

Merrick retrieved the lantern and the two of them made for the exit with as much speed and stealth as they could muster. Their pace quickened with each new step. Merrick kept his eyes to the ground as he struggled to keep his footing. They finally broke into a solid run once the light from the entrance came into view.

Terris, with his longer legs and leaner frame, was the first to burst from the mine. With what he knew lay behind them, Merrick wasn’t finding it all that difficult to match pace. His shorter legs were no equal to that of his lanky friend, but his determination was just as strong.

Without sparing a glance behind, they made a directly for the horses. Bayle was already mounted, and to his credit, holding theirs at the ready. Barely having time to swing his leg over, Merrick spurred his animal into action and the scouts rode for the pass on the far side.

Up ahead, Terris was the first to reach the mouth of the pass with Bayle nipping at his heels. Merrick brought up the rear. He shifted in his saddle to get one last look at the mines. The wind from his horse’s pace whipped through his hair. Nothing seemed to be following. The place was once again devoid of life. He wondered what would have happened had the ironworks still been in use. He offered a quick prayer of thanks it wasn’t as he turned around and urged his horse even faster.

The thought of slowing down through the treacherous curves of the rocky corridor never even crossed their minds as the three men pushed their steeds as hard as they could. They made great time through the passes leading back to the main fork. Rounding the last bend, they spotted the split in the channel ahead. One heading right toward Cylmar, and the other left, back toward Elondria.

“Keep going!” Merrick shouted ahead, making sure that Terris and Bayle didn’t stop to check for tracks. “We need to warn the king!”

They were just about to reach the intersecting branch when two hor’hounds stepped out from the right fork, probably on their way back to the main pack. It was a toss-up as to who was more surprised: the creatures, the horses, or the three scouts. But it was clearly the men who were the most unprepared as the two wolf-like creatures bared their fangs and charged.

Merrick watched Terris’s horse get thrown against the side of the mountain wall with a loud crunch. The lanky man screamed in pain. Merrick could see that his friend’s leg was pinned between his horse and the mountain. It all happened so fast, there was nothing he could have done. Terris’s quick thinking kept him alive as he unsheathed his sword in time to land a solid backswing on the hound, turning the beast back as it lunged for him.

“Hold on, Terris, I be a-com’n!” the big seaman hollered as he swung his horse around with battle-axe in hand. Bayle rode in behind the hound, swinging his heavy weapon to keep its attention drawn away from where Terris was desperately trying to free his crushed leg.

While the other two kept one of the hounds at bay, Merrick focused on the second. With his bow out and arrow nocked, he drew on the enormous creature from atop his horse. Merrick watched the hor’hound as he stared down the length of his metal-tipped shaft. The creature looked vicious. Its jaws were parted, allowing for long runs of saliva to hang from the corners.

“Come taste my steel, you ugly excuse for a mangy mutt!”

The hound, clearly not caring much for the name calling, made the first move. Using its strong legs, it took only two leaps for the hor’hound to reach him. The horse went down from the impact, but not before Merrick buried his shaft through the creature’s shoulder blade. It stumbled and rolled across the loose rock, howling in fury.

Merrick, having lost his quiver in the fall, dropped his bow into the dust and pulled out a couple of long daggers. While the wolf-like creature in front of him worked to get his mouth around the arrow and pull it free, Merrick edged his way closer to the adjacent side of the pass. He pulled his frightened horse along with him.

To his left, the first creature dove at the wall and using it for footing, sprung off it and through the air, knocking Bayle from his horse. The impact ripped his axe from his fingers. Merrick’s breath caught in his throat. There was nothing worse in battle than to lose your weapon.

Hollering like a madman, Bayle soared through the air, landing hard against a flat boulder on the other side. There wasn’t anything Merrick could do for his comrade. He was simply too far away. Bayle shook his head and worked to get his bearings.

Merrick watched helplessly as the creature closed in. Bayle crawled, frantically trying to reach his fallen weapon, but it was obvious that the hound was too close. The creature slowly circled, playing with the man’s desperation. “Well, hang me from the yardarm and watch me dance. I should never have left the open waters.”

With no way left to defend himself, Bayle began wielding the only weapon he had available—his tongue. And with language that could have only been uttered by a true seafaring man, Bayle let fly every name in the book, and a few he’d evidently created special for just such an occasion. By the time the long string of dark curses and humorous names had been spouted, he was out of breath and looking quite rejuvenated.

Merrick spared a quick glance back at the second creature. Its attention was still preoccupied with pulling the shaft from its side, so he turned back to his friend just as the grizzly hound made a quick lunge for him. But instead of getting its jaws around his neck for an instant kill, Bayle managed to raise a defensive block with his arm. The creature sunk its huge fangs straight to the bone. Bayle cried out in pain as the hor’hound shook him like a doll.

Merrick was afraid to continue watching. He knew at any moment his friend’s arm would be ripped from his body. Suddenly Terris was there, crushed leg and all, flying through the air like a spider monkey with his sword raised and ready to strike. The lanky man landed directly on top of the unholy creature and drove his blade straight through its back. The hound went instantly stiff. Its jaws loosened and Bayle pulled his ravaged arm free.

The hound in front of Merrick, having finally given up its attempt to pull the arrow from its thick hide, slowly narrowed the distance between them. Merrick could see the hatred and bloodlust in its eyes. It would either have him or die.

“You want a piece of me!” Merrick taunted as he moved his short, stocky frame away from the wall and waited for the inevitable. “Come and get it!”

The hound reared its head and released what sounded like a barking howl before charging. Merrick barked his own defiance and braced himself. Waiting till the last possible moment, he sidestepped the creature’s advance and tried spearing the beast with his daggers. He managed to plunge one in its side, but lost hold on the other as the hound knocked him from his feet. The creature spun on his hind paws and charged again. Merrick didn’t have enough time to counter. He rolled over and tried to make it back to his feet when the hor’hound unexpectedly tumbled to the ground and landed on top of him.

Merrick wheezed as the impact knocked the air from his lungs. There was only one thought that flooded his mind: Kill the beast. He plunged his dagger into the unmoving creature’s back. Then he pulled it out and did it again. In and out he stabbed, and kept stabbing until his arm gave out. Finally coming to the realization that the animal was dead, he struggled to push the lifeless carcass aside.

He reached his hand over the creature in hopes of finding some better leverage to work with when his hand bumped against something protruding from the hor’hound’s neck. It was Bayle’s battle-axe.

“I guess you showed it,” Terris said with a half-laugh, half-groan as he hobbled over to help pull Merrick out from under the beast.

Merrick, feeling a little embarrassed by the whole situation, struggled to his feet and removed Bayle’s axe. “We need to get back to camp.”

“Aye, that be true enough,” Bayle said as he let Terris wrap his damaged arm.

After helping both Terris and Bayle back onto their skittish horses, Merrick went about cleaning the blood from their blades and stowing them back in their carriers. He quickly retrieved his quiver and bow before swinging himself onto his mount. He patted her down, hoping to calm her frayed nerves. It proved to be more calming to him than to her.

Without waiting to see if their deadly battle had been heard, they spurred their horses forward, heading back toward the Elondrian side of the Black Hills. The late evening sky had begun to darken as they rounded the last curve leading out.

Merrick pulled back on his reins, causing Bayle to nearly collide with him. “Watch it now! I be hold’n on with only me one good hand,” he said before catching sight of why Merrick had stopped. Directly ahead lay a bloodied horse and rider, too badly torn to be easily recognizable.

Merrick took a deep breath and then immediately regretted it as his stomach rose to the back of his throat.

“I guess we know why we never heard from Ellson,” Terris said in a disheartened tone.

Merrick shook his head in disgust. “He was just a kid.” He looked over at the others. He could feel the anger building as the blood warmed his face. “Let’s move. We have a long ride ahead of us.”

Chapter 63 | Orlyn

ORLYN FOUND HIMSELF whistling as he went about closing up his quaint shop on the northwest side of the River Street Promenade. The sun had found its resting place a few hours ago and his stomach had been arguing with him about the proper time for feeding when Sorna Blaudell finished paying for her small bag of dorak root. With a lingering smile, she offered her final goodbyes.

“Will I be seeing you at Performance Night next week, Orlyn?”

“Well, I, uh . . . I don’t know. That could be a likely possibility.” Orlyn hadn’t been blessed with the gift of knowing what to say to a woman as persistent as Sorna. He tended to get tongue-tied. He didn’t know why. He never had any problem talking with Reloria, or Nilla, or any of the other woman on the wielder council, apart from Sheeva of course, whom everyone had trouble communicating with. Although, the white-haired assassin did seem to respond well to Kellen, but then again, Orlyn had yet to meet a person who Kellen couldn’t connect with.

Sorna had been after Orlyn for over twenty years. Her husband had been killed in a milling accident some twenty-six years back. With all the coin she had spent at Orlyn’s shop trying to garner his attention, she could have rightly managed to open her own.

Having never married himself, Orlyn had always used the excuse that he just didn’t have the time to be worrying about raising some other man’s brood. But now that the last of her seven children had left the nest, he was quickly running out of excuses. To be honest, he had always been afraid that her children would reject having another man take over their father’s place, and with that many in the household, it would have been very hard to compete for attention.

“I will save you a seat in case you change your mind,” she said with a wink as she closed the door behind her.

Realizing he was just standing there in the middle of the shop with a stupid grin on his face, he shook his head. “You old fool.” He locked the door and hung the “closed” sign in the window before pulling down the curtain. “Goodnight and sweet dreams, my beauties,” he said as he turned back to the plants lining the rows of his homemade shelving. With a whistle, he set about stowing the glass jars and refilling their contents from the canisters he kept in the back.

The front bell of his shop rang out with the announcement of a new customer.

“I thought I just locked that?” Too bad they don’t make an herb for being old and senile. “We’re closed,” Orlyn called from the back of the shop. When no answer came, he shrugged and finished screwing the cork back on a bottle of burdock. With winter coming he was sure to need a hefty supply for the overabundance of sore throats.

Lifting himself from where he had been kneeling, Orlyn walked back out to the front and nearly tripped on his own feet when he realized there was someone leaning against the next shelf over. “Oh!” he said, grabbing his chest. “You startled me.” Orlyn wondered why the man hadn’t let his presence be known when he had called out earlier. The stranger had a tall build, not as tall as Orlyn, but broader in the shoulders. The man left off his perusing to turn and look at Orlyn.

“Are you the apothecary?”

Orlyn thought that a rather strange question to ask while standing in the middle of an apothecary’s shop. “My name is Orlyn. Can I help you with something?”

“Yes, I believe you can.” The man’s smile matched his hair—greasy with a slick edge. There was something in his eyes that gave a dangerous impression.

“As I said earlier, I’m closed for the day.” Orlyn did his best to think of an excuse to get the man to leave. “Can your business wait till the morrow?”

“Afraid not,” the man said, taking a step forward.

Orlyn, being made nervous by the situation, started easing his way back toward the storage room where he had laid his staff just inside the doorway. “Well, unless this is an emergency, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He took another two steps.

The man smiled again. “Where are you going?”

“I . . . I just need to get something from the back.”

“Something like this?” The man reached behind the shelving unit he had been leaning against and pulled out Orlyn’s staff. Orlyn froze. How did he get that? No longer caring about hiding his intentions, Orlyn started backing toward the storage room. He kept his eye on the man holding his staff.

The slick-haired intruder rushed him. Anticipating the move, Orlyn grabbed hold of the nearest set of standing shelves and with all his might, heaved them to the side, hoping to collapse them on top of his pursuer. The man was too light on his feet. He managed to dive and roll out of the way just as the shelves hit the ground. Orlyn made a dash for the back-room, but ran straight into a second robed intruder. Before he could come to a complete stop, the man raised his hand and blew some kind of powder in his face.

Orlyn staggered backwards. “Ah, chicken stink!” He recognized the pungent scent of liniment in the air as his knees buckled and everything went black.

Orlyn’s eyes snapped open and he let out a startled yelp as a wave of cold water struck him hard across the face. The sudden sensation pulled him from his drug-induced state. He was nauseous. His stomach took over and he dry-heaved. Orlyn felt like he had received a few good kicks to the gut, but figured it was merely a side effect of whatever potion they had blown in his face. There was a funny taste in his mouth. Moving his tongue, he realized he had been gagged.

“He’s awake, missus.”

The room might have been dark but Orlyn could still see the white cloak of a Black Watch guard standing there holding an upturned pail. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the remaining water dripping from his beard, bangs, and thick brows. He tried to move but found he couldn’t. It didn’t take long to see he had been tied to his chair. His ankles were bound to the front legs and his arms had been tied off behind.

Glancing around the dark room, Orlyn tried to gain his bearings. From what he could see by the light of the torch being held by one of the guards, he appeared to be in one of the Sidaran barracks. There were simple panel boards lining the floor and walls, cots down both sides, and between each empty bed were walled racks for easy access to weapons. Unfortunately, they happened to be empty, not that he could have done anything about it had they been fully stocked. There were a few hushed whispers coming from the darker recesses ahead and the foul scent of dark magic permeated the air. Whatever was going on had obviously been well planned.

From out of the shadows a dark figure shuffled forward, completely cloaked by a long black robe. “Is this him?” The woman’s voice from under her cowl sounded to be at least a hundred years old. Orlyn strained to catch a glimpse of the face beneath, but it was useless. He could barely see three paces in front of his chair. Besides, there wasn’t much point in trying. He knew exactly who this was, and he wasn’t about to give her what she wanted.

“That’s him,” he heard another woman reply from somewhere off to his right. The second woman, whoever she was, was evidently afraid. Her voice shook as she spoke. “He . . . he used his magic plants to try to seduce me.” A couple of the guards chuckled. “You just ask Fatunya if he didn’t. She’ll tell you I speak the truth.”

Orlyn was aghast. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. If he hadn’t been so tightly bound, he’d have wrung Helene’s skinny neck.

“If I had stayed in his shop a moment longer,” she continued, “I shudder to think what might have happened to my womanly virtue.”

“From the look of you,” one of the guards cut in, “not much.” The other guards broke into laughter while Helene broke down into an unconvincing fit of sobs. Orlyn sat there in shock. He was being sold out to the White Tower because two old busybodies who had been startled by a simple plant?

“I’m just doing my duty as an upstanding citizen of Easthaven.” Orlyn could almost hear the stiffness in Helene’s voice. He could picture her chin held high as she tried to justify her actions.

“Of course you are, my dear.” Using her cane for support, the black-robed individual turned to look at Helene. “I’m through with her.”

Just when Orlyn thought Helene could stoop no lower, she opened her mouth again. “Do I . . . Do I collect some sort of compensation for this?”

“Compensation?”

“You know . . . reward.”

“Of course, my dear, you will be well taken care of.”

“What do we do with her?” the guard with the now empty bucket asked.

“We can’t have her or her friend running their mouths in town. Put them both with the others. They’ll make fine washer women for the Tower. Blood is so difficult to get out of white, you know.”

Helene let out an ear-piercing shrill. “No! You can’t do this!” she cried. “Do you know who I am? Who my husband is? I’m the one who told you about the apothecary!”

“Yes, you have proven to have surprisingly loose lips, Your Ladyship. I’m sure the inquisitors will find plenty of ways to make use of them as they torture you for information. I’m sure there is an ample supply of wielders here you’ll be willing to expose before they are done with you.”

Orlyn heard a loud thump on the floor. From the sound of it, Helene had passed out and no one had bothered to catch her. Poor Helene. Orlyn was sure the horror of her situation had only just begun to take hold. The irony of it all was that had he not been gagged, he might have joined the others in their riotous laughter. If he was to be taken to the White Tower, it was indeed a comfort to know he would be keeping such fine company as her ladyship.

He could hear the heels of Helene’s shoes scraping across the floor as they dragged her body, along with a surprisingly silent Fetunya, out the door and shut it behind them.

“Tell me about the boy.” Orlyn could just make out the tip of her nose from beneath her hood.

He tried to say something but the gag prevented it from coming out. The witch stepped forward and, reaching out with one of the most withered hands Orlyn had ever seen, pulled out the gag.

“Ah, much better,” he said as he worked his tongue around in his mouth, trying to draw saliva.

“Tell me about the boy.”

“Boy? What boy?” Orlyn held a look of stunned ignorance. “As it happens, I have no children. My poor Nora, Creator rest her soul, was barren. Nope. Not a single child to my name.” He let his shoulders sag for effect.

Her withered hand rose and, with a single finger, she slid a curved nail down the side of his face. “What a shame, and from such a fine specimen as yourself.”

“Ain’t it so. I’m sure I would have sired quite a resplendent breed.”

Stepping back, she removed her hood and gave him a clear look at her face. I hope she’s not volunteering. “Don’t make me ask again. I would hate to ruin such handsome features.” She smiled and playfully tugged on his beard. Her ring snagged on his long whiskers and he yelped. The ring was in the shape of a spider. Its eight legs were wrapped around her finger, and a crystal for its belly. The stone pulsed a deep red, giving Orlyn a clear indication that he was in the presence of a wielder, and a powerful one at that.

“Madame, if I knew what boy you were referring to, I might be better able to answer your rather vague question.” Orlyn knew where this was heading already, and as a member of the council, he was sworn to protect Ty’s identity at all costs.

The old hag shuffled a little closer, and with speed he had not anticipated from something so decrepit, her arm shot out and she grabbed his throat. Her nails dug into his flesh. “I’m talking about the woodsman’s youngest son.”

Orlyn gulped, not so much at the pressure of her viselike grip around his exposed throat but at the fact that she somehow already knew who Ty was. His mind raced as he tried to question whether she knew this for a fact or was merely trying to wiggle a definitive answer out of him.

“Oh, that child,” he said, his voice pinched from her grip. “Yes, well, very spirited young lad. Although, not quite all there upstairs, if you know what I mean.” Orlyn couldn’t think of what else to say to try throwing her off track. He could apologize to Ty later.

Mangora released her grip and smiled. “I applaud your efforts, apothecary. Your loyalty is touching.” She took a step back and paced in front of his chair. “With a city the size of Easthaven, I’m sure your wielder council is formed of nearly every ven’ae within the surrounding community, and being a prominent business owner, there is no doubt about your awareness of, and activity within, such an assembly. Also, knowing Nyalis the way I do, he would not have left the child with just anyone. He would have made sure he was protected.”

Orlyn shook his head and chuckled. “Madame, if you have mistakenly taken me for some wielder of magic on the word of a chinwagger like Helene Tunsfield, who would sell out her own family if she thought it would better her standing in the community, then you have been the sad dupe of an even sadder woman. I assure you, I am no wielder. There has been a grave misunderstanding here.” Orlyn struggled with his bindings. “Now if you were to release me, I would be more than willing to keep this whole miscarriage of justice to myself.”

The old crone’s laugh, if indeed he could call it a laugh, sent a tingling feeling of dread up his legs. “You’re a very convincing liar, my dear apothecary, but you forget I’ve seen your staff.” The fake smile on Orlyn’s face fell, along with his last remaining hope. “Now tell me of the boy. Has he reached his full potential? Does he even know who he is?”

Mangora clearly already knew who Ty was, and his continued denial wasn’t going to get him anywhere, so he decided to drop the pretense and try a more forward tactic. “Of course he knows who he is, and he’s more powerful than you can possibly imagine. Why, he could kill you with just one look from his left eye.” Orlyn held as serious a gaze as he could muster under the ridiculousness of what he had just said, hoping that maybe it would put enough fear into the old bat to give her second thoughts about going after him.

Mangora held her smile. “Not quite the impression I got after he ran screaming from my shop like a frightened girl lost in the woods on Dark Winter’s Eve.

Orlyn’s stony gaze wilted, leaving behind something more akin to a sad smirk. Yep, that sounds like Ty alright, he admitted with a sigh of pity.

“So, let’s start again, shall we?” the sorceress said as she rounded the back of his chair. Her cane tapped the floorboards in front of her. Orlyn could feel her hot breath against the side of his face as she leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Don’t you worry that handsome head of yours. We’re going to have plenty of time to get better acquainted.”

Orlyn moaned. “Lucky me.”

Chapter 64 | Ferrin

FERRIN GASPED.

The inhale was sharp. A familiar wave of ice coursed through his body. Peering out through swollen eyes, he watched as Rae worked her hands across another deep laceration. She angled downward from his lower chest, sliding her fingers across his ribcage, halfway to his navel. The skin rewove and the pain in his chest dulled, leaving only the intense throbbing in his fingers.

One by one, she pulled the thick wedges out from under what remained of Ferrin’s mutilated fingernails. Cheeks had spent a remarkable amount of time tapping them in. Ferrin had passed out more than once, only to be revived for another round.

With the last of the small shards being removed, and Rae completing her healing of the damaged tips, Ferrin relaxed. He took a slow breath in through his nose and exhaled the same way. The intense throbbing lingered as nothing more than a distant memory in the back of his mind, taunting him with the assurance it would soon return.

He found in a perverse sort of way that he almost looked forward to his sessions with the inquisitor, as it meant having a few moments of Rae’s soft hands across his aching body.

After his little talk with the Arch Chancellor down in the Chambers of Purging, Ferrin knew his time was running out. He could only pray Azriel’s vision had been accurate. He still had reservations concerning the man’s gifts as a seer, but, when left with literally no other option, he had to act on what information was available.

Rae opened her eyes after finishing. In them, Ferrin saw a sense of hopeless longing, a desire to have someone, anyone, reach out and show her the smallest amount of human compassion. There was also something else hidden there—shame. She held his gaze a moment longer, her blood-stained hands resting gently on his bare chest. He only hoped she couldn’t feel the racing of his heart under her touch.

Ferrin twisted in his restraints. “Thank you.”

She quickly retracted her arm and glanced back down at the stone tiling. Her dark brown hair hung in strands to block her face.

“No need to thank me,” Cheeks called out from across the room. His back was to Ferrin as he fumbled through his bag of utensils. “What should we try next? Ah, here we go.” The inquisitor turned and held out a hammer in one hand and a long nail in the other.

Ferrin tensed. He knew what was coming.

“Now, where were we? Oh right, your little wielder friends in Rhowynn. I want the names of those on the council.”

“What council?”

“Don’t play coy with me, smith. A city the size of Rhowynn would have a wielder council. I want their names.”

The inquisitor stepped up to the rack and pressed the tip of the nail against the back of Ferrin’s hand just behind the center knuckle. Beads of sweat dotted Ferrin’s forehead as his breathing came in rapid succession. He remembered how painful this was the last time it had been done to him. He couldn’t quite remember, though, how long it had been. Was it last week, or the week before, or yesterday? His sense of time within the White Tower seemed to be nonexistent as the days blurred together. He couldn’t remember one day from the next. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since his capture. Had it been days? Weeks? Months? It felt more like years.

“I don’t have any friends in Rhowynn,” he lied. “I don’t know of any wielder council. How many times do I need to tell you that before you believe me?”

The inquisitor shrugged. “Oh, I guess the same as last time . . . just one more.” His words were punctuated by the ringing sound of metal striking metal. Pain flooded Ferrin’s entire hand and spread out from there. He didn’t dare look down. He already knew what he would see, and the visual would only make it worse.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and tried focusing his mind on something else. Anything else. He tried thinking about Rae, about what it must be like for her to spend every day watching this over and over and over again. He felt an overwhelming surge of pity, followed by an overwhelming surge of panic when something sharp pressed against the back of his other hand. His defenses were beginning to break.

“Please, you don’t have to do this. I’ve told you everything I know.”

“And yet, I don’t believe you.”

Whack!

Another strike of the hammer sent Ferrin’s left side into convulsions. Tears swelled his eyes and coursed down his cheeks, mixing with the fluids already leaking from his nose. “Please!” he hollered. “I can’t take any more!”

“Good. That’s good, because I don’t want to have to do it anymore.” The bald sadist raised an arm and tenderly stroked the side of Ferrin’s face. “I get no pleasure in seeing you suffer, smith. The sooner you tell me what I want to know, the sooner I can let Rae here heal those wounds and you can get a good night’s sleep.” He watched Ferrin for an answer. “What do you say?”

Ferrin struggled to keep breathing.

He could hear Cheeks over at his table, no doubt grabbing the next nail. Through his tears, Ferrin could see Rae in the corner with her head lowered. The inquisitor returned to the rack with a smug look. It read of a man who had yet another card he had not played, a man who held a winning hand and knew it. It was disconcerting.

“So where shall we start, hmm? With your friends?” Cheeks glared. “No, perhaps not.” He tapped the head of the long nail against his chin in thought. “How about family.” The inquisitor’s mouth twisted upwards and his eyes widened with anticipation. “How about . . . a sister?”

Ferrin’s breath caught in his throat. How could he possibly know about . . .? He almost raised his head, giving away his panic, but then thought better of it as he realized the inquisitor was more than likely just probing for an answer.

Ferrin turned his head slightly and his eyes locked on Rae’s. The guilt he saw in those pale green orbs told him everything he needed to know. She couldn’t seem to pull away, her hands clinging to the front of her dirty dress. She had sold him out to the inquisitor. She had betrayed him. Worse, she had betrayed his sister, his innocent Myriah. He couldn’t believe it. He could see tears in her eyes before she lowered her head.

Ferrin was raging. He was furious with the little healer for what she had done, but even more so, he was furious with himself for having given away the information. It was his own stupidity that had led to this. It would have been better to have let them kill him when he first arrived.

The Inquisitor glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, my dear Rae is quite the treasure, isn’t she?” Cheeks wore his proud look like a leper’s rags, trying to cover what was truly inside, but failing miserably. “You know what,” he offered. “I’m feeling a mite generous today. So I think I’ll let you just sit and ponder our little conversation. Let you roll around in that stubborn head of yours all the wonderful new experiences I can introduce your sister to once we bring her in.”

Ferrin jerked against his shackles but, like every other time, they didn’t budge. His eyes burned with hatred as he met the blue irises of the tattooed inquisitor. “You go near my sister and I promise you, transferal or not, I will chase you all the way to the Pits of Aran’gal, into the arms of the Defiler himself if I have to. There is no where you will be able to hide from me.”

Cheeks lifted himself onto the base of the rack and looked Ferrin in the eyes. With one hand, he reached out and pinched Ferrin’s cheek. “You’re so cute when you get angry.” Holding his sides, he laughed his way off the rack and back over to his bag of tools.

“Finish up with our smith, my dear,” Cheeks said as he waddled his way to the door, “and since we are through for the night, I want to see you in my chambers later on.” Rae’s fingers tightened even harder on her skirt. His words left no doubt as to what he had in mind. The very thought was repulsive. As despicable as it was, though, Ferrin knew this was the opportunity he had been waiting for. She was through for the night, which meant the inquisitor would have no further need for her transferal and, with what possibly awaited her later that evening, Ferrin hoped it would leave her a bit more agreeable to the notion.

One of the guards in the hallway shut the creaking door behind the fat man and snapped the lock back into place, leaving him completely alone with the one person who had betrayed everything he held dear in this world.

It took a while for Rae to move.

Ferrin watched as she crossed the room, not daring to raise her head, not daring to look him in the eyes. Standing to the side, she reached out and grabbed hold of the first nail. The pain was intense, but the thought of what she had done hurt even worse.

“Why did you do it?” When she didn’t reply, he added, “I would have thought you of all people would be the last person to want to do this.”

She held to her silence as she enfolded his hand gently in hers and sent a wave of healing through it. It was somehow calming. Ferrin was at a loss. He snorted his frustration. “I guess I was wrong. I guess you are one of them.” She glanced his way for the briefest of moments before stepping over to the other side of the rack. As fleeting as the glance had been, he had seen remorse in her eyes, or maybe it was hurt. Either way, Ferrin didn’t believe, or at least he didn’t want to believe, she had been a willing participant. Maybe they hadn’t given her a choice. Maybe she was being used as much as he was. He shook his head. Leaning back against the bed of the rack, he closed his eyes.

“Just let me die.”

The words left his lips before he had time to stop them. Her hand faltered halfway through pulling the remaining nail. She was trembling. He opened his eyes and was surprised to find her staring back, eyes filled with tears. In that moment, he almost felt sorry for her, a difficult emotion to embrace after what she had done.

“I . . . I don’t want you to die.” He lifted his head from where it rested on the metal bars. He was stunned by her open admittance, but at the same time he noticed that her words sounded forced, as if not quite sure of her own belief in their accuracy.

She gave one final tug and the rest of the nail slid through. He clenched his teeth. He could feel the warmth of the blood dripping from his fingertips. The soft splatter it made on the stones below was a sound he had grown quite accustomed to. She cupped his hand in hers and softly applied her magic. The lavender glow emitting from her finger tips was beautiful, as was the relief it brought.

“I have a daughter,” she said as if that somehow excused the fact she had sold his sister out to the Inquisition. Instead of berating her, though, he let her finish. “She’s four. She was born here like me, like my mother before me.” Born here? The time he had spent in the White Tower was bad enough, let alone the time Azriel had spent, but he couldn’t imagine having been born and raised into a life such as this. He wondered if she had ever even been outside.

“When my grandmother’s gift of healing was discovered and the inquisitors saw the value in its use, they decided to try making more of us. After I was born and my abilities became apparent, they thought they had found a way to keep an ongoing supply of healers around.” He could hear the utter contempt in her voice. “So, eventually, I was forced to give birth to my Suri.”

Ferrin wasn’t sure how to respond. His anger had begun to subside, but it still didn’t absolve her of what she had done. He didn’t know if he could ever forgive her. Unfortunately, she was still his best chance of getting out of there. He had to be willing to put his anger aside, if for no other reason than to get his sister to safety. Knowing Cheeks, he already had men on the way to find her.

“Why didn’t you touch me?”

Ferrin nearly choked. “What?” He wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. His mind conjured images of their previous encounter when she had tried to remove her clothes and seduce him. It was an image he would like to forget. It had obviously been a ruse to extract information from him, but the question still remained as to why it would matter to her now.

“Why didn’t you lie with me?”

Ferrin was sure his face was as red as a beet. Had this poor woman been so abused that she had no idea what common decency was? “I told you why the last time.”

She glanced down at the front of her dress. “Do you not like what you see? Is my shape not pleasing?”

Ferrin’s eyes widened. He couldn’t tell if she was trying to proposition him again or if she was honestly curious about his lack of physical aggressiveness. “No. I mean, yes. I mean . . . Look, you are very pleasing, but that doesn’t give me the right to . . . you know . . . act on it and such.”

“Why not? All the rest of your kind does.”

“My kind?”

“Yes, your kind!” Her temper rose.

“What, the prisoners?”

“No. Men!”

Ferrin laid his head back against the rack. He could see his hope of escape slipping through his grasp. She wasn’t going to help him. She hated him. Not because he’d wronged her, but because he reminded her of what had been done to her. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t remember seeing many other women around, and with the inquisitors and the Black Watch being the only example of men she’d ever known, it was no wonder she harbored the thoughts she did. Still, this was his only chance. He had to try.

“I have no idea what it’s been like for you living in a place like this. The horrors you’ve seen, the atrocities that have been done to you.” He paused to take a breath. “I can’t imagine, and quite honestly, I don’t want to. But you’ve got to understand, we aren’t all like that. Men are supposed to protect women, to stand up for them, to help them, not use them like chattel. Where I’m from, if a man did what’s been done to you, he’d be locked up or horsewhipped, and that’s only if her kinfolk didn’t get to him first.”

She watched him in silence. He could see that behind her scowl she was weighing his words and expressions, trying to see the deception behind his statements. “I don’t believe you. I’m sorry for my part in what’s been done about your sister, but I have to worry about my Suri. She’s all I’ve got, and they won’t let me see her unless I help them get what they want. She’s just a little girl.” The tears started down her dimpled cheeks.

Ferrin took a deep breath. What could he say to that? Would he have been willing to do the same if it had been his sister they were threatening? He guessed he might. “I understand that you love your daughter and don’t want her to have to live through what you have been made to endure. You want to save her the same way I want to save my sister.” Rae’s eyes reflected his sentiments. “Lucky for us both, I might just be able to offer a solution. What if I told you there was a way we might be able to save both of them?”

Rae’s didn’t speak, but the desperation in her eyes said enough.

“The catch is . . . you’re going to have to trust me.” Ferrin’s eyes lowered to where her small crystal hung from its tarnished chain between her breasts.

“I’m going to need to borrow that.”

Chapter 65 | Ayrion

THE EVENING HAD passed with more speed than Ayrion would have liked. Dawn hadn’t yet broken through the overcast skies, leaving a pale, dismal sort of feeling in the air. The battlefield had remained uncharacteristically quiet. The Cylmaran army on the other side seemed to be waiting for something to happen.

Ayrion ran a hand down his jaw as he watched the High King stare at the maps and battle-drawn sketches strewn across the table before him. Commander Tolin stood on the far side while Dakaran reclined comfortably in his corner, rubbing his head from what looked to be tedious boredom, or more likely, the after-effect of an excessive amount of morning wine.

“Your Majesty!” One of the black and silver clad High Guards stuck his head in the doorway. “You need to see this!” The urgency in the man’s voice caused those within to move out in haste.

“What’s this about?” Rhydan asked as he stepped into the early morning haze.

The guard pointed north. “There, Your Majesty!”

Everyone shifted their gaze in the direction of the Black Hills. There was a pillar of red flame bursting from the center of the small mountain range. The fire reached all the way to the heavens above.

“What do you make of that, Commander?”

“I’m not a betting man, Your Majesty, but that looks like a clear opening signal if ever I saw one.” Tolin stepped back inside the canvas and grabbed his helm. He held out an arm to Ayrion.

Ayrion clasped it in return. “May your men stay at your back and your enemies at your front.”

“Aye,” Tolin said as he released Ayrion’s arm and took a step back. “They will sing songs of our courage this day.” Tolin raised his fist to his chest in salute. “By your leave, Your Majesty.”

“May the Creator guide your hands, Commander.”

“May He indeed,” Tolin echoed before offering one final bow.

Ayrion stood beside the king and watched as his mentor made his way down the incline and back through the Elondrian encampment. Ayrion wished he could be riding beside him once again.

“I don’t much like what that fire represents,” Rhydan said as he started to lift his own helm into place. The king’s attendants began strapping on the rest of his plated armor. Abruptly, a large shadow slid over the top of Ayrion’s shoulders, blocking the sun from the side of his face. “Guardian.” Ayrion turned to see his Captain of the Guard standing directly behind him. The man was as large as a bear, making it quite difficult to approach with any amount of stealth, but it didn’t stop him from trying.

“Barthol, I didn’t hear you that time, you’re getting better.”

As his captain and best friend, Barthol had been Ayrion’s one and only sparring partner since before the huge man had found someone else to spend his evenings with. Ayrion could hardly fault him for that. Kensey was a wonderful woman, and with a growing daughter, and another on the way, Ayrion and Barthol’s time together had of course dwindled, but it was to be expected. In his own way, Ayrion was jealous of his friend. The big man’s face appeared almost intoxicated whenever Kensey was around. He looked like a giant, blundering fool. Ayrion wished he had reason to look as foolish sometimes.

