Weis & Hickman - Journey to the Void - Version 1
       
       



       
      The Sovereign Stone Trilogy
      by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
       
      Well of Darkness
      Guardians of the Lost
      Journey into the Void
       
       



       
      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either 
      are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any 
      resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living 
      or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the 
      author or the publisher.
       
      JOURNEY INTO THE VOID. Copyright (c) 2003 by Margaret Weis,Tracy Hickman, 
      and Larry Elmore. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of 
      America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner 
      whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief 
      quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information 
      address HarperCollins Publishers Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 
      10022.
       
      HarperCollins books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales 
      promotional use. For information please write: Special Markets Department, 
      HarperCollins Publishers Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.
      FIRST EDITION
      Designed by Kettan Peck Printed on acid-free paper
      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
      Weis, Margaret.
      Journey into the void / Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman.1st ed.
      p. cm.(The Sovereign Stone trilogy ; v. 3)
      ISBN 0-06-105178-0
      I. Hickman,Tracy. II. Title.
      PS3573.E3978J6 2003
      vi813'.54dc21 2002038894
      03 04 05 06 07 JTC/QW 10 987654321
       



       
       
      Dedicated to my daughter,
      Elizabeth Baldwin,
      with a mother's love and pride
       
       



      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
              We want to thank Larry Elmore for a wonderful journey through his 
              fantastic world. We are so grateful to him for permitting us to 
              travel alongside.
              Margaret and Tracy
       
       
        




      I   
       



       
       1 
      SHADOWING THE TWO PECWAE WAS RELATIVELY EASY FOR THE Vrykyl, Jedash. The 
      elderly grandmother and her grandson walked slowly, stopping often to gape 
      at the wondrous sights of the city of New Vin-nengael.
      A street filled with buildings as tall as giants, full three stories, one 
      stacked atop another, astonished the diminutive, forest-dwelling pecwae. 
      The two spent a whole quarter hour staring at this wonder alone. The gaily 
      painted signs of the guild shops and alehouses were meant to attract 
      attention, and they lured the pecwae with their garish colors and 
      outlandish renditions of animals, objects, and people. The Prancing 
      Porker, the Cocked Hattery (featuring a rooster wearing a hat), the 
      Bishop's Miter Alehousedrew either a shake of the head from the 
      knowledgeable pecwae (the pig had not been born who could prance), or a 
      laugh.
      The two pecwae had no notion they were being followed. They had eluded 
      danger, or so they thought. The moment the Imperial guard had come in 
      sight, bearing down on them and their companions, the instinct for 
      self-preservation that had enabled their diminutive race to survive in a 
      world populated by all manner of predators prompted them to flee. Their 
      companions, including Baron Shadamehr and their Trevinici protector, 
      Jessan, had been arrested. Having no orders regarding pecwae, the Imperial 
      guard had not bothered with them.
      Jedash had no orders regarding pecwae, either, but he had seen them arrive 
      in company with a Trevinici. Recalling that Shakur, another Vrykyl, had 
      been searching for a Trevinici traveling in company with pecwae, Jedash 
      had thought this intriguing. He'd reported it to Shakur and taken it upon 
      himself to trail after them. Jedash had been rewarded for his foresight. 
      Shakur sent urgent word through the Blood-knife that Jedash was to capture 
      the two pecwae and bring them to the palace, where Shakur was now 
      residing, having murdered and taken over the body of the young king.
      The question for Jedash was how to capture the two without drawing undue 
      attention to himself. And in this, he had rivals.
      The sight of pecwae wandering the streets of New Vinnengael was attracting 
      a considerable amount of attention, some of it sinister. About four feet 
      in height, of slender build, with wide eyes and a cheerful smile, the male 
      pecwae had been disguised to pass for a human child, wearing a cap over 
      his delicately pointed ears. The elderly female pecwae, however, had 
      scorned to disguise herself. Small and gray-headed, with a face brown and 
      wrinkled as a walnut, she peered and leered into the faces of everyone 
      they passed; her long, colorful skirt, decorated with beads and bells, 
      clicking and jangling around her ankles. Her walking stick was in itself a 
      curiosity. Carved of wood, the stick was filled with knotholes and every 
      single one of the knotholes was a polished agate, mounted in such a way 
      that each resembled a staring eye.
      Most of the citizens who stopped to stare at the pecwae and point them out 
      were simply curious, pausing a moment to gawk at the funny-looking little 
      people. But others were not. Some had a more material interest.
      Years past, it had been the fashion among the wealthy of New Vinnengael to 
      keep pecwae as pets. Pecwae children, stolen from their homes, were bought 
      and sold in the marketplace. The wealthy exhibited them as curiosities or 
      kept them as companions, dressing them up like dolls and walking them like 
      dogs. Unused to city life, many pecwae sickened and died in captivity and 
      eventually the Church put a stop to the practice. Dealing in pecwae was 
      now illegal, a crime that could be punished by death.
      People found ways around this law, however. Adoption was not only legal 
      but encouraged, and wealthy families could now always "adopt" pecwae 
      children. The Church had no quarrel with this, since introducing pecwae to 
      civilization and the benefits of a Church education could only profit the 
      savage race. The traffic in pecwae was severely curtailed, but a person 
      could still obtain one, if he had the money.
      Even on the black market, few pecwae were available, and those that were 
      fetched a healthy price. In order to protect their children, the pecwae 
      tribes had moved out of New Vinnengael and traveled west to the lands of 
      the Trevinici, their ancient protectors. Those unscrupulous merchants who 
      did not fear the Church had a healthy fear of the Trevinici. It was the 
      ancient law of supply and demand.
      The sight of two pecwae, alone and unprotected, calmly strolling the 
      streets of New Vinnengael, brought gleams to the eyes of more than one 
      black marketer.
      Jedash understood the danger the pecwae were in better than the two 
      pecwae, and he cursed his ill luck. Quite clearly, he stood a fair chance 
      of having his prize snatched right out from under his nose. He recognized 
      two well-known smugglers among the gawkers, smugglers said to trade in all 
      sorts of contraband, from forbidden books of Void magic to nightshade and 
      baneberry to orks' teeth (thought by some to be an aphrodisiac) to pecwae.
      Armed with the magical power of the Void, Jedash was not afraid to fight 
      for his prize. The only weapons he fearedthe only weapons that could 
      slice through the Void magic that held his rotting corpse together were 
      weapons that had been blessed by the gods. Jedash was reasonably confident 
      that neither of those two would have such a weapon in their possession.
      That said, Jedash was well aware that the smugglers would not lightly 
      relinquish the chance for such a windfall. If he moved in on his quarry, 
      the smugglers would view him as a competitor and try to stop him. There 
      would be trouble, a commotion, screams, blood. To make matters worse, the 
      city was on edge, the streets unusually crowded, for rumors were 
      circulating that New Vinnengael was about to go to war. Shopkeepers had 
      shut up their stores. The wealthy who had country homes had packed up 
      their valuables and were leaving the city. Soldiers went about looking 
      grim and important, and it seemed that every person who could walk or 
      hobble was out in search of the latest rumor. At the first sight of 
      trouble, some nervous busybody would go baring off for the authorities.
      Jedash could have dealt with any number of authorities, but he had orders 
      to keep his true nature concealed. He was not to reveal to anyone that he 
      was a Vrykyl. Dagnarus feared that someone might connect him with the 
      undead Vrykyl, and such knowledge might upset his plans for the conquest 
      of the city.
      Traipsing after the pecwae, Jedash mulled over his dilemma, tried to 
      figure out how to deal with the situation. His thoughts were interrupted 
      by Shakur, who was able to speak to Jedash through the magic of the 
      Blood-knives that both carried.
      "I have just finished searching the Trevinici warrior. We did not find the 
      Sovereign Stone on him," Shakur stated. "But he was carrying Svet-lana's 
      Blood-knife. The Stone must be in possession of the two pecwae. You said 
      you were on their trail. Have you caught them yet?"
      "No, Shakur," Jedash replied. "There are ... complications."
      "Another dragon?" Shakur asked, with a sneer.
      "No, not another dragon," Jedash muttered, adding sullenly, "If these two 
      pecwae are so blamed important, why don't you come get them yourself?"
      "I cannot leave the palace," Shakur returned. "My disguise forbids it. You 
      are responsible, Jedash. See to it that you do not bungle this assignment 
      as you did the last one. Lord Dagnarus was not pleased."
      Shakur severed the mental connection, leaving Jedash on his own. The 
      Vrykyl ground his teeth in anger, but he dared not say or even think a 
      word of defiance. The last assignment Shakur had given Jedash had been 
      foiled by the fact that the dwarf he'd been supposed to kidnap was being 
      guarded by a dragon disguised as a human female. Vrykyl are powerful in 
      Void magic, and there are some who might be able to fight and defeat a 
      dragonone such as Shakur, for example. Jedash wasn't one of them. He had 
      fled the premises, far more willing to face Shakur's ire than the wrath of 
      a dragon.
      Consequently, Jedash needed to prove himself, needed to ingratiate himself 
      to his lord and return to his lord's good graces. Capturing the pecwae 
      would be his opportunity.
      Jedash was not brilliant. He was not even particularly intelligent, but he 
      did have the low and desperate cunning of a trapped rat. Shakur's mention 
      of the Trevinici protector gave Jedash an idea, gave him a couple of 
      ideas. "If I hand over the two pecwae to Shakur, he'll take them to Lord 
      Dagnarus and claim that he found them. Why should Shakur be rewarded with 
      my lord's favor?" Jedash asked sulkily. "Why shouldn't it be me? I'm the 
      one who's chasing them down, after all."
      Jedash kept on the trail. The crowds that he had previously cursed now 
      worked in his favor. Vrykyl maintain their unhallowed life by feeding on 
      the souls of those they murder. Once they have taken a soul, they have the 
      power of transforming themselves into the victim. Jedash could take on the 
      dead person's appearance, his characteristics, his voice and manner. He 
      could perform the transformation swiftly, as he walked.
      There were dangers. Anyone looking at him directly would be startled out 
      of their wits to see a person change suddenly into another person. And 
      there was the uncomfortable moment between the two aspects when the 
      hideous rotting corpse that was the true form of the Vrykyl would be 
      clearly visible. Fortunately for Jedash, those in the streets were more 
      intent on feeding their own fears than noticing a man changing his skin as 
      another might change clothes.
      Jedash underwent the transformation.
      Settled into his new body, he closed in on his prey.
      Bashae noticed the way some of the people looked at him and the 
      Grandmother. He saw the way eyes glittered and fingers twitched, as if 
      counting money, and he was uneasy. He recalleda bit latehow Arim, the 
      Nimorean kite-maker, had warned him that some unscrupulous people might 
      kidnap them and sell them as slaves.
      Bashae tried to explain his worries to the Grandmother, but she refused to 
      listen. She had arrived in her "sleep city," the other world to which 
      pecwae travel in their dreams. Entranced by the sights, which she 
      maintained she had seen in her dreams, she walked the streets and pointed 
      out familiar landmarks, heedless of the stares, heedless of the danger.
      Bashae was sorry he'd responded to his instincts and fled when the city 
      guards came in sight. He had the feeling he would have been much more 
      comfortable with his friends, even if they were all in jail, than 
      wandering about the crowded streets, amidst the tall buildings that 
      blotted out the sunlight and these people who stared and laughed and 
      watched them with narrowed eyes.
      "I wish we'd stayed with Jessan," Bashae said, after stepping barefoot 
      into some sort of stinking brown gunk.
      "Bah!" the Grandmother scoffed. "If we were with them, they would be in 
      more danger, not less." She cast a knowing look at the knapsack Bashae 
      carried. "We're safer without them, and they're safer without us. So it 
      all works out."
      Bashae sighed and clutched the knapsack tightly. He had not known what was 
      in it when he'd accepted the knapsack from the dying knight, Lord Gustav. 
      Bashae had thought the knapsack contained only a family heirloom, meant to 
      be delivered to a dear friend. He knew the truth now, knew that he carried 
      with him the human portion of the Sovereign Stone, a powerful magical 
      jewel. Bashae was not very clear on what the jewel did, but he was clear 
      on two points: the first, that everyone in the known world was searching 
      for it; the second, that most of those searching for it would kill to 
      obtain it.
      "Jessan will be worried about us," said Bashae, thinking of his friend and 
      protector, the young Trevinici warrior.
      "Of course," returned the Grandmother complacently. "He's supposed to be 
      worried about us. That's why we brought him along. He's probably looking 
      for us right now. If he's not in a dungeon somewhere." "Do you think he's 
      in a dungeon?" Bashae asked, concerned. "Anything's possible," said the 
      Grandmother. "Especially in my sleep city." She seemed proud of that fact.
      Bashae cast a hopeless glance at the crowds milling about in the street. 
      He'd never seen so many people congregated in one place before in his 
      life. They were thick as ticks on a bear. He didn't see how Jessan could 
      ever find them.
      "Maybe it would be a good idea if we stopped somewhere and waited for 
      him," Bashae suggested. "You must be tired, Grandmother."
      "I'm never tired," she retorted. A moment earlier she had been footsore, 
      limping, her shoulders sagging. She stood up straight and glared at him. 
      "If you're tired, we'll stop and rest."
      A door stoop being convenient, the two sat down. The Grandmother gathered 
      her skirt around her ankles so no one would trip over her bells and placed 
      her stick with its staring eyes across her lap. Bashae was somewhat 
      inconvenienced by the stick, which poked him in the ribs, but he managed 
      to find a comfortable position and settled himself to wait for someone to 
      find them. If not Jessan, then Baron Shadamehr or one of his men. Maybe 
      Ulaf, to whom Bashae had taken a liking.
      They had run away in the morning, and by now the sun had sailed across the 
      sky and buildings were beginning to cast long shadows. What clouds Bashae 
      could see between the tops of the tall buildings had taken on an orange 
      tinge. Night would be on them soon, sooner in this city than in their 
      homeland.
      At least no one will stare at us in the darkness, Bashae was thinking when 
      his thoughts were scattered by the clanging and booming of what seemed to 
      be hundreds of bells.
      Every bell in the city gave tongue, droning in deep voices or singing out 
      in higher-pitched tones. The clangor woke the Grandmother, who had fallen 
      asleep with her head on the stick. Bashae stared about in wonderful 
      astonishment. He'd never heard anything like this wild, sweet pealing.
      Almost immediately after the bells, a man with a booming voice deeper than 
      any bell could be heard three streets away. "By order of His Majesty the 
      King, curfew has been imposed on the city of New Vinnen-gael. All people 
      are to be off the streets and in their homes at the hour of Eventide. 
      Anyone caught on the streets past that hour will be subject to arrest and 
      imprisonment."
      The man boomed this on one corner, then stalked off down the street to 
      boom it on another. The streets began to empty, with most people heading 
      for their homes. Those inclined to linger were helped along by patrols of 
      armed guards.
      "What are we going to do?" Bashae wondered in dismay. "We don't have a 
      home. Where will we go?"
      There is nowhere to go, which means that we'll be arrested, he thought. 
      Which means that we'll be reunited with our friends. Darkness seemed to 
      fall, all of a sudden, stranding the pecwae in this strange stone 
      wilderness. He was on the point of calling out to the soldiers, when the 
      Grandmother suddenly cried out, "Evil!" and lashed at something with her 
      stick.
      Bashae turned to see a man sneaking up on them, hands outstretched. The 
      agate-eyed stick took the man across the knuckles. He howled and snatched 
      back his hand, but his companion made a lunge at Bashae, seized hold of 
      him by the hair.
      "Quit squirming, you little bastard," the man snarled in a rough, deep 
      voice, "or I'll pull your hair out by the roots."
      Tears stung Bashae's eyes as he flailed about, struggling to escape his 
      captor. The Grandmother shrieked at the man in Twithil and lashed at him 
      with her stick.
      This had little effect, and the man was about to drag Bashae away, when 
      suddenly he gasped. The hand holding Bashae let loose, and he tumbled to 
      the pavement, where he crouched, paralyzed, afraid to move. Somewhere, 
      close to him, men were fighting.
      Bashae couldn't see in the darkness. He heard scuffling sounds, then a 
      splintering crash, as if someone had tumbled through a wooden gate, and a 
      thud. A man slumped to the pavement and lay there staring at Bashae. The 
      man gave a groan, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his body went 
      limp. Light flared. Bashae peered up, blinking at the sudden brilliance, 
      to see a Trevinici warrior holding a torch.
      The warrior was clad all in leather. His reddish brown hair was tied back 
      in the traditional manner. He wore the gruesome trophies of his battle 
      kills around his neck and a long knife thrust into his belt.
      "Here you two are," the warrior said, stern and unsmiling. "I have been 
      searching for you everywhere."
      "You have?" Bashae said, confused. He did not know this warrior, did not 
      recognize him. "How do you know about us?" "Your friend sent me," said the 
      warrior. "Jessan?" Bashae asked eagerly, and scrambled to his feet. The 
      Grandmother stood nearby, panting for breath, the agate-eyed stick 
      clutched tightly in her fist. She stared at the Trevinici, her black eyes 
      orange in the firelight.
      "Jessan sent you?" she demanded, her tone suspicious. "Yes, Jessan," said 
      the Trevinici. He prodded the bodies of their attackers, who lay in the 
      street. "A good thing I came when I did."
      "Yes, it is," said Bashae earnestly. "Thank you for rescuing us. 
      Grandmother," he added in low tones, pinching her arm, "what's the matter 
      with you? This warrior saved us. You should thank him."
      "Evil," returned the Grandmother under her breath. "There's evil about. 
      The stick tells me."
      "Yes, Grandmother. The evil is lying at my feet," said Bashae, 
exasperated.
      The Grandmother grunted and shook her head.
      Bashae gave the Trevinici an apologetic smile. "The Grandmother is also 
      grateful to you, sir. Where is Jessan?"
      "He is a long way from here," said the Trevinici. "Outside the city walls. 
      I will take you to him."
      "He left the city?" Bashae was troubled. "Without finding us?"
      "He didn't have much choice," said the Trevinici dryly. "He was under 
      arrest at the time. They were taking him to their prison that is in the 
      middle of the river, when he managed to escape. That's how we ran into 
      each other. He could not come himself, because they are searching for him. 
      But all this is a long story. Curfew has been declared, which means that 
      everyone must be off the streets. You must come with me now."
      "Of course," said Bashae, tugging on the Grandmother's arm.
      She ignored him. Staring at the stick, she gave it an irritated shake.
      "Bashae! Grandmother!" a familiar voice called out, as a familiar figure 
      came running down the street. "Thank the gods I've found you!"
      "Ulaf!" cried Bashae, waving. "He's a friend," he added in Trevini.
      "Some friend," the Trevinici grunted, displeased. "To leave you two to 
      wander the streets alone." He took a firm grip on Bashae's arm. "The man 
      is a Vinnengaelean, and none of them are to be trusted. We will leave 
now."
      "Please let go of me," said Bashae, respectfully but firm. Sometimes 
      Trevinici did not know their own strength. "I know you don't mean to, but 
      you're hurting me. I will go with you, but not just yet. Not until I 
      explain to Ulaf. It's not his fault that we're lost. It's our fault. We 
      ran away when we saw the guards coming."
      The Trevinici let go of the pecwae, but he didn't look happy. Bashae 
      wasn't surprised. The Trevinici had not been born who had any use for city 
      people.
      Ulaf's fair-complected face was flushed from running, his hair tousled. A 
      genial man, with a manner that was invariably friendly and outgoing, he 
      appeared only mildly annoyed at the pecwae for running off.
      "I've been looking for you two everywhere," said Ulaf, grinning. If he was 
      startled to find them in company with a Trevinici, he gave no outward sign 
      of it. "Baron Shadamehr was really worried about you. Looks like there's 
      been some trouble." He glanced at the two unconscious men lying on the 
      pavement, then shifted a keen-eyed gaze to the Trevinici. "Who's your 
      friend? Is this his work?"
      "I am Fire Storm," said the Trevinici with a scowl. "I did what I had to 
      do to protect the small ones, since others left them neglected. These 
      ruffians meant to make slaves of them, as you must have known would happen 
      if they went wandering alone about the city. I will take charge of the 
      pecwae now. Tell your master that they are safe. Come along, you two. 
      Jessan is waiting for you."
      "I'm sorry, but we have to go with Fire Storm, Ulaf," said Bashae, 
      settling the knapsack more comfortably over his shoulder and getting a 
      firm grip on the Grandmother, who was knocking the stick against a wall. 
      "Jessan sent his friend for us"
      "Jessan," interrupted Ulaf in wondering tones. He looked more closely at 
      the Trevinici. "Jessan is with Baron Shadamehr."
      "No, he isn't," Bashae explained. "Jessan was arrested and taken across 
      the river. Fire Storm helped him escape or something like that. Anyhow, 
      Jessan sent Fire Storm to search for us and so we have to be going."
      "Jessan arrested? And he escaped, you say? How very exiting." Ulaf laid 
      his hand on the Trevinici's arm. "I have to hear this tale! There's an inn 
      nearby called the Tubby Tabby. I'll buy the ale, Fire Storm, if you'll 
      tell your story."
      The Trevinici knocked Ulaf's hand aside. Glowering, he turned to the 
      pecwae.
      "We have no time for such foolery. Are you coming?" he demanded dourly.
      "You won't be able to leave the city," Ulaf remarked cheerfully. "Didn't 
      you hear the bells ringing? They've shut the main gates. No one in or out 
      until morning and maybe not even then. You might as well come to the 
      tavern where it's warm and we can have something to eat."
      "What should we do, Grandmother?" Bashae asked in a low voice, speaking 
      Twithil.
      "Do about what?" demanded the Grandmother, looking up from the stick.
      "Should we go with Ulaf to the tavern or go with Fire Storm to find 
      Jessan? Ulaf says that they've shut the city gates. I want to find 
      Jessan," said Bashae, "but it's a long way to walk, clear back to the 
      river. And I'm really hungry. We haven't eaten anything since morning."
      The Grandmother regarded the stick with a look of contempt. "The eyes see 
      something terrible close by us, but they won't tell me what it is or 
      where."
      "Grandmother," said Bashae, looking from the gutter that was awash with 
      raw sewage to the two ruffians, who were groaning back to consciousness, 
      "we're in a city. There's evil all around us!"
      "This is my sleep city," she snapped.
      "I'm sorry, Grandmother. I forgot." Bashae sighed.
      The Grandmother knocked the stick against the wall again, as if she'd 
      knock some sense into it, then whispered into Bashae's ear.
      "If you must know, I think I made a mistake. My sleep city doesn't smell 
      this bad, and there aren't this many people. I don't think I'll die here, 
      after all," she concluded in a decided tone.
      "I'm glad about that, Grandmother," Bashae said. He could see that the 
      Trevinici warrior was growing impatient. "But what do we do? Go to the 
      tavern with Ulaf or go with Fire Storm?"
      "Not much of a choice, if you ask me," the Grandmother said with a dark 
      glance for both tall humans. "As for this Fire Storm, he's not telling all 
      he knows. Why didn't Jessan come for us himself? Jessan is not one to 
      shirk his responsibility. He wouldn't have sent another to find us unless 
      something was wrong. As for this Ulaf, he licks us like a playful pup, and 
      all the time he watches us like the cat. Still"she shrugged"as you say, 
      it's late, and I'm hungry."
      "So we'll go with Ulaf?" Bashae asked.
      "Will you find us something to eat?" the Grandmother demanded of Ulaf, 
      shifting from Twithil to Elderspeak.
      "I'll buy you whatever you want," Ulaf promised. "But we should hurry. 
      It's almost curfew hour, and the patrols will be coming through the 
      streets, arresting people. You should come with us, Fire Storm. I don't 
      think you want to answer a lot of questions about what happened to these 
      two wretches."
      "We had better go to this tavern," the Trevinici said grudgingly. He 
      reached out his hand, took hold of Bashae's knapsack. "That looks heavy. I 
      will carry that for you."
      Bashae clutched the knapsack close. Mindful of what the Grandmother had 
      said, he was suddenly wary of this strange Trevinici. All his life, Bashae 
      had been accustomed to trusting everyone. Now it seemed he couldn't trust 
      anyone. It was this city. He hated this city, hated it so much that his 
      hatred made his stomach churn, and he wasn't all that hungry, after all.
      "Thank you, Fire Storm, but I can manage," he said.
      "Suit yourself," said Fire Storm, shrugging.
      "Oh, quit your whining," said the Grandmother to the agate-eyed stick.
       
       



       2LIGHT! WE NEED LIGHT!" ALISE ORDERED, TRYING TO KEEP THE tremor of fear 
      from her voice, trying to hold panic at bay.
      She put her hand on Shadamehr's neck, felt for a pulse, and found it. He 
      was still alive. But his skin was cold to the touch, and his breathing was 
      shallow and erratic. He'd been woundedshe'd seen the blood on his shirt 
      as he ran from the palace. He had assured her, with his own jaunty air and 
      self-mocking smile, that it was "just a scratch." There hadn't been time 
      for more.
      Having escaped from the palace by leaping out a window in full view of the 
      public and a large number of guardsmen, the baron had caused something of 
      a stir. The alarm raised, the guards set off in pursuit. Alise and Jessan 
      in tow, Shadamehr had thrown off pursuit by dodging down alleys until they 
      came to this tavern. He had made it as far as the back room, then almost 
      immediately collapsed. The room was a storage room with no windows. They 
      had to keep the door shut, in case the guards conducted a search, and no 
      one had thought to bring a light.
      "Go back to the bar, Jessan. Grab a candle, a lantern, whatever is 
      available. Bring water and brandywine. And don't say a word to anyone!"
      An unnecessary warning, she realized. The taciturn Trevinici warrior had 
      spoken maybe twenty words to her during the weeks she had known him, and 
      those words had been in answer to some direct question. Jessan was not 
      sulky or sullen. Like all Trevinici, he saw no need to engage in idle 
      chitchat. He said what was important to say, and that was all.
      Now, for example, he did not waste breath on questions. He simply left to 
      go fetch light. Alise could hear him kicking boxes and barrels out of his 
      way as he stumbled through the darkness. She heard him fumble at the iron 
      door latch, heard the door scrape open.
      Light and tobacco smoke and noise flooded the room. Bending over 
      Shadamehr, Alise looked into his face, and fear coiled around her heart, 
      squeezed it so that she very nearly stopped breathing. He was waxen white. 
      No vestige of color remained in his skin. His lips had a bluish tinge, his 
      cheeks were sunken hollows. His forehead was chill and clammy, his long, 
      curling hair damp with sweat. When she put her hand on his forehead, he 
      shuddered and grimaced in pain.
      The door shut, the light vanished. Alise was left alone in the darkness. 
      Alone with Shadamehrthe aggravating, irritating, annoying, reckless 
      Shadamehr, generous of heart, noble of spirit, a damned fool. Beloved, 
      detested, a pain in the ass, and dying. She knew he was dying as surely as 
      she knew that he was her lord and she was his lady, whether they admitted 
      it to each other or not. He was dying, and she could do nothing to save 
      him because she didn't know what was killing him.
      A scratch, he'd said.
      The door opened, light returned. Alise heard a woman's voice asking if 
      there was anything she could do. Jessan said no, and the door closed. The 
      light remained. Jessan came forward carrying a lantern in one hand, a 
      bucket of water in the other, and a pewter flask attached to a leather 
      thong slung about his neck. He set the lantern on the top of a barrel, 
      arranged it so that its light illuminated Shadamehr. He placed the bucket 
      on the floor, handed the flask to Alise.
      Squatting beside Shadamehr, Jessan looked at him and shook his head.
      Now that she had light, Alise could examine Shadamehr. She ripped open the 
      bloody fabric of his shirt and saw just what he'd told her she would seea 
      ragged, narrow scratch along his rib cage. The blow had been struck in 
      haste. Aiming to penetrate to the heart, the blade had been turned aside 
      by a rib. Alise ripped a piece from the hem of her linen chemise, dipped 
      the cloth in the water, and washed away the blood.
      The scratch appeared to have been made by a blade that was thin as a 
      darning needle. The wound had punctured the skin, but had not gone deep; 
      otherwise, there would have been more blood. Nothing serious, at first 
      glance; nothing to cause such a reaction. Bending nearer, Alise noticed 
      then that the edges of the skin around the scratch were chalk white, 
      almost as if the wound had been packed in snow.
      Alise had lived with Shadamehr and his cohorts for many years. She had 
      been involved in numerous dangerous and daring escapades, and she had 
      grown accustomed to working her healing magic on injuries of all types, 
      from knife wounds to bite marks to ghoul clawings. She had never seen 
      anything like this.
      Or had she? She suddenly remembered Ulien, Shadamehr's friend, who had 
      been mysteriously slain. She and Shadamehr had gone to investigate. She 
      remembered the sight of the man's body as it lay in the morgue. He had 
      died of a single wound to the hearta wound that was small, almost 
      bloodless, and ghastly white around the edges.
      "Oh, gods," Alise whispered. Her hands began to tremble. Don't do this, 
      she commanded herself. He needs you. Don't fall apart now.
      "Jessan," said Alise, "what happened in the palace? Tell me everything. 
      How did Shadamehr get hurt? Did you"she looked intently at the young man, 
      into his face"did you see a Vrykyl? You know what one is, don't you?"
      "I know," said Jessan, and there was a shadowed, haunted look in his eyes. 
      He shook his head again. "I saw no Vrykyl. As for what happened"
      "You must be brief," Alise interrupted. "I don't think . . ." She 
      swallowed. "I'm afraid the baron is in very grave danger."
      Jessan thought back, arranged his thoughts to make his recital as brief 
      and succinct as possible.
      "We were arrested and brought before the boy king and the woman who is the 
      person truly in charge of New Vinnengael, or so Shadamehr told us."
      "The Regent," said Alise.
      "Yes. Shadamehr said that he suspected the Regent of being a Vrykyl, for 
      they can assume the form of any person they have slain. Shadamehr believed 
      that the boy king was the Vrykyl's prisoner, that he was under her 
      control. He planned to rescue the boy king, carry him to safety. The two 
      elves who were arrested with usDamra and her husbandagreed to help. The 
      guards took the four of us into a room. The Regent cast a spell on me and 
      on the elven Dominion Lord. The Regent said she was searching for the 
      Sovereign Stone. She found the Sovereign Stone on Damra, but not on me. 
      She seemed surprised and angry at that. There was another wizard, wearing 
      armor and a sword"
      "A battle mage," said Alise. "Hurry, Jessan, please hurry. What happened?"
      "It was all confusion," Jessan said grimly. "Damra began shouting strange 
      words. Suddenly the room was filled with elves who looked exactly like 
      her."
      "An illusion spell," Alise murmured.
      Jessan shrugged. The Trevinici have no use for magic, distrust all who 
      cast it. "Her husband spit at the battle mage, and he screamed and fell 
      down. One of the guards attacked Shadamehr. I knifed the guard. Shadamehr 
      grabbed hold of the boy king and suddenly . . ."
      Jessan paused, remembering. "Suddenly the baron made a strange sound, sort 
      of a strangled gasp, and dropped the boy to the floor. Then he cried out 
      that we had to run for it. He took hold of me, and the next thing I knew, 
      he was running toward the window, dragging me with him. We crashed through 
      the window. The ground was a long way below us. I thought we were going to 
      die with our brains spattered on the pavement. But we floated down like 
      thistle"
      "Griffith cast a spell on you," Alise said. "Is that all?"
      "Yes, we caught up with you then and came here."
      Alise gazed long at Shadamehr. Opening the flask, she daubed some of the 
      brandy on his lips.
      "My lord!" she called softly. "Shadamehr!"
      He groaned and stirred, but he did not regain consciousness. She sighed 
      deeply.
      "Did the Regent stab him?" she asked Jessan.
      "I don't think so. I didn't see her holding a knife."
      "You say that Shadamehr picked up the boy king and then he made an odd 
      sound and he dropped him. Then he said to flee. No more talk of kidnapping 
      the boy." She recalled Shadamehr's words, spoken to the elves as he sent 
      them away.
      There is no one to help Vinnengael. Not even the gods.
      A thrill of horror raised the hair on Alise's neck and arms.
      "My gods! The young king is the Vrykyl!" Alise said softly. "The Vrykyl 
      murdered the king, then murdered his son, and took the boy's place. No 
      wonder Shadamehr said there was no help for Vinnengael.
      "I see now what must have happened. Shadamehr grabbed hold of what he 
      thought was the young king, but, instead, he grabbed hold of the Vrykyl."
      Alise couldn't help herself. She began to laugh. "What a shock that must 
      have been to the creature. No wonder he stabbed you! Oh, Shadamehr, how 
      very like you. One Vrykyl in the room, and you grab it and try to carry it 
      off!"
      Her laughter gave way to tears. She buried her face in her hands for a 
      moment, long enough to regain control of herself. Resolutely, she drew in 
      a deep breath, wiped her eyes, and began to consider what to do.
      "You mean that the Vrykyl stabbed him?" Jessan asked.
      "Yes, that's what happened," Alise said.
      "The knight Gustav was wounded by a Vrykyl's knife," Jessan stated. "There 
      was nothing the Grandmother could do to save him. He fought the Void for 
      several days, but, in the end, he died. The spirits of our heroes battled 
      the Void and saved his soul, so said the Grandmother."
      Alise flinched. Trevinici-like, Jessan was accepting of death. He spoke no 
      lying platitudes, did not try to blunt truth's sharp dagger. He had no 
      idea that he had pierced her to the heart.
      "Move the bucket closer," she said, dipping the cloth in the water.
      "I will summon the spirits of the heroes to fight for Shadamehr," Jessan 
      offered. "When his time comes."
      "His time isn't coming," Alise returned sharply. "Not yet."
      Jessan glanced at her. When he spoke next, his tone was more gentle. 
      "Perhaps the Grandmother can save him. The knight was old. Shadamehr is 
      young. I will go find the Grandmother and bring her back."
      Alise managed to work her stiff, chill lips into a smile. "I don't think 
      there's anything she could do. But you are right, Jessan. You should go 
      find your friends. The pecwae are lost, wandering about the city. Our 
      people are searching for them, but the pecwae know you and trust you and 
      might come to you when they would shun others. You should be with them. 
      Your duty is to them. I will stay here with my lord."
      "I will bring back the Grandmother," Jessan said, rising to his feet.
      Alise saw it would be useless to argue. She was fast running out of time, 
      and she needed to be rid of him.
      "Our people are supposed to meet at a tavern called the Tubby Tabby. It's 
      not far from here. Go back to the main road. Follow it until you come to a 
      chandler's shop. You'll know it by the sign of a candle that hangs in 
      front. Turn left down that street. The Tubby Tabby is at the end of the 
      alleyway. It will be the only building with lights blazing this time of 
      night. If Ulaf is there, send him to me. Tell him to come quickly. No one 
      else, though. Tell no one else about Shadamehr but Ulaf."
      Jessan gave an abrupt nod. He repeated the directions back to her and 
      departed, without wasting time in useless well-wishes or lengthy 
farewells.
      When he was gone, Alise blinked back her tears.
      "I have to be strong," she said to herself. "I'm all he has!"
      She rose to her feet, looked around the room, making her plans. Picking up 
      the lantern, she carried it with her to the door, dropped the latch, and 
      made certain it was locked. Confident now that she would not be disturbed, 
      she went back to Shadamehr and knelt beside him.
      Alise was trained in Earth magic, the magic of healing. But she was also 
      trained in another, deadly magic. Alise was one of the few wizards the 
      Church deemed capable of handling the powerful and destructive magic of 
      the Void. The Inquisitors taught her Void magic, intending that she could 
      become one of their Order, who actively seek out Void practitioners with 
      the intention of bringing them to justice. Alise soon found that line of 
      work distasteful, for it meant spying on friends, family, even on fellow 
      brethren.
      A former tutor, a mage named Rigiswald, had introduced her to Baron 
      Shadamehr. A wealthy noble, independent thinker, and adventurer, Shadamehr 
      was the only person in history, so far as it was known, to have passed the 
      Tests to become one of the powerful and magical Dominion Lords and then 
      refuse to undergo the Holy Transfiguration, earning the ire of the Church, 
      his king, and, most likely, the gods.
      Shadamehr would never tell his age, but Alise guessed him to be in his 
      middle thirties. He had a nose like a hawk's beak, a chin like an ax 
      blade, eyes blue as the skies above New Vinnengael, and a long, black 
      mustache of which he was inordinately proud.
      Alise smoothed back Shadamehr's hair with her hand, noted a few silver 
      threads among the curling black, and gray hairs in the mustache.
      I will have to tease him about that, she thought, settling herself beside 
      him.
      Reckless and daring, Baron Shadamehr had peculiar ideas. He held that the 
      various races of the world should stop killing each other and learn to get 
      along. He maintained that men should quit whining to the gods to better 
      their lives and start working toward betterment themselves.
      How like him to come up with such a wild plan to kidnap the young king out 
      from under the nose of a Vrykyl! How like him to convince a wise and 
      sensible elven Dominion Lord to go along with him.
      "Maybe this time, you've learned your lesson," she said to him, although 
      she was not very hopeful. Nor, on second thought, did she "want to be.
      She glanced back toward the door. If only Ulaf would come!
      Alise could not use her healing magic on Shadamehr. She had cast a Void 
      spell in order to rescue him and his companions from the palace guards, 
      and now she was tainted by the foul essence of the magic that can only 
      destroy, can never be used to save or create. If she tried to heal him 
      using her Earth magic, the spell would crumble beneath her fingers like a 
      burnt biscuit.
      Ulaf might be able to help Shadamehr, for he was also a skilled Earth 
      mage. She couldn't count on him, though. He was out searching for the 
      pecwae and, even if Jessan found him in time and sent him to her, she 
      doubted if Ulaf could heal this wound.
      The magic of the gods could not save Shadamehr, but the magic of the Void 
      that had wounded him might.
      Alise brought to mind the loathsome spell.
      Void magic is dangerous and destructive, not only for its victims, but 
      also for the magi who casts it, for the magic of the Void demands a 
      sacrificea bit of a magi's own life essence to power the spell, making 
      the spell-casting painful and debilitating to the user. Even the simplest 
      spell causes lesions and pustules to erupt on the skin, while more 
      powerful spells can inflict such pain that the sorcerer falls unconscious 
      or dies.
      Prohibited from using the healing arts by the terrible nature of their 
      magic, Void sorcerers had developed spells that could transfer a bit of 
      the sorcerer's own life essence into the body of another in order to save 
      him. The spell was said to have been perfected in ancient Dunkarga, a land 
      where Void magic is widely accepted. The spell was not often used, and 
      then only under the most dire circumstances, for if the spell was badly 
      cast or the sorcerer made a mistake, the result could be fatal for both 
      caster and patient.
      Above all, the textbooks cautioned, "The spell should never be cast by a 
      sorcerer who is by himself, without someone else on hand to assist him. 
      For in order to cast the spell, the sorcerer must place himself in 
      physical contact with the person who is to receive the benefits. When the 
      spell is cast, the Void magic drains the life essence from the sorcerer, 
      sends it flowing into the body of the patient.
      "The caster must know when to halt the spell and break contact, and this 
      is where an assistant is necessary. As the life drains from him, the 
      caster grows weaker and weaker. If the caster falls unconscious, while 
      still touching the victim, the spell will continue to drain the caster 
      until it steals away his life. Thus, this warning: Never cast this spell 
      alone! Two sorcerers at least should be presentone to cast and the other 
      to break contact should the spellcaster fall unconscious."
      Alise had never used this spell. She had studied it, of course, but she 
      had not committed such a terrible spell to memory. She loathed the use of 
      Void magic. She did not mind so much the pain of the spell-casting, 
      although that was bad enough, or the disfiguring pustules and lesions. She 
      hated the way the magic felt inside her, as if maggots were feeding on her 
      soul.
      But she didn't have any choice. Shadamehr's skin had gone gray. His 
      breathing had altered from rapid, shallow breaths to struggled gasps. He 
      shivered with the cold, his body writhed in pain. His nails were blue, his 
      flesh chill, as if death had already claimed him.
      Alise looked over her shoulder toward the door.
      Never cast this spell alone!
      She saw the words printed large in the books, heard her tutor warn her 
      over and over. If only Ulaf would come!
      But he wasn't going to. She admitted that to herself. Ulaf was out 
      searching for the pecwae, perhaps facing his own dangers. She could not 
      wait. Shadamehr was very far gone.
      Adjusting the lanternlight, Alise reached into a hidden pocket she had 
      sewn into her dress and removed a small, slim volume bound in nondescript 
      gray leather. The book appeared quite harmless on the outside. Even when 
      it was opened, one would have to be a student of magic in order to 
      recognize that this small book was worth the price of her life. If the 
      Church discovered her with this book of forbidden spells, she could be 
      sentenced to hang.
      Even as she turned the pages, Alise could feel the heinous magic start to 
      crawl under her skin.
      She read over the spell, felt her stomach roil, and was forced to cover 
      her mouth with her hand, so as not to retch. Simply reciting the words in 
      her mind brought on nausea, made her so weak and dizzy she could barely 
      concentrate. She couldn't imagine what horror and pain would come with 
      speaking them.
      Alise bent down and kissed Shadamehr gently, tenderly on the lips. 
      Clasping his hand, she pressed his hand to her breast and began to speak 
      the horrible, maggot-ridden words aloud.
       
       
       



       3THE ORIGINAL TUBBY TABBY HAD BEEN A FAMOUS TAVERN IN THE city of Old 
      Vinnengael. Two hundred years later, stories were still told of the tavern 
      and its fat owner and his fatter orange cat, in whose honor the tavern was 
      named. The stories had passed into popular legend, and almost every 
      minstrel tale of long-ago heroes always began with a fortuitous meeting in 
      the Tubby Tabby.
      When the city of New Vinnengael was in the planning stages, several 
      would-be tavern owners came to blows in the desire to name their 
      businesses after the legendary tavern. Then one stated that he could prove 
      that he was the ancestor of that same fat owner, and he even produced a 
      fat cat that he claimed was the descendant of that same famous cat. His 
      proof was accepted. On the day the king moved into the palace of the newly 
      constructed city of New Vinnengael, the man opened the Tubby Tabby Two. 
      The tavern had remained in the family, and now the owner's children's 
      children ran it. A descendant of the same orange tabby snoozed in the 
      sunshine by day and lounged on the bar by night.
      The tavern had always been a favorite of the members of the Shadamehr 
      family, one of whom had, years ago, secretly helped the owner out of his 
      financial difficulties.The tavern had a back door that led into a very 
      dark alley bounded by a wall that was easy to climb and another door that 
      led to the roof, with other roofs within easy jumping distance. Since the 
      Barons Shadamehran eccentric and independent bunch were tireless 
      champions of the weak and downtrodden, they tended to be the targets of 
      the strong and powerful, who weren't at all pleased with Shadamehr 
      meddling and took action to stop it, with the result that such means of 
      hasty egress had proven most welcome to the various barons down through 
      the years.
      Ulaf was quite familiar with the tavern, for he found it an ideal place to 
      meet with the people who kept him informed of what was going on in the 
      world beyond the walls of New Vinnengael. The tavern was also the place 
      where Shadamehr's people would gather if there was trouble.
      Having found the pecwae, Ulaf shepherded them to the tavern, moving as 
      fast as he could, all the while keeping a watchful eye out for the 
      patrols. The bells rang curfew just as they turned into the block on which 
      the tavern was located.
      The streets were mostly empty. The patrols were already on the march, 
      looking for violators. The patrols were also looking for Baron Shadamehr, 
      but Ulaf had no way of knowing this. He guessed that something had gone 
      wrong, for he'd heard the blowing of the penny whistles used by 
      Shadamehr's people to alert each other in times of crisis. Ulaf had been 
      about to go find out what was up, when he'd caught a glimpse of the 
      pecwae, disappearing around a corner, and had instead gone after them.
      He was certain to discover what had happened when he reached the meeting 
      place. In the meantime, he had the two pecwae, and Bashae had the 
      Sovereign Stone in the knapsack. Ulaf meant to keep hold of all three.
      Ulaf would have been glad to rid himself of the Trevinici warrior, who had 
      suddenly arrived on the scene.
      "What a strange coincidence," Ulaf muttered, "that in a city that never 
      sees a Trevinici or a pecwae, they should both suddenly bump into one 
      another."
      And then he remembered Shadamehr saying once that, "There are no such 
      things as coincidences, only the gods' practical jokes."
      So if this was a joke, who was getting the last laugh? Bashae and the 
      Grandmother came from a land far from NewVinnengael, a land where the 
      sight of a Trevinicithe pecwaes' ancient protectorswas as common as a 
      sparrow. They could not know that seeing a Trevinici in New Vinnengael was 
      tantamount to seeing a whale floating in one of the city fountains. Ulaf 
      supposed that Jessan was the first Trevinici to have set foot in New 
      Vinnengael in the past twenty yearsif not longer. For there now to be two 
      Trevinici in New Vinnengael stretched credibility to the utmost limits.
      And for that Trevinici to have "stumbled" upon the two pecwae . . .
      Ulaf had been warned that Vrykyl were in pursuit of the pecwae or rather, 
      the Vrykyl were in pursuit of the Sovereign Stone carried by the one 
      pecwae, Bashae. Ulaf was unfortunately all too familiar with the Vrykyl. 
      He'd encountered them before, much to his regret. They could take the form 
      of any person they had killed, and he guessed that the strange Trevinici, 
      walking down the street alongside him, was one of the powerful and 
      terrifying Vrykyl. Ulaf had no way of knowing for certain, short of 
      forcing the Vrykyl to reveal himself, and he had no intention of doing 
      that. If this Trevinici was a Vrykyl, then they were in extreme danger.
      "On the other hand," Ulaf argued with himself, "if this Trevinici is a 
      Vrykyl, why didn't he use his Void magic to turn me into a pile of greasy 
      ash and take the pecwae and run? Why is he coming along tamely?
      "The obvious answer," Ulaf replied to himself, "is that the Vrykyl is 
      under orders to keep himself and his magic hidden."
      This surmise was not much comfort, for it opened up another box of 
      terrible suppositions and surmises, the main one being that there were 
      more Vrykyl working on behalf of their master, the Lord of the Void, 
      Dagnarus, whose armies were even now marching down on New Vinnengael from 
      the north.
      Ulaf decided that his wisest course was to take everyonepecwae, 
      Trevinici, Vrykyl, and allto the tavern, where he hoped he would find 
      Baron Shadamehr and the rest of the Baron's people. Together they could 
      figure some way to deal with this deadly situation.
      The Tubby Tabby was located at the end of a block on Chandler's Street. As 
      they turned into the street, the raucous laughter could be heard a block 
      away. The sign featuring a painting of the famous slumbering orange tabby 
      swayed and creaked in the evening breeze.
      The heat and noise from inside the tavern burst on Ulaf with the force of 
      a dwarven fire spell as he yanked open the heavy wooden door. On the lower 
      floor was the tavern proper and two large common rooms, where travelers 
      could find a pallet for the night. An enormous fireplace at one end of the 
      tavern provided light and warmth. Seeing a number of his friends and 
      comrades among the crowd, Ulaf breathed a sigh of relief.
      Ulaf took firm hold of the pecwae, who stood frozen like terrified rabbits 
      on the door stoop, and shoved them inside. The Trevinici hesitated in the 
      doorway, and Ulaf hoped that he might be intimidated by the crowd and 
      decide to depart. The warrior scowled darkly at the sight of so many 
      people, but he followed the two pecwae inside and hung on to them like 
      grim death.
      An unfortunately apt analogy, Ulaf thought to himself.
      He scanned the crowd hastily for Shadamehr. He did not see him, and that 
      was a bad sign. Either the baron was still under arrest, or something 
      worse had happened. None of Shadamehr's people gave any outward sign that 
      they knew Ulaf, who gave no sign that he knew any of them. The tavern 
      owner, who knew Ulaf well, looked right past him, and the busy serving 
      wenches cast him harassed glances, as if he were just another customer. 
      All knew that Ulaf might be there on some important business, that he 
      might be using any one of his assumed identities, and that if he wanted to 
      be recognized, he'd give them the signal.
      The tavern was crowded. Visitors to New Vinnengael had been caught by 
      surprise by the curfew. They'd be sleeping four to a bed. In addition, 
      some of the locals who lived nearby and who figured they could sneak home 
      before the patrols caught them, were here to talk about the rumors of war. 
      Every table was filled, but Ulaf was not concerned, and, indeed, shortly 
      after his arrival, a table near the door opened up. He steered the pecwae 
      in that direction. The two men who had been sitting there passed by him 
      without a glance, although one did rub his nose in a peculiar manner.
      Ulaf knew the man, knew that his signal meant that something dire had 
      happened and that they had to talk. The man walked up to the bar. Ulaf 
      didn't dare leave the pecwae, not with the strange Trevinici hanging 
      about, but he needed to know what was going on.
      He settled the Grandmother in her chair, thinking as he did so that the 
      normally feisty elder pecwae was unusually subdued. Every so often, the 
      Grandmother lifted the agate-eyed stick, turned it this way and that. 
      Then, looking grim, she would shake her head and the stick at the same 
      time.
      Some of the patrons were gawking at the pecwae and the Trevinici. 
      Shadamehr's people studiously avoided looking at them and did what they 
      could to distract the attention of the rest. The man at the bar rubbed his 
      nose again, and this time gave a loud sneeze.
      The Trevinici did not sit down but stood leaning against the wall, his 
      arms folded, his dark gaze fixed on the two pecwae.
      "Bashae," said Ulaf, "come with me"
      "Look, it's Jessan!" cried Bashae. He waved his hand. "Over here, Jessan!"
      Jessan entered the room, extremely pleased and relieved to see his 
      friends; so pleased that his usually stern expression relaxed into a 
      smile. He halted a moment to stare in astonishment at the strange 
      Trevinici. He was about to greet this fellow warrior, then recalled his 
      urgent message. Jessan turned aside, spoke in a low, urgent tone to Ulaf.
      "I need to talk to you. Alone."
      Ulaf nodded and the two moved back toward the door.
      "I have just left Arise and Shadamehr," Jessan said. "The baron has been 
      wounded. Arise wants you to come right away."
      "Wounded?" Ulaf repeated, shocked. "Is it bad?" It must be, he thought, 
      for Alise to send for him.
      "He's dying," Jessan said bluntly. "He's in the back room of a tavern down 
      that way." He jerked his thumb. "Alise is with him, but I don't think 
      there is much she can do for him. He is in a very bad way."
      "Oh, gods," Ulaf said, feeling his own life drain out of him.
      His first impulse was to dash off immediately, but he forced himself to 
      think the situation through rationally. He had the pecwae under his care, 
      the pecwae and the Sovereign Stone. They were his responsibility, and he 
      couldn't abandon them. He glanced at the man at the bar, who returned his 
      glance with an urgent look and an even louder sneeze. Jessan, meanwhile, 
      had gone back to staring at the Trevinici.
      "Jessan," Ulaf said. "Do you know that man?"
      "No," said Jessan. "I've never seen him before. By his markings, he 
      belongs to a tribe that lives far from my tribe, somewhere near Vilda 
      Harn."
      "That's strange," said Ulaf, "because he claims to know you. He told the 
      pecwae that you sent him to find them. He used your name to try to lure 
      them out of the city."
      Jessan's brow furrowed. "Why would he say that? I've never seen him 
      before. I've been with Baron Shadamehr."
      "Jessan," said Ulaf swiftly, "I'm going to tell you something that you 
      won't like to hear, and you must remain calm. You can't react. I think 
      that Trevinici is really a Vrykyl."
      Jessan stared at him for a moment. His eyes darkened, his frown deepened, 
      but he said nothing.
      "Don't expose him," Ulaf cautioned. "Not in here. I believe he's after the 
      Sovereign Stone, and he won't hesitate to kill everyone in this place to 
      get hold of it."
      "What do we do?" Jessan asked.
      "You go over and talk to the Trevinici. Look at how nervous he seems. He 
      knows something's up. Allay his suspicions."
      "And then what?"
      "All chaos is going to erupt in a moment. When it does, you grab the 
      Grandmother and Bashae and hustle them out of here. Take them back to 
      Alise and Shadamehr."
      "What about the Vrykyl? He'll try to stop me."
      "Don't worry about the Vrykyl. I'll deal with him.Your only concern is the 
      pecwae. Understood?"
      Jessan gave an abrupt nod and walked over to talk to the strange 
      Trevinici. Ulaf lingered a moment, expecting the worst and preparing to 
      deal with it. Jessan knew what he was about, however, and the two were 
      soon conversing. Bashae munched contentedly on bread and cheese and 
      listened to the two warriors. The Grandmother sat staring into space, her 
      mouth gaping slightly, her gaze glassy-eyed and vacant.
      Ulaf didn't like the looks of her. The thought came to him that perhaps 
      she was having an apoplectic fit, as sometimes occurs with the elderly; 
      but, if so, there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. He pushed his 
      way through the crowd, heading for the bar. As he walked, he nonchalantly 
      lifted the penny whistle that he wore on a silver chain around his neck, 
      brought the whistle out into plain sight. He toyed with it, but didn't put 
      it to his lips.
      Reaching the bar, Ulaf took his place next to the man who had been rubbing 
      his nose.
      "What news, Guerimo?"
      "There was trouble in the palace. Shadamehr and the Dominion Lord had to 
      jump through a window. Now there are battle magi after him!"
      "Battle magi!" Ulaf groaned.
      "They're probably on their way here now. They know this is where he holds 
      court when he's in the city Do you know where the baron is? We need to 
      warn him."
      As Ulaf listened, he kept his gaze fixed on the pecwae and Jessan and the 
      false Trevinici.
      "Strange as this may seem," Ulaf said, "we have worse problems. I need to 
      create a diversion."
      "The usual?" Guerimo grinned.
      "The usual," said Ulaf.



