RAYMOND E. FEIST
A CROWN IMPERILLED

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk

Published by HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 2012

Copyright © Raymond E. Feist 2012

Raymond E. Feist asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Ebook Edition © January 2012 ISBN: 9780007290185

Version: 2016-01-13

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Source ISBN: 9780007264827

Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2012 ISBN: 9780007290185

Version: 2018-12-04

This one’s for Dirty Rotten Scoundrels; you know who you are.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Acknowledgments

Entr’acte

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

• PROLOGUE •
Awakenings

MIGHTY DRAGONS RACED THROUGH THE SKIES.

Hurricane-force winds struck his face, yet the rider sat confidently astride the neck of his scaled ebony mount; his to command by will alone. Arcane arts kept him firmly in place, and exultation energized every fibre of his being as the Dragon Host rode out in search of conquest.

Never in the long history of the Valheru had the entire Dragon Host risen united.

The entire Host, save one. Dark emotions turned quickly to rage. The white-and-gold rider was absent. Ashen-Shugar: the only dissenter within the Host.

But the absence of the father-brother did not signify. The Valheru had answered his call, and Draken-Korin had taken his rightful place as leader of the Dragon Host.

He watched mad energies race through the skies above the dragon riders, flashing colours of blinding brilliance as energy vortexes and tears in the fabric of space and time exploded into spectrums invisible to mortal eyes, but perfectly clear to his Valheru vision.

His vision shifted; memories fading as others resurfaced. The cavern, once the Lord of the Tigers’ seat of power, was dark. That didn’t concern him since his vision was far sharper than any mortal’s, but he missed the warmth of torches and … Where were his servants?

He tried to lift his left arm and pain tore through his shoulder. He had not felt pain like this since …

Images cascaded through his mind as he relived the memories of ages past.

He felt his first breath and heard a contemptuous mother curse him as her servants carried him away. Elven slaves brought him newborn to a clearing in the warm, damp forest, and without any tenderness left him on top of a large rock. To live or die by his own strength.

He remembered extending his infant senses, a primitive assessment of danger and threat; he felt no sense of fear, only compelling need. His instincts emerged at need, drawing upon ancestral memories shared since the dawn of creation. The forest was deep, and he sensed predators on every side. The most dangerous, now receding, were of his own race.

Valheru.

A pack of golden jackals sniffed the air, seeking the source of the tempting hint of birthing blood, their heads up and their senses alert. They had left their den as the sun set in the west, to hunt.

The child felt them move closer, the scent of his birth summoning his death. He reached out and sent a blast of hate and anger at the troop.

The jackals stopped, and cringed. Then, ears flattened, they continued to skulk towards the architect of the mental assault, hunger outweighing their fear.

Another presence … nearby. He reached out and instantly recognized the massive predator. But this time instead of danger he discovered contentment there, a warm, nurturing feeling that felt alien, but also compelling. He reached out once more and formed a simple command.

Come.

The tigress leapt to her feet, ignoring the plaintive mewing of her cubs, and bounded down the hill towards the tiny thing that coerced her.

The jackals approached the exposed infant cautiously, knowing that it possessed dangerous abilities, yet driven by the need to feast. Then another scent arrived on the wind and they halted.

The massive tiger charged into the clearing next to the infant and roared a challenge.

The baby might be an unknown threat, but the tiger was all too familiar to the pack hunters, and to be avoided at all costs. Turning tail, the jackals ran, opting to survive and hunt elsewhere.

The tigress lowered her head with a snarl, but the thought emanating from the infant was clear: Protect me.

A mortal child would have perished had it been seized and lifted in the tiger’s mouth, but he was not a mortal infant; he was Valheru, and his small body was far from delicate.

The great cat returned to her den and deposited the infant next to her own pair of cubs, barely three days old, and still mewing with their eyes closed. She lay down on her side to let them nurse, and watched as the man-thing reached out and gripped her fur. Somehow, it managed to pull itself to her teat where it began to nurse alongside her young.

His eyes opened and he struggled to breathe. ‘I’m dying,’ he whispered to no one.

You are being reborn, came a distant voice.

He felt feverish and his entire body was in agony. He could no longer feel the separate pain of his wound, for he was consumed by a throbbing, burning ache. Every particle of him hovered at the brink of death, for only at the edge could the transformation be completed. He tried to move and couldn’t. Just opening his eyes was a trial. He let them close. Death lingered seconds away, beckoning him with promises of relief and rest.

Something else called to him now: the dreams. He knew the dreams contained madness, but they were vivid and compelling, filling him with a sense of triumph and power. And as much as he longed for relief and rest, the consciousness within the dream was growing in strength, singing of power and control, lust and conquest, blood and victory.

The man who had once been Braden of Shamata felt his will fading.

He remembered joining a band of mercenaries in the Vale of Dreams, and sailing across the Endless Sea to distant lands, where weapons smuggling was a hundred times more lucrative than at home. One last caravan and he’d have enough gold to retire. He’d return to the Vale as a man of means, find a talented, young apprentice weapon-smith and make him a partner. No one knew more about weapons running than a Vale mercenary! He would sell to both sides of the Vale, and run his goods all the way from the foothills of the Grey Towers in the north, to reach the dark elves and goblins, to the Confederacy in the south …

His ambitions faded as that old identity gave way to one that was more powerful, more commanding.

The mercenary’s faint memories seemed so petty: now he could remember what it felt like to command his dragon, to destroy his enemies, to mate with his own kind when the breeding frenzy seized him. Now he knew he was one of the paramount beings on this world.

He was Valheru! He had no choice. He turned away from death and embraced the dream.

It is not a dream, whispered a distant voice that sounded like his own. It is an awakening, Lord of the Tigers.

Tomas awoke, his body bathed in perspiration, his heart pounding. He blinked in confusion for a moment, before recognizing his surroundings. The body lying next to him stirred, then his wife returned to her slumber. Rising slowly, he moved to the large window carved out of the trunk of the massive tree that held their quarters. The soft, ever-present glow of Elvandar entered the bedchamber as he drew aside the curtain and gazed upon the forest that had been his home for most of his long life.

The sheen of that glow made of his body a study in shadows and highlights. Muscles still tight beneath youthful skin marred only by a few battle scars, Tomas’s appearance had remained unchanged for more than a century. Even when unarmed he was among the most dangerous beings on this world, for his power was far greater than physical strength: it came from the dark energies that lived at the heart of a race vanished centuries ago. The Valheru.

A soft hand touched his back, familiar, affectionate. The Elf Queen spoke softly, ‘What is it, my love?’

Tomas’s blue eyes continued to stare into the glow of Elvandar, where most of his wife’s subjects lay asleep. Softly he replied, ‘It was a dream. Nothing more.’

She leaned against his back, her cheek resting on his shoulder. ‘You are troubled.’

He said nothing for a moment, then repeated, ‘It was only a dream.’

Sighing slightly, she returned to the bed and slid back under the covers. ‘Sleep, Tomas,’ she said.

He could tell that she was already drifting back into slumber by the time he came back to the bed.

For a long time he remained silent, even as the sun rose in the east and the sky began to brighten. The dream had been unlike any he had known since that time of madness, when he had first donned the white-and-gold armour of a Dragon Lord. Tomas had wrestled for years with the internal struggle, as the human and Valheru within him strove for dominance. But once he had gained control, he had reclaimed his humanity and found love, both in the woman who slept next to him every night, and deep within his own heart and soul; and since then the dreams of madness had left him untroubled.

Until tonight.

Once again, he had flown on the back of the mighty Shuruga, greatest of the golden dragons, above the lost city of Sar-Sargoth. But this time he had seen his greatest enemy, astride the neck of a massive black dragon.

Draken-Korin.

• CHAPTER ONE •
Warning

SHOUTS RANG ACROSS THE PLAZA.

Moredhel warriors gathered in the large square below the palace steps, ignoring the biting chill of the twilight wind off the mountains as they waved their fists and bellowed threats at their enemies. Clans that would otherwise be at sword-point observed the truce, content for the moment to exact revenge on some future day.

The city of Sar-Sargoth had been built hard against the foothills of the Great Northern Mountains. To the north of those mighty peaks stretched the vast icelands where summer never came. Even as spring presented herself to the rolling Plain of Isbandia to the south-west, winter lingered in Sar-Sargoth, only reluctantly releasing her icy grip. The stinging cold did nothing to alleviate the frustration of the assembled chieftains as they waited for those who had summoned them to council.

The rising volume of their simmering rage was enough to move the more cautious of the moredhel chieftains to note the closest escape route should frustration build to bloodshed. Too many old rivals had been forced together at this council, and for too long for the truce to last more than minutes.

Arkan of the Ardanien surveyed his surroundings, then nodded once towards a side street that he knew led straight to an old farm gate several blocks away. Arkan was the model of a moredhel chieftain, with strong, broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His dark brown hair was cut short at the front to ensure that his vision was never impaired, and left long to flow past his pointed ears, down to his shoulders. His dark eyes were set in an almost expressionless mask. Arkan’s reputation was impressive: he had shepherded his troubled clan through more than thirty perilous years. Despite having many rivals and sworn enemies, the Clan of the Ice Bears had grown under his leadership.

His companion returned his nod and glanced around to assess where trouble would most likely originate. Morgeth, Arkan’s self-appointed bodyguard, let his hand stray to the hilt of his sword. ‘Those damn southerners,’ he said at last to his chieftain.

Arkan could only agree. Their cousins from beyond the Teeth of the World were an agitated bunch, forced to dwell as their guests in ancient homelands where they had sought refuge during the Tsurani invasion. ‘Well, they’ve been here for a century; they’re starting to get restless.’

‘Who’s keeping them here? They can go home any damn time they want.’

‘Some have tried.’ The Chieftain of the Ardanien spoke quietly, with the thoughtful candour that those who knew him had come to expect. ‘It’s a difficult trek past those damn Kingdom defences at the Inclindel Gap.’ He paused. ‘On through Hadati country, skirting the dwarves and Elvandar.’ He glanced around as the volume of voices rose again. ‘I’d not attempt it with less than the entire clan—’

The sounds of struggle became more urgent.

‘Narab better get on with this or we’re going to have more than a little bloodshed,’ Arkan added.

Morgeth said, ‘And then we use that street?’

‘Yes,’ the chieftain said. ‘I wouldn’t mind breaking a few heads, but I don’t see any point in starting new feuds when I haven’t put paid to the old ones.’ He looked around. ‘If fighting starts, we leave.’

‘Yes.’ Morgeth gathered his woollen cape around him to ward off the biting wind. ‘I thought it was supposed to be warmer down here on the flats.’

Arkan laughed. ‘It is warmer. That doesn’t make it temperate.’

‘I should have brought my bearskin.’

Glancing at the sea of dark cloaks around them, Arkan said, ‘If things turn ugly, you’ll be glad not to be clad in white fur.’

A shout went up, but this time it wasn’t a brawl, but directed instead at a group of figures standing at the top of the stairs at the crowd’s edge.

Morgeth said, ‘Who are those two on the right?’

‘I’ve never seen them before,’ said his chieftain. ‘But from the look of them, I judge them to be our lost cousins, the taredhel.’

‘Tall bastards, aren’t they?’

Arkan nodded. ‘That they are.’

The two elves they referred to were indeed a full head taller than those who had led them to the top of the staircase. Behind the group rose the maw of the palace, the large entrance to the empty throne room that no chieftain had dared to occupy since the death of the true Murmandamus, the only moredhel in memory to unite all the clans under one banner.

A moredhel dressed in ceremonial robes raised his hands, indicating the need for silence, and the cacophony of voices fell away. When it was quiet, he spoke. ‘The council thanks you for attending,’ he began.

Muttering answered this, for the council’s message had been clear: to ignore the request would have invited the ire of the most powerful leader among the moredhel, the man who now addressed them: Narab.

‘We also welcome our distant kin, who have returned to us from the stars.’

The chatter rose; rumours about these elves had been rampant in the north for the last few years. One had whispered of their alliance with the hated eledhel in the south, so it was something of a surprise to see them standing next to Narab.

‘What is this, then?’ asked a chieftain standing nearby.

‘Shut up and find out,’ answered another.

Arkan glanced towards the voices to see if trouble was about to erupt, but both warriors had returned their attention to the top of the palace steps.

One of the taredhel stepped forward. ‘I am Kaladon of the Clan of the Seven Stars. I bring you greetings from your cousins in E’bar.’

Several of the chieftains scoffed and snorted in derision, for the word ‘E’bar’ meant ‘Home’ in the ancient tongue. Others strained to listen, for the wind was blowing hard and this star elf’s accent was strange to the ear. No matter what blood history tied them together, these beings were far more alien than even the hated eledhel.

Kaladon continued, ‘I bring greetings from the Lord Regent of the Clan of the Seven Stars. We are pleased to be returned to our homeland.’ He paused for effect. ‘Yet we see much has gone amiss since our departure.’

The murmuring took on an angry note and Narab raised his hands for silence.

Morgeth muttered, ‘This is going to turn ugly.’

Arkan whispered, ‘It already has.’ He motioned for his companion to follow him as he edged towards the side street. A few others were also moving quietly towards the escape routes, but most of the chieftains stood silently waiting for the strangers’ next announcement.

The other figure who wore yellow armour trimmed with purple and gold, so garish compared to the dark grey-and-black of the moredhel fighting garb, stepped forward and announced himself. ‘I am Kumal, Warleader of the Clan of the Seven Stars.’

That brought total silence. Despite his advancing years and colourful raiment, the speaker possessed a warrior’s carriage and visible scars, and his manner communicated a kinship to the moredhel chieftains that they recognized. A few chieftains shouted out traditional words of greetings to a fellow warrior.

If the warleader was pleased to be received in such a fashion, he showed no sign of it but simply nodded once and continued, ‘The Regent’s Meet has elected to recognize your independence.’

Instantly the mood of the gathered chieftains turned ugly once more. ‘You recognize us?’ shouted more than one chieftain.

‘Quiet!’ shouted Narab. ‘He brings news!’

‘The humans war among themselves,’ Kumal went on when the noise had died down. ‘Their Empire of Kesh has marched against their Kingdom of the Isles, and much of the land to the south lies covered in smoke and blood.’

This brought a mixed reaction, for as much as the moredhel hated humans, dwarves, and the eledhel, war in the south meant trouble for the southern clans. The leader of one such clan shouted, ‘What of the west?’

‘Kesh has taken Crydee,’ returned Kumal, ‘and is driving over the northern pass in the Grey Towers to Ylith.’

‘What of the Green Heart?’ shouted another voice.

‘Kesh ignores all but the human towns and cities. The dwarves stand ready at the borders of Stone Mountain and the Grey Towers, but will act only if their lands are threatened. The Green Heart and the mountains to the south of E’bar are untroubled.’

One of the southern chieftains cried, ‘Now is the time to return to the Green Heart!’

‘As to that,’ said Kumal, ‘the Regent’s Meet has decided that we shall welcome any of our kin who venture south of the river boundary … as long as they recognize our rule over all lands south of Elvandar. You must pledge fealty to the Clan of the Seven Stars.’

Instantly, furious shouts rang out. ‘That is our land!’

‘We bow to no one!’

‘Our ancestors died there!’

Arkan turned to Morgeth. ‘It’s time to leave.’

Morgeth nodded and the two of them quickly made for the side street and gate beyond. As they entered the dark lane, the sound of approaching warriors made Arkan motion for Morgeth to stop. He pointed to the door of an abandoned building and they ducked inside, crouching down beneath broken windows.

A moment later, they heard the sound of a large band of armed warriors passing by. The two warriors from the northern mountains kept silent until the sound of boot heels on cobbles was replaced by war-cries and the noise of steel ringing against steel. Arkan touched his companion and signalled, and they ran from the abandoned building towards the distant gate.

‘Narab seeks to be king, then?’ asked Morgeth once they were clear of danger.

‘Since killing Delekhan’s heir.’

‘A hundred years of hunger is a long time.’

Arkan nodded, then pointed to the distant gate.

Morgeth frowned. ‘What do we do if it’s guarded?’

‘Talk first, then fight.’

They reached the gateway and found a company of guards waiting: a dozen warriors stationed in front of fifty or more horses. Even before the warrior in charge could challenge them, Arkan waved and shouted, ‘Hurry!’

‘What is it?’ asked the leader.

‘Take your detail up the road, and go north at the first cross street. Cut off those trying to escape behind the palace! Hurry!’

‘The horses—’

‘We will take care of the horses, now go!’

The twelve warriors hurried off and Morgeth shook his head. ‘Clan Bighorn always were a little thick.’

Arkan said, ‘Our horses are on the other side of the city.’ Looking at the large selection of mounts they had to choose from, he added, ‘Seems a fair trade.’

Picking a handsome gelding, Morgeth said, ‘You can’t possibly think of taking them all?’

Getting into the saddle on a bay mare, Arkan said, ‘I was thinking of it, but we have more pressing business. We should hurry back to camp before word of this fighting reaches them.’

‘Should we break camp?’ asked Morgeth.

‘That would draw too much suspicion. Narab has been planning this for a while, I think. He’s made arrangements: Bighorn is not one of his usual allies, which means he has added new ones. No, have our men stay close to the tents and tell my sons to be ready to fight, but we should keep our swords sheathed unless attacked first. No one is to look for trouble. Anyone who starts a fight, answers to me.’ He grew thoughtful for a moment as he gazed into the distance. Then he said, ‘I don’t think Narab is ready to crown himself yet. Tonight he was merely showing the unallied clans who held the most power here by breaking a few heads. I doubt more than two or three warriors will die before morning.

‘Tell Goran that if I discover his sword has been drawn before I get back I’ll personally make him eat it.’

‘Your son won’t like that,’ observed Morgeth with a wry half-smile.

‘He doesn’t like a lot of things, which is why Antesh is my heir,’ answered Arkan. ‘Make sure Cetswaya stays close to my sons.’

Morgeth nodded. Cetswaya was their shaman and always a calm voice and wise counsel.