“Thank you, sir. The High Guard is assembled and awaiting your orders.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Ayrion turned back to the king. “By your leave, Your Majesty, I need to make ready your guard.”

The king, with his arms raised to the sides to allow the attendants to finish cinching his straps, nodded. “By all means, Guardian.”

Ayrion bowed. He turned to Barthol and slapped a hand on the big man’s shoulder. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

The two men started down the rise to the secondary encampment below. Ayrion couldn’t help but notice the heavy expression on his friend’s face. It wasn’t like Barthol to be so uptight about an upcoming battle. “What’s wrong?”

Barthol scratched at his thick beard. “I’m feeling a mite uneasy about this entire campaign. Nothing about it makes any sense. And now—" He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the Black Hills. “—with the coming of this dark magic, I can’t help but wonder if we haven’t managed to grab the snake by the tail this time.”

“I won’t lie. I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

Chapter 66 | Tolin

THIS, MUCH LIKE every other battle Tolin had ever fought, demonstrated the same simple truth. It didn’t matter the brilliance of your planning, the effectiveness of your position, the expanse of your siege machines, or the number of your bowmen. Victory balanced on the edge of a single question: which side had the most men left standing. It was this thought, and this thought alone, that was etched into the forefront of Tolin’s mind as he rode toward the mobile command post near the forefront of the battleground.

His men, though well trained, were still men, and although they were managing to put up a good front, he could see the fear in their eyes. It was the fear of knowing what they were about to face, knowing they, or someone they knew, would never see another sunrise. The life of a lancer was a hard one.

Swinging off his horse, the commander handed his reins to one of the hostlers. He could see apprehension in the young man’s eyes as the attendant rubbed the animal with long, nervous strokes. Tolin stepped over and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Loren, there’s nothing wrong with being afraid.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the embarrassed lad said as he attempted to straighten his shoulders. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Tolin smiled at the young man in hopes of calming his nerves. “Fear is a valuable tool.” The hostler looked at him like he was crazy. “No, it’s true. Fear is what keeps us sharp, keeps our minds active. Fear is what keeps us alive. Show me a man without fear and I’ll show you a fool.” Tolin laid a firm hand on the hostler’s shoulder. “Just remember, without fear there can be no courage.”

The wiry lad paused to think, wiping a strand of fallen hair out of his face. “I never thought about it like that before. Thank you, sir.”

Tolin removed his hand. “So take heart lad. When the time comes for courage, I’m sure you’ll do us proud.” The young man seemed to perk up as he nodded with a half-smile and went back to his grooming.

The ominous signal fire was still burning into the early morning sky behind him as Tolin stepped inside the shelter. On either side of the command post were kennels of runners whose job it was to supply information to and from the commander and his officers.

Tolin took a seat and began perusing his battle strategies for what seemed like the thousandth time. They were already ingrained within him, but he never wanted to stop looking. He never knew when an unexpected thought would emerge that could change the tide. “Elior!”

A short man with a gray beard, wearing the Elondrian crimson and gold, shuffled through the front flaps, dragging a gimp leg behind him. He had the appearance of having seen one too many battles in his time. “You called, sir?” the head runner asked as he stood as straight as he could, considering his age and infirmities.

Tolin admired the man. Elior was considered a good luck charm by most in the camp. He had survived what no other man should have. Tolin kept him around for moral support. The man would never be able to participate in battle, but he had a way of keeping the runners running that more than trumped his inabilities. And since the man had no other family, Tolin didn’t have the heart to tell him to leave.

“I did,” Tolin replied with his head bent over his work. “Have we heard back from those scouts we sent out yesterday?”

“No, sir. No one has returned since this morning. If I might ask, sir, where were they headed?”

Tolin lifted his head from his papers. “The Black Hills.” He had a look in his eye that was all too telling, especially considering the enormous pillar of fire rising out of that same range of mountains.

“Oh. That’s not good.”

Tolin exhaled. “No, it’s not. If you do hear anything, let me know immediately.”

“Yes, sir!” the old runner’s voice was sharp with respect. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes, you’re dismissed.” Tolin’s eyes were locked on his battle plans.

“Very good, sir.” Without looking up, Tolin could hear Elior limp his way out.

A moment later, he heard another rustling of the flap.

“Sir, you might want to see this.” One of the lancers standing guard pointed off in the direction of the Black Hills. Tolin left his table and stepped outside to get a better look. He took a deep breath. The pillar of red flame was gone.

“Send runners to have the men ready their positions. It appears our time has just run out.”

Chapter 67 | Tolin

THE EASTERN SKY darkened with the rolling in of a new storm.

The morning sunlight was completely overshadowed by clouds and a light mist, a precursor for what was to come. It was going to be a rain-soaked battle. As if in answer to his thoughts, a streak of lightning flashed across the sky, followed closely by a loud clap of thunder.

From the top of his painted warhorse, Commander Tolin watched as the Cylmaran army on the other side of the valley closed ranks. Their attack was imminent.

“Looks to be a bad one!” Overcaptain Asa said as he tightened the slack on his horse’s reins, holding his mount steady under the sounds of the approaching storm. His long hair, which was streaked with a dignified gray, had been pulled tight behind his head and tied off with a leather strap. The sullen patch over his eye and long scar down the side of his face gave him all the presence of a warrior stepping out of some mythical tale.

“It does indeed.” It was dangerous for horsemen to ride into battle across sodden ground, but it looked as though they weren’t going to be given a choice. His men were up to the challenge. They were the best trained cavalry unit in Aldor and he had no doubt they would make him proud.

Tolin’s strategy was simple. He had split his mounted lancer regiments into two groups. The first led by Asa, the second by himself. He planned to use them in a flanking maneuver to pierce the enemy’s sides while Captain Janus and Undercaptain Bashan pushed from the front with two six-column formations of pikemen. The polearms would bear the brunt of the initial attack.

Directly behind the pikes, Tolin positioned a full squad of crossbowmen led by Undercaptain Bellos and a regiment of longbowmen under the command of Captain Nadeer. Following them marched the Elondrian Lancer’s main force. Sometimes, it was the simple, direct assaults that provided the most efficient victories.

From the far side of the valley, Tolin watched them come. The Cylmaran army was at best a disorganized grouping of ragtag armsmen whose premier battle strategy was to aim in one direction and charge when someone gave the signal. Their armor was piecemeal at best, and their uniforms consisted mostly of whatever they happened to be wearing at the time, which made it fairly easy for both sides to spot the other. However, with the heavy rain moving in, it wasn’t going to matter since vision tended to blur dramatically in a dense downpour.

Tolin watched Asa tug anxiously on his ducktail beard. He wondered how the man maintained any whiskers at all with as much fondling as he gave the ugly thing.

“I believe it’s time for us to be parting ways, Commander,” Asa said before spitting off to the side. He flipped up his eye patch and rubbed his finger around the inner edge of his empty socket. He knew how much it unnerved Tolin when he did, and he seemed to get a perverse pleasure in watching Tolin squirm.

Tolin smiled at his crazy battle-hardened friend. He held out his arm. “To victory!”

Asa took it. “To the swift death of our enemies and to the women who await our return!” Asa released his arm with a determined look. He spun his horse around and laid his boots into its flank. Tolin watched as his captain sped off in the direction of the awaiting cavalry unit. He wondered if this would be the last time he ever got to speak with his friend. He had lost a lot of men along the way. It was the harsh reality of living by the sword.

The rain thickened. He wiped the water from his eyes where it dripped from his narrowed brows. His shoulder-length hair had been pulled back and tied off with a crimson leather strap to keep from getting in his eyes.

By now, the Cylmaran troops had made it halfway across the open field in a slow march and were holding ground. Tolin noticed their horsemen, few as they were, had been added to their frontal assault. “That was a mistake.”

Out in front, he could see where Captain Janus and Undercaptain Bashan were instructing their footmen to brace their raised pikes to be ready to meet a mounted charge. The impact would be swift and hard. The most valuable weapon for slowing a heavy wave, however, would be a weapon of range.

Behind the pikes, Captain Nadeer stood with flags raised while his bowmen spread out in a staggered line formation. They drew their strings and waited. Nadeer was a good man, a veteran of several campaigns. He was also one of the best marksmen Tolin had ever seen, able to hit the red from three hundred paces.

A horn sounded in the distance behind the Cylmaran lines and their army charged. It started slow but quickly picked up pace. Their shouts and battle cries were drowned momentarily by another surge of lightning and roll of thunder.

The enemy ranks tore across the valley floor like a tidal wave ready to make land.

Nadeer’s flag came down. “Release!” he hollered above the clamor and his bowmen fired their first volley.

Tolin held his breath and counted. One, two, three, four— It was a tradition of his for as long as he could remember as he waited for the initial impact. He watched as the deadly cloud raced toward the oncoming soldiers. He exhaled as the wall of shafts fell across the front of the Cylmaran ranks. Eight.

Men were chopped down in large swathes, arrows piercing arms, legs, chests, and heads. Those in front looked more like pincushions than men. The screams and shrills of the wounded and dying were only covered in part by the blood-frenzied roar issuing from those coming up behind them as they continued to close the distance on the Elondrian front lines.

The Cylmaran’s mounted regiment had suffered tremendous damage from the initial rain of the bowmen. By the time the horses reached the front of the Elondrian lines, there was hardly a quarter of them left, which was why Tolin had kept his own cavalry back during the initial incursion. Many of their riders were clearly inexperienced in warfare and having seen the dark wave of arrows approaching, had tried turning their horses to flee. But with the unstoppable rush of the army behind them, they were thrown down and trampled to death, horse and all.

“Fools, the lot of them!” Tolin shouted, gesturing at the ludicrous scene playing out in front of him.

The Cylmaran strategy of attack made no use of bowmen and their offensive was in the most general of terms, what you see is what you get. Their soldiers drew on what they knew—blunt force. And with such a strategy came animalistic aggression. They were more familiar with fighting off pitchfork-wielding farmhands, ravaging villages, and raping defenseless women, not standing toe to toe with well-armed and well-trained troops.

Their weapons consisted of large heavy blades, battle-axes, war hammers, and maces, each used as a definable weapon of terror or position. Apparently, in Cylmaran eyes, the larger the weapon, the grislier the death and the more prestigious the wielder. However, when faced with battle ready tactics used for holding and maintaining a defensible line, those strategies were wholly inadequate.

Their army had now crossed to within fifty paces, and Tolin’s gloved hands tightened on his reins as he anticipated the initial clash. He could hear Nadeer ordering his longbowmen into a defensible retreat, while at the same time allowing for Undercaptain Bellos and his ranks of crossbowmen to step into position.

“Fire at will!” came the call as Bellos’s men released their bolts into the front ranks of the closing Cylmarans. Chaos ensued as men were forced to stumble over the bodies of their fallen as they fought to reach the Elondrian lines.

The crossbowmen retreated just as the front ranks of the Cylmaran army broke across the Elondrian pikes. The sound of the impact could be heard even above the storm.

Tolin couldn’t pull his eyes away from the gruesome carnage below as the bodies piled in front of the pole-bearers. Their great pikes skewered one, two, sometimes three men at a time. All of the ballads ever sung, plays ever performed, and masterpieces ever painted, fell unequivocally short of capturing the sheer horror of a single battle. They sung of the glories of victory, of the depths of conquest, the nobility of it all, but, as Tolin noted, if they were ever to receive an honest answer from a veteran who had lived through the true horror of hand to hand combat, they would be the first to tell you there is nothing glorious or noble in the slaughter of men.

There are no words, or ink, or paint which could describe the warmth of another’s blood as it sprays across your face, or the taste of their internal fluids in your mouth, or the sight of a man’s body as it is hacked into pieces. It was a nightmare Tolin had been forced to relive for years.

Tolin hated war. But he knew that there was evil in the world, and as long as it remained, war would inevitably be the byproduct, for greed was the consequence of the human heart and there were many who served its dark purposes to their own destruction and to the destruction of others. If there had to be war, he intended to win.

The rain was now washing across the battlefield in heavy sheets.

Tolin shifted position in his saddle as he scanned the carnage. He wasn’t a commander who appreciated sitting on the sidelines while his men were fighting and dying in front of him. He was a man who wanted to be in the middle of the action. He wanted to feel the burning of sweat in his eyes, the rush of death at every swing. He was a warrior—heart, mind, and soul.

The forward momentum of the Cylmaran army had stalled as they struggled to push beyond the front lines of the Elondrian forces. Tolin moved his horse out in front. On the far side of the field, Asa’s unit was moving into position as well.

Taking one last survey of the landscape, Tolin waved his horsemen forward and into position at the edge of the gently rising slope. His painted stallion pranced to the front. Another crash of lightning lit the sky, illuminating the battle ahead. Already anticipating his maneuvers, he could see Janus and Bashan signaling to push their footmen forward.

He grunted his approval. “Good men.”

Nadeer and Bellos had already moved their bowmen behind the large earthen mounds flanking the sides of the field. From there they had the advantage of striking at the Cylmaran lines threatening to break free while herding them back to the center.

Turning in his saddle, Tolin drew his sword. Its familiar grip of wrapped steel was a welcome sensation between his gloved fingers. He raised his blade over his head and shouted, “For Elondria!”

There was a loud ringing of steel from behind that sent a shiver of excitement rushing straight through him as his men echoed his call. “For Elondria!”

Tolin’s blood was pumping in his ears. He started his horse forward. He knew better than to kick his mount into a hard run from a dead stop. They needed to build their speed at a manageable pace.

The ground rumbled and shook as the surge of riders tore across the field.

Tolin lived for this—galloping at the head of a stampede of horsemen, sword drawn, teeth bared, hair ripping in the wind. He could feel his heart racing, his breath slowing, and his mind coming into focus as they neared the wall of Cylmaran armsmen in front of them. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was the rush.

He could see the faces of the enemy come into focus, the whites of their eyes as they stared down his charge. They had no idea what was about to hit them. Or maybe they did. He could see the look of horror in the eyes of the closest. Taking a deep breath, he raised his great sword in the air and released a mighty roar as they tore into the Cylmaran’s right flank.

His horse trampled across the bodies of those unable to get out of the way. He swung his arm with the fury of a mad man, separating the first ranker’s head from his shoulders. It bounced off three other men before finally dropping to the ground. Tolin’s heart raced. It was the rush.

An arm carrying a large cleaver swung in his direction. He countered and sent the cleaver flying through the air along with half the arm still holding its handle. From one side of his horse to the other, he swung his deadly blade and severed limb from torso. Like an artist, he painted his canvas with blood-filled strokes, wielding his sword like a brush through the bodies of color around him. Men cried out in rage, cried out in terror, cried out for mercy. But there was none to be had. Tolin’s focus narrowed. It was the rush.

He took a deep cut to his left leg, but his mind was so focused on the task at hand that he barely felt it and, with that same leg, he kicked a soldier in the face as the man raised his axe to strike. Tolin didn’t let up. He forced his cavalry onward. They couldn’t slow down. If his charge were to falter and stop before exiting, they would be cut to pieces.

As hard as he could, Tolin pushed his men forward. Like a great arrowhead, his unit tore halfway through the Cylmaran ranks before he angled their drive back out again. They couldn’t afford to get stuck inside.

From both sides of his horse Tolin hacked away at the armsmen below as they fought to reach him. He felt another cold slice of pain as one of the Cylmaran blades deflected off his sword and opened the top of his forearm. He struck the man with the hilt of his sword, collapsing the top of his head while catching another in the chest with his boot. The pain was beginning to increase. He could feel the blood seep around the open wound on his arm.

He couldn’t falter now. Tolin pushed them on, cutting down as many of the enemy as he could. Some cried for mercy at the last possible moment, but he showed them none.

Was there mercy given to those poor farmers whose lands these savages had burned, whose daughters and wives they had raped, whose sons they had killed?

With a swift boot to a soldier’s face, Tolin thrust his sword through the man’s chest on the way by. The perimeter of the Cylmaran forces was just ahead. He blocked another strike on his left, and with the same motion, opened a soldier’s neck on his right with a swift backswing.

A grateful sigh of relief escaped Tolin’s lips as they cut their way back out to open ground. He turned in his saddle. The v-shaped hole his men had dug out of their enemy’s flank slowly closed in on itself. He needed to get back to the command center to prepare for their next engagement and to see if there had been any further orders from the king.

On the other side of the battlefield, Tolin caught a glimpse of Asa and his men fighting their way out of the Cylmaran’s outer lines. The overcaptain still held his large battle-axe in one hand as he directed his regiment away from the main force.

The cavalry’s precision strikes had successfully managed to give their lancers a stronger foothold from which to maneuver forward.

“Commander!”

Tolin turned at the sound of his name to find one of Elior’s war-runners heading in his direction. The young man looked like a half-drowned tabby just pulled from the river.

“What is it?” Tolin asked, shouting to be heard above the sudden roll of thunder.

“Three of the scouts have returned, sir.” The runner’s face said it all. “Sir, you need to hear their report, immediately.”

Chapter 68 | Tolin

A wave of trepidation washed over Tolin as he pushed his way through the front of his tent and saw the battered state of the three pathfinders. They looked like they had fought their way through the entire Cylmaran army to get there. “What happened? Did you find Roan and Arnst?”

Tolin could tell it was a struggle for the three men to remain standing. Terris had a shattered splint on his leg, Bayle was sporting a bloody sling around his arm, and Merrick was trying to stabilize them both. “We did, Commander,” Merrick said ominously. “Or at least what was left of them. But there is another force massing in the Black Hills, and I’m sure by now they are already on their way, sir. It’s like no force we’ve ever seen or heard tell of before.”

“What are you talking about?” Tolin’s mind raced with a sense of dread as he tried reasoning out possible scenarios. Could Overlord Agnar have joined his Keldoran forces with that of Cylmar? “How many men did you see?”

Bayle stepped forward, “They not be men, sir.”

“Not men?” Tolin was not only confused, he was getting upset. “What the blazes are you three going on about? If they weren’t men, what were they?”

“They be . . . They be hor’hounds.”

“Hor’hounds?” Tolin’s face was stuck in a state of complete bewilderment. His mouth hung open as the air was expelled from his lungs in a forceful cough. Under normal circumstances, Tolin would have never exhibited such a show of emotion in front of his men, and he felt rather embarrassed for having done so now, but since every other soul within earshot of the tracker’s voice held the same expression, it didn’t seem to matter.

“Our search led us to the caves within the ironworks,” Merrick continued, still keeping his shoulder under Terris as the unstable tracker teetered on one leg. “We saw a dark wielder calling forth the creatures. We rode out of there as fast as we could but ended up having to fight our way out of the pass.”

“We lost Ellson as well,” Terris added, gritting his teeth in pain.

“Aye, that we did. We rode as fast as our poor injured horses would allow, hoping to stay ahead of them—”

Tolin didn’t let him finish. “How many do you estimate are coming?” He was desperate to know what they were up against.

Merrick looked at the others and shrugged. “My guess . . . upwards a thousand.”

“A thousand hor’hounds?” Tolin stood from his seat and stared at them across the table. “How is that possible? We haven’t seen or even heard of a hor’hound for centuries.” His eyes flared as he realized the danger they were all in. “Get yourselves to the healers and see to your injuries.” The three men bowed and departed.

“Elior, send word to the king that a force of hor’hounds has been spotted. Tell him I recommend an immediate retreat. We don’t want to be caught in a fight on two fronts at the same time.” Tolin quickly laid word to paper for the runner to dispatch along with his official seal. “And send runners to Asa and the other captains and tell them to be ready to start pulling our lancers back.”

“Yes, sir!” Not waiting for the commander to return his salute, Elior turned and proceeded to holler orders to his runners as he exited.

Chapter 69 | Ayrion

AT THE SOUND of the lancer signal horns blasting in the distance, Ayrion moved to the front and watched the halt of their forces. “What’s Tolin doing?”

The king moved beside him and placed his leather wrapped ocular to his eye. “What do you see?”

“Our ranks are taking stance when they should be pressing forward.” Ayrion grimaced. “Something has happened.”

Dakaran grabbed a spare ocular from the table and stared out across the battlefield. “He’s right. Our front lines have halted their attack.”

Ayrion turned at the sound of approaching steps. “Your Majesty!” Captain Barthol bowed as he reached the entrance. “I have a runner just returned from the front with news, sire.”

The young man on Barthol’s left stepped forward.

“Give him your message, son,” Barthol said, trying to coax the fear out of the young runner at the thought of addressing the High King.

“Your . . . Your Majesty,” he said with an awkward bow. “Commander Tolin sends word of a new enemy.” The young lad glanced around at all the curious faces. “The pathfinders have spotted a large throng of . . . of . . .” The boy looked positively peaked.

“Well, spit it out,” Barthol barked.

“Hor’hounds! There is a force of hor’hounds on their way out of the Black Hills.”

The king’s face twisted as he cocked his head to the side. “What did you just say?”

The runner looked horrified, as if he thought his message would surely spell his imprisonment, or worse. Looking around at the others he repeated his statement. “Hor . . . hor’hounds, Your Majesty, from the Black Hills.” The lad gulped, clearly afraid he had just offended the High King.

Ayrion was speechless.  Of all the possible scenarios running through his mind, this was beyond anything he could have expected or planned for. “Hor’hounds?” The very name added to the tension of the moment as he tried grasping the reality of what they were about to face.

A tall figure, wearing the official crimson of his office and surrounded on all sides by men in white uniforms, calmly stepped underneath the large overhanging material. “I just received word we are about to have company.” His words held a touch of dryness. “You see. This is what happens when the White Tower is held on a leash, and its duties suspended by a distrustful king.”

“Watch your tongue, Chancellor or I will have it removed,” Rhydan said, each word clearly marking his otherwise palpable disdain for the man. “What do you want?”

Ayrion could see a spark of hatred flare within the chancellor’s dark eyes, but it soon vanished. “It appears that what I wanted is too late to do either of us any good—” He gestured toward the mountain range. “—since we are all about to be fed on by the very creatures of magic the White Tower is supposed to be allowed to suppress.”

“Do you have a helpful suggestion, Valtor, or are you just here to gloat?”

“I am but a humble practitioner of medicines and a student of ancient lore, Your Majesty,” Valtor said as he managed an unsuccessful attempt at modesty. “The only offering I can present is that of my prayers.”

The king seethed with anger. “Then do so away from here and out of my sight while the rest of us try to devise a way to save our skins.”

Valtor bowed and slowly withdrew from the canvas shelter. The grin on his face would have terrified even the most bloodthirsty of cutmen. It was the look of a man who had nothing to fear and everything to gain.

The young war-runner handed the sealed scroll to the king. Rhydan tore the wax with his finger and read the hasty inscription. He then handed the parchment to Ayrion to read.

He read it twice.

“What do you think?”

“I agree with the commander, Your Majesty. I believe retreating in order to gather ranks will not only allow us to concentrate our force, but it will put the Cylmaran army between us and the hounds.”

“I agree.” The king inscribed his reply, rolled the parchment, dripped some wax, and stamped it with his seal. Handing the runner his reply, the king bade him farewell and offered his encouragement on the fine job the runners were doing.

Ayrion turned to his captain. “Barthol, spread the word. Let the High Guard know what’s coming. Also, have them pull part-way up the hill. I want them separated into four block units, no single formations. We can’t fight something like this in small groups. It must be as a whole.”

“Yes, sir.” Barthol saluted and Ayrion watched as his friend rushed down the sharp knoll toward the High Guard station below.

Turning back to the battlefield, Ayrion noticed the prince stepping around the side of the royal command post to have a word in private with his gaunt advisor. Something about Valtor always left Ayrion feeling dirty.

Through the rain, Ayrion could just make out the front lines of the battle below. He could see the outline of Tolin’s staging pavilion further back. He wondered how his mentor was holding up under the pressure of such news. It was going to take a miracle to hold out against what was coming if even half of what the young war-runner had said was proven true.

Chapter 70 | Tolin

“HOR’HOUNDS?”

Overcaptain Asa stormed into the tent and shook his head, flinging water from his hair and face like a wooly sheepdog. He squeezed the moisture from his leather eye patch. “Did their rutty breath smell of brandy when they reported this?” He crossed the room to where Tolin stood over his table, strategizing their next moves. “Did you get yourself a good whiff?”

Tolin looked up from his work. “I’m sure they would have rather it did.”

Asa looked confused.

“One of them had bruises across half his face, the second couldn’t walk from a shattered leg, the third was holding an arm that looked to have been half torn off and the fourth . . . Well, he didn’t come back at all. So yes, I’m sure they’d probably rather had been sitting around getting sloshed than the alternative.”

“So it’s true?”

“Yes,” Tolin admitted with all the candor he could muster given the circumstances, “and if we don’t want to join them, we need to secure our position immediately.  I can only guess at the direction they’ll be hitting us from,” he said as he glanced back at the hand-drawn maps strewn across the table. “Which makes it even more difficult since we are already battling one army as it is.”

“We need to move our lancers south, right here.” Tolin circled a section of the map with his finger. “It will give our pikemen a chance to change direction. We need to be facing north, forcing our Cylmaran neighbors to stand between us and the hounds.”

“Aye, that would help.” Asa strapped his patch back over his eye.

“We also need to have Nadeer and Bellos pull the bowmen in behind our lancers to protect their flanks. Give them plenty of space to fire on whatever the Defiler has in store for us today. The more proficient we are from a distance the fewer of the creatures we’ll have to face up close. I don’t know about you, but I don’t relish the thought of hand to hand combat with a hor’hound.”

“Neither do I,” Asa said, stroking his ducktail once again.

“Our mounted lancers are going to be the defining factor in this outcome. They’ll be the only ones capable of matching the creatures’ speed and size.”

“I’ll be flamin’ hanged if I allow a pack of mangy fleabags to overrun our position!” Asa took a moment to refasten his headband where some of the loose strands of his graying hair were sticking to the front of his face.

“With our lancers now facing two opposing forces, I’m afraid my time will be best served by working from here. Will you be able to handle the cavalry on your own?”

Asa stared down the point of his nose at Tolin with his one and only eye. “Who do you think you’re talkin’ to? I was gonna insist on it. We need our commander . . . commanding, not stickin’ his neck out there for the enemy to get an easy strike at. Besides,” he said as he cleared his throat, “with you out of the way, I can take all the glory for myself.”

Tolin was glad to see that the enormity of the situation hadn’t yet managed to steal his friend’s sense of humor.

The evening light waned and the rain looked to have settled in for the long haul.

Both sides were feeling the strain of battle when the first of the hor’hounds made their appearance. It wasn’t so much the ethereal baying alerting Tolin to their presence as the ensuing chaos that struck the Cylmaran ranks when the creatures rolled out of the shadows. Like specters out of the storm, they tore through the Cylmaran’s already muddled formations.

As he sent out his couriers and trumpeters to relay his latest orders, Tolin realized the next few moments could determine not only the course of this battle, but the lives of every human fighting in it. Tolin was going to need to turn this to their advantage by transforming an enemy into an ally.

As fast as Elior could send out his runners, Tolin relayed a missive ordering the Elondrian forces to cease all aggression on the Cylmaran ranks, which had already dropped all interest in them in order to combat the new, more fearsome enemy. The lancers in turn were to join the Cylmarans and fight side by side for everyone’s survival.

Chapter 71 | Asa

“WELL, AIN’T THIS a sight for sore eyes!” Asa shouted to his men as he unstrapped his large battle-axe. “One moment we’re killin’ ‘em, and the next we’re savin’ their sorry backsides!”

He scanned the melee in front of him. Looked more like a circus than a war, he thought. The battle was at best demanding, prior to the onslaught of the weather, but now that it had transformed a more than suitable valley into a bog of mire and clay, while men and horses alike lost their footing to the pressing horde of vicious wolf-like creatures, it was nothing more than a merciless death trap to those unfortunate enough to enter.

The Cylmarans had been caught entirely unprepared as the dark beasts tore their way through their rear flank, burning such fear into the hearts of their warriors that many took their own lives rather than have to face one of the mythical creatures. The Cylmaran armsmen ran in stampede fashion as they fought to escape.

Asa leaned over the side of his horse and spit. “Like herding cattle!” He pointed toward the enemy lines as they scattered and fled. “Just look at ‘em! Cowards, every last flaming one of ‘em!”

In the end, Asa could see that it would be his riders that needed to be called on to stem the tide, precisely as Tolin had predicted. He had to admit, the thought of directing a battle charge straight into the heart of a horde of creatures from another age brought a certain pulse of vitality back to his weary bones. It was the chance of a lifetime. This was what he had been born for.

Instead of dividing his riders as they had against the Cylmaran flanks, Asa brought the entire contingent together. One unit, one solitary strike force that could be used to pierce the side of the hor’hound flanks. He knew they would never be able to go toe-to-toe with the creatures and win. So instead, he determined to hit them where he could do the most damage. Driving his men in and out of their flanks—pierce and run, pierce and run. Never striking the same place twice while cutting down their numbers and giving the Elondrian footmen a chance to counter.

Asa raised his axe for his men to see and drove his heels into the back of his horse. He felt like Faylorn of Old as he galloped at the front of the wave, barreling toward his horde of Khuls, but instead of wild half-human cannibals with file-sharpened teeth, it was giant wolf-like monsters with wide spread fangs and dagger-sized claws.

Glancing over his shoulder, his men, Creator love ‘em, were still there. There was fear in their eyes, but strength as well. They were going to sing songs about today. Tales would be told about this battle for years to come. Asa was proud to be leading these men into what could be their final charge.

He held his axe high as they drew down on the creatures’ left flank, bellowing out his battle cry. “For Elondria!”

The men behind him repeated the shout. He could feel the breath catching in his throat. Twenty paces. Ten paces. Five paces.

He shouted again, even louder, his voice going hoarse from the effort. “For Elondriaaaaa . . .”

They slammed into the side of the pack. Hounds were thrown aside from the initial impact. He couldn’t believe the size of the creatures as he swung his great axe, cutting, slicing, stabbing, striking. They were everywhere. Their stench alone was enough to make the most veteran of warriors cower. His men were still pushing forward, but he knew he would have to angle them back out while they still had momentum. If they were to get stuck inside, there would be no escape.

He could hear his men shouting and the sound of their steel against the creatures’ hides as he forced his horse to angle its way back out. On his right, one of the hounds leapt across the others and grabbed the lancer next to him, sinking in its teeth. With a twist of its huge head, the man’s arm and shoulder were ripped completely off. The look of pale shock on the young soldier’s face as he turned to Asa for help was sickening. Asa screamed and swung his double sided axe, burying it in the creature’s forehead. Its mouth fell open, dropping the man’s arm. The soldier was not long to follow.

All around him, Asa’s men were fighting with every last drop of blood they had to give, but their drive was beginning to falter. If they didn’t break free soon, they were going to be overrun. Swinging to the left, Asa opened the neck of another hound as it attempted to reach for his horse. He couldn’t tell how close to the outer lines they were. The hounds were too big to see over and the rain was too strong. Asa was afraid he had driven his men too far into the creature’s belly to get back out.

Quickly, he pulled his arm out of reach, narrowly escaping the jaws of another as they snapped shut. Asa twisted in his saddle and clipped the side of the beast’s head as he rode by.

A set of claws ripped open his shoulder, forcing Asa to drop the reins. With nothing left but his legs, he steered the old battle stallion directly at the hound. He used his free hand to bury his long dagger in the creature’s left eye as it came at him again. Grabbing his axe, Asa finished the beast with a single downswing, taking nearly half its head off in the process. The warm blood running down his arm was actually a relief from the cold rain, though his fingers grew numb.

He figured they had to be getting close to the outer edge of the pack. His men were beginning to falter. With no other option but to keep pushing forward, he kept his axe in motion and fought to keep the hounds away from his horse.

Another ranker on his right went down, his horse knocked from under him. Asa grabbed the man’s arms and tried hauling him onto his own horse but one of the creatures bit down on the soldier’s leg, resulting in a brief tug-of-war match between Asa and the hor’hound.

“Help me!” the man screamed in pain, pleading for his captain to save him.

Asa swung his axe but missed. The hound was too far out of reach. Asa’s grip was slipping. He fought to hold on. He couldn’t let another one of his own be taken while he had a chance to save him. Using his legs, Asa turned his horse into the creature and threw one of his daggers. The blade stuck all the way to the cross guard, but the creature never slowed.

Suddenly, the man tore free of the hound’s grasp and Asa managed to get him over the side of his horse. The lancer was delirious, mumbling incoherently. Glancing over his shoulder at the hor’hound, Asa saw the man’s foot still hanging from its teeth.

Kicking his horse into action, Asa fought his way ahead. He held on to his mount with his knees and to the lancer with his free hand as he hacked his way through the hounds. His battle-axe was painted with blood. Moments later, they cut their way out from the creature’s left flank and back into the open. Asa quickly directed his men back toward the staging area to drop off their wounded before returning for another round.

His arm was throbbing from where the creature had gouged it. He needed to get it wrapped before going back out or he was going to have a hard time wielding a weapon. He glanced back over his shoulder at the raging battle behind them. He wasn’t sure if his men could handle another charge like that or not.

But what choice did they have?

Chapter 72 | Ayrion

AS THE BATTLE raged across the valley below, Ayrion and Rhydan watched from their perch on top of the rise.

Ayrion hoped Commander Tolin and his men would be able to drive the beasts back to ground, if not destroy them entirely, but there were just so many of them. Even from this distance, Ayrion could see the size of the hounds and the unrelenting nature of their attack.

The hor’hounds fought as a single unit. They didn’t have the size and agility of the creatures they had encountered during the king’s hunting excursion, but their numbers more than made up for the difference.

The mounted lancers had managed to thwart the hounds momentarily, giving the pikemen enough time to get into place amongst the Cylmaran troops. Many of the hor’hounds were being skewered on the long poles but the ones behind used the bodies of their fallen to surmount the lancer’s stand. There was no honor among beasts, apparently, only an insatiable hunger for raw meat and the taste of fresh blood.

“How much longer can they stand against such punishment?” the king asked, more to himself than as a question he expected Ayrion to answer. With his gold-leaf field glass pressed to his eye, Rhydan studied the scene below. His sword was drawn. It hung loosely at his side, tip pointing outward.

From behind their protected mounds, Ayrion could see Captain Nadeer and Undercaptain Bellos hollering at their bowmen as they unleashed wave upon wave of bolts and shafts into the horde’s open flanks. The hor’hounds were falling, but only after being pierced by dozens of arrows. And there were always more to take their place.

Ayrion couldn’t believe the strength of these creatures. His hopes for the Elondrian forces coming out alive, let alone victorious, were beginning to wane. The only positive outcome so far was that half of the Cylmaran ranks who had not already deserted their posts had turned back to fight alongside the Elondrian soldiers, clearly recognizing that it was their only hope of survival.

Ayrion spun on his heels. His hands automatically reached for his weapons as a horn sounded from the base of the rise. Even over the downpour, he could hear the shout of orders and clash of steel.

Another streak of lightning lit the sky. It was all the light he needed to see the danger they were in. A pack of hor’hounds had managed to circle around the back side of the army, and they were clawing their way toward the base of the rise.