      Jessan had made the decision to leave New Vinnengael before he had ever 
      reached the Tubby Tabby. He'd thought it all out on his way to the tavern, 
      which he'd managed to locate more by accident than design. He would 
      retrieve the two pecwae and go back to their homeland, to a place where he 
      could see the sun and breathe the air. Once there, he was certain he would 
      be able to think things through and find again the answers that he seemed 
      to have lost along the way.
      In Jessan's former lifethe life he'd lived before he had set out upon 
      this journey with the Sovereign Stonehe'd been a child. In this life, he 
      had left childhood behind. He had fought and vanquished a powerful foe. He 
      had taken his warriors nameDefender. He had been faithful to his promise 
      to the dying knight, Gustav. He had visited strange lands, met strange 
      people. He'd come to admire some of them, come to loathe and fear others. 
      He had learned much, or so people kept telling him. On thinking it over, 
      however, Jessan realized that they were wrong. In his previous life, he'd 
      had answers to everything. Now, he had only questions.
      He needed to be rid of this city, where he started out in the right 
      direction, but always seemed to take a wrong turn and wind up in a blind 
      alley or a dead end. He could not see the sky for the tall walls, he could 
      not feel the sun for the shadows they cast, he could not breathe the air 
      for the stench.
      His arrival at the tavern, with its confusion of heat and noise and bright 
      light, confirmed him in his decision. Nor was he particularly surprised to 
      hear that the strange Trevinici was a Vrykyl. In Jessan's other life, he 
      would have scoffed at such a notion. In this life, he was suspicious of 
      everything and everyone. He knew that evil could lurk in a friendly form 
      and he hated the knowledge.
      He was glad to see Bashae and the Grandmother, glad to see them safe and 
      glad to see that they looked as lost and friendless and forlorn as he 
      felt. One obstacle remained and that was the Sovereign Stone. They had 
      fulfilled their promise to the dying knight, Gustav. More than fulfilled 
      it, in Jessan's opinion. Bashae had tried to give the Stone to Darnra, 
      then he tried to give it to Baron Shadamehr. Neither would accept it, 
      leaving the enormous responsibility to Bashae. Looking at the small and 
      frail-seeming pecwae, ringed round by large, ham-fisted humans and 
      shadowed by the Vrykyl, Jessan burned with anger.
      "This Stone is their worry. Let them take it," Jessan said to himself. "We 
      have done our part. We have done enough."
      Bashae scooted over on his chair, offered Jessan half of the seat and more 
      than half of the bread and cheese.
      "I'm glad to see you, Jessan," Bashae said. "I was worried about you. Fire 
      Storm said you'd been arrested."
      Jessan looked intently at Fire Storm, who was watching him warily. Was 
      this man truly a Vrykyl? Jessan couldn't tell. Fire Storm looked as a 
      Trevinici warrior should look, right down to the fringe on his leather 
      breeches.
      "I am glad you came to the aid of my friends, Fire Storm," Jessan said. 
      "They are not used to the dangers of a city. But I am curious as to why 
      you claimed to know me, when this is the first time we've met."
      Jessan felt that was a natural question, one that either a Vrykyl or a 
      Trevinici would expect him to ask.
      Fire Storm's tense expression relaxed. "I must admit that I exaggerated 
      the truth, though not perhaps as much as you might think. The fame of 
      Jessan and his quest has spread among our people."
      "It's my quest, too, you know," Bashae pointed out, offended. "We're in 
      this together, Jessan and I. And the Grandmother." "Of course," said Fire 
      Storm politely. "My mistake." He might be telling the truth, Jessan 
      conceded. My people would have shared the story of the dying knight and 
      those who set off to take his "love token" into eleven lands with every 
      other Trevinici they met. But that doesn't explain what Fire Storm is 
      doing here in New Vinnen-gaela long way from our homeland.
      On the other hand, no Trevinici warrior ever stoops to flattery. He is 
      much more likely to insult you than fawn over you.
      "Bashae," Jessan said blandly, "I need to use the privies. Come along with 
      me, so that you don't get lost again."
      "I'm not the one who managed to get myself arrested," said Bashae, 
      indignant. Switching to Twithil, he went on to describe just exactly what 
      Jessan could do with himself in the privies.
      Twithil being a very descriptive language, Jessan couldn't help but grin. 
      He gave Bashae a look, nodded ever so slightly at Fire Storm.
      Bashae slid a sidelong glance at the Trevinici. The pecwae's right eyelid 
      flickered.
      "All right, Jessan. I'll come," he said.
      "I will come, as well. Strange customs these city people have," Fire Storm 
      added with a shrug. "Building houses for people to crap in."
      Jessan was about to say that he'd changed his mind, he didn't need to go 
      that badly, when the Grandmother gave a screech that nearly lifted the 
      hair off his head. Glaring at Fire Storm, the Grandmother struck him in 
      the chest with the agate-eyed stick.



      Ulaf heard the Grandmother scream, an eerie, primal sound like the shrill 
      scream of the mouse caught in the hawk's claws or the rabbit pierced by an 
      arrow. The awful sound sliced through the noise of the tavern, caused a 
      startled serving maid to drop a mug, and stopped the conversations of 
      every person in the room. Shrieking in fury in her own language, the 
      Grandmother struck the Trevinici, Fire Storm, in the breast with the 
      agate-eyed stick.
      The stick shattered in her hand, broke asunder. Agate eyes rolled and 
      bounded across the floor, but no one paid them any attention. The 
      Trevinici began to undergo a hideous transformation. The leather breeches 
      and leather tunic he wore disappeared. The reddish hair and the stern, 
      unsmiling face of the Trevinici warrior dropped off, the flesh rotting, 
      revealing a horribly grinning skull. Armor, black and fell as the Void, 
      flowed over his body. A black helm slid over the bony skull. Black 
      gauntlets covered skeletal hands.
      I was right, Ulaf thought. The gods help us!
      The people in the tavern sat for a moment in stunned silence, then 
      pandemonium ensued. Few knew what this evil creature was, but all knew 
      that it was born of the Void and that where it walked, death and 
      destruction followed. Some tried to flee, others tried to hide. Everyone 
      cried out or screamed, leapt up or shrank down, fell over chairs or tried 
      to dive under tables. Shadamehr's people looked at the Vrykyl, then at 
      each other, then at Ulaf.
      He had a split second to make a decision. He was competent in magic, but 
      he could never hope to fight the deadly Void magicks of a Vrykyl.
      "Throw things at him!" he roared above the chaos. "Keep him occupied!"
      Ulaf brought the words of the spell he'd been planning to cast to mind, 
      spoke them aloud. The magic tingled in his blood. He pointed at the floor 
      beneath the Vrykyl's feet and magic flowed from him. The floorboards began 
      to heave and buckle. The Vrykyl lost his balance, crashed to the floor.
      Shadamehr's people picked up crockery, bowls, plates, bottles, jugs, 
      whatever came to hand, and hurled them at the Vrykyl. Plates smashed on 
      the black breastplate, ale sloshed over his helm. The crockery barrage 
      would not do him any harm, but it might rattle him, keep him from casting 
      his own magic.
      Ulaf was not a tall man. He couldn't see above the heads of the crowd, 
      most of whom were on their feet, either fleeing or fighting. He had lost 
      sight of Jessan in the chaos, couldn't see what was happening to him or 
      the pecwae.
      Ulaf dared not waste time searching for them. Commending them all to the 
      gods, he ran behind the bar, thrust open a door and dashed up the short 
      flight of stairs to the second floor. He crashed through another door and 
      ran out onto the roof. Several patrons were already in the streets, 
      shouting for the guards. Men-at-arms would be no match for the Vrykyl. 
      Ulaf searched the darkness, straining his eyes.
      And there they were. Six battle magi in full regaliathe most feared 
      wizards in New Vinnengael, perhaps on the continent of Loerem. Only the 
      best and strongest and most disciplined wizards were chosen by the Church 
      to become her champions. Skilled in wielding both steel and magic, they 
      were not only formidable wizards, but among the best swordsmen in the 
      military. They fought as a unit, pooling their magical skills to forge 
      spells that had the power to decimate a regiment.
      A white aura surrounded them, for they were using their magic to light 
      their way through the dark city streets. The magical light glinted off 
      their swords and helms and their chain-mail halberds, illuminated the 
      tabards of their high office that they wore over their armor. They were 
      thorough in their search, taking their time, inspecting every building.
      "Vrykyl!" Ulaf cried aloud. Investing the word with the wings of magic, he 
      sent it flying off. "Vrykyl!" he said again. "The Tubby Tabby!"
      He waited a tense moment, then had the satisfaction of seeing the heads of 
      the battle magi jerk up, see them whip around, searching for the source of 
      the voice that seemed to explode in their ears.
      "Hurry!" Ulaf urged them.
      The battle magi didn't need the urging. They were already running through 
      the streets.
      Ulaf turned and dashed back down the stairs. He had gone about halfway 
      when he heard an agonized crythe shrill, high-pitched cry of a pecwae.
       



       1SHADAMEHR CAME SLOWLY TO CONSCIOUSNESS. HE KNEW NOTHING except that he 
      felt weak and nauseated. He was lying flat on his back on a hard, cold 
      surface, with flickering yellow light glowing somewhere above him. He 
      wondered what had happened to him, and started to try to remember. Fear 
      stopped him. He was afraid to go back there. Afraid to remember. Something 
      horrible had happened. The shadow of the horror lay across his heart, and 
      he did not dare try to look into the past.
      A strange and unpleasant warmth suffused his body, as though the blood had 
      been taken out of his veins, heated in a cauldron, then poured back in. A 
      sickening, metallic taste burned in the back of his mouth and it made him 
      gag. His stomach roiled and cramped. He retched, but not having eaten 
      since breakfast, there was nothing in his stomach to purge. He lay back, 
      shivering and weak.
      Memory returned, unwanted, unbidden. He reached out to pick up the young 
      king, to save him from the Regent, who had been taken over by a Vrykyl. He 
      had his hands on the child, was lifting him off his feet. Terrible, 
      searing pain flashed through his body. He looked into the child's face and 
      saw a skull. He looked into the child's eyes and saw the Void.
      The young king of Vinnengael was the Vrykyl.
      Shadamehr could feel again his sense of helpless horror and revulsion, but 
      he couldn't remember much else, for the ice-cold fire of the wound had 
      started to spread through his body.
      As for where he was now, he couldn't have said if his life depended on it.
      "And maybe it does," he mumbled, trying to push himself up to a sitting 
      position. "The Vrykyl will be searching for me. I know his secret. He 
      can't let me live. Ugh! Blast!"
      Shadamehr collapsed back onto the floor, lay there gasping, chill sweat 
      running over his body. He heard a moan; murmured, broken speech. 
      Shadamehr's vision was blurry, his eyes dazzled from staring into the 
      lanternlight. He turned over, managed to prop himself up on one elbow, 
      searched for the voice.
      He let out a shivering breath. "Alise!"
      She lay next to him, her handlimp and motionlesson the floor. She 
      seemed, in her last moments, to have reached out to him.
      His own fingers trembling, he brushed aside the vibrant red curls that 
      trailed over her face. His breath caught in his throat.
      Alise was a beauty who made nothing of her beauty. She scoffed at the 
      notion that she was beautiful and would laugh heartily at the sonnets and 
      songs written in her praise, much to the discomfiture of many an earnest 
      young swain. She had a sharp tongue, a temper to match her fiery hair, a 
      quick wit, and she used all these as a porcupine uses its prickles to hide 
      a loyal, compassionate heart.
      Her beauty was gone, destroyed. Lesions split the soft skin of her cheeks, 
      oozed blood that trailed down her neck. Hideous pustules covered her 
      forehead and one eye, which was swollen shut. Her lips were cracked and 
      blackened. The hand, reaching to him, clenched in pain, the nails digging 
      into her flesh. She moaned again, a sob of agony.
      "Alise!" Shadamehr gasped, appalled. "What happened? Who did this to you?"
      He knew the answer the moment he asked the question.
      "Oh, gods!" He shut his eyes. "I did."
      He lifted her hand, unclenched the stiff, cold fingers and pressed her 
      hand to his lips. Tears burned his eyelids.
      Shadamehr was not a magus, but he knew magic. A magus named Rigiswald, who 
      been his tutor, had once tried to teach Shadamehr a few rudimentary 
      spells. Not only did Shadamehr prove inept at magic, it affected him in a 
      perverse way. Any spell he tried to cast, even the most mundane, ended in 
      disaster. Shadamehr himself emerged unscathed from carnage, but others 
      were not so fortunate. After a week of suffering, which included a 
      concussion and a sprained ankle, Rigiswald burned the spellbooks and 
      forbade his pupil even to so much as think a word of magic.
      Shadamehr had maintained an interest in magic, though he was careful not 
      to try to cast it himself. He and Alise, Ulaf, and Rigiswald often held 
      lengthy discussions concerning magic, including Void magicks.
      Void magic could not heal a dying man, but it could save one by 
      transferring some of the life essence of a Void magus into the dying man's 
      body. The spell was dangerous, for in saving the victim, it could kill the 
      spellcaster.
      Shadamehr put his hand on Alise's neck. He could barely feel a pulse. She 
      was in terrible pain, for she cried out, and her body wrenched and 
      twisted. The pain could not rouse her from the deep darkness in which she 
      struggled. For his sake, she had given herself to the Void, and the Void 
      was laying claim to her.
      Alise was going to die. Unless he did something, found help for her, found 
      some way to stop the Void from dragging her away from him, she was going 
      to die.
      She was going to die, without ever knowing that he loved her.
      Shadamehr gritted his teeth and, through an enormous effort, managed to 
      lift his arms, reach up, and seize hold of the top of a barrel. He paused 
      a moment, gasping for breath, then, with another effort, he pulled himself 
      upright. He stood hunched over the barrel, shaking and shivering 
      uncontrollably.
      He managed to focus his bleary eyes long enough to find the door. It 
      seemed miles away. He didn't know where he was, for he had no recollection 
      of coming here. He could hear nothing. No sounds came from beyond the 
      door. Now that he thought of it, he seemed to remember hearing someone 
      banging on the door and calling out, but that had been eons ago.
      He tried to call for help, but the shout came out a cracked yelp. He let 
      go of the barrel, took a step, took another step. His head throbbed. The 
      room began to tilt and wobble. His stomach heaved, his knees buckled. 
      Feeling himself start to fall, he tried desperately to save himself by 
      grabbing for the barrel. He upended it, sent it crashing to the floor, 
      along with himself and the lantern.
      Fortunately he did not set fire to the cellar. The lantern's flame went 
      out, drowned in lamp oil.
      Shadamehr cursed himself and his weakness and his failure, which was going 
      to cause him to lose the one person he would have given up his life to 
      save.
      "You should have let me die, Alise," he said.
      Managing to crawl back to her, he took her hand in his own, kissed her 
      hand, her dear, tortured face. He gathered her in his arms, cradled her 
      head on his chest, and held her shivering, chilled body pressed against 
      his.
      "You should have let me die. No great loss," he murmured. "Nothing but a 
      conceited, heedless, reckless fool, who meddles in affairs that aren't any 
      of my concern simply for the sheer fun in meddling."
      He rested his cheek against her soft hair.
      "Oh, I tell myself I'm doing good. I'm benefiting mankind, and maybe I 
      have managed to do that, now and then. But I do it only because it is fun. 
      It is an adventure. Always an adventure. Just like this mess we're in now. 
      What a bloody, stupid, reckless thing to try to dosave the young king 
      from a Vrykyl. I put the lives of my friends in peril. I put our mission 
      to save the Sovereign Stone in jeopardy. All for my own selfish thrills. 
      If I had just given it a rational moment's thought, I could have figured 
      it out.
      "The king suddenly dead. His son the last person with him. Nobody would 
      suspect a child, of course. Nobody suspects now that the boy is anything 
      other than he appears to be. And who would believe me if I told them? Who 
      will believe a profligate adventurer, who never spoke a serious word in 
      his life? A man who was granted the right to become a Dominion Lord and 
      refused, not because I was protesting the politics, not out of any 
      philosophical compunctions or any moral convictions. The truth was that I 
      refused because, plain and simple, I didn't want the responsibility.
      "Alise, Alise," he whispered, holding her close. "If I were a Dominion 
      Lord, I could save you. I could have saved myself. Through my own damn, 
      selfish laziness, I have lost the only thing I ever held dear. And you 
      will leave me never knowing that I love you. For I do love you, Alise," 
      said Shadamehr, kissing her gently. "You are my lady."
      She had ceased to moan. Her body was growing colder, her breathing 
      labored. Holding her close, he breathed each breath with her, as if he 
      could breathe each breath for her.
      "If you die, Alise, I do not want to live. If you are not part of life, I 
      have no care for this empty gift you have given me. But though I have no 
      care for life myself, I will not waste it. I will make you proud of me, 
      Alise. I will. I swear it to the gods."
       



       5THE VRYKYL JEDASH FOUGHT TO RETAIN THE ILLUSION. FIRE Storm returned for 
      an instant, but by then people were screaming and pointing. He realized 
      that his mask had slipped and people had seen through his disguise. He 
      abandoned the useless Trevinici illusion, called upon his magic. The Void 
      protected him, covered him in its own black armor, gave him deadly magicks 
      and the power to wield them.
      The power of the Void affects not only the mind, but the heart. The Void's 
      weapon is fear. The Void's shield is terror, its armor despair. The best 
      and bravest find it difficult to battle the Void, for it forces a person 
      to battle two foes simultaneouslythe terror within and the horror 
without.
      The pecwae stood frozen, helpless. The Vrykyl made a grab for the two, and 
      he nearly had the Grandmother, when some bastard cast a magical spell that 
      caused the floorboards to lurch and roll. He lost his balance, stumbled 
      backward, and crashed up against the wall.
      "Throw things at him!" a voice yelled, and the tavern's patrons began 
      their crockery assault.
      Plates and bowls smashed against the Vrykyl's armor, mugs struck his helm. 
      The missies could not harm him, but they were an irritation, kept him from 
      thinking clearly so that he could cast a spell of his own.
      The air around Jessan grew chill and dank as the air in a burial mound. He 
      smelled the sweet, sickening stench of decay. Fire Storm's face dissolved. 
      The illusion of flesh vanished, revealing the reality of a hideously 
      grinning, gap-toothed skull.
      Jessan had only one weapon, the Blood-knife. He had fought a Vrykyl before 
      and, though he had very nearly died, he remembered that this small bone 
      knife had done a great deal of damage to the undead creature. Jessan 
      grabbed hold of the Grandmother and thrust her behind him, putting himself 
      between her and the Vrykyl, who was floundering amid smashed bowls and 
      coagulating stew. A badly aimed mug struck Jessan in the back, between his 
      shoulder blades. He hardly felt it.
      "Where is Bashae?" he yelled, glancing over his shoulder.
      The Grandmother shook her head.
      Keeping one eye on his foe, Jessan searched about frantically for the 
      pecwae. He shouted his friend's name, but if Bashae answered, Jessan 
      couldn't hear him above the roars and hollerings and screams erupting all 
      around. The Grandmother pulled violently on his leather breeches. She 
      jabbed a pointing finger. Jessan followed it and saw Bashae, crouched, 
      trembling, beneath the table, his eyes level with those of the fallen 
      Vrykyl.
      Bashae was trapped, fenced in by chairs and table legs. A span of only a 
      couple of feet separated him and the Vrykyl. Jedash covered that distance 
      in the space of a heartbeat.
      Frantic as a cornered animal, Bashae tried desperately to escape. He might 
      have managed it, for pecwae are lithe and nimble, their bones supple as 
      willow branches. Dragging the knapsack with him, Bashae slithered 
      backward, scrambling to fit his body between the rungs of a chair leg.
      The Vrykyl seized hold of the knapsack's leather straps.
      For many months, Bashae had been the guardian of the Sovereign Stone. He 
      might not have known that when he started out, but he knew it now. The 
      knapsack was his pride, his responsibility. The knapsack had taken him on 
      a wondrous journey, taken him places and shown him sights that few pecwae 
      had ever seen. He'd come to feel beholden to the knapsack and possessive 
      of it. Bashae was horribly afraid of this ghastly creature of death and 
      despair. He wanted only to get away from it, as fast as possible. But he 
      was going to take the knapsack with him.
      As the Vrykyl tugged on the knapsack. Bashae gave an angry and instinctive 
      tug back and managed to jerk the leather strap out of the Vrykyl's 
      clutching grip. Bashae wriggled backward and was soon lost amid a tangle 
      of table legs, human legs, and human feet. The Vrykyl could not follow.
      Furious, he clambered to his feet. Lifting up the table, the Vrykyl hurled 
      it into the crowd. He found Bashae, crawling beneath another table. The 
      Vrykyl made a lunge for the knapsack, which was tangled up with the 
      pecwae, and caught hold of both of them. The Vrykyl gave a violent tug on 
      the knapsack that nearly tore off Bashae's arm.
      The leather strap broke loose. Bashae felt it give. Turning, he seized 
      hold of the knapsack, kicked wildly at the Vrykyl.
      Jessan tried frantically to reach Bashae, but the Vrykyl was between him 
      and his friend, and chairs, tables and panic-stricken patrons were between 
      Jessan and the Vrykyl. Jessan hurled aside chairs, knocked down anyone who 
      got into his way. He had a fleeing glimpse of staring eyes and wide-open 
      mouths, but they had no meaning, were as leaves blown away on the winter 
      wind of fear for his friend. Jessan cried out a challenge, hoping 
      desperately that the creature would forget about the pecwae and turn to 
      face this new foe.
      The Vrykyl had only one thought, and that was to retrieve the knapsack. He 
      paid no more attention to Jessan than to a mewling kitten. The Vrykyl dug 
      his taloned nails deep into Bashae's body. Blood flowed down Bashae's rib 
      cage. He cried out in pain, writhed in anguish. The Vrykyl grabbed hold of 
      the knapsack and hurled the screaming pecwae to the floor.
      Like Jessan, the Grandmother had also been trying to reach Bashae. Blocked 
      by the crowd, she dropped to the floor and crawled toward him. When the 
      Vrykyl hurled Bashae to the floor, the Grandmother flung her body 
      protectively over his and glared up defiantly at the Vrykyl.
      The Vrykyl drew his sword, prepared to slay both of them and take his 
      prize. He raised the weapon. The Grandmother snatched up one of the agate 
      eyes and threw it into the Vrykyl's helmed face.
      The agate eye burst with a flash of pure white. The magical light was 
      horrible. Flaring inside Jedash's head, the light illuminated the Void, 
      leaving the Vrykyl naked and exposed to the gods. He could feel his undead 
      spirit start to shrivel in their blessed gaze.
      Coming up behind the stunned Vrykyl, Jessan plunged the Blood-knife into 
      the Vrykyl's back.
      The slender, fragile-looking knife sliced through the Void armor, 
      penetrated the Vrykyl's corrupt and rotting flesh. Born of the Void, the 
      knife began to shred the Void magic that held together the Vrykyl's 
      existence.
      Pain that burned like hot, molten metal seared through Jedash, as the 
      Blood-knife weapon severed the dark threads spun of death that bound the 
      Vrykyl to this existence.
      Screaming in fury, he whipped around to face his new attacker.
      Jessan tried to recover the Blood-knife, but his sweat-wet fingers slipped 
      off the handle. The bone blade remained embedded in the Vrykyl's black 
      armor.
      The Vrykyl thrust his hand through the black armor of his breastplate. He 
      groped about inside his own cadaver and, with a howl of agony, seized 
      hold of the Blood-knife embedded in his decaying flesh and ripped it out.
      The Vrykyl had what he'd come for. He had the knapsack, and he was certain 
      that inside was the Sovereign Stone. He crushed the Blood-knife in his 
      black-taloned hand and hurled the remnants at Jessan. His prize in hand, 
      the Vrykyl headed for the door.
      The shards of the bone knife struck Jessan. Those that hit flesh drew 
      blood, but Jessan paid them scant attention. Bashae lay in a crumpled and 
      bloody heap on the floor. The Grandmother knelt over him, her face wet 
      with tears and with blood, speaking the ancient pecwae magical spells of 
      healing, her words broken by her sobs.
      Fury, white-hot, exploded in Jessan's brain, burning away all instinct for 
      self-preservation. He had one goal, and that was to retrieve the knapsack 
      his friend had fought with such uncharacteristic valor to keep.
      Jessan caught hold of the leather strap that dangled from the Vrykyl's 
      hand. With a strength born of rage and anguish, Jessan wrenched it loose. 
      Astonished, the Vrykyl tried to recover his prize. Jessan jumped backward, 
      to escape the Vrykyl's furious swiping hand, and fell over a chair. He 
      crashed to the floor.
      Clutching the knapsack to his breast, protecting it with his body, Jessan 
      tried to stand, but he was starting to grow dizzy. The floor began to tilt 
      and twist underneath him. His bare arms and legs burned with pain, and he 
      was horrified to see that wherever the remnants of the bone knife had 
      struck him, the bits had turned into hideous black leeches that were 
      devouring his flesh.
      "Jessan!" Ulaf shouted and his voice seemed to come from a great distance.
      Knowing he was trapped, guessing he was about to die, Jessan flung the 
      knapsack as far from him and the Vrykyl as he could manage, flung it in 
      the direction of Ulaf's voice.
      The Vrykyl roared in anger and made a desperate grab for the knapsack, but 
      it flew far beyond his reach. The Vrykyl struck at Jessan. The sharp 
      talons of the Vrykyl's gauntlets raked across Jessan's back.
      The pain struck to the young man's very soul. His body jerked, he cried 
      out in agony, and collapsed onto the floor at the Vrykyl's feet.
      The leather sack landed with a dull plop on the floor in front of Ulaf, 
      who made a diving grab for it. He thrust the sack with its precious 
      contents inside the folds of his loose-fitting shirt.
      By now, most of the patrons had exited the tavern, leaping through windows 
      or battling each in an effort to escape out the front door. Those left 
      behind were Shadamehr's people and the tavern's owner, trying gamely to 
      assist in the battle.
      The battle magi had arrived, but they didn't immediately storm the tavern. 
      A voice outside the window could be heard calling out commands. The leader 
      of the battle magi deployed his troops to the front and the rear, posting 
      his people at all the exits with orders to keep the Vrykyl inside the 
      tavern, prevent him from escaping. Heavy booted footsteps thundered 
      overhead. Magi with Air magic skills had flown up onto the roof. They were 
      on the second level, and they'd be coming down the stairs at any moment, 
      prepared to attack the Vrykyl from the rear, while others fought him from 
      the front.
      The Tubby Tabby was about to become a swirling storm of magic. Vrykyl were 
      known to be the most powerful and most heinous of all Void creatures. The 
      battle magi could not allow him to escape, for he would immediately change 
      form, and they would lose him among the city's populace. Faced with this 
      powerful threat, the battle magi would not be overly concerned about 
      inflicting casualties on a few unlucky tavern-goers, two pecwae, and a 
      wounded Trevinici.
      Lifting his voice, Ulaf shouted, "Everyone get out! Now!"
      His comrades didn't need to be told twice. They had guessed what was about 
      to happen, and most were already hastening for the nearest exit. The 
      tavern owner rose from behind the bar. He gaped at the Vrykyl, his face 
      white as a fish's belly. He turned pleading eyes to Ulaf.
      "Your family is safe!" Ulaf yelled, racing toward Jessan. "Get out now! 
      Go, go!"
      "My tavern!" the man cried pitifully.
      Ulaf shook his head. "Go! Get out!"
      the Vrykyl's fell voice rose in a chant. Ulaf recognized the cold, dark 
      words of Void magic. He had no idea what spell the creature was about to 
      cast, but he knew its effects would be dire.
      Jessan lay on the floor, his body covered with blood. He was conscious, 
      gasping and writhing in pain. Nearby, the Grandmother was feverishly 
      placing stones on Bashae's limp body.
      Two battle magi, a man and a woman, appeared in the doorway. Both wore 
      plate and chain mail that glittered silver in the firelight and swords at 
      their sides. Striding fearlessly into the room, both of them cried out 
      words of magic, their voices blending as they cast the same spell 
      simultaneously.
      "Foul creature," the woman called out. "Return to the Void that spawned 
      you!"
      She pointed at the massive fireplace on the north side of the building and 
      made a summoning motion with her hand.
      An arc of flame leapt from the fireplace and soared across the room, 
      flaring so near Ulaf that the searing heat singed his bangs and eyebrows.
      The fire smote the Vrykyl, dancing across the surface of the Vrykyl's 
      armor as if it were black oil. Flames swirled around the Vrykyl in a 
      vortex that set the wooden furniture to blazing. Smoke filled the air.
      Ulaf let go of his spell. His weak magic wouldn't be needed now. The 
      Vrykyl was in good hands. The knapsack containing the Sovereign Stone was 
      safely in Ulaf's possession. His priority was to rescue the pecwae and the 
      Trevinici, take them far away from both the Vrykyl and the battle magi.
      Ulaf made his way through the smoke to Bashae and the Grandmother.
      "Jessan!" he called. "Jessan! Over here!"
      Jessan lifted his head, gazed blearily in Ulaf's direction. Gritting his 
      teeth, Jessan staggered to his feet. He cast a wary glance at the Vrykyl, 
      but the creature was preoccupied, fighting to preserve his heinous 
      existence.
      Ulaf pressed his sleeve over his mouth to protect himself from the 
      thickening smoke. He dropped to the floor, where the air was clearer, and 
      crawled toward the two pecwae. The battle magi chanted their spell. 
      Swirling fire enveloped the Vrykyl, raced along his arms, flared from his 
      hands. Flames cloaked him in a fiery cape, his head seemed helmed with 
      fire, but the flames did not consume him, because there was nothing to 
      consume. Fire could not cause him any real harm. The Vrykyl turned to face 
      his enemy.
      Darts forged of the Void shot out from the breastplate of his black armor, 
      tore through the smoke-filled air and struck the female battle magus in 
      the chest. The tabard she wore dissolved, the cuirass melted. She gave a 
      strangled gasp, staggered backward, and slumped to the floor.
      Well disciplined, her companion did not miss a single word of his chant, 
      but continued his spell-casting. Footfalls clattered on the stairs. An 
      explosion from the rear warned Ulaf that the battle magi were coming in 
      from the back.
      Ulaf kept low to the floor and managed to reach the pecwae. Bashae was 
      alive. His eyes were open, and he was breathing, but a glance told Ulaf 
      that the pecwae was in very bad shape. Blood trickled from his nose and 
      mouth. His skin was ashen. His breath caught in his throat from the pain. 
      Turquoise and other stones rested on his chest and his forehead. The 
      Grandmother hovered over him, muttering incantations and coughing in the 
      smoke.
      A hand touched Ulaf's shoulder. Turning his head, he saw Jessan squatting 
      beside him.
      "Are you all right?" Ulaf demanded.
      Jessan nodded. He was bloody and disheveled, with oozing sores on his arms 
      and chest. He must be in agony, but if so he kept his pain to himself. His 
      lips tightened and compressed, his hand clenched, but he said no word of 
      complaint.
      "We have to get them out of here!" Ulaf said, gesturing to the pecwae.
      Jessan looked at Bashae, and his face darkened. "He is hurt badly. He 
      can't be moved."
      Ulaf glanced around. Five battle magi had entered the tavern. They had the 
      Vrykyl surrounded and were slowly closing in on him, herding him into a 
      position where they could concentrate their destructive magic on him. the 
      Vrykyl was trying to cast Void magic, but not having much luck, 
      apparently, for no more magi went down. Ulaf was thankful to note that the 
      battle magi were concentrating solely on their prey. None had so much as 
      glanced in their direction.
      "Jessan, listen to me," Ulaf said in low, urgent tones, knowing that the 
      Trevinici was the only person the pecwae would heed. "These people are 
      going to bring down the wrath of the gods on that fiend. If we don't get 
      far away from here by the time the magic goes off, -we're all dead!"
      Jessan glanced at the magi and the Vrykyl and gave an abrupt nod. "How do 
      we get out? They have blocked off all the exits."
      "I'll deal with that. You guard Bashae and the Grandmother."
      Ulaf stood up, placed both hands on the wall, and began to chant. He was 
      an experienced magus, but there was always a horrible moment of doubt for 
      any magus, for with every casting there was the possibility the spell 
      might fail. He added a swift prayer to the gods along with the magic and 
      gave a heartfelt sigh of relief when he felt the wall beneath his fingers 
      start to crackle.
      He glanced back over his shoulder, saw Jessan conferring with the 
      Grandmother. She shook her head. Jessan said something more. She looked at 
      Ulaf, bleak questions in her eyes. He made a helpless gesture that said, 
      "We have to get out of here!"
      The Grandmother gathered up the stones that rested on top of Bashae with a 
      flick of her hand.
      "Bashae," said Jessan, "I'm going to pick you up. This may hurt"
      "Jessan," Bashae whispered, struggling to speak. "The knapsack!"
      "It is safe. Ulaf has it," said Jessan.
      "Let me see it!" Bashae gasped.
      Ulaf pulled the knapsack out from his shirt, held it up.
      Bashae sighed, relieved. "That's good. I need to talk to Shadamehr, 
      Jessan. Quickly. Before I die. Can you take me to him?"
      "You are not dying," Jessan said angrily. "Don't talk. Save your strength 
      for getting well."
      He lifted his friend gently, trying not to jar him. Bashae moaned. His" 
      body shuddered. He went limp, his head lolled back on Jessan's arm.
      "He is not dead," the Grandmother said in a trembling voice. "He has 
      fainted. That is good. He will not feel anything now."
      Jessan rose to his feet. Pallid from his own wounds, he staggered when he 
      stood.
      "Are you all right?" Ulaf asked.
      Jessan's tight lips pressed together even tighter. He grunted an assent.
      Ulaf turned back to his work. The chanting behind him was rising in volume 
      and intensity. It wouldn't be long.
      "Stand back," Ulaf warned.
      Flinging the knapsack over his shoulder, he adjusted it securely, then 
      backed off a few paces in order to get a good run at the wall. He braced 
      himself for the impact, which would be bone-jarring if his magic hadn't 
      worked. He couldn't think about that. Turning his shoulder, he ran at top 
      speed straight for the wall.
      Wincing, anticipating the impact, Ulaf smashed through the wall with ease, 
      creating a gaping hole in the wood and plaster. His momentum carried him 
      out into the street, where he nearly collided with a startled battle 
magus.
      Seeing a ghostly apparition (Ulaf was covered head to toe in plaster dust) 
      come bursting through the wall, the battle mage brandished his sword, the 
      words of a spell crackled on his lips.
      "Friend!" cried Ulaf, raising his dusty hands into the air. "Don't harm 
      us! We were caught in there with these children! We just want to get away 
      from here!"
      Keeping his hands raised, he jerked his head toward Jessan, carrying 
      Bashae. The Grandmother stumbled along at Jessan's side, clutching 
      Bashae's hand.
      What with the darkness, the smoke, and the flames, the battle magus would 
      not be able to see clearly. As it was, he barely cast them a glance.
      Ulaf caught hold of the Grandmother and, ignoring her outraged protests, 
      hoisted her onto his back.
      "We have to run for it, Grandmother, and you won't be able to keep up. Put 
      your arms around my neck!"
      The Grandmother obeyed, clasping her arms around his neck with a grip that 
      nearly strangled him. Ulaf broke into a run, heading for the tavern where 
      Jessan had told him they could find Shadamehr. Fortunately, the battle 
      magi had illuminated the surrounding area in order to provide a clear 
      field of vision in case the Vrykyl managed to escape. Their spells had lit 
      up half the city, filling the streets and alleys around the Tubby Tabby 
      with a cold, white radiance. Battle magi, stationed at every street 
      corner, could be heard chanting the spell.
      The streets were empty. City guardsmen were posted nearby to keep order. 
      The streets around the tavern had been cordoned off, but that didn't stop 
      the citizenry from trying to find out what was going on. People stood in 
      doorways, craning their necks, or peering out the upper-story windows of 
      their houses, trying to see what was happening.
      No one stopped Ulaf or the Trevinici, carrying the "children" to safety. 
      One guardsman asked if they needed help. Ulaf shook his head and kept 
      running.
      Bashae moaned in pain, his head rocking from side to side.
      "How much farther?" Jessan demanded anxiously.
      "Only a block or two," said Ulaf. "How is he doing?"
      "He's going to be fine," said Jessan.
      Ulaf looked at the small, deathly white figure Jessan held so easily in 
      his strong arms, then glanced over his shoulder at the Grandmother, who 
      clung to him tightly. She didn't make a sound, but Ulaf could feel the 
      wetness of her tears soaking through the fabric of his shirt.



      Five battle magi had the Vrykyl surrounded. Moving cautiously, they backed 
      him into a corner, all the while chanting the words to a powerful spell. 
      Jedash was still holding his own. He still kept them at bay, but he was 
      growing weaker. The wound made by the Blood-knife had done its damage. He 
      could feel it draining him, siphoning off his energy.
      The magi came at him from all directions, half-blinding him with their 
      foul, dazzling light. Jedash retreated. He would have surrendered to them 
      if he could have. He didn't want to fight. He'd never been much of a 
      fighter when he was alive. The armor of the Void could keep his rotting 
      corpse intact, but it had no effect on what he was. The Void could not 
      grant him courage. Jedash might appear ferocious on the outside, but 
      inside the black helm, his eyes darted about the room, searching for a way 
      out. A craven coward in life, Jedash was a craven coward still.
      Trampling furniture beneath his feet, Jedash fumbled for his own 
      Blood-knife, which he wore at his side. He closed his hand over it.
      "Shakur!" he wailed. "Five battle magi have me surrounded! I am able to 
      hold them off for the time being" he stumbled against a table, nearly 
      fell, but kicked it asunder and managed to save himself"but I am wounded 
      and can't hold out for long. Shakur! Are you there? Answer me!"
      "I am here," was Shakur's churlish response. "Your orders were to keep 
      your true nature secret. What did you do to provoke this?"
      Inspiration struck Jedash. He knew perfectly well that Shakur would not 
      come to his aid, but Shakur was bound to come to the aid of the Sovereign 
      Stone.
      "I have it!" Jedash yelped. "I have the Stone! That is why they are 
      attacking me! They're trying to take it from me. You have to come, Shakur! 
      Come now!"
      Jedash heard another voice, not Shakur's. The voice that answered was the 
      voice of Dagnarus.
      "You lie," said Dagnarus, and his voice was empty and dark as the Void. 
      "You had the Sovereign Stone in your possession, but you disobeyed orders. 
      You were told to bring it to Shakur. Instead, you were greedy, and you 
      lost it."
      "I know who has it!" Jedash whimpered. "I can get it back! Please, my 
      lord, please save me!"
      "I have better things to do with my time," said Dagnarus.
      "My lord!" Jedash cried, clutching the Blood-knife that was made of his 
      own bone. "Shakur! Help me!"
      Silence was his answer. The silence of the Void.
      The magi backed him into the massive fireplace. Terrified, Jedash tried to 
      use his magic, tried to cast again the deadly spell that had slain the 
      first battle magus. He sought for the words to the spell, but the chanting 
      and praying of the battle magi confused him, so that he couldn't think.
      The spell failed. He tried another, only to have it fail.
      The chanting of the battle magi reached a crescendo. The blessed magic of 
      the gods flashed and blazed in the air, bright and burning as the sun. The 
      magi held the magic fast. Feeling the destructive force building around 
      him, Jedash turned his back and tried to burrow his way through solid 
      brick.
      The battle magi let loose the magic.
      The wrath of the gods struck Jedash. The explosive force of the spell 
      ripped apart the armor forged of the Void, pulverized it, smashed it into 
      fragments that disintegrated in the heat of the magic. The blast tore 
      through the fireplace, blew out the wall, and leveled the chimney. Bricks 
      and mortar and wooden beams crashed down on top of the Vrykyl.
      The building shuddered, and for a moment it seemed as if it might come 
      down on them all, burying Vrykyl and magi alike. The magi were prepared 
      for that, for they are trained to face the possibility that they might be 
      called upon to sacrifice themselves in the destruction of their foe. The 
      tavern was well built, however, and, after one final shiver, as though the 
      Tubby Tabby was itself horrified by the event, the building settled and 
      held firm.
      Other magi moved in. Those skilled in construction magic came to shore up 
      the weakened structure, while the Inquisitors, those magi who made a study 
      of Void magic, came to search the rubble for remnants of the Vrykyl. The 
      battle magi who had cast the spell departed the field. Drained of energy, 
      two were so exhausted that they could not walk, but had to be carried by 
      their fellows.
      The blast that had leveled his chimney nearly leveled the poor 
      tav-ernkeeper as well. Having taken Ulaf's advice, he had fled the 
      premises. Huddled with his family at a safe distance from the scene of the 
      battle, he heard the explosion and imagined the worst. He was on the verge 
      of collapse, when his practical wife pointed out to him that the Church 
      was bound to recompense them for their loss and provide them with money to 
      rebuild. And once that was accomplished, the fame of the Tubby Tabby as 
      the scene of a battle between the Church and a Vrykyl would draw customers 
      from all over the continent.
      "We will put up a plaque," she said.
      Comforted and reassured, the tavernkeeper took his family to the home of 
      his brother-in-law, there to regale him with tales of his own courage in 
      the face of frightful danger.
      The Inquisitors worked throughout the night, removing and sorting through 
      the rubble themselves, permitting no one else to enter the building. When 
      they finally left, sometime near dawn, it was observed that they carried 
      with them a small sack, which they treated with great care. What was in 
      the sack, if it contained pieces of the Vrykyl or his armor, was never 
      revealed. The Inquisitors informed the Regent, who then informed the young 
      kingin case he'd been frightenedthat the Vrykyl had been destroyed.
      It was said that the young king was extremely pleased to hear the news.
       