‘If I don’t return by sunrise tomorrow, have Goran and Antesh take the men north, then west. Find the rest of our people and take them back into the icelands, then wait until it’s safe to return to our normal range.’

‘And how will we know when that time arrives?’

‘That will not be my problem, for if you must flee tomorrow, I will likely be dead. If I don’t find you in the north by next spring, I will certainly be dead.’ Arkan put his heels to his horse and shouted, causing the other mounts to shy. Some pulled up stakes.

As Morgeth watched his chieftain ride off into the deepening gloom of the hills around Sar-Sargoth, he said to no one, ‘They’re not going to like this much.’

Then weighing Clan Bighorn’s ire at finding their mounts scattered against the wrath of Narab discovering that Arkan wasn’t among those chieftains in the square, he decided his chieftain had the better bargain. He shouted at the horses nearby without enthusiasm, then turned his mount down towards the plains. There, twenty thousand moredhel warriors awaited the return of their chieftains, and he wondered if it was possible for the Ardanien to somehow get away intact.

Arkan rode for more than an hour, circling the vast array of camps outside the walls of Sar-Sargoth. A thousand fires or more burned as the main host of the moredhel nation had gathered outside the walls of the massive city.

Despite being the closest thing to a moredhel capital, the city was deserted for most of the year. Delekhan, the last moredhel chieftain who had attempted to occupy the city as a symbol of his supremacy, had been killed by Arkan’s father, Gorath, during the second abortive attempt to seize the Kingdom city of Sethanon.

Since then, Narab had occasionally moved his clans into the vicinity, but had avoided the vanity of occupying any of the palaces scattered through the city. Today, it appeared, was to be the day he decided to advance his claim to pre-eminence, if only symbolically.

And so Arkan rode through the night, seeking the one leader among the moredhel with enough power to baulk Narab’s ambition for a crown that no moredhel in history had dared to wear. The Ardanien chief hoped what he saw tonight was just another tribal conflict, one quickly resolved, rather than the beginning of a true dynastic struggle. For in the first instant he had seen them, Arkan knew that the true threat came from the elves from the distant stars.

Their presence beside Narab told the chieftain all he needed to know: Narab would rather stand in good stead with them than confront them as enemies, so they were powerful and very dangerous. Arkan knew it was Narab’s nature to plot, but he was clearly overmatched if he thought he could court them and make them serve his ends, or even count them as true allies. The taredhel might be content to allow those living north of the Teeth of the World to think themselves free, but eventually they would seek to put their boot on the necks of the moredhel. The strange elves wanted to claim all of Midkemia as their own: of that, he was certain.

Not for the first time in his life, Arkan wondered if his people weren’t their own worst enemies. Beyond the constant bickering and occasional bloodshed, there was an underlying drive for supremacy between rival clans … but for what? It was as if struggle itself was the point of existence, rather than as a means to achieving some higher goal.

Not usually reflective by nature, Arkan had been forced by the exigency of leading his clan on more than one occasion to weigh what he felt was an obvious truth against a more ambiguous, less easily understood reality. The world was not a simple place and life was never effortless, especially when most of one’s day was filled with the struggle merely to survive, but few of his people considered the world beyond their daily needs: hunting, eating, defending their lands and raising their families. Peace had made that so much more probable, yet his people still had an appetite for bloodshed that ran counter to their own best interests.

Why was that? Arkan wondered. Struggle as he might, he had never come close to an answer. Every time he pondered it, he was left to concede he lacked the mental gift of someone like Cetswaya, his shaman. In the end he shrugged off the question, accepting that it was simply their nature.

Still, this was not the time for abstract musing. He had a real problem to confront and his experience told him there were two things he must now do quickly. The first was to get his people back into the high mountains to the north. Almost two generations before, his father had been the first to lead the tribe into the vast frozen peaks and the glaciers beyond. In doing so he had saved the Ardanien from obliteration at the hands of their ancient enemies, and had given them their new name, the Ice Bears. Part of the once-powerful Clan Bear, most of their kin had been obliterated by the mad prophet, the false Murmandamus, during his war against the humans to the south.

His second task was to seek out the one person who could be termed an ally, albeit loosely. She might make the difference between his people’s survival and their obliteration.

Arkan eased his horse down a dark trail. His night vision was better than the horse’s, so he had to carefully manoeuvre his mount to keep them both from stumbling.

At last, in the distance he saw the campfires that marked his destination. As he neared the edge of the encampment a voice called out his name. Slowing his horse, he approached the fire’s glow. ‘Greetings, Helmon.’ He glanced around the sentry camp and said, ‘Are the Snow Leopards ready for war?’

‘No more than usual,’ said the warrior in charge of the post with a wry chuckle. He extended his hand. ‘Good to see you, cousin.’

‘Let’s hope our aunt feels the same,’ answered Arkan, taking his arm. Each gripped the other’s wrist.

‘She’s expecting you.’

Arkan didn’t try to hide his surprise. ‘Really?’

With a slight smile the broad-shouldered fighter nodded once. ‘Head straight to the split in the trail, then right to the small clearing above the main camp. You’ll have no trouble finding it.’

Helmon was correct: Arkan found the pavilion he sought with ease. A great tent had been erected on a plateau overlooking the largest encampment in the area. A guard signalled for Arkan to leave his horse with him. The Chieftain of the Ardanien dismounted, tossed the reins to him, then paused for a moment, looking down at the massive encampment below.

The Snow Leopards.

The most significant single clan among the moredhel, they had grown steadily in size and power over the last century. Their leader was Arkan’s aunt, Liallan, widow of the notorious Delekhan. It had been Delekhan who had tried to invade the human Kingdom of the Isles; an invasion based on the lie that the humans had imprisoned Murmandamus during the moredhels’ first invasion of the south years before. Delekhan had been second among those who had served Murmandamus, only surpassed by Murad, the shaman-chief of Clan Raven. Delekhan had also been among the maddest of those servants. Much of the truth about that struggle was hidden, but Arkan knew that his father, Gorath, had killed Delekhan. And it had been Narab who had killed Delekhan’s son, Moraeulf, seeking to gain control of Delekhan’s Clan Badger and the rest of his alliances. That would have made him king a century ago.

But Delekhan’s widow, Liallan, had kept control of the Snow Leopards and Badgers. Their clans had never merged while her husband lived, but with Delekhan’s death she had deftly integrated the Badgers into the Snow Leopards. She was now the only force among the moredhel with enough power to thwart Narab.

A warrior motioned for him to dismount as he reached his aunt’s tent, a sprawling thing divided into several segments by cleverly hung curtains.

Inside, across an expanse of fine wool rugs, Liallan reclined on a pile of furs wearing travel garb made from the costliest of materials. No tanned leather breeches and home-spun tunic for the mistress of the Snow Leopards; her riding trousers were cut from the best woollen weave, dyed a midnight blue, and her open-collared shirt was white silk laced with loops and frogs carved from ivory over which she sported a dyed red leather vest with a soft sheepskin lining. Arkan had hunted the massive ice walruses and so had some sense of what those buttons alone had cost her.

He bowed slightly. ‘Aunt, are you well?’

Liallan’s appearance had changed little throughout Arkan’s entire life. Her hair was still dark, though shot through with grey streaks, and there were now fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Years of riding horseback in the sun had given her whipcord toughness and her movement was lithe as she stood to greet her great-nephew.

‘Well enough, Arkan.’

‘Regal’ was the only term to sum up her carriage and manner. If the moredhel were ever to have a queen, she would be the perfect exemplar. Arkan was always struck by her vicious combination of seductive beauty and unconfined ruthlessness. It was reputed that when Arkan’s father had killed Delekhan, Liallan had poured wine and toasted Gorath. She was without a doubt the single most dangerous woman in the history of his people.

‘It is good to see you, nephew,’ she said as she indicated a place for him to sit.

A young female servant brought over a tray and from it Liallan took a small sliver of spiced sausage and placed it ritually between Arkan’s teeth. It was a formal acceptance of him as her guest, and under the laws of hospitality meant that no harm would befall him while he was in her tent.

‘So, you managed to get here without incident. Good.’

He gave her a slight smile. ‘Those who might cause me trouble were otherwise occupied, Liallan.’

She inclined her head. ‘Narab?’

‘His warriors were breaking heads when I left the council.’

She sighed. ‘Narab is prone to impatience. The Southern Clans are not loyal to him, although they reside within his traditional territory. And given my unwillingness to ally with him, he’s been unable to press his claim to supremacy. He’d provoke rebellion among his own subjects if he tried to move in a more overt fashion. So he must contrive a way to have leadership forced upon him over false protests.’

For a moment, Arkan wondered if inviting the Star Elves into Sar-Sargoth was as foolish a move as he had thought mere moments ago. ‘Aunt, do you think he’s found a common enemy to unite the clans of the north under his banner?’

Liallan waved her hand dismissively and reached for a flagon on a low table just behind her. Filling a cup, she handed it to Arkan then poured one for herself. ‘Even the real Murmandamus after he had united the clans was clever enough not to claim the title of king. Had he lived another fifty years, perhaps he might have. His rule was the greatest in the history of our people.

‘At the time of his death the true Murmandamus waited for the clans to endorse his rule, and had he been victorious in his assault on Elvandar, they almost certainly would have.’ She sighed. ‘My grandfather told me of that time. We have never known like times since. The false Murmandamus made no attempt to rule: he merely offered portents and signs to persuade us that it was time to march south.

‘The chieftains were ready for a fight and by routing the Kingdom at Highcastle, he gathered many to his banner.’ She smiled at her great-nephew. ‘Drink.’

He took a sip and found the ale bracing and nutty. Smiling he said, ‘Cetswaya will be pleased to know there’s still some winter ale around.’

Her smile broadened and he could see genuine amusement in her expression. ‘How is he?’

‘Well enough,’ he answered. He was a little surprised at her interest in the health of his clan’s shaman, but then he considered that at their age each had few other contemporaries left alive. ‘He worries, as always.’

‘It’s his place to worry, as it is yours to be cautious or bold as the situation merits. And now is the time for you to be worried, cautious and bold.’ She studied his face when he didn’t reply. ‘What do you know of the story of your father and Delekhan?’

Arkan shrugged. ‘Only what is commonly known.’

‘And what is that?’ she prodded.

‘That my father learned of a plot by Delekhan and a band of magicians known as The Six. They sought to unite the clans, move south and rescue Murmandamus—’

‘The false Murmandamus,’ she interrupted.

‘Yes,’ he amended, ‘the false Murmandamus.

‘For reasons I do not understand, the plan unravelled, but my father is reported to have died killing your husband while the clans retreated north, back across the Teeth of the World.’ He looked away as if thinking for a moment, then added, ‘My mother never wishes to speak of it.’

‘If you take your people north, Arkan,’ said Liallan, ‘it will be their second trek across the mountains. Gorath married my sister as a means to save what was left of the old Clan Hawk, and my father grudgingly gave permission. But rather than bend his knee to my father, your father took my sister and his remaining retainers into the distant icelands, to nurse his wounds and grow strong again.’ She indulged in a chuckle. ‘My father was livid. Gorath had outsmarted him, using his relationship to the Snow Leopards to ensure that the Ice Bears endured, while not surrendering any authority to him. It was a lesson I remembered when I was forced to wed Delekhan. I always admired your father and envied my sister in some ways.’

Arkan raised a curious eyebrow.

‘Not the life Clothild endured: frozen lakes, barren ice floes, living on fish, walrus, and seal flesh. But she bore him three strong sons and when the Ice Bears came south thirty years later, they were a small but solid clan, one to be treated with respect.’

He listened patiently, but had so far heard nothing he hadn’t already known.

‘My father – your grandfather – had died by then, and I ruled the Snow Leopards. My marriage to Delekhan strengthened my position. It was his choice to make me an ally or his enemy. He wisely chose the first.

‘Yet I would not merge our clans, to his everlasting ire. There was never a hint of love in our marriage, my nephew.’ She sipped her ale. ‘But here’s the truth,’ she said flatly.

Now Arkan was attentive.

‘Your father was counted a traitor by many, even by my sister, his wife, because he did something that ran counter to our every belief and history: he bargained with our enemies.’

‘Bargained?’

‘He had been captured by Delekhan’s agents while fleeing south—’

‘Fleeing?’ echoed Arkan.

She waved at him to be silent. ‘Your father chose to carry warning to the humans in the south. He had been the first to recognize the danger Delekhan and The Six were to our people, but knew he could not find allies enough among the clans to oppose them. So he sought those to the south who might be able to stop Delekhan. And he found them.’

Arkan wanted to ask a question, but he remained silent.

‘He spoke with human nobles, spent time in Caldara, home of the Dwarven King of the Grey Towers, and even paid a visit to the Queen and that abomination she sleeps with in Elvandar.’

Arkan stared at her. None of this was widely known. Finally he asked, ‘How do you know?’

‘Narab,’ she said. ‘When Narab killed Delekhan’s son and rose to take command of Clan Badger, he needed to make peace with me. For once in his life he made the right choice and told me the truth.

‘The trap that was laid during the second attack on the Kingdom city of Sethanon was aided by eledhel and dwarves as well as humans. The secret Narab would happily kill you to hide is that he was the one in league with the eledhel, dwarves and humans. He used them to lure Delekhan’s son, Moraeulf, to his death and then solidify his hold on Clan Badger and their vassal clans.’

Arkan sat back and drained his ale. ‘If the clan chieftains knew of this, Narab could never claim supremacy over the clans.’

‘It is a secret worth killing over. If he could will me dead, I’d be dead. And that’s why he chooses the path of patience on his journey to the throne.’ His aunt looked solemn.

‘Why tell me this?’

‘Because Narab is close to claiming supremacy.’

‘Unless Narab has more swords than we know of, he may have already set what will become a full-scale bloodbath in motion, with his rough treatment of the clan chieftains down there.’

Liallan shook her head. ‘It won’t come to that. By now he will have subdued the “council” without killing any but a few bodyguards. We can be certain that if any chieftain perished tonight, he was no friends of Narab’s. He’ll send them home like whipped dogs in the next hour.’

‘The Star Elves?’

‘They have magic beyond our understanding, beyond even that of the spellweavers down in Elvandar.’ She fixed her nephew with a steady gaze. ‘Unless something changes quickly, Narab is only a year or so away from entering Sar-Sargoth’s throne room and putting a crown on his own head.’

‘Even the false Murmandamus didn’t dare that, and he was mad.’

‘And he was mad,’ Liallan repeated. ‘I think holy men are more dangerous than ambitious ones, Arkan. The false Murmandamus was content to just lead the nation on a pointless invasion of the human lands.’ She sipped her ale. ‘Give me an ambitious murderer over a fanatic every time. The first will only try to kill you for your position, the second will destroy everything and everyone you love.’

This took Arkan by surprise. His people were not especially demonstrative when it came to feelings and his aunt was perhaps the most ruthless a person he had ever encountered. The dark elves understood desire, but love … that was rare and usually reserved for children or, occasionally, siblings. To hear the word ‘love’ come from Liallan’s mouth was something he had never expected.

She smiled. ‘Yes, there are things I love, nephew. Mostly my clan: I have nurtured them as if every warrior, every woman, each child were my own.’

He nodded. As chieftain of his own small band he understood this feeling. ‘It is more than mere duty.’

‘Indeed,’ she agreed.

‘So Narab seeks to make himself king and we are to just sit here and let him?’

She shook her head and smiled. ‘No, to both. He will not make himself king … yet. Tonight is merely an abject lesson. If you head back down into the valley you’ll discover that most of the broken heads belonged to those in open opposition to Narab. His allies and those uncommitted to his cause were, perhaps, jostled a bit, but for the most part remain unharmed. He will claim he was merely restoring order and protecting his guests.’

‘Not all the clans were in attendance. I saw Clan Blood Elk heading west a few days back.’

She looked contemptuous. ‘Those primitives are of no importance.’

He knew she was right politically. ‘But good to have on your side in a fight.’

‘No doubt,’ she agreed, ‘but this time we struggle to avoid a fight.’

‘I noticed no Snow Leopards at the gathering,’ he said in a neutral tone.

‘Why would I go? I knew what was going to happen.’

‘Spies?’

‘I have many … friends. And Narab doesn’t have as many as he thinks he does.’

‘Well and good, but that still leaves me up here with you.’

She stared at him, but said nothing.

Finally he said, ‘You knew I’d come tonight.’

She smiled. ‘As I said, this time we struggle to avoid a fight. Had I been in attendance tonight, Narab might have let his ambition overrule his better judgment, but if he knows I’m up here with my Snow Leopards …’ She left the thought unfinished. ‘He knows that even now he cannot attack me.’ Her smile broadened. ‘Again, he doesn’t have as many friends as he thinks he does.’

‘Which brings us to me.’

‘If I were to count all the relatives I have through marriage and by blood who are smart enough to recognize a futile fight, and then invite them here … well, let’s just say you and I wouldn’t have a lot of company.’ She paused. ‘What orders did you give your men?’

He shrugged. ‘If I’m not back by sunrise take the clan into the high mountains. If followed, journey further north to the ice floes.’

‘Just like your father,’ Liallan said with a sad smile. ‘Do you welcome another twenty years hunting walrus and seal?’

‘Not particularly, but I welcome the obliteration of my clan even less.’

‘Then let us speak about what will preserve our clans.’

‘Our clans?’

‘The Ardanien and Hamandien are kin, even if some of my chieftains would wish it otherwise.’

Arkan understood what she meant. The Ardanien and Hamandien were allies through blood and necessity. Had it not been for Liallan’s power, the Ice Bears would have been obliterated after Gorath’s defection to the Kingdom. No matter that he had saved the moredhel from being dominated by a madman, and aborted the attack on the Kingdom city of Sethanon, thereby saving hundreds of lives; he was still seen as a traitor. He waited.

At last Liallan said, ‘Even as Narab unfolds his schemes, and thinks he’s gained the upper hand, there are other forces that may consume us.’

‘Those Star Elves?’