“Protect the king!” Ayrion hollered to the cluster of High Guard standing in front of the king’s pavilion. They were an elite group that Ayrion had specifically chosen as the king’s shadows, each bearing the crest of the sword and crown. They were never to leave his side.

In one swift move, Ayrion leapt onto Shade and galloped down the side of the rise. The lower flaps of his black leather coat billowed out behind him, the force of the wind opened them like the wings of a night hawk. His two swords were out of their sheaths and held at the ready. The jeweled eyes of each dragon cross-guard sparkled in the light of the storm. Ayrion took a deep breath and focused his mind. Underneath him, Shade moved with the grace of something otherworldly, his muscular frame tearing up the ground as he raced to carry his rider to the battle below.

Up ahead, Ayrion saw Barthol fighting at the front of the first two units. His men fought the creatures with all the fury and stamina their training could afford. “On your right!” he heard Barthol bellow as a group of hounds tried to skirt the outer ranks. The beasts weren’t prepared to face opposition as well trained as the High Guard. But even with the greatest of skill, a human body can only endure for so long before the arms grow lax, the swing flounders, and the breath gives way.

Reaching the first of the creatures, Ayrion jumped from his saddle and slammed into the closest hound, both swords buried in its rancid pelt. Without having to be told, Shade pulled away from the fighting and moved farther up the slope, waiting for Ayrion’s call. He was the smartest horse Ayrion had ever known. He understood what Ayrion wanted without ever having to be told.

Withdrawing his swords and spinning around, Ayrion started for the next creature. He could feel his magic rising. “Come face my blades!” His words misted into the cold air as he swung downwards, cutting deep into the neck of the first while at the same time sliding the black steel of his other through the heart of the next. It was like slicing through a day-warm cantermelon—no resistance. Both creatures dropped without so much as a whimper as Ayrion hopped over them to battle the next.

With this many assailants attacking at once, Ayrion couldn’t rely solely on his premonitions. That side of his magic was meant more for warning than for continuous use. It left his senses confused when being attacked from all sides. Instead, he relied on his muscle memory and training to keep him alive.

He fought his way to Barthol’s side as the huge captain was holding two of the hounds at bay for some of his men to finish off.

“Pull back!” Ayrion shouted to the first wave of guards. They quickly grabbed their wounded and made a strategic retreat while fresh reinforcements from the third and fourth block-formations stepped in and took over. Ayrion admired the discipline his men showed. It was inspiring. The quick rotation gave the first and second-formations time to catch their breath and move the injured out of the way as they prepared to take the next wave.

“I count at least a hundred, could be more!” Barthol shouted as he continued hacking the head off of another hound. Instead of falling back with the others from the first and second blocks, the large captain remained where he was for another round of fighting.

Ayrion spun to the side to escape one set of claws, but was hit by another. The creature tore through his newly mended coat. “Hailstones!” Thankfully, the heavy leather kept the lacerations on his arm from being more serious than they could have been, but it didn’t stop the pain. He dropped to one knee and back-cut the legs out from under the creature as it tried to break through. Spinning around, he drove his sword through the neck of another.

The hounds made another push to circumvent the guard. They were clearly after the king. “On my right! On my right!” Ayrion yelled as soon as he saw the creatures shift position. The guards rushed to Ayrion’s side and blocked the hound’s attempt to break through.

The front of the rise was sheer about halfway up and presented a steep enough angle that a full-on assault would have proven fruitless. This was one of the logical reasons for choosing this vantage point in the first place.

Ayrion’s heart skipped a beat when he saw his big friend go down.

“Barthol!” Ayrion lunged at the closest hound, chopping its muzzle clean off and leaving it there to bleed drool down the front of its hide. A small pack of creatures had managed to get between him and the downed captain.

The flat of Barthol’s sword was the only thing keeping the hound’s fangs from devouring him. Like holding on to a stick in a dog’s mouth, Barthol fought to keep the hor’hounds jaws from clenching his neck.

Ayrion took another hit to the back. The blow wasn’t strong enough to knock him from his feet, but it was enough to knock the air out of him. Searing pain rushed down the right side of his leg as a single claw tore through his leather trousers and shin guard. He dropped to the ground and rolled to get up under the creature, and then thrust one of his swords up and out the backside of the hound’s neck.

“Get this flaming mutt off of me!” Barthol hollered. Ayrion sprung to his feet, but there were still three creatures between him and Barthol. Windmilling his blades, Ayrion cut one of the front legs off the first hor’hound, but before he could move to the second, fresh guards appeared out of nowhere to help. From the corner of his eye, Ayrion could see the mark of their crown and sword crest.

Ayrion was irate.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hollered over his shoulder at the elite guards fighting their way to his side. “You should be protecting the king!”

“They are!” Rhydan bellowed as he charged in beside Ayrion, thrusting his great blade into the closest creature with the pent-up fury of a man who had just spent the better part of the day watching his soldiers being slaughtered. The fresh arms swiftly availed as they were able to force back the hound’s momentum.

Ayrion flew over the king’s fresh kill and on top of the hound still fighting to sink its teeth into Barthol. The wolf’s head jerked upward, rattled at the sudden weight on its back. Completely forgetting about Barthol, the creature bucked once, twice, three times. It fought to unseat its unwelcome rider.

Ayrion grabbed its mane and started to laugh. Look at me. I’m riding a hor’hound! He laughed even more. He was sure those watching probably thought he had lost his mind, but when faced with the unimaginable—what else can you do?

Unable to maintain his balance any longer, Ayrion rammed one of his swords through the monstrous animal’s distended backbone, lodging the black blade somewhere deep inside its chest cavity. Blood soaked the front of his coat as the creature went down.

Ayrion spit the salty tang from his mouth and, with a little help from the king, lifted Barthol back to his feet and moved him toward the back of the lines as fresh recruits rushed in to fill their spots.

“You see!” Barthol said as he spat out a wad of wet fur collected from his momentary stay under the great hound. “This is why I won’t allow the wife to get a pet!” He let Ayrion and Rhydan help him over to a large piece of fallen stone where they all slumped against the rock.

Ayrion watched his men holding back the hor’hound offensive. “We’re losing too many of them. At this rate, we’re not going to have enough men to rotate out. When that happens . . .”

The three men struggled to catch their breath as they readied themselves to jump back in with the next wave.

Chapter 73 | Asa

THE CYLMARAN SOLDIERS were of little help.

They flailed around with their gaudy cleavers and axes, no real sense of unification behind their tactics. It was a mentality of every man for himself, and it led to their ranks being swallowed by the Elondrian forces as they were either pushed to the back and out of the way, or struggled to hold the flanks in between the lancer formations.

The thrill of excitement that had threatened to overwhelm Asa earlier, with the thought of great songs being written about the lancer’s last charge, had all but turned sour in the pit of his gut as he drove his unit deep into the bowels of the hor’hound pack once again. To his regret, Asa had misjudged the speed at which the creatures had closed the gap behind them. He found himself and his men cut off from the rest of the army.

“Forward!” he shouted as his battle-worn arm continued to swing his great double-sided axe at the throngs of hungry creatures all around him. Cut. He severed one’s head. Cut. He hacked two more. Cut. He watched a piece of a massive paw sail through the air before cleaving the neck of the hound it came from. All he knew to do was to keep moving, to keep cutting, and to keep pushing forward. He hoped they could fight their way through and out the other side, but the farther they charged the slower their movement became, until finally they didn’t move at all.

His men were dropping all around him as the hounds turned their attention on the horses. They realized that in bringing down the horse they would bring down the rider. Asa’s legs were bleeding through the openings in his armor, those dagger claws having penetrated between the open sections. He watched in wonder as one of his men, with his arm torn off to the elbow, reached down with the other to grab his fallen sword and keep fighting.

All around him, Asa could hear the clash of steel, the cries of battle, the wails of agony, and the howls of their enemy. It was a great cacophony of sound that would have driven fear into the most valiant of hearts.

Asa clenched his teeth and brought his axe up and around. He directed the blade as it stuck deep inside the chest of the nearest hound. The creature slumped to the side with an ugly whine. Asa’s calloused fingers tightened around the rough steel on the handle of his axe as he twisted in his saddle to get a look at his men. They were giving everything they had just to keep the animals at bay.

He was down to about half his riders. And those still managing to remain mounted were unable to move. What he had most feared had taken place. They were completely cut off from the rest of the army—surrounded on all sides.

Asa raised his axe once again to encourage his men. “For Elondria!” he managed to shout before going down himself.

His mount stumbled over one of the fallen hor’hounds and sent him tumbling over the ravaged bodies of his men. Shaking the initial shock from his limbs and the rain from his face, Asa was back on his feet before he finished the last rotation. With axe in hand, he swung at the nearest hound as it dove for him.

The impact threw him from his feet, but he managed to cleave the lower side of the creature’s face before he did. Its jaw hung open to the bone. Asa rolled and hopped back to his feet, bringing his axe around again, severing one of the hound’s front legs clear off at the joint. He finished the beast with a single overhead swing.

Asa pulled the wedge of steel from the hound and then spun from left to right, his eyes darting back and forth as he readied himself for another attack. His men, having seen him go down, fought to encircle their leader with what remained of their mounted unit.

The hor’hounds pressed in, blood on their teeth and death in their eyes. Asa could hear the sound of Elondrian footmen somewhere off to his right, but they were far too distant to manage a rescue. With his axe firmly gripped in both hands, he immediately planted his feet and turned his shoulders, waiting for the inevitable.

From the right, another hound broke through the lines and plowed Asa into the muck of water and blood below. He felt a searing pain in his leg as he twisted to see the hound’s upper teeth clenched tight around the lower half of his leg just below the knee. Its teeth had punctured his armor and felt as though they had pierced to the bone. He hollered in pain as the rush of it threatened to overwhelm him.

A few of the remaining lancers fought to get to him, but each attempt was thrown back as another creature would turn them around. Asa went to swing his axe but realized it wasn’t in his hands. Clawing at the ground, he struggled to keep the creature from gaining any more leverage. The pain was numbing. He was losing feeling in the leg altogether, and at that moment, he wasn’t sure if that wasn’t a good thing.

The hor’hound shuffled its hind paws, pulling him away from his men. Had it not been for his armor, his leg would have been gone and the beast would be finishing the rest of him. Desperately, he reached out and pried a broadsword from the dead hands of one of his men and swung it at the creature’s head. Though the swing was weak, he managed to rake the top of its skull, peeling away a large chunk of fur. The hor’hound never even flinched.

As fast as he could, Asa thrust his hand into the mud, fighting to keep from being pulled any further away. He had to do something and fast. Giving up on the attempt at stabilizing his position, he heaved himself into a sitting position and plunged the blade into the hound’s closest eye. The creature immediately released his leg and howled in fury.

Asa rolled to the side and drove the sword into its exposed chest. The hound collapsed beside him. Using the sword for leverage, he struggled to regain his feet before limping his way back to his men. He picked up his axe from where it had fallen and swung it at the closest fur pelt he saw.

His men, having lost their mounts, were now down to a single cluster. Back to back they stood as they swung at the encroaching hounds. Even Asa could see the hopelessness of it all. The only choice left was to go out with honor.

Raising his axe, Asa started to bellow one last battle cry, but was cut short by the blare of a lancer signal horn. Behind them, a secondary cavalry unit came charging through the hounds with Commander Tolin himself leading the way.

Where Tolin had gotten the men, Asa had no idea. It looked like he had rounded up every last one of his staff, including the runners, the cooks, and even his young hostler. Asa almost spat on himself when he saw old Elior riding in behind them, swinging his sword around and having more fun than a man his age with physical impairments should have been allowed. It was the most incredible sight he’d ever laid eyes on. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but as he dodged and swung at the next encroaching hound, he decided he didn’t have time for either.

“Looks like you could use a hand!” Tolin shouted.

“I could use more than one!” Asa returned as he struggled to mount a fallen lancer’s horse. Whipping the steed about, he helped another one of his men up behind him as the rest of those remaining doubled up behind the new recruits. He gladly followed Tolin and his riders out of the battle and back toward the Elondrian lines. “I must say, Commander, your timing is impeccable!”

“Can’t let you have all the glory, now can I?”

“Suppose not!” Asa wiped the front of his face with his blood-stained glove, wincing at the shooting pain in his leg with every jolt of the horse’s hooves. “But right about now, I don’t mind sharing!”

The Elondrian bowmen were focusing their fire on the right flank of the hounds, keeping them from completely enclosing the mounted riders before they had the opportunity to pull out. Asa nodded in admiration of the commander’s quick thinking.

Riding adjacent to the hor’hound force, Asa was surprised at how close they had actually been to getting out. It looked as though the creature’s numbers had significantly decreased since they had first ridden into their ranks. His horsemen had managed to keep the hounds off balance long enough for the main force of the Elondrian and Cylmaran fighters to begin overpowering the creature’s momentum.

For the first time since the conflict began, Asa thought he could see an end in sight, and one that brought with it the victory they all so desperately sought.

Chapter 74 | Ayrion

THE HIGH GUARD was down to a single unit.

Ayrion watched his men being systematically picked off one by one. His arms felt as heavy as tree trunks and his chest burned with every breath he drew. The rage within him grew with every new death. His men believed that he was something other than human, in a way, touching the divine. He could do things no person should have been able to do. He had lived through encounters that would have killed a dozen men. Yet, for all his abilities, he was powerless to stop the slaughter of his men today. He was barely able to keep his own life from being snuffed out by these unnatural creatures of darkness.

Aryion flung his raven hair from his face as he moved to block two more hounds attempting to break through the outer lines. His swords never slowed. The first of the two beasts went for his legs, hoping to incapacitate him long enough for the other to finish him off, but now that the size of the pack had been cut down in number, Ayrion’s magic was there to intercede.

With an abrupt sense of warning, he jumped into the air and pushed off the first creature. The momentum carried him up and over the second. Before his feet hit the ground, Ayrion had slid both blades through the hor’hound’s neck, severing the spinal column on their way through.

Bounding over the fallen creature, he sliced clean through the back two legs of the first hound. It howled in pain, fury written on its face as Barthol brought down his sword across its neck to finish it off.

With a slight limp, Ayrion worked himself back between Barthol and Rhydan as they continued to hold the creatures’ advance. The High Guard had been slowly forced to give ground. Little by little, they had worked their way back up the incline until they had finally reached the top of the rise. This made it all the more difficult to control their enemy, since the hounds were no longer held within a confined space.

Ayrion spared a quick glance over his shoulder, trying to count the last few surviving members of his High Guard as they blocked, slashed, and stabbed with what little resolve they had left. They fought with every last drop. So few left. His men, these warriors who had put their trust in him to see them through, had been all but destroyed. Had he failed them? Had he led them to their deaths? Was there even a purpose for this senseless slaughter? He knew there had to be. His men were not going to have given their lives for nothing. He would make sure of that.

Down to just a handful of guards, they fought—side by side—not as warriors, but as brothers. There were four creatures still standing, but their decreased numbers had only increased their determination.

“On your right, sire!” Barthol shouted in warning as the big captain pulled his sword from fallen hound to block the next. The captain’s arms and chest were soaked in blood from the savage abuse inflicted by the creature’s claws.

The king, getting the warning just in time, threw up his guard as the hor’hound slammed into his side. He was thrown from his feet. Ayrion could hear the king’s plated armor clanging across the ground behind him as Rhydan rolled to a stop. Ayrion turned and threw one of his swords at the hound as it rushed the king. The dragon blade buried itself to the cross-guard in the creature’s side, giving Rhydan enough time to make it back to his feet to finish him off.

The hound Ayrion had been fighting lunged for his neck while his back was turned, but sensing the attack, Ayrion dropped to the ground and rolled underneath it. Another whine rung out as Barthol and two of the remaining guards hacked the third to death.

The final hor’hound, realizing it was the last, pulled back from its attack and slowly retreated toward the edge of the rise. Ayrion moved with the others to encircle it. A cornered animal was dangerous. The creature’s lips were raised, baring its massive fangs. It snapped at the first guard as the man tried working his way to the side. The guard dove to the right, barely escaping the creature’s jaws.

“Be careful!” Barthol shouted.

Ayrion moved around to the front. “Barthol, distract him so I can get close enough to reach its neck.”

“And how do you suggest I do that?”

Ayrion shrugged. “Sing it a tune.” One of the guards started to laugh but went immediately quiet with a single look from his captain.

“I’ll sing you a tune in a moment,” Barthol grumbled under his breath. He slowly moved around to the creature’s side. And without warning, the big captain suddenly bounded into the air and began dancing around and squawking like he’d just stepped ankle deep in a mound of fire ants. His friend’s sudden outburst took even Ayrion by surprise. It took everything he had to keep from laughing himself.

The hor’hound, just as startled as the rest of them, turned its attention to the crazy man on his right, dancing and yelping like a stuck pig.

Ayrion didn’t hesitate. He lunged at the hound and cut a single strike under the creature’s neck. The hor’hound stood on its back feet, giving Rhydan the opportunity he needed to plunge his longsword straight through the front of its chest. The hor’hound grunted in shock and slumped to the ground.

“Victory!” The High King pulled his blood-soaked blade out of the creature and raised it over his head in excitement, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He clapped an arm on Ayrion’s shoulder with a look of pride. That single touch sent a warm rush though Ayrion’s body, rejuvenating his spirit in an instant.

Ayrion turned to congratulate his captain when a sudden pulse from another premonition hit him like a horse’s hoof to the chest. “No!” he screamed, but it was too late. Already facing Barthol’s direction, he did the only thing he could. He raised his foot in the air and kicked his friend over the back side of the rise and out of view just before a hail of arrows descended into the five surviving members, including the High King.

Ayrion could feel the burning in his back as he turned to see the last of his men face down in the mud. The king was on one knee with two crossbow bolts sticking through the back of his plated armor. No! This can’t be happening! Even with his magic, there was nothing he could have done to stop such an attack.

Another sharp sensation pierced his body, bringing him frighteningly near unconsciousness. Ayrion’s mind went into a state of delirium.  Lowering his head, his eyes scanned the front of his chest. Those look like bolt tips. His mind was groggy, like from an evening of too much drinking after a battle. His remaining blade slipped from his fingers and landed in the mud beside him. Ayrion lifted his hand and touched the razor tips of the shafts. What are those doing there?

Like waking from a realistic nightmare, everything suddenly flooded back into focus. Ayrion’s legs gave out and he dropped to all fours. Frantically, he tried crawling to where Rhydan had fallen. The king was still casting a bewildered gaze around him as he tried to understand what was happening.

Valtor, Dakaran, and the white-cloaked members of the Black Watch walked around to the front of where the king knelt, gasping for breath.

“Dakaran . . . Son?” The king held out a hand for help.

“Do it, Dakaran!” Valtor thrust his blade into the prince’s hands. “This is what you wanted, so finish the job.”

“Son, please.” All eyes watched as the prince took a step toward his father, the sword hanging limp in his hand. The look of shock and betrayal in Rhydan’s eyes was daunting.

Ayrion collapsed a few paces away from the king and coughed blood. It pooled around his face. He was too weak to move.

Dakaran shook his head and took a step back. “No, I . . . I can’t do it.”

“You coward,” Valtor hissed. “It’s a little late to turn back now!” The Arch Chancellor grabbed the sword from Dakaran’s hands. He took two steps forward and thrust the blade through the unprotected flank of the king’s armor. Rhydan’s eyes went wide as he spat blood and collapsed. His crown fell from his head and buried itself in the mud in front of him.

“No!” Ayrion somehow managed to drag himself over as the king turned his head in his direction. Ayrion reached out and placed a quivering hand on Rhydan’s arm. Blood was seeping through his lips.

Rhydan coughed. Blood ran from his mouth and into his gray beard. “I always thought of you as a son.” His words were garbled and his eyes, wavering.

“And you, a father,” Ayrion said, choking back the pain. A half-smile creased Rhydan’s lips just before the last of his air expelled and his eyes glazed over.

“You stole his love from me!” Dakaran hissed. “And now you can die with it!” Enraged, the prince grabbed a crossbow from one of the nearest guards and snapped the trigger. Ayrion felt the heat of the bolt as it drove through his unprotected back.

The last image Ayrion witnessed was his king, lying motionless in the mud while the rain rolled down his face, mixing with the blood still seeping from his mouth. Then everything went numb and darkness took over.

Chapter 75 | Dakaran

THE STORM HAD PASSED and the dawn of a new day crept its way over the few remaining clouds.

There was an unwelcome chill in the air that clung to Prince Dakaran like a wet shirt, and left behind a sense of irritation as he watched his father’s body being carried ceremonially down from the rise and placed on the back of a prepared wagon. The cart was draped on either side by the flag of Elondria. Valtor had made sure that the king’s body had been appropriately redressed to hide their obvious transgressions from public view.

Dakaran placed the royal crown back on his father’s head before turning to address those gathered around. “They were the bravest of us,” he eulogized, not having to fake the tears streaking his cheeks as he looked at his father’s lifeless body. The king’s arms had been folded reverently in front, his fingers atop the pommel of his sword. “The High King, the Guardian Protector, and the High Guard fought with the courage of true Elondrian warriors,” he said, trying to appear as stately as possible as he performed for the crowd of armed men. “They gave their lives for their country. They shall be remembered as heroes, not only of Elondria but all of Aldor.” A few of the lancers nearby voiced their agreements. “We ride for Aramoor in the morning.”

“Your Highness.” Commander Tolin stepped forward. “What shall we do about the Cylmarans? We’re holding Overlord Saryn and Ambassador Belkor for questioning. They are both demanding to speak with you.” There was a funny sort of crinkle to the commander’s brow which brought Dakaran a sense of unease. “They’re claiming something about a bargain?”

Dakaran tried not to react.

“Bargain?” His voice feigned ignorance, but his eyes swelled with anger as he cast a sideways glance at Valtor, whose face remained as blank as an unwritten letter. “Here’s my bargain, Commander. Tell them Cylmar is no more. Tell them, their families will live as outcasts and their children and grandchildren shall curse their names, and then remove their heads.” He turned to walk away.

“Your Highness, what about our dead? They should be laid to rest with dignity, not left for the birds.”

Dakaran turned, taking in the concerned faces of the lancers surrounding him. “You are correct, Commander.” He smiled, but his voice held a definite edge. “That is why I have arranged for the local citizenry of Belbridge to do just that. They could stand to benefit from the extra coin we will provide for their services and it will allow us to make for Aramoor with all haste in order to bury my father.”

Tolin’s face did little to hide his bewilderment. “But, Your Higness, should we not look for survivors in hopes of—”

“Commander! Are you saying the burial of the High King is not of immediate importance?” Dakaran was furious. How dare he question me! He could tell this man was going to be a problem. One of his first actions when properly crowned would be to get rid of him. The king had been killed on his watch after all.

Tolin glanced around hesitantly. “No, Your Highness, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Good. Then as the new leader of Elondria, I am giving you an order to leave them to the good people of Belbridge while we make for Aramoor.” He held Tolin’s gaze and waited patiently for the commander to acquiesce to his authority.

Tolin finally bowed his head. “Very well, Your Highness, if that is your wish.”

“It is,” Dakaran said as he headed for his tent. “I want to leave as soon as possible.”

“Masterfully done, Your Highness.” Valtor followed Dakaran into his personal lodging. The Arch Chancellor’s praise slid around Dakaran like a python ready to squeeze. “You need to show authority right from the start, make them realize you will not be a weak king and that you will demand their respect. Remember, Elondria needs strength.”

Valtor moved behind his desk and began packing some books inside an open case. “On that note, I would also strongly advise the prince to execute Overlord Saryn’s entire family as well. The last thing you want is for his progeny to become an eventual thorn in your side. It would set a strong precedent in case there are others who would dare rise up against your throne.”

Dakaran took a deep breath and considered his counselor’s words. He didn’t much like the thought of executing the overlord’s entire family, but Valtor had a point. He didn’t want the man’s kids growing up and coming after him for vengeance. But apart from that easily-remedied problem, he had a much larger one to face. “Your scheming might have garnered us the throne, but in doing so, you’ve left us vulnerable to our enemies. We’ve lost over half our army, not to mention the entire High Guard. How are we going to defend ourselves against the other kingdoms if they suddenly decide to take advantage of the situation?”

“Do you think me a fool, Your Highness?”

Dakaran wondered if the question was supposed to be rhetorical. He wisely kept his mouth shut.

“I have no intention of leaving Elondria without defense. There was more than one reason why we needed this war. It’s not enough to simply remove the king. We need to remove his support. There needed to be a purging of the ranks. The Elondrian lancers are loyal not just to the crown but to your father, especially those of the old guard like Commander Tolin. You saw the way he stood up to you today. You will need to remove him and others loyal to him as soon as possible.”

“But how are we going to replace the men we’ve lost? It’s not like they grow on trees.”

“Grow on trees?” Dakaran’s advisor chuckled. “What an interesting concept.” Valtor shuffled through some papers on his desk. “We can start by replacing the fallen with men from the White Tower. The Black Watch will be loyal, not to the kingdom or Aramoor, but to you.” The chancellor smiled. “Well, as long as you pay them, that is.”

Crossing the room, Dakaran poured himself a glass of wine, trying to hide the slight tremor of his hand as he brought it to his mouth. Events seemed to be moving too quickly for him to keep up. He didn’t like feeling completely reliant on Valtor. He still wasn’t sure of the motives behind his advisor’s actions. “What do we do about Ayrion and his men? We can’t very well let Tolin see them laying up there with arrows sticking from their backs.”

“It has already been taken care of.” Valtor stepped over to the table to gather his books and paraphernalia. “My men stand guard on the rise as we speak, and the bodies are being hidden in the surrounding foliage on the back side of the rise. No one will be the wiser. But if they ask, we tell them the hor’hounds didn’t leave much in the way of remains, and what they did, we buried respectfully.”

Valtor looked up from his packing. “And what decision have you come to concerning Saryn’s family?”

“I believe you are right,” Dakaran said, not quite as confident about the decision as he would have liked to have been.

“Very good. I’ll have the executioner notified at once.”

Dakaran winced at the thought. But the emotion was short-lived as another took its place. He lowered himself into his chair with a heavy sigh before taking a large gulp of wine. He couldn’t believe they had managed to pull it off. King Dakaran. A smile crept across his lips. He liked the sound of that.

Chapter 76 | Tameel

IT HAD BEEN two days since the Elondrian army had left for their march back to Aramoor, leaving the town of Belbridge the worse for wear. The cold Èshan winds, hinting of winter’s coming presence, had managed to hold back the stench of decay from the bodies spotting the desolate landscape. The valley looked like a patch of diseased skin waiting for its pustules to burst and seep.

“Tameel, how soon till the townsfolk begin the burial process, you reckon?” Zynora pulled her aged hand from the pockets of yet another fallen lancer and scanned the contents. “Hmm, five coppers. These were some very underpaid soldiers,” she commented to herself before moving on to the next waiting set of pockets. Her knobby fingers were arrayed in a garish display of rings.

Tameel swiped the long ends of his purple headband back over his shoulder as he stopped his perusing to answer his wife. “I would say we have today and maybe tomorrow before they start burial.” He took a moment to scratch the top of his head. His feathery white hair poked out and over the silk wrap, like water bursting from a small fountain. Unlike his wife, Tameel had no rings on his fingers. Instead, he bore two copper-plated bracelets, one on each forearm. They were engraved with a single word. The right arm read Rivahnni, and the left, Dar.

Tameel and Zynora’s odd assortment of colorful garments blended in with the range of colors worn by the dead soldiers.  Zynora’s white hair was covered in part by a silk scarf bound to her forehead with a gold chain. There were a number of small charms woven into the chain that dangled as she moved.

Tameel struggled to maneuver around another of the monstrous creatures to get at a rather nice looking dagger hanging from a lancer’s belt. Unlike the other scavengers from Belbridge who were now combing the field of dead men, Tameel and his wife had been careful in selecting their areas of exploration, making sure they managed to find the richest hauls.

They had scouted the location a few days prior to the battle, marking on a simple hand drawn map where the main tents had been organized, where the officers and royalty slept, and where the armory had been situated. So far, their efforts had paid off with a nice selection of weapons and clothing, including a large assortment of belts and boots, and even a good purse or two worth of spare coinage. Altogether, it had been a fortuitous blessing to have been passing through town when they had.

Tameel studied the small parchment that held their map. “Once we finish here, we need to make for that rise.” He pointed behind them on the east side of the valley. “The king spent most of his time near the top. We need to see if they left anything of value behind during all the ruckus of his death.”

After scouring the bodies of the fallen High Guard and keeping well back from the hor’hounds that spotted the ground, Tameel and Zynora finally reached the apex where the High King had kept his royal command post. To their disappointment, the grounds were completely devoid of all loose items. Not so much as a single tent wedge had been left.

“Surely they had to have left something?” Tameel scanned the surrounding area for any sign of debris. Apart from a rather enormous black stallion, which couldn’t be coaxed away from the thick underbrush on the far side of the rise, he couldn’t find anything of worth. “I can’t understand why this place has been so thoroughly cleaned while everything else lays in ruin.”

“Maybe someone beat us here.”

“Impossible.” Tameel stood at the front of the rise looking out over the dead fields below. “We were here before they finished breaking camp. There’s been no one else.” He turned around and pointed at the stallion. “Make sure to grab him. I guarantee he’ll be worth a hefty bag of gold. He looks bred for royalty.”

“I wonder why they left him?”

Tameel shrugged as he continued scouring the open ground. “Aha!” he exclaimed with excitement. “At last, we have our first artifact!” He held up a broken piece of quarrel. “Looks to have come from a crossbow.” Tameel examined it further. “Look here. There’s a bit of torn cloth,” he said as he pulled the frayed piece of black material from the barb. “When was the last time you saw a hor’hound wearing a silk shirt?”

“When was the last time you ever saw a hor’hound?” his wife called out from somewhere in the overgrowth on the far side of the rise.

“Good point.” He tossed the broken head back on the ground and was about to begin one final sweep when his wife’s shriek startled him.

Dropping his carry sack into the mud, Tameel ran toward the back side of the rise. His wife was digging around in some of the thicker shrubs directly behind where the command tent had been. “I believe we know where your arrow came from,” she said looking down at a small pile of bodies shrewdly tucked out of sight. They had been carefully covered with cut branches.

Tameel scratched the top of his head. “This makes no sense. Why would these men have been shot by their own people, much less hidden away for no one to find?”

“Why else would you want to hide dead men?”

“To cover a crime,” he said under his breath as if making sure no one could hear his theory. Instinctively, he glanced around the top of the rise just to make sure they weren’t being watched. “I think it’s best we were going,” Tameel confessed as he started to crawl back out of the bushes. “Whatever intrigues are being played here, we shouldn’t get involved.”

“Hold on, I’m almost done, you old coward,” Zynora said, as she started riffling through another of the fallen guard’s pockets.

“Better a live coward than a dead hero, I always say. Just look at all these—”

“Ahh!”

Tameel turned in time to see his wife stumbling backwards over some of the loose branches where she landed on her backside.

Tameel rushed back through the undergrowth as fast as his knobby legs would carry him, snagging his loose trousers on a sticker vine and ripping off a small hunk of material in the process. “What happened? What’s wrong?” His eyes darted in all directions. “Are you alright?”

“Sorry, I was just startled.” She lifted her hand and pointed back to the pile of dead men. “He . . . he moved.”

Tameel walked over to take a look at the fallen men. “I don’t see anything.” He knelt down and took a closer look. “Which one?”

Before his wife could respond, Tameel noticed a slight twitch from a hand sticking out from the bottom of the pile. Dropping to his hands and knees, Tameel started rolling back the bodies. “Quit playing in the dirt, old woman, and give me a hand.”

By the time Zynora made it back to her feet and over to where he was, Tameel had shoved the last of the corpses out of the way, revealing the owner of the moving arm. Quickly, they worked to remove the thick leather overcoat he wore in the hopes of getting a look at the wounds. “Here, hand me your knife.” Zynora drew the small dagger from her waist and handed it to him. With a steady hand, Tameel cut open the back of the man’s black tunic.

“Careful now,” she scolded. “We could sell that, you know.”

Tameel rolled his eyes. “And who do you reckon is going to buy a shirt with three sets of holes? At least we know where the arrows came from.” They stared at the three similar holes in the man’s back. The blood seeping out of the wounds was clotted and dark. “Cut me some cloth from one of the other tunics. We need to slow the bleeding enough to get him to the wagon.”

“How is he not dead?”

Tameel pursed his lips. “If I was to guess, I’d say the pressure of the other men on top of him held back the bleeding long enough for him to survive.”

“The Great Father must be looking out for him.” She instinctively touched a few of the gold charms dangling from her headdress.

“Aye. That He is.”

“We need to get him back to the wagon so I can work on him,” Zynora said, handing him a couple pieces of cut cloth.

“He won’t make it that far with his wounds unattended.”

Zynora looked around at the surrounding foliage. “Here, use the mud. It should be enough to stopper the leakage till then.”

“Wife, you have a stout mind in that beautiful head of yours,” Tameel remarked with an affectionate smile. He thrust his hand deep into the water-logged soil and pulled out a fist of dark mire. It oozed between his fingers as he squeezed. He gently packed the three wounds before firmly applying the cloth bandages on top.

Using the stallion, which surprisingly hadn’t moved from its position outside the brush, they carried the man’s body back down the rise, along with a couple more purses and an assortment of weapons.

Tameel had left their covered wagon in a small stand of trees just south of the rise. It was their temporary home while traveling. Its green and gold paint was in desperate need of another coating. Tameel kept promising he’d get around to it, but never seemed to find the time.

It was quite the task getting the wounded man inside. Tameel opened the back door of the wagon and pulled from his end, while Zynora pushed from hers. Once inside, they managed to muscle him onto a small built-in cot they had been using for additional storage space. Zynora started rummaging through some of the glass jars and vials they had stockpiled on some shelving above the cot.

“Will he live, wife?”

Zynora clicked her tongue. “He probably won’t last till evening, but at least we can sleep tonight with a clear conscience.”

The young warrior had indeed managed to hold off death’s sting, if only by a hair’s-breadth. His breathing was shallow and came in spurts, but at least it came. Tameel stood out of the way while Zynora, having cleaned the temporary mud bandages from the young warrior’s back, applied one salve after another as she methodically battled the infection threatening to rip away his life.

“I am a daughter of the Dar’Rivahnni,” she called out. “A student of the healing arts of Kojzu, and this shall not beat me!” Tameel had no doubt of his wife’s promise. He had seen her work some miraculous healing in his life. “Zintari Freyestra.” She held her hands over the wounds and closed her eyes, drawing on the magical healing elements all Rivahnni women had been instructed in since birth. “Zintari Folduru.” Her palms radiated a soft violet as she sent the simple spell down through the open wounds and into the puss-white infection beneath. The area around his back radiated a soft violet as well, just under the skin.

The light soon faded and the color vanished.  Tameel’s wife slumped down beside the small cot, resting her head on the side of the straw mattress. “I’m getting too old for this,” she sighed, and dozed into unconsciousness. Tameel covered her with a nearby quilt. After stowing the rest of their plunder, he tied the large stallion to the back of the old covered Tinker wagon and climbed in front. The enormous black warhorse didn’t seem to need any prodding. It stayed as close to the back door of the wagon as it could. Tameel wondered if it could smell some of the food they had stored inside, or if it was just happy for some company.