       6THE LIGHT FROM THE BLAST THAT DESTROYED THE VRYKYL ILLUminated the night 
      sky and shook the cobblestone streets for blocks around the Tubby Tabby. 
      The blast shattered windows, set fire to a neighboring roof, and caused 
      widespread alarm. The fire was soon doused. The city guard and town criers 
      hastened up and down the streets, reassuring the populace that the Revered 
      Magi were dealing with the situation. Everything was under control. People 
      should go back to their beds.
      At the sound of the blast, Jessan halted and looked back over his 
shoulder.
      "That could have been us," said Ulaf, as the ground shook beneath their 
      feet.
      Jessan nodded, then glanced around in confusion. "I think the tavern where 
      I left Shadamehr is somewhere around here."
      "It's down this alley," said Ulaf, turning off the main street.
      The magical light cast by the battle magi didn't penetrate as far as the 
      alley. Everything was dark and silent. Too dark, for Ulaf's liking. There 
      were no lights in the tavern's windows.
      "How's Bashae?"
      "Breathing," said Jessan. "Bashae wanted to talk to Shadamehr. The baron 
      was in a bad way when I left him. I didn't tell Bashae that he might be 
      dead."
      "The gods are not in a great hurry to have Shadamehr join them in their 
      heavenly pursuits, so I wouldn't assume the worst just yet," said Ulaf, 
      trying very hard to follow his own comforting advice.
      The Crow and Ring, the tavern in which Shadamehr had sought refuge from 
      the Imperial Cavalry, was known to Ulaf. Located near both the Temple and 
      the palace in an alley off Bookbinder's Street, the Crow and Ring catered 
      to tradesmen in the printing and binding profession and minor government 
      functionaries. Small and snug, the Crow and Ring lacked the amenities of 
      the Tubby Tabby, having no back exit, but it did boast a storage room 
      filled with empty ale casks that were about the right size for hiding a 
      full-grown humanas Ulaf could testify from experienceand a proprietor 
      who, though she talked a great deal, knew when to keep her mouth shut.
      Ulaf was having difficulty adjusting his eyes to the darkness of the 
      alley, after the eerie white glow of the light spell. Jessan had better 
      eyesight, apparently, for he said, "Someone is there, standing in the 
      doorway."
      Ulaf squinted, but it wasn't until they were practically entering the door 
      that he saw the proprietora stout woman in her middle years who'd 
      inherited the Crow and Ring from her late husband.
      "Who's that?" she asked in a tremulous voice.
      Light flared. She had removed the cover from a dark lantern, and now 
      flashed it directly into Ulaf's eyes.
      He cried out, raised his hands to shield his face.
      "It's me, Maudie," he said testily. "Close the shield! You've near blinded 
      me!"
      "It 15 you, Ulaf," she said, peering at him intently. "Thanks be!"
      She obediently slid shut the panel on the dark lantern, hiding the light. 
      "Are the guards after you? Where did you come from? What have you got 
      there? Children? Poor dears. Come inside and be quick about it. Did you 
      hear that blast? They say that fiends of the Void are inside the city, 
      going on a rampage and killing innocent, gods-fearing people. I thought 
      that might be what you was, when I heard you coming down the alleyway. I 
      was ready for them. I have a crowbar right handy here by the door. Did you 
      happen to see them? The fiends, I mean? They weren't after the children, 
      were they?"
      Still talking, not giving Ulaf a chance to answer, Maudie hustled them 
      inside the tavern and shut and latched the door behind them. She removed 
      the cover on the dark lantern again, taking care this time to keep it from 
      shining in their eyes. A fire burned low in the fireplace, giving off a 
      warm glow.
      The Grandmother slid off Ulaf's back and went immediately to Bashae.
      "Put him down by the fire," she ordered Jessan.
      "I have a bed upstairs," Maudie offered, hovering around them and getting 
      in the way. "The poor child might rest better there. What's wrong with 
      him? Oh!" She gave a little gasp. "He's . . . he's not human! What is he? 
      Not a fiend?"
      "He's a pecwae, Maudie," said Ulaf soothingly.
      He drew her to one side to let Jessan pass. The Grandmother laid out a 
      blanket on the floor. Jessan lowered Bashae gently onto the blanket, as 
      the Grandmother took out her stones and began arranging the stones on 
      Bashae's head and neck and shoulders, muttering to herself. Jessan sat 
      back on his heels, helpless and concerned.
      "What happened to him?" Maudie asked.
      "It's a long story. Where's Baron Shadamehr? How is he?"
      "I'm that glad you're here," she continued on, talking over her own 
      question, as well as his. "There've been strange going ons in that room. I 
      guess you know that Baron Shadamehr is in there. Oh," she added, blinking 
      at Jessan. "I recognize that barbarian now. He was with him."
      "Where is the baron, Maudie?" Ulaf asked, his fear growing. He looked 
      about the tavern, saw no signs of him. "Jessan said he was wounded."
      "Aye, the poor baron didn't look good," Maudie said, shaking her head 
      dolefully. "His shirt all soaked in blood. He went in there"she nodded 
      toward the storeroom"and a beautiful woman and that barbarian fellow went 
      in with him. Then the barbarian came out and ran away and"
      "How is the baron?" Ulaf demanded. "Where is he? The guards didn't find 
      him, did they?"
      "You needn't shout. As far as I know, he's still in there." Maudie said, 
      offended. "As to his health"
      "Didn't you check to find out? Honestly, Maudie" Angrily, Ulaf shoved his 
      way around her.
      "The door's locked," Maudie told his back. "I beat on it and shouted 'til 
      I was hoarse and there was no answer. That's what I was trying to tell 
      you," she added, following him over to the door. "I heard a woman's voice 
      and it sounded to me like it was talking magic and it wasn't healing 
      magic. I should know. I had the healers in this place day and night when 
      my Sam was dying, chanting their heads off, though it didn't help him 
      none. Because his aura was righting the magic, they said. The growth ate 
      him up. Then everything went quiet in there. An uncanny quiet, if you know 
      what I mean. I banged on the door, but there was no answer. And then, just 
      when I figured that maybe the woman was a witch and she spirited them both 
      out into the night, there came a dreadful crash and a cry that sounded 
      like demons was in there, then silence again."
      Ulaf put his hands on the door, chanting the magic. He'd cast his spell by 
      the time she paused for breath.
      "Sorry about your door," he told her.
      Ulaf smashed apart the wood, leapt through the remnants.
      "Ulaf! Thank the gods!"
      "Is that you, my lord?" Ulaf asked uncertainly. The voice was so weak and 
      altered that he barely recognized it. He couldn't see anything in the 
      pitch-dark room. "Are you all right? WaitI'll fetch a light."
      He swung around to grab a lantern, found one thrust into his hands. The 
      Grandmother stood right behind him.
      "Shouldn't you be with Bashae?" Ulaf asked her.
      "Bashae wants to talk to him," the Grandmother said firmly.
      "I'm not sure" Ulaf began.
      "Bashae's dying," said the Grandmother, her voice creaking. "He wants to 
      talk to Baron Shadamehr."
      Ulaf did not know what to say, and so said nothing. Taking the lantern 
      from her, he entered the storage room. He flashed the light around, 
      searching among the crates and barrels, casks and bottles.
      "My lord?"
      "Here," said Shadamehr.
      Ulaf followed the sound of his voice. He found Shadamehr resting against a 
      wooden beam, Alise cradled in his arms.
      Ulaf gasped softly at the sight.
      The baron's eyes were dark and shadowed, his cheeks sunken, his skin 
      ashen. He glanced up at Ulaf, then looked back down at Alise, who lay limp 
      and motionless in his arms. Her head rested on his breast, her vibrant red 
      hair covered her face. She stirred suddenly, her body twitched and she 
      cried out incoherent words. Shadamehr gently smoothed the rampant curls, 
      murmuring softly, soothing her.
      Hastily Ulaf set down the lantern, knelt at the baron's side. "My lord! 
      What happened? Are you all right? What's wrong with Alise?"
      In answer to his last question, Shadamehr wordlessly drew back her 
      sweat-damp red hair. The lanternlight illuminated her face.
      The Grandmother sucked in a hissing breath.
      "Gods have mercy," Ulaf whispered.
      "What's ails her?" the Grandmother asked.
      "Void magic," said Ulaf quietly. "The Void demands a toll of the person 
      who uses it, although I've never seen anything this bad. She must have 
      cast a powerful spell."
      "She did," said Shadamehr bitterly. "She gave her life in exchange for 
      mine."
      "I know the spell," said Ulaf. "At least, I know of it."
      "You can help her," Shadamehr said. "You can heal her."
      "I'm sorry"
      "You have to!" Shadamehr cried harshly. He grabbed hold of Ulaf's arm, 
      squeezed it painfully. "You must, damn you! You can't let her die!"
      "My lord, there's nothing ... I can't . . ." Ulaf faltered. He sighed 
      deeply. "There is nothing I can do. Nothing anyone can do, my lord. The 
      gift of healing comes from the gods, and they will not bestow that gift on 
      any who practices the magic of pain and destruction."
      "Not even if it is used for good?" Shadamehr demanded angrily.
      "Not even then, my lord."
      Alise cried out, her body twisted and writhed. Her fists clenched 
      spasmodically.
      Shadamehr clasped her tightly, bent his head over her.
      "Baron Shadamehr?" Jessan's urgent voice came from the door. "Bashae needs 
      to talk to you."
      "Not now!" Shadamehr said impatiently.
      "You should go to him. The pecwae is dying," said Ulaf.
      Shadamehr stared at Ulaf, then over at Jessan, who shook his head in grim 
      confirmation.
      "a Vrykyl," Ulaf said. "There was a fight . . ."
      "Oh, gods!" Shadamehr said, closing his eyes. "What have I done?"
      "He saved the Sovereign Stone," said Jessan, his voice gruff. "He is 
      desperate to talk to you, my lord. Will you come?"
      Shadamehr looked down helplessly at Alise.
      "I will stay with her," offered the Grandmother, adding bluntly, "I have 
      said my good-byes to my grandson."
      "Yes," said Shadamehr, his heart wrenched with pain and pity. "I will 
      come."
      He laid Alise gently down on the floor and wrapped her warmly in her 
      cloak. Painfully, he staggered to his feet. Ulaf saw the blood that 
      covered Shadamehr's shirt.
      "My lord, what"
      "Not now!" Shadamehr gasped. He grimaced in pain. "Here, young man, give 
      me your shoulder to lean on."
      Jessan put his strong arm around the baron, aided his weak steps. Ulaf 
      hurried around to the other side, and, between them, they helped Shadamehr 
      from the storage room. Glancing behind, Ulaf saw that the Grandmother had 
      her stones out and was placing them at various points over Alise's 
      shivering body.
      "Should I run for the healers?" Maudie asked, all in a twitter.
      "No!" said Ulaf sharply. "The last thing we need now are Temple magi 
      poking about."
      Alise was already considered an outlaw by the Church, for she had been an 
      Inquisitor who had left the holy orders without bothering to tell anyone 
      she was leaving. If they found out that she'd been using Void magic, they 
      would immediately place her under arrest. They would heal her, but only to 
      make certain she was well enough to face her executioner.
      "Are you sure?" Maudie persisted, staring at Shadamehr. "He looks to be in 
      a bad way."
      "Do you know what we need, Maudie?" said Ulaf. "Hot water. That's what you 
      can do. Go fetch some boiling water. We need lots of it. Buckets."
      "Well . . ." said Maudie hesitantly.
      "Hurry, woman!" Ulaf ordered, his tone stern. "There's no time to waste!"
      "I'll just go put the kettle on." She headed for the kitchen, and they 
      could hear the banging and clattering of iron pots.
      Bashae lay on the floor in front of the fire. He appeared to be resting 
      easy, no longer suffering. His face was smooth, free of pain. His skin was 
      so pale as to be translucent, his eyes were clear. A single stone, a 
      bright, glittering ruby, lay on his chest.
      Jessan eased Shadamehr down, so he could kneel on the floor beside the 
      pecwae.
      "Ulaf," said Shadamehr, "has everything been done for him?"
      "The Grandmother used her magic on him, my lord," said Ulaf.
      "But is that enough? These folk remedies of hers"
      "My lord, I am a child in magic, compared to the Grandmother," said Ulaf. 
      "His injuries are severe. He should have died of them instantly. The fact 
      that he is still alive to speak to you is a testament to her skill and her 
      faith."
      "You have the Sovereign Stone?" Bashae asked Ulaf. "You have it safe?"
      He could not speak above a whisper, but his words were distinct, his tone, 
      calm.
      "I do, Bashae," said Ulaf. He drew out the knapsack, held it for the 
      pecwae to see.
      Bashae's gaze shifted to Shadamehr.
      "I asked you once before to take the Sovereign Stone, my lord. You said 
      that the knight had given it to me and that I should keep it." Bashae gave 
      a little shrug. "I would, but I don't think it would go with me to my 
      sleep world. My sleep world is a very peaceful place. They won't want it 
      there."
      "I will take the Sovereign Stone, Bashae," said Shadamehr. He reached out 
      for the knapsack, held it fast. "I will fulfill the knight's quest. I 
      should have done so in the first place. If I had" He shook his head, 
      unable to go on.
      "Come closer," said Bashae, "and I will tell you the secret of the 
      knapsack. It's magical, you know." Motioning Shadamehr near, Bashae 
      whispered the secret that the knight had told him. "The Stone is hidden by 
      magic. Speak the name of the knight's wife, and you will see it. The name 
      is 'Adele.' "
      "I understand," said Shadamehr. "And I am sorry that I did not take on 
      this burden sooner," he added remorsefully. "I might have spared you 
this."
      "It was better that I had it," said Bashae. "If you'd taken it with you, 
      the Vrykyl in the palace would have found it."
      "That is true," said Shadamehr. "I hadn't thought of that." He managed a 
      wan smile. "You have done your part, Bashae. Go to your sleep world with 
      the knowledge that you are a true hero."
      "Jessan said that, too," said Bashae, and his dimming eyes went to his 
      friend. "Tell me again, Jessan."
      "You will be buried in the mound with the Trevinici warriors," said 
      Jessan, who knelt at his friend's side, held his frail hand in his strong 
      one. "No other pecwae has ever been so honored."
      Bashae gazed at him, never taking his eyes from him.
      "Your body will be carried by the bravest warriors in the village in a 
      grand procession," Jessan continued. "You will be laid to rest in a place 
      of honor beside the knight, Lord Gustav."
      "I like that. No other pecwae . . . ever so honored. Good-bye, Jessan," 
      Bashae whispered. "I'm glad you found your name. Defender. I'm sorry I 
      made fun of it. It's not very excitingnot like Ale Guzzlerbut it suits 
      you."
      Jessan held his friend's hand tightly. Drawing in a deep breath, he said, 
      "Ever after, when a Trevinici warrior is in need, your spirit will rise to 
      come do battle along with the spirits of the other heroes."
      Bashae smiled. "I hope . . . I'm not in the way."
      He gave a little sigh. His body stiffened, then relaxed. The hand that 
      Jessan held went limp. The bright life drained from the pecwae's eyes.
      Ulaf bent over the pecwae, listened for the beating of the heart, then 
      gently passed his hand over the staring eyes.
      "Bashae is gone," he said quietly.
       



       7SHADAMEHR SLUMPED DOWN IN ONE OF THE CHAIRS, RESTED HIS head on his 
      arms. He had another farewell to say, this one that would tear out his 
      heart, leaving bleak emptiness, guilt, and bitter regret. Floundering in 
      that dark water, he felt himself caught in a deadly riptide dragging him 
      under. He lacked the energy to fight. It seemed easier simply to give up 
      and let the dark water close over his head.
      He stared with envy at Bashae's corpse, at the face smoothed of all pain 
      and worry. Shadamehr longed to find that same blessed peace, but could not 
      afford the luxury. He had made a promise to Alise, a promise to Bashae. He 
      had the Sovereign Stone. The responsibility had been passed to him, and he 
      had to decide what to do with it.
      The Council of Dominion Lords had been disbanded by order of the new 
      Regent.
      That collection of doddering old fools wouldn't be able to do anything 
      anyway, Shadamehr thought, then reproached himself. He could not very well 
      blame them for not bringing in fresh young blood. He had been offered the 
      chance, and he had carelessly tossed it away.
      The Lord of the Void and his armies of fiendish taan were setting up camp 
      outside the city of New Vinnengael. The king was a Vrykyl in a child's 
      body, a Vrykyl who had murdered both the kinga dear friend and his 
      innocent son in order to steal the throne. Shadamehr knew the truth, but 
      how was he to convince anyone? He was a wanted man, who had dared lay 
      hands on the young king. There was undoubtedly a death sentence on his 
      head, for the Vrykyl would have sent out the order that he be slain on 
      sight.
      And in just a few moments, he would have to bid good-bye to Alisethe 
      woman he'd loved for years, the only woman he could ever love.
      "I don't have the strength," he said despondently. "I can't do it. Bashae 
      . . . Alise, you put your trust in the wrong person. You've paid for it 
      with your lives. I don't know what to do. I don't know where to go-----"
      "Shadamehr!"
      He reared up his head, opened his eyes. Ulaf stood beside him, shaking his 
      arm.
      "I'm sorry to wake you," he began.
      "I wasn't asleep," said Shadamehr.
      "My lord," said Ulaf, "it's Alise."
      Shadamehr blenched. He had to be strong. He owed her that much. "Is it 
      time?" he asked.
      "I think you should come," Ulaf answered quietly.
      Shadamehr pushed himself up from the table. He refused Ulaf's help, made 
      his way on his own. He was growing stronger. The horrors of the Void 
      remained, floating atop the dark water with the rest of the wreckage of 
      his life, but his body's strength was returning. He entered the storage 
      room, noticing, as he did so, that Ulaf hung back.
      Making his way among the barrels and crates to where he'd left Alise, he 
      saw a very strange sight.
      Alise seemed to have been swallowed by a circus tent.
      Spread over her shoulders and torso was a mass of gaily colored cloth 
      decorated with stones and bells. Shadamehr had some vague recollection of 
      having seen this before and then, looking at the Grandmother, he 
      remembered. The Grandmother had removed her bell-ringing, stone-clicking 
      skirt and draped it over Alise's body.
      Shadamehr wondered if it was some pecwae ritual for the dead or if the 
      Grandmother had gone mad, her mind overthrown by the death of her 
      grandson. Holding fast to his own sanity with both hands, Shadamehr didn't 
      think he could cope with this.
      He could not see Alise's face, which was shrouded with her own shimmering 
      hair. She was no longer in pain. Her body was relaxed, the limbs still and 
      calm. It seemed that she slumbered, and he was thankful that he would be 
      able to remember her this way.
      He knelt down beside her. Lifting her hand, he brought it to his lips. 
      "Farewell, my love"
      The Grandmother reached out, drew Alise's disheveled hair back from her 
      face.
      Shadamehr gasped.
      Alise's face was smooth, unscarred. At the Grandmother's touch, Alise 
      opened her eyes. Seeing Shadamehr, she smiled drowsily, then closed her 
      eyes and sank back into sleep.
      "You did this!" he exclaimed, staring at the Grandmother, whose 
      nut-wrinkled face was suddenly the most beautiful face in all of Loerem.
      The Grandmother shook her head and shrugged. "Perhaps I helped. But the 
      gods did the work." She sighed, then looked up to ask quietly, "Bashae?"
      "He has gone, Grandmother. I am so sorry." Shadamehr exhibited the 
      knapsack. "He gave me the Sovereign Stone. I will see to it that his quest 
      is fulfilled. I made him that promise."
      She nodded and fussed about with the skirt, smoothing the folds, 
      rearranging some of the stones. She was clad only in a chemise that was 
      frayed and worn. The bells of the skirt jingled faintly.
      "She will sleep a long time," said the Grandmother. "When she wakes, she 
      will be good as ever." She looked back at Shadamehr, bright eyes 
      glittering in the lanternlight. "She loves you very much."
      "And I love her," said Shadamehr, keeping hold of Alise's hand, as if he 
      would never let go.
      The Grandmother held up two clenched fists. "Two lodestones," she said. 
      "They both have powerful attraction, but put them together and what 
      happens?" The two fists bounced apart. "The gods mean them always to be 
      separate."
      "I've never had much use for the gods," said Shadamehr. He ran his hand 
      through Alise's sweat-damp curls.
      "You should." The Grandmother grunted. With a deft movement, she plucked 
      the skirt off Alise and slid it back on, dropping it down over her head. 
      She gave a wriggle, and the skirt settled atop her bony hips, fell in 
      folds around her legs, bells clanging wildly. "The gods brought her back."
      "But the gods didn't bring back Bashae," said Shadamehr. "You asked the 
      gods to heal him, and they refused."
      The Grandmother said nothing. Her hands darted to her face, made a swipe 
      at her eyes.
      "Why aren't you angry about that?" Shadamehr demanded. "The gods saved 
      this woman, a stranger to you, and they took Bashae, your grandson. Why 
      don't you rage and shout, scream at them until your voice stuns the 
      heavens?"
      "I miss him," she said simply. Her face told of her grief and anguish, but 
      her voice was calm, almost serene. "I have buried all my children and many 
      of my grandchildren. Bashae was my favorite of them all. He was so young, 
      his life barely started. That was why I asked the gods to bring him back. 
      I even asked them to take me instead. I had thought I was to be the one to 
      die on this journey. Here, in my sleep city. But"she shrugged, and the 
      bells rang softly"the gods decided otherwise.
      "A newborn baby screams and cries when it comes into this world. It wails 
      on seeing the light. If you gave the babe a choice, he would go back into 
      the warm, safe darkness. Yet, we say that life is a gift." The Grandmother 
      shook her head. "Perhaps death is a greater gift. Like that baby, we are 
      afraid to leave what we know."
      Shadamehr said nothing, for he did not want to argue with her. In his 
      opinion, the godsif there were godswere capricious and callous, acting 
      on whim.
      The Grandmother smacked him on the forehead with the palm of her hand.
      "What was that for?" Shadamehr asked, startled.
      "You are a spoiled child, Baron Shadamehr," said the Grandmother sternly. 
      "You have been given everything you want, and yet you roll around in the 
      dirt shrieking and wailing and kicking your heels for more. I don't know 
      why the gods put up with you."
      She shoved past him, her stones clicking and bells jangling. Pausing at 
      the door to the storage room, she looked back at him. "They must love you 
      very much."
      Shadamehr had his doubts about that, and, for the moment, he didn't care. 
      The gods loved Alise, as he did, and that was all he needed to know.
      He lifted her in his arms, held her close, reveling in the renewed warmth 
      that flowed through her body.
      "My lord," said Ulaf, coming to crouch down beside him. "We must"
      "She's going to live!" said Shadamehr, hugging Alise close.
      She murmured in her sleep and nestled near himan action she would never 
      have taken if she were conscious.
      "Thank the gods!" said Ulaf fervently. "But, my lord, we need to think 
      about what is to be done now. If Dagnarus's taan army is not here, they 
      soon will be. We don't want to be caught in a besieged city." Knowing his 
      lord's unpredictability, Ulaf thought it best to add, "Do we?"
      "No, we don't," said Shadamehr emphatically. His mind was working once 
      again. He felt strong enough to swim, even against that dark tide that had 
      been trying to suck him under. "There's an ork ship waiting for us in the 
      harbor. I sent the elven Dominion Lord and her husband there already. The 
      orks have orders to wait until dawn before they sail. I'll take Alise and 
      the Trevinici and the Grandmother with me on board the ship. Meanwhile you 
      and the others will travel overland, carry messages to the Dominion Lords, 
      tell them what has happened and that we will meet them in the city of 
      Krammes. The Imperial Cavalry School is there. We have the human part of 
      the Sovereign Stone. That must count for something. We can raise an army 
      and return to take back New Vinnengael from the Lord of the Void."
      "You think the city will fall, then?"
      "Yes," said Shadamehr shortly.
      "How will I find the Dominion Lords? I know one of them, Lord Randall, 
      but"
      "Rigiswald knows them all. He's in the Temple, reading up on the Sovereign 
      Stone. He's probably still there. You know how he is when he has his nose 
      in a book. Take him with you."
      "Now, really, Shadamehr. I think I'd rather travel with a Vrykyl!" Ulaf 
      protested earnestly. "That old man is the most cantankerous old man who 
      ever lived. He has a tongue that could fell small trees."
      "Then you'll never want for firewood," said Shadamehr soothingly. "I'm 
      sorry, dear boy, but Rigiswald is the only one who can help you in this. 
      He knows the Dominion Lords and where they're likely to be found."
      "Very well," said Ulaf gloomily. "I'll go round up the others. You do 
      remember that there is a curfew, don't you, my lord?"
      "That's why the gods invented sewer systems," said Shadamehr. "That's my 
      travel route. What about you?"
      "I'll never get Rigiswald down a sewer, and you know it. There's a 
      gatekeeper who owes me a favor," Ulaf added with a wink. "Take care of 
      yourself and Alise, my lord. I'll take care of the others, including 
      Rigiswald."
      "Excellent. Now go ask that good woman for some blankets. I'll want to 
      wrap Alise up warmly." As Shadamehr glanced into the tavern's main room, 
      his expression softened. "You'll need a shroud for the body, too. I am 
      taking them home."
      "Bashae is my responsibility," Jessan said tersely. "Bashae and the 
      Grandmother.''
      Shadamehr and Ulaf exchanged startled glances. Neither of them had heard 
      the warrior come up behind them.
      "They could travel with me and the rest of our people, my lord," Ulaf 
      offered. "My comrades and I are traveling east," he said to Jessan. "As my 
      lord says, the road may be dangerous. We could use another sword. Will you 
      come?"
      Jessan's expression darkened distrustfully.
      "I have ample proof of your valor, Jessan," Ulaf added. "We may be walking 
      straight into the arms of the taan. In that case, I can think of no one 
      else I'd rather have at my side."
      Satisfied, Jessan nodded. "Then I will come with you, if the Grandmother 
      agrees."
      Ulaf persuaded the distraught Maudie, who could not look upon Bashae's 
      body without succumbing to tears, to pull herself together and bring him 
      warm blankets in which to wrap Alise.
      "I'm worried about what to do with Maudie," Shadamehr said, accompanying 
      Ulaf to the door. "This city will be besieged or worse in a day or two."
      "She's safer here than she would be anywhere else," said Ulaf practically. 
      "Tell her to invite her brawniest customers to help her defend her 
      property."
      "I suppose you're right," said Shadamehr. "I should be doing something, 
      anything, to help. Instead, I'm running away."
      "You have the Sovereign Stone," Ulaf reminded him. "You need to think of 
      that. I've told Jessan and the Grandmother to be ready to leave by 
      morning. Farewell, my lord. A good journey to you."
      "And you," said Shadamehr, shaking his friend's hand. "With luck, the city 
      guards are still preoccupied with the fracas at the Tubby Tabby. You 
      should be able to reach the Temple without being stopped. Give Rigiswald 
      my best when you see him."
      Shadamehr returned to find that the Grandmother had swathed Alise snugly 
      in a blanket, folding it around her and tucking in the ends as a mother 
      swaddles a newborn babe. Alise slept soundly through the entire procedure. 
      The hard time came, the time for farewells.
      Jessan knelt beside Bashae, keeping silent vigil over the body of his 
      friend. The Grandmother sat staring into the flames of the fire that 
      danced and rollicked without heed or care.
      Shadamehr rested his hand on Jessan's shoulder. The young man rose to his 
      feet, and the two moved away, toward the back of the room.
      "Ulaf told me of the battle. He told me that you attacked the Vrykyl at 
      peril of your own life. No one doubts you did everything you could to save 
      your friend. You have nothing to regret."
      "I have nothing to regret," said Jessan simply. "Bashae died a warrior's 
      death. He will be greatly honored by my people. To blame myself for his 
      death would be to take away his victory. I will miss him," he added more 
      gently, "for he was my friend, but that is my loss, and I must deal with 
      it."
      "I wish it were that simple," Shadamehr murmured. He started to bid the 
      young warrior a safe journey, then remembered in time that one did not 
      wish that for a Trevinici.
      "May you fight many battles," said Shadamehr. "And be victorious over your 
      foes."
      "I wish the same for you, my lord," said Jessan.
      Shadamehr winced. "I'm not keen on the fighting part," he admitted. "But 
      I'll take the victory over the foes portion of that wish."
      He walked back to say good-bye to the Grandmother. He had grown very fond 
      of her in their brief time together, and he was going to miss her. He 
      touched her gently upon the shoulder.
      "Grandmother, I came to tell you good-bye and to say how truly sorry I am 
      for your loss. I will always honor Bashae as one of the bravest people I 
      have ever known. If we all come out of this alive, I will make the story 
      of his courage and loyalty known to the world."
      The Grandmother looked up, the flames seeming still to flicker in her 
      eyes, the smoke of the fire dimming them. "So long as you keep his story 
      here," she said, placing her hand over her heart, "that is all I ask. The 
      rest of the world would not care much about it, except perhaps as a 
      curiosity."
      She fumbled about her skirts and her pouches, searching for something, and 
      eventually brought out a turquoise. Eyeing it expertly, to make certain it 
      was free of flaws, she pressed the stone into Shadamehr's hand. The gift 
      was a valuable one, for the pecwae believe the turquoise to have special 
      powers of protection. He knew she used them for protection herself, and he 
      didn't want to rob her of it.
      "Grandmother, I thank you, but I can't accept this"
      "Yes, you can," she said. She gave an emphatic nod toward the fire. "I've 
      seen where you are bound. You're going to need it."
      Shadamehr looked down at the turquoise, sky-blue, streaked with silver. It 
      might come in handy, after all. Secreting the stone in the knapsack that 
      held the Sovereign Stone, he bent down and kissed the Grandmother on her 
      wrinkled cheek.
      "Thank you, Grandmother. Have a safe journey."
      "I would wish the same for you," she stated, shaking her head, "but it 
      would be wasted."
      Very probably, Shadamehr thought.
      Lifting Alise, wrapped warmly in the folds of the blanket, he slung the 
      knapsack over one shoulder and Alise's inert body over the other. Clasping 
      her by her legs, he felt extremely grateful that she was comatose, for, 
      had she been awake, she would have protested loudly and indignantly at 
      being hauled about like a sack of flour.
      Shadamehr accepted Maudie's offer of a dark lantern. Keeping the lantern's 
      shutter closed, blocking off the light, he opened the door to the inn and 
      peered out into the night. He estimated that he had about three hours 
      until dawn. The street was empty. A fiery glow lit the sky not far away. 
      The Tubby Tabby was still ablaze. Most of the patrols would be 
      concentrated in that area, trying to put out the blaze.
      Calling a soft, final farewell, Shadamehr took firm hold of Alise and the 
      knapsack containing the Sovereign Stone and slipped into the darkness.
       



       8STANDING IN FRONT OF THE CROW AND RING, ULAF COULD SEE the fiery orange 
      glow lighting the sky like a premature dawn, except that this glow meant 
      sunset for the Tubby Tabby. The city guardsmen and magi would be fighting 
      this magically induced blaze all night, effectively clearing the streets 
      of patrols. Ulaf remained cautious, keeping to the shadows and staying 
      clear of bright pools of light, for the Temple of the Magi was located 
      near the Royal Palace, and the Imperial Cavalry would most certainly be 
      out in full force. Ulaf ran down back roads and dashed up alleys, 
      approaching the Temple from the rear. If caught, he had his story ready 
      and would probably not be in any trouble, but he didn't have time to waste 
      arguing with dunderhead cavalry officers.
      Ulaf anticipated no difficulty in entering the Temple itself, even in the 
      middle of a most unsettled night. He was a member of the Ninth Order, an 
      Order dedicated to the study of the magical Portals that permitted swift 
      travel from one part of Loerem to another. Of all the Orders of the 
      Church, the Ninth Order was the least respected.
      Two hundred years ago, wise and powerful magi had come together to create 
      the four Portals. Centered in Old Vinnengael, the Portals went into the 
      lands of the Tromek elves, the orks, and the dwarves, carrying merchants 
      and their wares, goods and information back and forth. The fourth Portal 
      purportedly communicated directly with the gods. When Dagnarus launched 
      his attack on Old Vinnengael, he and his sorcerer, Gareth, used powerful 
      Void magicks to defeat the city's defenders. The use of these powerful 
      magicks, combined with the magicks cast by the city's defenders, caused 
      such a disruption in the elemental magic that it blew apart, leveling much 
      of the city and shattering the Portals.
      Originally, it was thought that the Portals had been totally destroyed, 
      for none could be found around Old Vinnengael. The Church created the 
      Ninth Order with the intent to try to re-create the magic of the Portals. 
      Their attempts proved futile. The secrets of the creation of the Portals 
      had been destroyed in the blast. The magi worked for years, but were 
      unable even to come close to re-creating the spells. They prayed to the 
      gods, but their prayers went unanswered. The gods, it seemed, wanted no 
      more Portals leading to heaven.
      Much to the chagrin of the Church, reports began to come in that Portals 
      were being discovered in various places around the continent, including a 
      major Portal in the elven lands and another in the land of the 
      Vinnengaelean's bitter enemy, the Karnuans. The Church realized that the 
      Portals had not been destroyed. Dislodged, unmoored, the shattered Portals 
      had drifted off to other locations.
      The Church had been on the verge of disbanding the useless Ninth Order, 
      but instead determined that it might have some value after all. Its 
      members were sent out across the continent to find and map the errant 
      Portals.
      Centuries later, the members of the Ninth Order persisted in their task. 
      Underfunded and ridiculed, members of the Ninth Order traveled extensively 
      throughout Loerem to confirm, verify, and map every reported Portal.
      Thus, Ulaf found this a very convenient Order to join. As a member of the 
      Ninth Order, he was able to travel freely, come and go as he pleased. No 
      one cared enough to ask where he'd been or was at all interested in 
      hearing reports about his journeys. So long as he submitted a map with a 
      new Portal every now and then, they were happy.
      Matters might have different had he asked the Church for money. Since 
      Shadamehr always funded Ulaf's travels, such requests were unnecessary. He 
      passed himself off as independently wealthy, dedicating his own time and 
      money to this venture. Church officials considered Ulaf obsessed, probably 
      deranged, but harmless.
      The Temple of the Magi was not, as its name suggested, a single building. 
      The Temple was the main building, a magnificent structure of marble with 
      stained-glass rose windows and elegant spires designed to sweep men's 
      thoughts upward to heaven. This building housed the Hall of Worship, 
      containing the altars to the gods. The hall was open to the public day and 
      night, with priests on duty at all hours. In this building were also the 
      offices of high Church officials.
      The other major buildings in the complex included the university, with its 
      dortours, classrooms, and a library that was famous throughout the 
      continent; and the Houses of Healing, run by the Order of Hospitalers. 
      Surrounded by gardens, the Houses of Healing were long, low, and airy 
      buildings, with enormous windows to admit the sunlight, which was believed 
      to be conducive to health.
      Ulaf went immediately to the university building, a cylindrical structure 
      supported by flying buttresses that extended from four freestanding 
      towers. A veritable warren of convoluted corridors, the building's 
      interior was dark and windowless, designed to keep the minds of students 
      focused on their studies, not gazing out into the world beyond. Because of 
      the powerful and possibly dangerous texts housed within its walls, the 
      university was not open to the public and was surrounded by a wall through 
      which a single gate provided entrance and egress. The gate was closed at 
      sunset. All entering after that had to pass throughor attempt to pass 
      througha small wicket located to one side of the main gate.
      The porter at the small wicket was startled, wary, and highly suspicious 
      of a brother demanding entry at this ungodly hour, especially a brother 
      wandering the streets in violation of curfew. Ulaf had only to show his 
      credentials and explain his mission for the porter to shake his head in 
      resignation and remove the magical spell that guarded the door.
      Ulaf was given a choice of using his own magic to cast light or taking a 
      lantern. He thankfully accepted the lantern. He'd spent four years 
      studying here and could have walked the maze of halls in his sleep. He 
      went first to the kitchen. He washed his face and hands, splashed cold 
      water on his face to wake himself up. He couldn't remember when he'd last 
      eaten and was thankful to find the bread and cheese left out for those who 
      might be up late studying. Ulaf devoured a loaf of bread on the spot, cut 
      himself a large wedge of cheese, and filled his pockets with apples. 
      Munching the cheese, he made his way to the dortour, where lived the 
      students and the Revered Brethren who worked in the Temple and its 
      environs.
      Ulaf noted that there was more activity than normal in the Temple at this 
      late hour. Revered Brethren strode purposefully through the halls, their 
      expressions grim and preoccupied. Loitering in a hallway, Ulaf waited 
      until he saw a brother leave his room. Ulaf slipped into the room (few 
      doors were ever locked in the Temple), dressed himself in clean robes, 
      transferred his apples to a leather scrip, then set off in pursuit of 
      Rigiswald. Ulaf made a bundle of his dirty clothing and deposited it in 
      the receptacle set aside for those novitiates whose duties included 
      laundry.
      The library occupied an entire wing of the building, housing the most 
      extensive collection of books on the continent. Here were thousands of 
      books on magic, including books on the theory of magic, the religion of 
      magic, and the practical uses of magic as practiced by every race under 
      the sun. The library also contained books on a wide variety of other 
      subjects ranging from books describing the rigging for a sailing vessel to 
      manuals detailing the proper care for a horse with colic or the fine art 
      of embroidering tapestries or how to prepare pickled swan's tongues.
      The library never closed. Dwarven stone-lightsrocks magically enhanced to 
      give off a warm, soft lightallowed scholars to pursue their researches 
      far into the night. Access to the library was strictly regulated. Any of 
      the Revered Brethren in good standing could obtain access simply by 
      exhibiting credentials. Novitiates were permitted inside if they were 
      accompanied by a tutor or if they had a letter from their tutor, then they 
      were restricted to certain areas. Magi of other races were welcome, 
      provided they came with references from the Church attesting to the fact 
      that they used magic responsibly and that they were serious in their 
      pursuit of knowledge. The king and the Dominion Lords were also permitted 
      access to the library, the only laypeople to be so honored.
      At this late hour, the library would ordinarily be a quiet, sleepy place. 
      Ulaf was therefore startled to find that this night, the library bustled 
      with activity.
      "What's going on?" he asked a brother, who had nearly run him down in his 
      haste.
      The brother glanced at him askance, but seeing that Ulaf was wearing the 
      robes of a Revered Brethren and thinking that perhaps he owed him some 
      apology for nearly knocking him over, the brother deigned to respond.
      "We've been ordered to move the most valuable books in the collection to a 
      safe location," said the magus in a low voice.
      "So the rumors of war are true," said Ulaf.
      "You didn't hear that from me, Brother," said the magus grimly, and left 
      upon his urgent errand.
      That explained the battle magi standing guard in the halls, watching as 
      the members of the Order of Scribes carried heavy wooden boxes filled with 
      valuable books and scrolls to a protected location. Most of these valuable 
      texts were the rare and ancient books that dated back to the time of the 
      founding of Vinnengael many hundreds of years ago. Some, however, would be 
      books that were considered dangerous, books on forbidden magicks that 
      should not fall into the wrong hands.
      A battle magus eyed Ulaf darkly, as he entered the library, and he was 
      glad he'd thought to change his clothes and wash away all traces of the 
      fight at the Tubby Tabby. Keeping his eyes lowered, he meekly entered the 
      library and went straight to the head librarian. Ulaf presented his 
      credentials, chalked his name on the board, and went in search of 
      Rigiswald.
      He found the irascible old man in a state of indignation, arguing (in 
      whispers) with one of the Scribes, who appeared to be trying to wrest a 
      book from him. Ulaf hung back, not wanting to get involved. He moved into 
      Rigiswald's line of sight, made a motion with his hand, hoping to attract 
      the elderly magus's attention. Rigiswald saw him and glared, but otherwise 
      didn't take any notice of him. Ulaf sighed deeply and collapsed into a 
      chair. He must have immediately fallen asleep, because the next thing he 
      knew, someone was shaking him. He looked up to see Rigiswald, looking 
down.
      "Why are you here?" Rigiswald demanded in a low, irritated whisper.
      Ulaf snapped his head up and blinked his eyes. He couldn't for a moment 
      think where he was. Then memory returned.
      "I've come to fetch you, sir," Ulaf said, standing up. "Shadamehr has 
      ordered us to leave the city. And there's more."
      Quickly, Ulaf whispered the news of the night's events. He was grateful 
      that the library was a place of enforced silence, for he and Rigiswald 
      could confer in quiet tones and not raise suspicions.
      Rigiswald listened closely. He had been Shadamehr's tutor since the baron 
      was a child. A sleek, dapper gentleman, vain of his appearance and fond of 
      creature comforts, Rigiswald was much more interested in the study of 
      magic than the practice of magic. He claimed that spell-casting ruined his 
      clothes. He was a skilled wizard, when he wanted to be, but he took care 
      that he was not often driven to that extremity.
      His face held no expression. His only reaction to the dire news that the 
      young king of Vinnengael was a Vrykyl, in league with the Lord of the 
      Void, whose armies were at this moment marching on the city, was to lift 
      an eyebrow, and say, "I see."
      Rigiswald smoothed his black beard, which was always neatly combed, 
      trimmed close to his sharp jawline. "So that's why they took away my book. 
      Why didn't the fool just say so in the first place!" He glowered at the 
      back of the Scribe, who was walking off in triumph, book in hand. He 
      turned back to Ulaf. "And why are you here?"
      "Shadamehr asked me to come, sir," said Ulaf, striving to be patient. "I'm 
      rounding up our people. We're planning to leave the city tomorrow morning 
      before it comes under siege." "Where are you bound?"
      "To Krammes, sir. Shadamehr's going round by ship. He said that we were to 
      travel overland"
      "Out of the question," stated Rigiswald. "That trip here in the company of 
      the orks was bad enough. Now you propose that I walk a thousand miles to 
      Krammes."
      "It's not that far. We have horses. I'm supposed to talk to the Dominion 
      Lords and Shadamehr says that you"
      Rigiswald gave a delicate snort. Turning his back on Ulaf, the elderly 
      mage selected a goose quill from one of the jars placed at intervals 
      around the library for the convenience of those needing to take notes. He 
      took a small ivory scroll tube from his belt, removed the scroll rolled up 
      inside, glanced at it, then turned it over and began to write. When he 
      finished, he tucked the scroll into the tube and handed it to Ulaf.
      "Here is where you may find those Dominion Lords who may be of use to 
      you," Rigiswald said. "Use this as your introduction."
      "This means you're not coming with me," Ulaf said in loud and frustrated 
      tones that won him a dour look from the librarian. He lowered his voice. 
      "You did hear me say that the city was going to come under attack soon, 
      didn't you, sir?"
      Rigiswald shrugged, unconcerned. He began to sort through a pile of books 
      he had stacked up on a table beside him.
      "I trust they left me something," he muttered. "Ah, here it is."
      Deftly abstracting a slim volume bound in worn red leather, he settled 
      back down in a chair, opened it, and began to read. After a moment, he 
      glanced up at Ulaf.
      "You may go on about your business," he said.
      "But Shadamehr"
      Rigiswald raised a neatly manicured finger. "Tell the baron I will be of 
      far more use to him here in New Vinnengael than I would be traipsing about 
      the countryside."
      He went back to his reading.
      Ulaf opened his mouth, shut it again. Shaking his head, he tucked the 
      ivory tube into a pocket, then, muttering imprecations, stalked out of the 
      library.
      Glancing up from his book, Rigiswald watched Ulaf depart and smiled to 
      himself. Closing the book, he leaned back in the chair and was soon 
      absorbed with his own thoughts, grim ones, to judge by his expression.



      Back at the Crow and Ring Jessan kept vigil over the body of his friend. 
      The night was quietthe sort of soft and heavy quiet that oppresses the 
      spirit and deadens thought. Ulaf had been gone for some time. Maudie had 
      tried to remain awake to keep an eye on these strange visitors, but the 
      excitement and shock of events had worn her out. She was asleep in her 
      chair.
      Jessan was grateful to Ulaf for having provided him with an occupation, a 
      means of being of service, of use to someone. He could not have accepted 
      Ulaf's offer to travel with them otherwise, for he would not be beholden 
      to anyone, not even to this friend of the baron's. Many Trevinici hired 
      themselves out to travelers to serve as guards in return for food and 
      shelter along the way. Jessan might have suspected that this job was being 
      offered him out of pity, but he had seen respect in Ulaf's eyes and heard 
      it in his voice.
      Jessan knew himself to be valued for his courage and his skill, and the 
      thought brought a modicum of comfort and warmth to him as he stood alone 
      in the howling, frigid, darkness of his grief and his desperate desire to 
      return home.
      Jessan had been eager to go out into the world, eager to prove himself as 
      a warrior. Bored with his humdrum life in the village, as the young are 
      often bored, he could not understand the joy felt by his uncle and the 
      other warriors on returning home after a long absence. How could they 
      trade a life of adventure, danger, and excitement for a life of digging in 
      the fields and minding children? Jessan's thoughts winged to those same 
      ordinary and oft-despised comforts with a longing that ached and burned in 
      his heart.
      Jessan remembered even his crazy aunt Ranessa with compassion. He wished 
      that he'd been kinder to her, more understanding. She was family. She was 
      part of the tribe, and that made her welfare important to him, a sacred 
      trust, as Bashae had been a sacred trust.
      Jessan did not blame himself for Bashae's death. His conscience was clear. 
      He had done all he could to protect his friend and save him from the 
      Vrykyl. As he had said, to blame himself would take credit from Bashae. 
      The pecwae could have dropped the Sovereign Stone and fled, but he'd made 
      the choice to fight for it, valiantly overcoming all his instincts to 
      remain loyal to the task given him by the gods.
      "I honor your courage, Bashae," said Jessan softly. "But part of me wishes 
      you had run away. That same part is angry that you didn't. You left me 
      here alone and friendless. I am sorry for my weakness. I hope you 
      understand."
      "He does," said the Grandmother. "Where he is, he understands everything."
      The time passed, long and heavy. The Grandmother stared into the fire. 
      Jessan's thoughts retraced the footsteps of the remarkable journey that 
      had carried him into foreign lands, introduced him to a kite-maker, the 
      Nimorean Queen's daughter, an elven Dominion Lord, and a madcap baron.
      Jessan was thinking how each had made its mark upon his life when he heard 
      the creaking sound of door hinges. He jerked around, his hand going for 
      the weapon that was no longer at his side. He realized then, seeing the 
      gray light outside the door, that dawn was near.
      "It's me," said Ulaf softly.
      He crept across the floor, not wanting to disturb the slumbering Maudie.
      "I have found most of our people," he said. "I've left messages for the 
      others. They'll catch up with us on the road. I have the horsesmine and 
      Alise's and Shadamehr's. He'd never forgive us if we left his horse here 
      to be eaten by the taan. Are you ready? . . ."
      He glanced askance at the body of the pecwae, lying with limbs composed, 
      eyes closed, before the fire. But for the whitish blue pallor of the skin, 
      Bashae might have been asleep.
      "We should wrap the body in something," Ulaf suggested uncomfortably. 
      "Otherwise . . ." He fell silent, not certain what to say.
      Jessan looked to the Grandmother, who roused herself from her reverie. 
      Rising to her feet, she smoothed the folds of her skirts, setting the 
      bells to tinkling softly. Closing her eyes, the Grandmother began to sing.
      She sang an ancient song, a song taught to the pecwae in a time when elves 
      were newborn creatures wandering the continent with wonder in their eyes, 
      a time when the orks left their brothers who swim in the vast oceans to 
      live upon the land, a time when the dwarven young rolled on the ground 
      with wolf cubs, a time when humans used their magic to wrench stones from 
      the earth and fashion them into weapons.
      As the Grandmother sang, she spread out her hands. Strands of silk flowed 
      from her fingers. The silken threads wrapped around Bashae, spun a cocoon 
      around his body. Every so often, at set intervals in the song, the 
      Grandmother would tear one of the stones from her skirt and toss it among 
      the twining threads. Her tears flowed at the song's beginning, but the 
      ancient mantra that sped the soul of the dead upon its journey to the 
      sleep world also brought comfort and solace to the living. With the end of 
      the song came an end to tears.
      "We are ready to go," the Grandmother said to Ulaf. She was dry-eyed, 
      stiff-chinned. "His soul is departed, and the cocoon will keep his body 
      safe until we place him in the burial mound."
      "I have kept the warrior's watch," Jessan added. "I introduced Bashae to 
      the fallen heroes of our tribe and told them of his valor, so that they 
      will accept him among them and honor him."
      Ulaf had a momentary picture of the diminutive pecwae walking into the 
      halls of heaven, to be greeted as a hero by the likes of such Trevinici 
      legends as Bear-Mauler, Skull-Basher, and 
      He-Who-Dines-on-the-Brains-of-His-Foe. Ulaf added his own silent prayer, 
      hoping that Bashae would be honored by them, but also trusting that the 
      pecwae would soon be able to make good his escape and go running freely in 
      the meadows, to bask in heaven's eternal sunshine.
      "We should hurry," Ulaf said. "No sign of the taan yet, but it's just as 
      well to be away from here."
      Removing some coins from his pouch, he laid them on the table beside the 
      sleeping Maudie. Jessan wrapped the small, cocooned body in a blanket and 
      carried it out to the waiting horses, where Ulaf helped him lash the body 
      onto Shadamehr's steed. The horse was usually restless and ill-tempered, 
      but the Grandmother spoke to the animal, told it the nature of the burden 
      it bore. The horse stood quietly, with head lowered.
      That done, the Grandmother looked around at her sleep city, at the tall 
      buildings, just starting to emerge from the shadows of night, and smiled 
      sadly.
      "When it is my time, I will come back," she promised.
      Jessan picked her up, set her on the back of his horse. "When it is your 
      time, you will join the heroes, Grandmother."
      She heard the sorrow and loneliness in his voice, felt it echoed in her 
      own heart. Each was all the other had left now.
      "Bah!" she said briskly. "They'd just want me to cook for them."
      Jessan smiled, as she had hoped he would. Mounting the horse, he made 
      certain that the Grandmother was securely settled, then they rode off 
      through the gray dawn, following Ulaf's lead.
       