‘Among others. The humans war among themselves as well.’

‘So Kumal stated; what has this to do with us?’

‘Ah, that is what must be discovered.’ She studied his face for a moment, then asked, ‘What does Cetswaya tell you of his dreams and visions?’

‘He speaks little. He claims he puts little faith in dream-lore.’

‘Still, he has said something.’

Arkan remained silent.

‘Then I shall tell you of my shaman. Arjuda dreams of dragons.’

Arkan’s face became an unreadable mask.

‘Dragons on the wing, with riders on their backs; a host mighty enough to blot out the sun.’

Almost whispering, Arkan said, ‘So do I.’

She nodded. ‘Then there is something you must do, for yourself, for me, for our clans, and ultimately our people – perhaps even our entire world.’

Surprised by the fervour of his aunt’s words, he said, ‘Tell me.’

‘Who among your sons is fit to lead in your absence?’

He thought about this. ‘All three, although Antesh is my heir. I have taught them to be ready, but he is the most level-headed.’

‘Good.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve lost sons, Arkan. It is most bitter. Your father lost two, making you his heir.’ She took a long moment to study Arkan. Her nephew had been as young as his father had been when the responsibility for his people fell to him. After a while she said, ‘Very well. There is something you must do. It will most likely get you killed, and even if you survive you may never be able to return to your clan. Are you willing to risk everything to save your kin?’

Without hesitation he said, ‘That is a chieftain’s burden, and his honour.’

‘I’d expect no less an answer. Then come, Arkan of the Ardanien, this you must know: a conflict that will engulf our world is brewing, and without your help we may all perish. You must travel south, where the humans make war, and possibly beyond.’ She fell silent.

‘What must I do?’ he asked.

Liallan looked him in the eyes, then motioned for him to stand. Once again she studied his face before speaking. ‘I do not know.’

‘So, I am to leave my home, place the care of my people in my sons’ hands, and … do something; but you do not know what it is?’

‘You must go south. You must disguise yourself as an eledhel, since few humans would notice the difference, and you must seek someone out.’

‘Who?’

‘Again I do not know. But I am certain you will find that person and then your next path will be made clearer.’

Arkan was silent for a time, then said, ‘I respect you as much as anyone does – and you are my kinswoman – but you ask much and give so little.’

‘Should you survive, nephew, should all of us survive, I will give Kalina to your eldest son.’

Arkan was rendered almost speechless. ‘Why?

‘Your sons are closer to the soil of this world than my chieftains. They are true sons of the moredhel, warriors without dishonour, strong without being overly ambitious. Should I name any of my chieftains my heir, the bickering and rivalries would tear the Hamandien apart within hours of my death. But if I name your son my heir, not only will he bring a small but powerful clan into the fold, but it will also prevent such a falling out. Clan Ardanien would serve as effective a personal bodyguard as any chieftain could desire. My chieftains would bend their knees and accept his rule to keep the clans intact. The Snow Leopards grow stronger and survive for another generation.’

‘You’d do that?’

‘If you go south and find this man you’re fated to meet.’

‘How do you know I’m fated to meet this … human?’

‘In my dream I see dragons flying; and upon a mountain peak two figures, one a man in a black robe, and the other is you. You protect him while he wields great magic. You are destined to save our people, Arkan.’

He had no words, so he merely sat in silence. Then he rose, nodded and left the light, warm pavilion, and returned to a dark, cold, and windy world.

• CHAPTER TWO •
Raid

BUGLES SOUNDED THE WARNING.

Martin conDoin, son of the late Duke of Crydee, dropped the spoon carrying the first bite of food he’d had in hours and was nearly out of the door of the inn he was using as a forward headquarters before his chair hit the wooden floor. He hurried to the south-western gate. ‘Report!’ he shouted as he ran from the harbour to the city’s entrance.

Sergeant Magwin looked down from his position on top of the tower, a small figure at that distance, but his voice carried. ‘Scout’s returning, sir!’

‘Open the gates!’ shouted Martin.

An exhausted rider wearing the tunic of the garrison of Crydee came cantering through the partially opened gate and pulled up before Martin as it was slammed shut behind him. He was covered in road dirt and sweat, and his horse was near collapse. He saluted and said, ‘Found the infantry, sir.’ He held out a folded parchment.

Martin read the report. ‘Is he seriously refusing to return?’

The scout dismounted. ‘Yes, sir. The captain of the column is from LaMut. He said, “I’ve got my orders, and they are to go to Sarth and meet the Duke; no lad from Crydee is telling me otherwise.”’ He lowered his eyes. ‘That’s when he wrote that and gave it to me, sir.’

Martin fumed silently, then said, ‘That’s … perfect.’

Brendan, Martin’s younger brother and his adjutant, had hurried from the heart of the city, dodging through the press of people who were waiting nearby to hear what news the scout might bring. He was almost out of breath when he stopped and gasped out, ‘A small band from LaMut has arrived.’

‘Some good news,’ said Martin, looking around. The two young men looked like twins, both with long brown hair to their shoulders and slender, agile bodies. Being only one year apart, the differences between them were growing smaller with each passing month. ‘How many?’

‘Forty,’ said Brendan. ‘Mostly men over fifty, but they seem fit: farmers and millers, loggers and the like. Twenty or so are bowmen.’

‘Good, we can always use more archers on the wall. See to their quarters.’

‘They’ve got this old—’ He laughed as he spread his arms widely, as if describing a fish he had caught. ‘A ballista that big … Maybe a bit bigger, but I’ve never seen its like. Said it’s been on the top of the gate in LaMut since … well, since anyone can remember. Some of the retired soldiers who came south thought it would be useful.’

Martin tried to be amused, but failed. ‘Have them bring it here.’ He glanced around and saw a small patch of earth between two buildings, perhaps once a garden in better days, and pointed at it. ‘Move the wagon there. We might need to put the ballista up on the wall.’ He scanned the entirety of the battlement above, then said, ‘But I have no idea where.’

Ylith held a unique position in the Kingdom. It was nestled in the north-eastern corner of a near-perfect but tiny harbour. Given the city’s position, the massive harbour gates were its main entrance. Away to the south-east, there was a small beach running barely a quarter of a mile between the southern edge of the city docks and the rocks along the quickly rising headlands. From there the coastline reared upward sharply to the promontory called Questor’s View, two days’ ride on a fast horse. A small village occupied the flat top of the promontory, and a small garrison was stationed there. The Duke had stripped it of soldiers as he marched south, leaving the village protected only by its surrounding terrain. From there, no safe landing existed until one was deep within the principality, near the town of Sarth, which currently was expecting the muster from Yabon.

Shoals and rocks hidden just below the surface, to the south-west of the harbour, provided a natural defence against any nearby landings. The shallows created a tide race, and every experienced captain gave that part of the coast a wide berth lest they be swept onto the rocks and wrecked. It was over half a day’s ride by swift horse before a safe landing south of the city could be found.

Between the city walls and foulborough beyond was an open plaza, giving archers on the wall a field of fire. The booths and stalls that on market days and holidays traditionally stood against the wall had been removed even before Martin and the Crydee muster had arrived.

Three roads intersected at the centre of the plaza south-west of the harbour gates: the highway to the Free Cities and Natal ran south along the bay; the road to Crydee moved away to the north-west; and a small road led east, which rapidly turned into a farmer’s track. Here lay the heart of Ylith’s commerce, the busy port that was the gateway to Yabon.

The city of Ylith had been seized by invaders once before, when the general leading the invading army of the Emerald Queen had set himself up as King of the Bitter Sea. Only a betrayal by one of his southern commanders in exchange for consideration from the Kingdom had allowed the tyrant to be dislodged. Martin had read the history of the Emerald Queen’s invasion and knew the vital part played by this city in protecting the principality, Yabon, and the passes to the Far Coast. The Kingdom might lose Crydee and recover, or even lose control of the eastern shore of the Bitter Sea between Ylith and Sarth, but if Ylith fell, all would be lost.

‘What news from the south?’ asked Brendan.

‘It’s bad,’ said Martin, handing over the message.

Brendan quickly read it. ‘Is he serious?’

‘Apparently.’ Martin threw the parchment into the dust and looked around. ‘If I were in his place I would not wish to explain to my duke where his infantry was, if he was expecting them to arrive in Sarth next week.’

‘Would you rather explain how you lost all of Yabon?’ countered Brendan.

‘Just following orders,’ said Martin dryly. ‘Well, the pirate we hired should have delivered my message to the Duke by the time the infantry reaches Sarth.’ He calculated. ‘If the Prince hasn’t commanded him to continue on to Krondor or stay in Sarth, he could be back here with his cavalry and light foot regiment in ten days.’

‘Lots of ifs,’ said Brendan.

‘I know,’ answered Martin. ‘Where are we now?’

His brother knew exactly what Martin was asking. ‘Our men at arms number three hundred from Crydee, plus the fifty irregulars the Duke of Yabon left here with Bolton.’ Captain Bolton was the nephew of the commander of the Earl of LaMut’s guard. The brothers were convinced that he had been left behind in the hope that no attack would ever reach this far north. Once he had been taken down a peg or two by Martin, the earnest young man had turned out to be completely out of his depth, which was the reason for all his bluster when they first met.

Brendan continued, ‘About two hundred men and boys have trickled in since you sent word north, but they’re the ones who were too unfit to answer the Duke of Yabon’s first muster: mostly old men, a few former soldiers, and eager boys, for the main part under fifteen years old. And too few damn weapons.’

‘Well, set them to making arrows. They’ll be slow at it at first, but if there are enough hands put to the task we should do well. I’d rather the archers had too many than too few.’

‘Wood is no problem, and the smiths here can do the broadheads, but we’re going to have a problem with the flights: not enough feathers.’

‘Use chicken feathers if you have to. Set snares for pigeons and seagulls,’ snapped Martin. ‘I don’t care.’ Then he closed his eyes and said, ‘Sorry. I’m …’

Brendan put his hand on his brother’s arm. ‘I know.’ He indicated with a nod of his head that the scout was still standing nearby.

Martin dismissed the man with thanks and ordered the gates of the city sealed. He looked towards the heart of the town and said, ‘How are the provisions?’

‘Enough,’ said Brendan as they started walking back to the mayor’s house, which was being used for local headquarters. ‘With most of the fighting men down south, the local farms can provide enough for a siege, as long as we keep the north gate and road clear.’ The old baron’s castle on the hill to the north-west of the city was far enough away. Martin had done little more than give it a quick inspection, but it would serve as a last resort for defence if the entire town fell to the Keshians. It was his purpose to see that didn’t happen, for even if they held the keep above the town, Kesh would have achieved their purpose: bisecting the Western Realm. If that happened, no aid could flow in either direction. Not only would this region be lost, the entire Western Realm would be left vulnerable.

Martin glanced around as if seeking inspiration. His home of Crydee was already crawling with colonists from the far south of the Empire, the region known as the Keshian Confederacy, and they were aggressively driving out whoever occupied the farms and mills, mines and lumbering villages. Herds had been seized, as had anything else of value, and a steady stream of displaced Kingdom citizens entered Ylith on a daily basis.

‘You look lost in thought,’ observed Brendan.

Martin smiled slightly at his younger brother. ‘Just trying to imagine what I’d be doing next if I were the Keshian commander in Crydee.’

Brendan shrugged. ‘It would depend on what his orders are, right?’

Martin nodded. ‘We’ve not seen any Keshian ships this far north. Queg must be keeping them busy to the south.’

Brendan knew his brother meant that Queg was keeping Kesh from sailing west of their island kingdom. While no formal treaty existed between Queg and the Kingdom, they were effectively allied against Kesh’s northward expansion in the Bitter Sea. The part of the Kingdom fleet that wasn’t stationed down in Port Vykor and Krondor would be hugging the coast of the Principality, freeing Queg from the need to protect their eastern coast. ‘Even if they bottled up all of the Prince’s fleet at Krondor, some Kingdom ships had to sortie out of Port Vykor and would have been out on the water when this war started. Most likely, there’s a line of ships between Vykor and Sarth, enough to hold the Keshians in check.’

Martin nodded. ‘Which means Kesh is not reinforcing her armies by sea.’

‘So, the only large force they have in the region is the one that drove us out of Crydee,’ finished Brendan.

Martin squatted. ‘Let’s assume for the moment that whatever ships Kesh have are down south supporting the land assaults against Land’s End, Vykor and Krondor. So how does that leave us here in the north?’ He pulled out his belt knife and drew a half-circle in the earth. ‘We’re here,’ he said, sticking his blade point into the ground. He motioned towards what would be the west on his makeshift map. ‘If they bring those forces here, we can face them along one or two walls at most, without support, and not worry about the rest of our defences.’ He motioned to the south of the harbour gate. ‘Out there is a natural choke point between the docks and gate.’ He stood up. ‘Unless they mean to swim across from the western shore then attack up the road …’ His expression changed and he motioned for Brendan to follow him as he hurried over to the steps leading up to the ramparts.

At the top of the wall he could see the handful of men stationed along the battlement, all trying to appear keen and ready, but really just hiding their boredom. Martin knew the tedium of the watch only too well as he and his brothers had served more than their share; their father had ensured that his three sons understood every aspect of the soldier’s trade. There was an old soldier’s saying: War is protracted periods of boredom punctuated by short bursts of violence and terror; and so far, Martin had found that to be entirely true.

Scanning the docks below the wall and the foulborough between the city walls and the docks, he said, ‘How would you attack this city?’

Brendan moved to one of the crenels and leaned out slightly, his hands resting on the merlons to either side. He said, ‘I’d not wish to.’

‘I know, but if you did, how?’

His younger brother was silent as he continued to survey the landscape beyond the wall. His attention lingered for a moment on the keep high above the city and then dropped to the road from the west, across the harbourage and then the road to the south. Finally he said, ‘I’d come at the city from the east. It’s the weakest part of the defence.’

‘But to do that means you’d have to get your forces across the water to the western coast of the Principality. No ships, remember.’

Brendan said, ‘The Free Cities have ships.’

‘But to turn south and move on Port Natal leaves your rear exposed to … well, us.

‘And even if you get past the Rangers sniping at you from behind every tree, win past the city defenders, and get your hands on enough ships, you’ve still got to sail back north and get past Queg’s patrols.’ He stopped, thoughtful. ‘But your instincts are right, I’m certain. We just have to figure out how they intend to do it.’

‘Which brings us back to a raiding fleet from the south,’ said Brendan.

Martin shook his head. ‘Let’s leave the problem of how they do it to the Keshians. We must assume they can get to the western shore of the Bitter Sea. If I were their commander, I’d make straight for Questor’s View and come ashore on that beach to the north of the town.’

‘Which would put you only a day’s forced march south of that old fortification there,’ said Brendan, pointing across the water.

‘That would be a fine staging area. Leaving out the part about swimming across, invisible ships, or other magic as beside the point of having soldiers there, let’s assume the Keshian commander is as intelligent as you are.’ Martin turned. ‘Sergeant Ruther!’ he shouted.

‘Sir!’ came the answering reply from below.

The old sergeant might not always be in sight but he was always near at hand. Martin motioned for him to come up and despite his age the old soldier took the steps two at a time as he hurried to his young commander’s side. When he reached Martin, he said, ‘Sir?’

‘What can you tell us about that old fortification?’

‘Been abandoned for nearly a hundred years, I’ve been told. Built as a buttress against some nasty raids over the mountains and down along the coast. Seems things got calmer and one of the old barons decided that paying for a second garrison wasn’t necessary.’

‘How long would it take to ride down and have a look around?’

‘An hour to get there. It’s farther away than it looks from here. That’s no hill overlooking the beach and the road bends through the woodlands. Another hour to inventory, and then an hour to return. Be back by supper, sir.’

‘Get to it,’ said Martin.

As Ruther headed down the steps bellowing orders to form a detail to ride with him, a sentry at the far western corner shouted, ‘Patrol coming in!’

Martin turned to see four riders coming in at a canter; an urgent enough pace to indicate that there was news, but not fast enough to signal immediate danger. ‘Open the gates!’ he commanded.

Four riders entered, as grimy as their horses. The sudden early summer rains had quickly dried out and mud and dust covered both mount and horseman. The leader of the patrol, a newly promoted corporal named Jackson, dismounted and said, ‘Saw ’em, sir.’

‘Where?’

‘Their vanguard is about half a day’s ride the other side of the pass.’ The rangy, sandy-haired young man stopped and calculated. ‘Saw them at dawn yesterday, Commander, so they must be a day and a half, perhaps two days at the most, behind us.’

‘How many have they brought?’ asked Brendan.

‘The whole bunch, sir,’ said Jackson. He thanked the guard who handed him a water skin. He took a long pull from it, then said, ‘Seems like they don’t feel the need to leave much behind. It’s as if they don’t care about any attempt to retake Crydee from the south.’

‘Odd,’ said Martin. ‘So what numbers do you think we’ll see, and when?’

‘Five hundred horses, if I judged rightly; a bunch of those desert fellows with the leopardskin trim on their helmets, maybe three hundred; and what looks like heavy cavalry: lancers with baggage wagons. And infantry. At least a thousand Dog Soldiers, and twice that number of irregulars.’

‘Siege engines?’ asked Brendan.

‘I expect they took ’em apart after we left Crydee, and will be dragging them along, sir. Didn’t stay around to see if they were in the rear with those leopard fellows getting close. A couple of them gave chase, but they didn’t last long once we turned and ran.’

Martin studied the distant road through the gate. He had ordered entrapments and barriers erected, knowing full well they were more of nuisance to the enemy than a real deterrent. Still, anything that kept the Keshians from swarming over that hill and coming straight at the gate was to be earnestly wished for.

His eyes returned once again to the old keep on top of the hill overlooking the road. He had conducted a quick inspection of their defences a week earlier when he had first arrived. Now he wondered if he had been overly hasty.

‘Find Bolton,’ Martin said softly to his brother.