With a single flick of the reins, Tameel turned them northward toward Keldor and home. He hoped for Zynora’s sake the young man survived.

Chapter 77 | Ferrin

THIS WAS IT. It was now or never.

Ferrin’s hands were wet with perspiration as he wiped them down the backside of his torn trousers. The outline of his plan, what little there was, lay open in the forefront of his mind. His recent confrontation with the Arch Chancellor in the Chamber of Purging had waylaid all hopes of acquiring the necessary time for designing a more solid stratagem. Unfortunately, in Ferrin’s experience, life rarely gave you what you wanted, and only occasionally what you needed.

“Last chance.” Ferrin cast a sidelong glance at the old man bound in the far corner of his cell. “You can still come with us.”

“Alas, no, my path is here, my friend. There is another who will need my help, and like you, his destiny is yet to be shaped. We each have our role to play in this pattern of life, and this is mine. But I pray the Creator’s blessings on your journey.”

Azriel sat slumped over in a dejected heap, his skin blotched, hair falling out, and clothes all but gone. Ferrin choked back the lump building at the back of his throat. “I’m going to miss you, old man,” he admitted, waiting to wipe the moisture from his eyes until he was out in the hall. He didn’t want to show such a strong emotion in front of his cellmate. “Is there anyone I can contact for you? You know, let them know you’re alive?”

Azriel’s head lifted slightly. “I have a son.” His head lowered. “Or at least I did. He was only a boy when I was taken, and that was . . . Well, let me see.” Raising his hand, the old seer counted his fingers. “I have moved rooms thirty-six, no, thirty-seven times; which means I have been here going on thirty-eight years.” His shoulders slunk with a heavy sigh. “He would be a grown man by now, probably have kids of his own.”

“What’s his name? Where’d he live?”

The seer’s posture perked and his tone went from melancholy to borderline jovial. “Well, we had a small place on the eastern side of the Sidaran Forest. Not sure if it’s still there. Quiet little place, you know,” he said as his bushy brows rose over his eyes, “the kind where a man could do some serious thinking and never have to worry about pesky neighbors always wanting to get into your business.”

Azriel started to ramble. Something he tended to do more often of late, but how could Ferrin fault him? Here was a man stripped of his home, his family, and locked away for his entire life within the walls of this tower of death. He couldn’t even begin to grasp the reality of it.

“He won’t be there, though,” Azriel continued. “Nope. He never enjoyed the solitude it provided, always wanted to be going into town to see his friends. Of course, he wouldn’t have admitted it, but I knew it were more than just his friends he was going to see. Yep, when a boy his age starts pick’n flowers on the side of the road, and it ain’t for his mother, well, there’s only one other explanation.” The old seer’s mouth split into a toothy grin and he chuckled.

Ferrin knew he couldn’t wait any longer. As much as he enjoyed Azriel’s company, he was running out of time. He would either make his escape tonight or he would be facing the Purging Chamber as soon as the chancellor returned. Slipping his hand into his side pocket, Ferrin’s fingers tightened around the small familiar piece of rock. Pulling it out by its tarnished chain, he slid the transferal over his head and around his neck, dropping it beneath what little remained of his soiled tunic.

It had taken a great deal of faith on Rae’s part to relinquish the crystal. He had been the last prisoner questioned that evening, which gave her the slight hope of not being caught without it. He had exhausted every last drop of charm and logic he could muster to get her to agree to his plan. He knew it was a long shot at best, but he also knew he had no other choice and, being unequivocally bound to his fate, neither did she.

As soon as the transferal touched his skin, it activated. And as long as he kept it within a certain distance of his body, he could use its powers to enhance his natural abilities. However, the opposite was also true. The farther away it was, the weaker its use. Ferrin could already feel the change within himself. Having spent as many endless hours as he had sweating away at his forge, using his transferal to shape iron and steel into weapons of unusual power, he was well aware of its influence.

He walked over to the seer and knelt down beside him. Grabbing hold of the cuffs digging into the old man’s feet, Ferrin closed his eyes in order to concentrate. He could feel the familiar fires of magic within him building. He had forgotten how much he had missed that sensation. How good it had made him feel as the clarity it gave washed over him. It was powerful. He opened his eyes and rubbed gently around the inner edge of the rusty rings. The hard iron was like clay in his hands. It stretched and formed around his fingers, bending to his will.

Once finished, he started on the other foot, and then the wrists and neck. By the time he was through, each of the manacles’ diameters had been increased in size by at least a couple of fingers, allowing for a more comfortable fit. As a finishing touch, he smoothed the sharp edges that were clawing into the seer’s skin.

Azriel laid a shaky hand on the side of Ferrin’s face. “Thank you, Ferrin. May the Creator guide you down the right path and make you a stumbling block to your enemies. Oh, and don’t be afraid to accept help from others, even if it comes in the most unlikely of places.”

Ferrin stared into Azriel’s green eyes. Was that a prayer or a vision? He shrugged. He left the old man sitting there and headed for the door. In his hand he held a small clump of metal he had managed to extract from the seer’s anklets. He lifted it up to the keyhole and let his magic take over from there. The small metallic ball took on a life of its own and started to grow directly into the lock. He could feel it forming into place, settling against the inner mechanisms of the tumblers before hardening back into solid form.

Ferrin flipped his wrist and the lock snapped. He pulled back the inner latch and cracked the door ajar. Peering out into the dark passage, he waited, listening for any sound of movement in the corridor beyond. Satisfied that no guards were patrolling within earshot, he opened the door far enough to slip through. Twisting his head around, Ferrin’s eyes settled on the silhouette of the old man—possibly for the last time. He burned Azriel’s image deep into the recesses of his mind, never wanting to forget the time he had spent in this place or the friend he had made in doing so.

Taking a deep breath, Ferrin exited the doorway, but before swinging it shut, he turned around and stuck his head back inside. “Oh, I almost forgot. You never told me his name?”

Azriel’s head pivoted in his direction. “What’s that? Whose name?”

“Your son . . . there in Sidara. What’s his name?”

“Kellen,” Azriel said with pride. “His name is Kellen.  We had a cottage just outside of Easthaven.”

Kellen. Easthaven. Ferrin stored the information away for later as he passed one more smile off to the old seer.

He moved back into the corridor and forced the door shut behind him, locking it into place. He paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the surrounding light, or lack of it. Proceeding down the hall to his right, Ferrin made for the door he knew would be just around the next corner. He kept to the balls of his feet to soften his passage across the cold stone. Peeking around the corner, he could see there were no guards posted outside the cell’s doorway. Good. At least one part of what they told me was true; now to find the storage rooms.

Downward he climbed through the dark winding stairwells. The sound of rodents scurrying about could be heard intermingled with the whimpers coming from the locked doors on either side of the corridors he traveled. One more flight down and he would leave the prison ward behind. Quietly, Ferrin stepped off the lower landing and rounded another familiar corner. He started down the bare hallway. There were no prison cells in this section of the Tower’s fortress.

He had made it partway down the long passageway when a member of the Black Watch stepped out from the far end. Ferrin dropped to his stomach. He didn’t think the man had seen him. He crawled into a nearby doorway and hoped the guard would pass by without noticing. Trying the handle, he realized it was unlocked. There was no light emanating from the other side so he eased it open. To his surprise, it swung on its hinges with minimal resistance and noise. Closing it behind him, Ferrin waited. With my luck, this is probably his bed chambers and he’s just getting off a two-day shift.

Holding his breath, Ferrin whispered a silent prayer into the darkness as he anxiously listened to the guard’s approach—the scuffing of the man’s boots on the floor, the clanging of his sword against his hip, even the clapping of his halberd’s butt-end as it struck every third tile. From just outside the door, the noise of the sentry’s passing went abruptly still. Oh great. My luck hasn’t changed a bit. He felt around his pockets for anything he could use as a weapon, but apart from pulling off his raggedy shoes and beating the armed guard to death with them, he had no other resources. Retracting his hand, he pulled out the key. Quickly, he used his magic to shape it into something with a point. At the very least he could use it to puncture the man’s neck.

He flattened himself against the wall at the far end of the door so as to remain hidden when the guard first opened it. Ferrin waited, his metal pick held at the ready between his thumb and first finger. Time seemed to stretch on forever. He had no idea how long he had been standing there before he heard the guard continue on down the hall.

Ferrin released the breath he’d been holding. Not wanting to waste time, he quickly made his way around the room, hands held out in front of him as he tried to determine where he was and if there was anything of value worth pilfering. As luck would have it, there was.

Ferrin guessed the room was some sort of office for one or more of the inquisitors. He had knocked over a chair, banged his knee on a desk, and tripped over a small trunk, allowing him to test the cleanliness of the stone floor with the side of his face before finding a large cabinet near the back of the room which held a few odds and ends along with, most importantly, a large shoulder pack. Running his fingers over each object, he determined which to leave and which to stuff into his new satchel.

After bagging everything he felt would be worth salvaging, he took the time to listen for the shuffling of feet in the corridor beyond before sliding back the door and stepping into the empty entranceway. He pulled back the latch and the door clicked into place. Ferrin hoped no one would notice the missing items until he was safely out of the Tower and well on his way to freedom.

His stride increased with each new step. Time was running short. He needed to get to the other side of the long hallway before any other unexpected guests arrived. Ferrin glanced down at the bag bouncing in time to his footfalls and smiled. Maybe my luck is finally starting to turn.

The scraping noise of a latch being pulled from the opposite end of the hall spun Ferrin around. “And then again, maybe not.” He sprinted for the open stairwell ahead. Practically diving onto the hard steps, he passed into the shadows beyond before the two guardsmen stepped into view. He clutched his stolen goods to his chest to keep them from banging on the stone.

Ferrin took a moment to wipe the sheen of nervous sweat from his forehead as well as rub the corner of his knee where it had smashed on the second step. He crept his way down the remaining steps, pleading in the most reverent fashion that there was no one on their way up. To his relief, the stairwell was empty.

The landing opened into a circular vestibule with multiple corridors on every side. He replayed the route in his mind from what he had pieced together in his many conversations with the Tower guards.

The entry arches all looked the same. His eyes scanned the passageways on the right side. “Third corridor on the right . . . Fourth door on the left,” he said before heading in the general direction of where he had been looking. Hugging the walls as he made his way around the room, he angled down the third archway and counted off the doors. “One, two, three, and here we go, four . . . pantry storage.” At least I hope it is.

To his surprise, the door was unlocked and the room already lit by a bracketed torch. He pushed the door behind him and dropped back the latch. Well, that’s convenient. Scanning the room, it didn’t take long to realize that he had somehow either forgotten how to count to four, or had managed to mix up some of the details of the information he had gleaned from his captors. There was no food in sight; however, there were blankets, linens, and pillows aplenty.

Ferrin dug through the heavy blankets and stuffed three of the most durable inside his pouch. While leaning over to extract a small coil of twine, he heard the latch on the door behind him flip open. His back was to the door, leaving nowhere to hide. He was trapped. Ferrin could feel his pulse racing from the sudden pounding in his ears. Reaching into his pocket, he slipped the small metal poker between the fingers of his right hand.

“Who are you?” the guard demanded.

What am I going to do? I can’t run. I can’t hide. If I turn around, he’s going to recognize me. Actually, he mused, that might be a good thing. Ferrin turned. Thankfully, there was only the one guard, but who knew how long until more showed up. “I’m Ferrin,” he answered, with about as much confidence as a blind soldier on a battlefield. “I was told to take these to the inquisitor’s quarters, extra blankets for the cold.” He watched the man’s eyes as they studied Ferrin’s face. He also happened to notice the guard’s hand was gripping the hilt of his sword, which for the moment, thankfully, was still sheathed at his waist.

“Look,” Ferrin said, “they’re going to be pretty upset if I don’t deliver them. And trust me, coming from someone who knows what they’re like when they’re angry—” He lifted the bottom of his ripped tunic, revealing the half-healed lacerations across his waistline. “—you don’t want to get them upset.”

He moved to step around the guard and head back in the direction he had come when the man’s hand reached out and grabbed his forearm. “Wait.” Ferrin didn’t move. His hand was still clutching the small piece of metal in his right trouser pocket. He slowly lifted it out. “Better take a few more just in case.” The guard stepped into the room and hefted a couple more blankets from one of the bottom shelves and tucked them under Ferrin’s arm.

Ferrin smiled. “You have a point. Better safe than sorry, I guess.” He bowed his head respectfully. “Thank you.” Moving through the open doorway and into the dim hallway beyond, he retraced his steps to the main chamber. Taking the adjacent archway, he continued on. No more stops for him, he decided. He had tempted fate one too many times this evening. He needed to find Rae and her daughter, and get out of there.

Chapter 78 | Ferrin

FERRIN TWISTED THE makeshift key he had created inside the compact lock of the heavy iron door. The mechanism snapped into place and the door swung open. He glanced around before stepping into the torch lit stairwell that led to the Hall of Inquisition below. A twinge of both fear and excitement washed over him. To think, this could be the last time he would ever have to set foot through this door again, the last time to ever descend these stairs, the last time to ever set eyes on the torture chambers below.

The feeling was invigorating.

He put his weight behind the large iron door to force it the rest of the way open. Once on the other side, he strained to push it closed. He didn’t bother locking it. He wasn’t planning on staying long anyway, and he wanted the door to be easily accessible in case he was in need of a rapid withdrawal.

The stairwell ended in a small corridor. He could see the Chamber of Inquisition ahead. Stopping just inside the mouth of the passageway, Ferrin took a moment to look around. The chamber was empty. The three desks in the center where the Legate performed their menial tasks were neatly aligned, papers stacked on all corners and chairs carefully tucked underneath.

Assuming everyone had turned in for the night and the inquisitors were not holding any last minute sessions, Ferrin proceeded around the outer edge. He worked his way toward the far wall which held a passage leading back toward the inquisitor’s personal sleeping quarters and hopefully Rae.

Halfway around the circular chamber, an unexpected scream brought him to an immediate halt. The agonizing echoes from the lingering cry reverberated off the vaulted walls. His eyes darted about, settling on a single door on the right side of the room.

He hadn’t noticed it until now, but it was the only room whose door was completely shut. From where he was standing, he could just make out a faint trace of light seeping from underneath the bottom. He heard another scream.

He felt a roiling maelstrom inside his chest at the recognition of the voice. Not worrying too much about making noise himself, considering the amount being generated already, he raced across the atrium and tried his best to peer through the keyhole. The light was too dim to see properly. He had two options. He could walk away now, leaving Rae and her daughter to their own fate and make his escape, or he could open the door. He wasn’t even sure if it was really her in there. It could just be some other poor soul one of the inquisitors was taking a fancy to.

Ferrin knew deep down he would never be able to just walk away. He would never be able to live with himself if he did. So that left only one option. His hands were already sweating as he hefted back on the latch and slid open the door. For the first time, and with just a little magical help, it didn’t squeal.

Not hearing the door open over the din of his beloved torturing, the large inquisitor walked over to his table of tools, giving Ferrin a clear view of the rack.

Rae was fastened, spread eagle, across the thin metal bars. It had been raised into an upright position. The front of her shirt had been ripped open and blood was pouring from the deep slashes running down her chest and stomach. Tears rolled down both cheeks as she cried in pain. Ferrin’s eyes burned at the sight of her. His breath caught in his throat. He could feel the fire of his magic rising within him, his rage pulling it forth.

From the corner of his eye, he caught some movement.  There was a little girl curled into a ball off to the side, whimpering in fear as she rocked back and forth against the stone wall. She must be Rae’s daughter.

Turning around, the little healer’s eyes locked on his. They screamed his name. It wasn’t repulsion that he saw reflected there. It was desperation.

“You were supposed to get close to him so you could find a way to persuade him to join with us,” Cheeks said, walking back over to the front of the rack, “not so you could join him.” The inquisitor slapped her face with an open palm. “Did you give yourself to him? Is that how he got into your little head, huh? Did you enjoy it?” She merely closed her eyes as he slapped her again.

“Where is that transferal, Rae?” The inquisitor’s tone rested somewhere between rage and fear. It was a side of Cheeks that Ferrin had not seen before. The pale-faced sadist brandished a large knife and wiped the side of it threateningly across the soft skin of her neck.

Ferrin took a few quiet steps further in and to the right, to get a better view of what was happening. Seeing her in this condition took every ounce of strength Ferrin had to force himself to wait just a little longer before acting, in case the inquisitor let slip something important about why they truly wanted him.

“And don’t tell me you lost it,” Cheeks said as he slid the flat end of the blade down her chest and across her stomach. “We both know you did no such thing. Don’t make me cut you again.”

He rubbed his finger across her abdomen, wiping some of the blood that had collected at her navel before placing it to his outstretched tongue. “I would hate to see something so beautiful ruined for life, but if you aren’t going to answer me, I’m going to be forced to do something I don’t want to do. I’m going to have to use Suri.”

“No!” she screamed, her body straining under her shackles.

“Did you give it to the smith? I just sent a contingent of guards to check on him.”

Ferrin almost coughed. He must have just missed them on his way down. Talk about a lucky coincidence. An image of Azriel popped into mind and then he wondered if luck had anything to do with it or not. Unfortunately, that also meant his escape was about to be discovered.

“If I find you did give it to him, I’m going to toss you and Suri to the men outside and let them enjoy your company tonight.”

“No, please.”

“Then tell me who has the transferal!”

Ferrin couldn’t take it any longer. “I do.”

Cheeks nearly fell off the back of the rack’s platform at the sound of Ferrin’s voice behind him. He reached out and grabbed hold of the hoist wheel to keep from tipping over completely.

Ferrin turned and lifted his hand toward the door. He used his magic to extend the door’s latch, locking it into place. Cheeks twisted his head around at the sound of Rae’s cuffs splitting apart. The amount of metal within the room fueled Ferrin’s magic. He could feel it all: from the hammer and tongs in the inquisitor’s pouch, to the locks in the doors, to the heavy-laden rack itself. It was all-consuming.

Ferrin was now the one in control.

Cheeks, with a sudden look of panic, charged the rack and pressed his knife against Rae’s neck. “Don’t come any closer or I’ll slit her throat. You know I will.”

“That was your second mistake,” Ferrin said from across the room.

Cheeks swallowed, trying to regain his composure. “And what, pray tell, was the first?”

“You should have used the stone blade.”

Cheeks’ smile dropped when the blade in his hand moved. It curled around itself and impaled the inquisitor through the back of his hand. Cheeks shrieked, tipping backwards off the rack and landing on the hard stone beneath. He lay there writhing, rolling like a summer sausage on a butcher’s floor as he struggled to pull the curved blade from his hand.

Giving up on removing the piece of steel, Cheeks dragged himself over to his table of tools and grabbed the first handle his fingers touched. However, seeing the metal end of the hammer, he tossed it back and grabbed the next. He worked his way down his entire arsenal realizing the only things not made of metal were the small wooden wedges and his stone blade.

He turned back around and held the knife out in front of him, but it seemed to Ferrin to be more for protection than attack. Apparently, the inquisitor’s bravado was in short supply when his victims were no longer securely bound to the rack. For all of the flair the man brought to his torturing, to see him there cowering behind his table was truly pathetic.

Keeping an eye on Cheeks, Ferrin made his way over to the rack. After placing one arm under Rae’s legs and the other around her back, he gently lifted her off the metal bars and placed her on the far wall beside her little girl. Retrieving a clean blanket from his sack, he cut it into strips and used them to wrap her bleeding chest.

Ferrin glanced over his shoulder at Cheeks. He was still standing on the far side of the room behind his table. The blood from his hand was filling the crevices of the table he rested against.

Ferrin knew they needed to get out of there, time was running out, but thoughts of vindication began to swim in the back of his mind. He stood and took a step forward. The inquisitor trembled. Ferrin smiled as he watched the stone blade shake under Cheeks’ nervous grip.

Ferrin had faced bullies before. As long as there was no fear of retaliation, as long as they were surrounded by their peers, as long as their prey was somehow incapacitated, bullies had no problem brutalizing those they deemed inferior, but you take away the bully’s protective shield and allow the victim the opportunity to face their tormentor on even ground, then their true self will immediately shine through. Ferrin knew that behind every bully was a coward.

Ferrin rushed him. Cheeks’ eyes bulged and he swung wide, trying to force Ferrin back. Ferrin dodged the first swing and waited for the next. Cheeks took a lunging thrust, but Ferrin, being more than just a weapon-smith but a practitioner of those weapons, easily struck the man’s hand away. Latching on to the inquisitor’s wrist, Ferrin spun it around and locked the elbow. With the inquisitor’s arm pinned, he brought his other hand down and snapped the bone in two.

The stone blade clattered on the floor.

“One, two . . .” Ferrin counted.

“Ahhh!” Cheeks screamed in pain. His body went stiff and his head reeled backwards. His arm hung at an unnatural angle at his side.

“You’re right,” Ferrin whispered as he put his mouth to the inquisitor’s ear. “There is a time delay to the pain.”

Stepping behind the man, Ferrin angled him toward the metal bed.

“What are you going to do?” Cheek’s voice was no longer filled with giddy excitement, but broken under the weight of his own helplessness and the dread of what he perceived to be coming.

Ferrin walked him over to the rack. “I’ve heard it said that the only way to become a master interrogator is to actually have the techniques performed on oneself. That way you will fully know and appreciate the limits of what can be achieved.”

“Please, no. I beg you.”

“Beg me?” Ferrin laughed. “You beg me? How many times did I beg and plead for you to end my cuttings, and my only reply was more of the same? You beg me? Hah!” Ferrin forced Cheeks back onto the bars. “I guess it’s time for you to understand your craft.”

A look of disgust crossed Ferrin’s face at the sight of the brown stain forming on the front of the inquisitor’s white robes, running down the length of his legs and filling the cracks of the stone below. Suddenly, he realized he was enjoying this a little too much. He wondered, for a brief moment, if this was what it felt like for Cheeks. The very thought of comparing himself to the sadist turned his stomach.

As much as Ferrin wanted to test out each and every one of the inquisitor’s tools on him, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Seizing the iron clamps with his magic, he snapped them shut around Cheeks’ wrists and ankles.

“What are you planning on doing?” Cheeks whimpered.

“What do you think?” Ferrin said as he walked over to the array of tools on the table and let his hands glide over each. He was feeling rather conflicted. At this point, he didn’t know if his desire for vengeance and retribution was stronger than his sense of morality. It had been well tested during his time in the White Tower.

“Wait!” Cheeks begged. “If you kill me, the others will know.” Ferrin lifted the wiggler out of its place in the satchel and walked back to the table. “Each member of the Inquisition has been connected with a layered spell which immediately informs the others if one of us was to meet an untimely end.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“What did you think these runes on my head were for? Decoration? Look around you!” Cheeks spat, gulping for air. “What do you think we do here? We work with the most dangerous people in Aldor. Of course we would have a system of warning.”

Ferrin hesitated. He wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t want to sell his soul for the sake of retaliation or if it was because he actually believed the inquisitor. Either way, he guessed it solved his problem. He lowered his arm.

Ferrin replaced the wiggler back in its slot and grabbed an old rag, probably used for wiping Cheeks’ sweat, and stuffed it deep into the big man’s mouth before making his way over to where Rae sat, clutching her daughter. The healer struggled to her feet.

Ferrin carried the little girl over to where he had left his travel bag at the entrance. He laid her down and she started digging inquisitively through its contents.

“Rae! No!”

Ferrin stopped his rummaging and quickly spun around. Rae had removed Cheeks’ gag.

“Think of Suri,” the fat inquisitor said. “I’m her father.”

“Not anymore.”

Ferrin jumped to his feet when he saw what was in her hand, and he ran for the rack.

A wet choking sound was all he heard as she slid the stone blade through Cheeks’ neck. His blue eyes flared and his body jerked to the side.

“What have you done?” Ferrin watched Rae take a step backwards and wipe the blood from her hands on the front of her dress before walking over to where her daughter sat digging around inside his travel bag. Ferrin tried to stem the bleeding around the inquisitor’s wound with his own hands, but even he could see there was no hope for the man. “Rae, you need to save him. What if he was telling the truth?”

Looking across the room, Rae’s gaze was searing. Ferrin knew there was nothing he would ever be able to do, or say, that would bring her to save the inquisitor’s life. Somehow he had known all along she wasn’t leaving until one of them was dead.

Without stopping to think about the possible ramifications of Rae’s actions, Ferrin pulled the stone blade from Cheek’s neck and wiped it on the front of the inquisitor’s robes before tucking it into the back of his trousers for easy access. He grabbed the inquisitor’s tools and quickly stuffed the case inside the large travel pouch.

“Here,” Ferrin said, pulling the crystal from around his neck. “You’ll need to heal your wounds before we go. But I’ll need it back in order to get us out of here.”

“It doesn’t work like that for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the crystal requires the wielder to use their own strength for the magic to work. It is very difficult for a healer to heal themselves. It’s not impossible, but it would take a lot longer than what we have time for.” She handed the crystal back to Ferrin and then glanced down at her bandaged wounds. She pressed her hand against the bloodstained material. “I can survive. They’re not very deep. Besides, if we don’t get out of here, it’s not going to matter much anyway.”

Ferrin replaced the transferal around his neck and swung his pack over his shoulder with a grunt. He lifted Suri and headed for the door. “Time to go.”

Rae slid open the door and disappeared into the outer chamber. Ferrin paused a moment to take one final glimpse around the small stone room, ending on Cheeks. The blood flowing from his neck produced a colorful contrast to the stark white of his robes. A pitiful sight to behold, and yet disturbingly satisfying.

He was just turning to leave when he noticed the color of the inquisitor’s tattoos begin to shift. They shifted from black to a pale chartreuse, and along with this change of color came a sudden increase in luminosity. They were glowing.

“Well, isn’t this just my luck.”

Chapter 79 | Ferrin

FOLLOWING ON RAE’S HEELS, Ferrin raced across the open atrium and into the small hallway that ended at a flight of stairs leading up and out of the Hall of Inquisition. They had barely made the first step when the sound of men filing into the chamber from the adjacent hallway brought them around. “I guess for once he was telling the truth.” Ferrin almost laughed at the irony. I finally get the chance to kill the evil pig and it’s that very action that’s going to seal our fate. He rolled his eyes.

Rae sneered at the offhanded remark and charged up the steps. Not waiting to see what happened next, Ferrin took them two at a time with Suri bouncing in his arms. The little girl giggled as if it were all in good fun. They stopped at the iron door at the top.

Torchlight was already beginning to fill the hallway below as men in white robes, black robes, and some without any robes at all, sprinted up the stairwell in hot pursuit. Putting his shoulder to the door, Ferrin shoved it open. Turning around, he could see the glint of open blades in the hands of the closest men. He rushed through the open doorway and forced its heavy girth shut as the first of the men pushed back from the other side.

Still holding a tight grip on his magic, he sealed the door by melding it to the surrounding wall, and then smelting the hinges and handle for good measure. “Let’s see you try getting out of there.” Turning back around, he caught a glimpse of Rae heading for the first hallway on the left. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Of course,” she said with an exasperated expression. “This is my home.”

Ferrin watched as the little woman charged into the darkened corridor. Can’t argue with that, he thought. Still clutching Suri to his chest, he raced after her. For someone so small, she was really quick. His eyes scanned the dim area ahead and he spotted her standing at a second entranceway on the right, motioning for him to hurry.

He made his way to her side and she quickly checked on Suri’s condition. At the time, she was playing a game of running her fingers through Ferrin’s beard and seeing how many whiskers she could pull out. It was a sure reminder of why he had always kept it trimmed short.

On they ran, endlessly it seemed.

The White Tower was alive with the shouts of the Black Watch running to and fro, searching for any sign of the escaping prisoners. Each time they were about to be discovered, Rae would usher them into an adjoining hall, or side room, or even broom closet, till the threat had passed. Apparently, she wasn’t exaggerating when she said she knew her way around the enormous construct. If it had been left to Ferrin, they would have been lost or captured long ago. But no matter how many times she would angle off from one direction to miss a passing patrol, she would somehow always manage to get them back where they needed to be.

He knew, however, if they didn’t reach the outer walls soon, their luck was bound to run out. Unfortunately for them, it was sooner than he had expected.

Around the next junction was another long corridor. He could hear the clanging of swords and armor coming from behind as the armed guards were heading in their direction. Again, he dashed after Rae. His arms, even as large as they were from years at the smithy, were beginning to tire under the strain of Suri’s weight, not to mention a lack of proper nutrition.

Rae seemed to be an endless bundle of energy as she continued running. She was as graceful as a doe—agile and swift. Just ahead, the latch to the next doorway they were struggling to reach pulled back and a white-robed guard stepped through. Rae nearly tripped over her own feet trying to stop, while Ferrin nearly tripped over her.

The hall was too dark to make out the guard’s face. Ferrin wondered how many others were waiting on the other side of the door. The clamor of the guards behind them was growing, and pretty soon they would be cornered. There was only one option. Charge the guard blocking their path and hope for the best. He figured his luck was nearing its end anyway. What did he have to lose? Quickly, he handed Suri off to her mother and pulled the stone blade from his back pocket before charging.

Within five paces, Ferrin was forced to pull up short as the man in white suddenly spoke. “Smith, is that you?” Ferrin kept his knife held out in front of him. The voice was familiar. From the other side of the door, the guard pulled out a torch and the light confirmed it. It was Nostrils. “This way!” the guard said, motioning for them to follow.

Ferrin could hear the sound of their pursuers nearing the far entrance to the hall they were in. With little other choice, he followed. Rae and Suri hugged closely to his waist, keeping well clear of the guard. “I’ve been waiting for you,” the captain said, ushering them through the door just as the first of the Black Watch rounded the far end.

Nostrils quickly shut the door behind them to hide their presence. Ferrin could hear him calling to the guards from the other side. Moment of truth, he thought.

“Haven’t seen them . . .”

“ . . . try the south corridors.”

After a nervous moment, the door squeaked open and the White Tower captain rematerialized. “I don’t know how you’ve made it this far without being caught,” he said as he shut and latched the door. “Absolute miracle if you ask me.”

“Why are you helping us?” Ferrin asked, unconcerned about hiding the skepticism in his voice. “This is all a bit convenient, don’t you think? How did you know we’d be here?”

“Someone told me you would.”

Ferrin’s face contorted and he jerked his knife up, pinning Nostrils to the wall. “Told you? Who told you?”

The captain gulped. “Look, I’ve been waiting for a long time to get out of this place, and haven’t found a single opportunity yet. I’m just as much a prisoner here as you.” Ferrin’s scowl clearly didn’t go unnoticed and the captain revised his statement. “Apart from the whole torture you till you die . . . revive you . . . and torture you again, of course.” Ferrin released his blade and moved back. The captain rubbed at the spot on his neck where the knife had been.

“Here, help me with this.” He handed Ferrin another large travel sack and then hefted two of his own before turning and heading down another dark corridor.

“What’s all this?” Ferrin asked as hurried to keep up with the captain.

“Supplies . . . Anyway, as I was saying, about a year ago I was called to one of the upper cells to calm a prisoner. The man said he would talk to no one but me. How he got my name I’ll never know.” Nostrils shrugged. “When I got there, he asked to speak with me alone. I figured, how bad could it be? He looked half dead and he was chained to a wall.” Ferrin’s curiosity was piqued. “So I shut the door and listened. And what he told me, I have to tell you, left me troubled and hopeful all at the same time.”

Nostrils pulled them to a halt at the end of another small corridor. He listened for a brief moment, peeked around the edge, and then nodded to the far left stairwell and began moving once again.

“Anyway, the old man said he knew that I wanted to leave the Tower and that it was going to happen. But, in order to do so, I would have to help you three escape as well.” Nostrils cocked his head to the side. “Well, he didn’t exactly specify you three in particular. He just said a man, a woman, and a small child.” Turning to see their reaction, he smiled. “And here you are. He also gave me explicit instructions about what I was to do and where I was to wait for you.”

Ferrin couldn’t hide his smile as he thought about the seer’s earlier statement of aid coming from unexpected sources. Azriel, you old coot, even from your cell, you’re still helping me.

“So,” Nostrils said with a shrug, “when I heard there were three people trying to escape, I knew it had to be you. I was waiting in the exact spot he told me, and just like magic—” He waved his arms around for dramatic flair. “—there you were.” He was bubbling over with excitement as they rounded the next corner and walked face-first into a small company of armed guards. Everyone came to an immediate halt as eyes danced from one person to the next, everyone trying to determine what was going on and what they should do about it.

“So, did he tell you what to do here?” Rae’s remark was both sarcastic and rhetorical.

Nostrils was the first to try breaking the extremely awkward and deadly silence. “Found them!” he hollered out, throwing on a wide smile with arms extended.

No one moved.

“Yeah, caught them wandering the halls.” His smile was both fake and nervous. “No need to worry, just on our way back to the Inquisition Chambers. Yep, everything’s under control. No need to panic.” Ferrin rolled his eyes. We’re all going to die.

Ferrin watched as the guards’ hands began making the downward slide to the hilts of their swords. Without a second thought, Ferrin thrust Suri back into her mother’s arms. Using his magic, he bonded the blades of the guards’ steel to their scabbards, rendering them useless. Reaching behind his belt, he drew the dead inquisitor’s stone blade. With a roar that caused Nostrils to yelp with surprise, Ferrin leapt at the closest guard. His knife swung wildly for the man’s throat.

Ferrin had never seen a more stunned individual than that guard as he struggled to pull an unmoving blade. Ferrin hit the man with the strength of a true smith, ripping through his neck and nicking the bone at the back on his way through. Grabbing at his opened throat, the guard tried to holler but it came out as a sickening sort of burble. Blood and saliva sprayed from the gaping wound.

After the sudden shock of what had taken place dawned on them, the three remaining guards danced around as they too tried pulling their swords with no more luck than their comrade. Ferrin was already on top of the second man before the guard had even remembered he was holding a halberd in his other hand. Ferrin plunged his knife into the man’s chest once, twice, three times and then flung his body to the side.

The third and fourth had already given up on brandishing their useless weapons and had fallen back to a defensive position. They readied their halberds, tips forward, as they thought to stave off a full-on assault. In comparison to their massive polearms, Ferrin’s knife seemed a little inconsequential. Nostrils fell in beside him, sword drawn, waiting to see who would be the first to make a move.

The guards’ attention shifted and their faces paled as they watched in horror while the metal ends of their halberds suddenly bent backwards and pointed in their direction. Glancing at each other, they dropped their spears and took off running in the opposite direction.

Ferrin took two steps to go after them but Nostrils pulled him back. “We don’t have time, smith. It won’t take them long to get back to the south side of the tower, and we need to get out of here, preferably without being seen.”

“And how in the name of Aldor are we going to do that?”

“Uhum.” Rae cleared her throat, bringing both men’s heads whipping around. She stood there with one cocked eyebrow as she held out the top of a white uniform with her free hand.