       9AFTER FLEEING THE ILL-FATED FIASCO IN THE PALACE, DAMRA and her husband 
      Griffith had made their way through the slumbering city without 
      difficulty. A member of the Wyred, that mysterious sect of elven wizards, 
      Griffith had the ability to transform himself into an airy being who could 
      pass through the streets as lightly as a breath of wind. Damra was not a 
      wizard, but she could call upon the magical power of the armor of the 
      Dominion Lords to cloak herself in the black wings of the raven. Thus the 
      two elves were able to escape the vigilance of the Imperial Cavalry, who 
      had orders to arrest them, along with the outlaw Baron Shadamehr.
      Damra had been to New Vinnengael before, on those rare occasions when the 
      Dominion Lords were summoned to conference. She recalled that all streets 
      in the city bore names that had to do with their location. They had only 
      to find River Street, which would lead them to the docks. Since it was a 
      major thoroughfare, it was not hard to locate. Patrols passed them by 
      without a glance, a tribute to their powers of magic. On reaching the 
      docks, the elves were just starting to search for the orken ship they'd 
      been told would be waiting for them when they heard a blast and saw a 
      lurid, orange glow light the sky.
      "A building has caught fire," said Griffith, his voice seemingly coming 
      from thin air, for he remained concealed by his magic. "I wonder if that 
      means the taan have entered the city?"
      Damra watched a moment, waiting for more fires to break out, waited to 
      hear screams and shouts. All was silence, except for some noise made by a 
      nearby patrol, who had seen the flames and -were wondering if they should 
      go find out what was going on.
      "I don't think so," Damra replied. "Why do I have the feeling it has 
      something to do with Baron Shadamehr?"
      "Because trouble follows him like a stray dog?" suggested Griffith.
      Damra smiled and looked in the direction of her husband's voice. "I wonder 
      how we're supposed to find that ship? There are undoubtedly several ork 
      ships in port. I'm not sure how we figure out which one is the one we're 
      looking for. In all the excitement, I forgot to ask the baron the ship's 
      name."
      "Would there be that many?" Griffith asked dubiously. "I thought the orks 
      and humans were practically at war."
      "Orks never let politics stand in the way of profit," Damra replied. 
      "There are always several orken ships moored at the docks of New 
      Vinnengael, and a good many orken traders to be found in the city 
markets."
      "I hope we locate the right ship quickly," said Griffith somberly. "My 
      strength is giving out. I'm not certain how much longer I can hold on to 
      this spell."
      "And I hope that the orks will help us," said Damra, sounding dubious. "I 
      do not like having to rely on creatures who are so unpredictable."
      "They are not 'creatures,' dear," said her husband, mildly rebuking. "They 
      are people, the same as us."
      "Orks are not the same as us," returned Damra severely.
      Griffith said nothing, wanting to avoid a quarrel. Damra kept silent for 
      the same reason.
      Arriving at the docks, the weary elves were astonished to find only one 
      ork ship in port, swinging at anchor in the middle of the dark river.
      "That's strange," said Damra.
      "Not really," her husband replied. "The orks have warned their brethren of 
      the approach of the taan. The rest of the orks have fled."
      The orken ship was distinctive for her painted sails, featuring crude 
      images of whales, dolphins, sea serpents, and seabirds. The ship was the 
      Kli'Sha, orken for "seagull," and she was aglow with light, her nervous 
      crew keeping watch.
      The rest of the harbor was quiet, except for the occasional patrol. The 
      orks were not the only sailors to have word of the enemy, apparently.
      Those Vinnengaelean merchant ships who could put out to sea had done so 
      immediately, taking with them family and friends.
      "Where is the Vinnengaelean fleet?" Damra asked suddenly. "Vin-nengael is 
      known for its navy. I am surprised that they are not here to defend the 
      city."
      "The king ordered them out to sea about a month ago in response to a rumor 
      that a Karnuan fleet would attempt to attack New Vinnengael from the 
      south. The fleet has not been heard from since," Griffith said. "The baron 
      believes it possible that they were lured to their doom by the Lord of the 
      Void."
      "Speaking of that fell lord," said Damra, "look there, on the far shore." 
      Narrow and swift-flowing at this point, the Arven River glimmered darkly 
      in the half-light of a waning moon. Damra pointed across its rippling 
      surface to where pinpricks of bright orange light could be seen ranging up 
      and down the riverbank. "Bonfires," said Damra.
      "Yes," Griffith agreed. "Dagnarus's troops are massing on the riverbank."
      "He will attack with dawn."
      "I am not so certain he will attack," Griffith said. "Dagnarus is a 
      cunning man, a genius when it comes to warfare, according to legend. He 
      went to the trouble of insinuating his Vrykyl into the Royal Palace. Why 
      would he do that if he meant to level the city. I believe he has other 
      plans for New Vinnengael."
      "The gods help them," said Damra, "And us. Here comes another patrol. Try 
      to hold your spell a little longer, my husband."
      They needn't have worried. The soldiers paid little attention to their 
      duties. They stared across the water toward the flaring bonfires, every 
      man knowing well what they meant.
      Once they were gone, the two elves made their way to the pier, where the 
      ork captain paced and muttered to himself in orken, occasionally saying 
      something to a companion, who lounged at his ease on a coil of rope.
      Griffith ceased his spell-casting, letting go of the magic with relief. 
      Damra threw off her magical raven's cloak.
      The orken captain gave a violent start at the sight of two elves 
      materializing out of the night almost under his nose. He grabbed his 
sword.
      The first mate leapt up from the ropes and Griffith found the point of a 
      long, curved-bladed sword at his throat while Damra stared down the blade 
      of a wicked-looking dagger.
      "Baron Shadamehr sent us," Griffith said hurriedly, using Elderspeak, for 
      he knew very little Pharn 'Lan, the orken language. "He told us we could 
      gain passage on your ship. You must recognize me, Captain Kal-Gah. I am 
      Griffith. I've lived with the baron the past month. This is my wife, 
      Damra, a Dominion Lord."
      The orken captain lowered his sword, but only to Griffith's chest. Lifting 
      a lantern, he thrust the light into Griffith's face, peered at him 
      intently, then shifted his penetrating stare to Damra.
      Tall and slender, his movements graceful, Griffith wore the traditional 
      black robes of the Wyred, which set them apart from all respected members 
      of elven society. He wore his black hair smoothed back from his face, 
      bound in a long braid at his back. Damra had discarded the magical armor 
      of the Dominion Lord, so as not to look intimidating. She wore a blue 
      silken tunic, bound around her slim waist with a crimson sash and over 
      that the tabard of the Dominion Lord. Since she, too, was considered 
      outside the pale of proper elven society, she eschewed the restricting 
      dress of elven women, choosing instead to wear long, flowing silk 
      trousers. She cut her hair short, wore it tied back in a club.
      The orken captain took all this in, stared at them long and hard.
      "You know my name," he grunted. He frowned, seemed to think this 
      suspicious.
      "Yes, Captain Kal-Gah," said Griffith politely.
      The ork captain, who stood seven feet tall and was built on the order of 
      Shadamehr's Keep, was hard to forget. Clad in leather breeches, he stood 
      bare-chested in the teeth of the chill wind blowing off the river. His 
      huge underslung jaw jutted forward, two protruding lower fangs gleamed in 
      the lanternlight. His voice boomed in the night's stillness as though he 
      were roaring over the howl of a gale. His eyes were small, but his gaze 
      forthright and intense. He had shaved his head to reveal some remarkable 
      tattoos. All that was left of his hair was a scalp lock that trailed down 
      his back in a tar-covered braid. A large conch shell hung around his neck, 
      suspended on a length of twined leather.
      "We were introduced by Baron Shadamehr at his castle," Griffith continued. 
      "Your shaman, Quai-ghai, also knows me. She and I had a most fascinating 
      discussion about certain Air magic spells she was interested in learning 
      from me." Griffith glanced about. "If she is here"
      "She is on board ship," said the captain. "She sleeps. We sail with the 
      morning tide. Where is the baron?"
      "We don't know," Damra replied. "We thought he might be here" "He's not," 
      said Captain Kal-Gah.
      Damra and her husband exchanged glances. "There was trouble at the 
palace"
      Kal-Gah grunted again. "I am not surprised. The omens were bad. Very bad. 
      So bad that I might have raised anchor and left with last evening's tide, 
      but I gave the baron my oath. I would not have stayed even then, but the 
      moon is on the wane, which makes oath-breaking unlucky. Then again, I 
      might have stayed anyway. I like the baron. He thinks like an ork."
      He eyed the elves. "So you want to board my ship." "Yes, Captain, if" 
      said Griffith.
      "I will have to consult the omens," Captain Kal-Gah stated decisively. 
      "The shaman is asleep. She will wake in the morning. Until then, sit 
      there." He pointed to a coil of rope.
      Damra and Griffith again exchanged glances.
      "Captain," said Griffith, "there are soldiers looking for us. As I said, 
      there was trouble. We are elves in a city of humans"
      "Disappear," said Kal-Gah, waving his hand. "Turn yourself into smoke, or 
      whatever is you do."
      "I would, Captain," said Griffith, "but I am very tired, and I'm not sure 
      I have the strength. Please"
      "You demean yourself, my husband," Damra snapped, shifting to Tomagai, the 
      language of the elves. "Don't beg him. This was a mistake from the 
      beginning. There is nothing for us to do in human lands. We should return 
      to Tromek. I will take the Sovereign Stone to the Divine. It is what I 
      should have done in the first place. We will go north into the mountains, 
      travel to Dainmorae. I have some money, enough to purchase two horses."
      "Perhaps you are right," said Griffith.
      Hearing the exhaustion in his voice, she regarded him anxiously, raised 
      her hand to touch his cheek, which was pale and wan. "Can you keep going a 
      little longer?"
      "I can manage," he said with a smile. Capturing her hand, he kissed her 
      fingers, then, holding fast to her hand, he turned to the ork. "I thank 
      you, Captain Kal-Gah, but we have decided to"
      "Wait!" The captain had been staring out at his ship. He raised his hand, 
      cutting off Griffith's words. "Look there."
      "I don't see"
      "There!" The ork jabbed his finger. "The birds!"
      Two seagulls, attracted by the lanternlight, were flying among the 
      rigging, probably searching for food. One bird settled on the jibboom. The 
      captain looked from the seagull to Griffith.
      "Ah," said Kal-Gah.
      The other seagull landed next to the first. The captain looked from the 
      seagull to Damra. "Ah," he said again.
      The seagulls perched there, ruffling their feathers. An ork advanced, 
      lantern in hand, and offered food that was graciously accepted. One bird 
      lifted its head, craned it backward, and let out a raucous caw.
      Captain Kal-Gah lowered the sword. Deftly flipping the enormous blade as 
      if it were an eating knife, he thrust the blade into his wide leather 
      belt. "The omens are good. You can both go aboard. I will tell the crew 
      you are coming."
      He lifted the conch shell he wore around his neck, put it to his lips, and 
      gave a bellowing blast. One of the crew members waved his lantern back and 
      forth in response.
      Captain Kal-Gah jerked his thumb at a shore boat moored to the dock. The 
      six crewmen were asleep, slumped over the oars. Some twitched and grumbled 
      at the conch shell blast, but continued to slumber. It took the captain's 
      shouts and the first mate's oaths and kicks to wake them. Yawning 
      prodigiously, they sat up and peered around, bleary-eyed.
      "My boys can sleep through anything," the captain stated proudly. "Help 
      these lubbers aboard," he told his crew, speaking Pharn 'Lan.
      The orks obeyed with alacrity. Two strong orks grabbed hold of Griffith 
      and, before he knew what was happening, they swept him off his feet and 
      tossed him bodily into the boat. Two more orks caught him as he landed and 
      hustled him to the back, plunked him down unceremoniously on a benchlike 
      seat, and grunted orders to stay there.
      Damra drew herself up stiffly. "Thank you, Captain," she said, "but I can 
      manage on my own."
      The captain grinned, shrugged, and motioned his crew to stand back. Damra 
      walked down the pier, looking at the boat that floated in the water below, 
      and suddenly she was not so certain of herself. The boat rose and fell 
      with the waves, and at the same time, it rocked back and forth, bumping 
      against the sides of the dock. She would have to jump down into it, and 
      she must time her jump just right or fall into the water. Damra was not 
      afraid of drowning. She was a good swimmer. But she would look extremely 
      foolish, and elves are very sensitive about their dignity.
      She hesitated on the pier, watching the boat bob up and down, seeing the 
      leering grins of the ork sailors gazing expectantly up at her. Then she 
      heard her husband's voice reciting the words to a spell. The wind caressed 
      her, soothed her, and lifted her up in its strong arms. Damra floated on 
      her husband's magic and drifted down into the boat as lightly as a feather 
      falling from a seabird to land gently among the amazed orks, who fell all 
      over themselves and each other to get out of her way.
      The first mate howled in dismay, but Captain Kal-Gah only laughed.
      "The elf has the wings of a gull, as well as the beak and the squawk," he 
      chortled.
      Since the beak reference was to Damra's rather prominent nose, it was just 
      as well she did not understand the language. All the crew members chuckled 
      obliginglythe captain had made a joke, after allbut their chuckles had a 
      halfhearted sound.
      The captain himself released the rope that held the boat to the dock, then 
      went back to waiting and watching for Baron Shadamehr.
      The orks bent to the oars before Damra had a chance to make her way 
      through the press of bodies. The boat shot out from the dock so swiftly 
      that the motion threw her off-balance. She lurched forward, stumbled into 
      her husband's arms. He lowered her safely onto the bench beside him.
      "Thank you, my dear," she said, huddling thankfully into his embrace, 
      adding remorsefully, "I'm sorry I was cross with you back there."
      "We're both tired," he said, holding her close. "Tired and hungry. And I 
      could not bear to see you hauled out of the river like a drowned cat."
      "Speaking of being hungry, I don't like to think of what we'll find to eat 
      on board," Damra said with a shudder. "Whale blubber, like as not."
      "Orks don't eat whales, my dear. They consider the whale sacred. I believe 
      that bread is a staple of an ork's diet."
      By the time the elves reached the ship, however, neither of them was 
      thinking of food. Being a landlocked people, elves have never had any need 
      for boats or ships. They are fair swimmers, but not good sailors. Even the 
      gentle motion of the waves in the river made Damra queasy, and Griffith, 
      being tired, was in worse shape than his wife. He was heaving up his guts 
      before the boat reached the ship.
      The orks rolled their eyes in amusement at the landlubbers, who were sick 
      in waves that would not have rocked a babe to sleep. The orks said 
      nothing, however, fearful that the strange elf might summon some magical 
      wind to snatch them up and carry them off.
      Damra was as sick as Griffith by the time they reached the ship. She had 
      only a vague awareness of being hoisted aboard and being led, staggering, 
      to a small cabin that smelled of pitch and fish. Her stomach roiling, she 
      collapsed on an uncomfortable bed beside her groaning husband. An ork crew 
      member thoughtfully left them two slop buckets, then shut the cabin door 
      and departed.
      Damra had never been so sick in her life. She did not know it was possible 
      to be that sick. She lay on the wooden-plank bed, which pitched and rolled 
      and lurched and rocked, and wondered when death would come to claim her.
      "I hope it's soon," she muttered, reaching for the bucket.
      The door banged open.
      "Elves, is it?" boomed a voice from the darkness.
      Damra flinched, her nerves jangled.
      A lantern flared right in her eyes, blinding her. An ork face peered down 
      at her. At the sound of the voice, Griffith lifted his head.
      "Quai-ghai!" he gasped. Then, with a moan, he sank back down on the bed.
      Orken women wear the same clothing as men. They have the same massive 
      build, with buxom breasts and a slightly different manner of shaving the 
      head.
      By her dour expression, this ork might be there to kill them. Damra sank 
      back on the bed, too exhausted and ill to care.
      The ork stared hard at Griffith. Pursing her lips, she cocked her head. "I 
      think I know you. You weren't green the last time I saw you, though."
      "I'm . . . seasick!" Griffith managed to blurt.
      Quai-ghai gave a bark that was apparently a laugh. "A fine jest!" she 
      said, chuckling.
      Griffith groaned, and the ork's laughter died. She eyed him suspiciously.
      "What is wrong with you, elf? If you have brought plague aboard ship"
      Griffith leaned over the side of the bed, made use of the bucket. Rolling 
      back, limp and shivering, he said, "I swear to you, Quai-ghai, my wife and 
      I are seasick. First time ... on a boat . . ."
      Quai-ghai bent over Damra, sniffed at her. The ork did the same for 
      Griffith.
      "I never heard the like," the ork said. "Seasick in a dead calm in the 
      harbor. Still, you are elves. Wait here."
      Turning, she left the room, banging the door again. Damra flinched, 
      gritted her teeth. The ork had hung the lantern from a hook in the 
      ceiling. The lantern swayed back and forth with the motion of the ship. 
      Damra felt her stomach heave and shut her eyes.
      The ork returned with another bang of the door. She held a crockery bowl 
      in one hand and a mug in the other and thrust the bowl in Damra's face. 
      "Eat this."
      Damra shook her head, turned away in misery.
      Griffith propped himself up on one elbow. Taking the bowl from the ork, he 
      eyed it warily. Inside was a thick, brown paste. "What is it?" he asked.
      "A concoction made from the seeds of the thorn apple," said Quai-ghai. 
      "But that's poison!" Griffith exclaimed, horrified. Quai-ghai shook her 
      head. Golden earrings flashed in the light, as did a golden eyetooth. "Not 
      if the seeds are distilled and mixed with the proper ingredients. The 
      remedy is very old, a gift from the sea gods. Sometimesnot often, but 
      sometimesan ork is born whose own fluids are not in tune to the motion of 
      the sea. Like yours, the fluids rise when the waves dip and dip when the 
      waves rise. When that happens, he is sick, and we give him this."
      She gestured at the gooey paste. "This settles the fluids. First you will 
      sleep. When you wake, you will feel better."
      Griffith continued to eye the paste dubiously. "I'm not sure" "Oh, for 
      the gods' sake!" Damra gasped in Tomagai, snatching the bowl from him. 
      "Being poisoned couldn't be any worse than this!"
      She dipped a finger in the paste, brought it to her lips. The smell was 
      not unpleasant, seemed to have a soothing effect. She nibbled a bit of the 
      paste. Her stomach heaved, but she managed to gag it down.
      Griffith shared the paste with her. "At least when we die, we'll be 
      together," he said to her.
      Quai-ghai handed them the mug of cool, clear water. She insisted that they 
      drink it down, for, she said, the sickness drained their body of fluids. 
      She stood watching them, the gold tooth thrusting up over her upper lip.
      "Either she's waiting for us to drop dead or get better," Damra said. "I 
      can't tell which."
      Griffith did not answer. He had fallen asleep. Damra felt sleep steal over 
      her, sleep so soft and heavy that it was like sinking into a thick, 
      feather mattress.
      "Damra of Gwyenoc," said a soft voice.
      "What is it?" she answered drowsily. "Who is there?"
      "I must speak to you. Can you hear me, understand me?"
      "I'm sleepy," she mumbled. "Let me sleep."
      "This is important. Time flows by swiftly. I must speak to you now or not 
      at all."
      The voice was familiar. Damra felt a thrill at the sound of it and the 
      thrill roused her. She opened her eyes.
      The room was dark, for the elves were far belowdecks, and there were no 
      windows. She could not see the speaker, but she knew his voice.
      "Silwyth?" Damra was more confused than astonished. The sickness dulled 
      her mind, or perhaps the drug. Anything seemed possible, even the 
      unexpected appearance of the old elf on an ork ship in the middle of the 
      Arven River.
      A hand, strong and supple, closed over her wrist.
      "It is Silwyth," he said.
      Lifting her hand, he guided her fingers to touch his face. She could feel 
      the leathery skin, the folds and creases of the myriad wrinkles that were 
      a testament to his age and the hard life he had led. She noted that his 
      face was wet, as was his hand.
      She called to mind the last time she had seen Silwyth, in the house of the 
      Shield of the Divine. He had saved her life, then, prevented her from 
      eating the poisoned food given her by the Vrykyl, the Lady Valura.
      He had saved the elven portion of the Sovereign Stone from capture by the 
      Vrykyl and placed the Sovereign Stone in her care. He had, by Griffith's 
      account, saved her husband's life.
      All this he did, so he claimed, to try to make reparation for the sins 
      he'd committed during the time he was servant to Prince Dagnarus.
      Feeling as this were part of a dream, not certain that it wasn't, Damra 
      said confusedly, "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"
      "As I told you in the house of the Shield, my life is devoted to following 
      the Lady Valura. She meets on the other side of the river with her master, 
      Lord Dagnarus. They discuss their plans for Tromek." "Their plans? What 
      are their plans?"
      "The Lady Valura has seduced the Shield, drawn him into the Void. He has 
      become a Void worshipper, a fact he keeps secret from the living. He 
      cannot keep such a loathsome secret from the dead, however. His own 
      ancestors have repudiated him, will no longer come to aid him. Nor can he 
      keep such a thing secret from the Wyred. They work against him. He has no 
      need of them," said Silwyth. "The Shield has the Void. Void cultists from 
      Dunkarga and Karnu and Vinnengael work their foul magicks for him. Not 
      openly, of course. Not now. That may soon change." Damra shuddered, 
      sickened, but not surprised.
      "He was ever an evil man, scheming and calculating," she said. "The Void 
      was already inside him."
      "The Void is inside each of us," said Silwyth. "Thus the gods warned King 
      Tamaros, when they gave him the Sovereign Stone. Do not split it open, the 
      gods said, 'for inside you will find a bitter center.' Yet, impatient and 
      eager to bring this gift of the gods to the world, he refused to heed 
      their warning. Once I thought him arrogant, and I blamed his arrogance for 
      the disaster that he brought down upon his realm, upon his own family. Now 
      that I am older, I believe that he truly thought he was acting for the 
      best. If there was pride involved, it was the pride of believing that he 
      knew what was best."
      Damra paid little heed to Silwyth's words. It is the way of the old to 
      ramble. She cut him short.
      "Who cares for this ancient history. What of the Tromek? What of my 
      people?" she demanded. "What is happening to them?"
      "The Shield and the Divine wage war against each other. Their troops have 
      met in two separate battles. Victory has not yet been determined, either 
      way, but with each meeting, the Divine loses a little more ground. It is 
      only a matter of time."
      "What horror is this?" Damra was dismayed. "Are you saying that the Divine 
      will lose this war?"
      "The Void is ascendant in the world," said Silwyth. "The Void's power is 
      on the rise, as the power of the elements wanes. 'The center is bitter,' 
      the gods warned Tamaros. So long as the Sovereign Stone remained intact, 
      the Void was contained. When the Stone was split, the Void was unleashed. 
      The Dagger of the Vrykyl surfaced after lying long hidden, and now the 
      Void dominates. When the Shield winsand he will win, for the Divine is 
      not strong enough to stop himhe will hand Tromek over to Dagnarus, and 
      the Shield will publicly worship him as Lord of the Void."
      "This is monstrous!" Damra cried.
      "What is?" Griffith murmured sleepily. "What's wrong?"
      "Sleep, dear one," she said soothingly, sorry to have wakened him. 
      "Nothing is wrong. Go back to sleep."
      He sighed deeply and rolled over.
      Waiting until she heard his breathing even out, she said softly, "I must 
      return to Tromek. I must bring the Divine the power of the Sovereign 
      Stone"
      "No!" Silwyth exclaimed. His hand closed over her wrist with bruising 
      force. "Tromek is the last place you must go, Damra of Gwyenoc! Valura 
      expects that you will do just this, and she plans to lie in wait for you. 
      You have earned her enmity, Damra. Valura blames you for her failure to 
      bring her lord both the elven and the human parts of the Sovereign Stone. 
      She has vowed to kill you and drag your soul to the Void.
      "She and Dagnarus know you are here in New Vinnengael. They know you 
      visited the palace. The young king is a Vrykyl named Shakur, one of the 
      eldest and most powerful. You fought him at the Western Portal. He 
      recognized you. The Vrykyl are searching for you even now. Valura is 
      searching ..."
      "How do you know all this?" Damra demanded, her suspicions of Silwyth 
      returning. "How do you know what this Valura thinks and what she and her 
      evil lord plot? How did you find me? How do you come to be on this ship? 
      Perhaps the answer to these questions is that you are Vrykyl yourself."
      "If I were a Vrykyl, Damra of Gwyenoc, you would already be dead.
      I gave you my reasons in the house of the Shield. As for Valura, I have 
      been following her, as I told you. I have listened to them plotting 
      together. They take care to keep their voices soft, but I hear the very 
      whispers of their souls. How not? Once, our souls were intertwined, 
      tangled in a knot that they cannot now unravel. The Void is ascendant. But 
      it has not yet won. The gods and other forces continue to fight against 
      it."
      "But how can I fight if I am not to return to my homeland?" Damra asked, 
      exasperated. "What good is the elven portion of the Sovereign Stone if it 
      remains hidden away? Where am I supposed to go, and what am I supposed to 
      do?"
      "I have thought on this long, Damra. For many hundreds of years, in fact. 
      The only way to reduce the power of the Void is to return the Sovereign 
      Stone to those who made it."
      Damra blinked at him. Sick and weary, she was finding it hard to follow 
      his reasoning. "The gods made the Sovereign Stone. You want me to return 
      the Stone to the gods? Now, when humans have just found their part of the 
      Stone? They would grow strong, and we elves would dwindle. Is that your 
      idea?"
      "I do not speak of returning only the elven portion. All four parts of the 
      Stone must come together in the location where the Stone was given to 
      Tamarosthe Portal of the Gods."
      Silwyth is an old man, Damra said to herself, and old men have strange 
      fancies, harking back to the days of their youth. It would be impolite to 
      challenge him, and I don't want to start an argument. I am too tired.
      The medicine the ork had given her was working. She was no longer 
      nauseated. She could endure the gentle rocking of the ship without feeling 
      her stomach rock with it. Weak and wobbly, she wasn't going to be going 
      anywhere for a while, and neither was Griffith. They would not be in fit 
      shape to travel until tomorrow or the next day. By then, Shadamehr would 
      be on board and she could explain matters to him and perhaps even obtain 
      his help to return to her homeland. For that was where she intended to go, 
      back to Tromek. And she would take the Sovereign Stone with her.
      "The decision is yours to make, Damra," said Silwyth, reading her mind. 
      "But I ask you to think of this. The Void grew in power because the 
      Sovereign Stone was split asunder."
      "Meaning that if the four parts are put back together, the Void will once 
      again be contained." Damra shook her head. "One cannot put baby spiders 
      back inside the egg sack."
      "Yet, perhaps one should try," said Silwyth, releasing her wrist, "before 
      the spiders grow large enough to devour the world."
      An old man's fancy.
      "I will think on it," she said.
      There was no answer.
      "Silwyth?"
      Damra stared into the darkness, listened for the sound of breathing, 
      padding footfalls, wood creaking.
      Nothing. Night embodied could not have been more quiet.
      Night embodied.
      Thinking of that, Damra fell asleep.
       



       10THE SEWER SYSTEM OF NEW VINNENGAEL WAS NOT EXTENSIVE. ITS network of 
      tunnels ran from the Temple and the palacethe two major building 
      complexes in the cityand emptied into the Arven River. The sewers had 
      been built by those Earth magi who possessed engineering skills, using 
      their magic to burrow through the bedrock. There had been some talk of 
      extending the sewer system to serve the entire city. The expense of such a 
      massive building program was deemed to be too great and, after 
      considerable argument, the project was abandoned. The rest of New 
      Vinnengael followed the ages-old practice of dumping their slop into 
      gutters that ran down the center of the streets and were flushed out 
      naturally with rainwater during the wet season or with water pumped from 
      the river if the rains did not fall.
      Rain had not fallen for almost a week, which meant that it was time for 
      the pumps to be put into action. But the sudden appearance of an enemy 
      army camped on the river's western shores drove all thoughts of 
      street-cleaning from the heads of city officials. River water was being 
      pumped, but it was flowing into barrels and buckets, meant to be used to 
      put out the fires of war.
      "Lucky for us," Shadamehr said to the slumbering Arise. "Otherwise, we'd 
      be hip deep in gunk. Whereas now it's only wetting my toes."
      Shadamehr was familiar with the sewer system. As a child, he and the late 
      king, Hirav, had sneaked out of the palace on numerous occasions to go 
      cessrat-hunting in the sewers. Taking along their slingshots, they had 
      pretended they were chasing wild boar or trolls or other monsters. The 
      hunt always ended with a swim in the riverjumping in clothes and allto 
      rid themselves of incriminating evidence, or so they fondly thought. Then 
      they would lie in the sunshine to dry off before returning to the palace, 
      happy and tired and stinking to the high heavens.
      "We couldn't have fooled anyone but dear old Nanny Hanna," Shadamehr 
      confided to Alise, the memories of those carefree times returning to him 
      forcibly as he once more walked the twisting, turning tunnels. He fed on 
      the memories, using them to take his mind off the fact that he was growing 
      weaker with every step. And they were a long way from their destination.
      "Nanny Hanna," he said, pausing a moment to rest. "Sweet woman, but none 
      too bright."
      He looked at Alise, hoping for a response, but she remained asleep. 
      Nothing roused her, not the stench, not his voice, not the flaring lantern 
      light, not even when he'd accidentally bumped her head while trying to 
      climb down a ladder with her slung over his shoulder. He wondered, with a 
      pang, if she would ever waken. He'd known people to fall into such deep 
      slumbers that they could not be wakened to take food and slowly starved to 
      death. So even though the Grandmother had said Alise might sleep for a day 
      or more, Shadamehr talked to her, hoping for some sign that she heard him.
      "Hirav always told her he'd slipped and fallen in the privies," Shadamehr 
      recalled. "She always believed him."
      Shadamehr settled Alise more comfortably over his shoulder, or at least 
      tried to. The muscles in his neck and shoulder, arms and back and legs 
      throbbed and ached. Sweat rolled down his face and neck. He would have 
      liked to stop longer to rest, but he feared that he if stayed still too 
      long, he might not have the strength to continue.
      "I often think now," he said, flashing the dark lantern at a place where 
      two tunnels branched off from the main sewer, "of the danger we were in. 
      Once we were nearly caught in a flash flood. Why we both weren't drowned 
      is a mystery to me. Fortunately, we were near a maintenance ladder and 
      managed to escape. We thought it a great lark. Didn't have brains enough 
      to be scared.
      "I wonder which way to go?" he asked himself, staring thoughtfully at the 
      two tunnels. "I seem to remember one way leads back toward the Temple. The 
      other is the one we just came down. It leads to the palace, while the 
      third leads down to the river. That way"he flashed the lantern 
      light"looks as if it goes uphill, so that must lead to the Temple. We'll 
      take the tunnel to the right. I seem to remember that right is the way."
      He took a step, felt his legs start to tremble. Breathing heavily, he 
      lurched against a wall.
      "I just need to stretch," he told himself. "Work out the kinks. Then I'll 
      be fine."
      He placed the dark lantern on the floor of the tunnel and doused the 
      light. He would ever after wonder why he did thatshutting off the light. 
      Instinct? The teachings of his youth? Keep to the dark in dark places had 
      always been an old dictum of his fathers. Or was it squeamishness? 
      Shadamehr's stomach was still a bit unsettled, and he didn't want to look 
      at what he was stepping in. Or was it the charm of the Grandmother's 
      turquoise? He would never know. All he knew was at that moment, he doused 
      the light.
      Gently, he lowered Alise down to the floor, propped her up against the 
      curved and slimy wall, and tucked the blanket snugly around her. "Sorry 
      about the filth, dear. I'll buy you a new dress." Straightening as best he 
      couldhe didn't remember the tunnel ceilings being this lowhe massaged 
      his aching leg and shoulder muscles. "Not much farther," he encouraged 
      himself. "Not much farther." "Skedn?" hissed a voice, and it wasn't Alise.
      Shadamehr froze in the darkness. The voice had come from the direction of 
      the right-hand tunnel. Harsh and guttural, it sounded like no voice he'd 
      ever heard before. He waited, breathless, unmoving. Although he couldn't 
      understand the words, he could guess at the meaning: Did you hear that?
      The owner of the voice also waited, unmoving. Then another voice spoke, in 
      response to the first.
      "No skedn."
      The language had the sound of jagged rocks being tumbled down a 
      mountainside. The creatures didn't appear to be slow-witted, didn't mumble 
      like trolls. There was a note of command in the first voice and deference 
      in the second that was indicative of structure, discipline, organization.
      "Taan!" Shadamehr guessed with an inward groan.
      He recalled -what his scouts had told him of the taanfierce monsters, 
      they walked upright like humans and used weapons as well or better than 
      most humans. The taan were fearless in battle, fought with intelligence 
      and skill.
      His first wild notion was that he might be facing the entire taan army 
      planning on taking the city by attacking from the sewers. More rational 
      thought prevailed. Thousands of warriors could not march through the 
      sewers. These were advance scouts, searching for weak points in the city's 
      defenses.
      "And, by the gods, they found one," Shadamehr said to himself. "And we're 
      trapped like cessrats."
      He dared not retreat. The taan had heard something, perhaps him talking to 
      himself, and they were on the alert. His only weapon was a dagger he had 
      concealed in his boot. The palace guards had taken his sword and his other 
      weapons from him, but they'd missed the dagger. He might have asked for 
      Ulaf's sword, back at the inn, but he'd had too many other things on his 
      mind to think of it. Thanks to either his father, the love of the gods, or 
      his own good sense, he'd doused the light that would have given away their 
      presence.
      Crouching, moving slowly and silently, he pressed himself close to the 
      wall, made himself as small as possible, and quieted his breathing. He 
      cursed the loud thudding noise of his own heartbeat, which seemed to echo 
      through the tunnel. After some quiet fumbling in the muck, he discovered a 
      good-sized rock. He slid his dagger from his boot. His other hand closed 
      over the rock.
      The taan remained stationary, still listening. Shadamehr was quiet. They 
      were quiet. All of them were so quiet that he could hear the clicking of 
      cessrat claws along the stone floor.
      One of the taan made an explosive sound, a cross between a grunt and a 
      hoot, that nearly did the trick of silencing Shadamehr's heartbeat by 
      stopping it cold. He braced himself for a rush, but then came the sound of 
      shrill, terrified squeaks, a scrabbling sound, the stomping of feet, and 
      the squeaks ended.
      "Rtt," said the first voice, and laughed.
      Amid scattered chortles, the taan resumed their march.
      Shadamehr breathed again, felt chill sweat trickle down his shirt.
      Torchlight flared. The taan had arrived at the junction of the three 
      tunnels and stopped to confer. Shadamehr had his first good look at the 
      creatures.
      He was impressed and dismayed. Any hopes that he might have harbored for 
      New Vinnengael holding out against thousands of these warriors washed away 
      like so much sewage.
      The taan were five in number. Their faces were savage, bestial, with 
      protruding snouts and large mouths filled with razor-sharp teeth. Their 
      hair was long and ragged. Small, squinting eyes glared out from beneath 
      overhanging foreheads. The eyes glittered with the same intelligence he'd 
      heard in the voices. Their bodies were humanlike, but far more muscular 
      and powerfully built. They were festooned with weapons of every type some 
      human, some elven, some of their own creation, perhaps. Their armor was 
      the same bizarre assortment, probably stolen from the corpses of their 
      victims.
      They would occasionally lift their heads and sniff the air, by which 
      Shadamehr gathered that the taan relied on scent for much of their 
      information about the world around them, and he blessed the stench of the 
      sewer.
      The taan appeared puzzled over which route to take. They spent some time 
      discussing the matter. Since the taan used their hands as much as their 
      voices for talking, Shadamehr was able to follow the argument.
      One taan wanted to split the group, apparently, for he pointed up 
      Shadamehr's tunnel, then pointed to himself. Indicating another tunnel, he 
      pointed to the leader. The leader considered this, but was dubious. He 
      shook his head and jabbed his finger emphatically at the tunnel that led 
      to the Temple.
      Shadamehr naturally sided with the leader and mentally urged him to stand 
      firm. The discussion continued. Either out of boredom or fear, the taan 
      who was holding the torch took it into his ugly head to flash the light 
      around. The light lit up Shadamehr, so that his white shirt and Alise's 
      white blanket glowed like the eyes of a girl at her first dance.
      The taan drew in a hissing breath, gave a hoot. The leader whipped around. 
      The taan pointed straight at Shadamehr.
      "That's torn it," he said to himself.
      He rose to his feet, stood protectively over Alise, dagger in one hand, 
      the rock in the other.
      "The last stand of Shadamehr," he remarked. " 'Died in a sewer, devoured 
      by rats.' Terrible song. Not a bad rhythm, but where do you go from there? 
      Nothing rhymes with sewer."
      "Derrhuth," said the lead taan, sneering.
      Drawing his swordan outlandish-looking blade with a serrated edgethe 
      beast-man strode forward. The other taan held back, grinning and waiting 
      for the show.
      "Deer hoot, yourself!" said Shadamehr loudly.
      The taan warrior drew near, his teeth bared, snarling. He sniffed the air 
      and then, suddenly, the taan halted. He stared, his squinty eyes opening 
      wide. The taan gulped. He dropped his sword into the muck.
      The taan who had been arguing with the leader barked out a question.
      The lead taan half turned. "Kyl-sarnz!" he hissed, over his shoulder.
      The four taan stared at Shadamehr. The torchbearer took a step backward. 
      "Kyl-sarnz!" he repeated, awed.
      "Kyle Zarnzzt," said Shadamehr, having no idea what was going on, but 
      determined to take advantage of the situation. "That's me. Kyle Zarnzzt. 
      Remember that name." He gestured with his dagger toward the tunnel that 
      led to the Temple. "Go that way. Kyle Zarnzzt commands it."
      The blade caught the light, flashed brightly. The taan cringed and bowed 
      low.
      "Nisst, Kyl-sarnz," he said in reverent tones. "Nisst, Kyl-sarnz."
      Rejoining his group, the taan jerked his head and his thumb in the 
      direction of the tunnel that Shadamehr had indicated. All five of the taan 
      bowed low, intoning the phrase, "Kyl-sarnz" over and over. Then, with a 
      rush of feet, they turned and dashed up the sewer.
      "I'll be a double-damned dingo dog," said Shadamehr.
      He had no idea what was going on and no intention of staying around to 
      find out. Gathering up Alise in his arms, he hastened down the tunnel in 
      the direction of the river. His aches and pains were gone. He had never 
      felt so strong.
      "Gut-wrenching terror is a wonderful tonic," he commented to Alise. 
      "Someone should bottle it."



      The wonderful restorative powers of fear carried Shadamehr clear to the 
      sewer's end. A huge iron grate blocked off the outlet where the sewer 
      emptied into the river. The gate had been placed there to prevent an enemy 
      from doing just what the taan had doneusing the sewer to sneak into the 
      city.
      The heavy iron grate, which took three strong men to lift, had been torn 
      by brute force from its moorings and flung aside. Shadamehr thought back 
      to the taan, to their muscular arms. He thought back to himself, standing 
      there facing them with a knife and a rock. "Shadamehr," he said, "you are 
      one lucky bastard." The river ran dark and sluggish about three feet from 
      the sewer's outlet. A maintenance ladder led up from the tunnel. Refuse 
      too large to pass through the grate had piled up at the bottom. Shadamehr 
      did not look too closely at the heap. Flashing the dark lantern over the 
      floor, he could see wet footprints leading away from a crude boat, drawn 
      up on the narrow stone outcropping that formed the lip of the sewer 
      opening. He recalled Rigiswald saying something to the effect that all 
      taan are afraid of water.
      "Hah!" Shadamehr stated. "So much for that theory. Wait until I tell him! 
      It's not every day I can prove that old man wrong. Now, my dear, one last 
      haul up this ladder."
      He paused at the bottom, wondered if he could make it. At least there was 
      fresh air to breathe here. He drew in several deep breaths, then, clasping 
      Alise firmly, placed his hands and feet on the rungs of the ladder.
      'Girding his loins, the gallant knight climbed her hair to reach the 
      maiden fair.' " Shadamehr sang the old minstrel lay beneath his breath, 
      trying to ignore the pain that was shooting through his legs. "How does 
      one gird one's loins. I've often wondered . . ."
      He paused, bit his lip, and sucked in another breath. Sweat poured down 
      his face. His arms trembled, and his legs burned. He could see the top, 
      but it was at least as far away as the moon. Maybe farther.
      "Whether my loins are girded or not, they hurt like the blazes," he 
      muttered. "I wonder if that gallant knight chap had this much trouble 
      climbing her hair. Of course, he was going to see the maiden fair. He 
      wasn't hauling her up a ladder, so that probably made the difference."
      Shadamehr reached the opening, to find that it was covered by an iron 
      plate meant to keep pedestrians from tumbling down and breaking their 
      necks. Those small boys who had played in the sewer so long ago had been 
      able to lift up the iron plate without too much trouble, crawl out from 
      underneath it. Shadamehr hoped with all his heart that some energetic city 
      official had not decided to bolt the plate in place.
      To his vast relief, the plate shifted when he touched it. It moved so 
      easily, in fact, that he wondered if the current crop of small boys had 
      taken up the cessrat hunt. That made him think of the stories he'd 
      heardhow the taan tortured, then ate their prisoners. He thought of all 
      the children who lived and played in New Vinnengael, and he cursed 
      bitterly those adults who would bring childhood to such a terrible end.
      "I wonder if Dagnarus was ever a little boy?" Shadamehr asked Alise, as he 
      maneuvered her out the opening. Once she was safely on firm ground, he 
      pulled himself up and out and collapsed onto the street. He lay there 
      gasping for breath and blinking up at the stars, feeling tiny pinpricks of 
      pain jab his calf and thigh muscles. He had no idea what time it was.
      "Dagnarus must have been a little boy," Shadamehr mused dreamily. "He 
      wasn't born Lord of the Void. He must have hunted cessrats, played truant 
      from his tutor, thrown sugar buns ... at servants, just like . . . poor 
      little king . . . murdered . . . 'Void take him'. . . already has . . . 
      keep him, then ..."
      Shadamehr jerked himself awake. " 'Ods bodkin! There's a lark. Escape taan 
      only to be discovered taking a snooze by the Imperial Cavalry. Got to wake 
      up. Madness and folly."
      He tried to stand, but his legs wobbled, and pain gripped him in the back, 
      so that he bit his lips to suppress a cry. Tears stung his eyes.
      "You have to keep going," he told himself angrily.
      "I can't," he answered himself. "I have to rest. Just a few moments." He 
      patted the slumbering Alise on the shoulder. "I'll just rest for a few 
      moments. We'll be safe here."
      Shadamehr leaned back against a stone wall. "No, we won't. The taan will 
      come back. The guards will come by. It will be dawn soon. Unless it's only 
      just turned night. Maybe we were down there a whole day. Maybe we were 
      down there six whole days. I'm sorry, Alise. Gods, I'm sorry. I'm sorry 
      about everything . . ."
      "Grum'olt," said a deep voice.
      Shadamehr opened his eyes, peered up. He couldn't see much in the 
      darkness, just two large, bulky shapes blotting out the stars. Shadamehr 
      tensed, his hand strayed to his dagger. Then he sniffed.
      The air was redolent with the scent offish oil. Shadamehr smiled and 
      relaxed.
      "Gods love you," he murmured, and passed out cold. One of the orks picked 
      up the baron in his strong arms and slung him effortlessly over his 
      shoulder.
      "Phew! Stinky!" said the ork to his fellow, who was gathering up Alise.
      "Humans," the second ork grunted, wrinkling his nose in disgust.



      Concerned to hear that patrols were out searching the city for Baron 
      Shadamehr, Captain Kal-Gah had posted his people all along the waterfront, 
      with instructions to keep watch for the baron. The captain chuckled to 
      hear that his men had found the baron crawling out of a sewer. His men 
      tossed the baron and Alise in the shore boat. The captain climbed in and 
      ordered the sailors to pull hard for the ship.
      Once on board, the captain consulted the first mate in regard to the tide 
      and his shaman in regard to the omens. The first mate reported that the 
      tide was almost at the flood and they could lift anchor and sail at the 
      captain's pleasure. The shaman reported that the omens were good for 
      leaving, bad for staying. The captain wasted no more time.
      As dawn filled the skies with pink flame that set the lake afire, the orks 
      sailed down Arven River. Everyone in the ship could see the taan forces 
      massing on the riverbank across from the city of the New Vinnen-gael. The 
      taan saw them as well and fired a volley of arrows that fell short of 
      their mark. One arrow actually made it as far as the deck. Captain Kal-Gah 
      smashed the black-feathered bolt to pieces with his bootheel, then picked 
      it up what was left of it and tossed it overboard.
      The orks bore Shadamehr and Alise below decks, bedded them down in the 
      same small cabin where they'd taken the elves. Alise slept soundly, so 
      soundly that the shaman pinched her to make certain she was not dead a 
      corpse aboard ship was the very worst luck possible. Seeing her flesh turn 
      red and noting that the patient flinched, the shaman was satisfied.
      She turned to Shadamehr. He slept fitfully, at one point shouting 
      something unintelligible and flailing about with his arms. The shaman eyed 
      him, but let him be. Dreams are the bearers of powerful omens and orks are 
      careful not to waken a dreamer, even if he is in the throes of a 
      nightmare. When the baron quieted, the shaman felt it safe to approach. 
      Holding the lantern over him, she saw the dried blood on the baron's 
      shirt. Quai-ghai was pleased. She enjoyed practicing the healing arts, and 
      she rarely had the chance.
      Orks have no skill in healing magic and are thus thrown back to remedies 
      of their own devising. Quai-ghai had developed a marvelous unguent that 
      she used on all occasions, claiming it capable of healing all injuries, 
      from arrow punctures to compound fractures. While the unguent was 
      successful in fighting infection, it burned like fire when applied to the 
      wound, giving the patient the sensation of being roasted alive. Once this 
      side effect passed, the unguent caused the patient to break out in a 
      ferociously itchy skin rash that completely incapacitated him for days. 
      Rather than scratch themselves raw, most of the orks aboard ship preferred 
      to take their chances with natural healing and ran for their lives when 
      they saw the shaman approach.
      Here, Quai-ghai was pleased to see, was a patient who did not have to be 
      strapped down like those other cowards.
      She ordered her loblolly boy off to the ship's surgery to collect a jar of 
      her special unguent and was waiting impatiently for him to return when she 
      noted something odd about her patient. She stared down at Shadamehr and 
      frowned and growled in her throat. Moving to the other bed, she shook the 
      male elf by the shoulder.
      Griffith roused with a start and looked around in bewilderment, unable to 
      remember where he was. The sight of the ork shaman standing over him 
      brought back his memory. He sat up gingerly, expecting his stomach to 
      heave and roll with the pitching of the ship, whose movements were much 
      more lively now that they were under way. His head was clear, however, his 
      stomach at peace.
      Griffith smiled his grateful thanks. "Your remedy worked, Quai-ghai."
      "Of course it worked," she flared, insulted. "What did you expect?"
      Griffith flushed, embarrassed. "Truly I did not mean"
      The ork brushed his apology aside.
      "You told me when we met in the baron's keep that you had made a study of 
      Void magic," Quai-ghai stated. "Was that the truth or a lie?"
      "I do not lie, Quai-ghai," said Griffith mildly.
      "And right there you have told a lie," she said complacently. "All elves 
      are liars. All know it. No harm in that. Orks lie, too, when there is 
      need. Was that the truth or a lie?"
      "I have studied Void magic," said Griffith, thinking it best not to argue 
      the matter further. "Why do you ask?"
      Noting her grave expression, Griffith realized that this was not idle 
      curiosity and he was alarmed. "Do you suspect the presence of Void magic 
      somewhere?"
      Quai-ghai grunted. "Come here."
      She led him from his bed across the narrow cabin to another bed. Because 
      of the gloom of the ship's interior, he could not see the bed's occupant 
      until Quai-ghai held the lantern over his face.
      "Baron Shadamehr!" Griffith exclaimed. "Is he all right?"
      "You tell me," said Quai-ghai. "He smells bad."
      "He does, that," agreed Griffith, covering his nose and mouth with his 
      hand, feeling his stomach lurch.
      "No, not that way." Quai-ghai was irritated. "Worse. You say you know Void 
      magic. Find out."
      "I think I understand what you mean." Griffith looked intently at his 
      slumbering patient, then glanced at Quai-ghai. "I will have to cast a Void 
      spell to find out."
      She backed well out of range. Turning away her head, she stopped up her 
      ears with her hands.
      Griffith murmured the words that were like spiders crawling around his 
      mouth. He spit them out as quickly as he could, cast the spell.
      Shadamehr flinched and cried out in his sleep.
      "How very strange," Griffith murmured.
      He intoned soothing words, and the baron relaxed, sank back onto the hard 
      bed, and sighed deeply.
      Griffith touched Quai-ghai on the shoulder. She gave a violent start, 
      unstopped her ears.
      "You were right," he said. "Look there."
      The baron's body gave off a faint glow, as can sometimes be seen with 
      bodies that lie too long unburied.
      "He reeks of the Void," said Griffith.
       



       11SHADAMEHR'S BODY MIGHT HAVE SLUMBERED, BUT HIS MIND WAS active. He 
      walked and walked, traveling through a landscape that was brown and gray 
      and barren, flat and rock-strewn. He had no apparent destination, yet he 
      held to a course and was frustrated and angry when an obstacle blocked his 
      way. He plodded slowly down a road for hours on end, never seemed to be 
      getting anywhere, only to skip over mountain-tops as if he had the 
      legendary boots of the giant, Krithnatus, that gave him the power to hop 
      about the world in seconds.
      He was in a city where he knew his way. He moved rapidly, with only a 
      fleeting impression of his surroundings. He was aware of destroyed 
      buildings and streets that were broken, shattered. The entire city was 
      empty and deserted. He was alone, and the knowledge saddened him, but 
      didn't surprise him.
      He came to an enormous pile of rubble, that had once been a magnificent 
      building, or so he seemed to remember. Next moment, he was underneath the 
      building, with no idea how he came to be there, but that didn't surprise 
      him either. Although he could see nothing for the darkness, he knew that 
      he was in a large round room, standing beneath a domed ceiling.
      He was very close to the gods. If he reached out his hand, he could touch 
      them.
      Shadamehr resolutely kept his hands at his side.
      Someone else was in the room. Someone who seemed to have been waiting for 
      him. How Shadamehr saw him, he couldn't say, for the room was pitch-dark. 
      The man was young, and he might have been considered comely, but for the 
      fact that his face was marred by a birthmark.
      "You are Baron Shadamehr, the bearer of the human part of the Sovereign 
      Stone," said the young man.
      Shadamehr didn't answer yea or nay. He was uncomfortable and wanted to 
      leave. Believing this to be a dream, he tried to wake himself, but that 
      didn't work.
      "Dagnarus is searching for the four portions of the Sovereign Stone," the 
      young man continued. "Once he has them in his possession, he will join 
      them together, at which point he will become so powerful that no person, 
      no country, no nation will be able to rise up against him. He has the 
      Dagger of the Vrykyl to grant him innumerable lives. He will rule Loerem 
      for centuries. This is his plan. He needs only the four portions of the 
      Sovereign Stone to bind all races to him."
      "That is a big 'only,' " said Shadamehr. "You have the advantage of me, 
      sir. You know my name, and I do not know yours." "I am Gareth," said the 
      young man.
      "Gareth," Shadamehr repeated. "Why do I know that name?" "Hark back to the 
      legends and the lore you have heard about Dagnarus, and you will find me 
      among them. I was the whipping boy. After that, I was his sorcerer."
      "A sorcerer of the Void, if I remember my legends. You helped to bring 
      about the destruction of Old Vinnengael. Excuse me for speaking bluntly, 
      Master Gareth, but you are dead. And I am dreaming."
      "I am dead. You are not dreaming, however. You are the bearer of one part 
      of the Sovereign Stone, and that is why I have summoned your soul to this 
      place. When the gods gave Tamaros the Sovereign Stone, the stone was 
      intact. He was warned not to split it apart, for he would find that the 
      center was 'bitter.' He did not heed the warning of the gods. He split the 
      stone asunder and gave a portion of it to each of the races: human, 
      dwarven, elven, orken. What he did not know was that there was a fifth 
      portiona portion none of them could see, for they were not looking for 
it.
      "One person saw that portion, however. He was only a child, but he was 
      looking for it, and it was looking for him. The fifth portion of the 
      Sovereign Stone was the Void. Dagnarus accepted it, when it was offered, 
      and he has served the Void ever since. He has served it well, and now the 
      Void grows in power, as the power of the gods wanes.
      "To enhance that power, Dagnarus seeks the four portions of the Sovereign 
      Stone. He will find them. For two hundred years, the human part of the 
      Stone remained lost. Then Lord Gustav found it and within moments of its 
      discovery, Dagnarus was aware of it. His Vrykyl, Svetlana, came very close 
      to seizing it. The gods protected the Stone, and it has escaped him thus 
      far. The power of the Void grows stronger by the minute, however, and the 
      Stone cannot remain hidden for long. Dagnarus never sleeps. He searches 
      for it, day and night. He can see even in the darkest darkness. You scurry 
      about, hither and thither, but where will you hide, Baron, that he cannot 
      find you?"
      Shadamehr shrugged and smiled. He very carefully did not look at the 
      knapsack he wore slung about his shoulder.
      "It makes a good ale story," he said, "but I have no idea what you're 
      talking about."
      Gareth smiled and pointed at the baron's heart.
      Glancing down, Shadamehr saw that he wore the Sovereign Stone around his 
      neck and that its radiant light blazed in the darkness like a beacon fire.
      "Damnation," he said, and wrapped his hand about the Stone to quench the 
      light.
      The light welled through his fingers, so that beams of it shot through the 
      dusty room in which he stood, shone clear to heaven.
      "Suppose I concede that you have a point, Master Gareth," Shadamehr said, 
      embarrassed. "Just suppose, mind you. What do you suggest I do with the 
      bloody thing? I assume you have a suggestion. Otherwise, why bring me 
      here?"
      "You must undo what King Tamaros did. You must return the Sovereign Stone 
      to the gods. In order for that to happen, the pieces must come together 
      here, in the Portal of the Gods."
      "All four pieces?" Shadamehr asked, incredulous.
      "All the pieces," Gareth repeated.
      "Why not throw in the sun, the moon, a couple of stars, and the eye-tooth 
      of a dragon while you're at it," Shadamehr muttered.
      Gareth had no reply. He began to dissolve, like an oil portrait over which 
      someone has passed a wet rag.
      "I have said all I have to say."
      "No you haven't," Shadamehr said loudly. "I have a question. If you gods 
      didn't want Tamaros to split open the damn Stone, why did you give it to 
      him? If I hand a child a fragile vase and he drops it and breaks it, do I 
      punish the child? I"Shadamehr struck himself on the breast"7 am the one 
      at fault, for I am older and wiser than the child, and I should have known 
      what was going to happen."
      He shouted into the heavens, trying to make someone hear him. "You gods 
      gave Tamaros this vase, and he dropped itthere's a big surpriseand now 
      we're left to pick up the pieces and try to glue the damn thing back 
      together! Does this make sense to you? What purpose does it serve?
      "Or, here's a thought, maybe it was a test? A test for King Tamaros. He 
      failed! Hey, he's human. What did you expect? You must have known he would 
      fail. You gods know everything. If you don't, you're no better than we 
      are, and why should I worship you? If you did know, then that means you 
      were just playing with him. That means you're just playing with us. And 
      that makes you worse than us!
      "And you wonder why I didn't undergo your Transfiguration to become a 
      Dominion Lord! Listen to me, damn you. Don't you walk away! I'm not the 
      one who is supposed to have charge of this Stone!"
      Shadamehr strode forthrightly into the gray nothingness and woke to find 
      the ork shaman picking him up in her powerful arms with the avowed 
      intention of tossing him into the sea.