Captain Bolton appeared at a run behind Brendan less than five minutes later. He was a slender young man, the same age as Martin. He had been left in charge of the city’s defences by the Duke of Yabon, and until now, his only practical experience had been overseeing a squad of the Earl of LaMut’s personal guards, of which his uncle was commander. To the brothers’ surprise, he had turned out to be a willing worker and a quick study; his arrogant manner as defender of the city had been a mask to hide his uncertainty. But once Martin had defined his duties, Bolton had thrown himself into whatever task had been given him. Even Brendan had come to like him despite the fact they were both smitten by the mayor’s daughter, Lily.

Martin said to him, ‘What I need to know is if there is any sort of sally port or secret exit from that keep.’

Bolton said, ‘I don’t know, but I’ll find out.’

Martin nodded and Bolton ran off towards the stable nearest the gate.

Brendan smiled at his retreating back. ‘He’s still eager.’

‘He’s just like a lot of men,’ said Martin. ‘A total waste until you give them something meaningful to do, then you see the man’s true measure.’

‘What are you thinking?’ Brendan asked with a twitch of his head in the general direction of the keep.

‘If that Keshian commander can get control of that ridge up there,’ he pointed to the crest of the road and the clearings on either side, ‘he can erect those trebuchets and just pound this wall until it’s rubble. Then a single charge down the hill and he has this city.’

‘So you want to hit him in the arse?’ said Brendan, but his expression was serious.

‘If I can get a big enough company behind him, yes; but he’ll have pickets stationed a quarter of a mile out on either flank. If there’s a tunnel or an old escape route, or a sally port with a road downhill …’ He shrugged. ‘It’s worth a look.’

‘Yes it is.’

Martin motioned for the gates to be closed and said, ‘If I was that Keshian commander, I’d be sending scouts south of the pass road to seek out game trails and old farmers’ wagon paths, so I can infiltrate as many men as possible south of here without being seen.’

‘Should we send a patrol towards Natal?’

‘The Free City Rangers should be able to annoy the Keshians and prevent them moving too far south, so we can guess where they’ll pop up if they do infiltrate.’

Brendan said, ‘I’m glad it’s you having to puzzle all this out, brother. I’m a bit out of my depth.’

‘You’d do fine, I suspect,’ Martin said with a tired smile. Then he stared at the closed gates as if he could somehow will his sight through them, over the mountains and to the Keshian camp. ‘It’s just the waiting that tires me out.’

‘And a lack of sleep.’ With the evil grin of a younger brother Brendan said, ‘Besides being up all hours getting our defences in place, Bethany—’

Before he could finish, Martin raised a single finger before his brother’s nose. ‘Don’t!’

Stepping back, Brendan put his hands up, palms out, in a supplicating gesture. ‘I was only going to say that you spend a great deal of time talking to her after supper.’

Martin fixed his younger brother with an expression that meant he found his brother’s claim to be dubious, but he let it go. ‘She’s a wonder,’ he said in obvious admiration. ‘She’s done amazing things with the women and children in this town: about two-thirds of the women and almost all the children are leaving tomorrow for the north, to seek shelter in Zün. The women who are staying behind will cook, wash clothing, and care for the wounded.’

‘They will no doubt make good account of themselves if the Keshians do get over that wall.’

Martin nodded. ‘Kesh is never gentle with those they conquer. Rape and slavery is the best to hope for beyond a quick death.’

Both young men had read the histories and accounts of wars in the past. No nation could claim virtue in the throes of struggle; the Kingdom had been as brutal as anyone during the conquest of their neighbours as they extended their borders in ages past, but those had been wars of expansion and those who had been conquered were now considered as citizens as much as the first raiders who left the island Kingdom of Rillanon.

Kesh’s wars were of subjugation. Only ‘Truebloods’ were granted full citizenship. Those who served the Empire and had lived around the massive lake known as the Overn Deep for generations were counted as lesser citizens, though some had risen to high office. Everyone else was regarded as a subject. Even colonists who had moved to distant lands, like the Far Coast and Natal – the ancient province of Bosania – and the Island of Queg, became lesser subjects. And as a result, Kesh’s Legionaries and Dog Soldiers had been putting down rebellions for centuries.

The results were uniform. When Kesh conquered, she occupied: indigenous people were driven out, killed or enslaved.

It was that knowledge that kept Martin from feeling like a total failure. He had abandoned his family’s castle, but had he remained he would be dead, or perhaps an object of ransom. There would be no truce with Kesh. Their only hope was to withstand whatever assault came this way, and hold out against the return of the Duke of Yabon’s forces. When they arrived, he would lead his men of Crydee home and drive the Keshian trespassers from every mill, farm, mine, and fishing community within the Duchy.

Brendan saw his brother’s expression and said, ‘What?’

Letting out a long breath, Martin said, ‘Nothing. Everything. Just a lot of thoughts.’ He glanced around as if he might find one more task that needed his attention.

‘Go back to the mayor’s house and get some rest. Talk with Bethany now and get some sleep later.’

Martin let his shoulders slump as he relaxed. ‘I just—’

‘I know,’ said his brother putting his hand on Martin’s arm. ‘If anything needs to be done, I’ll do it.’ Then he grinned, and said, ‘Or I’ll send for you. Is that all right?’

‘Yes,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll never admit it to anyone else, but I couldn’t have pulled this together without your help, little brother.’

Brendan said, ‘I would be lost without your leadership, Martin. But I would give all of my inheritance to have Hal here.’

Martin nodded in earnest agreement. ‘I, too.’ Their brother had been groomed to rule, and was a far better leader than his two younger siblings. ‘He has a definite knack for this sort of thing.’

‘You’re not doing badly, honestly.’

‘I wonder what he’s up to right now?’

‘Probably trying to find a way to get home,’ answered Brendan. ‘Little chance there, I should think. Kesh probably has Roldem bottled up, or Roldem’s now allied with Kesh and Hal’s been arrested or is in hiding.’

‘You think like Father,’ said Martin. ‘I never gave a thought to what might be occurring in Roldem.’ A moment of sadness passed between them: they’d had little time to truly mourn the loss of their father.

Finally Martin broke the mood and said, ‘Come, we have work to do.’

‘Raiders!’

The warning echoed across the silent square behind the harbour gates and was repeated by every sentry along the wall. Martin was dressed and out of the door of his room in the mayor’s house before the alarm bell stopped. He was joined by Brendan as the two brothers nearly collided at the top of the stairs.

Two young women were waiting for them as they reached the main floor of the house: Bethany, daughter of the Earl of Carse, and Lily, the mayor’s daughter. Bethany was sharing Lily’s room at the back of the house and both women were wearing heavy robes over their nightgowns.

Before either could voice a question, Martin said, ‘Get dressed and be ready to ride north if I give the order.’ He kissed Bethany absently on the cheek and was quickly away while she stood there for a moment.

She looked at Lily and shook her head. ‘Be ready to run? I don’t think so.’ She turned towards her host’s room and said, ‘Are you coming?’

‘Where?’ asked Lily. She and Bethany had taken an instant liking to one another, but Lily was often amazed at what she thought of as Bethany’s rough ways. She rode a horse like a man, wearing trousers! She was practised with weapons, and thought nothing of fine clothing, jewellery, fragrances, or cosmetics. Still, the younger girl liked Bethany a great deal and because of her rank the mayor had been reluctant to stem her more outlandish behaviour; a condition Lily exploited at every chance. Bethany’s expression was one that communicated the answer to where was obvious.

Lily’s eyes widened as she realized Bethany was going to ignore Martin’s orders, then she nodded and grinned as she shouted, ‘Wait for me!’

The raid was well underway by the time the young women had changed into something more appropriate. A few inhabitants still ran northward, many carrying their most precious belongings in sacks over their shoulders or in packs on their backs, but at the foot of the city’s wall, no other civilians were in sight. Columns of soldiers were lined up on either side of the street, awaiting orders to mount one flight of steps or another, flank either side of the gate, or be ready to repel invaders should the gates fall.

Flickering light in the sky above the gate was a sign of fire, and Bethany ran up the right-hand steps to the top of the wall.

Martin and Brendan stood talking as Captain Bolton pushed passed them. ‘Excuse me—’ He stopped. ‘Lily?’ He glanced at Bethany and added, ‘My lady?’

Bethany wore her travel clothes: riding breeches, a linen shirt under a leather tunic, and riding boots. She was also sporting her composite bow and a hip-quiver full of broadhead arrows.

‘Ah, I don’t think you should be here—’ he started, but Bethany planted her left hand on his chest and gave him the slightest shove.

‘Don’t let us keep you from carrying out your orders, Captain.’ She swept past the wide-eyed young man.

Lily shot him a quick smile as she also darted past him to follow Bethany.

Martin turned just as Bethany arrived, and if he was surprised to see her there, he didn’t show it. A quick play of expressions across his face betrayed his internal debate about what to do with her, but he finally decided that telling her to do anything was futile. Without her asking, he said, ‘Raiders.’

She glanced over the wall, and despite the night’s gloom could see the dark figures carrying torches down near the docks. ‘What are they doing?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know, but I’m not about to risk men tonight to find out. The docks and foulborough are deserted and anything worth saving was fetched inside the city walls days ago. Besides a couple of rotten fishing boats at anchor, there’s nothing there of value.’

‘They’re setting fires,’ said Lily.

Brendan leaned back a little, looking behind his brother and Bethany so he could clearly see the girl. ‘Lily,’ he said with a nod, ‘you shouldn’t be here.’

Her eyes got wide and, feigning surprise, she said, ‘Oh?’

Brendan smiled. ‘My brother won’t say it to her,’ he nodded at Bethany, ‘so I felt the need to say it on his behalf, even though I know telling Bethany to do anything is a lost cause.’

Martin ignored their banter. He looked up to the sentry on the closest tower and shouted up to him, ‘What do you see?’

‘Just what you do, sir. They’re setting fires all over the docks.’

Brendan said, ‘What are they up to?’

Martin glanced at the bow in Bethany’s hand and said, ‘If you’re staying, you must do two things: follow my orders exactly and don’t get killed.’

She kissed him. ‘Tell me what to do.’

He glanced around and said, ‘Stand over there,’ he pointed to a crenel, ‘and watch for anyone coming along the wall opposite you. You’ll have to lean out a bit, so don’t overbalance. I don’t want to open the gate and come out to fetch you back in.’

She smiled and said, ‘But you would.’

He ignored the flirting, knowing she was hiding her own fear at possibly being under enemy fire again. ‘Shoot anything on that side of the wall that gets close to the gate.’

Martin turned to the general assembly of soldiers gathering in the square and shouted, ‘Sergeant Magwin!’

‘Sir!’ came the instant response from below.

‘Archers to the walls, and form a flying company opposite the gate!’

‘Yes, sir!’ shouted the old sergeant from Crydee.

‘Sergeant Ruther,’ said Martin in a lower tone, knowing that his most senior officer from Crydee would have by now found his commander on the wall.

‘Sir?’

He turned to look at the grey-haired fighter. ‘Archers are to shoot anything that crosses the outer killing ground, especially anyone carrying torches or oil near the gate.’

‘Sir,’ he said and set about at once relaying Martin’s orders.

Ancient cities often outgrew their walls, especially during times of peace; a foulborough grew beyond the outer precincts of many of them, such as Krondor, LaMut, and all the great eastern cities. In some cities like Salador, the inner walled city was the smallest quarter. But the barons of Ylith had been cautious men, who knew how easily the invaders under the Emerald Queen had swept in through the foulborough and over the walls. Since then, no building had been permitted against the city wall behind the fishing town and docks area, creating an effective bailey where archers could punish any attackers.

While a long peace had existed between the invasion of the Emerald Queen’s army and this Keshian attack, vigilance had been bred into the rulers of Ylith. Moreover, the natural slope of the landscape and the curve of the harbour caused the main gate to the city to be set at an angle unfavourable to attack. There was no easy way to bring a ram to bear on the gate and move it into position for a run. Unlike Crydee, the city gates of Ylith were massive, their huge hinges had knuckles the size of a small tree bole, with three-foot leaves on each side held in place by massive iron bolts driven through the foot-thick hardwood. They were as stout as steel after years of drying in the sun, being oiled and tended with preservatives. The Keshians would have to stand on the crest of the road and hurl stones at the gate with their trebuchets, to see how long that portion of the wall could take a pounding. Martin knew they could take weeks of damage before giving out, long enough for relief to arrive from the south.

As he thought of that, he understood. ‘I know what they are doing.’ Brendan and the girls looked at him as Martin explained, ‘This isn’t an attack on our gates. They are trying to prevent any Kingdom fleet from landing.’

Brendan appeared confused, then comprehension dawned. ‘The piers!’

‘Burned to the waterline,’ Martin said, nodding.

‘The underwater pilings would stove in any hull that got near,’ finished his brother.

They thought of the three long piers that extended out from the quayside and imagined the tree-sized wooden supports jutting just below the surface.

Bethany said, ‘The tide would carry any ship right into them.’

‘They would have to anchor off shore and row men in to land!’ added Brendan.

It was Lily who said, ‘I know that slows things down, but they’d still come ashore to relieve us, right?’

Martin scanned the tableau before him; the flames had begun to take the buildings nearest the docks and the scene below was quickly growing clearer. ‘Not if they have to withstand … The old fortress!’

‘What about it?’ asked Brendan. Sergeant Ruther had inspected it the day before on Martin’s order, and had reported back that it was run-down, but the walls were still stout; with a little work it could easily be made defensible.

‘Sergeant Ruther!’ Martin bellowed.

‘Sir!’ As ever, the answer came at once from below.

‘Open the sally port and get a detachment of cavalry down to the old fortress! Round up a company of foot soldiers and send them on afterwards. At first light I want carpenters and stonemasons down there starting repairs!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I thought we weren’t going to utilize that fort,’ said his brother.

‘We wouldn’t if we were only facing an assault from one quarter.’ He paused and let out a slow tired breath. ‘We have to deny them any possible foothold on the eastern shore.’

‘Do you think they mean to seize it?’ asked Brendan.

‘It’s what I would do if I was going to attempt a landing,’ said Martin. ‘If they get a foothold on that side of the harbour mouth, install some catapults or trebuchets into that fortress, they can deny any reinforcements a safe landing, and when they’re ready to attack they can hit us from two sides at once. We would not only have to defend this gate, but the eastern gate as well, and that would spread our archers too thinly. We don’t have enough men to deal with an assault from two sides.

‘And if we were forced to sally against an eastern assault, we’d have to ride out of the north gate and circle through miles of pasture lands and hedgerows, with no clear line of attack until we reach that beach—’

‘Where their archers would cut us to pieces,’ finished Brendan.

Martin considered the possibilities for a moment, then shouted, ‘Sergeant Ruther!’

The old soldier reappeared at Martin’s side. ‘Sir?’

‘Where do we now stand with archers? How many do we have?’

‘Those who can fire a bow, sir, or those who can actually hit a target?’

Martin hesitated, then said, ‘Fire a bow.’

‘A hundred and fifty, give or take a few,’ answered Ruther.

‘Take thirty of our best and that flying company, and occupy the old fortress to oversee the refitting personally. Build a fire under the carpenters and masons if you must, but I want it defensible by yesterday.’ Suddenly a thought came to him. ‘And take that miniature ballista with you.’ He pointed to where the portal ballista rested in the wagon that had carried it down from LaMut. ‘Aim it where you think you can do the most damage to the Keshians if they try to seize that emplacement. I have a feeling,’ he added in lower tones, ‘that they’re going to try to ferry men across and hit us from the east as they assault this gate.’

‘Sir!’ said Ruther. ‘May I suggest that we might do well with some oil, sir?’

‘Take what you need, but if you use it, try not to burn the place …’ Martin stopped. For a long moment he was silent. Then he said, ‘No. Take as much oil as you need, and if it comes to it, burn that fortification to the ground. If we lose it, we’ll deny the Keshians its use.’

Martin glanced at his brother and the sergeant, and then turned his gaze back to the harbour and sea beyond. ‘Kesh won’t try to land troops in small boats if they can’t gain a foothold. If we place archers in the trees on the hills above the harbour, there’s no safe place for them to muster for an assault. More than half would be dead before they got to the road.’ He nodded.

‘Well done, sir,’ said Ruther with obvious approval. He turned and ran off.

As flames leapt skyward and the entire foulborough became consumed, Brendan said, ‘What do we do next?’

Martin glanced west, then towards the fire, and then eastward, as if trying to see something in the distance that might be approaching from any side of the city. Finally he rested against the stones, already feeling the heat from the fire behind, and looked northward. ‘We wait, and hope the night holds no more surprises for us.’

• CHAPTER THREE •
Attack

MIRANDA POINTED TOWARDS THE SMOKE IN THE SKY.

‘Fires,’ said the being once known as Child.

Belog, who now called himself Nakor, nodded. ‘Big ones.’

They were riding in a wagon towards the north gate of Ylith, having discovered in LaMut the single most frustrating fact of their new identities: they might have had Miranda and Nakor’s memories imposed over their own, but they didn’t possess their abilities.

Two days of trying to reassert their human abilities, one aggravating attempt after another, had left them both exasperated and at a loss. It was as if they knew the language, yet when they spoke only gibberish emerged. They still possessed their demonic abilities, despite their human appearances, but no hint of the prodigious power that Miranda once possessed now remained. Even in her human guise she was physically more powerful than the strongest human warrior many times over, as well as being faster than the swiftest elf. Her magic was what it had been in the demon realm: an ability to inflict destruction at an astonishing rate. But even the most meagre of Miranda’s human magic remained beyond her reach.

Her first thought had been to find Miranda’s husband, Pug, for while she knew she was not really his late wife, she still possessed all of Miranda’s memories and emotions. For the very first time, a demon appreciated the concept of love as mortals understood it, and felt the pain of separation from her husband and sons; or rather Miranda’s husband and sons.