Ferrin shook his head and grinned. “Of course . . . I knew there was a reason I brought you along.”

Rae’s demeanor hardened. “Brought me along?” One fist went to her hip. “I think you got that backwards, bush face.” Ferrin smiled his most affectionate smile, but it went unnoticed beneath the overgrowth on his cheeks and chin, or more than likely she had simply ignored it.

They worked as fast as humanly possible to undress the two guards. They cleaned and hid as much of the blood as they could before dressing in the dead men’s uniforms and making their way to one of the not-so-known side exits.

Stepping through the door, Ferrin swelled his chest with a deep gulp of clean air. His breath turned to mist in front of his face as he exhaled, enjoying the sudden taste of freedom. “Now what?”

“Now you wait here while I procure a few horses from the stables.”

“Aren’t they going to question why?”

“No. Believe it or not, it’s actually my night on gate duty and I generally have two other guards who accompany me. I don’t know how he did it, but that old man up there seemed to have known all of this in advance. He was the one who told me to start adding my name to the perimeter watch.” Nostrils shook his head. “Anyway, I’ll be back with the horses. Wait here and stay out of sight till I get back.”

Ferrin directed Rae to a cluster of rocks off to the side of the entranceway. They crouched behind them waiting for the captain to return. It wasn’t long before Ferrin heard the sound of horse’s hooves heading in their direction. Tempting a peek, he saw Nostrils reining up in front of their hiding spot with two additional fully-saddled mounts.

After helping Rae onto her horse, Ferrin lifted a blanket-wrapped Suri. “Here,” he said as she reached out and took her daughter in her arms. Pulling the transferal from around his neck, Ferrin held it out to her. “I believe this belongs to you.” She leaned her head forward and he hung the crystal back into place before she tucked it beneath the wrappings on her chest. “How are your wounds?”

“They will heal.” When she said nothing more, he turned and swung himself onto his own mount and secured his travel sack with the rest of his horse’s gear.

In the moonlight, the four travelers appeared to be nothing more than a small squad on night patrol, making their typical sweep of the Tower’s base. With Nostrils taking the lead, they began their silent journey forward, pushing toward the two monolithic stone sentinels guarding the outer gates, and from there, the Pass of Arnon.

Before reaching the end of the outer courtyard, Ferrin brought his horse to a stop and turned around. He tilted his head toward the upper chambers. He knew that somewhere deep within that labyrinth of twisted hallways, stairwells, and inner corridors lay an old man with his white hair falling out, and his wrinkled skin cut and torn. He was bound by fate and magic to serve the Creator’s purpose, patiently waiting for the next poor soul to save.

How long he would have to wait, Ferrin didn’t know. But this he swore: that in life or in death, he would not waste a moment of the precious gift he had been given and, on his honor, he would fight with every last drop of his blood to put an end to the evil seeking to dominate Aldor and its people—both ven’ae and jun’ri alike.

“I love you old man, and I’ll miss you always.” Not bothering to wipe the tears from his eyes, Ferrin turned his horse back toward the enormous bridge that connected the White Tower to the looming peaks of the Pass of Arnon, and giving a light snap on his reins, he disappeared into the night.

Chapter 80 | Zynora

“TAMEEL, COME QUICK!”

Zynora was seated next to a rope-spun bed in the backroom of their small cabin just east of the town of Syrel, watching ever-so-patiently over their fallen warrior. The young man’s eyes were just starting to open. He’d been in an semi-unconscious state of delirium for nearly three days. She had continued to use small applications of her magic to heal the worst of it. The rest would be up to him. She’d never worked on someone so close to death before, and it had left her drained.

She made a point not to tell Tameel how close to death she had come herself in order to bring the young man back.

Her husband hobbled through the doorway of the bedroom and stopped short of her chair when his eyes locked with those of their guest. “Well, son, you gave us quite the start. Didn’t think you was gonna make it.” He took a couple more steps into the room. “It’s been three days since your fever broke.”

They both waited and watched as the young man struggled to push himself into a sitting position and glance around the room. He looked down at his state of undress, with the patchwork quilt covering his lower half. His chest was completely wrapped in a white binding.

“Wad . . . a.” When his voice wouldn’t come, he pointed to his mouth.

Zynora leaned forward and grabbed a small cup from the bed stand. “Here.” She held the tin mug to his lips. He tried gulping it down. “Slowly,” she gently scolded. “You don’t want to drink it too fast. There you go.”

He finished off what was in the glass and fell back against the propped feather pillows. “Thank you,” he said. His bright gray eyes scanned the room, from the cracked window on the left of his bed to the small dresser in the corner and the simple wooden chair Zynora presently occupied. “Where am I?”

“You are safe, young man.” She wiped his moist forehead with her cloth.

Tameel stood in back of her chair and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’m Tameel and this beautiful young thing is my wife, Zynora.”

Zynora playfully slapped at his hand. “Oh, go on with you.” She couldn’t help but blush at her husband’s comment before settling her focus back on their guest. “By the lack of color in your eyes, I take it you’re Upakan. What’s your name, young sir?”

There was a long uncomfortable silence, and a look of panic crossed the young man’s face. “I . . . I don’t know.”

Tameel leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “We need to talk.”

Zynora knew what was coming. She nodded and stood. “We’ll be right outside the door if you need anything, dear.”

She followed her husband out of the bedroom and shut the door behind them so their visitor wouldn’t overhear their argument.

“What’d you do, Zynora?”

“What do you mean what did I do? I saved his life is what I did.”

“You saved his life?” He pointed back toward the shut door. “He’s completely wonked. He doesn’t even know who he is.”

“I can’t say as I’m all that surprised.”

“And why’s that?”

“No one steps that far into the afterlife and comes back unscathed. He’s lucky to be alive at all. It could’ve been much worse. By the time we found him, he’d practically lost every drop of blood he owned, not to mention the damage to his spine from the arrows sticking out of it. It’s a wonder he can even move. He’s one of the strongest men I’ve ever seen. And I don’t just mean the size of his arms.”

Tameel waved his finger at her. “What have I told you about using your magic like that? You could have very well killed yourself. And then where would I be? Alone! That’s where I’d be.” Her husband was working himself into a tizzy. She knew how much he hated it when she pushed herself to the limits, but she just couldn’t let the man die. There was something about him that had compelled her to save his life.

“I’ve never seen anyone come so close to death and live to tell about it,” she said, in as calm a voice as she could muster under her husband’s stern glower. “Someone up there is obviously not through with him yet. I would venture to guess that that young man in there has an interesting destiny.” She smiled at her husband and laid her hand on his arm. “I only hope we’re around long enough to see it.”

“Not likely. Not with the way you keep flinging out magic.” Tameel sighed and the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. “Will his memory return?”

“To be honest, I don’t know.”

They both looked at the closed door.

“After what we saw on that ridge,” Tameel said, “that might be a good thing.”

Chapter 81 | Ty

“WE’VE GOT TO DO SOMETHING,” Ty said. He was unable to keep from fidgeting in his seat as he thought about poor Orlyn being questioned by the Black Watch.

At the head of the dinner table, his father scooped up a second helping of vegetable soup and poured it in his bowl. “The council is working on a way to get him out, but we can’t risk jumping in feet first without exposing the rest of us.” He nodded in Ty’s direction. “That includes you.”

“I don’t care about me. We need to save Master Orlyn.”

“Well, your mother and I care about you, and so does the council. I just pray the Tower guards don’t leave before we have a chance to mount a rescue.”

“What can I do? I want to help.” Ty was anxious to do his part. He was an official member of the council after all now, and that knowledge gave him an air of responsibility he wasn’t used to. It felt good to be a part of something important, something that could make a difference.

“Best you stay as far away from the Black Watch as possible,” his mother said from the other end of the table. “We can’t afford to have you getting dragged into all of this.”

“Why not? I’ve as much right to be a part of this as the rest of you. I’m not afraid.” Ty knew that was a lie. The very thought of being taken by the white riders sent chills through him.

“You know very well why not. We were charged with your protection,” his father said, waving his spoon in Ty’s direction, “and protect you we will.”

Ty didn’t like feeling so helpless. Everyone acted as though he was still just a child. He was sixteen, after all, and old enough to make his own decisions. “I can fight, Father. See!”  He raised his right hand out over the table, palm in the air. “Look what I can do.” His father didn’t even have time to protest before blue flames burst from the center of Ty’s hand. Everyone jerked back in their seats, everyone but Adarra, who was already aware of Ty’s new found gift.

“Wow! Ty, that’s . . . wow.” Breen didn’t seem to know what to say as he gawked at the colorful blaze dancing around Ty’s palm. The other members of his family appeared to be temporarily mesmerized.

“You see. I’m an incindi like Master Veldon.” Ty beamed with pride.

“Ty, what are you doing?” his father said, finally pulling free of the trance. His bright green eyes darted cautiously around the room. “Someone could see you.”

Ty huffed. “How is someone going to see me? We live in the middle of—” Ty didn’t get a chance to finish his statement because there was a loud knock on the front door. He nearly yelped. Adarra and his mother did. His flames vanished in a puff as he joined the other members of his family in a state of sudden panic.

“Everyone, just act normal,” his father said. “I’m sure whoever that is didn’t climb through your mother’s winter daisies to peek in the front window. I hope.”

Ty stood from his seat. He clenched his fists to keep them from shaking and headed for the front door. He was halfway there when the knock rang out a second time. He was starting to get a little agitated by the knocker’s impatience. “Hold your horses! I’m coming!” He jerked the latch and pulled open the door. The blood drained from his face.

He half-choked as he struggled to speak. “Lord Barl! What are you doing here?” That was a stupid question to ask. “I mean, how can we help you?” He tried a formal bow but gave up halfway through, too rattled at having just told the Overlord of Sidara to hold his horses.

Behind him, Ty could hear the rest of his family hopping to their feet, spoons dropping, cups clanging, and dishes being shuffled about as his father made a swift approach. “Your Lordship, how can we be of service?” He gestured toward the front room. “Please, will you come inside?”

“You know, I don’t believe I’ve been in this cottage since I was a boy,” Barl said. “It was my great-grandfather who built it, you know.” His hand reached out and gently rubbed across the doorpost where there were periodic markings from a sharp object starting knee-high and rising. “I rather enjoyed spending my summers here as a child.” He took a step back to glance around the homestead and in doing so, revealed that he wasn’t alone.

Ty’s pulse raced when he spotted Lyessa standing directly behind her father. It was the first time he had seen her since their invitation to the overlord’s estate to discuss the growing concerns about something lurking in the Sidaran Forest. The euphoria of the moment was short-lived, however, when he noticed Aiden strolling up the walkway behind her.

“Is everything alright, young Ty?” Lord Barl asked, apparently noticing the way he was staring at his daughter.

Ty snapped to. “No, milord, I mean, yes, milord, I mean—” For pity sake, what do I mean? “I’ll see to your horses.” He shied past their guests and made a beeline for the corral where the overlord’s guards were already stabling the animals.

He kept an eye on Lyessa as he rubbed down one of the mares. He watched, as subtly as possible, as she spoke a few words to her father and then started in his direction. Ty turned his head, not wanting to appear too obvious as she closed in on the gated pen. “So how is our young Master Ty doing today?” Lyessa asked, leaning across the top rail. Ty hated when she referred to him as young, even if she was two years older.

Ty looked up from his grooming to see her friendly smile. Aiden looked green with envy as he approached. Ty smiled. Maybe it wasn’t a total loss after all. “He’s doing as well as can be expected. And how is Your Ladyship doing today?” He held out a small bucket of oats for the horse and it happily thrust its muzzle in and chomped down.

“Have there been any new sightings of the creature roaming through the woods?” she asked with eager enthusiasm. “That’s why we’re here, you know. Father and his patrol met me and Aiden at the Sidaran border yesterday. They were escorting us back from Aiden’s family’s estate in Highcrest when Father decided to make a detour to talk with your father.” She looked at him like she was waiting for a response. “So, is it true? Have you seen the beast?”

“It’s true,” Ty said, laying the now empty oat bucket down and walking over to the railing. “Breen and I went out a few days ago to scout the woods just east of town, and we found the creature’s feeding ground. There’s an entire valley of bones just north of the East River,” he said, pointing off to the right.

Lyessa looked uneasy as she glanced in the direction of his aim. Aiden’s face showed nothing but skepticism.  “Did you get a look at it?” she asked. “Was it like the creature Ambassador Lanmiere told us about?”

“No, this one was different. We tracked it to its lair. It’s some sort of spider creature.”

Aiden laughed.  “All this fuss for a spider?”

“A spider the size of a mountain bear,” Ty rebuffed.

Just when Ty thought Aiden couldn’t have laughed any harder, he did. It took all of Ty’s reserve to keep from punching him in his overly-powdered face. Even Lyessa was trying her best not to snicker. She held her hand to her mouth and looked down the wooden fence rail as if to measure its straightness.

“It’s the truth! Breen saw it too. We’ve been warning everyone to stay out of the woods, at least until we can figure out how to kill it.”

“What a crock of targ dung,” Aiden said as he tried to regain his composure. “I’m sure it’s nothing more than some lazy farmers making excuses for not having brought their harvests in on time. These commoners are all the same, no self-discipline.” Ty could tell Lyessa was embarrassed by the nature of Aiden’s response, but before she could open her mouth to say anything, Aiden abruptly pulled her back from the railing. “Let’s go see what they’re discussing inside, shall we?” Aiden continued shaking his head as he directed Lyessa back toward the front of the house. “Mountain bear-spiders, indeed.”

After joining the rest of his family inside the front room, Ty sat in the corner and listened patiently as his father relayed their expedition into the Sidaran Forest. The overlord, having been away on business, hadn’t been made privy to their findings until now.

“So, you’re saying you’ve seen this creature? It actually exists?”

“Yes, milord. Well, my sons did. They tracked it to its nest.”

“This is rich,” Aiden butted in. “Go on, Ty, tell them what you said you saw.” Aiden turned back to Lord Barl. “When you hear this, milord, you’re going to have a good laugh.” He regarded Ty with look of disdain. “Well, go on, Ty, tell him.”

“What’s this about?” Barl demanded.

Ty’s father saved him the embarrassment. “The creature is an arachnobe.”

“Ha! You see. Wait . . . a what?” Aiden’s nose scrunched as he puzzled over the response. “Ty said it was a giant spider bear.”

“An arachnobe is a spider. Well, sort of. They are monstrous creatures whose nests are said to populate the deeper hollows of the Razor’s Spine. They are rarely seen and only when they come out to feed.”

“There hasn’t been a record of an arachnobe being spotted here in Sidara for the last four or five decades,” Barl said, sounding more uncertain with each passing word. “Surely you’re mistaken.”

“I only wish I were. There can be no mistake. Breen saw it, as well as Ty. They tracked it to its burrow, but thought it unwise to linger. Arachnobes have an extremely keen sense of smell.”

After a few worried looks and hushed whispers had been passed around the room, Barl finally spoke. “I don’t like it Kellen, don’t like it one bit.” He kept shaking his head. “Just the threat of such a creature could spread a panic that would prove truly devastating to Easthaven.”

“How so, Father? If people will just stay clear of the woods, maybe it will move on.”

“These woods provide food and shelter to a number of our citizenry, dear. How long do you think it will take before the merchants stop shipping their freight down river through the forest? Other than the southern road to Briston, it would devastate our trade routes.” Barl leaned forward and stared at his feet for a moment. “No. We cannot allow this to continue.” He wrung his hands. “I will take a regiment of our lancers in to find this creature and destroy it if I have to.”

“My sons and I can track it for you, my lord.”

Ty grunted. Thanks for volunteering the rest of us.

“Excellent, excellent.” Barl’s countenance started to brighten as he clapped his hands together. “This will be a grand hunt, aye, Master Kellen? One for the history books, I’d wager.”

“It shall indeed, my lord. I was hoping—”

Ty’s father was interrupted as the front door flew open and one of the overlord’s guards stepped in. “My Lord, there are riders approaching.” The expression on the man’s face said it all. “And they don’t look friendly.”

Chapter 82 | Ty

THE OVERLORD’S PATROL, consisting of twelve highly trained Sidaran Lancers, were standing protectively in front of the cottage with blades drawn as Ty followed Lord Barl and the others out the front door to get a better look at the horsemen who were just now turning off the main road and coming for the house. A thick cloud of dirt and dust followed in their wake, masking their true numbers. It took a while before the savage looking men reined up on the opposite side of the yard from the house.

Ty counted around thirty to forty men. At least he thought they were men. Their garb consisted mostly of haphazard pieces of strange looking furs and leathers. As the dust settled, rough black and white markings could be seen painted across the visible parts of their bodies and faces, at least those that weren’t wearing some form of facial masks. They had the look of feral animals.

At the front of the pack rode one of the biggest men Ty had ever seen, rivaling the size of his father and brother, which was saying something since they were considered to be two of the largest men in Easthaven. The man carried an enormous battle-axe strapped to his right hip. It looked like it weighed at least twenty pounds. And, like many of the others, the man had a couple of white stripes painted diagonally across his cheeks, nose, and eyes.

All of the men looked downright savage.

His father turned to Breen. “Get the weapons.”

Breen disappeared back inside the house as the big horseman turned and said something to the men riding behind him. Ty didn’t recognize a single word. Whatever the man had said, it brought a round of laughter from some of the closest. They appeared to be staring at the women. Ty didn’t like the implications.

Barl turned to Ty’s father. “Do you recognize their dress?” He kept his words low so as not to be heard from across the way.

“Their wraps are similar to those of tribal Northmen.”

“Tallosians?” his mother asked. Ty could hear the tremor in her voice.

“Aye,” Barl agreed, “and judging by their size, I’d say that’s a safe bet.”

“You can tell all that just by looking at the furry cloaks?” Ty asked.

“That’s not fur, son,” Barl said, sparing a quick glance his way.

Aiden took a step forward. “Looks like fur to me.” For once, Ty had to agree.

Barl kept his eyes on the horsemen. “It’s not fur. It’s human scalps.”

Ty’s mouth dropped open. Not quite as far as Aiden’s, but far enough to feel embarrassed.

“Tallosians believe that the scalps of their enemies will give them greater cunning and skill in battle,” Ty’s father said. “They believe it will pass to them through their victim’s flesh. Some use it as a mark of their prowess. It’s a sign of rank. The more scalps, the stronger the warrior must be. Their women go crazy for that sort of thing, evidently,” he said with a smirk. Ty’s mother grunted her clear objection. Ty didn’t want to think about what kind of women they must be when the sight of desiccated flesh brought arousal.

His father turned back to the company of armed horsemen. “The question is what could they possibly want with us?”

Barl cleared his throat and took a step forward. “What is your business here?” When he didn’t receive a reply, he continued. “Do you know who I am?”

The big man at the front hocked a couple of times and spat a large wad out in front of his horse, then wiped his mouth. “An overfed, underbred sow by the look of it!” the man said in a very broken form of Aldoran. A couple of the Northmen burst into laughter. Many of them didn’t appear to understand what their leader had just said, but after watching the reaction of their fellow warriors, they followed along.

“I am Overlord Barl!” Lyessa’s father looked none too happy. His white-knuckled fingers were balled tight. “I demand to know what you want!” With thirty to forty armed men looking like they’d rather eat you than talk to you, Ty didn’t think that demanding was the best way to start.

The lead Tallosian held Lord Barl’s gaze, but remained silent. Ty caught Breen’s movements out of the corner of his eye and turned his head. His brother slowly slid his way out the front door. He was clearly trying not to draw attention to himself. Casting a quick glance behind him, Ty could see he had three strung bows resting to the left of the entry, along with their arrows, a few swords, and one belt of throwing knives. Ty figured the other brace of knives was hidden somewhere underneath his brother’s cloak.

“We want the boy!” came a haggard reply from somewhere behind the horsemen. Ty spun back. The voice sounded eerily familiar.

“What boy? What are you talking about?” Lord Barl and those gathered around passed curious glances at one another, while Ty’s family attempted to feign ignorance.

An unpleasant feeling rose in the pit of Ty’s stomach, much the way it did when you first realize you’ve just eaten a bad pick of mushrooms—nauseous, irksome, and dreading what came next.

The cluster of savage looking men parted right down the middle and a lone rider, cloaked in a black robe with hood pulled tight so as not to show their features, trotted forward. The rider was small by comparison as they passed between the enormous savages, like traversing a mountain pass or walking through a great citadel, sheer walls rising to either side.

Ty gulped. He didn’t need to see her face to know who was behind the dark cowl. His resolve disappeared in an instant and his last bit of courage ran screaming, leaving him there cowering behind the others just hoping to remain unseen. He slowly slid to his left behind Aiden and then hung his head in shame for doing so.

The hooded figure came to a halt beside the large spokesman and, with an outraised arm, pointed her bony finger in Ty’s direction. “We want him!” Ty peeked around Aiden’s decorative waist coat.

Aiden’s face drained of blood as he lifted a quivering finger and pointed at his chest. “Me?” he asked, his voice cracking like a puberty-ridden adolescent. “You want me?” The others turned to look at Aiden.

“Not you! You overdressed peacock!” She pointed again. “You!”

Aiden moved aside with an excessive amount of spring in his step as the rest of their group turned to look at Ty. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He was doing everything he could just to keep his bladder from leaking down the front of his trousers. She had found him. The scary old woman hadn’t left after all.

There was no way his family could have stood against all those men. Ty was suddenly feeling very thankful for the overlord’s presence at that moment. At least that gave them a few seasoned fighters to help defend against such unbeatable odds.

“We have been searching for you for sixteen years, boy, and then one day, poof, just like magic, you up and walk right into my shop. You recognize your work?” She pulled back the arm of her robe and held out her hand for everyone to see the melted disfigurement.

“What is she talking about, Ty?” Lyessa asked.

Ty didn’t exactly know what to say without revealing more than he should. He had a feeling it wasn’t going to matter. The old hag was bound to spill his secret anyway.

Ty’s father didn’t give him a chance to answer as he turned and addressed the old woman. “Who are we? You said we have been searching.”

There was a brief pause before the old woman answered. “The White Tower, of course.”

A wheeze escaped Ty’s lips as he felt his last ounce of hope vanish into the cold air. She wasn’t hiding from the White Tower; she was the White Tower. What was going on? Wasn’t the White Tower supposed to be arresting wielders? How was it that she was working with them?

Ty’s father took a step in his direction and placed an arm around Ty’s shoulders. “There’s no way in the Pits of Aran’gal, witch, that you or any member of the White Tower is going to get your hands on my son.”

“What’s this about, Kellen?” Barl asked. His father didn’t answer, his eyes focused on Mangora.

Behind him, Ty could see his brother move back into the doorway and rest his hand on the grip of his bow.

The robed figure removed her hood. The shriveled features were quite unmistakable. “My name is Mangora.” she called out across the yard with a wicked smile, “and he does not belong to you.”

Lyessa’s head cocked to the side. “What is she talking about?”

Ty didn’t respond, more out of shock than anything.

“He most certainly does belong to us!” his mother stated defensively, her hands on her hips. “We raised him, fed him, clothed him, and loved him. That makes him ours in my book.”

“Foolish woman, do you even know who or what he is?”

What he is? What kind of a question is that? From the looks Ty was getting from those standing around, he began to feel like one of the oddities you pay to see at the traveling circus. For a couple of coppers, you could take a gander at the strange hairy woman, or the man with two heads, or the little boy with six fingers and toes. His favorite had always been the weird owl-man who could turn his head almost all the way around.

Ty always worried that if people found out about what he could do, he would end up like one of those sad performers, traveling from town to town while people forked out their hard-earned coinage to gawk, and stare, and laugh at the freaks.

At that moment, Ty could think of no place he would rather be.

“From the pathetic look on your face, I see that you do.” Mangora leaned back in her saddle. “I take it Nyalis told you all about our young faeling.”

Ty’s head shot up. “Faeling? What’s a faeling?”

“Ah, so he didn’t tell you everything.” Mangora started to cackle. “Wizards aren’t exactly in the habit of sharing information. They tend to be a little too tight-lipped for their own good. And on the rare occasion one does open up, it generally comes out more in half-truths and riddles than anything else.

“He told us enough,” Ty’s father said.

“Did he now? So then you know how dangerous the boy could be to us all?” Lord Barl now stared at Ty as well. “He needs to be kept under constant supervision for his sake and ours,” she said. “The White Tower has the means to make that happen. It’s the only safe place for him to be.”

“The Defiler it is!” His father’s voice quivered with emotion. “Your White Tower is nothing more than an elaborate ruse. A lie! All it seeks is power. I know why you want my son. The same reason why you’ve been rounding up every other wielder you can get your dirty hands on. The Tower isn’t about ridding the world of the ven’ae, at least not anymore. It’s about using them, manipulating them, taking their essence for its own dark purposes. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say your Arch Chancellor was looking to start a war.” Mangora’s smile bled loathing. “Know this, witch,” Ty’s father continued, “we will not let that happen, even if we have to go to the High King himself.”

“Oh my, I see you haven’t heard.” Mangora raised a shriveled hand to her mouth. “But of course you haven’t, how silly of me, living way out here so far from civilization and all. King Rhydan is dead! And the Kingdom of Cylmar is now under the authority of the High Throne.” Lord Barl looked as though he was going to choke. “Even now His Highness, Prince Dakaran, is being coronated. He will be your new king.”

It took a while for what she had said to process, but his father finally broke the silence. “There are still those of us out here willing to fight.”

“Oh, I take it you are referring to your wielder coalition? They are being dealt with, I assure you. Even as we speak, our bulradoer have laid a trap for your little council here in Easthaven. I assume they haven’t much longer for this world.” Her laugh was brittle and sharp.

Ty could feel his father’s arm shaking where it was wrapped around Ty’s shoulders. He wasn’t used to seeing his father angry, let alone enraged. Ty’s father was generally a soft spoken man, but you messed with his family or his friends and it was like grabbing a horned dragon by the tail, if there was such a thing as a horned dragon.

“What council in Easthaven? What’s going on here, Kellen?” Lord Barl had remained surprisingly quiet throughout the conversation. Ty figured he was still trying to soak in the news of the High King’s death. Lyessa’s father, even though a decent sort of man, was still against open wielding. He had never taken harsh action against those wielders in Sidara, but he had made it clear it would not be tolerated within city limits.

“It’s nothing, milord,” Kellen said. “Something we can discuss at a later time . . . if there is a later time,” he added under his breath.

It didn’t take magic to see where this was going. Tension was building on both sides as Ty watched the horsemen begin to finger their cleavers, axes, hammers, and flails, each with a whetted appetite in their eyes as they anticipated the upcoming bloodshed.

The strange masks the Tallosian savages wore were made from pieces of bone and other objects Ty couldn’t describe. It was a chilling sight. Their long, matted hair braided halfway down their backs made them look more rabid animal than human.

“We only want the boy. Turn him over and I’ll let the rest of you live,” Mangora said as the big Northman beside her released the strap on his battle-axe.

“Like anyone actually believes that’s going to happen,” Adarra said under her breath, drawing a few uneasy glances. “What?” She shrugged. “It’s true. They’re not going to leave here without Ty, and we’re not going to let them leave here with him. Seems pretty obvious to me.”

Barl shifted nervously as his fingers caressed the jeweled hilt of his longsword.

A deathly silence swept across the open yard in front of the small cottage. The wind rustled, and a few dead leaves blew diagonally across the ground between the two opposing forces.

To everyone’s amazement, it was Aiden who made the first move. But instead of ripping out his sword with a screaming battle cry of, “You’ll have to go through me first,” he launched himself on Ty and tried to forcibly drag him forward. “Quit being so selfish, Ty! Can’t you see it’s the only way to save the rest of us?”

Those gathered around were so in shock that for the moment no one moved. “My lord!” Aiden called to Lyessa’s father. “Tell him! Do it to save your daughter! Do it to save—” Before he could finish the sentence, a gloved fist caught him square in the face and knocked him clean off his feet.

Holding his now bloody nose and whimpering through the oncoming tears, Aiden looked up to see a fiery redhead staring down at him. Lyessa sneered. “You coward!” She shook her hand from where she had punched him. “What kind of man are you?”

The Tallosians on the other side of the yard burst into laughter at the sight of a slender young woman knocking a grown man off his feet.

Their leader turned to Mangora. “I want her as part of my payment.” His words might have been difficult to understand, but the look on his face was all too clear.

Mangora cackled. “You fulfill your duties, Baeldor, and she’s yours.”

The Northman shifted in his saddle, the leather creaking as he did. “No one touches fire-hair but me,” he said, using his hands to help relay his message.

“You touch my daughter and I’ll take your head!” Barl snapped. His hand lifted his sword halfway from its scabbard. Ty’s mother grabbed hold of Adarra and Lyessa and pulled them back toward the open doorway. Aiden quickly followed, evidently wanting to make sure the women were fully protected. Ty was half-tempted to follow suit if it wouldn’t have meant giving up every last bit of dignity he still clung to.

“What will it be then?” Mangora asked. “These men grow impatient. I can’t hold them back forever, especially after seeing such a demonstration of the womenfolk you have here.” Her smile was repulsive. “You can either turn the boy over and I let you live, or not, and I let them do what they do best.” She pointed her disfigured hand in their direction. “The choice is yours.”

Ty couldn’t let this happen. As much as he detested Aiden, he was right. He couldn’t just let his entire family be murdered because of him. And before he could talk himself out of it, he stepped forward. “If it will mean saving all of you, then I’m willing to go with them.”

“Over my dead body you will!” his father said as he grabbed Ty by the shoulder and forcibly pulled him back. “Now shut up and get behind me! That wizard said if the White Tower were to get their hands on you, it would be the end of us all. And if you think for one moment that that witch will live up to her word, then you’re about as brainless as a bog toad.”

Kellen turned to Barl. “Milord, I apologize for getting you and your daughter into the middle of this.”

“I still don’t understand what I’m in the middle of. But one thing’s for sure, I’ll be hanged before I let these savages lay a hand on any of my people.” The overlord drew his sword the rest of the way. The overarching tree of the Sidaran crest was etched in gold across the lower third of the steel. It was a weapon worthy of the High Lord of Sidara.

“You’ve made your choice!” Mangora called from the other side of the yard. “Pity, I would have so liked to have given you a personal tour of the White Tower. Let you spend some quality time with our inquisitors. Oh well, guess we can’t have everything.” She turned to look at the large Northman sitting across from her. “Don’t damage the boy. The chancellor wants him unspoiled.”

There was hunger in Baeldor’s eyes as he stared at those gathered in front of the house. “What about the rest?”

Mangora smiled. “Kill them!

Chapter 83 | Ty

TY HEARD THE BUZZ of a bow string behind him and felt the wind of an arrow fly past his ear. He knew its intended target, and, like their father, Breen never missed.

Mangora didn’t flinch.

She swiped her hand across her face and the shaft veered past her and into one of the horsemen just behind. The masked man glanced down at the fletching end of the shaft protruding from his neck. A gurgling cough escaped his mouth before he dropped from his horse.

Even from across the yard, Ty could see fury in the witch’s eyes. She raised her hand and a ball of flame appeared. The blood drained from Ty’s face. Mangora had the ability to call fire like he did. And she was no doubt more experienced.

“You had your chance!” she stated with a slight hint of mockery before she released the deadly blaze in the direction of their front line. The lancers dove out of the way, some leaping in front of Lord Barl, as the flames burst across the ground between them.

Ty tried summoning his own fire but nothing happened. He was so flustered, he couldn’t even think straight. He watched as Mangora raised her hand again. In a state of panic, he lashed out with the one bit of magic he knew he could rely on and pushed a single thought into every animal within a hundred paces—Jump!

His quick thinking saved them as Mangora’s horse, along with all the Northmen’s, leaped into the air. Half the men were still trying to get out of their saddles to make ready for the charge. Riders were thrown all over the ground. Those that managed to retain their reins fought to keep their mounts from trampling those underneath.

Run! The horses immediately obeyed his voice and stampeded toward the road, dragging a few of their riders along with them.

“Nice trick,” Breen said as he rushed past with an armful of weapons. He tossed Ty his bow and sword on the way by.

His father, taking advantage of Ty’s diversion, managed to get his knife belt on and bow nocked. Ty followed his example and stuck his sword tip down in the ground beside him so he could use his bow.

Ty’s father pulled back on the large recurve. There were very few men who could manage the bow’s draw. “I count a full company. Outnumber us two, maybe three to one.” Ty’s father released, and the impact of his shaft skewered two of the large Tallosians at once. The man in front died instantly. The second fumbled around with the weight of the other attached to him.

“Aye!” Barl said as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Then that should make it just about even, wouldn’t you say?” He tightened his double-handed grip as the savages bellowed their war cry and charged. Ty admired the man’s attitude.

The Northmen rushed across the yard like a wave of death. Ty’s brother and father managed to get off another volley before they tossed back their bows in exchange for their braces of knives.

Ty’s entire body shook with fright as he watched the savages come. Staying well behind everyone else, he released one more arrow. He hit his mark in the shoulder, but the man didn’t even notice as he raised his cleaver and continued running.

Ty tossed his bow and arrows behind him just as the Tallosians hit their line.

Another ball of fire flew from the witch’s fingertips and struck one of the Sidaran guards who had taken up a position out front. Ty nearly lost his resolve as the flesh on the front of the guard’s body cooked off his bones in mere moments. Ty doubled over and heaved what little supper he had ingested as the smell of roasted flesh hit him in the face. It smelled like sweet pork.

Ty tried to bring his own fire up again, but nothing happened. He couldn’t understand it. Why wasn’t it working? Feeling completely helpless, he watched as his protectors fought to hold back the tide. He had never witnessed a true battle before, only heard heroic tales from times long past. In them, good always prevailed and evil was inevitably vanquished.

He could see now that in reality, life was rarely a faerie story. A spray of warm liquid struck him across his chest and face. Eyes wide, he watched with sickening disgust as one of the guards in front of him was struck by Baeldor’s axe. The huge Northman had to struggle to pull his blade free as it was stuck fast inside the man’s torso.

The sharp iron flavor in Ty’s mouth brought him back from his momentary stupor as the realization of what he was tasting dawned on him. Doubling over once again, he dry-heaved and tried to spit and wipe his tongue with the clean side of his sleeve.

“Ty! Look out!” He could hear his brother off to his right. With all the heaving and scrubbing of his tongue, he had failed to notice one of the savages making a break inside the guards’ outer perimeter.

Ty swung his blade to the side to keep his attacker from taking off his leg. He wondered if the message about not killing him had registered with the rest of the face-painted savages. Their swords collided. The jolt of the impact ran all the way up his arm. The Northman swung high this time, forcing Ty to counter with an overhead block, but just as soon as his sword-arm went up, the man kicked him in the chest.

Ty flew backwards, the air expelling from his lungs. He landed on top of his mother’s winter daisies and rolled over. He tried to breathe but the air wasn’t returning. Lifting his arm to ready another block, Ty noticed his sword was no longer in his hand. He spun around. It was lying against the three-foot stone foundation bordering their house.