      After much earnest pleading, Griffith persuaded Quai-ghai that she should 
      not immediately heave the groggy and disoriented baron over the taffrail. 
      Griffith argued strenuously with both her and the captain, trying to 
      persuade them that Shadamehr had not been dabbling in Void magic, as 
      Quai-ghai believed. Shadamehr was "tainted by Void," a condition that did 
      afflict those who cast Void magic, but which could, on rare occasions, 
      happen to those unfortunate enough to have been on the receiving end of an 
      extremely powerful Void spell.
      Orks fear and detest Void magic, and Griffith might not have succeeded in 
      persuading them, had not the ship's catan enormous gray-blue male with 
      golden eyesrubbed his head against Shadamehr's leg, looked up at him, and 
      meowed.
      Kal-Gah looked speculatively at Quai-ghai. Orks are very fond of cats, and 
      every orken vessel has several.
      "Nikk likes him," said Kal-Gah, petting the cat.
      "True," said Quai-ghai. "A good omen. He may stay."
      The question of how Shadamehr had come in contact with powerful Void magic 
      intrigued Griffith. He would have liked to question him, but the baron was 
      obviously in no condition to be discussing anything. Griffith assisted the 
      stumbling, groaning Shadamehr back to his rest. The baron fell into bed 
      facefirst. He reached out his hand to touch the knapsack reassuringly and, 
      after that, did not move.
      Griffith cast a spell over Alise, as she lay sleeping, and found that she 
      was also tainted by Void. He knew from gossip around the baron's keep that 
      Alise had once been a member of the Order of Inquisitors, the only members 
      of the Church permitted to learn Void. He recalled that Alise had cast a 
      Void spell in order to rescue them from the palace guard. Even such a 
      simple spell as reducing iron bars to iron shavings would have left her 
      tainted by Void, plus given her the nasty side effects that come with the 
      use of Void magic.
      Here was the mystery. Alise was tainted by Void to such an extent that he 
      found it difficult to understand how she had managed to survive. Her skin 
      should be covered with welts and pustules, the toll required of those who 
      wield the magic that is powered by one's own life energies. Alise's skin 
      was smooth and unblemished as fresh milk.
      Griffith could find only one possible explanation for such a phenomenon. 
      Tucked carefully in the bodice of her chemise was a large, polished 
      turquoise, blue as the sky and glittering with silver striations.
      Griffith would have liked to talk all this over with Damra, but she had 
      spent a restless night, talking and muttering in her sleep, and he had no 
      thought of waking her. He himself was feeling rested and well. The ork 
      medicine had settled his stomach, but he did not yet have his sea legs, as 
      the orks termed it. They walked the rolling deck with ease while he 
      stumbled about like a drunkard. He even found himself wondering what there 
      might be to eat.
      He was directed to the galley, where he nearly pitched headfirst down a 
      ladder. An ork grabbed him in the nick of time, saving him from breaking 
      his neck. Griffith was given some brown bread, which he took back with him 
      up top, to stand in the bright sunshine and watch the distant shore slide 
      past.
      "We are making good time," said Captain Kal-Gah, and he eyed Griffith 
      approvingly. "The wind is from the north. An 'elf wind.' I am glad now I 
      brought you on board."
      Griffith could have told the captain that the wind blew generally from the 
      north this late in the year and that the elves had nothing to do with it, 
      but he kept silent on that score. Knowing the orks from having lived among 
      them at Shadamehr's, Griffith was confident that he would be blamed for 
      something before the day was out. He didn't mind, therefore, taking credit 
      for the wind.
      "How far are we from New Vinnengael?" he asked.
      "Far enough," growled the captain, "to be safe from the foul snar-ta." He 
      grimaced as he spoke, his lip curling in disgust.
      Snar-ta. Orken for "eaters-of-flesh." Kal-Gah was referring to the rumors 
      that had circulated among the baron's people that the taan were known to 
      eat the flesh of their enemies. They were supposedly particularly fond of 
      ork.
      "Have they attacked New Vinnengael yet, do you think?" Griffith asked, 
      trying to look northward, into the wind, and finding it difficult.
      Captain Kal-Gah shrugged. "We have seen no smoke of burning. But that 
      doesn't mean much, since the city is made of rock."
      He turned back to his sailing, obviously not interested in the fate of a 
      city and a people he considered his enemies.
      The wind was crisp and biting and blew right through Griffith's woolen 
      cloak and the robes he wore beneath. He made his staggering way to a part 
      of the deck out of the wind and warmed by the sun. He munched on his 
      bread, taking care to share with some of the seagulls in thanks for their 
      assistance with the omen, and looked up to the white mass of sails spread 
      above his head, the intricate tangle of ropes, and the tall, straight 
      masts that seemed to brush the heavens. He marveled at the skill and 
      dexterity of the orken sailors and thought to himself that this was truly 
      wonderful.
      He was happy and relaxed, and he knew the reason why. For the first time 
      in many years, he wasn't responsible for anything or anybody, not even 
      himself. True, an evil force searched for them, but, for the moment, the 
      eyes of the Void were focused on New Vinnengael. The orks had the running 
      of the ship and would not welcome his interference. His friends were safe 
      and seemingly well; the taint of Void would wear off in time.
      His dear wife had been troubled during the night, but she slept easily 
      now. He had nothing to do, nowhere to go, except where the wind took him. 
      The last time he'd known such peace as this was in his childhood, after 
      the Wyred had come to claim him.
      Griffith had been four years old at the time. A precocious child, one of 
      seven boys born to a minor noble. Griffith had known from the time he'd 
      developed the ability to reason that he was different from his siblings. 
      Quiet, introspective, he took no part in the games of competition and 
      combat in which his brothers delighted. He stood apart, watching from the 
      sidelines.
      His brothers badgered Griffith constantly to join in their mock battles, 
      and grew angry when he refused. Griffith detested noise and rows. He moved 
      and spoke quietly, so quietly that his mother complained that she often 
      forgot he was around and was startled to find him underfoot. His father, a 
      warrior born, sided with his brothers and accused his mother of coddling 
      the boy, while his mother accused the rest of bullying him.
      Lonely, miserable, Griffith remembered well the night the Wyred came to 
      take him away from his home, to take him to freedom.
      Most children are terrified of the black-clad figures who creep into their 
      rooms at night and steal them from their beds. Such children must be 
      calmed with spells, lulled into a magical sleep. Not Griffith. He knew 
      the moment he woke and found the black-masked figures bending over him who 
      they were and why they had come. He never spoke a word, but lifted up his 
      arms to the man, who gave a smothered chuckle.
      "We were right about you, I see," he said, his words sliding softly 
      through the black silken mask he wore over his face.
      Strong arms clasped Griffith securely, bore him out of the bed he shared 
      with his brothers, and took him to Ergil Amdissyn, the so-called floating 
      castle that is the fortress of the Wyred. Griffith would not see his 
      family for over eighteen years. When he was finally permitted to return, 
      his elder brother told him bluntly that his father had been relieved to 
      find that the Wyred had stolen away his effeminate son. This same elder 
      brother, who was now head of the family, arranged a marriage for his 
      younger sibling, but made it clear that Griffith was not welcome in the 
      family home.
      Griffith did not miss his family. They had given him two precious gifts: 
      life and Damra, and he had repaid them for both by saving this very elder 
      brother from assassination. His family did not know the truth, of course, 
      for the Wyred work their magic in secret. Griffith was glad they didn't. 
      It was so much more fun to listen to his brother's tale of his heroic 
      exploits and smile in secret, smug in the knowledge of what had really 
      happened.
      Griffith could still remember his first sight of Ergil Amdissyn. He did 
      not know how long he rode, clasped in the strong arms of the Wyred mage, 
      whose task it was to steal children gifted in magic. He remembered 
      sleeping and waking and sleeping again, but whether it was one time or a 
      hundred, he could not recall. The Wyred and his companions never spoke to 
      the child, after that first comment, for one of the first teachings for a 
      young mage is to learn to listen to the silence. Then, one morning, the 
      Wyred roused Griffith from his slumbers and pointed a black-gloved hand. 
      The location of Ergil Amdissyn is a closely guarded secret of the Wyred, 
      who swear never to reveal it on pain of dishonor, death, and imprisonment: 
      dishonor for the House, death for the wizard, and eternal imprisonment of 
      his soul in the terrible prison house of the dead. But it is not fear that 
      has kept the tongues of the Wyred sealed for centuries. It is pride. Pride 
      in themselves, pride in their work.
      Ergil Amdissyn is a fortress built into the peak of a mountain of white 
      granite. According to their history, the fortress was built for the Wyred 
      by the legendary dragon Radamisstonsun, who, in return for a favor done 
      for her by the Wyred, used her powerful Earth magic to carve the inside of 
      the mountain into a fortress, hidden and impregnable.
      Ergil Amdissyn does not truly float, but only appears to do so, as on the 
      morning Griffith first saw it with the coming of a brilliant dawn. The 
      mountain rose up from out of the cloud-covered waters of a lake fed by hot 
      streams, so that steamy mists drift perpetually over the lake. It seemed 
      to Griffith that the fortress floated on a fiery red-and-gold-tinged 
      cloud. He stared in awe with the feeling that, at last, he had come home.
      Griffith thrived in the strict and studious atmosphere of the Wyred 
      schools, unlike some children, who could never get over their longing for 
      home. Such children usually sickened and died, to be buried in the vaults 
      beneath the mountain. Other children died during the schooling, for the 
      training sessions were arduous and dangerous, meant to weed out the weak, 
      both in mind and body. Those boys and girls who survived went on to become 
      some of the most powerful and skilled magi in Loerem.
      Unlike the Revered Brotherhood of the Temple of the Magi, the Wyred do not 
      prohibit the use of Void magic. Although the elves abhor the Void, they 
      understand that it has its place among the four elements, and they 
      encourage their members to study it in order to be able the better to 
      fight it. Some Wyred, such as Griffith, are allowed to choose to make the 
      Void and those things pertaining to it a serious study. Griffith's area of 
      expertise was centered on the Vrykyl, and his thoughts naturally drifted 
      from nostalgic reminiscences of his years spent at Ergil Amdissyn to his 
      studies of the Vrykyl and Shadamehr's dire news that the young king of New 
      Vinnengael had been murdered and his body stolen by one of these foul 
      creatures of the Void.
      Griffith was musing on this, and, recalling that Shadamehr had been 
      wounded in the palace, the elf thought that he could at last explain the 
      cause of the Void taint that afflicted both Alise and Shadamehr. Feeling a 
      soft touch upon his arm, he turned to see his wife.
      "Do I interrupt you?" Damra asked.
      "My thoughts were dark," he said. "I am pleased to have them dispelled. 
      How are you this morning? You spent a restless night. Were you troubled by 
      disturbing dreams?"
      "One might say I was troubled by a disturbing awakening," said Damra 
      ruefully. She did not stand close to the railing, as did her husband, but 
      kept a wary distance, casting an uneasy glance at the rushing water that 
      spread out in a wide V-shape from the bow.
      "I wish you would step away from there, my love," she added nervously. "I 
      do not think it is safe."
      Griffith smiled to himself, but did as his wife asked. He walked back with 
      her to the very center of the ship, drew her over to sit beside him on a 
      wooden chest.
      "Silwyth came to see me last night," said Damra.
      "Truly, that must have been a disturbing dream," said Griffith.
      "It was not a dream," said Damra. "He was here, onboard the ship."
      "My dear" Griffith began.
      "I know it sounds crazy. I thought I was dreaming at first, but he spoke 
      to me and put his hand on my wrist. He was as close to me and as real to 
      me as you are right now."
      Griffith was dubious, perplexed. "I do not doubt you, my dear, but how"
      Damra shook her head. "His skin and clothes and hair were wet, so I assume 
      he must have swum from the shore, but how he managed to elude the orks or 
      find his way to me is a mystery I cannot explain. But then, Silwyth 
      himself is a mystery. He was once Dagnarus's most loyal servant. If it 
      were not for the fact that he freed you from the Shield's prison and gave 
      into my keeping the elven portion of the Sovereign Stone, I would not ... 
      I do not . . . And yet . . ."
      She halted, unable to express herself, and shrugged helplessly. "I know 
      I'm not making any sense, but then nothing involved with Silwyth makes 
      sense. And yet, it seems that I am supposed to trust him." Damra cast a 
      sidelong glance at her husband.
      Griffith smiled ruefully, and he shrugged. "What can I tell you, my dear? 
      That he might be part of some elaborate conspiracy? That he has done all 
      this to earn our trust with secret plans to destroy us?" "The last seems 
      most likely," she said grimly. "Why, what did he say to you?"
      "That the power of the Void is ascendant," said Shadamehr. "That no one 
      can stop Dagnarus from gaining the Sovereign Stone, and when he does, he 
      will rule the world as a demigod. That the only way to prevent this is to 
      bring all four parts of the Sovereign Stone to the Portal of the Gods and 
      there join them together. Am I right?"
      Damra and Griffith looked up at him in astonishment. "How did you know 
      that?" Damra gasped.
      "Because another of Dagnarus's servants told me the very same thing," said 
      Shadamehr gravely.
       



       12WHO SPOKE TO YOU?" DAMRA ASKED, HER ASTONISHMENT increasing.
      "Dagnarus's Void sorcerer, Gareth."
      "Last night?"
      "Yes, while I was asleep. I kept thinking it was a dream, but my dreams 
      very rarely make sense. I show up naked in the royal court, tumble off 
      bridges into ravines, or I'm chased by hordes of beautiful women, that 
      sort of thing."
      "Are you never serious, Baron?" Damra demanded coldly.
      "I'm serious about this," said Shadamehr. "Or trying to be, at any rate. 
      This dreamif that's what it waswas very realistic. We had a 
      conversation, Gareth and I. At one point, I told him he was dead and at 
      another point he informed me that I was the bearer of the Sovereign Stone. 
      We conceded both points. I was in the ruins of a city that I knew 
      immediately was Old Vinnengael, although I have never before been there, 
      and I was in what I believe to be the Portal of the Gods."
      "And Gareth told you to bring the four parts of the Sovereign Stone 
      together"
      "in the Portal of the Gods," said Shadamehr.
      "Strange," said Damra, staring out at the sun-sparkled water. "Very 
      strange."
      "You were heavily tainted by Void magic, Baron," Griffith pointed out.
      "What?" Damra stared back at the baron, her gaze dark and suspicious. 
      "What do you mean, he was tainted by Void?"
      Griffith appeared sorry that he had spoken.
      Shadamehr glanced at him, glanced away.
      "It is a long story," he said briefly. "And it has nothing to do with what 
      we are discussing."
      "It might," Damra persisted, her tone severe. "A servant of the Void came 
      to speak to you while you were tainted with Void. You expect us to give 
      credence to what he said?"
      "A servant of the Void came to speak to you, and you believe him," 
      Shadamehr returned. "Or does Silwyth not count because he is an elf?"
      Damra jumped to her feet. "You had no right to eavesdrop on our 
      conversation," she said angrily.
      "Then don't hold your conversations in the open air in the middle of the 
      deck," Shadamehr retorted. "Orks aren't deaf, nor are they stupid. They 
      travel all over the world, and some speak fluent Tomagai."
      Griffith put his fingertips and the tips of his thumbs together to form a 
      V-shape.
      "What is that?" Shadamehr demanded impatiently.
      "A wedge," said Griffith, "being driven between the two of you, the 
      bearers of the Sovereign Stone." He looked from one to the other. "A wedge 
      of Void make and design."
      Damra's pale cheeks flushed. She lowered her long lashes, but kept her 
      gaze fixed on the baron.
      Shadamehr's lips compressed. Shifting his stance, he stood staring out at 
      the rushing river water. The first mate ordered a couple of orken sailors, 
      who had lingered near, hoping for a fight, to quit gawking and go on about 
      their duties.
      "I am sorry," said Shadamehr at last. He rubbed his hand over his face, 
      scratched his chin, which was dark from a day's growth of beard. 
      "Yesterday was probably the worst day of my life, and last night managed 
      to top it. That's my only excuse for being rude, and it's not a very good 
      one."
      Turning to Damra, he made a formal bow. "I should not have been listening 
      in on your talk with your husband, Damra of Gwyenoc. I apologize."
      "And I am sorry, Baron," said Griffith, bowing. "I should not have said 
      anything about the Void taint without discussing the matter with you 
      first. Please accept my apology. I should explain to you, Damra," Griffith 
      added, "that the baron came by the taint of Void innocently. He was the 
      recipient of a spell that saved his life, or so I believe."
      Damra remained unconvinced. "I do not understand what you mean, Griffith. 
      How can a Void spell save a life? Void magic kills!"
      "Any magic can be used to kill," said Griffith. "A mage can transfer a 
      portion of his own life essence through the Void into the body of another. 
      The spell is quite dangerous, for it can completely drain the life of the 
      wizard, if he is not careful. Or, I believe in this case, I should say, 
      'she.'
      Shadamehr's face had gone gray and haggard. He gave another abrupt nod of 
      his head, rubbed his chin, and turned away.
      "Alise?" asked Damra, amazed. "But I saw her down belowdecks before I came 
      up. She sleeps as peacefully as a babe"
      "The Grandmother," said Shadamehr. "Grandmother Pecwae festooned her with 
      rocks and brought her back. Alise was dying. I held her in my arms and 
      felt the life seeping out of her. Poor Bashae is dead. And it is my fault. 
      All my fault."
      "We are all of us weary and wounded, in spirit, if not in body," Damra 
      said remorsefully. She rested her hand gently on Shadamehr's arm. "I am 
      sorry for my part in our quarrel." She hesitated, then added, "Sometimes 
      speaking of the night's shadows in the daylight helps to dispel them."
      "True enough," Shadamehr responded. "But it is also true that dark things 
      belong to the darkness and should be kept there. We will talk of this, but 
      below, in our cabin. Besides, I don't want to leave Alise alone."
      The three made their way across the rolling deck, holding on to ropes or 
      any solid object that came to hand to keep their balance. The orks grinned 
      and nudged each other, laughing at the lubbers.
      "Because of your courage, Baron, both portions of the Sovereign Stone have 
      escaped Dagnarus," said Damra, after Shadamehr had concluded his tale.
      "Because of my tomfoolery," he returned ruefully. "And dumb, stupid luck."
      "Say, rather, the intercession of the gods," Griffith said gently.
      "Then why didn't the gods intercede for Bashae?" Shadamehr demanded. 
      "Never mind. It's my own private quarrel."
      He sat on a rickety stool near Alise's bed, holding her hand fast in his 
      own. Griffith stood propped up against a bulkhead. Damra was curled up on 
      the bed that was tucked inside a recessed cubbyhole. The four of them were 
      a tight fit. In order to leave the cabin, two had to squeeze up against a 
      bulkhead while the third climbed over them.
      At least they had light. By clearing off the grime, they had uncovered a 
      small porthole that could be opened to admit fresh air and the occasional 
      splash. Shadamehr had obtained clean clothes from the orks, and he had 
      taken a bath beneath one of the pumps. But the sewer smell still lingered 
      unfortunately, making them all glad of the fresh air and the small patch 
      of sunlight.
      Damra frowned, clearly not amused. Sacred subjects are not matters for 
      joking. Before she could say anything, however, Alise sat up in bed and 
      cracked her head on the low ceiling.
      "Ouch!" Alise clapped her hand over her forehead. "What the" She peered 
      around in the gloom. "Who is that? Where am I?"
      "You are with me, Alise . . ."
      "Shadamehr? Is that . . . Are you ..."
      "I am, my dear. I shouldn't be, but I am."
      Alise flung her arms around him, clasped him tightly. "Thank the gods!" 
      she breathed, holding him fast.
      "Devil take the gods," said Shadamehr fiercely. "Thank you, Alise. You 
      saved me. I"
      "No!" she said, suddenly recoiling. "No, don't say that. Don't say 
      anything. If you're not dead, why am I alive? That spell I cast . . ."
      She shuddered, huddled away from him, pressed her body up against the 
      bulkhead. "What happened to me?"
      He tried to calm her, but he could feel her body tense, go rigid at his 
      touch, and he drew back reluctantly. "Alise . . . the Grandmother ... do 
      you remember anything?"
      "The Grandmother . . ." Alise repeated gently. "Yes, I do remember. I 
      remember sunshine and turquoise skies and lying in sweet-smelling grass 
      and the gods came to me. They said . . . they said . . ."
      "What?" Shadamehr asked tersely.
      "They said, 'Why did you waste your time trying to save that wicked Baron 
      Shadamehr?' " Alise spoke in a whispering, ghostly monotone, adding 
      softly," 'The baron who smells like a sewer.' "
      "They didn't say that," Shadamehr protested, hurt. "Did they?"
      "No," said Alise, relaxing at his touch. But very gently, she pushed his 
      hands away. "That's not what they said."
      "What did they say? That you are a hero for saving the life of the 
      handsome and wonderful Baron Shadamehr?"
      "No, they didn't say that either. Our conversation was private." She 
      squinted. "Damra, is that you? Griffith? What are you two doing here? Why 
      is my bed rocking? And why do / smell like a sewer?"
      "We're on board an ork ship," Shadamehr explained. "We're fleeing New 
      Vinnengael. And about the sewers"
      "That's a relief, leaving New Vinnengael. I suppose we're on the run, two 
      jumps ahead of the palace guard who are determined, as usual, to hang you 
      or behead you or maybe both." Alise pushed back a few straggling red curls 
      from her eyes, swung her feet over the bed.
      "Don't you remember?" Shadamehr asked.
      "I find I am hungry, my husband," said Damra hurriedly. "Did you say 
      something about bread in the galley?"
      "Yes, I'll show you," Griffith offered. "If you two will excuse us"
      "I'll come with you," said Alise. "I'm ravenous."
      Shadamehr caught hold of her wrist.
      "Alise, we need to talk."
      She lifted her head, shook back her red hair, and looked him in the eye. 
      The two of them were alone in the cabin. The elves, deeply embarrassed, 
      had fled.
      "No, we don't. There's nothing to say."
      "Alise"
      "Shadamehr." She took hold of both his hands in hers, held them fast. "I 
      know what I need to know. I remember what I need to remember. Nothing has 
      changed between us."
      "But it has," Shadamehr said quietly.
      "Then it shouldn't," she said, refusing to look at him.
      "Alise, you saved my life," said Shadamehr, drawing her close. "Because of 
      me, you nearly died"
      "And so now you are in love with me," she stated, trying to wriggle away. 
      "Now you want to spend the rest of your life with me. Have baby 
      Shadamehrs. Grow old together."
      "Yes!" he cried rapturously.
      "What?" She stared at him.
      "Yes to all that. But not baby Shadamerhs. Baby Alises. Six girls with red 
      hair, like their mother, to plague me and torment me and never do what 
      they're told and . . ." He paused. "We'll have to deal with a few small 
      matters first, of course, such as the Sovereign Stone, which is now in my 
      possession and which a dead man told me to take to Old Vinnenagel and the 
      Lord of the Void, Dagnarus, seizing New Vinnengael and the fact that we're 
      on the run for our lives, but once this is all sorted out"
      "I knew it!" Alise struck him in the chest. She started to push him away, 
      then stopped, looked up at him earnestly. "I don't think it will work, 
      Shadamehr."
      "Of course, it will work. The dead man told me" Alise smiled, a lopsided 
      smile, held up her hands, made two fists. "I don't mean that. I mean us. 
      Lodestones," she said, hitting them together, bouncing them apart. "You 
      see? I do remember. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go wash the 
      sewer out of my hair."
      "Alise," he said, holding her fast. "I don't blame you for not trusting 
      me. I never spoke a serious word in my life before last night and now 
      listen to me. You can't shut me up. I love you, Alise. And not out of 
      gratitude for saving my life," he added sternly, halting the words on her 
      lips. "I calculate that saving my life this one time makes us even for all 
      those other times you put my life in danger."
      "I never!" she said indignantly, trying unsuccessfully to wrest her hands 
      from his grip.
      "Oh, but you did. There was that time with the trolls. 'Don't ride across 
      the bridge' I warned. But, no, you wouldn't listen and out come three of 
      the biggest trolls I've ever seen in my life, and trolls are damn hard to 
      kill"
      "I'll think about it," Alise promised hastily.
      "You'll think about marrying me? Truly?"
      "Yes," she said. "Anything not to hear the troll story again. Now will you 
      let me go wash my hair?"
      "I was going to suggest it," said Shadamehr. "Quite frankly, my dear, I 
      think it's proof of my love that I even let you get close to me, the way 
      you smell ..."
      Alise gave him a shove that knocked him backward into the bulkhead, kicked 
      his shins for good measure, then turned and marched out.



      Alise was an experienced sailor, having accompanied the baron on more than 
      one expedition. Before the day was out, she would have the sailors rigging 
      a pump for her to wash her hair. She would have her chemise hanging from 
      the yardarms and, dressed in clothes borrowed from the orks, be dancing 
      hornpipes at the midnight watch.
      "We will work," said Shadamehr, fondly rubbing his bruised shin.
      He stood alone in the cabin, smiling at the small, round patch of 
      sunlight. But even as he watched, the sunlight faded away with the passing 
      of a cloud.
      Always a cloud. And this time, enormous clouds, masses of clouds. So many 
      they might never see the sun again. He lifted the knapsack containing, 
      presumably, the human portion of the Sovereign Stone. The knapsack looked 
      very ordinary, its leather worn, its stitching frayed. Holding it to what 
      light remained, he opened it up, peered inside, saw nothing except lint. 
      According to Bashae, the knight Gustav had claimed the knapsack to be 
      magical. The Sovereign Stone was hidden in folds of magic and could be 
      revealed only by a secret word.
      "Wouldn't it be a great joke," said Shadamehr to himself, "if all this 
      time we've been risking our fool lives for an empty knapsack."
      The word he was supposed to speak, "Adele," was on his tongue. He would 
      see this Sovereign Stone. He would see what Bashae had given his life to 
      protect. He would see with his own eyes what all the fuss was about. He 
      was not going to take this on faith. . . .
      You are the bearer of the Sovereign Stone.
      Gareth's words. That was why Gareth had come to him.
      I wasn't dreaming. Shadamehr knew that as certainly as he knew that he 
      loved Alise and thatwould miracles never ceaseshe loved him. She might 
      not know it yet, but he'd convince her. There was just the small problem 
      now of keeping them all alive.
      The word "Adele" went unspoken. He could hear, over the creaking of the 
      ship, the voices of Damra and Griffith talking to Alise. He could hear her 
      voice, her laughter.
      He draped the worn leather strap over his shoulder. Better get used to 
      carrying it. He didn't dare leave it anywhere for the Void to find. So 
      long as it was his responsibility, he would guard it with his life. As for 
      what happened to the Stone in the future, that was a decision for others 
      to make. He wasn't a Dominion Lord, a blessing for which he was certain 
      the gods must be grateful.
      "It's early in the day. Let's see what else I can screw up," he said 
      cheerfully to himself, as he went on deck.
       



       13RIGISWALD FROWNED DOWN AT HIS BOOK. THE VOLUME WAS NOT nearly as 
      informative as he had hoped. He shut it with an irritated snap.
      "You're a dolt," he told the long-dead author.
      Rigiswald sat in his chair, wondering what time it was. Thinking of time 
      made him wonder what day it was. He lost track of time in the library, 
      where there were no clocks, no windows, no town criers insisting that it 
      was noon and all was well. What day was it? Had Ulaf been here last night 
      or the night before? Had a whole day truly passed since then?
      Yes, it had, Rigiswald decided. He'd gone to bed, after Ulaf's departure, 
      and slept most of the day. Then he'd eaten a bad supper in the mess hall, 
      then come back to his reading. It had to be close to dawn. He wondered 
      whether or not he should bother going to bed or simply move on to 
      breakfast. He had just decided on the latter, when he felt a touch upon 
      his shoulder.
      He looked up to find the head of the Order of Battle Magi looking down.
      "They told me I would find you here, sir," Tasgall said in the low tones 
      that were always used in the library. "I would like a word with you."
      "I've been expecting you," said Rigiswald, setting aside the book.
      A hovering novitiate pounced on the volume and bore it away to whatever 
      safe haven they were using these days.
      "The taan won't have any interest at all in the books, you know," said 
      Rigiswald, accompanying Tasgall out of the library. "Few taan can read.
      They have no written form of their own language. They wouldn't know what 
      to make of books. Neither would Dagnarus," Rigiswald added.
      Tasgall made no response, beyond a flickered glance.
      Leaving the library, they walked down a large corridor that smelled of 
      oiled leather and wood and vellum. Off the corridor were meeting rooms 
      furnished with ornately carved tables surrounded by high-backed chairs of 
      dark wood and classrooms. He and Tasgall were the only two in the 
      corridor. The rooms were empty and dark. With the coming of day, this part 
      of the university would be filled with activity, but none walked here at 
      night.
      "As a child, Prince Dagnarus often played truant," Rigiswald continued. 
      "We have the account of his tutor, who wrote that Dagnarus preferred 
      hanging about with the soldiers to studying his lessons. Your precious 
      books would be safe enough from him, I should imagine."
      "Prince Dagnarus died two hundred years ago," said Tasgall. He spoke in a 
      heavy voice, with no intonation, as if reciting the words by rote.
      Rigiswald smiled and ran his hand over his beard, smoothing it. They 
      walked the length of the corridor before the battle mage halted. He looked 
      back down the hall, the way they had come and, seeing no one in sight, he 
      gestured abruptly to Rigiswald, led the way into one of the meeting rooms.
      The room was dark, smelled of chalk.
      Tasgall muttered the words to a spell, and the room was filled with a soft 
      gray light. Tasgall glanced about the room, made certain that it was 
      empty. He motioned Rigiswald to seat himself in one of the high-backed 
      chairs, then walked over to look out into the hall, before he shut the 
      door. Rigiswald settled himself in the chair. Resting his hands upon the 
      arms, he crossed his ankles and waited.
      Tasgall pulled out another chair, but the battle mage did not seat 
      himself. He remained standing, his hands clasping the carved slat that 
      adorned the chair's back.
      Tasgall in full battle regalia was an impressive sight, a force comprised 
      of a deadly combination of steel and flame. Tonight he was dressed in the 
      soft woolen robes generally worn by the Brethren in their hours of study 
      or relaxation. Devoid of his armor, he was just another humana 
      middle-aged man in his late forties, the sharp lines of his square-cut, 
      clean-shaven face blurred with fatigue, his dark hair going gray at the 
      temples, his brow furrowed. Tall and powerfully built, he dwarfed his 
      former teacherthe slender, dapper Rigiswald.
      Rigiswald had known even then that the dark-eyed, brooding, and intense 
      Tasgall would make an ideal battle magus, and he had advised him to pursue 
      his studies with that goal in mind.
      "Where is Baron Shadamehr?" Tasgall demanded abruptly.
      "That is not how you speak to someone considerably your elder, Tasgall. 
      Even if you are head of the battle magi," Rigiswald returned.
      Tasgall's hands tightened their grip on the chair back. "I have been up 
      for two nights. Night before last, I had to deal with your baron, who 
      tried to kidnap the king, then promptly vanished. Then there was the 
      battle with a Vrykyl in a tavern, a Vrykyl who killed one of my people 
      before we sent it back to the Void that spawned it. Yesterday and today 
      I've been dealing with the probability of an enemy invasion. You have only 
      to look across the river, and you will see the fiends camped on the shore! 
      You will forgive me, therefore, sir, if I am somewhat deficient in tact."
      Rigiswald raised an eyebrow. Placing the tips of his manicured fingers 
      together, he tapped them gently.
      Tasgall let out an exasperated breath, then said, "Do you know where to 
      find the Baron Shadamehr, sir?"
      "No, I do not," Rigiswald replied.
      "I think you do," said Tasgall.
      Rigiswald rose stiffly to his feet. "Then you are calling me a liar. I bid 
      you good morning"
      "Wait, wait! Damn it!" Tasgall moved to block the path of the elderly 
      mage. "We know you are part of the baron's household, that you were his 
      tutor, and you are now his friend and confidant."
      "I have that honor, yes," said Rigiswald, still standing.
      "The baron rode into the city two days ago"
      "Was I riding with him?" Rigiswald interrupted.
      "No, sir, you were not, but"
      "I arrived here several days ago. I have spent my time in the library, as 
      I am certain you know from your spies. I have left once to go to my bed, 
      six times to eat, and eighteen times to go to the priviesmy bladder isn't 
      what it used to beand I met once with the Nimran ambassador, as I am 
      certain your spies have also told you. Did your spies inform you that the 
      Baron Shadamehr came to speak to me on any of those occasions?"
      "No, sir," said Tasgall grimly. "He was inside the palace trying to abduct 
      the young king."
      "Indeed? And how came he to be in the palace?"
      "The Regent wanted to see him."
      "What about?"
      "I am asking the questions, sir," said Tasgall.
      "You asked me one, and I answered it. You didn't like my answer, but 
      that's not my fault. If you have other questions, I will be happy to 
      answer them, but you will probably not like any of those answers either. 
      Therefore, I see no need to continue this fruitless conversation. I am 
      quite weary, and I would like to get what sleep I can before the city 
      comes under siege. Good morning to you, sir. Again."
      Rigiswald circled around Tasgall, who did not try to stop him. The elderly 
      magus had nearly reached the door before Tasgall spoke.
      "Whatever else the Baron Shadamehr may be, he is no coward. I served with 
      him on the field of battle, as you yourself know, sir. I have seen for 
      myself his tenacity, his resolve, and his courage, and I do not agree with 
      those who say that he refused to undergo the Transfiguration out of 
      cowardice."
      Rigiswald halted, turned to look over his shoulder. "Well, sir, and what 
      of it?"
      "I have seen Baron Shadamehr in his tomfooleries, I've seen him in his 
      cups, I've seen him in battle, and I have never before seen him afraid. 
      Not until the night he was in the palace. I saw his face, and I saw fear. 
      Something happened to him inside the palace that scared him so that he 
      lunged through a crystal window to a five-story drop onto stone pavement. 
      I want to know what it was."
      Rigiswald shook his head, took another step.
      "Tell me this, then," said Tasgall. "Does Baron Shadamehr have in his 
      possession part of the sacred Sovereign Stone?"
      Rigiswald took another step and another.
      "Sir," Tasgall said in tightly controlled, level tones, "I am responsible 
      for the lives of several thousands of our people, not to mention the life 
      of the young king. If you have information that might be useful to me in 
      helping to save those lives, and you withhold that information, then the 
      blood of innocents will be on your hands."
      Rigiswald glanced around. "You have no need to concern yourself with the 
      life of the young king. The young king is dead."
      "Impossible!" stated Tasgall impatiently. "I just left him. He is sleeping 
      soundly."
      "Very soundly," said Rigiswald. "At the bottom of the river. The young 
      king you left slumbering in his bed is a Vrykyl."
      Tasgall's jaw worked. His dark eyes flared in ire.
      "Where is Baron Shadamehr?" he demanded, his voice taut.
      "Ah, we're back to the beginning," said Rigiswald, sighing. "I will tell 
      you that I don't know where he is. You will call me a liar. I will start 
      to walk out"
      "No, sir," said Tasgall. "I will walk out." He stalked past Rigiswald, out 
      the door and into the dark corridor beyond.
      "I told you that you wouldn't like my answer," remarked Rigiswald.
      Tasgall did not look back.
      "Gods help us," Rigiswald muttered, as close to a prayer as he'd ever come 
      in his life.



      Dagnarus, Lord of the Void, stood on the banks of the Arven River and 
      stared across it at the city of New Vinnengael, a city he planned to 
      conquer. He stood alone and unseen, cloaked in the magic of the Void. 
      Night had fallen. Some distance away, his taan troops were gathered around 
      the campfires, telling stories of the brave deeds they would do when the 
      signal was given to attack.
      Dagnarus did not see this city, however. He saw another city, built on the 
      banks of a different river. He saw a city of white marble, towering 
      cliffs, a city of waterfalls and rainbows. His city, Vinnengael, the city 
      of his birth, the city he had been born to rule.
      Truth to tell, when Dagnarus had lived in Vinnengael, he'd never noticed 
      the white marble or the rainbows. He'd never paid much attention to the 
      waterfalls, and when he looked at the white cliffs on which the city was 
      built, he saw them as part of the city's defenses. Only after the 
      destruction of Vinnengael did he look back on that city and see it through 
      the colored prism of his longing. Only then did he remember the rainbows, 
      and that only because Gareth had once made mention of them.
      Thinking of the old city and looking at the new that had been built to 
      honor the old (and also to outdo it in splendor), Dagnarus at last 
      understood what he found so galling, standing on the riverbank and 
      contemplating tomorrow's battle. An obsessed lover, he could take the 
      object of his love by force, but he didn't want her that way. He wanted 
      her to come to him. He wanted her to want him, to humble herself before 
      him and swear that she had always loved him and that she would love no 
      other. He would not achieve his dream by sending in an army of taan to 
      clap her in chains, repeatedly rape her, and leave her to die in her own 
      blood on the roadside.
      He could go to his adored and try to woo her. But what was he to do with 
      ten thousand taan, thirsting for her blood?
      Dagnarus put his hand to the Dagger of the Vrykyl. "Shakur," he summoned 
      his second-in-command, one of the Vrykyl, a creation of the Void and the 
      Dagger that Dagnarus had used to take Shakur's life, giving him living 
      death in return. Long minutes passed. Shakur did not respond.
      Dagnarus repeated the summons irritably. He might go days or months 
      without communicating with his Vrykyl, but when he spoke, he commanded 
      their immediate attention. "My lord," Shakur responded. "You kept me 
      waiting," said Dagnarus. "Forgive me, my lord, but there were people with 
      me." "Send them away," said Dagnarus. "You are king, after all." "I may be 
      king, but I am also a little boy, my lord," Shakur returned. "These fools 
      hover over me like clucking old hens. Especially now, with an army of 
      monsters camped outside the city gates." "What is the mood in the city?" 
      Dagnarus asked. "Fear, panic," Shakur replied. "Martial law has been 
      declared. The battle magi rule the city. Soldiers fill the street. The 
      gates are closed. No one comes in or goes out. The harbor is empty." "Has 
      anyone else discovered you?"
      "No one, other than the baron, and he is likely dead by now." "Likely 
      dead? You don't know for certain?"
      "The palace guard continue to search for him, my lord, but they have yet 
      to find him. I stabbed him with the Blood-knife. Nothing could have saved 
      him."
      "For your sake, Shakur, I hope that is true."
      Dagnarus was extremely displeased by this lapse on the part of the Vrykyl. 
      The oldest of his Vrykyl, Shakur had once been the best, the strongest, 
      the most ruthless. He'd made several mistakes lately, mistakes that had 
      cost Dagnarus dearly. Obviously, the Vrykyl was starting to deteriorate. 
      Not surprising. Shakur had been around two hundred years. The Void alone 
      held his rotting corpse together. He was forced to kill more and more 
      often to drink the souls he needed to sustain his horrible existence. He 
      was growing sloppy, careless. Dagnarus fingered the Dagger that had given 
      Shakur this dreadful life. He could always take it. "When do you launch 
      your attack, my lord?" Shakur asked, thinking it best to change the 
      subject. "Tomorrow morning?" "I'm not attacking," said Dagnarus.
      "Not attack, my lord?" Shakur was understandably amazed. For two hundred 
      years, he and his master had worked and planned for very little else.
      "When day dawns, I will ride into New Vinnengael under a flag of truce. I 
      will demand to see youthe young king. You will make certain that I am 
      granted an audience."
      "My lord, I don't like this plan. The city is ripe for the fall" "I don't 
      give a damn what you like, Shakur." Dagnarus's fist clenched over the 
      dagger's hilt. "I find that I am beginning to detest strongly this habit 
      of yours of constantly questioning my decisions. You will obey me in this 
      as in all else." "Yes, my lord."
      "Oh, and you needn't bother to keep searching for the Sovereign Stone. I 
      have taken charge of that matter, as I should have done from the 
      beginning."
      "Are the other Vrykyl to continue to hunt for it, my lord?" "No, Shakur. 
      There is no need to waste resources chasing after it. I have arranged for 
      the Sovereign Stoneall four parts of the Stoneto come to me. Two of them 
      are already on the way."
      "Very good, my lord. We can make use of the Vrykyl who have been on the 
      hunt. I suppose you know that Jedash is dead?" "No great loss," said 
      Dagnarus.
      "No, my lord. Now about the attack on New Vinnengael, it occurs to me"
      "Isn't it past your bedtime, Shakur?" Dagnarus interrupted. "Shouldn't 
      your nursemaid be coming to tuck you in and kiss you on your curly little 
      head?"
      Shakur seethed in silence, struggled to contain his anger.
      Dagnarus, amused, let him fume.
      "My lord, what is your plan for tomorrow?" Shakur asked finally, humbly.
      "To become King of Vinnengael," said Dagnarus.
       



       14THE WAITING TOOK ITS TOLL ON THE PEOPLE OF NEW VINNENGAEL.
      Yesterday morning, the soldiers had stared out over the walls into the 
      ranks of the monstrous enemy and felt their blood burn with hatred and 
      loathing and the fury that comes to men facing battle. As the day passed, 
      hot blood cooled, fury and hatred chilled to doubt and dread. With the 
      coming of night, the blazing bonfires of the enemy lit the night sky with 
      an orange glow; their bestial shrieks sent shivers down the spine. 
      Officers ordered their men to try to sleep, but every time the soldiers 
      dozed off, one particularly horrible shout would jolt them from dreams 
      that hadn't been all that pleasant anyway.
      This morning, the soldiers who stared down at the enemy were grim, 
      bleary-eyed, and hopeless. Officers did what they could to rally their 
      troops, but the cheers they had been met with yesterday were grunts and 
      halfhearted mumbles today.
      Rigiswald woke with the dawn, wakened from a sound sleep with the gnawing, 
      tingling sensation in his belly that always presaged some dire event. Some 
      called it premonition and claimed it came from the gods. Rigiswald 
      believed it came from the brain, which had passed its night in diligent 
      work, while the body slept. He had spent days reading all that he could 
      find on the Sovereign Stone, which included information on King Tamaros, 
      Prince Dagnarus, and the doomed and tragic King Helmos. Of all of the 
      documents, the one that had proven most helpful was the account written by 
      Evaristo, who had been Dagnarus's tutor.
      Although a resident of Old Vinnengael, Evaristo had not been in the city 
      when Dagnarusthen Lord of the Voidled his forces against it. Evaristo 
      maintained it was good fortune that had led him and his family to make the 
      two-hundred-mile journey to visit his wife's uncle, who dwelt in the city 
      of Krammes. Rigiswald guessed that Evaristo had been warned of the coming 
      attack by his former pupil Gareth, who had by then become a powerful Void 
      sorcerer, credited with having formed the plan to cast the spell that 
      drained the water from the River Hammerclaw, destroying one of the 
      palace's main defenses and allowing Dagnarus's forces to take the city by 
      surprise.
      In his memoirs, Evaristo made no secret of the fact that he had always 
      been fond of Gareth and had done what he could to try to break Dagnarus's 
      fell hold on the young child, who had been Dagnarus's whipping boy. 
      Evaristo had failed. Gareth loved Dagnarus and had remained his friend, 
      steadfast and loyal. That the friendship would prove fatal to Gareth, 
      Evaristo had no doubt, for Dagnarus, blessed with the charm of an adder, 
      was also possessed of the viper's conscience.
      From Evaristo, Rigiswald had learned a great deal about the personality of 
      Dagnarus, and thus he alone, in all of New Vinnengael, was not surprised 
      that Dagnarus was holding off his attack. Nor was he surprised when one of 
      the battle magi hunted him down in the dining hall, where he was making up 
      for having missed his dinner.
      "The Most Revered High Magus's compliments, sir," said the battle rnagus, 
      who were not usually sent to run errands. "Her Grace asks if would you 
      come to the palace as quickly as possible."
      Rigiswald continued calmly eating a bowl of chicken en casserole. His 
      appetite was the envy of several young and badly frightened noviates. "Am 
      I under arrest?" Rigiswald asked.
      The battle magus looked startled. "No, sir. You are one of several of the 
      Temple's respected elders who have been summoned to the palace to meet 
      with the Regent and His Majesty."
      Last night I was a criminal. Now I'm a respected elder, Rigiswald 
      reflected with an inner chuckle. He said that he would come, finished his 
      chicken, returned to his room to change to his finest robes, then walked 
      across the plaza that separated the Temple from the palace.
      The day was gray and overcast, with a light mist falling. The streets were 
      deserted except for the patrols and a few stray dogs. The clouds, the 
      drizzle, the empty streets, and the knowledge of what he feared was coming 
      oppressed him, a feeling that was unusual for him.
      Rigiswald was a pragmatist. He saw his fellowmen for what they were: often 
      stupid, generally good-hearted, occasionally sublime. Since Rigiswald did 
      not expect a lot of his fellowmen, he was not disappointed in them. He had 
      come to the conclusion that there was about as much true evil in the world 
      as there was true good, and that most everyone fell somewhere in between.
      Take Dagnarus, for example. How much easier it would be, Rigiswald 
      reflected, if he were evil incarnatesome sort of monstrous aberration, 
      like a troll, that thrives on inflicting pain and torment. "But he is not 
      a troll," Rigiswald remarked to himself. "For all he is Lord of the Void 
      and has used the power of the Void to extend his life be- yond that of any 
      normal person, Dagnarus is still human. He is still a man, as we are men. 
      Because of that, he can see into our hearts, which gives him the 
      advantage, for we cannot see into his. If we could see into his heart, 
      what would we find? Much that would shock us, I daresay. And much that 
      would be familiar to us."
      Rigiswald shook his head. "Perhaps that is the real reason we do not look. 
      We're afraid of seeing ourselves. Yet someone has to. Someone must."
      Arriving at the heavily guarded main gate, Rigiswald was passed through by 
      a battle magus, who was armed with a list of those who had been invited to 
      the palace to confer with the Regent and His Majesty. Always the Regent 
      first, the king second. The young king was an afterthought.
      How very frustrating that must be for the Vrykyl, Rigiswald considered, 
      following one of the palace servants through the golden-filigreed, 
      velvet-tapestried, marble-floored halls. The Vrykyl must retain the form 
      of the child and do nothing that might cause those around him to suspect 
      him. Yet, at the same time, the Vrykyl must manage to control events so 
      that they benefited his master.
      If nothing else, Rigiswald thought, it will be interesting to observe the 
      Vyrkyl's attempts to manipulate the proceedings.