The demon in Miranda’s form knew the memories had been grafted on to its own, and how: another ploy by the Trickster God, Kalkin. Yet they were so vivid, both the good and the bad, that it was impossible to remain objective about the life imprinted over her own. Child possessed mere days of memory, while Miranda’s stretched well beyond a century. Her false human identity overwhelmed her true demon consciousness. The same held true for Nakor, as the demon known as Belog now thought of himself, although his demon memories were years longer than Child’s. But while Nakor had possessed abilities, Belog had only possessed knowledge, so his inability to access Nakor’s ‘tricks’ was not a particular source of frustration to the demon-turned-human.

He found it amusing that Nakor was by nature far more patient and content to accept things as they were than Miranda; if a woman over a century old could be called ‘youthfully impetuous’ it was Miranda.

One thing became truer by the day: their human consciousnesses were slowly displacing the demonic, and both had begun to feel as if they had somehow simply died human and reawakened in these new bodies. If anything had eased Nakor’s annoyance at his changed status, it had been the wry amusement he felt watching Miranda’s complete frustration over hers.

Lacking the ability to transport themselves to Sorcerer’s Isle magically, they had been forced to seek another means of conveyance. So a ride on a supply wagon had been purchased, allowing the former demons to discuss their situation as they slowly wended their way southward. To the others travelling in this tiny caravan they looked like nothing out of the ordinary, no more unusual than any pairing of an attractive middle-aged woman with an odd-looking old man, Keshian by his garb and complexion. With the war underway, there were many people on the road, some moving northward, away from the pending Keshian assault, others south, towards potential riches.

Nakor and Miranda had both lived a very long time, and had known many wars, and so neither was surprised by the flow of people towards the coming bloody conflict. There was always a direct relationship between risk and reward in wartime.

Over the years both of them had witnessed wars fought by armies outnumbered by their camp followers: prostitutes, gamblers, weapons sellers, armour makers, tailors, skinners, bowyers, food suppliers, all willing to risk harm, even death, in exchange for a possible windfall of gold. Miranda’s memory even recalled one bold and enterprising farmer who had rushed his small herd of cattle to an invading army’s quartermaster and sold it for gold, mere hours before the commander ordered his riders out to forage for food; he had managed to sell what they would have pillaged anyway. Miranda had always wondered what had become of that farmer.

Despite the odd musings created by memories that were at once familiar yet new, the attention of the two demons-turned-human was drawn to the south, where the afternoon sky was thick with smoke clouds above the city.

The wagon slowed and the driver turned and said, ‘Looks like Ylith has fallen.’

Miranda said, ‘There may be fires, but that doesn’t mean it’s fallen. If the gates had been breached, we’d see a flood of retreating people streaming past us now.’

‘Well, I’m going to wait and see. No risk in pausing,’ said the old teamster, ‘but a lot of risk in blundering forward.’

Miranda jumped down from the back of the wagon and saw that the other teams in the small caravan had also pulled over to the verge of the road. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said the demon in human form. ‘We’ll wander down and take a look and if we don’t come back …’ She saw the face of Nakor grinning. ‘Assume the worst.’

They set off down the road at quick pace and when they were out of earshot, Nakor laughed loudly. ‘Assume the worst?’

‘Well, I wasn’t going to tell him we weren’t coming back, and if he wants to sit there waiting for someone to blow the all-clear, he’s picked the wrong trade.’

They moved rapidly, their demonic strength and endurance extant under their human appearance. Miranda and Nakor, as they now thought of themselves, had no idea why they were here, even if they knew Kalkin was behind their existence. But they trusted that it was for a reason and an important one, and they knew that to uncover that reason, the most logical place to begin was where the most powerful practitioners of magic resided: Sorcerer’s Isle.

Moreover, though she said nothing to Nakor, Miranda ached to see her family. In her memory she had just withstood a brutal demon attack on her home and had successfully driven them off with her husband, son, and the other magicians when a wounded demon had leapt from feigned death and ripped out half of her neck, causing almost instantaneous death. The shock of the attack had made the details vague and since Nakor had died before the invasion, she had no witness with whom to speak. She didn’t know if her husband had survived, though she counted it likely, nor how her children fared. She needed to know, and it was slowly becoming an overwhelming urge.

Within minutes of leaving the woodlands, they started down a gentle sloping road and could clearly see the city. The fire appeared to rage beyond the city, perhaps on the docks or through some ships near the quayside, for although a canopy of smoke hung over Ylith, no pillars of soot and ash rose within the walls. Still, the defenders of the city were vigilant, and as Miranda and Nakor approached the gate, they were challenged from the wall.

‘Who’s there?’ The voice sounded very young and not terribly confident.

‘Travellers,’ answered Miranda. She glanced at Nakor who grinned at her statement of the obvious. ‘Who seek shelter.’

‘The gates are to stay shut. Commander’s orders.’

‘We’re hardly an invading force from Kesh,’ said Miranda.

‘He looks Keshian,’ said the owner of the high-pitched voice, now obviously a boy wearing an ill-fitting helm as he leaned out between two merlons to point at Nakor.

‘I travel a lot!’ shouted Nakor, his grin widening.

Miranda said, ‘This may prove difficult.’

‘You want to just leap up there?’ asked the short gambler.

Miranda looked dubious. ‘I might be able to, but could you?’

‘I’m more nimble than I look,’ said Nakor, his grin fading as if she had hurt his feelings. Then the smile returned. ‘Besides, it would terrify the boy.’

Looking up at the downturned face above them, Miranda shouted, ‘When will the commander order the gates open to travellers?’

‘I don’t know,’ answered the boy. He kept glancing over his shoulder as if expecting someone to arrive and tell him what to do.

‘Why don’t you run off and find someone to ask?’ said Miranda, and the boy nodded and vanished from sight.

‘I was about to say that,’ said Nakor with a relieved expression.

Glancing around, Miranda wrapped her arms around her as if chilled, though the air was balmy. ‘It’s so difficult at times.’

Nakor nodded. ‘I think the longer we abide in this realm, the more these memories will begin to feel like our true ones, and the memories we have of our home realm will fade to nothing.’

Miranda nodded. ‘I sometimes struggle to remember being Child.’ She looked for a moment at Nakor, once Belog the Archivist of King Dahun, Demon Lord of one of the five most powerful realms in the Fifth Plane of existence. ‘My earliest recollections of my mother, and even those of meeting you, are fading and becoming dream-like.’

Nakor grinned. ‘One thing remains constant: no matter the realm in which we find ourselves, or what manner of being we become, life will be a struggle.’ He shrugged. ‘That, in its own way at least, is reassuring.’

‘What you told me—’ She shook her head as if struggling to find the correct context. ‘What Nakor’s memories …’ She sighed in resignation. ‘What you told me in the Dasati realm about Miranda’s father, do you think that will happen to us?’

Nakor cocked his head slightly as if pondering the thought for a moment, then said, ‘If you mean do I think we shall die once our purpose here is over … ?’ Again he shrugged. ‘I can only speculate. There are differences. From what Pug and I surmised, Macros’s memories were overlaid on a dying Dasati, and his life extended through the Trickster God’s intercession, but the Dasati was verging on death already. We on the other hand, despite our appearances, are still demons in the prime of our power, thanks to your generosity in our home realm.’

‘You mean in not devouring you?’

‘Among other things,’ said Nakor with a widening grin. ‘It is the nature of our race to view most things as a struggle, combat or a transaction, but now that we have all these human memories and emotions … I remember … The last thing Nakor thought was how interesting his life was.’ The grin broadened. ‘And that, I must say, was an understatement.’ For an instant the grin faded. ‘If only all of these humans understood how wondrous their lives could be … This being that I’m becoming, this Nakor, had amazing travels and experiences. The people he knew and … loved.’ He was silent for a moment, then said, ‘What a powerful thing that is: love. I think Dahun attempted to engender that in our people; I think that is why your mother gladly gave her life for yours.’

Miranda’s head tilted to one side slightly, the one remaining gesture that was purely Child’s.

‘From my – Belog’s – point of view, I have been given the gift of another’s lifetime, the feelings, experiences, knowledge … From Nakor’s point of view, his life just got more interesting. I’m sure we have a purpose.’ He narrowed his gaze and said, ‘Kalkin may be many things, but even the gods have their limits, and for him to take the trouble to “cheat”, as he called it, and play hob with what is and is not permitted across the realms …’ He nodded once emphatically. ‘No, we are not here because of a whim. We are here to do something vital.’

‘Love is one of the reasons I must find Pug,’ said Miranda. ‘Just to see him …’ Her eyes welled up with tears and she wiped them away. ‘Damn, I know these aren’t my memories, but they feel like they are.’

Nakor said, ‘So many questions.’

‘You seem delighted about that,’ she said, regaining her composure.

‘Always. Learn a simple answer and, well, it’s over; but a really good question,’ he winked, ‘now, that’s worth something.’ Then his expression darkened. ‘We need to find out why Kalkin did this to us, changed us and gave us those memories.’

Miranda looked surprised. ‘I thought that was obvious.’

‘Few things really are.’

‘We need to warn Pug about the Dread.’

‘Pug is very smart. He should have figured that out by now. There is something else.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. But Pug will know of the Dread by now. He’s the smartest man I ever met.’

Miranda smiled slightly. ‘He used to say you were the smartest man he’d ever met.’

With an evil twinkle in his eye, Nakor said, ‘That’s why I know he’s the smartest man I ever met.’

Miranda was about to say something arch, when the small door set into the large city gate opened and a man wearing an old, ill-fitting tabard over simple work clothes appeared. ‘Who might you be, then?’ he asked.

Miranda said, ‘Two travellers trying to find a safe place to rest.’

The old man said, ‘This city is hardly that, or did you miss the blaze to the south? We’re at war.’

‘Which is why we wish to get inside,’ she said.

The old man looked tired and his expression revealed his unhappiness at being roused from his rest by the boy who had fetched him to the gate. If he wanted to know why this unlikely pair was on the road alone after dark, he put the question aside and said, ‘Well, you two don’t look like a Keshian assault brigade, so I guess there’s no harm letting you come in. There’s an inn a bit further down this boulevard, the Black Ram. Travellers are being housed there until we can sort out who’s who.’ He hiked his thumb at the boy who stood behind him at the door. ‘Teddy will see you there.’ He moved aside, motioning for them to enter.

They passed through the gate and followed the eager boy down the street. This portion of the city was shuttered and for the most part had been abandoned, though signs of a few determined souls lingered: a blacksmith’s furious hammering echoed from a nearby street, and one family had obviously kept their home; the windows were open to the warm afternoon air, despite the acrid smoke which gave a bitter tang to the air. A wagon rolled down towards the city’s southern wall in the distance, but otherwise most of this quarter of the city was still. The boy moved at a good pace and soon he indicated an inn on their right. They nodded their thanks and entered the great room.

As inns went, it was one of the biggest either Nakor or Miranda had seen, and they had seen quite a few. ‘I don’t remember this inn being so large,’ said Miranda as Nakor peered around the room for someone in charge.

‘When was the last time you stayed at an inn in Ylith?’ he asked, spying a serving woman bringing ale to a table in the back room.

She calculated. ‘About thirty to thirty-five years ago.’

‘Things change,’ he said with his usual grin and motioned for her to accompany him through the crowd. ‘Lots of travellers from the Free Cities, Krondor, and Queg must come through here on business in LaMut and Yabon. It was already pretty prosperous when we … left.’ He waved around the room. ‘Lots of business for an enterprising innkeeper.’

About thirty people cluttered the hall, occupying every seat and every table; they even stood along the walls, which were blessed with a series of waist-high shelves. At the rear of the room they found a servant who looked cheerful despite being nearly overwhelmed by the demand for her services. A plump woman of middle years, she turned and said, ‘I’ll be with you good folks in a moment.’ Then she returned her attention to the four young men she had just served. ‘That’s a silver for four,’ she said.

‘Why don’t you wait until we’re done?’ asked one of the young men sitting at the tiny corner table. He was obviously a labourer of some kind, a stonemason’s apprentice, given his large arms and shoulders and the covering of stone dust on the apron he wore over his heavy woollen shirt. His three companions were likewise scruffy and ill-kempt; none of them appeared to have shaved in a week.

The woman laughed. ‘As crowded as it is, I might not get back here until an hour after you left.’

‘Where would we go?’ He waved towards the door. ‘We step outside and one of those watchmen will fetch us back.’

Trying to keep the tone light, the woman laughed again. ‘Those silly boys?’ Her expression turned serious. ‘I’m sorry, lads, but I have my instructions. Pay as you go.’

Miranda could smell trouble coming and glanced around the room. The bartender looked burly enough to handle two, even three of these boys, but he was on the other side of the room. She glanced at Nakor, who nodded. The room was packed with people who were tired, bored, irritable and drunk. It was ripe for a brawl or a full-on riot.

Miranda gently pushed the serving woman aside, leaned over and said, ‘Pay up, that’s a good fellow.’

‘I am not your good fellow, woman,’ said the young man with a defiant sneer. ‘I’m a mason from Natal trying to get home after a long job away. I’m a man whose ship was heading south before we reached this miserable city.’ His voice rose. ‘I’m a man who has been shut up in this inn since then, with no way to get home, and I’m in no mood to argue with whores!’ He took a drunken backhanded swing at the serving woman who nimbly stepped aside.

Her eyes widened and she shouted, ‘Whores!’

The man was half out of his seat when Miranda reached out, put her hand on his shoulder, and shoved him back into his seat so hard he cried out in pain, the pop of his shoulder joint loud enough to be heard. She continued to squeeze and the effect was instant: his eyes widened and he opened his mouth, but was unable to make a sound save a slight whimper. Colour drained from his face and tears started streaming down his cheeks.

She released him and turned to the serving woman. ‘You all right?’

The dumbfounded woman could only nod, and the mason’s three companions backed their chairs against the walls in a futile attempt to put more space between themselves and this insane, but obviously powerful, woman.

Miranda stared at them. ‘Where do you idiots sleep?’

One of the gasping man’s companions said in a terrified whisper, ‘Basement.’

Miranda simply said, ‘Go!’

All four men struggled quickly to get out of their seats, two of them helping the injured man away. Nakor laughed as they vanished into the crowd. ‘Well, now we can sit down,’ he said.

As they did so, the serving woman said, ‘Thank you.’ She blinked for a moment like a barn owl caught in lantern-light, then her happy expression returned. ‘What can I get you?’

‘What have you to eat?’ asked Miranda as the famished Nakor nodded enthusiastically.

‘I’ve some mutton on the spit that’s edible. We’ve almost been eaten bare by this lot. It’s lovely to make coin, but when there’s nothing to buy …’

Miranda beckoned her closer, then spoke softly. ‘There’s a wagon train from LaMut parked outside the city walls waiting for someone to let them in. Good, fresh food, flour, butter, everything you need. You might want to tell your employer and have him send someone down there to make a deal before the other innkeepers in town find out.’

The woman brightened and said, ‘Thank you, I’ll tell him straight away!’ Then she leaned over. ‘Got some stew about to finish, and there are a few hot loaves of bread left.’ She gestured over her shoulder. ‘My dad is trying to keep ’em drunk enough to be happy, but not so drunk we can’t keep them in line. Those four from the Free Cities have been complaining all day and most of yesterday, like no one else here is suffering.’ Her smile returned. ‘Drink?’

‘Two of whatever you think is best,’ said Nakor.

‘Two dwarven ales it is, then,’ she said. ‘Back in a moment.’

As the serving woman vanished into the crowd a tall figure made his way through the press until he stood before their table. He was blond with pointed ears and broad shoulders and was clad in a dark brown leather tunic, trousers, and boots. He held a long bow which he now placed butt end on the floor in front of them. Smiling quizzically, he said, ‘You always did know how to make an entrance.’

Both Miranda and Nakor glanced up and then broke into broad smiles. Miranda said, ‘Calis!’

The son of the Elf Queen and Warleader Tomas of Elvandar leaned forward slightly and said in a lower voice. ‘Aren’t you two supposed to be dead?’

Nakor laughed, and Miranda motioned for Calis to sit. The blond half-elf, half-human, part-Valheru had been a close friend of both Nakor and Miranda, and for a time much more than friends with her. Nakor had sailed with Calis on a voyage to Novindus in the early stages of the Serpent War, the invasion of the Kingdom by the demon possessing the body of the Emerald Queen. In an odd twist of fate, the Emerald Queen had once been married to Nakor and later became Miranda’s mother.

Calis sat down and Miranda leaned over to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek; then Nakor shook his hand.

The serving woman returned with two flagons of ale. ‘Sir?’ she asked Calis who shook his head.

When she had departed, Calis said, ‘A story, then?’

Miranda reached out and put her hand on his. ‘I am not who I appear to be.’ She felt a strong sense of affection for this being, and remembered that Miranda and Calis had been lovers for a time before she had met Pug.

She could feel his fingers tense ever so slightly under her hand, and pressed down lightly in a gesture of reassurance. ‘It is not deceit, nor trickery, but a strange twist of fate which brings us here.’ She glanced at Nakor who nodded.

‘If you are not two of my oldest and dearest friends, returned to me, then … ?’

‘It’s a long story and hard to believe,’ said Nakor. Grinning, he added, ‘Then again our little band of desperate men saw some things terrible and wondrous to behold on our travels, didn’t we?’

Calis nodded. He gave Miranda a pointed look. She returned a sad smile and said, ‘I remember everything.’ She gave his hand another slight squeeze. ‘But those memories are not mine.’

Calis said nothing.

Nakor asked, ‘When was the last time you saw Pug?’

‘A year or so ago. He came to visit my mother and Tomas.’ He looked at Miranda. ‘He was still saddened by your loss, as well as Caleb and Marie.’

Miranda couldn’t help but gasp, and tears gathered in her eyes. ‘Caleb? Marie?’ She tightened her grip on his hand; a lesser being would have endured broken fingers. Caleb had been Miranda’s youngest child and Marie, his wife.

Calis softly said, ‘In the attack that took you.’

Miranda looked away for a second, then finally she composed herself and asked, ‘The boys?’