Ty scooted backwards as fast as he could. The Northman came at him again. Half the man’s face was covered in bleached bone, the other half in white paint. It was a terrifying sight. There was no way to reach his weapon before the Northman had him. The savage made it to within three paces when his brother, with a long dagger in one hand and a sickle in the other, released a ferocious roar and charged. With the look in Breen’s eyes, Ty actually felt sorry for the savage.

The Tallosian tried to brace himself. He started to raise his blade, but only made it about halfway before the bulk of Breen’s body slammed into him. His brother’s elbow made contact center-chest. Ty could hear bones snapping as the angry Northman flew through the air. His mask was torn from his face, revealing a look of utter shock and pain. When something as big as Breen hit you, you did’t get back up.

“Get your sword!”

Ty didn’t need to be told twice. By the time he had retrieved his weapon and turned back around, his brother was already back on the front line.

Another ball of fire shot through the air, killing one of the Sidaran Lancers on the left along with two of the Northmen. Ty had to find a way to keep her from using her magic on their men. It was bad enough having to face two-to-one odds against these barbarians, but add a flame-throwing witch into the mix and he didn’t see how they could possibly survive.

His fire for some reason had abandoned him, but he wondered if he could manage to pull off Mangora’s move with her wind shield, or whatever it was that she had done to stop Breen’s arrow.

Quickly, Ty focused on the air around him. He swiped his hand to the side like he had seen her do and watched to see if anything would happen. Nothing. He aimed his palm toward the ground and tried imaging a puff of wind striking the loose dirt. Nothing.

Pulling back, he searched for the warming sensation within him that always seemed to precede his abilities. This time, he decided to reach out and grab the wind as though it was a tangible substance. He could feel his magic rise as his fingers brushed through the air. He almost leaped with excitement when the hair on his head moved. It was working.

Ty attempted to test it, but lost his concentration when movement out of the corner of his eye brought him about. He barely had time to turn his head when he caught a fist to the side of his face that sent him spinning. This time he managed to keep his sword in his hand when he hit the ground. Why do I keep letting this happen? He was half expecting, or at least hoping, for another daring rescue from his brother, but none came. In the heat of desperation, Ty kicked out with his right leg and managed to connect with the man’s shin and throw him off balance long enough for Ty to get his sword in position.

He flipped over and pushed himself to his knees to make ready for the Tallosian’s counter, but was suddenly knocked to the side as someone rushed past and seized the defensive for him. Twisting his head around, Ty was taken back at the sight of red hair flinging back and forth as Lyessa went toe to toe with the huge savage.

He couldn’t believe it. Had he hit his head on the way down? Was he dreaming? Not only was she managing to block the man’s advances, but she was actually leading him around like a first year cadet who didn’t know one end of his weapon from the other.

Ty had never seen anything like it before. It was like watching a dance. She dodged and spun, deflected and side-stepped, her long hair whipping back and forth with each new parry and spin. The Northman was growing enraged at not being able to land a single strike. He actually growled at her.

Hopping to the side, she deflected the man’s thrust once again, and spinning around, decapitated him with one swift cut. The head hit the dirt and rolled in Ty’s direction. He just sat there, still in shock at seeing little miss prim and proper suddenly transformed into a crazy assassin sword-master.

“What are you gawking at, you idiot!” she hollered as she grabbed him by the front of his tunic and yanked him to his feet. The sleeve of her arm had been cut and was hanging open to the elbow. Ty noticed the scarring on her forearm and suddenly things came into focus. Now he understood why she always wore such reserved fashions, why she kept herself completely covered even during the warm summer months when most girls did everything they could to be as revealing as possible.

“What just . . . Where did you learn . . . Who are you?”

“I’m the person who just saved your scrawny backside. Now pick up that sword and get ready to fight!”

There was no hesitation. Ty grabbed his fallen blade and stood at her side.

“By the way,” she said over her shoulder. “You fight like a girl.”

Ty grimaced. Twice now he’d been saved by someone else, and this time, it was Lyessa. He didn’t think it could get more humiliating than that. He still wasn’t sure how she had pulled it off. It was like she was a whole different person. He kind of liked it.

Three more men broke through the lines, each with a mask covering the whole of their face. Lyessa was the first to attack. Ty waited for the other to come to him. Lifting his sword, he successfully blocked the first strike. The weight of the impact nearly tore the sword from his hands and he stumbled backwards a step or two toward the front of the cottage.

This was nothing like the wooden swordplay he and his brother used to engage in when they were younger. His hands and arms throbbed with each successful block. Instead of a sword, his attacker swung a large club with pieces of sharp metal attached to the end.

“Ty, hang on!” Lyessa was busy holding back the other two. He knew she’d never be able to reach him in time.

Ty ducked the first swing, then dove to the ground and rolled to escape the second. He was back on his feet before the Northman was able to bring his club back around for a third. Lashing out at the first thing that came within reach, Ty plunged his sword through the savage’s upper thigh. The tip of the Tallosian’s club came down and separated Ty from his blade, leaving a deep bloody gash across his forearm. He bit down at the pain.

With the sword still sticking out of both sides of his leg, the masked man used his club to sweep Ty’s legs out from under him before he had a chance to leap out of the way.

The savage placed his foot on Ty’s chest as he stood there looking down at him. “Mangora says we need to keep you alive.” He pointed the tip of his club at the top of Ty’s head. “But I figure you could live without that.” The Northman’s speech might have been broken with a strong unnatural dialect, but Ty had no problem understanding his meaning as the big man slid an ugly looking knife out from his fur-lined boot and held it up for Ty to see. The handle was constructed from what looked like a leg bone or maybe part of an arm. With a smile, the ugly savage pointed at the top of Ty’s head with the curved blade. “Pretty hair.”

Ty didn’t have time to think. His life might have been complicated but it was the only one he had. Throwing away all restraint, he dove within himself and gathered the heat of his magic. He could feel it rising.

The Northman grabbed a handful of Ty’s light blonde strands to steady his grip as he lowered the knife to make the first incision. Somewhere in the distance, Ty could hear the others screaming his name, but he put them all aside as he drew the wind to him.

He let his magic take control. He turned himself over to it. With an upward thrust of his hands, he hit the savage with everything he had. The look of astonishment on the man’s face as he flew into the air, over the top of the other fighters and into the forest beyond, was quite satisfying.

Ty lifted his hands to take a look. “That was amazing.”

To his right, Lyessa stabbed her final attacker in the foot, forcing him to lose balance before finishing him with a swift thrust through his chest. She made her way over to where Ty was just getting back to his feet. He noticed she had some bruising around her left eye and a small cut over her brow from where the ugly Northman must have gotten in a solid punch. She looked in the general direction of where Ty had sent his attacker and huffed. “Show off.”

An unnerving scream brought them both around as another one of Mangora’s throws missed its intended target and struck an unsuspecting Tallosian in the back. The red hot flame burned through the bottom half of the man’s leather clothing, skin, flesh, and bone. The top half of his body flopped to the ground. Continuing to scream in pain, the savage dragged what remained of his lower torso in the only direction his two arms would take him—forward.

Ty watched as his father acted on the only humane choice left to him by thrusting his sword through the man’s back.

Where was the rest of the Easthaven Wielder Council when you needed them? Ty wondered. With what Mangora had rained down on them so far, she must have had something terrible in store for them back in town. He hoped they were faring better than he was at the moment.

Chapter 84 | Orlyn

ORLYN SAT, waiting patiently for his next session with the sorceress Mangora. She had come to question him every day since the beginning of the week, but something was obviously delaying her visit that day.

The drugs they had been giving him were finally dissipating. Since the first day Orlyn had accepted an apprenticeship with his father to learn the ways of an apothecary, it had been clear to all that he had a natural affinity for the flora. His father had always believed it was due to his quality as a teacher, but his mother had known different. She had encouraged Orlyn to explore his capabilities, but in a way that was kept secret from the others.

Being the apothecary he was, Orlyn had never been willing to sell a remedy to a customer he was not first willing to try himself. Because of this policy, his body had developed a natural immunity to a great number of drugs and potions, but whatever this old crone had been giving him was unlike anything he had ever experienced. He was seeing things that weren’t there, voices out of the dark, people from his past who had long since died. It was disturbing on levels to which he was unaccustomed.

He was having a hard time keeping his mind focused on what was real and what wasn’t. He couldn’t imagine what this stuff would have done to someone without a constitution as strong as his. There were several times that Mangora had managed to get relevant information out of him that he would never, under normal circumstances, have divulged. He could even recall a few times when her dried lips had caressed his own. Of course, he couldn’t be sure, what with the copious amount of drugs in his system. He prayed it was the drugs.

The feeling in his arms and legs had left at least three days ago, or had it been three weeks? He couldn’t tell. Time had ceased to exist for him. On the bright side, he could no longer feel the pain in his wrists and ankles from where the ropes ate into his flesh.

From his lonely seat inside the darkened barracks, Orlyn could hear some kind of commotion taking place in the next room. It sounded like a brawl, with voices raised and the sounds of steel and wind. Wind? That couldn’t be right. He was obviously hallucinating again. But the sound was getting louder.

He could hear hard thumps, like bodies being thrown against the walls. He forced his head up from where it had been propped against his chest and tried peeking out between his swollen eyes.

The door to his makeshift prison burst open, just before being ripped completely off its hinges and sucked back into the other room and out of sight. The light from the other room was blinding. Orlyn squinted as best he could until his eyes managed to adjust. He could hear loud footsteps of people running in his direction and was afraid of what it could mean. They must have gotten tired of questioning him and were now finally going to finish him off once and for all, or throw him on the next caravan heading for the White Tower.

He waited for the end.

“Get up, you old fool, we’re here to rescue you.”

Orlyn’s eyes opened the rest of the way. There was a pair of hands working at his wrists and others at his ankles. Once his hands were free, Orlyn raised them to shade the light in order to see who was out there.

“Are you just going to sit around all day or are you going to give us a hand?” Feoldor’s full head of hair and bushy side whiskers moved into the light.

Orlyn blinked. “Did anyone ever tell you, you’re about as ugly as a sniffer’s backside?”

Feoldor’s smile said it all. “Yep, he’s still Orlyn.”

“Well, who else would I be, you sotted nincompoop? Now get me out of here.” He went to stand but his legs gave out and he fell forward. He would have landed on his face but for a small pair of sturdy shoulders underneath him. Looking down, he saw a bright childlike smile beaming his way. “Gilly, is that you?”

“It’s Gilly,” the midget replied as he positioned himself under Orlyn’s arm.

Feoldor had a stout hold of his other for balance. “We thought you could use a hand.”

Orlyn cocked his head to the side to look at Feoldor. “What are you smiling at, you ingrate? I could have used that hand days ago.”

Struggling to put one foot in front of the other as the blood slowly worked its way back into his limbs, they helped him across the outer room before cutting down a side corridor that led to a back exit between the buildings. The barracks were always quiet this time of year. Most of the lancers were comprised of volunteers from all across Sidara, and were needed at home during the colder months to support their families. During the winter, the garrison was maintained by those lancers who lived in and around Easthaven.

Feoldor pushed up on the latch and slid the side door open. Stepping out into the afternoon sun, they stopped to examine the narrow alleyway between the buildings.

“How did you fight your way through the guard?”

“It wasn’t hard, there weren’t but two and they were a mite puny if you ask me,” Feoldor said with a proud chuckle.

Limping down the narrow space between the barracks and the mess hall, they stopped just within the shadows of the two buildings and studied the empty yard ahead. The south gate was off to the right and the north gate lay in front of them. To their left were a couple of smaller buildings along with one of the stables.

The place was quiet. There was no movement anywhere. Even though the barracks were not housing their full complement, there should have at least been a modicum of Sidaran lancers walking about. But right then, the place looked completely abandoned. The hairs on the back of Orlyn’s neck were beginning to prick.

“Finally something is going our way,” Feoldor said as he started forward.

“Wait.” Orlyn, having finally gotten some feeling back in his extremities, grabbed the back of Feoldor’s cloak and pulled him backwards.

“Wait? You just got done telling me we should have come for you sooner, now you’re telling us to wait? Make up your mind, would you.”

“Doesn’t this seem a little too easy? Where’s the lancers? Where’s the rest of the Black Watch? Where’s that sorceress?” He knew she had to be around there somewhere.

“Sorceress? What sorceress? No one said anything about a sorceress.” Feoldor cast his eyes about the empty yard.

Just then a wave of heat rose from the passageway behind them. Orlyn followed Gilly by diving into the dirt to escape the inevitable. Feoldor, on the other hand, conjured a wall of air and deflected the flames up and over the rooftops. The crystal in his bracelet glowed pale blue.

With a little help from Gilly’s strong arms, Orlyn lifted himself from the ground. He looked back down the alleyway and saw a robed figure. Whoever it was they were much taller than the old woman. There must be more than one dark wielder in town, he thought.

“I’d say we’ve worn out our welcome,” Feoldor tried to point out as the three of them backed up slowly toward the edge of the two buildings, “but that seems a bit obvious.”

All Orlyn could do was nod before the three turned and raced across the open yard, heading for the north gate. They didn’t make it twenty paces before two more black-robed figures stepped out from the side of one of the buildings and blocked their passage. Their hoods were pulled and their faces well hidden.

Orlyn and the others turned to run back in the direction they’d just come, but stopped when the wielder who had tried to scorch them a moment ago moved out of the alleyway behind them. To their left, a fourth and fifth were walking across the yard in their direction.

“It’s the bulradoer,” Feoldor whispered.

What are the bulradoer doing in Easthaven? Orlyn, of course, knew the answer before he had barely gotten the question out. They had come for Ty. “Well, you two really know how to pull off a rescue . . . Thank you very much.” He tried standing on his own volition.

“Shut up, you old windbag,” Feoldor spouted back. “I didn’t see you doing anything back there to get yourself out of this mess. We were just trying to help.”

Gilly remained completely silent during their discourse as the little man’s head shifted from one dark wielder to another. In his right hand he held the large crystal he kept hidden in his pocket. It was pulsing a deep blue.

“Yeah? Well, the next time you get the notion to help . . . don’t!”

“I won’t!”

“Good!”

“Good!”

By the time both men finished arguing, the five bulradoer had completely surrounded them. The three council members moved into a defensive formation with their backs to each other, bracing for the inevitable. Orlyn knew they didn’t have a prayer. Even with Feoldor’s gift as a vanti and Gilly’s voda abilities, they weren’t going to be a match for five of the White Tower’s bulradoer.

Before the black wielders had come to a complete stop Orlyn caught a glimpse of Captain Hatch leading his Black Watch out from behind one of the far buildings near the south gate. This was quite the ambush.

Orlyn suddenly found himself longing for his wooden seat and rope bindings. He might have even been open to another visit from Mangora as long as there was no kissing involved. He thought he might actually prefer the bulradoer, or even the White Tower, to those desiccated lips.

“When Mangora told us we could net the entire wielder council at once if we had the patience to wait, I had no idea it would be so formidable a foe.” The speaker was the only one of the dark wielders to have his cowl drawn back. It was the same slick-haired man Orlyn had encountered in his shop earlier that week. The bulradoer smiled. Orlyn had to admit the three of them did look quite the sight—one decrepit old man, one arrogant fool, and a dwarf thrown in for good measure.

“Or maybe we’ve got you right where we want you?” Feoldor said with a halfhearted smile of his own.

The bulradoer paused to consider Feoldor’s words before taking a step forward. “Actually, what I think is that if you had a lick of real ability between the three of you, we would have already—” The man’s words were never finished as a torrent of fire flew out of a nearby building and engulfed one of their members. The tall woman inside the dark robes screamed in terror as her body ignited. She ran around in circles, her robes melting to her body as she burned alive in front of them.

“Like I said,” Feoldor exclaimed, more than a little bewildered at the horrific sight, “right where we want you.”

A door to one of the side buildings opened and Veldon charged into the fray, sending balls of fire in all directions and yelling like a man possessed. The ring on his right hand pulsed bright red.

The bulradoer conjured shields to stave off the unexpected attack as they scrambled to join ranks. Feoldor unleashed a hammer of wind, throwing two of the wielders at least ten feet before they hit the ground and rolled to a stop in the dirt.

Fraya rushed out behind the stocky portmaster, with Reloria bringing up the rear, holding a pink bonnet to the top of her head as she ran for the three men.

What were they doing? Neither one had an ounce of defensive magic.

Not letting a clear opportunity pass, one of the bulradoer sent a fist of flame directly at the two helpless women as they crossed the open yard. Feoldor, seeing it coming, turned and threw a gust of air into the fire and sent it off course. It was just enough to miss them, but not enough to miss setting the front of the building they had just exited aflame.

“Here!” Fraya shouted at Orlyn. “Thought you could use this.” Out of her hands flew his rune-covered staff. Orlyn caught it in midair. “Found it lying under one of the overturned shelves in your shop.” A surge of power rushed through the wood and into his hands as the runes—carefully interwoven throughout the decorative vines—awoke with green radiance. He could feel his energy returning as he turned back to face the bulradoer.

No one said a word as the two groups of wielders faced off, ten long paces between. Even the Black Watch had enough sense to stay back for this one.

Orlyn’s eyes scanned the now unhooded assembly before him: three men and a woman. He knew better than to take any of these wielders lightly. They had no need for transferals. Their powers came through the spoken word, incantation, and runes, something they had certainly been studying and perfecting for years. Each of them was no doubt trained in warfare, unlike the Easthaven Council whose members had never been required to use their gifts in such a manner.

No one moved as both sides waited to see what the other would do. And of course leave it to Feoldor to be the first to speak. “So, who’s laughing now?”

Orlyn rolled his eyes as he watched the bulradoer raise their arms. “Ah, chicken stink.”

Chapter 85 | Adarra

ADARRA, NEVER HAVING witnessed real combat before, other than what she had read in her books, nervously cracked her knuckles as she watched the horror of battle taking place outside her window. Little by little, they were losing ground. “There’s too many of them.” Her mother glanced her way from where she stood behind the front door. She held the only sword they had left after Lyessa took the other to defend Ty.

Adarra turned around and looked at Aiden. He was sitting in the corner. His sword lay across his lap. “They need your help!”

He tilted his head. “Don’t look at me. I’m not going out there and getting myself killed. It’s Ty they want.”

Adarra had been a bit smitten with Aiden since first having seen him during their last Performance Night. He was tall with dark hair, a strong chin, and green eyes like her father and older brother. Unfortunately, even the most despicable of people can look good at a distance, she supposed. But after spending any amount of time in the same room with him, Aiden’s outward beauty quickly dissolved as his inward mannerisms shone through. What Lyessa saw in him was beyond her. Adarra figured it must have been her father’s choice. Although, after Aiden’s show of cowardice earlier, Adarra doubted that even Lord Barl could overlook such actions for the sake of his family’s name.

“Are you really that stupid? They can’t leave any witnesses to this. You heard the witch. They’re going to kill us all!” She pointed to his lap. “You have a sword, go use it!”

“I can’t!” Aiden’s eyes bore a slight look of humiliation as he turned away.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know how!” His face was as hot as stoked embers. Adarra wasn’t sure whether it was due to rage or embarrassment. “I wear it for decoration, alright!” His eyes hopped from her to her mother and then back to his lap. “I thought it made me look . . . courageous.” Adarra shook her head and stared at him, and not for the reasons she would have normally done so before. For once, she was without words. “Besides,” he said, “it’s not exactly a real sword.” He held it out for inspection. “It’s completely dull and would probably break the first time it hit something.” He bowed his head and stared at his feet.

Wow. That was unexpected. That was probably the most honest statement she’d heard come out of Aiden’s mouth. She almost felt sorry for him, sitting there with his faux sword, looking as helpless as a lost puppy. If only he wasn’t so ridiculously good looking, she mused, she could find it a lot easier to hate him and his flimsy sword.

A loud crash in the kitchen brought everyone around with a start as the back door flew open. Pieces of splintered wood slid across the kitchen floor. Aiden hopped to his feet when two men in rough leather and patched furs stepped inside. The shorter man on the right held a sword Adarra recognized, from her book of weaponry, as a falchion. Its wide blade curved at the end. The ugly Northman let it swing loosely at his side.

The enormous man on the left wore a half-mask with black markings. It looked as though he had dipped his fingers in some kind of ink and smeared them across the white bone. Besides the single-bladed axe he toted over his shoulder, the savage also bore an impressive array of knives at his waist. Adarra counted five that she could see from the front.

“I told you I saw ‘m headin’ in here, Jonas,” said the lanky man on the right as he pointed his blade in their direction. They stepped out of the kitchen and into the great room where the other three were huddled. Adarra was having a difficult time understanding the garbled speech. It was unlike anything she had ever read about.

The big one on the left said something to his comrade and then wiped his large hand down the sides of his hardened face. He went on to say something more but his words were even less understandable. He ended the short conversation with the word “Damar.” Adarra figured it must be the smaller man’s name. She might not have understood what he had said, but his body language spoke volumes. He stared at her and licked his lips in the most explicit way. It was the most attention any man had ever given her.

The smaller savage, Damar, must have agreed with whatever was said because his face widened into a lewd grin as well. “I love mine warm and full of fight.”

“How dare you!” Aiden bellowed uncharacteristically as he took a very small step forward. “You will not touch a single hair of their heads or . . .” He puffed out his chest as far as it would go. “Or I’ll be forced to run you through.” He ended his statement by brandishing his not-so-real sword.

Damar laughed. “Would you look at that, Jonas. It’s a fella. He’s ‘bout as purty as the rest of ‘em. Just look at that beautiful hair.” Aiden’s long brown locks were a feature Adarra had admired as well, but for quite different reasons.

“You will pay for that, you dirty savage!” Aiden shouted back, his face as red as his crimson vest. He started forward but didn’t make it halfway to the dining table in his pursuit of justice when Adarra’s mother grabbed hold of his outer jacket and jerked him backwards.

“Get back here, you fool, before you get yourself killed!”

Nilla held her old sword out in front of her. “You stay back.” She pointed it toward the two Northmen slowly easing their way further into the main room. “You hear me.” Ignoring her warning, they took another step forward. Their eyes passed over each of them in turn as if inspecting a hard-earned prize. “Don’t you come any closer! I’m warning you!”

Adarra grabbed the only spare weapon within reach—one of her father’s sickles. Her knuckles turned white when the thought of what was possibly going to happen took hold. Her hands were shaking almost as much as her legs. There was no one there to rescue them. Everyone with the ability to fight was outside. They had no idea what was happening to them.

“Or what? You’ll cut me?” the smaller man jeered. They were now within swinging distance. Adarra noticed Jonas staring at her sickle, no doubt calculating his options if it should be used against him.

“Take another step and find out,” her mother countered, daring either one of them to take her up on her offer. Damar was the first to move.

“I like ‘em with spirit,” he said as he took up her challenge. His eyes danced with eager anticipation, danced with ravenous hunger, danced with sudden concern as her mother’s blade flew at his face. Damar blinked, but his reflexes took over and his angled blade went up.

A loud clang was heard as her mother’s sword was stopped mid-swing by the force of the Tallosian’s block. Reaching out with his free hand, he grabbed the front of Nilla’s top and jerked her forward, ripping off a few buttons in the process. Pulling her close, he forcibly tried kissing her.

“Ahh!” The savage’s head lurched backwards. He shouted something in his own language and backhanded her with a closed fist across the face. Nilla’s head spun around and she landed in a heap on the floor. She didn’t move.

Damar’s hand reached for his mouth. “She bit me!” He wiped at the blood now running freely from the ragged teeth marks in his lower lip.

Adarra gripped her sickle even tighter as she listened to Jonas bellow out a hard laugh at his comrade’s sorry luck. He said something to the little man which she could only guess was meant to humiliate him even further.

As big as he was, Jonas kept himself back and away from what he must have perceived as his friend’s conquests. He appeared only too happy to let the little man do all the fighting while he watched the entertainment.

Adarra took a step closer to her mother. She dug deep to find the courage she needed. She certainly couldn’t rely on Aiden. Her mind raced as she fought to recall any of her previous reading on weapon’s combat. It was one thing to read about something, but quite another to actually apply the information in practical form.

After having been belittled in front of the other Northman, Damar looked ready to reclaim his supposed manhood. “You want blood?” he spat. His spittle rained down across her mother’s unmoving body. “I’ll give you blood!” He raised his falchion over his head.

Adarra was out of time. She angled her sickle and was moving to block his strike when someone came roaring past her.

“Yahh!” Aiden held his sword high as he rushed the Northman head on. Adarra was speechless. Aiden’s attack left Damar with no other option but to pull back from his original target and attempt to block the unexpected foray before Aiden was on top of him.

The two swords connected.

Adarra couldn’t tell who was more surprised by the outcome, Aiden or Damar, when Aiden’s sword burst into a dozen pieces and flew across the room, leaving him completely open to Damar’s quick backswing. It sliced deep into his chest. Aiden staggered backwards with a look of unmistakable horror as he looked down at the flow of blood staining the top of his beautiful silk shirt.

The angry Northman didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and plunged his sword into Aiden’s gut. Adarra barely had time to react. She screamed in rage and struck while the savage was preoccupied. Her weapon seemed such a light thing in her hand as her adrenaline kicked in, bringing her mind into focus.

The Tallosian’s eyes widened as he struggled to pull his sword from Aiden’s torso in time to stop her attack, but Adarra knew he wouldn’t be able to. She knew exactly where to strike to do the most damage. Unlike a sword or dagger, her sickle couldn’t be used for thrusting. It had to be wielded in a cutting fashion. The newly honed edge sliced straight through the soft underside of Damar’s stomach like a hot knife through butter, carving out a thick portion to spread.

Damar’s face paled and his sword dropped from his hands as he tried holding his insides in. He fell with a thump to the floor. His body convulsed. His gut had been split wide, revealing a mass of entrails. Adarra was transfixed at the sight. It was the first time she had ever taken a life. As sick and horrified as she felt about it, she couldn’t seem to overcome her academic perspective as she studied what came out.

Jonas used the distraction to get behind her and swing his axe at her head. Catching the movement, Adarra dove to the right and rolled under the blade’s swing. She could feel the wind of its force as it flew past. She rolled to her back in order to block the next attack. She had nowhere to go.

The savage grunted something under his breath and raised his axe. She raised her sickle but already knew it was a useless effort. His axe would split it like kindling, and nail her to the wooden floor in the process.

She closed her eyes and waited for the end. There was a groan and a heavy thump beside her that forced her eyes back open. She glanced to her left and saw the head of the axe buried in the floorboard next to her face. Looking back at the Northman, she noticed an arrow protruding from his right shoulder.

“Move!” her mother yelled from somewhere near the front door. She must have made it over to one of the men’s discarded bows while the Tallosians were focused on Aiden and Adarra.

Quickly, Adarra rolled to the side as Jonas reached for his axe. He barely had time to get his fingers around the hilt when her mother smashed the back of the big man’s head with one of her skillets. The impact rang like a bell, and the rough-looking Tallosian pitched over on his face, his jowls wobbling the whole way down. His bone mask split into pieces when it struck the floor.

Adarra thought about gutting the big Northman, but just couldn’t bring herself to do it. One opened corpse was enough. Hearing a raspy groan from behind her, she quickly rushed to Aiden’s side. Her mother was already there, pressing her hand against the gaping hole where he had been stabbed.

The left side of her mother’s face was beginning to swell and turn the shade of a fine burgundy, which Adarra knew from her reading would eventually change to a rich cobalt-blue and a few weeks later settle into a lovely chartreuse. She shook her head to try bringing her random thoughts back to what was important. “We need to stop the bleeding,” she said as her mother held pressure on the seeping wound.

“He’s hurt pretty bad.”

Aiden lay there trying his best not to whimper as he clutched at the vicious opening in his stomach. “Hang on, Aiden. I’ll get some cloths and make a salve to help stem the bleeding.” Aiden acknowledged with a slight bob of his head.

Adarra got to her feet and looked at him with a warm smile. “Thank you for saving my mother’s life. You were really brave.”

“I was really stupid,” he said through gritted teeth. “I didn’t even have a real sword.”

“That’s what made it so heroic.”

Chapter 86 | Ty

“I’VE GOT TO STOP HER.”

His words were meant as a call to action, a way to muster what courage he had left in an attempt to force himself to act. However, the cries of death as men were being chopped down all around him seemed to cloud his thoughts and unhinge his nerve. Even worse was the witch and her magic. They didn’t stand a chance against such odds and he knew it. Time seemed to slow as if in a daze as he stood there watching the horrific confrontation in front of him.

What was left of the Sidaran guards were continuing to fall against the force of the Tallosians’ numbers. The savages had been cut nearly in half by the highly-trained soldiers, but even with what remained, Ty and the others were still heavily outmatched.

Ty watched his older brother, with blood running down his right arm, fight like a wild animal. He defended his position against two of the masked Northmen trying to flank him, cutting and slashing with his sickle while blocking and thrusting with his shortsword.

Lord Barl and a few of his lancers were holding off another siege on Ty’s right with Baeldor leading the charge. Near the center, Ty’s father was retracting a long dagger from the neck of one Northman while blocking the swing from another.

Everything was in chaos. There was so much blood. Ever since Ty had begun using magic, the Northmen had given up their attempts at capturing him unharmed and were now trying to do whatever they could to incapacitate him.

“Behind you!” Lyessa hollered, pulling Ty from his momentary lapse into self-doubt.

Ty turned and raised a shield of air to protect against the swing of a large mace. The heavy metal object slammed against the protective barrier, forcing Ty back a step. The heavyset Tallosian was about the ugliest looking thing Ty had ever seen. He looked as though someone had used his head to demonstrate the most proficient form of scalping and changed their mind halfway through.

With a graceful arc of her blade, Lyessa cut straight through the Northman’s lower gut and, after blocking a second failed thrust, hacked off his arm and then finished him with a swift stab to the throat. Ty was still astounded by not only her ability to wield a sword but by her utter lack of reaction to the gore she left in her wake.

On his right, Mangora was working her way around the clash of warriors for a clear shot at his father and Lord Barl. Both were too preoccupied fending off the Northmen to see the danger they were in. This was Ty’s chance to finally prove himself. So far, his actions, or lack of them, had shown him to be a complete imbecile when it came to the art of war. Lyessa had humbled him enough to admit that. But that was all about to change.

Ty had told his family not an hour earlier that he could fight. It was time to substantiate that claim. He straightened his back. Searching for the warmth of his magic, he started forward.

Lyessa grabbed him by the arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going after the witch.”

“No, you’re not! She’ll kill you.”

“Someone has to before she burns us all to death, and right now I’m the only one who stands even half a chance.” Her mouth opened in an attempt to refute his statement, but nothing came out. She knew he was right. It was nice, though, to see how much she cared.

Pulling away from her grip, Ty pushed on. Lyessa was right beside him, ready to cut down anything in his path. She was his guardian. Ty had found this embarrassing at first, but it was growing on him faster than he would have liked to admit.

He angled back toward the front of the house and worked his way around the back of the fighting. He had just moved into position when an angry Northman barreled through an open section in the lancer’s defensive line and rushed them. The big man didn’t need a mask. His face was covered with the whitened flesh of numerous scarred-over injuries. Over his head he swung a ten-point mace-and-chain flail.

Lyessa dove out of the way and Ty barely had time to raise another shield before the spiked ball hit. The momentum was so strong that it threw Ty off balance, causing the edge of the ball to graze the side of his arm. It impacted the ground beside him, flinging dirt and debris around his legs.

Ty cried out in pain and grabbed his bloody arm. The sudden surge of adrenaline fueled his anger. He didn’t have time for this. Mangora was almost within reach of his father and he was stuck playing dodge-the-flail.

Without waiting for the man to swing again, Ty gathered the wind once more. It came easier this time. Instead of using it as a shield, he lashed out at the ugly savage and punched him square in the chest. The force of the blow struck the man like a battering ram hoisted by a team of giant rock trolls.

The Tallosian plowed into the dirt. His chest had been completely caved in. A slight wheezing noise escaped the Northman’s lips as what little air remained inside was forced out. If only he had the capability of doing that on a larger scale, he could have stopped this battle before it had ever started. Unfortunately, Ty didn’t possess the experience or the strength to handle something like that.

Ignoring the pain and the flow of blood running down his arm, Ty turned around when he heard his father holler in pain. One of the savages had managed to impale him in the shoulder with a large dagger. His father grabbed the handle of the blade and punched the man in the face to obscure his attention. Pulling the blade out, he gave it back to the man, straight through his neck. The Northman gasped and dropped. His death left a clear opening for Mangora.

Ty quickly raised his hands and willed his fire to come, but like the last half-dozen times, nothing happened. “What is wrong with me? Why won’t you work?” he shouted at his open palms as though in hearing his desperation they would somehow spark to life.

His father was left to face the witch on his own. Not ten paces away, he watched Mangora raise her arms. Seeing his father’s unwavering courage as he willingly stood there ready to give his life for his family caused something inside of Ty to snap, and he realized, as cliché as it sounded, the only thing holding him back was himself. He was still afraid of who or what he was becoming, but in that moment, fear gave way to desperation.

Ty turned and hit his father with a wave of air that sent him flying to the left and out of the way of Mangora’s wrath. The old woman screeched when her fiery attack broke through their ranks and did nothing more than scorch the ground in front of the house.

Ty took his father’s place, filling in the breech. He raised his hands and they immediately burst into flame. Mangora flinched when she saw the ignition. Her eyes were fierce. Ty could see the hatred in them.

“You want me, witch. Here I am.” He didn’t have time to come up with something a bit wittier, but under the circumstances, it wasn’t half-bad.

Not waiting on him to make the first move, she sent an entire lance of red-hot flame in his direction. Capturing him alive must have lowered in priority to staying alive herself.

Liquid flames, blue as a midday sky, poured from Ty’s hands as he met her attack. He’d never felt anything like it before. His body was numb, and yet on fire at the same time.

The two torrents remained locked in place, releasing red and blue ribbons of flame that burned everything they touched to ash. Mangora’s face twisted in rage. Her lips curled upward revealing a crooked set of yellowing teeth.

“Give it up, boy. You are no match for the likes of me.”

Ty could feel his energy being depleted. His strength was waning. He watched as the flames worked their way back and forth between them. He fought to keep his focus. He didn’t dare drop it. One slip and it would all be over, and not just for him.

“What happened to taking me alive?” His words were muffled under his strain.

Mangora sneered. “If we can’t have you, nobody will.”

Ty fought to hold onto his magic. It felt chaotic. He had no idea what he was doing. He was acting on pure instinct.

“I can feel you growing weaker. You don’t have the strength. Stop while you can. I promise to be lenient . . . spare your family’s life.” Mangora’s words were short and direct, due in part to her breathing growing heavier.

Ty wanted to lash out at her. To tell her what he really thought of her. Tell her how ugly she was, how bad her breath stank, how he was going to peel the rest of the flesh from her brittle bones and dance on her remains, but he didn’t have the strength. So he kept his mouth shut. Beads of sweat dripped from his eyes and nose and chin.

The two opposing sides of this battle separated, retreating to a safe distance to not get caught in the middle. Ty heard the sudden hum of a bow string as an arrow flew in the witch’s direction. She raised one of her hands and swiped it away, never losing a moment’s concentration.