      The Regent had commanded that the meeting be held in the Hall of Past 
      Glories, called thusly because of its four enormous murals that portrayed 
      scenes from Old Vinnengael. Rigiswald wondered if the Regent had 
      considered the extreme irony of holding a meeting to discuss Dag-narus's 
      siege of the city of New Vinnengael in a room that celebrated his siege of 
      the old.
      Rigiswald doubted it. Clovis had a hammer-and-tongs sort of intelligence 
      that beat imagination into shape and then doused it in cold water to 
      freeze it forever. She probably thought this room would inspire them. 
      Rigiswald felt exactly the opposite. The gray gloom outside was less 
      oppressive than this room dedicated to defeat, destruction, and death.
      The large round table that usually stood in the center of the hall had 
      been removed. Chairs were placed around the walls of the enormous room. 
      Most everyone remained standing, clustered in the center. Candles burned 
      in the chandeliers, which could be lowered by a system of ropes and 
      pulleys for the servants to light. Rigiswald stood beneath one of the 
      chandeliers, until he saw that a spot of melted wax had fallen on his 
      cassock. Frowning, he moved to a different location.
      The tension in the room was palpable. People entered hurriedly, out of 
      breath, their expressions grim. They would pause a moment in the door, 
      search the crowd, then head straight for friends to converse in low, 
      urgent tones. Nerves stretched taut, people shifted restlessly from one 
      group to the other. Occasionally one voice would rise above the others, 
      ring out in anger, only to be hushed by companions.
      The heads of each of the Orders of Magi were here, along with the knights 
      who held command posts in the Imperial Cavalry and the city guard. Here 
      were several barons who had property in or around New Vinnengael and the 
      Keeper of the Purse, the head of the Royal Treasury. Rigiswald knew most 
      of them. There were others he did not recognize, including one portly 
      gentleman in the rich but unostentatious clothing of the upper middle 
      class. Someone said he was the head of the Association of Merchants' 
      Guilds.
      Notable by their absence were the Dominion Lords. Several of the heads of 
      the Orders of Magi nodded to Rigiswald, but none came to speak to him. He 
      was not quite approved. He preferred it that way, preferred keeping to 
      himself, stayed out of the gloom-laden conversations. He drifted about the 
      room, listening in here, eavesdropping there. He noted, in passing, that 
      another person was doing the samethe head of the Order of Inquisitors.
      Rigiswald soon became aware of discord in the hall. The barons and the 
      knights were not pleased over the fact that the Church had stepped in to 
      seize power following the king's death. The barons believed that one of 
      their own number should have been named Regent, and they were backed by 
      the knights, who blamed the Church for the sad state into which the 
      Vinnengaelean military had fallen over the years. True, the Church had its 
      own militia with the battle magi, but these people were answerable only to 
      their superiors and, while they were well trained and diligent in their 
      desire to work with the military, they were not trusted. The barons and 
      the knights spoke in strident tones of a conspiracy by the Church to 
      overthrow the true monarchy. This attack by the enemy was either a ruse or 
      part of the plot and so on and so forth.
      Wandering over to where the magi were gathered, Rigiswald heard similar 
      talk, except with the demons reversed. The magi spoke of the barons as 
      being in a conpsiracy with rebels who wanted to destroy the Church. The 
      enemy army was part of their plot or a ruse and so on and so forth.
      Rigiswald had no use for the Regent. He knew Clovis to be obtuse and 
      hidebound, but he also knew that she was a gods-fearing woman who, 
      whatever her faults, was loyal to her king and her country. The barons and 
      knights were also gods-fearing, loyal men. When their blood cooled a bit, 
      they would look back on what they'd said with deep chagrin. But for now, 
      the Void was very active in this room, using fear and mistrust to drive 
      apart those who should be standing united.
      Rigiswald agreed with only one comment, and that came from a baron who 
      looked around at the murals portraying the glories of Old Vinnengael and 
      muttered that the choice of the room was "god-awful."
      Presaged by a ceremonial horn call, members of the king's house guard 
      marched in to the chamber. Taking their places at the head of the hall, 
      they slowly and solemnly struck the butt ends of their spears on the floor 
      to quiet the crowd.
      "His Majesty the King."
      Conversation ceased as everyone in the room bowed low. The young king, 
      looking very small and fragile and sleepy, walked between the ranks of his 
      guards. The Regent entered behind him, accompanied by Tasgall, who wore 
      his full regalia.
      Rigiswald had known Clovis many years, dating back to when they were 
      students. He was slightly her elder, but not by much. She looked the same 
      now as she had looked fifty years ago, only a bit grayer. Heavyset, she 
      had gray eyes, as colorless as her mind. She had no imagination and no 
      sense of humor. She considered laughter offensive to the gods, who 
      intended that mankind take life seriously.
      The young king walked to a throne that had been placed beneath a 
      gold-fringed canopy on a raised dais. The chair was much too large for the 
      child. He perched his backside on the throne and slid into it, having been 
      taught that kings never looked behind them. The Regent took her place at 
      the right hand of the king. Tasgall stood on his left. The king's 
      chamberlain, who was one of the Revered Brethren and who doubled as his 
      tutor, stood behind the throne. The household guard ranged around the 
      king, while others took up positions at the door.
      What would they say if I told them that the very evil they are trying to 
      guard against is already inside the room? Rigiswald thought to himself. He 
      might have been tempted to laugh, if he not been so much closer to 
weeping.
      The Regent stepped forward. She intended to speak, but before she could 
      open her mouth, the hall exploded with a barrage of questions, demands, 
      and angry accusations. The tumult was deafening. Stunned, the king shrank 
      back in his chair. His guards closed in around him. The Regent's face 
      flushed an ugly red. Tasgall sent a warning glance to the battle magi.
      Taking advantage of the commotion, Rigiswald moved to stand where Tasgall 
      could see him and he could see Tasgall.
      Tasgall held Rigiswald's gaze, then, his lips tightening, he looked away.
      Rigiswald began to understand why he'd been summoned. At first, he'd hoped 
      that Tasgall had thought things over and was ready to believe him. Now, 
      Rigiswald realized, Tasgall had brought him here to discredit him. 
      Rigiswald was disappointed. He'd figured Tasgall to have more sense.
      "His Majesty understands your concerns," stated the Regent, when she could 
      be heard over the tumult. "And we will be listening to them and addressing 
      them. First I want to welcome a distinguished visitor, the monk Nu'Tai, 
      who has traveled here from Dragon Mountain." At this announcement, silence 
      fell. A stooped, wizened, dried-up old man entered the too-quiet hall, 
      accompanied by two enormous humans, clad all in furs. The small old man 
      was the monk. The two large beings accompanying him were members of the 
      Omarah, a race of people who lived on the mountain and whose lives are 
      dedicated to guarding the monks' sacred personages.
      The monks of Dragon Mountain record all important events on their bodies, 
      tattooing them onto their skin. When the monks die, their bodies are 
      preserved in special vaults in the monastery for future generations to 
      study. Everyone in the room was thinking the same thing: was the monk 
      there to record the fall of New Vinnengael, as his long-dead predecessor 
      had recorded the fall of Old Vinnengael?
      The monk bowed to the king, who slid forward on his throne and bobbed his 
      head. The Regent welcomed the monk and introduced him to certain important 
      personages, calling them to come up to be introduced. Rigiswald was not 
      one of them. He kept his eyes on the king.
      Little Havis's feet did not touch the floor. He swung his legs back and 
      forth and then, nervously, he began to kick the sides of the throne. He 
      was halted by another whisper from his chamberlain.
      Tasgall slid a glance at Rigiswald, who could perfectly read the man's 
      thoughts as though he'd spoken.
      "This child is a malevolent creature of the Void?"
      Rigiswald clasped his hands together, rocked back on his heels, then 
      forward onto the balls of his feet to keep the circulation in his legs 
      going, and wondered how all this would end. Badly, he thought.
      The Regent announced that the monk had come to New Vinnengael in order to 
      bring them sad news. Gustav, Lord of Knowledge, a noble and honored 
      Dominion Lord, was dead. He had died in far-off lands and had been buried 
      in a mound of dirt by the barbarous Trevinici. The Regent proposed that a 
      delegation be formed to travel to Trevinici lands to recover this noble 
      lord's body and bring him back for a proper burial.
      The crowd grew restless during this harangue. Surrounded by ten thousand 
      fiends of the Void, the Vinnengaeleans were thinking fearfully of their 
      own deaths, not some elderly knight who'd been half-mad anyway. With his 
      insane quest to find the Sovereign Stone, Gustav had been an 
      embarrassement to the Council of Dominion Lords. The only real emotion 
      felt on hearing of his death was relief.
      Rigiswald wondered if the monk had told the Regent that Gustav had found 
      the portion of the Sovereign Stone intended for the humans.
      If so, Clovis did not mention it to the assembly. Rigiswald couldn't blame 
      her. She couldn't very well tell this volatile crowd that the Sovereign 
      Stone had been found, but that no one had any idea where it was. Most of 
      them would immediately leap to the conclusion that the Church had hidden 
      it, storing it to use later for its own purposes.
      The monk retreated into the background, taking a seat in one of the chairs 
      that ranged along the wall. The Omarah loomed over the wizened old man. 
      All eyes turned to the Regent. Everyone waited tensely to hear what she 
      had to say, most of them prepared not to like it.
      Clovis once again opened her mouth, but her speeches were apparently 
      doomed to go unheard this day. One of the Temple novitiates who served the 
      Regent came racing breathlessly into the hall. The novitiate was making 
      straight for the Regent, when he realized by the sudden humming that 
      everyone in the roomincluding the kingwas staring at him. Abashed, he 
      froze midway. The Regent's sharp tone commanded his attention. Recalling 
      himself, the young man hastened over to speak to her.
      The Regent's eyes widened. A baffled look came over her heavyset, jowled 
      face. Confounded by whatever news she had just heard, Clovis would have 
      probably given a great deal to have been told that news in private. As it 
      was, she could not leave the room. The crowd had begun to comment on the 
      novitiate's arrival, and some of the barons demanded to know what was 
      going on.
      "Your Majesty," Clovis said, turning to the king, "the enemy commander has 
      asked that he be permitted to enter New Vinnengael under a flag of truce. 
      He has no wish to attack us, he says, and suggests that we try to find a 
      peaceful solution. We must decide whether or not he is to be admitted."
      In the stunned silence that followed this pronouncement, the young king's 
      high shrill voice rang out clearly.
      "We say 'yes,'" said Havis III. "Permit him to enter our city and have 
      speech with us."
      Clovis gave a little gasp. She had spoken to the young king out of a 
      politic desire to silence the clamorous barons. The king was supposed to 
      say that the matter was up to her. She had certainly not intended for the 
      king to make his own decision, and she was startled and displeased that he 
      had done so.
      "Your Majesty, we should discuss this matter privately"
      The king slid from his throne, stood facing her. "We say that this 
      commander should be permitted to enter the city. We wish to see him and 
      hear him. That is our will, and you will obey."
      Cunning, that Vrykyl, thought Rigiswald. He looked at Tasgall, to see what 
      he made of his kinglet now, but couldn't catch the man's eye. The battle 
      magus was intent upon the Regent.
      Clovis was "in a pickle," as the saying went. She clasped her hands 
      together over her ample stomach and glared down at the king, trying to cow 
      him. She did not succeed and was forced to speak.
      "Your Majesty, as your Regent, appointed by the Church and sanctified in 
      the eyes of the gods, it is my duty to guide your decisions. Everyone 
      knows of your concern and care for your people, and we know that you want 
      to do what is best for them. To that, I impute the earnest desire of yours 
      to speak to this evil man, and I will take your wishes under advisement. A 
      matter this serious, however, should not be decided lightly. I propose 
      that we take some time to consider."
      Clovis turned to the chamberlain. "His Majesty will retire."
      His Majesty didn't look at all pleased about that. He frowned, and one 
      small fist clenched. He seemed on the verge of arguing, but on second 
      thought, decided against it. He would look like a petulant child and lose 
      ground in consequence. As it was, men and women who had formerly regarded 
      him with pity were now eyeing him with respect. He could only gain by 
      behaving graciously. The chamberlain and the house guards escorted the 
      king out of the hall.
      The Regent spoke briefly to the novitiate, who left the chamber in haste, 
      then said loudly, "This assembly will adjourn. We will reconvene in an 
      hour. At that time, we will give this man our answer."
      If she thought she was going to be able to leave without further talk, she 
      was mistaken. Clovis might have been Regent, but the Regent wasn't the 
      king. She was immediately surrounded by the clamoring barons and knights. 
      Even the head of the Association of Merchants' Guilds put himself forward, 
      shouldering his way into the crowd to express his opinion.
      The Regent, her face grim, her cheeks flushed, tried to force her way 
      through, but without success. Tasgall and his battle magi finally cleared 
      a path. The Regent summoned the heads of the Orders to her side, and they 
      left the room, guarded by the battle magi.
      Abandoned, the barons and the knights and the other courtiers clustered 
      together in their own groups, their voices raised in ire, sprinkled with 
      threats that the Church wasn't going to have its way in this.
      Rigiswald made good his own departure, gliding out of the room just in 
      time to see the heads of the Orders walking to the far end of a long 
      corridor lined with portraits of past kings and queens of Vinnengael. The 
      Regent stopped at the end of the corridor. The heads of the nine Orders 
      gathered in a huddle around her. Several battle magi formed a cordon 
      across the corridor to give them privacy for their hasty meeting.
      Rigiswald wandered a short distance down the corridor, affecting to be 
      absorbed in admiring a portrait of young Havis's deceased mother. Standing 
      in front of the painting, his head tilted to one side, he estimated the 
      distance between himself and the gathering of magi.
      Approximately two hundred feet. Removing a vial of water he had stuffed up 
      the tight-fitting cuff of his gown, he pulled out the stopper with his 
      teeth and shook a few drops onto his fingers. He whispered the words to 
      the spell, then flicked the water in the general direction of the crowd 
      around the Regent. The spell worked. Within moments, he was able to hear 
      their conversation quite clearly.
      "Of course," the Regent was saying, "this man who calls himself Lord 
      Dagnarus has taken a good, hard look at our defenses, and he has come to 
      the realization that he has no chance of defeating us. The best he can do 
      is besiege us and, so long as our ports remain open, this will be naught 
      but a minor inconvenience. I am not about to negotiate with him."
      "A siege would be more than a minor inconvenience, Regent," stated Tasgall 
      bluntly. "Their siege towers are armed with orken jelly. This Lord 
      Dagnarus could create a firestorm that would wipe out half the population 
      of this city and reduce homes and businesses to charred ruins.
      "However," he added, his voice grim, "that is preferable to surrender. I 
      heard what horrors these fiends inflicted on Dunkar when that city 
      surrendered. I agree that we should fight, but we should know the worst 
      that can befall us before we commit ourselves, and prepare for it."
      "Revered Brother Tasgall speaks wisely, Regent," said the head of the 
      Order of Inquisitors. "According to our sources, the enemy army is made up 
      of taan, a race skilled in the use of Void magic. And it is not just their 
      shaman who can make use of this foul magic. The ordinary soldier has the 
      ability to use Void magic whenever he likes, without suffering any 
      debilitating consequences."
      The Inquisitor was a tall man, big-boned, and so excessively lean that he 
      seemed almost cadaverous. He had lank, gray hair and the large, protruding 
      eyes of those afflicted with a goiter. His bony jawline and high 
      cheekbones gave his face a skeletal look, and the current joke among the 
      novitiates was that he had summoned himself from the graveyard. Devoid of 
      warmth, sarcastic, and ill-tempered, the Inquisitor had not been well 
      liked before he was named to head the Order of Inquisitors, and now he was 
      universally detested.
      The Regent was clearly shocked by his news. "How is that possible?" she 
      demanded. "And why wasn't I informed of this before?"
      "Indeed," Tasgall agreed angrily. "The battle magi should have been told 
      about this before now!"
      "Before now, you would not have been interested," countered the 
Inquisitor.
      "Void magic by its very nature takes a toll upon the bodies of those who 
      cast it," stated the Regent. "I think you have been misinformed, 
      Inquisitor."
      "What we have learned we have learned at great peril from those of our 
      Order who have risked their lives to walk among these creatures," the 
      Inquisitor returned, his tone cold with anger at being doubted. "The taan 
      are able to achieve this by the use of stones embedded beneath their hide. 
      We do not know for certain how these stones work, but we theorize that the 
      taan draw on the energy of the stones to power the magic, rather than 
      being forced to draw on their own life energy."
      "However they do it, Regent," Tasgall stated, "if what he says is true 
      and I suppose we must believe himthis means that there is a possibility 
      that every single one of the enemy coming over our walls is a Void 
      sorcerer, capable of wielding spells of death and despair as well as 
      steel."
      The Regent looked appalled, then her lips tightened. She shook her head.
      "I am not suggesting we surrender," Tasgall added, reading her thoughts. 
      "We will win, of that I have no doubt. The gods could not allow it 
      otherwise. But the battle will be bloody and destructive."
      "Is there anything else you have learned about these taan that you haven't 
      told us, Inquisitor?" the Regent demanded.
      "Several of the undead knights of the Void known as Vrykyl are among the 
      army of Lord Dagnarus," said the Inquisitor, unperturbed by her 
      accusation. "Vrykyl that are far more powerful than the one that was slain 
      two nights ago by the heroic actions of our battle magi. The Vrykyls' 
      command of Void magic is immense. Witness how many of our battle magi were 
      required to bring down one of them, and one of the weaker. No 
      disparagement on your gallant actions, my lord."
      The Inqusitor bowed to Tasgall, who bowed back, but said nothing.
      "If our Dominion Lords were present, they would be able to face these 
      Vrykyl on equal terms, but as I understand it, Regent, you disbanded the 
      Council and sent the Dominion Lords away from the city."
      "I followed the will of the gods," Clovis returned through gritted teeth. 
      She was rattled, losing control of the situation. "These Dominion Lords 
      were created by imperfect means and thus are themselves imperfect. Mad 
      Lord Gustav was a prime example."
      " 'Mad' Lord Gustav was wise enough to find our part of the Sovereign 
      Stone, which had been missing for two hundred years," said the Inquisitor.
      Gasps of astonishment came from most of the assembled heads of the Orders, 
      who turned their startled eyes on the Regent. Tasgall, head of the Order 
      of Battle Magi, and the Seneschal, head of the house guard, were the only 
      ones to whom this news did not come as a shock.
      "Is this miracle true, Most Revered High Magus?" demanded the head of the 
      Order of Diplomacy.
      "Praise the gods," said the head of the Order of Scribes.
      "I wouldn't be too quick about that," said the Inquisitor dryly. "Lord 
      Gustav recovered the Stone, but he died before he could deliver it. The 
      Stone has since gone missing. Unless you have been successful in locating 
      it, Regent?"
      "No, I have not," the Regent answered in dour tones. "And I will thank you 
      to keep your voice down, Inquisitor."
      "A pity," said the Inquisitor. "The Stone might be of some use to us in 
      repelling these Void monsters."
      "As a matter of policy" the Regent returned angrily.
      "The Void is at work here," Tasgall intervened. "I trust you are all aware 
      of that."
      The argument ceased.
      "And now, what is to be done?" Clovis asked. She turned to Tasgall. "Do 
      you actually recommend that we negotiate with this Lord Dagnarus?"
      "His Majesty has decreed it,"Tasgall stated.
      "His Majesty is a child," the Regent retorted.
      "A child who has put us in an untenable situation," Tasgall returned. "The 
      barons are already unhappy with the fact that the Church has gained 
      control over the monarchy, or at least that's how they see it. If we go 
      against the king's wishes in this matter, we will further alienate the 
      barons and the knights whose support with troops and money we will need if 
      we are attacked."
      He hesitated, then asked, "Do you know why His Majesty took it into his 
      head to intervene in this matter, Regent?"
      Ah, thought Rigiswald, pleased. You're thinking now, Tasgall. You're 
      starting to wonder if I am right. Very good, sir. Very good.
      "His Majesty is a little boy and, as such, he is extremely interested in 
      the prospect of battle," said the Regent. "He spends all his time in his 
      room, staring out the windows at the enemy army across the river. When he 
      isn't looking out the window, he's fighting mock battles with his toy 
      soldiers. It is no wonder that he wants to meet the man who has launched 
      this attack on the city."
      "He is interested in battle, you say," said Tasgall. "Not frightened?"
      "He is not in the least frightened," said the Regent, with almost maternal 
      pride. "His Majesty is not a coward."
      The head of the Order of the Arts spoke up. A serious, taciturn man, he 
      was noted for his extreme deliberation of thought.
      "I do not think we have much choice in the matter, Regent. I think we must 
      hear from this man, though there is no doubt that we must refuse any terms 
      for surrender."
      "I agree," said the Inquisitor. "I am curious to see this Lord Dagnarus. 
      Strange rumors circulate about him."
      "I suppose we must meet with him," said the Regent in ill-humored tones. 
      "Are we all agreed?"
      The nine assembled murmured their assent.
      "I will make the arrangements." Clovis paused, then said in a soft voice, 
      "I suppose, Tasgall, that His Majesty must be present at this meet-ing?"
      "I fear so, Regent. The barons would be angered otherwise. But I suggest 
      that you speak to His Majesty first. Remind him that he is supposed to 
      follow your guidance and that he is not to make any decisions without 
      consulting with you first. And I would bring him to the meeting late, so 
      that his appearance is merely a matter of formality."
      "Yes, a good suggestion," said Clovis. "And you may be assured that I will 
      have a long talk with His Majesty."
      The Regent stalked off, her ceremonial robes rustling around her thick 
      ankles.
      "Truly," Rigiswald muttered, shaking his head as he returned to the Hall 
      of Past Glories, "Tasgall is right. The Void is at work here."
       



       15NO FANFARE, NO TRUMPET FLOURISHES, NO GRAND CEREMONY introduced 
      Dagnarus into the city he hoped to make his own. He was hustled in secret 
      through a wicket located in a side gate near the dockyard, then < 
      blindfolded and taken to the palace in a closed carriage. It was remarked, 
      by those battle magi who guarded him, that he was not in the least 
      offended by these proceedings, but seemed to accept them with good-natured 
      amusement.
      Dagnarus was not what they expected. Leader of an army of monsters, he had 
      been viewed as a monster himself. Instead, he was a charming, handsome 
      man, self-assured and confident. He was well dressed but not ostentatious 
      in a woolen cape and high boots, embroidered doublet and snowy white 
      shirt. He wore his clothes with an air of elegance. He brought with him a 
      fine sword, which he gave into the hands of the battle magi with orders to 
      take care of it, for the blade had once been his father's. He was like a 
      fine blade himselfornately decorated, polished to a high gloss, and 
      possessed of a sharp edge.
      Men of war could tell at a glance he was one of them. During the carriage 
      ride, he spoke to his guards of certain recent battles fought by the 
      Vinnengaeleans against dwarven raiders, during which he made it clear that 
      he had studied the battles, speaking knowledgeably about the strategies 
      and tactics used by both sides. The hardened battle magi found themselves 
      drawn into the conversation against their will and, by the end of the 
      carriage ride, were prepared to give Dagnarus their grudging respect. He 
      knew what he was about, when it came to war, that was certain.
      Who he was, where he had come from, how he came by this monstrous army, 
      and why was he attacking Vinnengaelthese were questions the battle magi 
      sought to answer. He was human, and appeared to be about thirty-five years 
      of age, with auburn hair and intense green eyes. He was clean-shaven, with 
      an ingratiating smile and a hail-fellow-well-met aspect. He spoke fluent 
      and idiomatic Elderspeak, which seemed to indicate that he was 
      Vinnengaelean, but there was something rather old-fashioned about his 
      speech. He called a "halberd" a "haubert," a term that, as one man put it, 
      "had gray hair and a beard on it when my grandfather was a lad." The 
      battle magi could not penetrate Dagnarus's defenses, for he would either 
      counter their verbal thrusts or use his wit to turn them aside.
      The battle magi kept Dagnarus blindfolded as they led him through the 
      corridors of the palace to the Hall of Past Glories. He bore this 
      indignity with good humor, grinning beneath his mask and complaining that 
      he could see none of the beautiful women for which he had heard the city 
      was famous. Upon detecting an odor of perfume as he walked past one of the 
      startled ladies of the court, he paused to bow to the unseen woman in a 
      courtly manner.
      He was taken into the Hall of Past Glories, where his blindfold was 
      removed. He blinked at the light a few moments until he could see, then, 
      smiling, looked at the crowd gathered around him. He was met with hostile 
      stares, curled lips, growlings, and mutterings. Their obvious enmity did 
      not appear to bother him one whit. He remained calm, relaxed, and 
      confident. The Regent stood on the dais, her hands clasped, her head 
      thrown back, magnificently offended. If by this attitude, the Regent hoped 
      to intimidate Dagnarus or inflict upon him a sense of his wrongdoing, she 
      failed utterly. Paying absolutely no attention to her, he stared intently 
      at one of the murals depicting Old Vinnengael. He turned to Tasgall, who 
      stood, armed and ready for trouble, at his side.
      "Is that supposed to be the Royal Palace, Magus?" Dagnarus asked. Tasgall 
      answered warily, not trusting even this seemingly innocuous question. "Why 
      do you want to know, sir?"
      "Because if that's the case, you've got it all wrong," Dagnarus returned, 
      laughing.
      Before anyone could stop him, he strode across the room, scattering the 
      barons and the courtiers and the heads of the Orders, who scrambled to get 
      out of his way. The battle magi leapt after him, weapons drawn and spells 
      ready. He paid them no heed, but continued on his way and came to stand in 
      front of the mural, not far from the chair in which Rigiswald happened to 
      be sitting, ostensibly reading a book.
      The Regent glowered after Dagnarus and glared at Tasgall, who shrugged his 
      shoulders to indicate that he had no idea what was going on, nor, so long 
      as this man was not posing a threat, was there anything he could do about 
      it.
      Dagnarus studied the mural. "The artist has the waterfalls right. But he's 
      mangled the palace." He placed a finger on the painting. "This wing 
      extended out this way. The entrance was over here, not where he has put 
      it. He's added an extra tower and, because of that, this balcony, where my 
      father used to walk, faces too far to the west. Before I leave, I'll draw 
      you a picture, to make certain you get it right."
      Hearing nothing behind himthe silence was such that everyone in the room 
      might have been struck down deadDagnarus turned around to face them. A 
      smile played on his lips.
      "Well, well," he remarked. "Perhaps now is not the time for fond 
      remembrances."
      He glanced back at the painting, and Rigiswald noted a shadow darken the 
      handsome features. "Still, I would like for it to be right."
      The shadow was soon gone, replaced by charming bonhomie. Rigiswald was one 
      of the few to have noticed the look or heard the murmured words that 
      chilled him to the marrow.
      The Regent stiffened and exchanged grim glances with Tasgall and the 
      Inquisitor. They were both thinking the same thoughts as Rigiswald except, 
      unlike him, they didn't believe Dagnarus. They didn't believe he was the 
      person he claimed to be.
      You will come to, said Rigiswald silently. He will see to that. The gods 
      help us!
      The Regent drew in breath to launch into her speech, her bosom swelling 
      like the sails of a ship in a high wind.
      Dagnarus forestalled her.
      "Where is my young cousin, Havis?" he asked, glancing around.
      The Regent said coldly, "I do not know of whom you speak, sir. I was not 
      aware that you claim relation to any in this room. Or that any would claim 
      relationship with you."
      "His Majesty the King," said Dagnarus, smiling and choosing to ignore the 
      insult. "Havis III. My little cousin. I say 'cousin,' although I'm sure 
      that the relationship is probably much more complexsecond cousins by 
      marriage twice removed or some such nonsense. I have traveled a long 
      distance to see him, and I would not be denied the pleasure." "Pleasure!" 
      The Regent gave forth one of her snorts. "You hold a dagger to our 
      throats, and you speak of pleasure!"
      "You refer to my army. I was not certain of my welcome in this city," 
      Dagnarus replied, his smile engaging. "I deemed it best to come prepared." 
      "Prepared for what, sir? War?" Clovis's voice shook with rage. "No, 
      Regent," said Dagnarus. His tone was earnest, serious. "I am here to 
      establish my rightful claim to the throne of the Vinnengaelean Empire."
      "Silence!" the Regent thundered, to quiet the assembly. The guards slammed 
      the butts of their spears on the stone floor. The confused hubbub came to 
      an abrupt end, but not through any action of the Regent. At that point, 
      either by accident or design, the young king made his entrance. 
      Accompanied by his guards and his chamberlain, he strode into the room. As 
      he paused to acknowledge the bows of the assembly, his eyes went 
      immediately to Dagnarus. Rigiswald watched closely, to see if any sort of 
      sign passed between them. The child's eyes were wide with a very natural 
      curiosity. Dagnarus regarded the king with a kind of patronizing 
      benevolence.
      The Regent clucked the king onto his throne, gave a look meant to remind 
      him of his manners, then turned away in response to the Inquisitor, who 
      had stepped to the dais and was speaking to her with obvious urgency. 
      Rigiswald could have cast his eavesdropping spell, but he didn't need to 
      expend the energy. He could easily guess what the two were discussing. The 
      Inquisitor had recognized the danger, and he was undoubtedly warning 
      Clovis not to proceed further, urging her to stall for time, meet with 
      this man in private. Perhaps he was telling her more "rumors" he'd heard.
      "You do not want to hear his explanation about his right to the throne," 
      the Inquisitor was undoubtedly saying to her emphatically. "Above all, you 
      do not want to give him a public forum."
      Tasgall hastened over to join them, to add the weight of his argument.
      The Regent was skeptical. Rigiswald could read her lips form the word, 
      "Flummery!" The Inquisitor pressed his point, and Tasgall apparently sided 
      with him, for he nodded whenever the Inquisitor opened his mouth. 
      Outnumbered and outargued, the Regent was forced to back down. She had to 
      figure out how to extract herself from this situation and remove Dagnarus 
      from the room without affronting the barons. She might have saved herself 
      the trouble, for by then it was too late.
      They had forgotten the king.
      Havis III leaned forward, and said loudly, "I heard you state, sir, that 
      you have a rightful claim to the throne. I would be interested to hear the 
      nature of your claim."
      The Regent tried to hush him. "Your Majesty, this is not for you to worry 
      about"
      "I want to hear him," said the king, with a look. "Please, sir, go ahead."
      "Certainly,Your Majesty," said Dagnarus, responding to the child with 
      becoming gravity. "I am Prince Dagnarus, second son to Tamaros, late  
      king of Vinnengael. My elder brother, Helmos, being dead, I am Tamaros's 
      only living heir and the true and rightful King."
      During the ensuing tumult, the Regent shouted at the guards to remove His 
      Majesty to a place of safetyan excuse to get rid of him, of course. The 
      king was in no danger. The raised voices and fierce words were not aimed 
      at him, although the Regent came in for her share of outrage. Some called 
      for the imposter's head, while others called for the Regent's. Some 
      shouted that Dagnarus be allowed to tell his tale, others that he be 
      thrown into the Arven. The king, with the obstinate stubbornness of a 
      child, refused to leave the hall, and the Regent, under the glaring eyes 
      of the barons, could not very well order His Majesty carried out bodily.
      The guards took up position around the throne, stood with weapons drawn. 
      Young Havis looked solemn and subdued, but certainly not afraid. His gaze 
      was fixed on Dagnarus, which was perfectly natural. Dagnarus looked once 
      at the child, as if to assure himself that Havis was safe, then, with calm 
      nonchalance, turned his attention to the assembly and stood at ease, a 
      very slight smile on his lips.
      The disruption in the hall gave Rigiswald a chance to observe closely the 
      Lord of the Void. Rigiswald tried very hard to see some outward signs of 
      the Void at work, some physical indication that this man's life had been 
      extended by means of the foul magic that never gives freely but demands a 
      price.
      Dagnarus's skin was fair and unblemished, his hands callused and scarred, 
      as would be the hands of any warrior, for the calluses were made by the 
      pommel of a sword and the scars were battle scars, not the scars of 
      lesions and pustules. His body was firm, well muscled. He stood straight 
      and tall. He was comely in appearance. Certainly he did not look two 
      hundred years old.
      Rigiswald's view of Dagnarus was from the side, and he was thinking that 
      he would like very much to get a close look into his eyes when Dagnarus 
      turned his head to look at Rigiswald.
      "Would you take my likeness, old gentleman?" Dagnarus asked with a teasing 
      grin, raising his voice to be heard over the uproar.
      "I would," said Rigiswald, "and add it to the painting."
      He gave a nod toward another part of the mural that depicted Hel-mos 
      following his Transfiguration. King Tamaros stood together with Helmos, 
      who wore the shining armor of a Dominion Lord. The faces of both were 
      exalted, happyartistic license, for history recorded that Helmos was made 
      Lord of Sorrows, the only time such a woeful title had been bestowed by 
      the gods on a Dominion Lord. Dagnarus, the second son, was nowhere to be 
      seen.
      Dagnarus flicked a glance in the direction of the mural. He gazed long at 
      the two figures, father and son, forever bound in a moment of shared pride 
      and exultation that forever excluded the younger son, the wild son, the 
      son who had not measured up. Dagnarus looked back, and Rigiswald had his 
      chance. He looked into the eyes.
      He expected to see the nothingness of the Void. Instead he saw the shadow 
      of pain that two hundred years could not ease and the fire of a blazing 
      ambition that two hundred years could not quench. Rigiswald saw in those 
      eyes humanity, and he was sorry, deeply sorry. To see the hollow emptiness 
      of death would have been awful, but far preferable to seeing emotion, 
      intelligence, longingthe fullness and warmth of life.
      "You believe me, then, old gentleman?" Dagnarus asked, with a playful air 
      that was feigned, according to the eyes.
      "I believe you," said Rigiswald, adding bluntly, "to my sorrow."
      Dagnarus did not take offense. He appeared to find the conversation an 
      interesting one and seemed ready to continue, but by then order had been 
      restored in the hall. The Regent was speaking, and Dagnarus turned to give 
      her his full attention.
      "Your claim is ridiculous," stated the Regent. "I should not even dignify 
      it with attempts to refute it, but I will state some of them for the 
      record: The real Dagnarus would be over two hundred years old, the real 
      Dagnarus was most certainly killed in the destruction of the city brought 
      about by himself, the real Dagnarus"
      "Pardon me, Most Revered High Magus," Dagnarus interrupted. "If I could 
      offer proof of my claimirrefutable proofwould that be sufficient?"
      Rigiswald looked from Dagnarus to young Havis, and suddenly he knew their 
      plot, knew it as surely as if they had revealed it to him. He knew it, and 
      he could do nothing to stop it, for no one would believe him.
      The Regent opened her mouth.
      Don't do it, Clovis, Rigiswald mentally warned her. Don't play his game. 
      Ask him for his terms, then refuse him and throw him out on his ear. 
      Better we all die and this city be leveled than that you hand us over to 
      the Void.
      "Let us see your proof, sir," the Regent said, with cold dignity.
      Rigiswald sighed deeply and sat back in his chair, arms folded and his 
      head bowed.
      "I call upon the monk from Dragon Mountain," said Dagnarus.
      The Regent looked startled, but, after a moment's discomfiture, she drew 
      herself up. "I don't see"
      "Please, Regent," said Dagnarus gently. "You asked for proof."
      The monk, whom everyone had forgotten, rose to his feet and tottered 
      forward to stand between his gigantic, silent bodyguards. He made a 
      bobbing bow to the assembly, then regarded Dagnarus with an interested, 
      scholarly air.
      "Reverend sir," said Dagnarus in tones of immeasurable respect, "I am 
      awareas are we allthat the monks of Dragon Mountain do not make history, 
      they observe history."
      The monk bobbed his hairless, tattoo-covered head to indicate that such 
      was true.
      "I ask you, Reverend Monk, to bear witness to an historical fact. Am I in 
      truth what I claim to be? Am I Dagnarus, second son of King Tamaros, born 
      to him and his lawful wife, Queen Emillia, daughter of Olaf, King of 
      Dunkarga, in the year 501?"
      The monk clasped his hands together, made another bobbing bow. "You are 
      that Dagnarus," he said.
      He spoke without emotion, his words clipped and precise. Everyone was 
      stunned by what he'd said, shocked and amazed, but not a single person in 
      that room doubted him.
      "Then there is evil at work here!" proclaimed the Regent, in a strangled 
      voice. "The evil of the Void."
      Too late, Clovis, said Rigiswald to himself, leaning back in his chair and 
      staring up at the ceiling. You opened the barn door, and now the horse is 
      careening merrily down the hill.
      "As to that, Regent," said the monk with yet another bob of his head, "I 
      can make no comment, for I have no information pertaining to that 
subject."
      "All know he was made Lord of the Void," the Regent continued, casting the 
      monk a furious glance, which did not discommode the monk in the least. 
      "Let this Dagnarus deny that, if he will. Let him deny that if he 15 
      Dagnarus, son of Tamaros, his life has been extended by evil means!"
      "I do deny it," stated Dagnarus calmly. "I will tell my story, since you 
      ask it. If His Majesty will hear it." He made humble obeisance to the 
      young king.
      "We will gladly hear your story, sir," said Havis, his childish voice 
      sounding clear and bell-like in the shocked silence.
      "Your Majesty, I most strongly protest" the Regent began.
      "Please relate it to us," Havis went on, refusing even to look at the 
      Regent, much less heed her sputterings. "I ask you all, gentlemen and 
      ladies, to give Prince Dagnarus your full attention."
      That was unnecessary. No one was looking anywhere else. The roof could 
      have sailed off the hall, thought Rigiswald, and no one would have 
noticed.
      "It is true that I was made Lord of the Void," said Dagnarus 
      forth-rightly. "The fault was mine. I sought to cheat the gods, and I was 
      punished for it. For years, the Void twisted my heart and shadowed my 
      thinking, led me to question the wisdom of the gods who had made my elder 
      brother king. I could not bear to see him ascend the throne of my beloved 
      Vinnengael. I was her true kingby courage, by valor, by wit, by 
      everything except the accident of my birth. I sought to remove my brother 
      by force. I attacked the city of my birth and, in my wild rage, brought 
      about its destruction."
      Dagnarus sent a flashing glance around the assembly. "I did not kill my 
      brother, as history reports. Helmos was slain by Gareth, a Void sorcerer 
      who sought to purchase my loyalty by killing the king. I did not wish 
      Helmos's death. I grieved over him and promised the gods that if I were 
      spared, I would make reparation for my fault and be a true king of 
      Vin-nengael. I slew Gareth, but I was too late. The forces of Void magic 
      that he had let loose could not be controlled. They clashed with the magic 
      of the gods and tore out the heart of Vinnengael.
      "I should have died in the ruins of Old Vinnengael, died beside the body 
      of my brother. I wanted to die there beside him, forat that momentI saw 
      the enormity of my crimes. I did not die, however. The gods were not yet 
      finished with me. They reached down their hands and plucked me from that 
      city and cast me into the wilderness. Broken in body and shattered in 
      spirit, I came to know that the gods had not abandoned me, that they 
      believed that I could yet be saved, for I held in my hands the Sovereign 
      Stone.
      "The gods had granted me the power to save the blessed Stone from the 
      destruction of Vinnengael. I held it in my handswet with my murdered 
      brother's bloodand I wept. I begged the gods' forgiveness. I promised I 
      would redeem myself. Then and there I renounced the Void. The gods 
      required tests of my loyalty, however. They took the Sovereign Stone from 
      me and gave it into the hands of a monster that nearly killed me. When I 
      recovered, I found myself in another world, a world of terrible creatures 
      of the Void. A race of savages, the taan were little better than animals 
      when I found them. They would have slain me, but I managedwith the help 
      of the godsto overcome their suspicions and their hatred. I gained their 
      respect and came to be a leader among them.
      "Time lost all meaning for me while I was in the land of the taan. I 
      worked hard to civilize them and train them with one thought in mind to 
      return to my own world and do what I could to make amends. In order to 
      achieve that, I prayed to the gods that they would extend my life.
      The gods granted me my wish, and thus you see me here before you today, 
      the same age as I was when I was exiled from all that I loved.
      "During my years of exile, I saw Vinnengael fall in men's esteem. I saw 
      her held up to derision, saw her despised and ridiculed. I saw the Church 
      grow in power, saw the monarchy become weak and ineffectual, her nobles 
      ground down beneath the heel of the clergy."
      Some low-voiced mutterings of agreement came from the barons.
      "I saw her military dwindle, its numbers decline, morale plummet," 
      Dagnarus continued. "Thus, when Karnu attacked Vinnengaeleans at the city 
      now named Delak 'Vir, the Vinnengaelean army was defeated, forced to 
      retreat in shame. Worse than that, Vinnengael did not act to take back the 
      Portal the Karnuans stole from us.
      "Years go by, and Karnuans walk our soil with impunity. They demand fees 
      from us to use what was once our Portal. They sneer at us and call us 
      cowards. Are the Vinnengaelean soldiers cowards?" He looked directly at 
      several members of the Imperial Cavalry, whose faces were flushed.
      "No!" Dagnarus said, biting off the words. "Vinnengaelean soldiers are the 
      bravest, the best, the most loyal soldiers in the world."
      He was interrupted by shouts of angry agreement.
      Dagnarus raised his voice. "I should know. I led them into battle myself 
      on many occasions. But even the bravest soldiers need training, they need 
      money, they need the best in weaponry and armor. More than that"he 
      paused"they need respect."
      Several of the knights cheered. The soldiers lifted their heads. Their 
      eyes gleamed, their hands clenched into fists. Some nodded emphatically, 
      while others exclaimed "yes!" and nearly all cast dour glances at the 
      Regent and the other Church officials.
      How clever, Rigiswald thought, admiring in spite of himself. How very 
      clever.
      "Yes, I came back to Loerem with an army!" Dagnarus cried. "An army that 
      has conquered Dunkar and brought it low! An army that has taken on Karnu 
      and will soon conquer that proud land." He pointed directly at the 
      knights. "Because of my assault on their homeland, the Karnuans have been 
      forced to pull back many of their troops from Delak Vir. If you attack 
      them now, they cannot withstand your might. You will recapture your Portal 
      and with it regain the respect that is your due."
      Cheers met each of his statements.
      Dagnarus paused again, then said, quietly, "I give you Dunkarga, its 
      wealth, its people. I give you Karnu, its wealth, its people. I give these 
      to Vinnengael as my gift. With these two great nations now under her 
      control, Vinnengael becomes the most powerful nation in Loerem, more 
      powerful than she was under the rule of my father, King Tamaros, the gods 
      assoil him."
      Dagnarus held out his hands, as though he held those countries within 
      them. "Take them. They are yours. All I ask is that you grant me what is 
      mine by right. Make me king. Or rather, emperor. For Vinnengael will 
      become the greatest empire in the history of Loerem."
      No one spoke. No one even seemed to breathe. The Regent blinked at him, 
      dazed. Of all the demands he could have made, she had not expected this 
      one. The Inquisitor's face was impassive, he gave nothing away. Grim and 
      glowering, Tasgall looked often at Rigiswald, trying to meet his eye. 
      Rigiswald refused to answer that mute appeal. Tasgall was too late. This 
      had gone too far.
      Like all successful liars, Dagnarus had cunningly based his falsehoods and 
      half-truths on a few solid facts. He had grown up amid palace intrigue. 
      His Vrykyl must have told him of the growing enmity between the Church and 
      the barons and the military. For too long, the complacency of the Church 
      had beamed like strong sunshine on a frozen, snow-packed mountain of 
      problems. It had taken but a single shout to start the snow to sliding, 
      and now no one could halt the coming avalanche.
      "What about that army of fiends?" the Regent demanded suddenly. "What will 
      you do with them? We heard what happened to Dunkar. We heard how its women 
      were carried off, its children were butchered. Will the same happen to our 
      people? Even if we agree to your terms, which, at the moment, we do not, I 
      do not think it likely that those savages of yours will give up and go 
      back meekly to their homeland."
      Dagnarus was ready with his answer. "Half my forces I will send to Delak 
      'Vir to fight the Karnuans and regain our Portal. The rest, as King of 
      Vinnengael, I will destroy."
      "Will you destroy troops who are loyal to you?"
      The question came from the young king, and he sounded disapproving.
      Rigiswald saw Dagnarus's eyes flicker with a dangerous light. Bowing to 
      the king, to acknowledge his question, Dagnarus replied, "The farmer does 
      not speak of loyalty when he butchers pigs.Your Majesty. The taan are not 
      men. They are animals. They have been well fed, well treated by me. If I 
      demand their lives, it is no more than what they owe me in return."
      Dagnarus turned to the assembly. "I do not require that you give me an 
      immediate answer. I will withdraw for a short time to give you a chance to 
      consider my proposition. When the sun sets, I will return for your answer. 
      Is that satisfactory?"
      "Yes," said some of the barons loudly.
      The Regent exchanged glances with the Inquisitor and with Tasgall. "We 
      need far more time than that," stated the Regent. "I don't see why," said 
      Dagnarus with a charming smile. "You either accept my proposal or refuse 
      it. Until sunset." He made his obeisance and was about to withdraw when 
      Rigiswald, impelled by some inner demon, spoke up, "And what of the 
      Vrykyl, Your Highness?"
      Dagnarus turned, his cloak falling around him in graceful folds. His 
      expression was one of baffled confusion. "I beg your pardon, old 
      gentleman?"
      "The Vrykyl," said Rigiswald. Clasping his hands behind him, he rose to 
      his feet. "Foul and undead creatures of the Void created by the one who 
      wields the Dagger of the Vrykyl. I am certain you must have heard of 
them."
      "From my nursemaid when I was little," said Dagnarus, his lips twitching 
      with suppressed laughter. "I know nothing more of them, I assure you, 
sir."
      "One was slain last night in the city," stated Tasgall. He might have 
      added more, but Dagnarus interrupted him.
      "If that be true, and such evil creatures do walk the earth, then all the 
      more reason Vinnengael needs a strong king to protect her. Until sunset." 
      Dagnarus departed. Such was his majestic demeanor that those who had been 
      guarding him looked to Tasgall to see if they should continue. He gave 
      them a furious glance, and they hastened out after Dagnarus. Rigiswald bet 
      that they would not try to blindfold him this time.
      Havis III, at a stern glance from the Regent, slid off his throne and, 
      taking time to adjust the crown, which had slipped over one eye, stepped 
      with carefully taught dignity off the dais. Halfway across the room, he 
      stopped and faced the assembly.
      "I think he should be king," said Havis.
      The adults glanced at each other, discomfited, embarrassed. Some looked 
      pitying.
      "Your Majesty!" The Regent came bustling over. "You have no idea what you 
      are saying."
      "I do," said Havis. He pointed to the monk from Dragon Mountain. "This man 
      said Dagnarus was the true king. All know the gods hold the monks sacred. 
      He wouldn't lie, would he, Madam?"
      The Regent blanched, nonplussed. "No, Your Majesty," she finally said.
      "I will pray to the gods," said Havis III. "I will ask them for their 
      counsel. But I think I know what I must do, and that is to abdicate"he 
      brought out this hard word after a struggle"in favor of my cousin, Prince 
      Dagnarus."
      He left the room, walking between his guards with the childish dignity 
      that was so becoming and so utterly and heartbreakingly convincing.
      When he was gone, the hubbub of voices rose. The barons took their leave, 
      and with them went the soldiers and knights. The head of the Association 
      of Merchants' Guilds left in haste, jowls quivering, presumably to report 
      back to his fellow merchants. Courtiers and functionaries fluttered about 
      like gaily colored birds, prepared to fly to whatever hand held the food. 
      The Regent gathered the heads of the Orders around her, like so many 
      chickens. They all looked stunned, as though they'd been struck by falling 
      debris. Tasgall started to join them, then changed his mind.
      Rigiswald picked up the book he had been reading. Tucking it under one 
      arm, he walked toward the door.
      "I need to speak to you. Where are you going?" Tasgall demanded.
      "To my dinner," said Rigiswald.
      "But we aren't finished," Tasgall protested.
      "Oh, yes, you are," said Rigiswald. "You just don't know it yet."
      Paying no attention to Tasgall, who called stridently after him, Rigiswald 
      left the palace and walked alone through the sodden, gray streets of New 
      Vinnengael.
       



       16RIGISWALD ATE A CHEERLESS DINNER ALONE. THE HOUR FOR sunset drew near, 
      although one could tell only by a gradual deepening of the grayness. The 
      sun could not be seen for the heavy clouds that dragged curtains of rain 
      over the city.
      Of course, word spread. The barons and knights retired to a tavern to 
      discuss the matter and, although they took a private room, their raised 
      voices could be heard by everyone who crowded inside the tavern in search 
      of news. The head of the Association of Merchants' Guilds summoned his 
      members to an emergency session. They met in the Guild Hallan enormous, 
      imposing building of dark timber and whitewashed walls located at the end 
      of a street known as Guild Hall Row. Horse holders and carriage drivers 
      crowded into the doorway to hear the proceedings, passing on what they 
      heard to the guards who were supposed to be patrolling the streets.
      Rigiswald stood on the steps of the Temple, watching the large crowds 
      beginning to gather in front of the palace. All thought of curfew was 
      abandoned. The city guards, who should have been keeping people off the 
      streets, were among those pressing against the wrought-iron fence that 
      encircled the palace grounds, craning their necks to get a view of the man 
      who claimed to be the long-dead son of long-dead King Tamaros.
      The barons and knights came out of their meeting to find their way back to 
      the palace blocked. The moment the crowd became aware of their presence, 
      they clamored for news. Eventually, finding that they could not enter the 
      palace otherwise, the barons hastily chose one of their number to speak. 
      Someone rolled forth a large dray used by one of the local breweries for 
      hauling kegs. The spokesman climbed into the wagon; the crowd was hushed, 
      attentive.
      The baron began by relating everything that Dagnarus had said. The baron's 
      recounting was accurate, as far as it went. He was sympathetic to 
      Dagnarus, that much was clear, and he soon had the crowd on his side. 
      There were emphatic nods in many places and a rousing cheer when he came 
      to the part "Vinnengaelean soldiers are the bravest, the best, the most 
      loyal soldiers in the world!" for there were many in the crowd who had 
      served in the city militia and who, even now, had friends and relatives 
      standing duty on the walls.
      When he spoke of the young king, his voice softened, and the crowd 
      murmured in sympathy, particularly the women.
      "But as much as we love our young king," the baron proclaimed, "he is 
      youngonly a child. He will not be of age to rule for many years. 
      Meanwhile, we all know who is the true power behind the throne."
      He cast a grim glance at the Temple. The crowd followed his gaze, and a 
      low rumble, like a growl, swept the multitude.
      "Hypocrites," Rigiswald told them from his vantage point in the Temple. 
      "There is not a one of you who has not run bleating to the Church at some 
      time in your life. You want to be healed, you want magic to lift the 
      stones that build your homes, you want to be protected. Yes, we've made 
      mistakes, the gods help us. But you're about to make the biggest mistake 
      of your lives."
      "We support Prince Dagnarus!" cried the baron. The crowd let out a cheer 
      that shook the ground and sent the pigeons flapping skyward in alarm. The 
      barons and knights climbed into the wagon and were escorted by the crowd 
      in a grand procession to the gates. Rigiswald, disgusted, turned on his 
      heel and went back inside the Temple. There he found some of the 
      novitiates and acolytes huddled together in the foyer, listening with wide 
      eyes and shocked expressions.
      "Is it true, Revered Brother?" asked a young woman with a snub nose who 
      wasn't in awe of anyone, let alone an elderly master. "Are they truly 
      siding with the Lord of the Void?"
      "Go back to your studies," Rigiswald advised her. "You will have need of 
      them."
      Outside, he could hear the crowd shouting: "Dagnarus! Dagnarus!" Someone 
      scrounged up a kettledrum, and they began chanting the name to its 
      rhythmic beat, separating the name into three parts with the drum in 
      between.
      "Dag-nar-us!" Boom. "Dag-nar-us." Boom.
      "Well, that should make him feel at home," Rigiswald reflected as he went 
      back to his room in the dortour. "He'll think he's back among his 
savages."
      Once in his room, he slammed shut the door, to block out the noise, and 
      bolted it. The resulting silence was soothing, gave him a chance to think. 
      He pondered what to do. He intended to report to Shadamehr, but should he 
      make his report now or wait until the matter of Dagnarus was final? 
      Rigiswald decided that there was no hurry. The baron was out in the middle 
      of the ocean somewhere, hopefully sailing as fast and as far away from New 
      Vinnengael as possible. As for Dagnarus, his coronation was a given, as 
      far as Rigiswald was concerned. He was curious to know how their new king 
      planned to rid himself of ten thousand slavering monsters thirsting for 
      Vinnengaelean blood though.
      And how would Dagnarus deal with the Church? He couldn't hope to find 
      support there. Or could he?
      "He will," Rigiswald decided, lying down on his bed, worn out by the 
      rigors of the day. "He'll win them over, and those he doesn't he'll 
      remove. If I were you, Clovis, I'd watch my back."
      The thought occurred to Rigiswald, as he was drifting off, that he had 
      better watch his own back. He'd been foolish to mention the Vrykyl. 
      Dagnarus had been none too pleased, and there had been a look in his eye 
      that jolted Rigiswald out of his slumber when he recalled it. He fumbled 
      about his robes, drew out his vial of earth, tossed some beneath the door, 
      and muttered a few words of magic.
      The warding spell would not stop the Lord of the Void, but Dagnarus could 
      hardly be expected to come deal with an annoying old man himself, and it 
      might stop one of his minions. Either that, or give Rigiswald time to 
      defend himself.
      Keeping hold of the vial, Rigiswald rolled over and went to sleep.
      Prince Dagnarus did not leave the palace. He was escorted to a private 
      chamber, where he was furnished with food and wine. Since he dined on the 
      Void, Dagnarus had no need of sustenance, and, in fact, the sight of food 
      sickened him. But he had learned over the years to pretend to eat for the 
      benefit of those watching, learned to force down a few mouthfuls, shoving 
      the food around on his plate, sharing delicacies with his guests. He could 
      drink, and he did drink, often to excess.
      Wine closed the staring, accusing eyes of Gareth and Shakur and all the 
      rest of those he'd murdered. Wine made the foul Vrykyl Valurathe woman he 
      had once loved, the woman he now loathed almost as much as he loathed 
      himselfbeautiful again. Wine gave him the patience to put up with Shakur, 
      kept him from slaying a servant who was rapidly growing to be more trouble 
      than he was worth. Wine gave Dagnarus the ability to stomach the taan, a 
      deadly weapon he himself had forged, a weapon he despised and had recently 
      begun to think might come to be pointed at his own throat.
      Dagnarus did not drink deeply this evening. He needed his wits about him. 
      Looking back over his performance that day, he was pleased with it. He was 
      particularly impressed with his decisionformed in the momentto destroy 
      the taan. Once he was Emperor of Vinnengael, he would have no need for 
      such a large military force. He would send half to retake the Portal at 
      Delak 'Vir, then ship those taan back through the Portal to continue the 
      fight in Karnua fight that was going badly, but one he had not yet lost.
      All was proceeding according to plan. He had won over the barons, the 
      knights, and the military. He had not won over the Church, nor would he 
      ever, but he could deal with that. He had been planning to have his Vrykyl 
      replace certain key peoplethe Regent, for one. But he'd been forced to 
      abandon that idea as too dangerous. The battle magi knew of the Vrykyl; 
      they'd actually managed to slay the inept Jedash. Dagnarus blamed Shakur 
      for that lapse. The battle magi would be on their guard against them and, 
      much as Dagnarus hated the Church, he had a healthy respect for the brains 
      and abilities of her magi.
      "I will dispense with the Regent's services," Dagnarus decided, pouring 
      himself another goblet of the excellent wine that came direct from the 
      royal cellars. "I will make her a nonentity. Too bad she cannot meet with 
      an accident, but that would look suspicious. The key is to win over the 
      battle magi. Once I have them on my side, they will keep the heads of the 
      Orders in check. The most dangerous to me is that blasted Inquisitor, 
      always sniffing about in search of Void magic."
      Dagnarus turned the goblet in his hand, stared into the ruby depths. "I 
      will see to it that his Order is disbanded. That should be easy enough. No 
      one trusts them. I'll wager that most in the Temple will be happy to see 
      them gone. As to the battle magi, they are warriors, and I understand 
      warriors. We understand each other. They will help me destroy the taan 
      and, after that, there will be no question of their loyalty to me."
      That decided, he sent the servants away and spent the remainder of his 
      time pacing the room and thinking. He heard the cheers of the crowd 
      outside, heard them chanting his name, and he smiled. He ignored Shakur, 
      who wanted to speak to him through the Blood-knife. Shakur's impertinent 
      question about the king destroying those loyal to him had angered 
      Dagnarus, and he intended to make his anger felt. Let Shakur stew a bit, 
      reflect on the fact that he hung suspended over the Void by a rope thin as 
      a hair, a rope Dagnarus could sever at whim. Dagnarus shut out Shakur's 
      whinings and pleadings and concentrated on more pleasant prospectshis 
      plans for the future, both long-range and short.
      His long-range plans were very long-range. Dagnarus's ambition did not 
      stop with Vinnengael. The Shield of the Divine was under his control; the 
      elven nation was practically his for the asking. All that was left was 
      finally to subdue Karnu, then go after the orks and the dwarves and, once 
      they were conqueredwhich they would be, when he had control of all four 
      parts of the Sovereign Stonehe would rule over all of Loe-rem. Since his 
      life span was extended every time he used the Dagger of the Vrykyl to 
      steal another's life, Dagnarus planned to rule Loerem for a very long time 
      indeed.
      All he required was the Sovereign Stone. Too long it had eluded him. He 
      saw the gods at work, but that did not daunt him. Dagnarus wanted the 
      Stone, had wanted it for two centuries, and he intended to have it. He'd 
      devised a means of thwarting the gods. Even now his agents were working to 
      bring the Stone into his grasp.
      Prince Dagnarus returned to the Hall of Past Glories at the hour of 
      sunset, which, with the overcast skies, was almost dark as midnight. He 
      was greeted by barons and knights, merchants and the military, who formed 
      a double line through which he walked, welcomed by their applause. The 
      representatives of the Church stood huddled together, off to one side, 
      surrounded by armed guards. The wizened old monk from Dragon Mountain was 
      present, dwarfed by the enormous Omarah. The young king, looking sullen 
      and pouty, sat upon his throne and kicked at the legs with his feet.
      Dagnarus grinned inwardly at the sight. "So, Shakur," he said mentally, 
      his hand clasping the Dagger of the Vrykyl that he wore concealed beneath 
      his flowing cloak, "what has been going on?"
      Shakur sounded aggrieved. "I tried to speak to you earlier, my lord"
      "You are speaking to me now, and we don't have much time." Dagnarus moved 
      slowly along the line, bowing to the left and the right, stopping 
      occasionally to shake someone's hand or receive someone's blessing.
      "There was a frightful row, my lord," Shakur reported. "The barons and the 
      military and the merchants side with you. They have never liked the power 
      the Church has wielded, and they see this as a way to overthrow them. The 
      Regent argued, as you might expect, that you were a liar, a foul creation 
      of the Void, who will drag them all into the Void. She was hooted down 
      and, after much shouting, the barons eventually ordered that the Church 
      officials be forcibly expelled from the palace. It seemed for a moment as 
      if there was going to be a fight, but the battle magus Tas-gall 
      intervened. He said that so long as he breathed, the day would not come 
      when Vinnengaeleans shed the blood of Vinnengaeleans, especially with an 
      enemy at their gates. He asked for time alone with his fellow Church 
      members.
      "They spoke together in private for about an hour; the result was that 
      they agreed to accept you as ruler of Vinnengael, on condition that you 
      fulfill your promise to get rid of the taan who threaten the city. In 
      truth, there was not much else they could do, not without starting a civil 
      war. I am certain they are plotting against you, my lord."
      "Of course they are, Shakur." Dagnarus had very nearly reached the end of 
      the line, was drawing close to the dais.
      "They could be removed . . ."
      "No, Shakur, I intend to use honey on these flies."
      Dagnarus reached the dais. He stood in front of little Havis, who returned 
      his lord's smile with innocent charm and dead, empty eyes.
      "One question, my lord, before we commence this charade," said Shakur. 
      "What is to become of me? I cannot remain a child locked up in this prison 
      forever."
      "I rather like you as a child, Shakur," said Dagnarus playfully. "We could 
      have such fun together, you and Iplay stickball and 
king-of-the-mountain."
      "My lord" Shakur was seething.
      "Come now, Shakur," Dagnarus said, "give us a 'cousinly' kiss."
      Bending his knee, Dagnarus knelt before Havis, who rose from his throne. 
      Walking forward, the king gave Dagnarus a kiss on the cheek.
      The resulting cheers thundered up and down the corridor and could be heard 
      by the waiting populace outside, who joined in lustily, though they had no 
      idea what they were cheering.
      "Well, my lord?" Shakur demanded dourly, as Dagnarus straightened to his 
      full height.
      "Don't worry, Shakur," said Dagnarus. "I will see to it that you are set 
      free. I have need of you elsewhere, in fact." "Very good, my lord," said 
      Shakur.
      Havis reached out his hand, took hold of Dagnarus's hand, and turned so 
      that they faced the multitude. The boy raised his voice.
      "Let it be hereby known by all assembled and let it be proclaimed to the 
      citizens of Vinnengael that I, Havis III, king of Vinnengael, do freely 
      abdicate the throne bequeathed to me by my father, Havis II, in favor of 
      my cousin, Prince Dagnarus, son of King Tamaros, rightful heir to the 
      throne of Vinnengael."
      Havis removed the crown (which was much too large for him and required 
      padding to prevent it sliding down his nose), and handed the crown to 
      Dagnarus with a bow.
      He held the crown for a moment, staring at it, his expression somber and 
      grave. The crown dated back about 180 years, and was modern in make and 
      design. The old, heavy crown of Vinnengael, with its one hundred 
      magnificent star sapphires, each surrounded by diamonds, had been lost in 
      the destruction of the city. Dagnarus had searched for that crown, as well 
      as the jewel-encrusted orb and scepter and other valuable pieces of royal 
      jewelry, on his perilous journey into the ruins, but had not been able to 
      find them. He guessed that Helmos had hidden them away for safekeeping 
      when the city came under attack. Dagnarus intended to find them, but that 
      would come later.
      For the moment, he held in his hand two hundred years of dreams and 
      desires, tears and blood. He looked out into the crowd. He saw the fat 
      barons smiling and exchanging glances and nods. They thought they had him 
      in their pockets. He saw the courtiers prepared to fawn over him as they 
      had fawned over the Regent, ready to shift allegiance whenever the wind 
      changed. He saw the magirebellious, smoldering with anger and probably 
      already plotting his downfall. All would bend their knees and proclaim him 
      king, but they would do it with winks and nudges, or glowering looks, or 
      simpering snickers.
      No! by the gods or by the Void, whoever would accept his vow. He wanted 
      them prostrate before him, all of them crushed and humbled, the arrogance 
      bled out of them, the fight kicked out of them. He wanted them to bathe 
      his feet with grateful tears. He wanted their ungrudging blessings.
      They needed a whipping.
      "I thank you, Your Highness," said Dagnarus. "I accept this crown, but 
      only in trust"
      The people began to murmur. The barons looked uneasy, the magi wary. 
      "until I have proven myself worthy of being your ruler. And that will not 
      happen until I have led the fight to crush the enemy that threatens you."
      Dagnarus walked over to the elderly monk, who was watching with eyes that 
      were bright with curiosity and interest on the surface, dark and 
      inscrutable beneath. He handed the crown to the monk.
      "I ask you hold this for me, Keeper of Times, until the day has come when 
      I am victorious over my enemies, have ground them to dust beneath my 
feet."
      Those in the room thought he was speaking of the taan. What the monk 
      thought or knew was anyone's guess.
      The monk gave a nod, and said something to the Omarah, in what was 
      presumably their own language. The Omarah grunted. One reached out and 
      took hold of the crown. Engulfing the precious object in a huge and 
      none-too-clean hand, he thrust it unceremoniously beneath his sheepskin 
      vest, then resumed his protective stance. His impassive expression did not 
      alter. He might have been harboring a plucked chicken, not the symbol of 
      the most powerful kingdom on Loerem.
      Behind Dagnarus, the hall was abuzz, few knowing what to make of his 
      action, everyone speculating eagerly with his or her neighbor.
      Dagnarus ignored them. He looked across the room to the mural, to the 
      painting of his father, Tamaros, standing proudly next to Helmos.
      Dagnarus looked long at his father, long at Helmos, the child beloved.
      Not anymore.
      Dagnarus beckoned to a courtier.
      "Send for the artist who painted that mural."
      "At once, Your Majesty," replied the man, with an elaborate bow. "If I 
      could perhaps give him some hint of the nature of Your Majesty's wishes"
      Dagnarus smiled. "He is to plaster over that picture and paint my portrait 
      in its place."
       