Calis squeezed her hand in return and said, ‘Tad, Zane, and Jommy are well. There were other losses when the demons attacked your island, students and two of Pug’s teachers, but given the severity …’

‘I remember.’ She said nothing for a long moment, and then lowered her eyes. ‘I will tell you everything, but not now.’ A sad sound, barely a whisper of a breath, was followed by silence.

Nakor said, ‘Not that I’m unhappy to see you, old friend, but what coincidence brings you here on the very day we arrive?’

‘Not such a coincidence, I’m on an errand for my mother. I carry word to young Lord Martin that those sent to us from Crydee to care for are safe in Elvandar.’

Composing herself, Miranda asked, ‘Why come this way? Why not take the straighter course south across the River Boundary to Crydee?’

‘Because Martin is not in Crydee, he’s here in Ylith.’

‘They have kept you waiting here?’ She indicated the inn with a quick wave of her hand.

‘They haven’t,’ said Calis. ‘I saw Martin yesterday and paused here on my way north.’

Miranda said, ‘Because you had never spent a night in an overcrowded ale house with too many strangers who haven’t bathed in weeks?’

Calis grinned and Nakor laughed. The Prince of Elvandar said, ‘Whatever you may be now, some things about you are exactly as I remember them.’ He looked across the room to the far corner. Where the bar ended, a small additional room had once been added; there was a step leading down to a pair of tables that had been placed together for a large group. All of the chairs had been moved to allow a band of workers to sit together, save one. A figure wearing a dark cloak sat in the corner, his arms crossed over his chest, surveying the room. He was staring directly at Calis.

‘Ah,’ said Miranda taking in the figure’s hair and ears. ‘One of yours?’

‘Hardly,’ said Nakor. ‘So, you were curious about that dark elf and decided to linger?’

Calis nodded. ‘I was curious to see what a moredhel was doing in Ylith.’

‘And no doubt he’s curious to know what a prince of Elvandar is doing in Ylith,’ said Nakor.

Miranda glanced at the figure half-hidden in shadows and said, ‘How did you know he was moredhel?’

‘It’s in our nature to recognize our own kind, and those who are not. He travels as an ocedhel, one of the elves from across the sea, but his disguise is flawed.’

Nakor peered at the figure for a bit and sat back. ‘I can see nothing.’ He squinted, then shook his head. ‘Under the table?’

Calis nodded. ‘The boots.’

Nakor laughed. ‘Trust a moredhel to be unwilling to sacrifice his boots.’ Then the little man’s expression turned serious. ‘Or his sword, I expect. Though I wager you’ll have to kill him to get a good look at it.’

‘How do you know so much of dark elves?’ Miranda asked Nakor.

‘I travel,’ was his answer.

Again Miranda was struck by the absurdity of their two sets of memories. Belog had never travelled further than the distance from the archivists’ quarters to Dahun’s palace and back, until he had left the city and encountered Child. Nakor had travelled to every distant part of Midkemia and worlds beyond.

‘He does look like a traveller from across the sea, like Calis’s wife,’ granted Nakor. Miranda had rescued Ellia and her sons during the war of the Emerald Queen, across the sea in Novindus and had taken them to Elvandar, where they had met Calis.

Calis said, ‘His tunic, trousers, and cloak are simple enough, and he wears no armour, but that’s a bad bow: it’s cracked and has been re-glued and banded with leather, so he’s no archer. And he wears fine boots of a craft common to the Dark Brotherhood.’ He used the human name for the moredhel. ‘Those are unmistakable, and from what I can see, well made. He’s important, perhaps even a clan chieftain.’

‘Well, that does raise the question of what he’s doing here,’ said Miranda.

‘Renegade?’ asked Nakor of Calis.

Calis shrugged. ‘Rare, but not unheard of, although they rarely venture this far south; there are too many places between here and the northland for a moredhel to die alone. The few who are expelled from their clans are usually found in the east, among humans who traffic in weapons, drugs, and slaves.’

‘A spy, then?’ said Miranda, obviously intrigued by the speculation.

‘If he is, he’s a bad one,’ said Nakor, standing up. ‘Well, the best thing to do is ask him.’

Before either Calis or Miranda could utter another word, Nakor had worked his way through the crowd to stand before the dark-haired elf in the corner. With as friendly an expression as the demon-in-human form could manage, he said, ‘Excuse me, but my friends and I were wondering what you are doing here?’

Dark eyes regarded Nakor for a long moment, before the dark elf spoke, not in the King’s tongue but in heavily accented Common Tongue, the trading language of Triagia. ‘Go away, little man.’

Nakor’s grin broadened even more. ‘We could have some fun. I could tell this crowd exactly what you are. Many are from the north and have no love for your people; and then we can see how long you survive. Or, you could simply answer my question.’

Lowering his voice so those at the next table couldn’t overhear, Arkan of the Ardanien said, ‘Or, I could simply ignore you until you go away!’

Nakor kept grinning. ‘I can be very persistent and patient.’

‘And annoying, apparently.’ Arkan stared Nakor in the eyes, then suddenly stood up and pressed past the little man. With no apology, the moredhel chieftain pushed his way through the crowd eliciting complaints and muttered threats.

Reaching Calis and Miranda, he spoke in a language only Miranda and Nakor could understand. It was High Elven, the common ancestor language of all branches of the elves. ‘Had you wished to know my reason for being here, Prince of Elvandar, you could have simply asked, rather than send over that annoying little human.’

Miranda tried not to chuckle.

Calis said, ‘You know me?’

‘By reputation,’ said Arkan. ‘You are eledhel, but you are not. There’s something about you that is … human.’ He said the last as if it was an insult. ‘There is only one being like that: the son of the Queen of Elvandar.’

Calis raised his eyebrows slightly and tilted his head, as if what he had heard was of little importance. ‘It is true, I was curious.’

‘Which is why you followed me into the inn when you were obviously about to depart this pest hole of a city.’

‘So, are you going to tell us why you’re here or do I send for the city watch and begin some carnage?’ asked Calis.

Arkan studied the Prince of Elvandar. Like others north of the Teeth of the World, he had heard of the bastard son of Aglaranna and that abomination in the garb of the Valheru. Yet Calis wasn’t anything like he had imagined him to be. Save for his ears, which were less pronounced, more human-like, and the faint sense of power that emanated from him, he seemed surprisingly ordinary. His plain garb was that of a hunter or traveller, his bow was superbly made, but otherwise of simple design, and he wore no jewellery or badges, no bracelets or hair ornaments. With his traditional grey armour and black cloak he could have passed for a member of one of the moredhels’ southern bands.

Finally Arkan said, ‘While I would happily kill everyone in this room, given the opportunity,’ he fixed his eyes on Calis, ‘and finish with you, Prince of the Light Elves, I am forbidden from such sport. I am pledged to a quest.’

‘Now, this is getting interesting,’ said Nakor. ‘What sort of quest?’

‘I’m to find a man, a human. That is all I know.’ Arkan briefly told them of his mission and saw that, while the humans were ignorant of Liallan, Calis was not. Finally he said, ‘It is simple. I am to find this human no matter what the cost.’

‘And then what?’ said Miranda having already formed an opinion on who Arkan was seeking. ‘Kill him?’

Arkan smiled and for the first time Miranda, Calis, and Nakor saw a genuine expression of humour in the demeanour of a moredhel. ‘Actually, quite the contrary. I am to protect him with my life if needs be.’

‘Now that was unexpected,’ said Nakor with glee. ‘I do so love surprises!’

‘I think you’d better sit down with us,’ said Miranda. ‘I think we have a great deal to talk about.’

Arkan hesitated, finding the situation as absurd as Nakor, but he nodded once and sat in the empty chair, while the others retook theirs.

Arkan retold his story briefly and when he was finished, he said, ‘And that is why I am here in this pest hole of a city.’

Nakor grinned. ‘If you think this is a pest hole, you should visit Durbin!’

Miranda put her hand on Nakor’s and said, ‘Enough.’

Calis said, ‘You said you are of the Ardanien. You knew Gorath?’

Arkan looked surprised for the first time. ‘He was my father.’

Calis nodded. ‘I see the resemblance. I met him when I was young. You had a remarkable father, Arkan. He was the first moredhel I had ever spoken with and he bore a terrible burden.’

‘He is counted a traitor by most of our people.’ He glanced at the three faces confronting him and felt reluctant to discuss family history, but he was surprised to discover that Calis had met his father. ‘I know there are rumours and some, like Liallan, think him a saviour, but the truth of those days is shrouded by lies and rumour.’

‘Perhaps Pug can shed some light on that time?’ said Calis.

‘Pug?’

Nakor said, ‘The man in black, in your aunt’s vision, is almost certainly Pug or perhaps his son Magnus. Both are given to wearing black, and both are great sorcerers who struggle to protect this world. If the vision of dragon riders is more than mere metaphor, they would be the Valheru’s most powerful opposition.’ He glanced at Miranda.

She looked deeply troubled. ‘We know things,’ she said to Arkan. ‘Some of which are best discussed after we find Pug. We seem fated to travel together. If we can contrive some way to get past this invading army and navy blocking our way!’ She sat back in her chair with an audible sigh and said, ‘If there was some way I could contact Pug, reach out with my mind and tell him …’ Tell him what? she wondered silently. That his dead wife’s memories had been attached to a demon queen, who under any other circumstances would happily rip off his head and devour his brain; but who would now like nothing more than for him to hold her? Tears threatened, and she willed herself away from that emotional trap.

‘Pug,’ she said softly. ‘I wonder what he’s doing this minute?’

• CHAPTER FOUR •
Isle of Snakes

PUG SIGNALLED.

Sandreena and Amirantha moved out from behind the large rock where they had been waiting. She was clad in the traditional armour of her order, the Shield of the Weak, and he had forgone his usual finery to don a more appropriate outfit: heavy woollen trousers, a dark green flannel shirt, and stout black boots. His attire made the staff he carried look almost gaudy. It had been created that way for theatrical effect, to help gull potential victims into his confidence scheme – summoning relatively harmless demons then banishing them for reward – but was a powerful magic artefact in its own right.

They were tired and dirty from their journey down to the region where Jim Dasher had encountered what he thought was a Pantathian Serpent priest, and it had proved far more problematic than anticipated.

Reaching a safe house in the Keshian city of Teléman had been simple enough, since Pug’s orb had taken them there. But that was as far south as the Conclave had established any permanent stations. Like almost everyone monitoring Kesh, the Conclave had considered the nations of the Keshian Confederacy barely worth consideration. They were universally regarded to be nothing more than an annoyance to the Empire on her southern boundary, and not an area noteworthy enough to warrant the Conclave’s continuing surveillance. The Conclave resources had limits, and Kesh was a vast land. Most of their intelligence gathering had been focused on the City of Kesh, heart of the Empire, and key population centres along the borders with the Kingdom, as well as major sea ports. None of Pug’s agents had travelled below the Girdle of Kesh, as the two ranges of mountains that divided the Empire from the Confederacy were called. Which made it the perfect place to organize the major undertaking of subverting the Empire’s rulers and launching a wholesale invasion of the Kingdom.

And it made it impossible to reach by the magical means at Pug’s disposal.

So, more mundane means of transport had been required. Pug had the ability to transport himself magically to any place in his line of sight, and to the places he knew well, but he was limited in how far he could transport himself and two others repeatedly. Still, the occasional sorcerous jaunt was handy for bypassing certain obstacles and to avoid roving bands of raiders, bandits, and what passed for the local militia, but most of their journey had been made by horseback, small boat, and foot.

The weather was chilly, as it was now early winter in the southern hemisphere. A misty rain had been falling intermittently since dawn and the three travellers were just damp and cold enough to be irritable. Sandreena in particular was beyond patience, as she had been forced to leave her horse stabled in a tiny village on the mainland coast with the other mounts. As a Knight-Adamant of the Order of the Shield of the Weak, worshippers of the Goddess Dala, she found that being on foot was like having to fight with one hand; something she was able to do, but would rather not.

Pug had secured a boat but the owner had refused to row them over to the large island, and at last Pug understood why. The maps that Macros had drawn years before and left behind in his library were full of errors and inexactitudes, one of which was sloppy translation. After speaking to the locals on the far shore of the mainland, Pug now realized that this was not the ‘Island of the Snakes’, but rather the ‘Island of the Snake Men’.

Apparently, he had found the Pantathian homeland. Which puzzled him, as he had thought the heart of the Pantathian murder cult had been located near the foothills of the mountain range named the Pavilion of the Gods. Legend said many of the Valheru Dragon Lords had resided in that region as well.

The Pantathians were an unnatural race, distorted by a Valheru by the name of Alma-Lodaka, Mistress of Serpents, who had created them to serve her. She had bred them, then evolved them into intelligent beings and granted them magical abilities. It was conceded that while the Valheru could not create life, they could manipulate and distort it.

One unintended consequence had been the creation of a death cult who worshipped the long-departed Mistress of Serpents as a goddess, longed for her return, and who would stop at nothing to bring it about. Much of Pug’s personal history was intertwined with these snake men: upright serpents who were human-like in form, but who were more alien than any other race Pug had encountered on Midkemia. He understood the Dasati, a race from another plane of reality, better than he understood the Pantathians.

Pug and his son Magnus had been instrumental in destroying the Pantathian crèches in what they had thought to be the final blow against the lizard race, but apparently there had been more than one enclave of the creatures. As disgusting as it might have been to obliterate every egg and spawn they had encountered, Pug had at least found some solace in the knowledge they were not natural creatures, but twisted parodies of intelligent life focused only on one purpose, and that purpose entailed the annihilation or enslavement of all other races on Midkemia in service of their ‘goddess’.

Pug surveyed the landscape and sniffed the air. There was a burnt-wood tinge in the heavy damp air. He motioned for his companions to follow him and led them up a small rise to a ridge overlooking a shallow valley. In the distance they could see what looked to be a community, but even at this distance it was clear that it had been burned to char.

Pug motioned for Sandreena and Amirantha to stand close, and they stepped forwards to flank him, and put their hands on his shoulders.

In an instant they were standing at the edge of the town. Signs of battle were evident in all directions. ‘Looks like whoever did this wasn’t willing to let anyone survive,’ observed Sandreena.

‘They were making a point,’ said Pug.

‘Point?’ Amirantha looked at the short sorcerer.

Pug nodded. ‘I’m not entirely sure of what the point was: vengeance, perhaps. This wouldn’t be the first time an army destroyed every man, woman, and child of an enemy. You don’t slaughter those who farm and raise livestock if you plan on occupying a land and ruling it.’ He looked around. ‘The dead pay no taxes, either.’

Pug silently turned in a full circle. ‘This valley runs to the south from here.’ He pointed to a nearby stream. ‘If we follow that stream I suspect we’ll find more villages.’

‘We walk?’ asked Amirantha.

‘Most of the way,’ said Pug and he set off. After a moment, the other two followed.

By the time they found the fourth village, Pug was perplexed. ‘This was no small raiding party.’ He pointed to several locations around the area where they stood. ‘This was a coordinated attack. I’ve seen enough battlefields over the last hundred years to recognize that.’

The one unexpected factor had been the corpses left intact enough to recognize: they were Pantathians. They had all been Pantathian villages, and the bodies which had not been literally torn to shreds, or incinerated, were lizard men, women, and children.

Sandreena said, ‘You’re right. There’s no sign of anyone fleeing.’ She pointed behind them and said, ‘If it was merely a raiding patrol, those fleeing the first onslaught to the north of here would have warned those in the south. By now we’d have seen abandoned wagons along the way, or more dead … people,’ she shrugged as if unable to think of a better word to describe them, ‘with bundles of precious belongings. There’s none of that. This was a coordinated attack, as Pug said. Several elements support a military strike.’ She looked at Pug. Then she faltered, pausing as if she heard a distant, faint sound. ‘Do you feel that?’ She looked at Amirantha.

He said, ‘I’ve been feeling something for a—’ His eyes widened. ‘Demons!’

‘Someone sent a demon army here, Pug,’ said Sandreena.

Pug sighed as if it was the last thing he wished to hear.

‘It’s as if the gods can’t find enough grief to visit on this world,’ said Amirantha. ‘I can no longer control one demon, so they send an entire army …’

Pug slowly let his gaze wander. ‘It’s the gods who are trying to stop this. That is why we are here.’

‘I’m a woman of faith,’ said Sandreena, ‘but these are the moments when that faith is tested.’

‘That’s odd,’ said Pug.

‘What?’ asked Sandreena.

Pug pointed to the recently-dead corpse of a Pantathian. He approached it, ignoring the stench of decay, and said, ‘Whenever we encountered the Pantathians, even when we raided their crèches in the mines below the Ratn’gary Mountains, we saw no soldiers.’ The corpse was dressed in a full open-faced helm, a cuirass of steel, a chainmail kilt and heavy leather boots. It still clutched a blood-caked sword in its dead fingers and nearby rested a distorted round shield, rent with talon marks. ‘We saw a few guards, but they were mostly workers, priests, and the female breeders.’ He knelt beside it. ‘There were no soldiers.’ He looked around, seeing others garbed in similar fashion. ‘These Pantathians have hidden an army.’

‘It’s smaller than a few days ago,’ quipped Sandreena. ‘The demons did thorough work here.’

‘What should we do now?’ asked Amirantha.

‘If this Pantathian society remotely resembles ours,’ said Pug, standing, ‘these farms and villages support a city somewhere, or at least a fortress.’

‘If there’s a fortress full of snake-men, I doubt we would be welcome,’ observed Amirantha.

Pug nodded, continuing to look around. ‘Something here feels … right.’

That statement brought puzzled looks from both his companions and he went on, ‘I have been battling Pantathians since the Great Uprising. They played a key part in the invasion of the Emerald Queen’s army.’ Both Sandreena and Amirantha were aware of the role the demon Jatuk had played in that war, using powerful magic to disguise himself as the Emerald Queen. ‘The Pantathians were duped as much as the Saaur and many of the humans loyal to the Emerald Queen. But there was even more in play than was apparent.’ He looked down at the dead Pantathian again. ‘I know there are others; the Shangri, also called Panath-Tiandn, are strange, nearly mindless creatures that have been twisted by dark powers to manipulate magic energy.’ He pointed to the dead soldier. ‘But it seems that there may be a third type of Pantathian we’ve never encountered before.’ He bent and took a small pouch that had been wedged into the soldier’s sword belt and pulled it free. Inside he found small objects. He tossed one to Amirantha. ‘What do you make of this?’