She was strong. Ty would never have been able to manage something like that. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep up his own concentration. Thankfully, he was starting to see the signs of strain on Mangora’s face as well. Maybe she wasn’t holding it together as much as she wanted him to believe. Another arrow flew by. Ty figured it had to be Breen.

This time, Mangora sent a surge of air in the general direction of where the arrow had originated. Ty could hear someone behind him grunt as they were thrown from their feet. A moment later, he heard the thump of them hitting the ground further back.

Ty could see the extra magic expended to block his brother’s arrows had taken its toll on the old woman. Mangora released a loud, high-pitched wail as she sent one final pulse through the two streams of fire. Ty emptied every last bit of magic he had in order to keep her attack from consuming him as he met her fiery wave with one of his own.

The two interconnecting lines of flame cancelled each other out with a loud crack of thunder. Both wielders were sent flying backwards.

Everything went black before Ty hit the ground.

Ty could hear his brother’s voice, or maybe it was his father’s. It sounded distant and muffled. He could feel his body being lifted.  “He’s not breathing!” Ty heard someone say. Strangely enough, Ty hadn’t noticed that fact until right then.

“Move! Let me through!” The voice sounded like his sister. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his chest like someone had decided to make sure he was dead by beating on him with one of the Northmen’s war hammers. Without warning, the air rushed back into his lungs, and he sat straight up and inhaled a deep gulp.

The savages had ceased their engagement for the moment as they struggled to help Mangora back to consciousness.

“Wha . . . what happened?” Ty asked, still half-dazed. “Who was punching me?”

“I wasn’t punching you, doofus,” Adarra said. “I was forcing your heart to start working again.”

“What?”

“Oh, never mind … It’ll take too long to explain.”

Lyessa hovered nearby. “What happened to his . . . his hair?” Ty lifted his hand to rub the top of his head. Had the Northmen scalped him? “It’s white, like an old man.”

“Quiet, Lyessa,” her father said, trying to offer a rebuke. He was rather preoccupied with studying the change himself.

“She won’t be down for long,” Ty’s father said, adding the voice of reason back to the conversation.

Ty reached out. “Here, help me up.”

Breen steadied Ty as he struggled to his feet. He held his arm as he tried to regain his balance. They had barely made it to the front door when a high-pitched holler forced them to turn.

“What are you fools doing?” Mangora hissed from the other side of the yard as she pushed the ugly Tallosians off her. “I said kill them! Kill them all!” She collapsed again to her hands and knees as the Northmen lifted their weapons and charged.

“Where is Nyalis?” Ty’s father grabbed Lyessa by the arm. “Take Ty inside. Protect my family.” He grabbed his bow and nocked an arrow as he spun on his heels. With one swift move, he sent a shaft flying into the oncoming attack. One of the masked Tallosians in front dropped face first into the dirt with a shaft buried to the feathers in his chest.

Ty’s brother seized the short window of opportunity and pulled the last knife from his belt. He released it with pin-point accuracy into the neck of another charging Northman. Spurting blood with every beat of his heart, the man still managed to cross half the yard before realizing what had happened.

From the front window seat, Ty watched as the last of Overlord Barl’s guards were forced to defend against the onslaught, leaving Lyessa’s father to face Baeldor on his own. Ty was too weak to even get out of his seat, let alone mount a daring rescue. All he was able to do was watch and pray. He could see the tension in Lyessa’s jaw as she was forced to stand by and watch the others fight. She clearly didn’t find her new position as a nursemaid too appealing.

Even with his proficiency with the blade, Lord Barl was clearly outmatched in both age and strength. The huge Northman muscled his way through Barl’s depleting defenses. Back and forth Barl swung his longsword, blocking Baeldor’s attacks. The overlord’s stamina looked to have all but given out when the vicious Northman pulled a dagger from his waist and cut Barl’s already wounded leg out from under him. He fell hard and his sword dropped from his fingers, too weak to maintain their grip any longer.

Barl’s head spun about as he looked for help, but there was no one left to come to his defense. He crawled back to his knees and tried reaching for his sword, but Baeldor kicked it out of reach. The Tallosian took his time as he stepped in front of him, swinging his great axe like a pendulum, plainly taunting Lyessa’s father with the surety of how he would meet his end. He leaned over and whispered something in Barl’s ear. By the way Baeldor had looked at Lyessa, Ty had a pretty good feeling what he was saying.

Baeldor stood back up and raised his axe. Ty couldn’t watch. He was about to close his eyes when the buzz of a bow string forced his attention away from the window and to the front door where he caught a glimpse of Lyessa slowly lowering one of the unused bows. Ty’s head spun back to the window. Her arrow was sticking out of Baeldor’s left eye.

He screamed in pain and dropped to both knees. His axe fell from his fingers and landed on the ground beside him as he struggled to pull the shaft free. Overlord Barl, with what looked to be every last bit of strength he possessed, hefted himself onto his good leg. He leaned over and wrapped his bloody fingers around the momentarily forgotten weapon and hefted the huge cleaver into the air.

Shouting Tallosian curses as he struggled to pull the long shaft from his eye, Baeldor was oblivious to Barl standing over him. With a sharp roar, Barl swung downward, letting gravity take over as the great Northerner’s head separated from his body in a spray of blood. It rolled across the ground and stopped with his face looking up at the sky, still wearing a dumb look of disbelief.

“I told you I’d take your head,” Barl spat as he collapsed to his knees. He gripped the axe for support.

After seeing their leader decapitated, and the witch still on the ground, what remained of the Northmen horde abandoned Mangora and retreated for the woods.

“Get back here, you cowards!” Barely able to stand, she sent a small ball of flame after them. But she was too weak to prove worthwhile in compelling them to turn around. They melted into the woods and disappeared from sight.

“Get back to the house!” Ty’s father shouted to the others, and they began a quick retreat toward the front door. Breen and one of the two remaining lancers helped Barl inside. Ty’s father was the last one in. He shut the door behind them and moved to join Ty at the window to see what Mangora would do next.

“Do you believe you have won?” the old woman shouted. The hatred in her voice was unforgiving. “I have only just begun!” Raising her arm in the direction of the northwestern woods, a red pulse shot from her ring and tore its way into the surrounding trees. “Come to me!”

“Who is she talking to?” Lyessa asked, trying to peek around the others at the front window.

Ty glanced at Breen. He had the sinking feeling he knew the answer.

Chapter 87 | Orlyn

“A LOT OF GOOD that flaming wizard’s horn did us!” Feoldor shouted. “What’s the point in having a way to signal a wizard if he doesn’t even show up?”

Orlyn, Veldon, and Feoldor held the front line, standing side by side as they fought to hold back the bulradoer.

How they had managed to stave off death so far was nothing short of a miracle. Each of the bulradoer carried some kind of fire-conjured weapon: sword, whips, flail, even an axe. The strange armaments seemed able to cut through anything, and the heat they put off was nearly as bad as Veldon’s fire.

Orlyn couldn’t see how they were going to come out of this alive. Other than Veldon’s rusty old sword, which he had kept as a souvenir from the time his great-grandfather had served in the Sidaran Lancer regiment, Orlyn was the only one to have a physical weapon, and it was just a staff.

But it was no ordinary staff.

The transferal crystal wedged into the top of the wood brightened as he blocked another of the dark wielder’s attacks. Sparks of burnt orange and bluish-green shot into the air as the flame and wood connected with a searing hiss. The arcane runes interwoven around the outer edge were as radiant as the bulradoer’s sword. Back and forth they parried, striking, lunging, blocking, and circling around to start the cycle over again.

In one of those brief respites between attacks, Orlyn thanked his father for all those years of training he had been forced to endure as a child. It seemed his instincts hadn’t dulled too much over the years.

His arms were growing heavy, though. It didn’t help that he hadn’t had a full night’s rest or a decent meal in days, but he was still alive, and with every breath of that life, he was going to keep fighting.

A few steps away, Veldon and Feoldor fought as a single unit. The portmaster’s fire roared in bouts, and in waves, and sometimes in balls no bigger than the size of his fist, while Feoldor cast volleys of hardened air to block the bulradoer’s returning fire as well as counter-parry their magical weapons.

Orlyn spun the butt-end of his quarterstaff downward to keep his opponent’s blade from taking off his left leg. He could feel the heat emanating from its fire. Flipping the end back up, he thrust it directly into the man’s face, forcing the wielder to dodge and move back. It was a fairly obvious move, but Orlyn needed time to think. His opponent was much younger and more agile than he had been even twenty years ago. He had to try something different.

Lowering his staff, he ducked underneath another lunging assault aimed for his neck. He could feel the heat passing overhead. Quickly, Orlyn shook the sweat from his eyes. As the bulradoer recovered his missed swing to prepare for another, Orlyn reached into one of his many pockets and threw a handful of ground valerian into the man’s face.

As soon as the powder hit his eyes, the bulradoer yelled in pain. His weapon lowered as he desperately attempted to rub the blinding substance with his free hand. Orlyn didn’t wait around for him to recover. Hefting his staff with both hands, he pivoted on his back leg and swung with all his might. There was a loud crack and the bulradoer’s skull split like an old gourd. The dark wielder spit blood and his sword dropped from his hands. Whatever magic had created the impressive blade of flame vanished as soon as it left the dark wielder’s hands.

The hilt hit the ground, its wielder soon after.

Orlyn leaned over and picked up the hilt, hoping the weapon would work for him as well. No such luck.

“Orlyn, behind you!”

Orlyn spun at the sound of Fraya’s warning in time to see the spiked ends of a large mace swinging in his direction. As fast as he could, he raised his staff, but his counter was too slow. He managed to keep the spikes from embedding in his skull, but the deflection sent it tearing through his left shoulder instead.

The impact threw him backwards. He cried out as the excruciating pain tore through the left side of his body. Orlyn landed on his face, the air completely expelled from his lungs. With a hit like that, he knew he was done for. Still gripping the rune covered staff to his chest, Orlyn rolled to his back. There was blood pouring from his arm. He could see bone from where the flesh had been ripped away.

Behind him, Fraya jumped to her feet. She and Reloria had been crouching in front of the barracks’ stables while Gilly was using his magic to do something with the water in the horse’s trough. The young healer ran across the yard, not giving the first thought about what the bulradoer’s weapon would do to her if she got within reach.

Orlyn opened his mouth to tell her to go back, but he couldn’t catch his breath. He shook his head and tried waving her off, but he knew it wouldn’t do him any good. Above everything else, Fraya was a healer, and like most healers, she put others before herself. Dropping to her knees, she slid to a stop beside him.

Finally catching his first unhindered gulp of air, Orlyn tried to push her away, but his arms were too weak. “Get out of here, Fraya!”

“No! He’ll kill you!”

The bulradoer was only steps away.

“I’m already done for, child. Get back to the others.”

Orlyn tried pushing her away again, but she ignored him and instead laced her hands across his gaping shoulder. He hollered at the pain as she released her magic into him. His eyes bulged as he felt a wash of ice flood through his body, nearly taking his breath away all over again.

“I see you found your staff after all, old man.”

Orlyn recognized the approaching bulradoer as the wielder he had first encountered in his shop the week before. The bulradoer with his slicked-back hair sneered as he let his great mace swing from his side. It seemed to be counting down the time Orlyn had before he met his end. Orlyn struggled to lift his staff, but it was no use. He didn’t have the energy to even shift its weight on his chest.

“Hate killing something so pretty,” the bulradoer said, sending a lecherous glance in Fraya’s direction, “but we can’t have you healing him, now can we?” The wielder pivoted on his heels to get a better swing and raised the mace over his head. Fraya never even flinched, clearly too determined to see Orlyn healed, even at the cost of her own life.

Orlyn knew what was coming and closed his eyes. He waited for the impact. But instead of hearing the sound of a sickening thud and feeling the spray of Fraya’s blood across the side of his face, it was the bulradoer who howled in pain. Orlyn opened his eyes in time to see the dark wielder drop his weapon. The conjured end disappeared.

The bulradoer twisted back around and Orlyn saw that he had a large black-fletched bolt impaled through his right shoulder. Orlyn turned his head to see who it was they owed their life to and found an old, senile looking man stepping out of a nearby doorway with an enormous double-bolt crossbow tucked to his chest.

“That’ll teach you to meth with my friendth!” Eliab shouted.

Orlyn’s heart leaped at the sight of the old Harbor House gatekeeper. Eliab moved out of the shadows and limped his way to the end of the open porch and fired off another round. The bulradoer was ready this time. He weaved a quick deflection and sent the quarrel up and off to the right. Orlyn wished he knew how to do that.

Standing beside the old gatekeeper, Saleena yanked another bolt from his quiver and handed it to him. After the council’s daring rescue of the woman from the Black Watch, Orlyn was surprised to see she had stuck around, let alone was willing to risk her life in a fight that wasn’t really hers, considering she wasn’t even a wielder.

With the bulradoer’s attention momentarily split between trying to remove the arrow from his shoulder and blocking the ones being fired at him by Eliab, Orlyn, with Fraya’s help, managed to recover enough strength to slowly crawl back toward the barracks’ stables where Gilly was busy watching over Reloria.

Finally giving up on pulling the bolt free, the bulradoer snapped the shaft in half and pulled the remaining piece the rest of the way through. He leaned over with his other hand and collected the rune-etched hilt of his weapon. As soon as his fingers wrapped around the handle, its fire burst to life and the mace’s spiked ball raised into place.

Orlyn felt stronger. Whatever Fraya was doing to him with her magic was clearly working. Being the apothecary that he was, he had never before allowed a healer to use magic on him when the use of natural herbs would have sufficed. But now, he was starting to wonder why he’d never tried it before. The pain had lessened and the muscle and skin were knitting back into place. He found he was able to move his shoulder.

Fraya dropped to her knees beside him and hung an arm over the long trough where the little dwarf was stirring the water with his magic.

Orlyn tried to help the young healer but was forced aside when Reloria pushed her way through. “Here, I’ll see to her. You go deal with those black vermin.”

Orlyn lifted himself to his feet and quickly tested his range of motion. He barely had time to see if everything was working before the slicked-hair bulradoer charged their position. Orlyn threw himself in front of the others and blocked the blazing weapon with his staff. The runes pulsed to life. With each strike of the bulradoer’s mace, the ancient symbols brightened, demonstrating their ability to protect him. He hoped their power didn’t run out at some point.

The dark wielder, even though strong in his own right, had obviously never been taught the finer art of martial defense. And with a weapon such as the one he possessed, it was no wonder. Its magic seemed indestructible. So why would its wielder need to worry about such things as the proper placement of his hands to gain the most momentum while not losing balance, or the suitable width and angle of his swing that would not leave his front exposed, or the way one should implement the natural use of a circular attack as opposed to a choppy, more direct engagement that left its wielder overextended?

“It’s not the weapon that makes the warrior,” his father used to say. “It’s knowing how to wield it.” Orlyn waited for the man to come back around with another wild swing. When he did, Orlyn was ready. He dodged to the side and hit the man in his exposed sternum with a swift jab. The bulradoer doubled over, gasping for breath. Orlyn spun his staff and landed a precise strike to the top of the man’s wrist, forcing his hand to go lax and open. The mace fell from his fingers and winked out just as Orlyn swept his legs out from under him and sent him to his back with a heavy grunt.

Orlyn raised his staff, but before he could spear thrust the butt-end into the man’s face, he was stopped by a single lash from the female bulradoer’s whips as she reached for his head. It sounded like a crack of lightning as the tail end connected with his staff. The unexpected attack forced Orlyn back toward the others, giving the downed bulradoer the chance to retrieve his weapon.

Veldon and Feoldor were slowly herded back alongside Orlyn by the other remaining bulradoer. The man on the right struck from one side with his sword while the woman struck from the other, looking for an opening in Feoldor’s shields.

Her long black hair wafted around her face as she sent her strips of flame swirling through the air. The sound of her whips as they cracked was deafening. They were long enough to reach any one of them, including the three women.

This time it was Gilly’s quick reaction that saved their lives as he raised his blue crystal and created a sheet of ice to block the attack.

Reloria screamed. The bulradoer’s whip had just skimmed the top of her pink bonnet and snapped one of the porch’s post railings in half, bringing down part of the barracks’ roof.

The female bulradoer whipped her arm back for another try.

Orlyn moved to block the strike but was forced backwards when his mace-wielding opponent decided to attack while his back was turned. Orlyn dodged the first swing and spun to the left in order to draw him away from the others. Over the bulradoer’s shoulder, Orlyn could see Feoldor send a fist of air careening into the side of the female bulradoer. She was sent tumbling sideways into the building whose porch she’d just collapsed. She unleashed a single swing before crashing though one of the front windows. Her whip caught him in the back.

Feoldor hollered and went down.

Orlyn angled his staff and deflected the mace away from his head before coming back around with another strike that forced the bulradoer to take a couple of awkward steps to the side to miss getting struck in the face. Orlyn took the brief break in fighting to glance at his friend. He couldn’t tell how bad the injury was, or if indeed Feoldor was still alive.

Reloria shrieked as she pushed her way past Eliab to get to Feoldor. The old glassblower might have been one of the most ornery, uncouth men Orlyn had ever known, but Reloria seemed to care a great deal for him.

In the quick glimpses afforded Orlyn while he struggled to keep his rune-covered staff moving to block his assailant, he could see the others dragging Feoldor’s body back toward the stables and away from the immediate battle. On his right, Veldon was struggling to hold the other bulradoer back as Fraya knelt to work on Feoldor. The look in the portmaster’s eyes said he wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer.

They had been pushed nearly all the way back to where the others were huddled in front of the stables. Orlyn could see Gilly out of the corner of his eye keeping his trough of water moving, waiting to raise another protective sheet of ice if needed.

Orlyn swung low, and this time, the bulradoer was barely able to block as he managed to catch the tip of Orlyn’s staff with his mace. The man was favoring his injured wrist. Orlyn had no qualms about taking advantage of that fact as he forced him to defend his weaker side.

There was a loud cracking noise, like the sound of wooden planks being bent under too much pressure, followed by an explosion of glass and debris. The fighters broke off their engagement to shield themselves from the flying fragments as the female bulradoer emerged from the building she had been thrown through. Her face was bruised and bleeding, and when she saw Feoldor lying on his back near the side of the barracks, she reignited her whips. She wiped the blood from her mouth and headed directly for the fallen man. Vengeance radiated with every step.

There was nothing Orlyn could do. He swung his staff back around and blocked an attempt on his side, then angled it up to keep the large mace from caving in the top of his head. He struck the weapon away with the end of his staff, and was about to back-swing and catch the bulradoer on his injured side, when a loud shrill pulled him back.

Just behind him, Reloria leaped to her feet from where she had been trying to nurse Feoldor and charged the oncoming bulradoer. The look of surprise on the dark wielder’s face at the sweet shop owner’s unexpected rush was nearly a match for his own. Reloria was like a screaming banshee—her arms flailing all over the place, pink hat flying from her head, locks of hair waving out behind her.

Orlyn didn’t want to watch what he knew was coming, but he couldn’t seem to pull himself away. Orlyn’s opponent, having the same inclination, also waited for Reloria’s gruesome end before continuing his attack.

The female bulradoer lifted her arm. Her whip flew through the air, ready to cut Reloria in half. She was halfway through her swing when a huge spear of ice flew past the sweet shop owner and impaled the bulradoer through the chest, nailing her to the ground some ten feet away. Her body slid backwards down the end of the frozen spike until she reached the dirt and went still. Both whips died in her hands.

Orlyn heard the little dwarf clap in victory.

The two remaining bulradoer surged forward with a voracity that seemed unstoppable, no doubt desperate to put a quick end to the battle before another of their number died.

“Gilly, behind you!” Reloria barely had time to warn them when Orlyn heard Eliab’s crossbow ring out. While they had been focusing on the bulradoer, the Black Watch had managed to sneak in behind them. Orlyn heard the expected grunt of a man being pierced by one of Eliab’s bolts, followed closely by the thud of his body hitting the ground.

The rest charged.

Orlyn deflected the bulradoer’s swing and smashed the top of the man’s foot with a direct thrust, causing the wielder to lose balance. He countered with a hard strike to the side of the man’s bad arm. The bulradoer dropped his mace once again and the fire winked out.

The dark wielder dove for his weapon, but Orlyn beat him to it as he brought the full force of his quarter staff down across the top of the man’s head, dropping him unconscious into the dirt. Orlyn grabbed the man’s flameless weapon and stuffed it in a pocket inside his robe before turning back to help the others.

The trough was empty. Apparently Gilly had used what water was left to create his spike. Other than Eliab’s short sword and Gilly’s small dagger, not one of the others had a weapon.

The Harbor House gatekeeper and the unsociable dwarf bravely held the line, but not for long. Gilly was the first to go down. His shortsword was raised to block one strike, but at the same time was hit by another. The poor dwarf didn’t stand a chance.

Eliab, on the other hand, wielded his blade like a master swordsman. The former captain of the Sidaran Guard slit the throat of one guard and skewered another before catching a thrust to his side. He cut the leg out from another before finally going down.

“No!” Orlyn glanced over his shoulder to see Reloria clutching her jeweled pendant in one hand. She raised her other in the direction of the oncoming rush. The armed men froze. Some of them actually tripped and went down as they spat, hacked, and vomited on the ground in front of them. Many were rubbing their tongues with the sleeve of their overcoats. Orlyn could only imagine what someone as angry and as desperate as Reloria had caused them to choke on.

Unfortunately, Captain Hatch wasn’t long fooled. “Get back in line, you sons of goats!” he hollered and kicked the dwarf’s body out of the way as he rushed forward.

Orlyn changed direction and ran to protect the women. There wasn’t anything he could do for Gilly or Eliab now. Reloria and Saleena stood in front of Fraya as she worked to heal Feoldor, blocking her with their bodies. Just behind them, Veldon was still in combat with the remaining bulradoer. Both men looked to be near exhaustion.

Orlyn managed to get in front of the three women just as the first of the Tower’s guards reached them. He fought them off, at least those in front. He had a magical staff, but it was a weapon best used to defend against a single opponent, not ten. He took a cut to the arm and almost dropped it. A couple rocks flew past as the two women desperately reached for anything available. Orlyn swung back and forth, trying to hold the men at bay, when a small dagger flew through the air and hit him in the shoulder. His staff dropped from his hands and he went to his knees. He could hear both Reloria and Saleena cry out behind him.

Orlyn couldn’t believe it was going to end like this. He was proud of their council, though. They had fought against unbelievable odds.

A single guard stepped forward and raised his sword over his head. Orlyn kept his eyes open as he faced what he hoped would be a quick end. The guard swung for his neck, but the blade stopped with a clang just a few inches from his face as if it had struck an invisible wall. The guard was stunned.

Orlyn was even more stunned when blood erupted from the guard’s neck and covered the front of Orlyn’s robes. He watched as the man’s throat ripped open the rest of the way. His screams were nothing but gurgled noises and his eyes rolled into the back of his head before collapsing.

Reloria and Saleena shrieked in horror.

The guards stopped their attack. Heads turned and eyes darted in every direction as they tried to understand what had just happened. A second guard suddenly cried out as his throat opened from ear to ear.

Open panic ensued as men began to swing their blades in all directions, doing more damage to themselves than anything else. Others took off running, swearing curses on all who practiced magic.

“Get back here, you cowards!” Captain Hatch screamed. The veins in his neck and face looked to be on the verge of exploding as his men turned and fled in all directions. Hatch raised his sword. Orlyn could see the fires of hatred in his eyes as he charged Fraya.

Orlyn grabbed his staff and tried to get to his feet. A knife materialized from out of nowhere and plunged into Hatch’s back. The captain stumbled but was clearly too determined to stop. He lifted his sword and bellowed a battle cry.

Reloria froze. “Fraya!”

Orlyn moved to confront the Black Watch captain, but Hatch kicked him backwards on his way by.

“No!” Saleena screamed and leaped in front of the young healer, throwing herself between Fraya and Hatch’s driving thrust. Orlyn watched as the captain’s huge piece of steel slid in one side of her and out the other, missing Fraya by only a hand’s-breadth.

Hatch pulled the blade from Saleena’s chest and her limp body fell backwards and landed on top of Fraya, knocking her to the ground.

“That’s one less bit of evil in this world,” the captain said with pride as he turned and raised his sword over his head. “Now to end this once and—”

Hatch gasped for breath as a double-edged sword materialized out of thin air and ripped through the front of his white uniform. The captain had a look of confusion on his face as he dropped to his knees in front of Fraya. His sword fell from his hand. He just sat there looking at her. It was an awkward moment. He raised his head as a small woman with short white hair appeared beside him.

He coughed up blood as his final breath was released. The captain’s head lowered to his chest, and if not for the sword, he would have looked like a man in prayer. Orlyn could have sworn he had seen a look of relief in the captain’s eyes before he died.

With the death of three of their own, and the Black Watch either dead or fleeing, along with the sudden appearance of an invisible wielder, the remaining bulradoer decided the odds weren’t exactly stacked in his favor and made a tactical retreat. The unconscious bulradoer Orlyn had been fighting had apparently snuck off during their fight with the Black Watch, no doubt when he realized he no longer had a weapon.

After checking to see if there was anything that could be done for Saleena, Fraya moved to help Orlyn, but he pushed her off. “Go see to Gilly and Eliab. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be here when you get back.” She nodded and headed for the old gatekeeper and the dwarf.

Veldon dropped down beside where Orlyn was sitting. He saw Reloria lying unconscious on the ground beside Feoldor. “Reloria?”

“She’s fine,” Orlyn said, “just had a bit of a fainting spell.” Veldon noticed the dagger sticking from Orlyn’s shoulder and reached over to pull it. “No, no, no. Let’s wait for the healer.”

“Right. Probably a good idea.” Veldon studied the dagger a moment. “Fine looking handle, though.” Both men looked at each other and started to chuckle.

Orlyn started to cough. “Don’t make me laugh. Here, help me up.” Veldon put a hand under Orlyn’s arm and they managed to make it to their feet. They slowly headed over to where Fraya was busy looking over their fallen comrades.

To everyone’s amazement, both men were still hanging on, though Eliab by only a thread. Fraya started with the old gatekeeper, and then with what strength she still had, she turned her attention to Gilly. The midget had apparently only sustained a slight cut on his right arm and from there decided to play dead to stave off any further injuries. The ruse had worked.

After removing Orlyn’s dagger, Fraya had been far too weak to give any sort of full-healing, but she did manage to close the wound enough to keep infection from setting in. Once her strength returned, she would continue.

Orlyn turned to thank the white-haired assassin for saving their lives, but Sheeva had already vanished.

“I hope Kellen has managed to keep Ty safe,” Veldon said, rubbing the top of his bald head with his hand. “If it was this bad for us, I hate to think what is happening to them. We need to get some horses.”

Orlyn turned to the stables. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Chapter 88 | Ty

BODIES LITTERED the front lawn.

It was a colorful mosaic formed from the aftermath of human confrontation, both the dying and the already dead.

Outside their cottage, all was silent. On the inside, ears strained and eyes hopped from window to door and back again as the surviving members of the recent battle waited with bated breath for whatever dark intrigue was now about to be unleashed.

Around the main room, Ty’s sister and mother moved about, washing wounds, smearing salves, and applying fresh bandages to the rest as they gathered their strength for another possible attack.

Only two of the Sidaran Lancers had survived the earlier Tallosian incursion. However, both had sustained wounds that left them incapacitated. If not for Adarra’s knowledge of medicine from the journals she had been reading, neither would have survived long.

From his spot in the corner, Ty listened with his mind as he stretched out his senses, grasping at the beyond and hoping to catch a glimpse of what they were going to face. He was weak, too weak to even stand, and the amount of magic he was able to expel was nearly nonexistent. But there in the distance, a shape started to form in the back of his mind. It wasn’t the first time he had encountered this dark sentience.  On a small hill overlooking a valley of dry bones, he had connected with it. A consciousness that held but a single thought: to feed!

“It’s coming,” he said, almost an afterthought. Ty could feel the silence in the room as everyone immediately ceased what they were doing.

“What’s coming?” his father asked.

“Is it the creature?” His mother held a small mug of tea halfway to her husband’s swollen lips.

Ty nodded. His eyes still shut in concentration. “It’s almost here.” He could feel it, but this time, what he felt was much larger by comparison—much, much larger. He quickly opened his eyes and turned to face the rest of the room. “And it’s not alone.”

The taste of fear lingering within the cottage threatened to choke Ty like a heavy morning fog settling across the forest floor—hindering all sight and leaving him to rely on his less-used senses for support. It was crippling at best.

Ty’s abilities granted him a greater acuity of hearing, and so he was the first to hear it when the clicking came into range. His father’s head was the second to lift, and then his brother as the cracking and snapping reached their trained ears. Others soon took notice of the unfamiliar sound as it resonated through the small space they occupied.

“By the powers!” Lord Barl glanced around. “What could be making such a noise?” He hobbled over to the windows and looked out at the empty yard. He glanced to his left at the barn. “I don’t see anything.”

Holding a clean dressing to his shoulder, Ty’s father made his way over beside the overlord.

Ty took a moment to gain his own footing, testing his strength. He knew what little magic he had originally controlled had been thoroughly depleted in his confrontation with Mangora, and any further use would most likely result in his death.

The faint clicking noises had increased into a low rumble as everyone gathered around the windows, searching for some indication of its origin, everyone except Aiden, who was still lying on the floor coughing up mouthfuls of blood, and Adarra, who was busy doing everything she could to stave off his passing.

Ty could feel them. “They’re here.”

Feet shuffled even faster from one side of the room to the other as everyone tried to catch their first glimpse.

“There.” Kellen pointed toward the western edge of the woods. As tight as they could, everyone bunched together to peer out the bay window at the copse of trees on the far side of the house.

“I don’t see anything,” Barl’s statement was punctuated with a grunt of exasperation.

“Me either,” Lyessa said, trying to poke her head around her father’s.

“Not there.” Kellen raised his finger and pointed at the top of the window. “There.” All heads tilted back, shifting their focus from the ground to the tops of the trees as the first of the great spiders made their way out of the uppermost branches.

“By the unholy powers . . .” Barl didn’t even bother to hide the tremor in his voice.

The others sputtered similar agreements while the remaining observed in silent horror as the trees came alive with movement. Spiders poured out by the hundreds. Ty watched as one enormous spider crawled out of the woods and skittered its way across the lawn to Mangora’s side. It was as tall as a horse. Raising her hand, the witch rubbed her fingers across its thick hide.

“There it is,” his father said, “the alpha arachnobe.”

Lyessa’s father turned to Ty and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Son, we’re going to need your help now more than ever.”

“I’m sorry, milord,” Ty said, lowering his eyes to look at his hands. “But I’ve got nothing left.”

Barl glanced around at the others, but no one bothered to say anything. “Well, I . . .” The overlord cleared his throat. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” He gently patted Ty’s shoulder, trying to look reassuring but instead giving the appearance of a man who had just received word that his house had burned, his wife had left him, and his daughter had run off with the town drunk—deflated and in the throes of utter despair.

“Ty, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You fought well.” His father turned to inspect Breen’s wounds. “How are you holding up?” Kellen handed Breen one of their swords and leaned his large recurve up against the side of the table, along with a few of their remaining arrows.

Breen reached out and took the bow, pulling back on the string to test his strength. “I’m good.” Gently, he prodded his wrapped midsection. “There’s nothing like killing a few dozen Northmen to loosen the joints for a few hundred spiders.” His smile was less than convincing. Actually, Ty thought it was quite unsettling.

His father gave his brother a proud slap on the shoulder, causing him to wince ever so slightly.

“Here,” Adarra said, holding out a small leather pouch for her mother to take.

“What’s this?” she asked, feeling its weight in her hand.

“It’s the last of my hemper vine.” When she saw the confused look on her mother’s face, she added, “It helps reduce swelling from, well . . .” She tugged on a lock of her brown hair as she glanced around at the curious faces. “Bug bites.”

There was a brief silence before the entire room burst into laughter. The gaiety of the moment was shortened as the sound of the approaching horde grew louder.

Kellen was the first to speak. His words were simple yet direct, and they brought a sense of sobriety to their situation. “We need to barricade ourselves in.”

Chapter 89 | Ty

“WHAT IF WE made a run for it?” Barl asked, using his sword like a crutch as he helped stack some of the loose chairs in front of the bay windows. “If we could make it to the horses . . .” The overlord didn’t finish his thought. He shook his head and sighed.

Even Ty could see that wouldn’t work.

“We wouldn’t make it ten feet before they cut us down,” his father said as he helped Breen lift the heavy oak table into place. “They have the house completely surrounded. The only reason the witch hasn’t sent them in yet is because she’s probably still hoping to get her hands on Ty.”

Barl snorted his discontentment with the situation as he moved over to the fireplace and rested one arm on the mantle.  He watched Kellen and Breen as they upturned the table, barricading the front glass.

Ty was feeling a little better after having downed some of their earlier meal’s leftovers. He still wasn’t up to using any form of magic, but he felt like he could make good use of the spare sword Lyessa had given him. It had belonged to one of the dead lancers who had given their lives to protect them. The leather binding felt oddly comforting in his hands. He loosened his grip when he noticed his knuckles turning white.

Adarra, with Lyessa’s help, dragged a rather unresponsive Aiden from the center of the room over to the far wall alongside the other two injured lancers. He continued to groan in delirium. They did their best to stop the bleeding while Breen and Nilla went from room to room locking down windows, latching shutters, and barring doors.

Ty watched from the corner as his father counted the arrows in his quiver. Looking around the room, Ty studied the drawn faces. He could feel the thumping of his own heart at the thought of what was coming. He would have rather faced an entire army of Tallosian savages than what was scurrying around outside waiting for them.

Huddled in a group after finishing their makeshift blockade, the survivors waited, listening as hundreds of legs skittered across the yard, up the trees, and over the roof of their dwelling. Short of a miracle, there was no way out of this one, and Ty’s miracle allotment had been depleted during their last engagement.

Ty’s mother gently interlocked her fingers with his father’s. “We are together,” she said. “You couldn’t ask for more than that.”

“Aye. We’ve been blessed with a wonderful family. No man could count himself more fortunate.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

Ty noticed Lord Barl had a snug arm wrapped around Lyessa. The overlord’s eyes misted under the emotion of whatever they were discussing—no doubt their final goodbyes.

“What are they waiting for?” Barl finally asked, his patience giving over to anxiety. “Why don’t they just get it over with?”

As if in answer to his question, they heard Mangora’s voice ring out above the clatter of the horde of creatures. “This is your last chance! If you send out the boy, I’ll grant you a quick death! If not . . . my spiders have a voracious appetite!”

Ty peeked through a crack between the left end of the table and the rocker where Adarra often read. He could see Mangora standing there with arms crossed, obviously waiting for a response. “Well? What will it be? Do you come out, or do we come in?”

Ty’s father took a step toward the pile of benches, chairs, tables, and boxes to give their reply. “You step foot in this house, witch, and I give you my word, you’ll never step out again!”