       17THE BARONS AND THEIR COHORTS WERE UNDERSTANDABLY EAGER to hear how 
      Dagnarus planned to defeat the taan army. During the day, the enemy army 
      was swallowed by the gloom, and there were some who hoped that they might 
      all march off. When night fell, their campfires could once more be seen as 
      orange smudges in the murk. Dagnarus assured the Vinnengaeleans that he 
      had a plan. He intended to put it into effect the very next day.
      His first order as king was that a lavish banquet be prepared that night 
      in his honor, with plenty of food and drink, and that all present were to 
      be invited. He included the monk in his invitation. The monk politely 
      declined. Dagnarus asked if the monk found his chambers in the palace 
      suitable. The monk replied that he did, and he and his Omarah went off to 
      them. Dagnarus reveled in the knowledge that what he had done that day 
      would be recorded on the old monk's wrinkled skin, then he returned to 
      business.
      The heads of the Orders declined his generous offer to join him at the 
      banquet. The Regent asked coldly if they might be allowed to return to 
      their duties in the Temple, and Dagnarus permitted them to do so. The 
      barons growled at that, said loudly that the churchmen should be kept 
      under guard, perhaps even arrested. Dagnarus turned to them.
      "Gentlemen," he said, his tone severe, "I take offense at that kind of 
      talk, which is an insult to the cloth. You will show the same respect for 
      the Church that you show to me."
      The barons looked startled, some even sullen, at this rebuke.
      "Come now, gentlemen," Dagnarus added, his smile returning, "we have much 
      to rejoice about. Proceed to the banquet hall. I will join you there 
      shortly and we will drink to my coronation and the discomfiture of our 
      enemies."
      The barons departed, sounding the new king's praises. The room emptied, 
      until only the Church members remained.
      "I know that you do not trust me, Revered Sister," Dagnarus said to the 
      Regent, "and that is understandable. But I hope that in time we can become 
      friends. I assure you that I have the utmost respect and veneration for 
      the gods, who have so greatly blessed me."
      The Regent, gray-faced and ill-looking, made no reply. Bowing stiffly, she 
      asked, "Do I have your leave to depart, Your Majesty?"
      "You do not need my leave, Regent," said Dagnarus gently. "You and any 
      other member of the Church are welcome in the palace at any time. You may 
      come and go freely."
      "Thank you, Your Majesty," she said, and stalked out of the hall. The 
      others, bowing, followed after her. "Battle Magus," Dagnarus called. 
      Tasgall, grim and wary, glanced around.
      "I would speak with you concerning my plan for dealing with the taan." The 
      battle magus returned and came over to stand before the throne. Tasgall 
      faced Dagnarus, looked him straight in the eyes. He said nothing, waited 
      expectantly.
      Dagnarus dismissed the servants. When he and Tasgall were alone, Dagnarus 
      stepped down from the throne.
      "Come take a turn about the room with me, Revered Sir," Dagnarus said. "I 
      find it easier to think on my feet."
      The battle magus fell into step beside him.
      "What is your name, sir?" Dagnarus asked. "Forgive me. I know we were 
      introduced, but I have no head for names." "Tasgall, Your Majesty." 
      "Surname?"
      "Fotheringall, sire. My family comes from a small village in the foothills 
      of the Ork Mountains."
      "There is a pass through those mountains, as I recall. Do the orks ever 
      come through that pass?" Dagnarus asked, with evident interest.
      "The occasional raiding party, Your Majesty," Tasgall replied. "Nothing 
      more."
      "I understand that the orks have threatened to go to war against us, 
      because of what they believe is our complicity in the matter of the 
      Kar-nuan seizure of their holy mountain. It occurs to me that they might 
      come through the pass in force. Do we need a garrison there?"
      Tasgall did answer immediately, but gave the matter thought.
      "I do not think I would waste the manpower, Your Majesty," he said at 
      last. "The orks have little stomach for ground warfare. That much is 
      apparent from the fact that they have not yet tried to retake their 
      mountain."
      "I knew it was so in the old days," said Dagnarus. "I did not know if 
      their customs and habits had changed in the intervening time. I plan to 
      turn to you, Tasgall, for advice and information of this sort. I trust I 
      will be able to rely on you?"
      "I am glad that I will be able to be of service to Your Majesty. It's good 
      that finally someone is"Tasgall paused, shut his mouth.
      "Good that finally someone is taking an interest in military affairs? No, 
      you do not need to answer that. I understand."
      "Now about the taan, Your Majesty . . ."Tasgall hinted.
      "Always one to get down to business, aren't you, Tasgall? I like that in a 
      man. I have a plan for dealing with the taan. To pull it off, I require 
      the help of your battle magiall of them, as many as you can assemble 
      within twenty-four hours. It is essential that they be familiar with Void 
      magic, that they know how to recognize it and counter it. I will meet with 
      them tomorrow, to explain my plan. You will bring them to me here at the 
      palace when the sun is at its zenith."
      Tasgall, who had slowed his pace during their conversation, finally came 
      to a halt. He regarded his new monarch in speculative silence.
      "I know," said Dagnarus. He had continued walking, and now he rounded to 
      look back at the battle magus. "I know what you are thinking. That this 
      would be a fine way for me to dispose of some highly dangerous individuals 
      who have no reason to love me."
      Tasgall made no reply, continued to stare intently at his new ruler.
      "I am not a good man," Dagnarus admitted. "I have done terrible things in 
      my life. Things I bitterly regret. I could offer as my excuse that I was 
      young and heedless, and that would be the truth. I could say that I was 
      ambitious and fond of power, and that would be the truth."
      He shrugged. His smile twisted, his eyes darkened. "I could say that the 
      gods have punished me, that I have suffered in consequence of my acts, and 
      that would also be the truth. But know this, sir."
      Dagnarus lifted his gaze, opened his eyes, so that Tasgall could see deep 
      inside him, see the darkness and the tiny spark of light.
      "I did what I did for one reason, Tasgall. In all the evil acts I 
      committed, I was motivated by one desire that was pure and untarnished, 
      one desire that has guided everything I have done since the time I was old 
      enough to understand myself. To be the King of Vinnengael, to guide her to 
      greatness and glory, to place her in a preeminent position in this world, 
      to see her rule unchallenged over all other nations, that is and has 
      always been my dearest wish. I swear to you, Tasgall, that all I have done 
      and all I will do is for Vinnengael.
      "Tasgall," said Dagnarus earnestly. "I know you believe that I am king 
      because I held a knife to your throat. I know that you do not trust me. I 
      plan to earn that trust, but that will take time. Time we don't have. I 
      say only thisif I truly meant harm to Vinnengael, I would have used that 
      knife. I would have unleashed ten thousand taan upon her. The taan are 
      fierce and terrible warriors, whose greatest hope in life is to meet death 
      gloriously in battle. They would have taken New Vinnengael. You did not 
      stand a chance. I did not do that. I ask you, therefore, to give me the 
      opportunity to prove myself by saving the city and the nation that I 
love."
      Tasgall was moved. Dagnarus could see it. He pressed home his advantage.
      "I will make you this promise, Tasgall. I give my life into your hands. If 
      a single Vinnengaelean dies because of my treachery, you will slay me."
      Tasgall shook his head. "Your life already spans two hundred years"
      "By the will of the gods! Yet, I am mortal!" Dagnarus said eagerly. "Give 
      me your sword."
      Never taking his eyes from Dagnarus, Tasgall removed his sword from its 
      sheath and handed it, pommel first, to his king.
      Holding the hilt in his right hand, Dagnarus wrapped the left hand around 
      the naked blade, clasped it tightly, and then slowly and deliberately slid 
      his hand along the razor-sharp edge.
      "Your Majesty!" Tasgall gasped. He took an instinctive step forward, hand 
      reached out to stop him.
      "Stand back!" Dagnarus ordered. He winced slightly at the pain, but that 
      was all. Letting loose the sword, he opened his palm.
      Blood smeared the steel blade. Blood, red and gleaming, filled his cupped 
      hand and dripped from his hand onto the floor of the Hall of Past Glories.
      "You see, I am mortal," Dagnarus said.
      Tasgall stared at the blood on his king's wounded hand, on the blood that 
      continued to drip onto the floor.
      "The battle magi will be assembled and ready for you to command by 
      morning, sire."
      "Excellent," said Dagnarus. Using the sword, he carelessly sliced a long 
      strip of cloth from his cloak and bound it over the wound.
      "I could heal that for Your Majesty," said Tasgall.
      "Come now, sir," said Dagnarus, smiling, "what would be the point of this 
      exhibition if I permitted you to heal me? No. The wound will be a constant 
      reminder to us both of my promise to you."
      Dagnarus wiped the blade clean of blood with the tail of his maltreated 
      cape, then returned the sword, with a flourish, to Tasgall, who received 
      it solemnly and thrust it back into its sheath.
      Certain of Tasgall's admiration, if not yet his complete trust, Dagnarus 
      proceeded to explain his plan for the annihilation of the taan army. As 
      Tasgall listened, he became more and more intrigued. Forgetful of time, 
      they remained talking in the Hall of Past Glories until one of the barons 
      came to carry Dagnarus off to feasting and celebration.



      As for the taan, instead of the battle they had been promised, they 
      watched their god, Dagnarus, Lord of the Void, ride alone into the city 
      they had come all this way to attack. The taan knew of this strange custom 
      of the derrhuth, that they must talk before a battle, "to try to prevent 
      bloodshed," or so their god had told them, but they did not understand it.
      Since taan live to shed their blood in battle, they saw no need to waste 
      time bandying words. The fact that these derrhuth would do anything to 
      avoid a fight further convinced the taanwho needed little convincingof 
      the inherent weakness of the species. The taan returned to their campfires 
      and their topaxi and their stories of brave warriors. The topaxi was 
      stronger than usual, and the celebration grew rowdy. Needing a vent for 
      the aggression, the taan started to take it out on each other. The fights 
      were not good-natured. They were brutal and ugly and more than one nizam 
      had to wade in to break them up.
      Nb'arsk stalked about the camp, watching the morale of her people dip 
      lower and lower, and she could not imagine what Dagnarus was up to. This 
      was not the first time he had showed that he had no real understanding of 
      the taan, for all he claimed to be their god.
      The other derrhuth in the campthe human mercenaries, who served 
      Dagnaruswere not bothered by this lack of action. The humans spoke 
      laughingly of sieges that lasted months, even years, during which time 
      enemy armies did nothing but take an occasional potshot at one another 
      from over the walls. Nb'arsk had thought at first they were telling her 
      falsehoods that were meant to be funny-joking was another mysterious 
      aspect of the derrhuthbut she at last became convinced that they spoke 
      the truth. Derrhuth really did fight that way.
      Nb'arsk watched the humans laughing and cursing over their games of 
      chance, watched them roll about in the bushes with some of their females, 
      or lie on the ground, wrapped in their blankets, snoring. She watched them 
      with loathing, despised them for cowards. She wondered that her god could 
      stomach being around them, and, not for the first time, Nb'arsk wondered 
      about her god.
      Dagnarus fought like a god of the taan, he had the courage of a taan, the 
      ferocity of a taan, the cunning of a taan. For all this, Nb'arsk revered 
      him. Yet, there was a mystery about him she could never understand. When 
      he was not wearing the miraculous black armor that marked him as Lord of 
      the Void, Dagnarus the god chose to walk about in the skin of a derrhuth.
      Now he had gone off to the city of derrhuthsa fat city, he said, with 
      stores of steel armor and steel weapons, with treasure chests filled with 
      the gemstones the taan first enchant with Void magic, then place beneath 
      their hides, and with many derrhuth to be taken into slavery and used for 
      food. All that, their god had promised them. Better, though, he had 
      promised them war against a well-armed foe, the chance for the young 
      warriors to prove themselves and advance in rank, and for the older 
      warriors to achieve glory.
      Three times the sun had risen on this city and three times it had set, and 
      there was no talk of battle. There was just talk.
      Nb'arsk was a kyl-sarnz, a Vrykyl. Three taan had been "god-touched," as 
      the taan knew ittransformed into Vrykyl. The eldest of these, K'let, an 
      albino taan, had been among the first taan to meet Dagnarus when he 
      entered their world. Dagnarus had slain K'let with the Dagger of the 
      Vrykyl, transformed him into the undead, soul-stealing fiends of the Void.
      The Vrykyl are bound to Dagnarus through the Dagger, forced to do his will 
      or face banishment into the emptiness of the Void. All Vrykyl were 
      constrained to obey Dagnarus, but not K'let. When Dagnarus sought to exert 
      his control over K'let, the Vrykyl defied him. K'let saw then, as Nb'arsk 
      was beginning to see now, that Dagnarus had no care for the taan, but was 
      merely using them for his own ends.
      K'let broke with Dagnarusthe first and only Vrykyl ever to do so. K'let 
      left Dagnarus's army, taking with him taan loyal to him. K'let's goal was 
      to prove to the taan that Dagnarus was not a god, that he was nothing but 
      a derrhuth playing at being a god.
      Nb'arsk knew because she was in touch with K'let through the 
      Blood-knifesomething Dagnarus did not know.
      Nb'arsk did not believe K'let. She was pleased and honored to be among the 
      "god-touched," and was proud to serve Dagnarus. Nb'arsk should have told 
      Dagnarus that she was in contact with K'let. Yet she did not. She did not 
      speak to K'let either, but kept her misgivings to herself.
      Her misgivings had grown during their march through the land of the 
      gdsrthe elves, a race of derrhuth so weak and spindly that they did not 
      even make good slaves. The cities of the gdsr were fat and filled with 
      jewels and steel, and the taan looked forward to conquering them. Dagnarus 
      forbade it. The taan swept through the lands of the gdsr by means of a 
      magical hole-in-the-air. They fought one battle, and that was over one of 
      these holes.
      No cities, no slaves, no armor, no jewels. Only talk. The gdsr, Dagnarus 
      announced, were going to surrender to him. He would be their ruler and, 
      because of that, he wanted their cities left intact, their people 
      unmolested.
      After that, the taan had marched into the land of the xkes, the humans, 
      and it was then that Nb'arsk contacted K'let. She did not agree with all 
      his viewsin her mind, Dagnarus was still her godbut her doubts were 
      beginning to grow.
      Dagnarus did not return to his armies that night. Nb'arsk had no fear that 
      something might have happened to himhe was a god, after all. When she 
      heard shouts and cries coming from the city, she was pleased. She expected 
      that any moment the taan would be summoned to battle. The taan hastily 
      caught up their weapons and waited for the call. The call did not come.
      Nb'arsk rounded up one of the half-taan, a miserable race, yet one that 
      was useful, for they could speak the language of both the taan and the 
      xkes. Commanding the cringing half-taan to accompany her, Nb'arsk entered 
      the camp of the mercenaries and searched for their leader, a human named 
      Klendist. Klendist had taken command of the army, following the execution 
      of the former mercenary leader, Gurske, following the ill-fated battle of 
      the elven Portal.
      "What is going on?" Nb'arsk demanded through the translator. She pointed 
      toward the walled city. "What is the meaning of all that noise? Has our 
      god started the killing without us?"
      "Hardly!" Klendist began to laugh, then clamped his mouth shut. He was not 
      afraid of the Vrykyl, as were most of the other humans. But he didn't like 
      her, didn't like being around her. "That's cheering you hear. I don't know 
      what's going on, but it must be good. Likely the city has surrendered."
      The half-taan translated as best she could, for the taan have no word for 
      "surrender." Nb'arsk had come to understand it, however.
      Nb'arsk glared balefully at the city, which smelled so strongly and 
      sweetly of human flesh. "So again we are not to fight."
      "Who knows?" Klendist said, shrugging. "His Lordship will tell us, one way 
      or the other."
      "I don't like this," Nb'arsk growled.
      "It is not your place to like it, Vrykyl," Klendist returned. "You will do 
      what your god tells you."
      The half-taan sank to his knees before translating Klendist's words, 
      begging that the Vrykyl would not think they were his own words. Nb'arsk 
      knew well enough that they were not.
      She turned on her heel, about to depart, when a sudden thought struck her.
      "Dagnarus is not your god, is he?"
      Klendist was first startled by her question, then amused.
      "No," he answered shortly.
      "Who is your god?"
      "I don't believe in gods," Klendist returned. "A man does for himself in 
      this life."
      Nb'arsk considered this. "None of you xkes believe Dagnarus is a god. Why 
      is that? He is as powerful as a god."
      "I guess because he was born human," Klendist said. "Whatever may have 
      happened to him after that, he started out the same as us. Likely his old 
      man walloped him on his backside, same as my old man did me. So, no, I 
      don't consider him a god."
      The human walked off, shaking his head at the stupidity of the "savages."
      Nb'arsk stared after him. She had wondered about the humans' impiety 
      before now, but she had always put it down to the fact that they were an 
      impious race. They held nothing sacred, unless it be their physical 
      pleasures. She was often angered by their lack of reverence around 
      Dagnarus; but now that she looked back, she saw that he did nothing to 
      encourage reverence for himself among the xkes. Not as he did among the 
      taan.
      "What if K'let is right?" she muttered, chilled. "What if he is not a god? 
      What does that mean for us?"
      Nb'arsk walked among the taan, who slept soundly, after their revels. She 
      pondered such questions all the rest of the night.
      She had her answer in the morning.
      Dagnarus returned to his forces as the sun's light illuminated the eastern 
      sky. Darkness still lay upon the land; the taan warriors slept. The taan 
      taskers were up and about, preparing the meal that would break their fast. 
      Cloaked in the Void, Dagnarus emerged from the mists rising off the river, 
      seemed to materialize right in front of Nb'arsk.
      She was startled and impressed and uncomfortable. He seemed godlike, 
      shredding the mists that clung to him with ghostly hands. The black armor 
      of the Void gleamed in the predawn gray light. Catching sight of Nb'arsk, 
      he motioned her to walk with him.
      She could not tell what he was thinking, for she could not see his face. 
      He wore the bestial helm of the Lord of the Void, kept his face concealed. 
      The faces of the derrhuth were weak faces, soft and pliable, revealing 
      every emotion, every thought. Dagnarus always wore the helm 'when he spoke 
      to the taan, well aware that when he came before them in his human form, 
      he lost something.
      He turned the bestial metal face toward Nb'arsk. She saw dark eyes and 
      inner fire, and for a moment she cowered, for she feared that he might 
      have seen her rebellious thoughts. She very nearly sank to her knees, to 
      beg him to forgive her, but then he spoke, and his demeanor was brisk, 
      businesslike. They communicated through the Dagger of the Vrykyl, thought 
      to thought, thus sparing the need for a translator.
      "I have orders for you, Nb'arsk. You will take five thousand taan and 
      march south to a city known as Delak 'Vir. I will send one of the taan 
      sages to you with maps. You will attack and seize the city and the Portal 
      that is there. Once you have conquered the city and slain or enslaved all 
      the inhabitants, you will leave one thousand taan to guard the city. The 
      rest of you will enter the hole-in-the-air. The Portal will take you to 
      the land of Karnu, where you meet up with the other taan Vrykyl, L'nskt, 
      and you will reinforce those taan already fighting there."
      Nb'arsk was pleased and relieved. No derrhuth-talk of negotiating or 
      surrender. This was talk a taan could understand: seize, conquer, slay, 
      enslave.
      "You will leave at once," Dagnarus continued. "Rouse the taan and get them 
      started. I want the army on the road by first light."
      The taan were always prepared to pick up camp and move, so a swift 
      departure did not present a problem. But why were they splitting forces? 
      What were the remainder of the taan going to be doing?
      "Tomorrow at first light, we enter New Vinnengael," he replied.
      "Enter, Ko-kutryx?" Nb'arsk asked, displeased. "Not attack?"
      "There is no need to attack," he returned. "The city has surrendered to 
      me. The people have made me their god."
      "I am pleased for you, Ko-kutryx," said Nb'arsk. "But for the taan this 
      means no slaves. No gemstones, no armor."
      "On the contrary," said Dagnarus. "These city people are an arrogant 
      people. They need to be humbled in both spirit and body. They need to 
      understand that / am their god and that my word is law. I plan to use the 
      taan to teach them what it means to respect my authority."
      Nb'arsk was skeptical. "How will this come about, Ko-kutryx? How will we 
      gain entry to the city without battle?"
      "The city people think, in their arrogance, that they are preparing a trap 
      for the taan, a trap into which the taan will walk blindly because the 
      taan are ignorant beasts."
      Dagnarus laughed at this, as did Nb'arsk.
      "In reality, of course," he continued, "it is the taan who will be setting 
      the trap for the humansa trap I will spring once the taan are inside the 
      city."
      "I would like to be a part of that trap, Ko-kutryx," stated Nb'arsk 
      eagerly. "So will all the taan." She made a dismissive gesture. "We will 
      conquer this hole-in-the-air another day."
      "I gave you an order, Nb'arsk," said Dagnarus. "I am not accustomed to 
      having my orders questioned. You will march at first light, as I have 
      commanded."
      "Yes, Ko-kutryx," Nb'arsk replied, chastened. "I did not mean to question 
      you."
      "I will not be here to see you leave, for I must return to the city. 
      Remember, you must be on the road with first light. Glory in battle, 
      Nb'arsk."
      "Glory in battle, Ko-kutryx."
      Nb'arsk roused the taan and gave the order to march. The taan worked 
      swiftly to dismantle their camps, and in less time than it would have 
      taken the humans to have crawled, bleary-eyed, out of their tents, the 
      taan were packed up and ready to go. The prospect of more slaves, more 
      armor, and a grand battle lay before them. Their spirits high, the taan 
      cheered Nb'arsk as she took her place at the head of the column and gave 
      the order to move out.
      Glancing back at the city, Nb'arsk was sorry and ashamed of her previous 
      feelings of doubt and disloyalty. The taan Vrykyl and half the taan army 
      headed south for Delak 'Vir.
       



       18ONE OF THE FIRST LESSONS GIVEN A MAGUS IS A LESSON IN SLEEP.
      Since the ability to sleep is inherent in all living creatures, the notion 
      that one must be taught to sleep seems ludicrous to those who do not have 
      to rely on the use of magic for either their lives or their livelihood. 
      Magic is termed a "gift" of the gods, and so it isa power akin to that of 
      the gods given to mankind for his use. But the term "gift" does not imply, 
      as some laymen mistakenly believe, that magic may be used without cost.
      Wielding magic is hard work, drains the strength of the magic-user. The 
      only means of renewing that strength is through sleep; deep, peaceful, 
      restful, uninterrupted sleep. Thus, all magi must know how to leave behind 
      them all worldly thoughts and cares and find strength and renewal in 
sleep.
      Battle magi, in particular, must learn to find peace and relaxation under 
      circumstances that are far from peaceful or relaxing. Thus Tasgall was 
      able to banish all his mental turmoil, his worries, anxieties, fears, and 
      doubts with a few moments of silent prayer. He slept well and deeply, woke 
      with the dawn feeling refreshed, to find that his worries, anxieties, 
      fears, and doubts were exactly where he had left them the night before.
      The bell that woke the inhabitants of the Temple and sent them about their 
      daily chores had barely rung before the knocking started on Tasgall's 
      door. He was summoned to meet with the Regent. He was summoned to meet 
      with the Inquisitor. He was summoned to meet with both the Regent and the 
      Inquisitor.
      He sent back word that he would meet with the heads of the Orders, that 
      the meeting would be brief, and that he would do all the talking.
      They didn't like that, of course. He'd known they wouldn't, but he could 
      not afford to spend the time required for them to hear his plan, discuss 
      it and debate it, view it from all sides, turn it inside out, then try to 
      decide whether and how to proceed with it.
      He planned to talk privately to only one person that morning, and that 
      person was Rigiswald. Tasgall sought out his old teacher in the library.
      Entering, he searched among the tables and their silent readers doggedly 
      pursuing their studies even in the midst of turmoil and war, to find 
      Rigiswald seated near a stone-light. Tasgall rested his hand upon the 
      magus's shoulder.
      Rigiswald glanced up. Seeing who it was, he immediately closed his book 
      and accompanied Tasgall to the room where they had talked earlier.
      "I do not have much time,"Tasgall said. He did not sit down, and neither 
      did Rigiswald. "I have to meet with the heads of the Orders in a few 
      moments to explain the course of action we are going to take tomorrow 
      against the taan. The heads are not going to like it," he added grimly. "I 
      don't like it. And yet, this course is our only way to live through this, 
      that I can see."
      "What do you want of me?" Rigiswald asked.
      "You know this man, Dagnarus."
      "I wouldn't say that," Rigiswald replied.
      "You have studied him"
      "As best one can. I have studied what has been written of him, but he is, 
      as are we all, a very complex individual."
      Tasgall brushed all that aside with an impatient gesture. He then 
      proceeded to outline Dagnarus's plan for dealing with the taan. When he 
      had finished, he looked intently at Rigiswald.
      "Well?" Tasgall demanded.
      "Well, what?" Rigiswald returned irascibly, unwilling to be drawn into 
      that matter. "You have obviously made up your mind to go along with him, 
      Tasgall. I don't understand what you seek of me. My approval?"
      "No," said Tasgall. "From what you know of him, is this a trap"
      "Certainly it is a trap."
      "But a trap for whom?" Tasgall asked tensely. "For the taan? Or for us?"
      Rigiswald was silent, thoughtful, then he asked, "Do you now believe that 
      the young king is one of Dagnarus's Vrykyl?"
      "I don't know what to believe,"Tasgall returned impatiently. "At one point 
      yesterday, yes, maybe I did. But now I'm not sure, and, anyway, does it 
      really matter? The young king is no longer king."
      Rigiswald could have said that it mattered a great deal, but, of course, 
      it didn't. Not to Tasgall, who held the lives of thousands in his hands. 
      Rigiswald sighed deeply.
      "Dagnarus pledged his faith with his life," Tasgall argued, seeming to try 
      to convince himself as much as Rigiswald. "He has given himself as 
      hostage. We are to slay him if he betrays us."
      "If he is the wielder of the Dagger of the Vrykyl, he has as many lives as 
      there are Vrykyl in this world, for everyone of them bequeaths a life to 
      Dagnarus when he dies. You might have to kill him forty times over in 
      order to truly slay him," Rigiswald said dryly.
      "He is mortal!" Tasgall stated. "He cut himself. The red blood flowed."
      "And did he permit you to heal his wound?"
      "No. He said . . ."Tasgall paused.
      "Of course, he didn't. He didn't let you heal him because you couldn't. 
      Dagnarus is the Lord of the Void, and, as such, he is tainted with Void. 
      All the Earth magic in the world could not have healed him. If it is any 
      comfort to you, Tasgall, I myself found Dagnarus to be quite charming, 
      engaging, even sympathetic. We both know what he is, yet we both feel 
      drawn to him. He is like one of the bitter potions the healers must mix 
      with honey so that patients will swallow it. Except that he is poison."
      "And is this honey-coated poison meant for us?" Tasgall asked. He looked 
      worn, suddenly, weary.
      Rigiswald hesitated. "It is not so much the lies that trouble me, as it is 
      the multitude of truths."
      Tasgall snorted, exasperated.
      "I believe Dagnarus when he claims that this trap is a trap for the taan," 
      Rigiswald said. "I believe him when he says that he will not turn against 
      us and hand us over to those monsters. From my studies on Dagnarus and 
      from what I saw of him yesterday, his dearest wish in this life is to be 
      what his father wasthe beloved and honored ruler of Vinnengael. He won't 
      accomplish that by betraying us to the taan."
      "That is how I read him," said Tasgall. "But I have one more question for 
      you: Why have the taan entered New Vinnengael at all? He promised to send 
      away half his force and, from reports I received this morning, he has done 
      so. Five thousand taan marched off to the south at first light. Why not 
      just send them all away?"
      "He wants us to view the taan in action. He wants us to see how vicious 
      they are, how well they can fight. Yes, we may defeat them now, but the 
      battle won't be easy. He wants us to know that at any time he chooses, he 
      can unleash this vicious dog and send it leaping for our throats."
      "That was my take, as well," said Tasgall. "I will have to cram it down 
      the throats of the heads of the Orders. Thank you for discussing the 
      problem with me. I needed to be sure that I have made the right decision."
      "I am not certain that you have, Tasgall. I think we'd all be better off 
      in a taan stewpot. But then, you don't have much choice."
      "You say yourself that he has the good of Vinnengael at heart. It might 
      not be such a bad thing to have a strong monarch for a change," Tasgall 
      returned testily. "One who is determined to raise Vinnengael in the 
      world's regard and restore her to her former place of glory."
      "On top of a charnel heap?" said Rigiswald.
      Tasgall eyed the elder magus. "As you say, sir, I don't have much choice."
      He left Rigiswald, glad for his advice, yet sorry he'd asked. Tasgall was 
      put in mind of his dreams. Not the substance, for that continued to elude 
      him, but the spirit that left him with a disquieting sense of defeat, 
      loss, and impending doom.



      The council meeting went as he'd expected. Tasgall presented Dagnarus's 
      proposal, stated that he was in favor of it, and then stepped back to wait 
      for the breaking storm. The others were convinced that Dagnarus meant to 
      destroy them, that by opening the gates to the taan they might I as well 
      be opening the gates to their own doom. Tasgall stood fixed and immovable 
      in the midst of the howling winds that raged at him, ignoring the 
      aspersions and recriminations that buffeted him, answering their arguments 
      by restating his position over and over. He won by being the last man 
      still standing. Over and over he asked if anyone had a better plan and, 
      finally, they were forced to admit that none of them did.
      By the end of the meeting, the Regent was suffering from heart 
      palpitations and had to be assisted from the room. She was taken 
      immediately to the House of the Hospitalers. Tasgall permitted the others 
      to depart only after he'd received their sworn promises that each would 
      assist him or at least not get in his way. The head of the Order of 
      Hospitalers had the most to do, for the Houses of Healing would have to be 
      made ready to receive large numbers of casualties.
      The one upshot of the meeting that Tasgall found most disconcerting was 
      the fact that the Inquisitor came out on Tasgall's side. Tasgall had never 
      liked the Inquisitor, not even when they were in school together. Tasgall 
      guessed that the only reason the Inquisitor was siding with him now was so 
      that the man would have the opportunity of insinuating himself into his 
      meetings with Dagnarus. Tasgall had seen the Inquisitor and the Regent 
      whispering together. He had no doubt that he was now suspect.
      Fine. Let them suspect him of being drawn into the Void. Upon becoming a 
      battle magus, he had sworn an oath to the gods to defend Vin-nengael and 
      its people with his life. He would do as he had vowed, though he made 
      enemies of his fellows.
      Though his very heart misgave him.



      Tasgall brought his battle magi to the palace at the appointed hour. There 
      were fifty in all, a number that included some of the most powerful magi 
      then living. All were highly trained, highly skilled. Most were veterans, 
      having fought the Karnuans at Delak 'Vir and the dwarves on numerous 
      occasions, for the dwarves constantly raided Vinnengaelean territory. Most 
      wielded both Earth and Fire magic, which was the preferred weapon of 
      battle magi because of its extremely destructive nature.
      Tasgall was proud of his people. His men and women met Dagnarus with cool 
      detachment and a professional demeanor. They had a job to do, and, 
      whatever their thoughts and feelings about Dagnarus and this sudden shift 
      in power, they kept those thoughts to themselves. As Tasgall had foreseen, 
      the Inquisitor asked politely to be permitted to sit in on the meeting. 
      The asking was a formality. Tasgall could not deny him. His only hope was 
      that the Inquisitor had enough care for the people of New Vin-nengael not 
      to do anything that might put them in danger. Knowing the Inquisitor's 
      fanatic adherence to duty, his hope was a faint one.
      Dagnarus was in an excellent humor and why not? He had achieved his 
      dearest wish, at long last. He came to greet the magi all personally. He 
      insisted on shaking hands with each and every one of them, asked their 
      names, then escorted them to the meeting room himself. All this he did 
      with a regal air, remaining friendly, but keeping his distance, managing 
      to be at once both king and comrade.
      Tasgall could see his magi warming to the man, and he could not blame 
      them. He had to work very hard not to fall under Dagnarus's spella spell 
      that had nothing to do with magic.
      Dagnarus led them to a meeting room furnished with a round table on which 
      was spread a detailed map of the city. The magi stared at the map in 
      amazement, for none had ever seen anything like it.
      "I had a team of mapmakers work on it all night," said Dagnarus. "I knew 
      we would need it, you see. Pure folly to go into battle not knowing the 
      terrain. Is it accurate? Can any of you find fault with it?"
      He appeared anxious for the commendation and was pleased as a child by 
      their praise.
      "Thank you. Or rather, thank your mapmakers. Excellent fellows, every one 
      of them. I sent them home with a bag of silver tarns each. Now"Dagnarus 
      rubbed his hands"down to business." He leaned over the map. "The taan 
      will enter here"
      Dagnarus continued talking, pointing to various locales as he explained 
      his plan. The magi focused on his discussion, intent upon the map. 
      Suddenly Dagnarus lifted his eyes, looked straight at the Inquisitor. The 
      king continued to talk, never missing a word, and Tasgall was perhaps the 
      only one who noticed, with the exception of the Inquisitor. His bony face 
      did not change expression. He did not flinch or move. Yet some word passed 
      between the two, of that Tasgall was certain.
      Dagnarus smiled slightly, then lowered his eyes to the map. He proceeded 
      with his plan. The Inquisitor stood in silence, his emotions unreadable, 
      except that a muscle twitched in the man's jaw, his hands clenched, 
      knuckles whitened. Tasgall would have given a bag of silver tarns himself 
      to know what had occurred. He would ask, of course, but the Inquisitor 
      might not be inclined to answer. By the look of it, whatever had happened 
      bet-ween them had not gone the Inquisitor's way.
      The discussion and development of the battle plan went on for another two 
      hours without a break. Dagnarus had many good ideas, but some that weren't 
      so good, arising mainly from an imperfect knowledge of the capabilities of 
      a battle magus. He was willing to listen, quick to understand, asked 
      intelligent questions, and glad to give way to superior knowledge.
      At the end of two hours, he called a break. He ordered the servants to 
      prepare food and drink for his guests in the dining hall, after which they 
      would resume their discussion. He was pleased with the way the plan was 
      shaping up, had no doubt that they would be victorious on the morrow. He 
      was sorry to hear that the Inquisitor would not be with them during the 
      upcoming sessions, but knew that duty called. The king led the way to the 
      dining hall, conferring with several of the battle magi as they walked.
      Tasgall excused himself and managed to catch up with the Inquisitor before 
      the man exited the palace. He fell into step beside him.
      "What happened back there, Inquisitor?" Tasgall asked.
      "Nothing happened," said the Inquisitor.
      "Oh, yes, it did. I saw the exchange. Whatever it was, I need to know. 
      Listen to me," Tasgall added in exasperation, grabbing hold of the man's 
      sleeve and forcing him to halt and face him. "/ am not the enemy."
      "Aren't you?" said the Inquisitor coolly. "You seem very cozy with your 
      new king. Very quick to laugh at his witty remarks and praise him to the 
      skies."
      "I laughed because what he said was funny," Tasgall growled. "As for 
      praise, his plan of battle is a good one, and I told him so. I don't trust 
      him, any more than you do. I made that clear in our meeting this morning, 
      if you'd been listening. I thought I also made clear that now is not the 
      time for the left hand to wonder what the right hand is doing. We're all 
      in this together, or should be. What happened?"
      The Inquisitor gazed out into nothing for long moments, then his overlarge 
      eyes met Tasgall's.
      "I cast a magic spell on him, one intended to disrupt Void magic."
      Tasgall was impressed. No slouch at magic himself, he'd had no clue that 
      the Inquisitor had been spell-casting, and he'd been standing right beside 
      him.
      "With what intent?" Tasgall asked.
      "Experimental," said the Inquisitor. "If he is Lord of the Void, as 
      history claims, I thought perhaps the spell might force him to reveal his 
      true nature, expose him for what he is."
      "What your spell exposed was a very comely, intelligent, charming man," 
      returned Tasgall. "Either your spell failed, or perhaps he has been 
      redeemed as he has claimed."
      "Balls!" the Inquisitor said, his tone sharp. "My spell did not fail. My 
      spell struck a wall and shattered."
      "So what are you trying to say, Inquisitor?" Tasgall demanded, growing 
      impatient at having to drag out every scrap of information. "Or not say, 
      as the case may be."
      "The spell I cast was a Void spell," the Inquisitor replied in chill 
      tones. "The only way it could be countered was by another Void spell, a 
      very powerful one. Think of that, Battle Magus, the next time you laugh at 
      his jokes."
      "And what do you propose I do?" Tasgall demanded of the Inquisitor's back. 
      "Do I allow the taan to come in and slit our throats? Do I cry: 'Ha-ha, 
      sir, the laugh is on you! We're all going to die out of spite.' Is that 
      what you would have me do?"
      The Inquisitor paused, turned slowly around. He spoke in low tones, his 
      gaze abstracted, turned inward. "All my life, I have fought against the 
      Void. I have done the gods' work. Good work, too, or so I believed. In 
      order to do my work, I had to learn Void magic." His brow furrowed. He 
      shook his head. "You will not understand this, Tasgall, but I never saw 
      the paradox in that. I never saw, until now, when I looked into his eyes, 
      that I had become what I most loathe.
      "As long as Dagnarus rules Vinnengael, Tasgall, so it will be with us 
      all." He shrugged. "Do whatever you think is needful. It won't matter. Not 
      in the end. We lost this battle two hundred years ago."
      Tasgall fumed his way back to the meeting room. It was all very well for 
      Rigiswald and the Inquisitor to be so blamed high-minded and speak so 
      eloquently of martyrdom, but what would the twenty-five-year-old 
      Vinnengaelean mother with three little children clinging to her skirts 
      have to say on that subject? She would probably be pretty damned eloquent 
      herself!
      Rounding a corner, he very nearly collided with Dagnarus, who was coming 
      from the other direction. A flotilla of courtiers sailed along after him, 
      plying him with compliments and flatteries. Sighting Tasgall, Dagnarus 
      made a leap at him, seized hold of him by the arm, and dragged him off for 
      a private talk. The courtiers remained behind, bobbing in the water, until 
      such time as His Majesty should once more sail in their direction.
      "Tasgall," said Dagnarus,"! wanted to let you know that I'm sending young 
      Prince Havis out of harm's way. For his own safety, of course, and to 
      ensure that Vinnengael still has a king, just in casethe gods forbid our 
      plans go awry. The prince tells me his father has a hunting lodge in the 
      Illanof Mountains. I think he will be safe there, don't you?"
      "I don't know, Your Majesty," said Tasgall, troubled. "There is the matter 
      of the taan army"
      "I know the disposition of that army, Tasgall," said Dagnarus, smiling. 
      "They are massed along the river. None have ventured west. I will provide 
      a safe route of travel for His Highness. He will have his own personal 
      retainers with him, and as many men-at-arms as we can spare."
      "That will not be many, Your Majesty," said Tasgall.
      "Nor will many be required. The prince will be in no danger. I guarantee 
      it. Now, let us return to our work. I am much impressed with your battle 
      magi, Tasgall. I think we are off to an excellent start, don't you?"
      "Yes, Your Majesty," said Tasgall.
       



       19THE VRYKYL, VALURA, ANNOUNCED TO THE TAAN THAT DAGNARUS had conquered 
      the city of New Vinnengael single-handedly, that its people had declared 
      him to be their god. She proclaimed that the taan would celebrate this 
      occasion with a god day.
      Although the taan were again disappointed that there would be no fighting 
      this day, they did not grumble, as they had on previous days. They had 
      been promised that on the morrow they would enter this city and take what 
      they wanted.
      The taan loved nothing better than a god day. There would be storytelling 
      and strong food, washed down with copious quantities of topaxi. The 
      highlight of the day would be the kdah-klksritual fights between tribal 
      members that had once been used to determine leadership of the tribe, but 
      which were now used to test the skill and courage of young warriors and to 
      enable older warriors to advance in rank.
      To mark this Day of Triumph, calaths would be pitted against calaths. This 
      meant that entire battle groups would fight each other, with valuable 
      gifts of weapons and armor going to the winners. The taan were elated.
      "You must fight well," the kyl-sarnz told them, "for the xkes of the city 
      will be witness to your prowess."
      Valura pointed to the city walls, as she said this, where the taan could 
      see the humans lined up on the battlements, staring across the river at 
      the taan encampment. The taan jeered at them and clashed their weapons.
      Her task done, as Dagnarus had commanded, Valura handed over the 
      responsibility for making the arrangements for the god day to the members 
      of the Black Veil, an elite group of taan shamans. Valura was under orders 
      to return to Tromek, the elven kingdom, to support the Shield in his 
      battle against the Divine. She was being sent away, and she knew she would 
      never be allowed to return.
      Valura wanted to be with Dagnarus. She wanted to share his victory, to be 
      with him when he gained the prize for which he'd worked and fought and 
      sacrificed so much for so long. She wanted to be present to see him 
      crowned King of Vinnengael. She begged to be allowed to attend the 
      coronation, to take her place among the Vinnengaeleans, to assume the 
      guise of the beautiful and enchanting elf woman he had once loved.
      Dagnarus refused her pleas. The time was not right, he told her. She would 
      come to New Vinnengael, but not now. When the Shield came to Vinnengael to 
      hand over to Dagnarus the rulership of the Tromek nation, Valura could 
      come with him. At that time, Dagnarus would be glad to welcome her to his 
      court.
      Valura knew he was lying to her. She knew, even if he didn't know himself.
      "I will never be permitted to enter New Vinnengael. My presence would ruin 
      the day for him. Everyone else in the world would see the illusion of a 
      beautiful elven woman, with skin that is petal-soft and lips that are 
      rose-hued and almond eyes of wondrous brilliance. When he looks at me, he 
      sees the fleshless skull, the empty eye sockets, the rictus grin. I am a 
      constant reproach to him. I gave up my soul to be with him, and now he 
      loathes the very sight of me. Every time he looks at me, he sees the truth 
      of what he isthe Lord of the Void."
      Dagnarus no longer wanted to be Lord of the Void. He wanted to be King of 
      Vinnengael. He did not want her love, which was dark and tainted with 
      evil. He wanted the love of the living, he wanted their adoration. Banish 
      her, and he would banish that part of his life.
      So he trusted. So he hoped. But his trust was misplaced, for it was in 
      himself. His hopes were doomed, for hope also depended on himself. For the 
      time being, he was pleased with this shiny new toy. He was content to play 
      gently with it, lest he break it. But, over time, the toy would grow 
      shabby, the paint would peel, and the wheels would keep falling off. The 
      toy would disappoint him, no longer fulfill his voracious ambition. He 
      would tire of it. He would toss it aside and seek out another and yet 
      another after that.
      Woe betide those who put their faith and trust in him, such as these 
      pitiful taan, such as she. He drank their blood and stole their souls and 
      gave nothing in return.
      She summoned her mount, a beast known as an equis, a demon horse, spawned 
      of the Void. Seating herself on its back, she grasped the reins, but she 
      did not immediately give the command to leave. She took a moment to look 
      at the taan, feasting and cavorting and capering about their fires, making 
      gleefully ready to celebrate their god's victory. She looked at the walls 
      of New Vinnengael, lined with soldiers, making grimly ready to defend 
      their city and their new king.
      "Poor bastards," she said with cool pity, then she turned her mount's head 
      north, toward Tromek.



      Dagnarus meant to frighten and intimidate the people of New Vinnengael 
      into obedience by having the taan perform what might be described as 
      military maneuvers, and he succeeded. The soldiers on the wall watched in 
      shocked amazement to see the taan rush eagerly into battle, shouting and 
      screaming with joy, fighting each other with a ferocity that left many 
      lying on grass stained red with blood. And this was only practice.
      Dagnarus also meant to weaken the taan, wear them out, reduce their 
      numbers and dull their will to fight, and he succeeded in that as well. By 
      nightfall, most of the warriors were either dead tired or just plain dead.
      The taan slept well that night, in their tents or in the arms of Lok-mirr, 
      goddess of battle. The only Vinnengaeleans who slept were babes too young 
      to know fear and those who tried to drown fear with brandy-wine. 
      Fortunately, the latter were few in number, for Dagnarus had placed the 
      city under King's Edict. One of its provisions was to close all the 
      taverns and inns and brewery houses until the end of the current crisis.
      Battle magi, civilian volunteers, and the military worked through the 
      night to make everything ready by the morrow. People were evacuated from 
      businesses and houses located near the main gate, moved to safer ground. 
      They put up barricades blocking off all the major streets, overturning 
      drays and wagons in the middle of the roads, tossing on furniture, wooden 
      chests, ale barrels, even removing heavy wooden doors from their hinges 
      and adding them to the growing pile.
      Clothiers contributed bolts of cloth to the Hospitalers, to be turned into 
      bandages. Extra beds were set up in the hospital. Those patients who were 
      not in critical condition were sent home to make room for the anticipated 
      casualties.
      Soldiers and archers moved into the empty houses and shops, to take up 
      their hiding places and get what sleep they could before morning. 
      Novitiates climbed onto the roofs, making necessary preparations for the 
      battle magi, bringing with them stores of candles, to be used by those 
      casting Fire magic, hauling up waterskins and food to help them keep up 
      their strength.
      The work was accomplished by moonlight or torchlight, with as little noise 
      and commotion as possible, for the taan must not suspect that anything 
      untoward was happening in the city. Dagnarus ordered all the sewers 
      blocked off, their entrances flooded with river water, in order to halt 
      any taan who might take it into their heads to enter the city by that 
      route.
      Dagnarus came out to inspect the work and more than one good citizen was 
      startled that evening to find his new king working alongside him, 
      cheerfully bending his back beneath sacks of flour or lending his strength 
      to help in overturning a wagon. Confident, cheerful, exuberant, Dagnarus 
      lifted the hearts of all who came in contact with him.
      Rigiswald roamed the streets, observing the preparations, and as he 
      watched and listened to Dagnarus, the elderly magus grudgingly marveled 
      and grudgingly admired.
      Rigiswald walked away pensive and sorrowful. He had never known any man so 
      well suited by nature to be king. Had he been born the eldest son, 
      Dagnarus might this moment be slumbering peacefully in death, honored and 
      revered as a good and wise monarch. Truly, the most tragic words in all 
      the languages of all the races were: "what might have been."