It was a tiny spinning top. Finally, the Warlock of the Satumbria said, ‘It’s a toy.’

‘A child’s toy. The sort of thing a boy or girl might give to their father to bring him luck. Or as a remembrance of happier times.’

‘He had a family?’ asked Amirantha incredulously.

‘I tend to be sceptical as well,’ said Pug, ‘but whenever I’ve encountered Pantathians before, the miasma of their magic is palpable, almost a stench if you will.’

Sandreena said, ‘That’s how demons make me feel. It’s how I know there’s one nearby without having to see it.’

Amirantha could only nod.

‘I sense none of that here. Granted, this is an alien place, but I’ve been to many such and this city and these lands, scarred by war as they are, still do not offer any hint of that black evil that usually surrounds the Pantathians.’

‘You want to go find them, don’t you?’ asked the Warlock.

Pug could only smile. ‘I think we need to. I suspect the three of us are powerful enough to protect ourselves, and at worst I can transport us back to this place.’ He took a moment to grab some rocks and make a rough pattern, all the while studying features and details, etching them into his mind as he had been taught while studying with the Tsurani magicians over a century before.

‘Ah, could you perhaps make us invisible, or something like that?’ asked Amirantha, obviously unhappy with Pug’s conclusion. ‘While we traipse around looking for a snake-man army?’

Sandreena couldn’t help but laugh. Amirantha smiled at the sound; he hadn’t heard it often in the last year.

Pug smiled. ‘I could, but you would have to remain motionless. Not very helpful in a search, I’m afraid. If Laromendis were here, perhaps he could mask us as Pantathians, but that’s problematic, as well. Three unfamiliar Pantathians approaching a fortress, camp, or village, are just as likely to cause a stir as three humans.

‘Amirantha, have you any shielding magic at your disposal?’

‘Against demons? Certainly. Against arrows …’ He shrugged.

‘Then if we encounter any Pantathians, stay close by my side.’

‘Or stand behind me,’ said Sandreena with a sour, mocking look.

‘Back to your old self, I see,’ he said.

She elbowed him playfully in the ribs and said, ‘Still can’t stand a jest, can you?’

‘Oh, that was a jest?’

She frowned. ‘If you—’

‘Children,’ Pug interrupted. ‘If you don’t mind; resume your fighting when we’re back home, though how you two can find any humour in the midst of this carnage I can’t imagine.’

The former lovers were embarrassed and both fell silent as Pug said, ‘Let’s begin.’

They made their way south for more than an hour, down through the heart of the small valley. Cresting a rise they found themselves within sight of a small stream that ran through its centre. Pug glanced around then pointed to the north-east. ‘Remember that range of low mountains we saw from the boat as we looked for a landing?’ They both nodded. ‘That must form some type of rain shield, and the stream has cut this valley over the ages.’ He looked at the relatively bare landscape above the valley. ‘Constant water, shelter from harsher weather; this may be as close to an ideal habitat as you’ll find on this island.’

They trudged along, wending their way through battle-scarred villages and farmsteads. Everywhere they looked they saw charred ruins. Amirantha paused several times to examine a blackened spot on the ground and indicated it was where a major demon had died. Pug was uncertain how he could know from the size of the burn mark; several of the minor demons were an impressive size, but as the taredhel magician possessed more knowledge about demons than anyone else he knew, save perhaps the star elf demon master, Gulamendis, Pug deferred to his superior knowledge.

The valley deepened as the day grew longer.

Sandreena held up her hand and said, ‘Do you hear something?’

Amirantha glanced around and said, ‘Yes, off that way.’ He pointed to the top of a ridge a few hundred yards to the south of where they stood.

Pug said, ‘I can get us that far.’ He held out his hands and they each gripped his shoulders, and suddenly they were standing on the southern ridge.

Below them was an unexpected vista. The winding river valley they had followed had opened up and the river course turned to the south-east. Along its banks were more sheltered farms, unremarkable except that these had been more recently sacked. The pungent aroma of wood smoke still hung in the air, a legacy of rain-damp, burnt timbers.

Pug motioned for the others to accompany him one more time and suddenly they stood on the other side of the river, about a dozen yards north of a burnt-out, skeletal house. It had stone foundations – necessary this close to the river if you didn’t wish to sleep on a damp muddy floor for half of the year – but its timber siding was gone, as well as whatever type of roof it had had.

Amirantha pointed to what appeared to be a mound of burnt scraps and singed rags.

Pug knelt beside it and discovered the remains of a corpse. Little was left but blackened bone. ‘Magic,’ he said. ‘A fire blast of some sort.’ He moved his hand in a small circle, indicating the untouched ground nearby. He gently lifted some of the shreds and studied the upper half of a man-sized torso and skull. ‘Pantathian. Whatever happened here was only two, three days ago at most.’ He stood and pointed to a small pass running through a range of hills to the south. ‘There’s a road. Well-travelled from the look of it.’ He looked in all directions. ‘I’ll wager that there is a lake or swamplands at the end of this river …’ He looked towards the course of the river and again pointed. ‘There! Can you see?’

Sandreena peered in the direction Pug indicated and said, ‘Piers. Large enough to unload barges and small boats.’

‘Logic would suggest that there’s a city nearby, it’s likely to be defensible, so …’ He motioned for them to come close. ‘Let’s take another jump to that ridge up there.’

They instantly appeared on the southern ridge and below them lay a sight to make even Pug feel wonder. A small city rose in the distance, surrounded by white walls perhaps covered in a wash or pale plaster, gleaming in the sunlight. Behind the walls, towers and the tops of buildings were visible.

‘Well, that’s not good,’ said Sandreena.

They had materialized behind the ragged remnants of a demon army that had obviously fought their way down the river valley, up the hill and were now advancing upon the walls of the city.

A circling flyer spotted them and dived. Only years of battle-trained reflex kept Sandreena on her feet. She raised her shield above her head as she ducked and the lightweight creature bounced off it, rolling across the ground in a tangle of wings, arms, and legs. The stunned monstrosity skidded across the ground, sending up a spray of dust. Amirantha, who had begun an incantation the moment the demon struck Sandreena, pointed at it, and it vanished in a cloud of smoke that carried the stench of sulphur.

‘That tears it,’ said Amirantha as the rearmost demons turned around to see what the fuss was.

Pug didn’t hesitate but unleashed a blast of white-hot energy through those standing directly before him. Instantly they were vaporized in an explosion of foul steam and sparking metals, as armour and weapons turned instantly red-hot then exploded. Many of the demons near the blast caught on fire and screeched, racing in random directions and colliding with their companions.

The advancing demons were thrown into disarray as those in the vanguard heard fighting from behind before they had even crossed half the distance between the walls and their starting position. Some turned, anticipating an attack from the rear, while others continued to advance.

Pug shouted, ‘Stay close!’ and Sandreena was at his right side in a single step, Amirantha appearing to his left a moment later. He held his hand high above his head and made a circle with his index finger. A line of red-orange flame seemed to erupt from the tip and arced until it hit the ground, then followed the circular path his finger had made. A spiral of flames started to spread out from their location and each demon it touched screamed or bellowed in pain. Most retreated before it, but a pair of especially aggressive ones tried to push through and fell at Pug’s feet, their corpses rapidly consumed in a flaming burst that left a stinking, blackened mark on the ground.

‘These are not like the soldiers we saw in Kesh,’ Amirantha said.

‘No,’ agreed Sandreena. ‘They’re undisciplined and disorganized, but they are definitely battle demons.’

Amirantha knew she was correct. They were confronted with a mixed group of bull-headed, ram-headed, and lion-headed figures: fighting demons. They were accompanied by others that bore some resemblance to animals, monstrous boars or massive dogs, but with scales instead of fur, horns in multiple locations on their heads, nasty dagger-like fangs and talons the length of swords.

The advancing spiral of flames caused the demons before them to retreat, while those nearing the city walls were being greeted with a hail of arrows and stones. The presence of the three magic-users was beginning to turn an already disorganized assault on the city to complete chaos.

Pug lashed out with every imaginable form of destructive magic he could conjure. A scintillating wave of silver energy rippled outwards, and those demons it struck stopped in their tracks, their bodies shaking violently as if gripped by a sudden palsy. Several fell over and thrashed on the ground, while others eventually shook off the shock and continued to advance.

Pug pushed his hands in front of him, palms out, and a huge blast of wind swept dozens of demons backwards, some of the lighter creatures being picked up and tossed yards to the rear. But still the others came on, heads lowered in a charge.

Amirantha picked his targets. If he couldn’t banish them instantly, he confined them until Pug’s magic or Sandreena’s mace dispatched them properly. The demons threw themselves at the three humans mindlessly and furiously for nearly a minute. Then a pause came as the creatures who had pressed into the battle saw the carnage before them.

‘This lot aren’t terribly bright,’ shouted Sandreena, ‘but they’re smart enough to see this isn’t going their way!’

Amirantha yelled back, ‘Agreed!’ then lashed out with a punishing blow of his staff, spinning around a stocky, ram-headed demon that had ventured too near.

Pug unleashed another wave of magic. Crimson flame washed along the ground everywhere he pointed, a fountain of mystic energy that caused demons to collapse and writhe in agony on the ground until suddenly vanishing in an explosion of black, sulphurous smoke.

The gates of the city opened and a company of Pantathian foot soldiers raced out. Each wore armour identical to that which Pug and his companions had seen on bodies strewn around the valley. The warriors looked tired and battle-scarred, and their armour showed newly hammered-out dents and tears repaired in a makeshift fashion, but despite their ragtag state, they seemed determined to help end this struggle, sweeping into the milling demon forces that staggered under the new attack. Brutal hand-to-hand fighting ensued.

Pug cursed silently, for now he was prevented from unleashing more spells of wholesale destruction. He was no friend to the Pantathians, but at that moment they both struggled against a known enemy, which made them temporary allies. He would not mourn their dead, but he would not create any more of them.

So, each of the three magic-wielders used their arts and strengths as they best knew how: Pug and Amirantha with magic, and Sandreena with both magic and mace.

Despite being assaulted from two sides, the demons were unrelenting. Without magic, the Pantathians were no physical match for any demon; but they had larger numbers on their side: two or three fought against one demon.

Pug now used his arts to distract, trip, or otherwise confuse the demons, and in surprisingly little time, the battle was over. A dozen dead Pantathians bore mute testimony to their sacrifice as the last demon body vanished in flame and smoke.

Pug said to his companions, ‘Stay close. I have no idea what comes next.’

Sandreena moved slightly ahead of the two men, prepared to take on any physical assault from the soldiers so the two magic-users could bring their arts to bear.

One of the soldiers was looking around the field, and Pug noticed that his armour was more ornate than the rest, his helm bearing a small set of metal horns on each side. He assumed it was a mark of rank, for the soldier began to issue orders and those around him moved smartly despite being exhausted. They inspected each of their fallen comrades and two were picked up and carried back into the city.

Finally, when it was apparent that all the survivors were standing, the higher-ranking soldier stood looking at the three humans, then turned his back and issued an order in a language Pug had never encountered before. The soldiers began walking towards the city.

After a few steps, the officer stopped, turned, and looked at the three humans for a moment. He made a small gesture with his hand, then turned away.

Amirantha said, ‘If I’m not mistaken, he just asked us if we’re coming or not.’

‘I think you’re right,’ said Pug as he stepped around Sandreena and began to follow the soldiers. His two companions fell into step behind him.

They walked slowly down the sloping hillside, and onto the flat ground around the city. The area had obviously been cut back recently as a few sapling tree stumps were visible, as was a large patch of burnt grass. ‘Torch rather than the scythe,’ said Amirantha.

‘If there are no buildings close by, it’s easier,’ said Sandreena. ‘If these people aren’t constantly plagued by demons, then they have other enemies they worry about.’

Pug said, ‘Perhaps. But it looked to me as if those communities along the river were relatively peaceful until the demons showed up.’

‘Old habits?’ suggested the Warlock. ‘Maybe they just keep the plain around the city open because they’ve done it that way for years?’

‘Again, perhaps,’ said Pug.

As they neared the city Pug thought he detected movement on the wall, but by the time they neared the gate no one could be seen. The massive city gates had been left open.

‘Be ready,’ said Sandreena, then she realized that was an obvious thing to say. ‘Nervous, I guess.’

‘As are we all,’ said Pug, reassuringly.

They entered and saw three Pantathians waiting for them, not armoured warriors, but wearing robes unlike the ritual dress of any Serpent Priests Pug had encountered before. Their clothing was colourful and made of a fine weave and intricate design, decorated with fancy thread and bead-work.

Pug came to a halt a few feet away from them. These three were like the dead Pug’s party had encountered in the river valley, and the soldiers who had sallied from the city; they bore only a superficial resemblance to the Pantathians Pug had encountered years before. These people had more pronounced foreheads, and their skulls were less reptilian.

‘Can you understand me?’ Pug spoke in the common trading tongue, assuming it would most likely be the only human language to have reached this remote island.

‘We do,’ answered the serpent man in the centre. His accent was odd, but not impossible to comprehend. ‘But I find common speak a bit cumbersome, and prefer to use Keshian,’ he said in perfectly unaccented Keshian.

Pug couldn’t hide his surprise. He, Sandreena, and Amirantha to a lesser degree, all understood Keshian; the Sergeant Knight-Adamant had lived in Kesh for years and the dominant language of Amirantha’s homeland was closely related to that tongue.

‘We come seeking answers,’ said Pug.

In a remarkably human-like change of expression, the speaker said, ‘Is that not true of us all? Come. You do not find us at our best. We’ve struggled for a long time against those you banished.’

‘Demons,’ said Sandreena.

The speaker turned to regard the armoured woman. ‘You have knowledge of the creatures, I assume?’

‘More than I would like,’ she answered.

‘Well, then we have a great deal to discuss; until a few weeks ago, we were ignorant of them. Please, follow me. I am Tak’ka, elected Autarch of Pantathia.’ He and his two companions turned and led Pug and his companions deeper into the city.

‘Is this place Pantathia?’ asked Pug as he walked beside Tak’ka.

‘That is what you humans call it. It’s a variant of the Lower Delkian dialect, meaning “Home of Snake Men”. You could not pronounce our name in our own tongue, so Pantathia will serve.’ He motioned for them to follow. As they walked, he glanced sideways and at last asked, ‘You are the one they call Pug?’

If Pug hadn’t already been surprised by what they had encountered, he was now openly taken aback. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘I thought you’d be taller,’ mused the Pantathian. ‘My people have very strong feelings about you, and they are not all good, I’m afraid.’

As they reached the centre of the small city, Pug was astonished by the scene before him. Like many cities in Kesh and the Kingdom, the main plaza was large and square with a fountain at its centre. Stalls stood against the buildings around its edge, and free-standing booths completely filled the rest of it. Only two paths permitted easy passage through the area.

‘Usually, we only have this much clutter on market days, but with the coming of the Hell-bringers many farmers, traders, and woodsmen have been forced to come here. It’s more of a refugee camp now than a market.’

Pug marvelled at the people with every step. Every eye turned on them and many voices fell silent as they walked past. The people whispered in their sibilant language and Pug suspected that the Autarch was right; it would indeed be too difficult for human vocal cords to master their language. He used more than a century of observational skills to assess the scene as they made their way through the crowd. Rather than animalistic creatures, he now saw them as a crowd of people no more or less diverse and threatening than the population of any small human city on market day: females with wide-eyed children in tow, vendors displaying their wares, and refugees trying to find a space to settle as comfortably as possible.

Once through the press, they mounted a series of steps to a terraced portion of the city upon which several larger buildings rested. There was nothing remotely like a palace within sight. Behind the buildings rose a wall, high enough to conceal any hint of its purpose. Whatever lay behind it felt oddly familiar to Pug, but there was nothing alarming about the sense of familiarity; instead he found it oddly comforting.

They entered the largest of the three buildings on the plaza, and were led into a hall. Five empty chairs stood behind a table on a dais near the far wall, but the rest of the room was lined with benches able to seat perhaps as many as two hundred Pantathians.

‘This is our seat of government,’ said Tak’ka. He motioned for them to sit on the bench closest to the table, and rather than mount the step and take one of the chairs, he sat on the bench next to Amirantha. His two silent companions sat on the next bench directly behind them. ‘As Autarch, I preside over Pantathia and the surrounding communities.’ He motioned to the two other Pantathians and said, ‘This is Dak’it and Tov’ka, fellow Presidents of Pantathia.’ He pronounced the names with a sharp-pitched tone and a closing of the throat in the middle, and again Pug doubted he could duplicate it.

Tak’ka sighed in a very human fashion. ‘There are usually five of us, but two of our members gave their lives during the last defence of the city.’ All three bowed their heads slightly, as if honouring the memories of the fallen; then Tak’ka looked at Pug. ‘As I said, we have very strong feelings regarding you, Pug of Stardock.’

Pug said, ‘Tell me, please.’

‘You’ve killed many of our people,’ said the Autarch, flatly.

‘And you have killed many of mine,’ said Pug. ‘It was war.’

Tak’ka lowered his head slightly. ‘True; and to our everlasting sorrow.’

‘You find me at a loss, Tak’ka.’ Pug knew he was not doing justice to the pronunciation of the Pantathian’s name, but the leader of the lizard men took no offence. ‘We first encountered your people during the Great Uprising, when the moredhel clans swept down from the north and threatened the Kingdom of the Isles.’ He chose not to mention their goal, which had been to seize the Lifestone hidden under the city of Sethanon. ‘An imposter, who claimed to be the incarnation of a great moredhel hero, was revealed to be a Pantathian priest, disguised by very powerful magic.’ He paused, and his shoulders sagged.