A high-pitched screech was all the warning they received as the legion of spiders rained down on their position.

Kellen released the last of his arrows in between the table and a few randomly piled chairs. An unnatural screech could be heard on the other side as his shafts drove straight through their marks, releasing a warm spray of green liquid as the next spider crawled over it. Breen stood beside Ty and unloaded the last of his as well. Each shot landed true, bringing down three more.

“Six down . . . hundreds to go,” Breen said over his shoulder in his own sarcastic way. Tossing his bow to the side, he drew his sword and joined the others as they chopped off spider legs as fast as they poked their way through. Large angular limbs wrapped in slick leathery sinew flopped at Ty’s feet, saturating the wooden flooring with their blood. The stink was like nothing he had ever smelled before. His gag reflex nearly took over.

Ty spotted an opening near Lyessa where one of the spiders was pushing back Adarra’s rocker. As quick as his weak body would let him, he leaped forward and drove his blade through the small opening. The spider on the other side shrilled and a squirt of green liquid shot back and hit him in the face. In all the excitement, he had forgotten to close his mouth.

“Ahhh!” He spat all over the floor. “Flaming toad stools! That stuff is retched!” He did his best to purge his tongue with the back of his sleeve.

Beside him, Lyessa was laughing. “That’ll teach you to keep your mouth shut!” She chopped another set of furry legs in half as they struggled to break through the wooden barrier.

A loud crash from one of the back rooms brought them all around with a start. “They’re in the house!” His father left the others and ran as fast as his gimp leg would let him down the hallway just as the first of the spiders burst through Adarra’s bedroom door.

Ty pulled back from his place at the wall to see if his father needed his help.

“Kellen!”

At the sound of his name, Kellen turned as Nilla tossed him one of her large kitchen knives. Grabbing it out of the air, he launched it down the hall, driving it deep between the spider’s three eyes. Flailing and hissing, it tried lurching forward, but only managed a few confused steps before collapsing. The next one was already on top of the first and working its way over when Kellen met it with a resounding battle cry. Slicing and stabbing as best he could in such a confined space, he held it at bay. He thrust his sword into its lower abdomen as it reared. Slumping immediately, it died atop the other.

His father’s clothes were now soaked in the spider’s blood and his skin had begun to turn a faint green. “This stuff reeks!” he said, flinging the excess goo from his arms like a dog shaking water from its coat.

“We can’t hold them for long!” Barl bellowed from the front as the chairs were being pushed back by the overwhelming onslaught.  Ty jumped back into place as another of the spiders started squeezing through the far left side of the barricade. He swung and caught the first leg, but it didn’t cut all the way through. He tried yanking his short sword free from where it had lodged in the bone, but was immediately struck by a second leg and knocked to the floor.

Breen jerked Ty to his feet. “Go protect Adarra!” He grabbed Ty’s sword and tossed it at him before chopping the creature’s leg off with an axe he had managed to salvage from one of the fallen Northmen.

Ty took the sword and scooted back to where Adarra was busy working on Aiden and the two lancers. Ty could tell his brother was trying to politely let him know that he was getting in the way. He had never taken to combat like Breen had. His father had been a good teacher, but Ty had always found it all a bit grueling. Now, he wished he had paid better attention. He was determined that if the Creator saw fit to allow them to survive all of this, he was going to learn.

He felt an arm wrap around his shoulders. “He just wants to make sure you’re protected.” His mother always knew exactly what to say to calm his spirits. Ty kept his sword at the ready as he waited for the first sign that he was needed.

His father roared as he cut the legs out from another spider in mid-lunge. He had been forced all the way back to the mouth of the hallway, which was allowing him more range of motion to swing. His father was the bravest man Ty had ever known, and the strongest. He was proud to have been his son.

Lyessa was momentarily knocked down, but was quickly back on her feet and, with a long dagger in hand, she stabbed a smaller spider trying to squeeze its way underneath the table. It quickly retreated.

On the right side, where the barricade was the weakest, the first of the larger arachnobes finally gained a foothold. Lyessa’s back was turned and she didn’t see the deadly spider behind her. Lord Barl dove in front of his daughter and thrust his sword into its lower abdomen. The eight-legged monster reeled and hissed in rage before leaking the last of its life across the sofa table Ty’s father’s had made from the leftovers of an old poplar that had fallen on the barn some years back.

Unfortunately, the creature’s dead weight rolled in the overlord’s direction and knocked him from his feet, leaving him unable to stop the next spider from crawling inside and latching onto his leg. Barl shouted his loathing for the creature as the spider stabbed the end of its spear-like leg into his calf.

Lyessa weaved her way around its legs with amazing speed, working to get to her father. Breen held the others at bay while she did. With a scream of anger, she finally leapt on top of the creature’s back and drove her dagger to the hilt through the top of its head. It flinched once and went still, its leg retracting far enough for her father to work free.

Ty rushed forward and hacked off another leg before it had a chance of stabbing Lyessa in the back. He helped her drag her father out from under the dead creature and back toward the others his sister and mother were busy nursing. Without waiting to see how her father was doing, Lyessa grabbed her sword and rushed back to the front to help Breen. With Barl down, Ty didn’t hesitate. He lifted his sword and retook his spot on the left end. He hacked and stabbed and sliced away until it felt as though his arms would give out, and then he hacked and stabbed and sliced some more.

Behind him, there was a loud clatter near the rear of the kitchen, followed by the sound of clanging pots and pans and broken dishes where his mother was fighting to guard the back door. Ty glanced over his shoulder. The top half of the door had been ripped open and a single spider was trying to push its way inside, but it was met with his mother’s cold iron skillet. The impact sounded like the gonging of the Sidaran Senate’s bell. With the creature still dazed, his mother plunged a meat cleaver into its thick sinew. And then she plunged it in again and again until even the leftover spasms had ceased.

“You alright?” his father called from the front hall.

“I will be,” she said, as she shoved the spider’s corpse back outside and maneuvered a nearby cabinet into place.

Ty turned and plunged his sword deep into the mouth of the next spider. There was no end to them. He would kill one and two more would take its place.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ty could see Lyessa’s father trying to hobble back to the front. The overlord had one sword to hold him up and another to kill anything that poked through the barricade.

“I can’t hold them off much longer!” his father said as he cut half a leg off the next spider coming over the pile and with a lunging thrust, drove his blade through its open maw.

Ty didn’t know how much longer they were going to be able to keep going. To his right, Barl shouted as he pushed back to avoid being grabbed by one spider and stumbled over the severed legs of another. He reached out on instinct and grabbed the nearest object available—his daughter. But instead of hindering his fall, he merely pulled her down on top of him, giving the spiders a clear opening of attack.

Two more creatures attempted to force their way through the barricade. Seeing Barl and Lyessa on the ground spurred their efforts even more as they broke through and went straight at them.

“Hey! Over here!” Ty hollered, waving his free arm in hopes of steering the spider’s attention away from them, while at the same time holding off one of his own. He killed the beast with a single hack to the head but not before acquiring a couple large gashes down the side of his arm and one small puncture to his upper shoulder in the process. Pulling his sword free, Ty turned to make a run at the two spiders on top of Lyessa and her father, but Adarra beat him to it as she raced across the room. Her sickle was raised over her head, the curved end pointing directly at the largest spider.

She screamed in rage as she brought the farming instrument around in a wide arc. The blade passed through its outer hide as easily as a stalk of sun-kissed wheat. She pulled the blade out and hit it again. The beast hissed and collapsed. Adarra was thoroughly covered in spider yuck by the time Lyessa had managed to pull her father to safety.

Ty turned around to see how his mother and father were doing and his heart stopped.

“Father!”

Kellen spun around.

Ty pointed to the kitchen.

Two spiders had somehow managed to not only force their way past the kitchen shelving, but were now standing over his fallen mother. One of them was ripping away at her open flesh.

“Nooo!” Kellen left the spiders in the hall and ran for the kitchen.

“Ty! Hold the front!” Breen hollered as he ran to take his father’s place at the hall and keep the creatures from overrunning them. Ty turned back to the crumbling barricade, raised his sword, and stabbed the next spider through. His arms were stained with their greenish blood and his nose burned from the acidic content.

“Move back, Ty! We’ve got this!” Barl said as he once again hobbled his way back to the font and began fighting. Lyessa was there offering him every support. The man just didn’t know how to quit.

Ty could hear his father fighting the two spiders behind him. He raised his sword and ran to help. His father swung and chopped one of the front legs off the first. It hissed in pain. He kicked it to the side as he lunged at the second. The second spider reared and hit him in the arm, cutting a deep gash. Ty could see the blood. His father never even flinched.

Ty swung at the first creature. It leaped, but he dodged to the right and landed a solid cut to its side. The creature hissed and swept Ty’s legs out from under him. He landed on his face. The floor was slick with the spider’s goo, making it hard to gain his footing. He barely had time to turn over before the spider was on top of him. It was even uglier underneath. Its mandibles clicked open and shut as they sought to latch onto his neck. Using his legs, he kicked upwards and flipped the creature up and over.

On the other side of the kitchen, his father blocked the spider’s legs and then with a powerful over-swing, he literally cut the arachnobe in half. His blade hit the narrow section dividing its lower and upper abdomen.

Ty spun around and rolled over to get back to his feet. He was halfway there when a sharp pain in his left shoulder brought him back down. At first, he thought it was his magic, but then he remembered that was his right shoulder. He turned his head. It was the arachnobe. The spider had sunk its fangs into the top of his arm.

A scream was all he could manage. He had barely turned around to try swinging his blade when his father’s sword flew past and buried itself inside the creature’s head. Its mouth opened, releasing his arm. Ty crawled to where his father was cradling his mother’s head in his lap.

He glanced down at her ravaged body and cried. Blood seeped from the corners of her mouth but she kept her eyes open, staring into his. Ty held her gaze. He was speechless. He couldn’t imagine how she had managed to survive this long. Why had she not cried out? Why had he not turned around sooner? This was his fault. He prayed their venom had paralyzed her enough to take away the pain of what they had done to her.

She opened her mouth to speak. It was barely audible. “My brave little boy.”

Unable to speak himself, Ty’s father offered his wife the only thing he could. He laid his hand on her cheek and smiled. Ty hoped that somehow, in the agony of what she must be suffering, it would bring her some measure of peace. “Hold on, my love,” his father said. “I’m here. Everything’s going to be alright.” She smiled at him, then her eyes went blank and her head fell to the side.

At that moment, Ty didn’t care if he lived or died. He didn’t care if the spiders ate them all. He leaned back and screamed.

Chapter 90 | Ty

TY FELT DEAD INSIDE, as though all hope had been stolen from him.

He stood from his place beside his mother’s broken body and lifted his sword, the edges slick with green blood. He only had one reason left to live: vengeance. If it was the last thing he did, he was going to cut that witch’s head off. And anything that stood in his way would have to face his unrelenting wrath.

Deep inside, Ty could feel something stirring, something dark and powerful. He felt strangely numb. The pain from his earlier wounds was gone. He felt nothing. It was his magic reviving at last. His fingers tightened around the grip. It had come to give him the strength he needed to accomplish his task.

His face was dark and deadly. He took two steps into the main room, raised his blade, and collapsed. He watched as the floor leaped into the air and hit him in the face. Or did his face hit the floor? He wasn’t quite sure. Something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t move his legs.

“Ty! What happened?” He felt his father’s arms lift him to his knees.

He felt dizzy. The room was beginning to spin. “I . . . I don’t know.” He looked down at his lower half. “I can’t feel my legs.”

His father winced as he pulled back the top of Ty’s overcoat where the spider had latched on to his arm. It was a noise that was typically indicative of his father’s displeasure. “This doesn’t look good. We need to see if Adarra can do anything for it.” His father’s face didn’t portray any optimism.

Ty retched and the room finally stopped spinning. He couldn’t seem to hold it in. He felt himself being dragged to the far wall. On the adjacent side of the room, his brother fought to hold back the spiders trying to breach the narrow hallway. To his left, more spiders were pushing their way through the front barricade. Lyessa and her father were being forced further back into the room. Adarra was swinging her sickle, cutting off legs as fast as she could but there were just too many of them.

Ty knew it was over. They had lost, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had proven to be too weak to make a difference, and they were all going to suffer his mother’s fate. Some savior he turned out to be.

From somewhere outside, there was a loud explosion that rocked the whole house. The spiders halted their incursion and one by one retreated out through the toppled blockade. Those in the hallway pulled back as well, withdrawing through the bedroom windows. Something was diverting their attention, something more pressing than their little band of half-dead fighters.

Again, there was a loud noise. The entire house shook as if lightning had struck it. With the creatures having temporarily evacuated the premises, the rest of their group ran to the barricade to see if they could catch a glimpse of what was happening.

“Help me up,” Ty said as he anxiously raised one arm. Kellen started to lift one side, but Ty grunted and quickly changed his mind. “I can’t. I’m too weak.” He poked his stomach. “I can’t feel anything below my chest.”

Outside the house, the spiders were hissing. It was the same kind of sounds they made when injured or dying.

“What is it, milord?” Kellen asked, not willing to leave Ty’s side to look for himself.

“It appears to be some kind of battle.”

“Battle?”

“Is it the wielder council,” Ty asked, his face growing hopeful, “come to save us?”

“I doubt it. From what that witch said, they have their own set of troubles to deal with.”

“Well, who else could be powerful enough to take on a witch and an entire army of giant spiders?”

His father’s head slowly turned back around toward the front barricade. “There’s only one person I know.”

“I changed my mind. Help me over there.”

“Are you sure?” his father asked.

Ty nodded. “I want to see.”

Kellen leaned over and picked him up. Carefully, they maneuvered in and around the dead carcasses lining the floor as they made their way toward a small section of collapsed debris near the front door. The oak table had all but toppled, leaving a pretty open view of the front yard through the stacks of chairs. By the time they reached the others and took a look for themselves, Ty quickly realized why everyone had been standing there in such bizarre silence.

Outside the walls of their family cottage the horde of massive blood-thirsty arachnobes were being corralled by a wall of golden fire, or at least Ty thought it was fire. There was something strange about it. It didn’t quite move like fire, more like some kind of golden liquid.

“Suethian Duwanite!”

Standing on their side of the golden barricade was an old man hollering in some unknown tongue. Long, white hair swirled around his head as he wielded what appeared to be a sword of pure golden flame. It was the most incredible weapon Ty had ever seen. With each swing, the white-haired man cut down any spider not shut off by the fiery barricade.

“This isn’t over, wizard!” Mangora shouted over the cacophony of her eight-legged army. She sent a spear of flame in the old man’s direction, but he merely waved it aside as she had done to Breen’s arrows earlier that day. He didn’t seem at all concerned.

“Be gone, witch! Crawl back to your master. The boy is under my protection.”

Mangora shrilled in fury, but seeing she was clearly outmatched, she crawled up on the alpha arachnobe and disappeared into the woods, taking her spider army with her.

“Tares’ayden!” The old man lowered his hands and the golden barricade lowered into the ground, vanishing from view. He waited for the last of the spiders to finish their retreat before turning around. “You can come out now. They won’t be back.” His magical blade softened and then dissipated altogether, leaving nothing more than the hilt as he tucked it into one of the folds of his robe and waited for them to comply.

Breen was the first one out the door, his axe raised, no doubt wanting to protect the others in case it was some sort of trap.

“Here, Breen, take your brother.” His father handed Ty over to his older brother as he limped out to meet the old man.

“You said you would return.”

“I told you I would.”

His father glanced back at the house. “I wish it had been sooner.” Ty knew what he meant. His father waved Breen and the others forward. “This is Nyalis. He was the wizard who brought Ty to us sixteen years ago.” Adarra was the next out the door, followed closely by Lord Barl, who was still being propped up by Lyessa.

As Breen neared the wizard, Ty could see the weathered look of age in the man’s face. He had clearly lived a hard life.

“Ah, my young faeling, we meet again.” He rubbed a hand through Ty’s hair. “The white suits you, I think.” His smile was warm, almost fatherly; the sound of his voice was calming.

“He needs help,” Breen said as he held Ty out to the wizard. Nyalis pulled back the torn material and sniffed Ty’s arm.

His nose wrinkled. “Oh dear. That does smell bad, doesn’t it?”

“Can you heal him? You are a wizard?”

“The last wizard,” Nyalis said with a wave of his arm, “at least for now.” He glanced over Breen’s shoulder at Adarra with a cheeky grin. “But as I was saying, yes, I can heal him, but not here.”

“Why not?” Adarra asked, taking a step closer to inspect the wound herself.

“Because, my dear, the …”

Nyalis was interrupted by the sound of approaching horses.

Everyone turned and quickly raised their weapons. If Ty could have found the energy to laugh, he would have. What next?

Chapter 91 | Ty

A BAND OF RAGGED, half-dead riders rounded the trees on the far side of the narrow lane leading back to their homestead. They looked to be in no better shape than Ty, barely holding on to their horses.

Veldon was in the lead, one hand fiddling with the flint hanging from his neck while the other directed his mount. Orlyn rode just behind the portmaster with his large staff laying across his lap. It was glowing. Miss Reloria rode double with Feoldor. He looked about as cheerful as ever.

Ty found himself involuntarily moving forward. Breen had obviously seen Fraya because they were heading in the general direction of her horse. She was holding onto Gilly as he bounced in front of her. The dwarf looked like a large child and having just about as much fun.

Eliab rode at the end of their small caravan. The old toothless Harbor House keeper had his large double-strung crossbow resting in a holster on the side of his saddle. The old man looked like he was about to fall off his horse, wincing at every bounce.

“What in the flaming Pits of Aran’gal happened here?” Feoldor bellowed as he slowly swung off his horse with Reloria’s help. The wielder council stared at the battleground of Tallosian savages and enormous spiders. “And where’s that crazy white-haired assassin gotten off to? Every time we turn around, she’s done vanished again.” Feoldor had barely gotten the words out of his mouth when Sheeva suddenly appeared beside him. He stumbled backwards with a small yelp and then griped under his breath as he scratched his side whiskers. “Comes and goes whenever she wants . . . never can keep track of her . . . shifty little witch.”

“Are you alright?” Breen called up to Fraya. He wanted to help her dismount but was finding it difficult with Ty in his arms.

“I’m fine.” She managed a firm squeeze on Breen’s arm once she was back on solid ground. She quickly turned her attention to Ty. “What happened?” She ran her fingers across the top of his head. “Look at his hair.”

Why was everyone so fascinated with his hair? It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen white hair before. He wished he had a mirror so he could see for himself.

“He was bitten by one of the spiders,” Breen said.

“And that’s what did that to his hair?”

“No, that happened before.”

She looked at the wound and started to place her hand over it, but Breen held her off. “Don’t bother. The wizard said it couldn’t be healed here.”

“Why not?”

Breen shrugged. “Don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

Once again, Ty found himself floating along, this time in the direction of the others as they gathered around Nyalis.

“My lord . . . Lady Lyessa.” Veldon bowed and the other members of the council quickly followed when they recognized who it was they were standing in front of. The portmaster rubbed his soiled hankie across the top of his head.

Barl nodded. “I take it this is the council you were speaking of, Kellen? It appears the witch underestimated them as well.”

“Well, you picked a perfect day to finally show up,” Feoldor said as he eyed Nyalis. “Could have used your help back in town fighting off five of those retched bulradoer, not to mention their Black Watch dogs.” Ty wondered if anyone else caught the Feoldor’s play on words.

“As much as I’d like to, I can’t be in all places at all times,” the old man said with a harsh grunt. “I’m a wizard, not the Creator. There are other people and places in need of my assistance—”

“And who could have possibly been in as much need as us?”

Nyalis looked irritated by the forwardness of Feoldor’s question. “A band of Ashanti Healers on a pilgrimage to the Forgotten City, if you must know,” he said. “Unlike you, they had no means of protecting themselves. But as soon as I heard the horn, I came straight here.”

“How did you travel all the way from . . .” Feoldor glanced at the others, and seeing the stern looks on their faces, he folded his arms with a huff. “Oh, never mind.” Unwilling to capitulate, he mumbled the last bit under his breath, “Well, we wouldn’t have lost poor Saleena if you had been a little quicker about it.”

Kellen turned. “Saleena’s dead?”

“Aye,” Reloria said. “She gave her life to save Fraya.”

Tears stained Fraya’s cheeks at the mention of Saleena’s sacrifice.

“How is everyone here?” Orlyn asked as he glanced around the homestead before noticing the look on Kellen’s face. “Nilla?”

Kellen shook his head.

“I’m so sorry, my friend.” The apothecary laid his hand on Kellen’s shoulder.

Adarra took a step out of the gathering and headed for the house. Ty noticed she was wiping her eyes. “Fraya, we have injured inside who need your help.”

Fraya moved to catch up. “I can’t promise much. I’ve used more magic today than I’ve ever used before. I can’t take a chance on using too much.” Adarra nodded her understanding as they disappeared inside. Ty wondered how Aiden was doing.

“That’s quite the staff you have there,” Nyalis said as he eyed the piece of wood in Orlyn’s hand. “How did you come by it?”

Orlyn glanced at the decorative length of timber and smiled. “It’s been passed down in my family for generations.”

“Hmmm.” The old wizard nodded, but didn’t say anything more about it. There was something in Nyalis’s eyes, though, that said he knew more.

“What’s wrong with Ty?” Reloria asked. Some of the others gathered around to take a look.

“He was bitten by one of the arachnobes.” Ty’s left arm hung from his side. He couldn’t move it enough to raise it back into place. Whatever was happening to him, it was spreading.

“Does it hurt?” Gilly asked as he tried standing on his tiptoes to look at Ty’s wound. Ty shook his head no.

Sheeva stepped over and pointed at Ty’s white hair then back at hers and smiled.

Orlyn started rummaging through the pockets of his robe. “I might have something here. If not, I’m sure Fraya can manage a little help until she gains her strength back.”

“I’m afraid not.” Nyalis said as he started digging around in his own robes.

Orlyn stopped his searching and joined the others in staring at the old wizard.

“Like I was telling them earlier, the poison inside of Ty isn’t natural. It’s been altered by magic, and dark magic at that.” He pulled out a small pellet, stuffed it in Ty’s mouth, and pinched his nose. “Swallow.” Ty didn’t have much of a choice. His eyes watered as he tried sucking the sticky substance down. Whatever it was, it tasted terrible. At least at first, then it tasted like raspberry preserve. He turned his head to look at Miss Reloria. She winked at him.

“What I just gave you will not heal you. No natural healer can. It’s only a temporary relief meant to slow the poison’s spread.”

His father picked up Ty’s limp arm and laid it back on his chest. “So he can be healed?”

“Yes. We’ve caught it in time. A day or two longer and even I could do nothing for him.” Ty flinched. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. If it was so deadly, why were they still just standing there talking? He tried to say something to that effect but found he couldn’t get the words out. His entire body felt completely numb. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the poison or the medicine Nyalis had just given him.

“Times are changing, my friends,” the wizard said, “and we need to be prepared.” Ty’s eyes were beginning to weigh heavy. He let them slip shut as he listened to the steady voice of the old wizard. “No longer can we hide in the shadows and hope to remain unnoticed. We can no longer remain passive in this conflict. Prophecies are being fulfilled. The Dark Wizard is beginning to stir, and this age is coming to an end. If we’re not ready to meet it, I’m afraid the world we know will not survive.”

Everyone was quiet. Ty tried to open his eyes to see what was happening but his lids wouldn’t move. Darkness was taking him. He had wanted so badly to know who he was, and now that he did, he wished he’d never been told. He felt the brush of a hand on his forehead and a soft voice lulled him even deeper into the blackness of sleep.

“Rest now, my little faeling. Your journey has only just begun.”

I HOPE YOU enjoyed this first book in The Aldoran Chronicles series. If you found the story entertaining and would like to see more, then please consider helping me reach that goal by: Leaving a quick review on Amazon.

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IF YOU WOULD like to know more about Ferrin’s capture and imprisonment, here is the first of the Aldoran Chronicle prequels: SHACKLED

Born in a world where magic is not only feared, but outlawed, Ferrin’s choice to use his abilities brings the Black Watch to his doorstep. While caged alongside a helpless band of half-starved wielders, he formulates a strategy to escape. Armed with nothing more than his sarcastic wit and a determination to never give in, Ferrin attempts the impossible.

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Author Note

YOU CAN LEARN more about the World of Aldor on my website. If you haven’t taken the time to peruse, I believe you’ll find it both educational and entertaining. Don’t forget to read the History of Aldor while you’re there. It will give you a better understanding behind the internal struggles and conflicts taking place between those with magic and those without.

I am also working on adding an all-inclusive glossary which has been a top request from a number of my readers.

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Acknowledgements

I THANK GOD for the doors and windows He’s allowed to open in order for me to reach this point.

I want to thank my parents Mickey and Julie Wisehart for their unending loyalty, encouragement, and support over the years. None of this would be possible without you—Love you both.

I want to thank my Author Team, whose endless talent, time, and dedication has made this project possible:

AUTHOR TEAM

To my illustrator who has a talent for taking verbose descriptions and turning them into stunning works of art –Jack Adams

To my editor whose guidance has kept me from making a complete fool of myself on the page –Mia Darien

To my Beta Team who took precious time out of their busy schedule to suffer through the first, second, and third drafts in order to leave such valuable feedback as to help me make this book worth reading –(alphabetical order) Tom Barone, Kylie Betzner, Toni Betzner, Jeff Boles, Roger Bopp, Mary Bradshaw, Linden Brinks, Melody Brocke, Meredith Burnette, Rachel Rene, Micah Clark, Raymond Clarke, Emily Coda, Bridgett Cox, Lindsay Cyr, Jeff Davis, Karen Furk, Melissa Holmes, Chester Hendrix, Leigh Herring, Sahar Itani, Pamela Johnson, Clement Joly, Katie Kowalski, Breanna Lawrence, Peter Lynch, Amanda Matula, Michael O’steen, Salvitor Patricola, Maegan Penley, Julie Petkovsky, Daniel Pinkoski, Dave Place, Sharon Rhoads, Bill Rueth, Lynnette Short, Danae Smith, Jason Smith, Ethan Starnes, Phil Brown, Alida Van Pelt, Charlotte Walters, Renee Webb, Ali Weber, Peter Wiebe, Jeff Wilson, and Ruth Zellers.

About The Author

MICHAEL WISEHART graduated with a bachelor’s degree in business before going back to school for film and starting his own production company. As much as he enjoyed film-work, the call of writing a novel got the better of him, and on April 14, 2014 he started typing the first words of what would be two new epic fantasy series.

Michael is the author of The Aldoran Chronicles series: The White Tower, and the series prequel, Shackled. He is also working on a new offshoot series, Street Rats. He currently lives and works in South Georgia.

Glossary

Adarra [uh-dar-uh] – Ty’s older stepsister. A memoriae (gift of memory).

Aiden Raycrest [aye-din] – Son of wealthy millworks owner. Lyessa’s fiancé.

Amarysia: [am-uh-ree-see-uh] – Lady-in-waiting to Queen Ellise.

Asa [aye-suh] – Overcaptain. Second in command of the Elondrian Lancers under Commander Tolin. Lost an eye in battle.

Ayrion: [air-ee-un] – Guardian Protector of the High King.

Azriel de’ Torsa [as-ree-el day-tor-suh] – Seer locked in the White Tower for thirty years.

Barl [barl] – Overlord of Sidara. Father of Lyessa.

Barthol Respuel [bar-thol res-pewl] – Captain of the High Guard under Ayrion.

Bayle  [bail] – Elondrian scout. Seafaring accent. Weapon of choice is the battle-axe. Partner to Merrick.

Belkor  [bel-kor] – Ambassador to Cylmar.

Breen [breen] – Ty’s older stepbrother. Innate ability. Perfect aim.

Dakaran [duh-kar-un] – Prince of Aldor. High King Rhydan’s only son.

Darryk [dare-ick] – Sidaran Commander. Lyessa’s arms trainer.

Ellise [eh-leese] – Queen of Aldor. Married to Rhydan. Mother of Dakaran.

Ellson  [el-son] – Elondrian scout. Partner to Terris.

Eliab [ee-lie-ub] – Former Sidaran Lancer Commander. Gatekeeper to the Easthaven Harbor House.

Elior  [el-ee-or] – Head of the war runners.

Feoldor [fay-ol-dor] – Member of Easthaven Wielder Council. Vanti (gift with wind). Town glassblower.

Ferrin [fair-in] – Metallurgist. Ability to control metal ore. Myriah’s twin brother.

Fraya [fray-uh] – Member of Easthaven Wielder Council. Healer. Romantic relationship with Breen.

Gilly [gil-ee] – Member of Easthaven Wielder Council. Voda (gift with water). Dwarf. Keeps to himself.

Gina [gee-nuh] – Lyessa’s nanny.

Gyin [guy-in] – Ambassador to Briston.

Helene [heh-leen] – Angry shopper who turns Orlyn in to the Black Watch as a wielder.

Kellen [kel-in] – Ty’s adopted father. Innate gift of perfect aim.

Kerson [ker-son] – Member of the Warren Underground. Challenges Kira for Right of Oktar.

Kira (Red) [kee-ra] – Clan Chieftain of the Warren Underground. Former childhood friend of Ayrion.

Lanmiere [lan-meer] – Ambassador to Sidara.

Lenara [len-ar-uh] – Bulradoer. Frizzy red hair and strawberry eyes with gold flecks.

Lord Barl [barl] – Overlord of Sidara. Father of Lyessa.

Lyessa [lee-eh-suh] – Lord Barl’s daughter. Ty’s rival.

Mangora [man-gor-uh] – Dark witch in Easthaven. Bulradoer.

Merrick  [mare-ick] – Elondrian scout. Weapon of choice is the longbow. Partner to Bayle.

Nierdon [nee-air-dun] – Ambassador to Keldor.

Nilla [nee-luh] – Ty’s adopted mother.

Orlyn [or-lin] – Member of Easthaven Wielder Council. Floratide (gift with plants). Easthaven Apothecary.

Piel [pee-el] – Lord Barl’s chamberlain.

Po [poe] – Second in command of the Warren Underground under Kira. Former childhood friend of Ayrion.

Rae [ray-uh] – Healer inside the White Tower looking to escape.

Reloria [re-lor-ee-uh] – Member of Easthaven Wielder Council. Telasero (gift with tastes). Owner of Reloria’s Sweet Shop.

Rhydan [rye-dun] – High King of Aldor. Reigns from Aramoor, the capital city of Elondria.

Rowen [roe-en] – Valtor’s apprentice.

Saleena [sa-lee-nuh] – Mistaken for a wielder because of her ability to find unique forms of healing.

Sedgewick (Howler) [sedge-wick how-ler] – Amarysia’s younger brother. Head of a street tribe.

Sheeva [she-vuh] – Member of Easthaven Wielder Council. Nightwalker (gift of invisibility). Assassin. White Hair.

Suri [sir-ee] – Rae’s daughter.

Sylas [sigh-lus] – AKA Cheeks. Ferrin’s sadistic inquisitor in the White Tower.

Tameel [tuh-meel] – Peddler that scours the battlefield looking for wares. Part of the Dar Rhivanni: The Traveling People.

Tate [tate] – Street urchin Valtor uses in dark magical experimentation.

Terris  [tare-is] – Elondrian scout. Weapon of choice is the broadsword. Partner to Ellson.

Tolin [tol-in] – Commander of the Elondrian Lancers.

Tolvin [toll-vin] – Bulradoer. Killed fighting Wizard Nyalis.

Ty [tie] – Bearer of the mark. Half Fae. Adopted son of Kellen and Nilla. Half brother to Breen and Adarra.

Valtor [val-tor] – Arch Chancellor of the White Tower. Newly promoted advisor to Prince Dakaran.

Veldon [vel-dun] – Head of Easthaven Wielder Council. Incindi (gift with fire). Easthaven Portmaster.

Zynora [zen-or-uh] – Tameel’s wife. Peddler. Part of the Dar Rhivanni: The Traveling People.

For a more in-depth glossary, visit:

www.michaelwisehart.com/glossary

Table of Contents

THE WHITE TOWER
Copyright
Table of Contents
FREE PREQUEL
Map – West
Map – East
Foreword
Chapter 1 | Nyalis
Chapter 2 | Nyalis
Chapter 3 | Ty
Chapter 4 | Valtor
Chapter 5 | Ferrin
Chapter 6 | Ty
Chapter 7 | Ty
Chapter 8 | Kellen
Chapter 9 | Kellen
Chapter 10 | Ty
Chapter 11 | Ayrion
Chapter 12 | Ayrion
Chapter 13 | Valtor
Chapter 14 | Ferrin
Chapter 15 | Saleena
Chapter 16 | Kellen
Chapter 17 | Kellen
Chapter 18 | Kellen
Chapter 19 | Ty
Chapter 20 | Ty
Chapter 21 | Valtor
Chapter 22 | Valtor
Chapter 23 | Nyalis
Chapter 24 | Ty
Chapter 25 | Rhydan
Chapter 26 | Ayrion
Chapter 27 | Ayrion
Chapter 28 | Ayrion
Chapter 29 | Valtor
Chapter 30 | Ellise
Chapter 31 | Valtor
Chapter 32 | Ferrin
Chapter 33 | Ty
Chapter 34 | Mangora
Chapter 35 | Valtor
Chapter 36 | Nilla
Chapter 37 | Ferrin
Chapter 38 | Ayrion
Chapter 39 | Ayrion
Chapter 40 | Ayrion
Chapter 41 | Ayrion
Chapter 42 | Ayrion
Chapter 43 | Valtor
Chapter 44 | Lyessa
Chapter 45 | Ty
Chapter 46 | Valtor
Chapter 47 | Rae
Chapter 48 | Orlyn
Chapter 49 | Mangora
Chapter 50 | Ferrin
Chapter 51 | Rae
Chapter 52 | Ayrion
Chapter 53 | Dakaran
Chapter 54 | Ayrion
Chapter 55 | Ferrin
Chapter 56 | Ty
Chapter 57 | Valtor
Chapter 58 | Ayrion
Chapter 59 | Tolin
Chapter 60 | Dakaran
Chapter 61 | Merrick
Chapter 62 | Merrick
Chapter 63 | Orlyn
Chapter 64 | Ferrin
Chapter 65 | Ayrion
Chapter 66 | Tolin
Chapter 67 | Tolin
Chapter 68 | Tolin
Chapter 69 | Ayrion
Chapter 70 | Tolin
Chapter 71 | Asa
Chapter 72 | Ayrion
Chapter 73 | Asa
Chapter 74 | Ayrion
Chapter 75 | Dakaran
Chapter 76 | Tameel
Chapter 77 | Ferrin
Chapter 78 | Ferrin
Chapter 79 | Ferrin
Chapter 80 | Zynora
Chapter 81 | Ty
Chapter 82 | Ty
Chapter 83 | Ty
Chapter 84 | Orlyn
Chapter 85 | Adarra
Chapter 86 | Ty
Chapter 87 | Orlyn
Chapter 88 | Ty
Chapter 89 | Ty
Chapter 90 | Ty
Chapter 91 | Ty
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Author Note
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Glossary