‘We are a deliberately created race; bred to serve a long-departed mistress.’

‘Alma-Lodaka,’ said Pug. Tomas had shared much of his memories of Ashen-Shugar, and had told Pug all he knew of the Pantathians, as had Macros and others over the years.

‘Ah,’ said Dak’it. ‘You know our history.’

‘A bit,’ admitted Pug. Glancing around the room he said, ‘Obviously not as much as I thought. From my previous encounters with your race, this city is completely unexpected.’

‘Then there is much history that you do not know,’ said Tak’ka. ‘Many of those known to us as the Ancient Ones—’

‘The Valheru,’ Pug interrupted.

‘Yes, though we were forbidden to use their names. She who was our mistress raised us up for her amusement and to serve her. Others of the Ancient Ones did as well, though to the best of our knowledge, only the Tiger Men in the Great South Forest also survived the centuries since the Ancient Ones rose to challenge the gods.

‘Centuries ago some of us began to change. There had always been a caste among us who were talented magicians. Those you may know as the Panath-Tiandn are our most talented forgers of magic, but also our least intelligent brothers and sisters. When one is hatched, the child must be constantly watched and cared for, as well as protected from harming himself or others. It is a difficult responsibility for the parents.’

‘Parents?’ said Pug. ‘I thought I saw families huddled together in the square, but in the mines under the Ratn’gary Mountains I only saw breeding crèches.’

An expression suggesting sadness crossed the visage of Tak’ka. ‘So much to explain.’ He shook his head. ‘We began as a single race, a priesthood created to worship our creator. We have had centuries of debate as to our state of being, for we were not created out of the primal matter of the universe, in the fashion of humans, elves, and others, but rather we were less creatures – reptiles yes, though strictly not “serpents”, yet that name has remained. Our creator took a particular breed of lizard found only on this island – ironically that creature is now extinct – and created those beings with whom you are most familiar.

‘When the Ancient Ones departed, and we were told we were a free people, we had little choice but to continue in our duty. But then some of us began to change. We became more … Intelligent sounds boastful, doesn’t it? But we did. And as that happened, two other changes occurred. We lost our ability to construct magic devices and create spells. And we lost our drive to serve our creator, She Who is Not Named.’

Pug sat back. ‘I’m amazed.’

‘Our evolution continued until there were three distinct, perhaps “tribes” is the best word, of my people.

‘Those you know as the Serpent Priests are in the middle, I suppose you could say. They have magic ability but they are single-minded in purpose and of all of us, they most resemble those creatures created by She Who is Not Named. They are not critical thinkers or creatively intelligent, but they are very clever.

‘The Panath-Tiandn are the savants of magic, but need others to care for them in the most basic way.’ Looking at Amirantha he said, ‘It was such as they who fashioned our magic wards against such an attack as we’ve endured recently. But the priesthood removes them as soon as they can, for they have their own uses for them. We are at the other end of this spectrum, those who can think for themselves, have put aside the mindless service to She Who is Not Named, and we do what we can to have full lives.’

‘Astonishing,’ said Pug.

Sandreena said, ‘You mentioned a debate over your state of being?’

‘Ah, yes.’ Tak’ka nodded. Large black lidless eyes regarded her as he said, ‘We wonder if we have become true beings.’

‘I do not understand,’ said the Knight-Adamant.

‘We speculate on the question of souls and whether we possess them.’

Pug turned to Sandreena. ‘I would think that is more in your area of expertise, serving your temple.’

Sandreena could only shake her head. ‘I’m a warrior, Pug, not a philosopher. I know many in the temple who would enjoy the debate, but it is outside the scope of my knowledge or wisdom.’

‘Of little matter,’ said Tak’ka. ‘We may have time in the future to discuss this.’ He stood up and motioned for his silent compatriots to depart and as they did, he turned to the three companions. ‘We have had a fair amount of contact with humans over the years. We have, or rather had, a trading post on the north shore. It was the first place the demons attacked, and all trace of it was obliterated.’

Pug glanced at his two companions. They had seen no sign of such a thing when they had landed.

‘But given that our brethren in the Priesthood are frequent callers here, we always dissuade visitors who attempt to travel farther south. Only one other human has ventured to this city and been allowed to leave.’

Sandreena and Amirantha tensed at the suggestion they might not be allowed to depart peacefully, but Pug raised his hand slightly, palm downward, and motioned for them to relax. ‘Macros,’ he said softly.

‘Why, yes. You knew him?’

‘Yes,’ said Pug. ‘How long ago?’

‘More than a century. His name is recorded in our annals. He stayed with us for a short while, then departed. He was persuasive. Though I suspect had my ancestors tried to prevent his departure they would have been unsuccessful.’

‘You have no idea,’ Pug said with a hint of humour.

‘Well, it is of little import. Other humans have reached here despite our warnings, having passed through the villages to the north. We assumed they meant ill and dealt with them harshly.’ He shrugged in a very human fashion and said, ‘Or there were priests visiting here and they dealt with them. Either way it’s of little importance now.’ He motioned for them to follow him.

‘With the advent of those creatures you call demons, it’s clear that we are in a situation far beyond our abilities to endure. I think we would have repulsed that last contingent of demons you so conveniently destroyed, but should another such band arrive …’ He sighed. ‘Well, I think it safe to say we would eventually be overrun. Our resources are now nearly depleted. We have refugees from the north, as you saw, crowding our plaza, and when they fled they brought little by way of foodstuffs. And winter is fast approaching.

‘Our fishers and hunters roam the lands to the south of here, but we have scant hope to hold off starvation for little more than a month at best, and should the demons return …’ He made a despairing gesture.

Pug took a moment to consider, as they left the conference room and moved deeper into the building, then said, ‘If we do not run afoul of your priests, perhaps we can help.’

‘You must understand we will not be able to stand apart should you, indeed, run afoul of the priests. We are created in such a way that we must defend all or any of us.’

‘I understand,’ said Pug, not entirely sure that he did.

They walked down a long hall until they found themselves at a circular staircase cantilevered into the wall of what appeared to be a tower. Pug judged it would rise into that large edifice he had seen behind the city’s southernmost wall.

‘You are regarded here with some degree of animosity, despite our understanding why you destroyed so many of our brethren. Especially the eggs in the crèches. Some of them most likely would have been more like those who you see here than the Priesthood. We mourn their loss above all.’

Pug could only nod.

‘As I have said,’ continued Tak’ka, as he led them upward, ‘we have diverged from our kin.’ He led them to a large landing at the top of the stairs, sheltered from the elements by a tall dome, with an open door facing into what appeared to be an immense garden.

Pug took only a single step outside: confronting him was a completely unexpected sight. Six tall pillars of light in a diamond configuration stood in the middle of the garden. From each a faint humming, almost musical, could be heard.

‘Sven-ga’ri,’ said Pug.

• CHAPTER FIVE •
Fugitive

THREE CLOAKED FIGURES HURRIED THROUGH THE DARK ALLEY.

For the fourth time in three months, Hal and Ty found themselves being moved from one of Lady Franciezka Sorboz’s safe houses to another. The two young men had fallen into the routine of simply picking up their meagre belongings and quickly following whoever came for them without question.

This time there seemed to be more urgency, more need to move quickly and not be seen. Hal wasn’t sure why it felt that way, but in the months he had been hiding with Ty he had come to rely more and more on his hunter’s skills, adapted to an urban setting. Alleys and streets were no more or less treacherous than trails and paths, and the predators in Roldem made up for their lack of fang and talon with guile and weapons.

It was early in the morning, perhaps an hour before sunrise, so the sight of three men skulking would certainly raise a hue and cry, given that the curfew inflicted on the population weeks before was enforced with severity by the roving gangs of marshals appointed by Lord Worthington.

Little word had reached them from their benefactor: Lady Franciezka had only visited them once in the last three weeks, and then had been tight-lipped. Something was afoot that she felt was best kept from the two young men, but both Hal and Ty could see that she was deeply troubled by whatever it was.

Since then they had been forced to endure isolation. For the frontier-bred Hal, used to wandering at will, it was more torture than he had endured in his life. He had combated it with a regimen of reading anything he could find – the lady had a prodigious library in every house she owned – and vigorous exercise, which he discovered not only enabled him to keep his weight under control, but reduced his worry and helped him sleep. And he spent hours practising his swordplay with Ty.

Ty was easily the most gifted swordsman Hal had ever faced. But in those hours of sparring, he had come to recognize patterns and weaknesses, and eventually he had begun to score his share of touches. Hal doubted he would ever be Ty’s equal, but it was likely he’d never face another swordsman better than himself.

Their guide held up his hand and they stopped. He peered around a corner and motioned for them to stay close and together they hugged the storefronts that were deepest in shadow as the dawn light shone into the city. As in most ports, there was a morning mist that would burn off early in the day, but for the moment it served their purposes in shrouding their passage.

They took a circuitous route but at last found themselves at the corner of an alley and a narrow street with high buildings of two and three storeys turning it into a dark canyon.

Hurrying along, they reached a door and were inside before anyone might spy them. Inside, two armed men waited and when the three threw back their hoods, sword-points were lowered. ‘Good,’ said one of the two who waited. ‘This way.’

They followed their new guide down a short hall to the house’s back stairs – the servants’ passage – and ascended. On the third floor they entered a small room, used by the maid to prepare the service of meals.

The guide and the two armed men were unknown to Hal and Ty. All the two young men knew was they were working for Lady Franciezka Sorboz. All three looked dangerous. If nothing else had convinced them that the lady was important to the Crown of Roldem, the seemingly endless number of these capable men at her beck and call confirmed it.

One, tall and heavily muscled, wearing the short-sleeved, close-fitting shirt and bell-bottomed trousers of a sailor said, ‘A pledge, gentlemen. Lady Franciezka asks you to swear that what you are about to see remains with you and no matter what may occur in the future, you will hold your silence. Agreed?’

Hal and Ty exchanged quick glances. Then both said, ‘Agreed.’

Their escort pushed open the door to the large master suite and the two young men entered. Three women sat quietly waiting inside a finely appointed parlour.

Lady Franciezka rose and waved with her hand for Hal and Ty to enter. They hesitated for a moment, for the second woman in the room – girl really – was Princess Stephané, the King’s daughter. The third woman was unknown to either of them, but she was as striking a beauty as the other two.

‘Your Highness, Lord Harold of Crydee and Tyrone Hawkins.’

Stephané smiled and both young men felt their stomachs tighten, as they had the first time they had been presented to the royal family after their duel at the Masters’ Court. Ty had won the Championship after Hal had been forced to withdraw due to a muscle pull during the final match.

The Princess was clad in a travelling dress, dark blue cut straight across the bodice and three-quarter-length sleeves, with a hem at mid-thigh and matching leggings. Her boots were plain and serviceable, suitable for hiking or walking. She wore no jewellery and her hair had been gathered back and pinned high.

‘This is Lady Gabriella, the Princess’s companion.’

Both young men bowed to the Princess and nodded acknowledgement of Lady Gabriella. Both Hal and Ty thought they must have caught a glimpse of Gabriella at the gala; but each wondered how he might have missed her if so. She was easily six feet tall in her stockinged feet, and like the Princess was dressed in travel garb: tight trousers and tunic, high boots, and a hooded cape.

Ty glanced at his companion and tried not to grin. If Franciezka noticed the byplay she chose to ignore it. ‘We have a problem,’ she said plainly.

Without hesitation Hal said, ‘How can we help?’

‘Can you sail a boat?’

They both nodded. Hal said, ‘I grew up in a coastal town. I’ve sailed small craft since I was a child.’

‘Me too,’ chimed in Ty.

‘Good,’ said Franciezka. ‘We haven’t much time, so attend closely. While you two have been doing a fine job of staying out of sight, there have been events unfolding both in the palace and here in the city that were not visible to the populace. The short of it is that a coup d’état is underway.’

Both young men were stunned. At last Hal said, ‘The King?’

It was Stephané who replied. ‘Father and Mother are safe, for the time being.’ Obviously under stress, she still managed to remain admirably calm about the danger to those she loved. ‘Lord John Worthington wouldn’t harm either if he can convince them to sanction my marriage to his son. Once that happens, then he can do what he needs to do to make his son king.’

‘But your brothers—’ began Ty.

‘Safe, for the moment,’ said Franciezka. ‘None of them are where Worthington assumes them to be. For the time being, Lord John is content to think he has the three princes confined.’

The two young men glanced at one another, both instantly realizing that it would be futile to ask where they were.

Franciezka said, ‘What I need to do is take care of two problems at once.’ She looked at Hal. ‘Kesh has agents looking for you. I seem to have blunted their search, but there is another player, whom I do not know, and that has me concerned. Those agents are doubly dangerous because some of them used to be mine.’

Hal and Ty said nothing, but their expressions revealed surprise.

‘I was certain by now you had some sense of my role in the affairs of Roldem.’

Hal said, ‘I assumed your role was important, but I hadn’t thought about spies.’

Ty said, with some chagrin, ‘I did, but dismissed the idea. I thought you might be … a special friend to one of the princes?’

At that Stephané laughed. ‘My brothers? They are sweet, but none of them could keep up with our good lady here.’ Her tone revealed a mix of admiration and no little distrust. If Franciezka was the spy-mistress of Roldem, that distrust was likely well earned.

‘With former agents of mine in play, my identity is no longer a matter of state secret. Once this is over, and should we all survive, I will be of little use to the Crown in my current role.’

‘Are these turned agents working for Lord Worthington?’ asked Ty.

‘Almost certainly. I’m the only one who knows where the Princess is hiding. Otherwise Lord John would have sent squads of soldiers to my door to fetch the Princess back. The princes are currently surrounded by men of unquestioning loyalty, but those are few in number. The rest of the army and navy take their orders from the Crown, which at this point means they take orders from Lord John Worthington. But should he attempt to force them to return to the palace, it could start a civil war he’s not certain to win.’ She took a deep breath, crossing her arms. Her right index finger tapped idly against her left arm while she considered. ‘No, we’re dealing with a handful of my former men who know me well enough to pick their moment, once they discover exactly where I’ve hidden Her Highness. They don’t have enough swords to do otherwise, and even if they could overwhelm those loyal to me, they would expose themselves as traitors.’

Ty said, ‘What must we do?’

‘For about two hours, nothing; but then we must move and do so at great speed. Kesh’s flotilla is anchored less than a half-mile outside the harbour mouth. They are content to let ships bound for the Empire pass without trouble. Their position appears to be one of keeping a wedge between the two Kingdoms, and to keep Roldem’s war fleet from venturing out. We’ve managed to move a few smaller ships – refitted to look like trading vessels – out of the harbour, heading south, as if heading for Pointer’s Head. Any ship headed towards the Eastern Kingdoms is stopped at the Straits of Ilthros, boarded and searched, and if no contraband is found, it is given safe passage.’ She paused to see if the two young men were following. ‘Do you understand what you must do?’

Hal nodded. ‘I’m vague on the details, which I’m sure you’ve already anticipated, but we are to get the Princess and her companion off this island, to somewhere beyond Worthington’s reach.’

Ty said, ‘You want her in Rillanon.’

Franciezka smiled. ‘Aren’t you the bright one?’

‘Rillanon?’ said Hal. ‘I would have thought somewhere in the east, like Olasko.’

Ty shook his head. ‘Worthington might be able to pry her from the gentle protection of the Duke of Olasko, if he’s ignorant of what’s occurring here. But if Her Highness is safely visiting King Gregory’s court, with the Kingdom and Keshian fleets between Worthington and the Princess … ?’ He smiled and looked at the Princess. ‘It seemed a bit obvious to me.’

Hal’s brow furrowed. ‘Well enough, but exactly how are the two of us going to sail from here to there? That’s almost the entire length of the Sea of Kingdoms.’

‘That would be foolish. No, we’ll hide you in a ship bound for Watcher’s Point in Miskalon, but at the right time you’ll be put over the side in a specially provisioned boat, and with the gods’ grace, you’ll land in Ran.’ She turned and picked up some folded parchments. ‘With these documents, you’ll have safe passage should you encounter any Roldemish ships.’

Hal inspected them then handed them over to Ty. ‘The King agrees?’

‘The King wishes to be ignorant of the details. I’ve forged his signature enough times no one can tell the difference, not even the King.’

‘The seals look perfect,’ said Ty as he inspected the documents.

‘They should be,’ said Lady Franciezka. ‘I have the royal seals safely hidden away.’

Ty grinned as Hal’s mouth dropped open.

Lady Franciezka smiled. ‘The King might be persuaded to sign decrees against his better judgment by Worthington, but without the seals …’ She shrugged, then handed a purse heavy with coin to Ty. ‘Now, you should be able to arrange for a fast Kingdom ship from there to Rillanon. You’ll be behind the Keshian blockade. If that turns out not to be the safe choice, then hire a coach to Bas-Tyra.’

‘When do we leave?’ asked Hal.

‘In two hours. My cargo ship has already been inspected prior to departure. We’ll slip you aboard moments before she weighs anchor. My only concern will be getting you past the Keshians at the blockade line, but I think everything is ready.’

Hal and Ty exchanged a look that silently communicated they hoped all was ready as well.

The quarters were cramped aboard the ship, Meklin’s Lady: one small cabin for the four of them. Hal and Ty tried to ignore each other when they slept side by side on the narrow floor but in vain since each swell the ship breasted caused them to roll up against each other. The two young women, however, seemed able to abide sharing a narrow bunk designed for one person, despite Lady Gabriella’s height.

They had come aboard two mornings previously, an hour before dawn, while most of the crew still slept. Only the captain, first officer, and a few of the crew knew about the passengers. The rest were kept ignorant, and by design the second officer’s cabin had been left unfilled this voyage. Designed for one person, and that barely, it proved very cramped for four. One berth against the bulkhead, a single large window, a tiny chest under a small table with a water basin barely gave anyone room to move. A single curtain opposite the bunk opened on a small door through which they found the officer’s garderobe, called ‘the captain’s jakes’.

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