      Several hours after midnight, most of the preparations were ready. 
      Dagnarus made a show of going to his bed. Then, cloaked in the Void, he 
      left New Vinnengael, slipping out of the palace by one of the several 
      secret tunnels that had been built in order to protect the king during an 
      attack or popular uprising. He had a horse waiting for him, and he rode to 
      a prearranged site north of the city.
      Dagnarus went over his plans in his mind as he rode, searching for some 
      flaw he might have missed.
      He had rid himself of Valura and Shakur, who were both embarrassments to 
      him.
      As for the Vinnengaeleans, he was pleased with them, for the most part. 
      Oh, there were some who were dangerous and would have to be removedthat 
      gimlet-eyed Inquisitor, for one. The fact that the fellow was skilled in 
      Void magic would make removing him a bit more difficult, but not even the 
      most skilled wizard could protect himself from a fall from a horse or an 
      unfortunate tumble down a flight of stairs. Then there was that 
      shrewd-looking old gentleman who had so disconcerted Dagnarus by asking 
      about the Vrykyl. Dagnarus had endeavored to find out who he was, but none 
      of the courtiers seemed to know. He had meant to askTas-gall, but had 
      forgotten about the matter in their discussions yesterday. After this 
      battle was over, he would find out who this old gentleman was and 
      determine whether or not he should be concerned about him.
      As for the taan, Dagnarus hated losing five thousand troops but it could 
      not be helped. Their deaths would not be wasted. Their blood would anoint 
      him king. And, in truth, he was doing them all a favor. A taan's dearest 
      wish was to die in battle. He was going to see to it that five thousand of 
      those wishes were granted.
      "Just as my wish has been granted," he said to himself with a grin.
      He could not really believe it. He had worked for over two hundred years 
      for this day, and, finally, it was about to dawn. He would be crowned King 
      of Vinnengael.
      There was just one problem, one annoying fly who had landed in his 
      precious ointment, one flaw in the otherwise flawless jewel.
      K'let.
      Once Dagnarus had blessed the day he'd met K'let. Now he rued it. Of all 
      the people Dagnarus had known throughout his life, K'let came the closest 
      to being considered a true friend. K'let was a taan, but Dagnarus had 
      always possessed the ability to understand the taan, probably because he 
      was a warrior himself. He and K'let had much in common: both were 
      ambitious, both ruthless in obtaining what they wanted, both courageous 
      and skillful warriors.
      Dagnarus had made one mistake in dealing with the albino taan. He had 
      underestimated K'let and overestimated himself. K'let was no longer merely 
      an embarrassment like Shakur. The rebellious taan Vrykyl had become a 
      danger. Many thousand taan were now on Vinnengaelean soil.
      Thus far, most were loyal to Dagnarus, but if K'let were to succeed in 
      uniting themas he was attempting to dothey could be a very serious 
      threat.
      Arriving at the meeting place, Dagnarus found Klendist, the leader of the 
      mercenaries, awaiting him.
      Dagnarus had recruited Klendist, a former bandit and sometime guerrilla 
      leader who had been making a good living raiding towns along the 
      Vinnengael-Tromek border. Klendist brought about eight hundred men with 
      him, all seasoned veterans, some of them war wizards.
      Klendist was a taciturn man, short in stature, on the wrong side of fifty, 
      tough, and sinewy. He feared nothing this side of the Void and not much 
      beyond. He greeted the Lord of the Void, as Dagnarus came riding through 
      the darkness, with a curt nod and a broad grin.
      Dismissing his bodyguard, Klendist waited for orders.
      "Where are your men?" Dagnarus asked.
      "Over that hill," Klendist replied with a jerk of his thumb.
      Dagnarus glanced in that direction. The night was still and silent.
      "You won't see them or hear them, my lord," Klendist added. "But they're 
      there, all the same."
      "I take it you left the taan camp without rousing any suspicion."
      "You don't see the gigs or hear them, either, do you, my lord? We slipped 
      out of camp quietly, as you ordered. Some of their pickets were awake, but 
      we told the gigs we'd lost our stomach for fighting and that we were 
      heading back home."
      "They believed you?"
      "Of course. The gigs think all humans are cowards. What are your orders, 
      sir?"
      "You will ride west to a city called Mardurar, located in the central part 
      of Vinnengael"
      "I know it."
      "Good. Once there, you will meet up with Shakur."
      "Where?"
      "He will find you," said Dagnarus.
      Klendist shrugged. "And after that?"
      "He'll have further orders for you. You will obey him as you would obey 
      me. I can't give you specifics because the situation is fluid. It changes 
      moment by moment. I can tell you this much. Some of the taan have rebelled 
      against me and struck out on their own. Their leader is a taan Vrykyl. I 
      want them destroyed."
      "I trust that Shakur will deal with the Vrykyl," Klendist said, frowning.
      "Yes," said Dagnarus, smiling to himself in the darkness. "Shakur will 
      deal with K'let."
      If all went as Dagnarus hoped, he would be freed of two problems. He fully 
      intended that a battle between the two powerful Vrykyl would end in the 
      destruction of both.
      "You have only to fight the taan, Klendist."
      "We look forward to that, my lord. We've seen what the gigs do to our 
      women. As it is, I've had trouble keeping my boys from slitting some gig 
      throat."
      Dagnarus thought it amusing that Klendist, who had committed more rapes 
      and other brutal acts of abuse against females in his blood-soaked career 
      than he could probably count, should suddenly become the sworn avenger of 
      womankind. Dagnarus said nothing, however. He bade Klendist ride with 
      haste.
      Taking his lord at his word, Klendist departed then and there, without 
      ceremony. Dagnarus left as well, riding in the opposite direction, heading 
      toward the taan camp, to the place where he had established his command 
      center.
      He summoned to him the powerful taan shamans, who were known as the Black 
      Veil and were the leaders of the taan army in the absence of the 
      kyl-sarnz, the Vrykyl. The Black Veil were not all present. Several had 
      ridden with Nb'arsk, to be in on the attack of the Portal at Delak 'Vir. 
      Those who were present greeted Dagnarus with awed reverence and respect, 
      far different from the curt nod given to him by Klendist.
      Dagnarus gave the Black Veil their orders, which were not complicated: 
      when the horns sounded at sunrise, the taan were to mass in front of the 
      main gate, there to await entry. All the taan were to enter the city, 
      including the taskers and the children, not just the warriors. The Black 
      Veil were surprised at this, for generally the taskers remained behind in 
      camp to make ready for the warriors' return.
      "This time," Dagnarus told them through his interpreter, "all the taan 
      will celebrate the day, the taskers included. There is enough -wealth in 
      this fat city for all. And it will be instructive to the young taan, to 
      see victory firsthand."
      Once inside the city, the taan were free to take what they wanted slaves, 
      jewels, armor, whatever they could find.
      "Thus will I subdue the proud hearts of the Vinnengaeleans and give them 
      cause to fear me," Dagnarus said.
      He asked that the Black Veil and the taan nizam be among the first to 
      enter, to walk at the head of the taan army, dressed in their full 
      regalia, in order to strike fear into the human hearts and destroy their 
      morale. The Black Veil agreed with pleasure. Making their obseisances, 
      they left Dag-narus's presence and went to rouse the slumbering taan.
      Having planned the attack, Dagnarus hastened back to Vinnengael to defend 
      against it. He felt not unlike the Punch-and-Judy puppeteer, who, armed 
      with a puppet in each hand, gives battle to himself.
       



       20DAY DAWNED. THE WORD TO ATTACK CAME TO THE TAAN, FINALLY.
      Led by the six shamans of the Black Veil and the nizam who were in command 
      of the battle groups, the taan surged across the river on floating bridges 
      that had been ready and waiting for days. Hooting and shouting, they 
      massed in front of the city gates and around the city walls. The taan were 
      not in prime fighting conditionmost of the warriors were feeling sluggish 
      and stupid after the previous day's battles and the night of carousing.
      They would have never been permitted to go to war in that condition, but 
      then, they were not going to war. They were going to enter a fat city of 
      derrhuths, seize the strong for slaves, slaughter the helpless, and burn 
      and loot.
      Tasgall and Dagnarus watched from the battlements. They were the only two 
      up there, or so it appeared from below. The battlements were manned, but 
      the archers and swordsmen lay flat on their bellies, their weapons in 
      their hands, awaiting the signal.
      Wrapped against the morning chill in a heavy cloak of black velvet, 
      Dagnarus said he'd slept well that night. He was rested and ready for the 
      day. He made a final inspection of the city, expressed his pleasure in the 
      hard work that had been done during the night, and took time to speak 
      personally to many of the soldiers and battle magi. He then climbed the 
      stairs leading up to the battlements to join Tasgall, who had been waiting 
      there since long before dawn.
      Tasgall looked down with grave mien at the taan army, whose warriors 
      could be seen shoving and pushing, jostling and elbowing, and in some 
      cases fighting each other in order to be among the first to enter the 
      city. He was reminded of squirming maggots consuming a rotting corpse. The 
      stench was like that of a rotting corpse. It twisted his stomach. He was 
      sorry he'd eaten breakfast.
      "Do not let your magi or the soldiers fall into complacency," Dag-narus 
      lectured him. "A taan warrior at half his fighting strength is a match for 
      any human warrior fully rested and prepared. And these taan, once they 
      realize that they are trapped, will fight with the ferocity of a cornered 
      dragon."
      "I assumed as much, Your Majesty," said Tasgall. "I have warned my people 
      and the commanders of the military."
      "As we have planned, the battle magi will take out the Black Veil and the 
      nizam first, depriving the taan of their leaders. That will not help much, 
      however, for the taan have never relied on their leaders in battle anyway, 
      each taan seeking to earn glory for himself." "Yes, Your Majesty,"Tasgall 
      replied.
      Dagnarus had told them this in the meeting yesterday, but Tasgall had not 
      truly believed it, not until now.
      He looked down at the snarling, shouting, jeering taan, waving their 
      gruesome battle standards, some of which bore human heads or other body 
      parts, and he felt the hair prickle on his spine. He had never known fear 
      before battle, but he knew fear now. He feared the taan. He feared his new 
      king. Had Dagnarus betrayed them? Were they to be given over to these 
      savages? Were ten thousand more taan warriors massed somewhere beyond the 
      horizon, waiting for the city gates to be opened to them, waiting to swarm 
      inside?
      "Your Majesty," said Tasgall respectfully, "you should return to the 
      palace now, to a place of safety. I have posted guards"
      Dagnarus smiled, shook his head. "I sent my guards off to fight, Tasgall. 
      They will be of more use in the battle. I have never been one to command 
      from the rear, and I will not start now."
      Dagnarus twitched aside a fold of his cloak to reveal a splendid 
      breastplate, made of steel inlaid with gold, worked into an intricate knot 
      pattern. The workmanship was exquisite; no one did such fine work these 
      days. Tasgall had seen such pieces of armor, but only in the palace armory 
      or in some noble house, where they resided on stands and collected dust 
      and spiders.
      "This was my father's armor," said Dagnarus with fond pride. "I have never 
      worn it before. I swore I would not wear it until I could once more stand 
      with my people and wield my sword to defend them. So I swore on his tomb, 
      where I found it lying amidst the ruins."
      "You went back to Old Vinnengael?" Tasgall asked, amazed.
      "I did," said Dagnarus, and his eyes were haunted, shadowed. "I went there 
      as part of my penance. It is not a place to which I would willingly 
      return."
      "Are the old stories about it true?"
      "I do not know the old stories," Dagnarus returned, his voice grim. "But 
      if they speak of a place whose evil has drawn every loathsome creature 
      that crawls upon Loerem, then, yes, the stories are true. I do not know if 
      the evil can be driven out and the city reclaimed, but I would like to 
      try. I would like to make it a fitting memorial for those who lost their 
      lives, including my mother. She was in the palace that night. She was mad, 
      quite mad. My doingI drove her to madness. Someday, I'd like to make it 
      up to her. To her and to my father."
      Tasgall knew himself forgotten. Dagnarus spoke to shades hovering 
      somewhere on the verge of his memory, shades whose accusing eyes were 
      always fixed on him, shades whose accusing fingers always pointed at him. 
      Tasgall might have thought this a deceit, a lie meant to cozen him, but 
      the pain he saw twisting the handsome face and heard aching in the voice 
      was too real to be assumed.
      "Are you ready?" Dagnarus asked.
      "Yes, Your Majesty," said Tasgall, trusting at last. "All is in 
readiness."
      "Give the signal to open the gates."



      The great wheels turned. The gates of New Vinnengael, a marvel of 
      engineering, slid up into the double archways that divided the enormous 
      road leading into the cityone side for egress, the other for entrance. 
      The taan entered through both of them.
      The members of the Black Veil came first. Eager as the taan were to start 
      their rampage, the taan held the shamans of the Black Veil in such fear 
      and awe that they dared not surge ahead of them. The Black Veil walked in 
      silence, wrapped in the black robes that concealed the ritual scarring of 
      their bodies and the valuable gemstones buried beneath their hides. These 
      gemstones powered the Void spells of death and destruction that each 
      shaman could taste upon his tongue. The Black Veil turned their heads, 
      looked at Dagnarus, also wrapped in black, who stood upon the battlements. 
      They bowed to him and appeared to think that they were supposed to join 
      him, for they prepared to start climbing the stairs up to the battlements.
      Dagnarus made a sweeping gesture, pointed to the heart of the city. The 
      Black Veil bowed and went on. Tasgall let out a low whistle. He could feel 
      the power of the Void rolling off those shamans, flooding the city like 
      dark water. He hoped his magi were up to the task.
      After the shamans came the nizam, the elite taan warriors who had earned 
      their rank through heroism in battle. They surged through the gates, 
      jeering and clashing their weapons together, shouting challenges to the 
      xkes to come out from their hiding places and fight them and die. Looking 
      up at Dagnarus, the taan cheered and whooped and promised him that they 
      would slay many thousands this day and dine on their hearts in his honor.
      Dagnarus understood them. Tasgall did not, which was just as well, or his 
      faith in his king might have been shaken. Dagnarus said nothing, merely 
      gestured, indicating that the taan were to proceed as planned.
      The rest of the taan warriors came rushing in after their leaders. They 
      surged forward eagerly, pushing and shoving, each taan fearing that 
      another would beat him to the prize.
      The city was silent, seemingly deserted. But the taan could smell the 
      xkes, smell succulent flesh and the warm blood. The humans were nearby, 
      hiding behind their walls like the sweet meat of the zarg nut hides behind 
      its shell.
      The city of New Vinnengael was a planned city, not one that had grown up 
      from a village. As such, Vinnengael's streets were straight and wide, not 
      twisting and narrow. Prominent buildings such as the palace and the Temple 
      were located in the center, with residential areas in certain locations, 
      shops and businesses in others, and it was even predetermined which 
      businesses should go where.
      The buildings nearest the gate contained shops that catered to those first 
      entering the city, selling everything a visitor might need from maps to 
      cunningly designed purses guaranteed to thwart pickpockets to candied 
      ginger for a sweet tooth. The shops were empty, for the plan was that the 
      taan were to be lured farther into the city. The first taan to reach these 
      buildings kicked down the doors and ran inside. Finding nothing of value, 
      they left in disgust.
      The taan continued to pour through the gates, a floodtide of bodies that 
      soon spread down every street. Tasgall waited tensely for the first sounds 
      of fighting. This was the critical part. As many taan as possible must be 
      lured into the heart of the city.
      "I fear, Your Majesty, that the moment fighting breaks out, the taan will 
      realize that they have fallen into a trap, and they will flee," said 
      Tasgall.
      Dagnarus laughed. "That will never happen. A taan warrior who flees battle 
      would be disgraced. The tribe would strip him of his possessions, torture 
      and kill him. He would not permitted to enter the afterlife. His soul 
      would be consumed by the Void. No, I guarantee to you that will not 
      happen."
      "Even if they know it is a trap?" Tasgall asked.
      "Especially then," Dagnarus said carelessly. "The more hopeless the 
      battle, the greater the glory."
      Voices began to speak in Tasgall's ears; the battle magi communicating to 
      him magically what they were seeing. The taan warriors had been given 
      leave to rush ahead of the nizam and they were now running down the major 
      streets, searching for a fight, and becoming increasingly frustrated. 
      Several began kicking in doors and ripping the shutters off the windows. 
      Inside some of those buildings were Vinnengaelean archers with arrows 
      nocked, ready to fire, backed up by soldiers prepared for hand-to-hand 
      combat.
      The nizam spread out, joining in the rampage, not taking any sort of 
      leadership role that the magi could see. The shamans of the Black Veil 
      remained together, and it seemed to those watching them that they were 
      starting to grow concerned. They huddled together in deep discussion, 
      ignoring the taan who flowed around them.
      Tasgall reported all this to Dagnarus, who nodded and said, "Be patient. 
      Now is not yet the time."
      Last to enter the gate were the taskers, holding small children by the 
      hands, carrying the youngest on their backs. Tasgall looked down at the 
      taan children, skipping and dancing and laughing like any child on a 
      holiday. The thought had not occurred to him that he would be slaying 
      children. He told himself that they were children who would grow into 
      savage beings, but he still felt an aversion to slaying those weaker than 
      himself, those who couldn't fight back, those who had no understanding why 
      they were dying.
      "Do not fool yourself, Tasgall," said Dagnarus. "Those children have 
      already developed a liking for human flesh."
      The question "And who gave them their first taste of it, Your Majesty?" 
      was on Tasgall's lips, but he swallowed it. Now was not the time to go 
      mucking about in politics. He had a job to do. He cleared his mind of all 
      emotion, all doubt, so that it held nothing but the clean-burning fire of 
      the magic.
      The last group of taan taskers was crowding inside the gates when shrieks 
      and fierce howls arose from within the city proper.
      "The taan have broken into one of the buildings, Your Majesty," Tasgall 
      reported. "The archers are firing into their midst. And, Your Majesty, it 
      appears that the shamans of the Black Veil have turned around. They are 
      heading back this way."
      "Give the signal," Dagnarus ordered.
      Tasgall motioned to one of the novice battle magi who had been crouched in 
      the shadow of the wall. Rising to her feet, she spoke words of magic and 
      passed her hand through the flame of the fire burning in a nearby brazier. 
      Her hand seemed to scoop up the flame into a ball and, in one sweeping 
      motion, she hurled the fiery orb into the sky, where it blazed a brilliant 
      orange. The bright ball of flame would be visible to all those on the 
      rooftops, who were waiting and watching for it. Selecting their targets, 
      the battle magi began to chant their spells.
      The men manning the wheels that lowered the gates jumped up from their 
      hiding places. Guarded by men-at-arms, the men turned the wheels, and the 
      gates began to lower.
      The taan taskers heard the rattle and the creaking and turned to see what 
      was going on. Those near the gates, who could see what was happening, 
      looked alarmed and cried out. Unlike the warriors, taskers do not fight 
      unless hard-pressed. Their role was to ensure the survival of the tribe, 
      and many of them had just come to the realization that such survival was 
      imperiled. Grabbing the children, several taan began running toward the 
      gate, shouting out warnings as they ran.
      "The gates fall too slowly!" Dagnarus cried, watching the ponderous 
      descent of the heavy gates. Leaning over the wall, he bellowed, "Cut the 
      ropes!
      The men working at the wheels stared stupidly, not understanding. One 
      astute young soldier heard the command, saw the danger. Leaping forward, 
      he sliced through one of the ropes with a single stroke of his battle-ax, 
      all the while calling for his comrades to assist him. Knights and 
      men-at-arms fell on the ropes with a will. The gates came thundering down, 
      but not before several taan taskers and their charges had managed to 
      escape. The archers rose from their hiding places, fired a volley of 
      arrows after them. Every shot told. The taan stumbled and fell to the 
      ground. Some stayed where they had fallen, but others leapt up and kept 
      going.
      The archers stared. They could see the feathered shafts protruding from 
      the backs of the fleeing taan, but nothing seemed to stop them. Their 
      officers shouted orders. The archers fired again and again. At last, all 
      the taan were stopped. Almost every corpse had at least three arrows 
      sticking out of it. The archers were round-eyed and amazed.
      They had no time for rejoicing. The taan taskers realized that they had 
      been betrayed, that this was a trap. They raised their voices in unearthly 
      howls that were not wails of despair, but were warnings, meant to alert 
      the other taan to their danger. Grabbing up anything that came to hand for 
      a weapon, the taskers and even the children launched a furious assault on 
      the battlements.
      Preparing to face them, Tasgall saw movement out of the corner of his eye. 
      He glanced back out to see a taan, with arrows sticking out of her back, 
      stagger to her feet and run off. Tasgall started to shout a command to 
      bring her down, then kept silent. He did not have the stomach to shoot a 
      fleeing enemy in the back. Let her go. What harm could one do, after all? 
      He turned back to the battle.
      Young, unblooded warriors, who had been relegated to the rear while their 
      elders and betters invaded the city first, heard the cries and came 
      rushing back. The young warriors, accompanied by taskers, attacked the 
      barricades that had been piled up around the stairs. In minutes, the taan 
      tore apart what it had taken the Vinnengaeleans hours to erect. The 
      barricades fell. The taan stormed up the stairs, shrieking and wielding 
      strange and fearsome-looking weapons: spears with three sharp heads; 
      enormous curved-bladed swords; a V-shaped weapon formed of two blades, 
      each sharp enough to cut off a man's arm. The archers had no need to aim. 
      They were sure to hit something by simply firing into the mob.
      Unlike the elder warriors, the young taan fighters wore almost no armor. 
      Arrows thudded into their bare hides, but had little effect. Sometimes the 
      young warriors would halt and yank them out and toss them away in 
      irritation, but more often, they would simply leave them and carry on, too 
      caught up in their battle lust even to notice.
      Tasgall's magic and that of his fellow battle magi proved more effective. 
      Balls of flame exploded among the taan on the stairs. The fiery blast 
      killed several immediately, and many more were set ablaze when the flaming 
      corpses fell among the crowd of taan below.
      The fiery deaths of their comrades did not stop the taan. They surged up 
      the stairs again, kicking aside the still-blazing bodies of their 
      comrades, climbing over them, or stepping on them in order to reach the 
      enemy above. Those who reached the top crashed into the knights and 
      soldiers waiting to halt the advance. Knights and soldiers who had never 
      seen anything like this.
      Overwhelmed by the strength and savage ferocity of the taan, the defenders 
      began to fall back.Tasgall dared not use his magic, for fear of hitting 
      his own men. He and Dagnarus exchanged glances and simultaneously drew 
      their swords and ran forward to halt the retreat.
      Tasgall was an adequate swordsman, not a great one. He wielded a 
      two-handed broadsword and depended on the sheer force of his blows to 
      kill. Dagnarus was a superb swordsman. He set upon the taan with such 
      skill that few came close to touching him. He had obviously fought them 
      before. He was familiar with their methods and their strange-looking 
      weapons.
      Tasgall was curious to see how the taan would react to their "god" 
      attacking them, and was surprised to see that none apparently recognized 
      Dagnarus. Tasgall would have liked to watch Dagnarus's sword work, but he 
      was battling for his life.
      Having discounted the taan as unskilled savages, he was now being forced 
      to reconsider that idea. Their weapons looked strange and outlandish, but 
      they were incredibly lethal, and the taan wielded them with skill. One 
      taan came at him, twirling a multibladed sword in both hands, the blades 
      moving so fast that they blurred in Tasgall's vision. The taan defended 
      with one weapon, attacked with the other. The sharp steel sliced through 
      the metal-studded glove Tasgall wore, cutting open the back of his hand. 
      The other blade trapped his sword, halting its deadly downward stroke.
      The taan's snarling face thrust close to Tasgall's. He could smell the 
      foul stench of the creature, look straight into the small eyes glaring 
      with rage. The taan was tall and barrel-chested and seemed made of nothing 
      but muscle and sinew and bone covered by a hairy hide tougher than leather 
      armor. The taan was not above using his feet as weapons. He kicked at 
      Tasgall, trying to knock him off-balance, all the while slashing at him 
      with his deadly blades.
      The two shoved and heaved and grappled, neither making any headway, then 
      suddenly the taan gave a grunt and arched backward, falling away so 
      suddenly that Tasgall was overset and almost tumbled off the battlements. 
      The taan slumped at his feet, dead, the blade of a sword protruding from 
      his belly. Dagnarus caught hold of Tasgall, steadied him, and pointed 
      below.
      The taan had gained the stairs leading to the battlements and more were 
      coming up every moment. Another fiery blast from one of his battle magi 
      cleared the bottom of the stairs, but only momentarily. More taan ran to 
      take the place of those who were being roasted alive.
      "Look out for the shamans!" Dagnarus shouted to Tasgall. "Void 
      magic-users!"
      Tasgall looked down among the taan to see several taan shamans, some 
      almost naked, others wrapped in robes that looked like winding sheets, 
      pointing up at him. He was forced to shift from the use of steel to the 
      use of magic, which meant that he had to clear his brain of the 
      blood-dimmed rage that comes with hand-to-hand combat and find within 
      himself the clear, cold logic required for the casting of magic. He was 
      trained to refocus his thoughts, but even so, he needed a few moments to 
      concentrate and bring the words of the spell to mind.
      Four black darts erupted from the chest of one of the shamans. The darts 
      soared upward, trailing hideous black ooze behind them. The darts moved 
      with incredible speed. Tasgall only had time to realize that one was aimed 
      at him before it struck his cuirass.
      Tasgall's armor was enchanted to repel magical attacks and it dissipated 
      the Void magic. The dart burst harmlessly on his cuirass. The man beside 
      Tasgall was not so fortunate.
      The dart struck the knight in the center of the forehead, slammed through 
      his metal helm. His skull exploded, splattering those around him with 
      blood and gore.
      Tasgall was too far from the brazier to be able to use Fire magic. He had 
      with him several vials of blessed earth. Drawing out one of these, he 
      hurled it to the stone floor, stamped his foot upon the stone, and spoke 
      the words of the spell.
      The ground beneath the taan shamans began to quake and buckle. The jolt 
      threw them off their feet. Tasgall took a spear from the hand of the dead 
      knight and hurled it with all his force at one of the shaman, who was 
      struggling to regain his feet. The spear impaled the taan. The body 
      twitched for a few moments, then went limp. Tasgall shouted commands, 
      ordered archers and spearmen to turn their fire on the shamans. Within 
      moments, all of them were dead.
      Wiping blood and brains off his face, Tasgall looked about hastily. 
      Dagnarus was leading a charge that was sweeping the taan off the stairs. 
      Most of the taan warriors were dead or dying. The taskers milled about, 
      uncertain and disorganized. The archers fired at them, like shooting ducks 
      in a barrel. The battle magi flung spells at them. Now it was just a 
      matter of slaughter.
      When Dagnarus returned, grinning and unscathed, he asked gaily, "How goes 
      the rest of the battle? What are you hearing from your magi in the field?"
      "Very little now, my lord," Tasgall replied. His magi had fallen silent, 
      and he was worried. "Of course, they should conserve their strength for 
      fighting, not waste it talking to me. But the reports indicated that the 
      fighting in the city was fierce."
      "The taan have a saying," said Dagnarus, sobering. " 'Derrhuth are in love 
      with life. The taan are in love with death.' "
      "Which means?" Tasgall asked.
      "That those who fear death will always be at a disadvantage," Dagnarus 
      replied.
      "Maybe, my lord," said Tasgall. "Or maybe not. For those of us who fear 
      death will fight to survive."
      That day, the Vinnengaeleans fought to survive. The taan knew now that 
      they had run headlong into an ambush. Enraged, the taan meant to kill as 
      many humans as they could before they died.
      The Vinnengaelean soldiers were completely taken aback by the ferocity of 
      the taan warriors, who fought with a raging joy that came near to 
      demoralizing their opponents.
      Dagnarus had tried to warn the Vinnengaeleans, tried to prepare them for 
      what they would face. It is doubtful if they could have ever been prepared 
      for the sight of taan warriors, their bodies smeared with blood, slavering 
      and raving, smashing bodily through lead-paned glass windows and charging 
      headlong into a barrage of arrows.
      Elite taan warriors wore armor, much of it taken from derrhuth they had 
      slain. They disdained wounds; most would fight on even after losing a 
      limb. They used magic to shield themselves from weapons of steel or 
      sorcery, emerging unscathed from the firestorms of the battle magi. 
      Outnumbered, trapped, the taan hit their enemy with such shocking force 
      that for a moment it seemed the taan might yet win the day.



      Although trained as a battle magus, Rigiswald was too old and out of 
      practice to participate in the fighting. He had instead volunteered to use 
      his magic skills in healing the wounded. At dawn, he walked over to the 
      hospital along with a cadre of other magi who had forgone their own 
      various areas of specialization to take up healing magic. Rigiswald walked 
      side by side with magi skilled in engineering or architecture, stonemasons 
      (who used their magic to shape, lift, and lay building blocks), 
      Portal-seekers, librarians, members of the Order of Inquisitors, 
      alchemists, cooks, and tutors. Most carried spellbooks, some magi actually 
      reading as they walked, trying hastily to bone up on magic they had not 
      used since they were novitiates. Even young magi had been pressed into 
      service, for they could at least cast simple cantrips designed to treat 
      minor wounds and ease pain.
      Rigiswald had just entered the Houses of Healinga sprawling building 
      reminiscent of elven design, surrounded by green lawns and trees and 
      blooming shrubs, with many areas that could be opened to fresh air and 
      sunlightwhen he heard and felt the boom of the falling gate. He and 
      everyone else turned to look out the windows in the direction of the north 
      part of the city, where the battle would take place. The Houses of Healing 
      were located on a natural rise, and although their view was blocked by 
      tall buildings, the magi could catch glimpses now and then of small 
      figures (battle magi, perhaps, or men-at-arms) prowling about atop the 
      buildings.
      The howls of the taaninhuman and ghastlypierced the still morning air. 
      Rigiswald's stomach clenched, and he was not a man easily disturbed. Faces 
      around him went pale. People exchanged grim glances. The Hospitalers put 
      their volunteers immediately to work, had them moving beds, rolling 
      bandages, helping prepare and bottle poultices and salves, ointments and 
      potions, or comforting frightened patients.
      The howls and shrieks grew louder. Rigiswald, who was scooping ointment 
      into stone jars, had managed to position himself near a floor-to-ceiling 
      glass pane that faced in the direction of the battle. He saw a sheet of 
      blue-white flame rise into the air, a wall of fire that would incinerate 
      anything in its path. The screams of taan being burned alive were horrible 
      to hear. At the dreadful sound, a young novice sitting next to Rigiswald 
      gave such a violent start that she dropped the vial she was filling, sent 
      it crashing to the floor.
      Rigiswald said what comforting words he could, which weren't many, advised 
      her to drink some water, take deep breaths, and move away from the 
      windows. A second glance outside showed a huge column of black smoke 
      spiraling into the air. Those in the hospital continued their duties in 
      silence. Then the wounded began to come.
      The first casualties were those who could walk under their own power. They 
      came singly, or in groups of two or three, helping each other. They had 
      been sent on by healers present at the site of the battle, who were 
      dealing with more critical wounds.
      "They need more litter bearers up there," were the first words out of the 
      mouth of one soldier, gesturing wearily with his head toward the front 
      lines.
      The strongest magi went off with litters. Healers descended on the 
      wounded, giving them shoulders to lean on and helping them into the 
      hospital. One woman slumped to the ground, unable to go farther. 
      Recognizing by her armor and her tabard that she was a battle magus, 
      Rigiswald went to see to her himself, for he was familiar with the types 
      of wounds these magi tended to receive.
      Several young novices hung around her, clearly uncertain what to do, for 
      she was clad in armor and they had no idea how to unfasten it. Rigiswald 
      ordered one to remain with him, in case he needed help, and sent the 
      others off to help someone else.
      The young man ran over to inspect what appeared to be a stream of dark 
      water running down the broad highway known popularly as "Fine Day Way," 
      for on fine, sunny days, the populace would turn out to walk the road, 
      greet friends and family, show off new finery and hear the latest gossip.
      The stream running down Fine Day Way was gradually widening to a steady 
      flow. The young man bent down to stare at it. He gasped, backed away, his 
      face livid. Clapping his hand over his mouth, he staggered off into some 
      bushes.
      The dark stream was not water, but blood.
      Rigiswald shook his head and bent over the battle magus, who was regaining 
      consciousness.
      "Where are you hurt?" he asked crisply.
      Her limbs were sound. She had taken no blow to the head. She was covered 
      with blood, but it might not be her own. Her pulse was weak, but 
      strengthening. She had no fever. He thought he knew what was wrong, but he 
      wanted to make certain.
      "I have taken no wound," she said, her voice weak. "A spell went awry."
      He'd guessed right. Sometimes a spell will not work properly. The reasons 
      for such an occurrence are various. Perhaps the magus misspoke a word or 
      left out a sentence or recited the words in the incorrect order. Perhaps 
      she lost concentration, went blank in the middle of the spell. Or, 
      perhaps, the magus had done everything right but, for some reason beyond 
      the understanding of mortal man, the magic simply did not work the way it 
      was supposed to work. In those instances, as the textbooks metaphorically 
      described it: "The magic behaves like a fiery steed. With the casting of 
      the spell, the magus puts his spurs to the horse's flanks. If the spell is 
      successful, the horse proceeds at a canter, the rider remains in control. 
      If the spell goes awry, the horse bolts. The rider has no control and is 
      either pitched off the horse's back or dragged along to his doom."
      "Unbuckle her armor," Rigiswald ordered the novice. "Then run and fetch me 
      some brandywine and water. Be quick!"
      The novice did as he was told, his slender, quick fingers making short 
      work of the leather knots that held the magus's cuirass in place. Once 
      this was removed, the magus breathed easier.
      "Go tend to the others," she said, closing her eyes. "I will be all right. 
      I just need rest."
      "The others are in good hands," said Rigiswald. "I will wait here with you 
      until you feel strong enough to walk."
      The novice returned with two flasks and a cup. Taking the flask of 
      brandywine, Rigiswald mixed in a small amount with the cool water. He 
      lifted the magus, helped her to drink.
      "Ah, brandy," she said, and smiled up at him. "The soldier's restorative. 
      You must be an old campaigner."
      "I've been in my share of battles. How goes it up there?" Rigiswald asked.
      She shuddered and averted her eyes. "I've been in my share of battles, 
      too," she said in a low voice. "And I've seen no horrors to compare to 
      this. They have Void sorcerers among thempowerful sorcerers, wearing long 
      black veils, who use Void magic in ways that are completely unknown to 
      us.Tasgall had warned us to target these sorcerers, and we were prepared 
      to do so, but before the words to the spells were even on our lips, these 
      sorcerers covered the streets in darkness so black it seemed that they 
      must have stolen away the sun. I could not see the man standing next to 
      me. I could not see my own hands! We were on a rooftop, and we were afraid 
      to move, for we could not see our footing.
      "We could not see them, but the Void sorcerers could see us. The magus 
      next to me suddenly sank to his knees. He cried out that his heart was 
      being torn from his chest. Another man, a dear friend named Grims, went 
      into convulsions so severe that he toppled off the building. He did not 
      die from the fall. I could hear his screams . . ."
      She shivered. Her voice trailed off. Rigiswald gave her some more brandy.
      "Talk it out," he said to her. "Free yourself of it."
      "That will never happen," she replied. "I will carry the horrors of this 
      day to my death."
      "What happened to the Void sorcerers?" he asked.
      "I do not know. There was a blast of flame and the darkness ended. The 
      flame did not destroy the sorcerers, however, or, if it did, we could not 
      see any bodies. I think it likely that they took advantage of the darkness 
      to flee. I did find Grims, or what was left of him. The monsters had 
      ripped him apart with their bare hands."
      Rigiswald looked up to see a steady stream of wounded coming from the 
      city, among them litter bearers carrying the more seriously injured.
      "I have to go now," said Rigiswald. "Will you be all right?"
      She did not seem to hear him. Her eyes stared back into the fearful 
      darkness.
      "We kill and we kill and we kill," she said. "And still they keep coming."
      He patted her hand and left her the brandy flask. Rising to his feet, he 
      stared out at the wounded, the dead, the dying.
      Rigiswald looked at them. He looked at the river of blood flowing down the 
      street, and in that moment, he looked into the heart of Dag-narus and saw 
      his true plan.
      His trap was set for all.
       



       21VINNENGAEL WAS VICTORIOUS. THE TAAN WERE DEFEATED, annihilated. 
      Dagnarus gave orders that not a single taan was to be left alive, and his 
      orders were obeyed. The taan were destroyed, but at a terrible cost. The 
      Arven River was contaminated by the blood flowing into it. The water 
      turned a horrible murky brown color and smelled of death.
      Taan corpses clogged the streets. Guardsmen loaded the bodies onto carts 
      and hauled them away, but it took days to remove them all. Cessrats and 
      pinktails poured out of the sewers to feed on the dead, bringing with them 
      diseases exacerbated by the lack of clean water. The corpses were burned 
      on a gigantic pyre built south of the city to take advantage of the 
      prevailing northerly wind flow to carry the smoke away.
      The Vinnengaeleans who had died in the battle were buried in a mass grave 
      outside the city walls, for there was neither time nor strength nor 
      material to build so many coffins and tombs, or give them individual 
rites.
      At first, the north wind blew the smoke of death away from Vinnen-gael, 
      but on the second day after the battlethe day Dagnarus was to be crowned 
      kingthe wind shifted to the south, carried noxious smoke and ash into the 
      city. The ash coated every surface with a layer of black soot that had a 
      horrible, greasy feel to it. The citizens wore strips of cloth tied around 
      their noses and mouths and forbade their children to play outside. The ash 
      covered the gleaming white facade of the palace's marble walls and 
      burrowed into the nooks and crannies of the Temple's ornate stonework. The 
      citizens scrubbed and scoured, but water had little effect on the soot, 
      only served to smear it.
      The streets and stones were stained with blood that could not be removed. 
      People worked for days to scrub the stains from the stones of Fine Day 
      Way, but the task proved impossible. The blood had seeped into the cracks 
      between the cobblestones and nothing, it seemed, could get rid of it.
      Having seen the taan and witnessed the savage bestiality with which they 
      had fought, the Vinnengaeleans could only shudder and consider themselves 
      fortunate beyond measure that their city and people had not suffered a 
      worse fate. They had their new king to thank and were prepared to do so 
      with all their hearts. Everyone, from the I highest-born noble in his 
      palatial town house to the young scamp who mucked out the stables of the 
      shabbiest hostelry in the city, pitched in and worked with a will to clean 
      up New Vinnengael in time for Dag-narus's coronation.
      The gruesome stains that could not be removed were covered over with 
      plaster. The foul smells that could not be eradicated were masked with 
      flowers.
      Seven days after the victory of Dagnarus over the enemy army that he 
      himself had led, he was crowned King of the Vinnengaelean Empire. She 
      would be majestic and revered and honored. All nations would bow to her. 
      All peoples would bow down to their king.
      On the dawn of his coronation day, Dagnarus walked alone in the Hall of 
      Past Glories. He had dismissed the servants and the courtiers, sent them 
      off to continue their preparations.
      The Church would preside over the coronation. Dagnarus had worked long and 
      hard to ensure their participationtheir willing participation, and 
      Tasgall had ensured his success. Dagnarus was pleased with Tasgall. The 
      battle magus reminded the king very much of the captain of his father's 
      guard, a man who had taken an interest in the young Dagnarus when no other 
      adult had bothered, a man who hadin essencehelped to raise him.
      Captain Argot had deserved a better fate. He had died in the battle of Old 
      Vinnengael, and Dagnarus had been truly grieved to hear it. The king 
      resolved that Tasgall should be rewarded. He was not yet a suitable 
      candidate for a Vrykyl; Tasgall was not initiated into the ways of the 
      Void.
      But that might come in time. Meanwhile, he named Tasgall Most Revered High 
      Magusupon the resignation of the former Regent, Clo-vis, because of 
      health concerns.
      Since it was required that all heads of the Orders submit their 
      resignation when a High Magus is chosen, the others had done so. 
      Customarily, the new High Magus would simply refuse to accept them. 
      Tasgall, acting on the advice of Dagnarus, had accepted every one of them 
      and replaced them with people loyal to himself.
      Tasgall had a conscience, and that conscience was giving him painful jabs, 
      for he had taken the post of Most Revered High Magus only with the 
      greatest reluctance. He did take it, for he had seen what harm can come 
      when the Church and the crown stand opposed to each other, or when one 
      becomes too powerful and dominates the other. Tasgall fancied that he and 
      Dagnarus were working in tandem for the good of Vinnengael. Dagnarus had 
      yet to disabuse Tasgall of that notion. Dagnarus had learned patience, 
      during his two hundred years, and he had also learned subtlety.
      All was progressing nicely, even as to the recovery of the Sovereign 
      Stones. There were problems, admittedly, but once he was emperor, those 
      would be solved.
      Valura reported from the elven kingdom of Tromek that the civil war had 
      ground to a standstill. The forces of the Divine were still stubbornly 
      holding certain key areas of Tromek, including the western end of the 
      Portal, defended by the warriors of House Kinnoth, who were especially 
      tough and tenacious and had proved impervious to all attempts to cause 
      them to shift their allegiance.
      Consequently, some of the Houses currently supporting the Shield were 
      starting to waver in their support, but Valura expressed confidence that 
      an assassination here and a scandal there would bring the Houses back in 
      line. Dagnarus ordered her to remain in Tromek until the war had ended and 
      the situation was resolved to his satisfaction. After that, he had plans 
      for Valura that would keep her in Tromekand away from him forever.
      She would not be happy, but she would obey. She was bound to obey.
      In the throne room, located on the ground level, the people were 
      gathering: the high-ranking members of the Church, the barons, minor 
      nobles, knights and their ladies, the wealthy and influential merchants, 
      ambassadors of those governments who were still allied with Vinnengael 
      (few in number), the royal musicians and honored guests, such as the 
      quick-thinking young soldier who had acted with such dispatch to cut the 
      ropes that lowered the gate.
      Young Havis would not be there. He had been sent away. Word would reach 
      Vinnengael in about six months that the poor child had succumbed to some 
      illness, measles perhaps. No one would care much, by then.
      They would all be assembled in the throne room, waiting for their king, 
      the conqueror. The Vinnengaeleans had been victorious. Unfortunately, in 
      their victory, they had suffered their greatest defeat. They might try to 
      wash away the smoke and the blood, but they could never wash away the 
      memory. From that day forth, no Vinnengaelean could walk the roads of New 
      Vinnengael without seeing those gruesome stains. No Vinnengaelean would be 
      able to sleep at night without hearing the screams of the dying echo in 
      their ears. No Vinnengaelean would be able to forget the mounds of bodies 
      piled up in the marketplace or the stench of the smoke from the funeral 
      pyres.
      By bringing the war into New Vinnengael, Dagnarus had forced war's horrors 
      upon every man, woman, and child in the city. He had done so for a reason. 
      When he was crowned, he would promise the grieving and devastated 
      populace that if they promised to be loyal and obedient, he would promise 
      to keep them safe, keep them secure.
      They would promise humbly. They would promise gladly. Kneeling in blood, 
      they would swear their fealty. They would never forget.
      Dagnarus would never let them.
      He lifted the crown of Vinnengael from the velvet pillow on which it 
      rested, ready to be carried by the Most Revered High Magus down to the 
      chapel, where he would beseech the gods' blessing on their king.
      The gods might give it or not, as they chose. Dagnarus really didn't care. 
      He didn't need the gods. He had the Void. He wanted only one blessing.
      Dagnarus walked over to the portrait that had once portrayed the two kings 
      of Vinnengael, father and son, Helmos and Tamaros. The portrait had been 
      redone. The artist and his assistants had worked day and night to have it 
      ready for this historic occasion. The room reeked of fresh paint and 
      linseed oil.
      In the portrait, King Tamaros stood next to his son, Prince Dagnarus. The 
      father's face was aglow with pride. Dagnarus, handsome, charming.
      Clothed in his royal finery, prepared to descend to the throne room and 
      receive the accolades of his people, Dagnarus sank down on his knees 
      before the painting.
      "I have done it, Father," Dagnarus said. "I am King of Vinnengael. I will 
      make you proud, Father. I swear it. You no longer need be ashamed of me."
      His father seemed so close to him. Dagnarus waited an instant, 
      half-dreading, half-hoping for some whisper from the grave.
      No word came, but Dagnarus felt sure of his father's approval. Rising to 
      his feet, Dagnarus left the room to be greeted with resounding cheers from 
      the assembled knights and barons, waiting to provide him with an honor 
      guard.
      All through the lengthy and sometimes tedious coronation ceremony, the 
      newly crowned king imagined he could feel his father's gaze rest proudly 
      upon himDagnarus, the child beloved.



      Rigiswald had not attended the coronation ceremony, although he had 
      received an invitation. Tasgall had told him that Dagnarus had wanted very 
      much to meet the "old gentleman" who had taken an interest in the Vrykyl.
      "Thank you," Rigiswald had said, "but I'm going to be busy."
      "Doing what?" Tasgall had asked.
      "I haven't decided yet," Rigiswald had replied.
      Tasgall had frowned, but he'd said nothing more.
      The sounds of revelry could still be heard in the streets. The 
      celebrations had lasted all night and were still going strong after 
      sunrise. Rigiswald carefully folded his best lamb's wool robe, preparatory 
      to rolling it up and inserting it into a leather satchel. He was 
      interrupted by a knock on his door.
      He opened it to find a smart-looking young page boy, all dressed up in 
      ruffles and gold embroidery. The page boy held out a wafer-sealed packet.
      "For you, sir."
      Rigiswald accepted the packet, handed the page boy a coin for his trouble. 
      The boy departed, gaily flipping the coin in the air and catching it 
      backhanded.
      Rigiswald started to close the door, then he saw Tasgall, standing on the 
      opposite side of the corridor, watching him. Rigiswald gave a brief nod 
      and turned away. Tasgall, taking the nod for an invitation, followed 
      Rigiswald into his room.
      Rigiswald tossed the packet on the table. He slid the robe into the 
      satchel, smoothed it and sprinkled it with oil of cedar to keep away the 
      moths.
      "That is a summons to the Royal Palace," said Tasgall, with a glance at 
      the packet.
      "Yes," replied Rigiswald. "I suppose it is."
      "You're not going to attend?"
      "No, I am not."
      "His Majesty will be displeased."
      Rigiswald began to roll up his stockings into neat balls. "His Majesty has 
      so many hundreds waiting for his notice that one elderly gentleman will 
      not be missed."
      "I know what this is about," said Tasgall.
      "As it happens," said Rigiswald, "so do I."
      "You will do no good by staying away."
      "I will do no good by going."
      "His Majesty was disappointed that Baron Shadamehr was not present for the 
      coronation," said Tasgall. "Shadamehr was the only baron not in 
      attendance. His absence was noticed."
      Rigiswald slid the sock balls neatly into the bottom of the satchel. 
      Holding up a small, polished, silver disk, he examined his reflection. He 
      combed his clipped beard and hair, then slid both the disk and the ivory 
      comb into the satchel.
      Tasgall watched him in exasperation. "If Baron Shadamehr does not come 
      immediately to swear his homage and fealty to his new king, he will be 
      judged a traitor. He will be exiled on pain of death if he returns to 
      Vinnengael. His lands and castle will be forfeit to the crown. His Majesty 
      requires some assurance that the baron will come."
      Rigiswald added to the satchel several books, some he had newly purchased 
      and some he had brought with him. He inserted them carefully, arranging 
      them so that they did not wrinkle the robe or crush his stockings. His 
      packing finished, he lifted the satchel, closed it, and adjusted the 
      straps. He put on his traveling cloak.
      "I am not Baron Shadamehr's social secretary," said Rigiswald as he 
      fastened the gold clasp that held the cloak securely in place. "I do not 
      plan his engagements."
      "You are his friend, sir. You should advise him that paying homage to his 
      king is something he must do."
      Rigiswald hefted the satchel. He did not offer to shake hands. "Goodbye, 
      Tasgall. Congratulations on your elevation in rank."
      He started toward the door.
      Tasgall picked up the packet, toyed with it.
      "The baron's family has held that land for generations. His income derives 
      from the produce of that land and from the fees he collects on those who 
      travel downriver. If Shadamehr loses his barony, he will be an 
      impoverished exile, with nowhere to go, no friends to speak up for him, no 
      refuge."
      Rigiswald halted, turned around. "I hear that the head of the Order of 
      Inquisitors died yesterday."
      Tasgall did not immediately reply.
      "He died of... what was it? Heart failure?" said Rigiswald.
      Tasgall stared down at the packet. "He has been in poor health for some 
      time. An inquest held that he died of natural causes."
      Rigiswald smiled, tight-lipped. "I should watch out for those natural 
      causes, if I were you, Tasgall. I hear they are going around."
      Tasgall crossed the room in three steps, caught hold of Rigiswald's arm.
      "Tell the baron that all he must do is bend his knee and swear his loyalty 
      to King Dagnarus."
      "That is all?" Rigiswald regarded him mildly. "My friend, that is 
      everything."
      Rigiswald walked alone down the city streets, which they were still 
      scrubbing, and exited the city gate, which they were still repairing. 
      Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Vinnengael's new flags, featuring 
      a golden phoenix rising up from the blood red flames, fluttering in the 
      smoke-filled air.
       




      II 
       



       1WOLFRAM THE UNHORSED HAD NOT PLANNED ON STAYING LONG at the monastery on 
      Dragon Mountain. Because of the reward, given to him by the late Lord 
      Gustav, Wolfram was a lord himself. He was lord of a manor housea human 
      manor house in human landsand he was looking forward to entering that 
      house as its owner, there to astonish and dismay the steward and servants 
      by announcing that they now had a dwarf for a master.
      He told himself every day that he was leaving. Every day, he found some 
      excuse to stay. Weeks passed, and the dwarf still hung about Dragon 
      Mountain. The truth was, Ranessa was learning how to be a dragon, and she 
      was having a hard time of it. Wolfram didn't like to leave her.
      He didn't know why he should be surprised. Ranessa hadn't been a rousing 
      success as a human. She had alienated her family and the entire Trevinici 
      tribe into which she'd been born. After that, she had managed to insult or 
      offend nearly every single person she'd met on their journey. Wolfram 
      conceded that some excuse could be made for her misanthropic attitude. 
      Ranessa had spent all the years of her life up to this point thinking she 
      was human (and hating it), only to suddenly realize in one overwhelming 
      and catastrophic moment that she wasn't human. She was a dragon.
      After he himself had recovered from the shock (a recovery that had 
      required numerous mugs of the monks' good nut brown ale to sustain him), 
      Wolfram had hoped that the discovery of her true nature would transform 
      Ranessa from an irritable, irrational, and half-mad human female into a 
      relaxed and easygoing dragon. As it turned out, Ranessa was still 
      irritable and irrational. The only difference was that before becoming a 
      dragon, she had used her sharp tongue to snap off a man's head. Now she 
      had the sharp teeth to go along with it.
      The monk, Fire, who was Ranessa's dragon mother, assured Wolfram that 
      Ranessa's behavior was normal. All freshly "hatched" young dragons 
      experienced similar problems growing accustomed to their new shape and 
      form and the new way they must learn to look at themselves and the world 
      around them.
      "After the first euphoria in realizing her true nature wears off, the 
      young dragon is confused and upset. She may feel angry and betrayed and 
      find it difficult to adapt to such a completely new way of life. The 
      reaction is not dissimilar to that seen in newly Unhorsed dwarves," Fire 
      added coolly.
      Being an Unhorsed dwarf himself, Wolfram understood exactly what she was 
      talking about, but he perversely maintained that he didn't.
      "It seems a rum way of doing things, ma'am," he argued. "Unnatural. Why 
      don't you dragons raise your children yourself, instead of palming them 
      off on us poor unsuspecting mortals? Raising babies isn't easy, what with 
      all the crying and puking and messing their drawers, if you know what I 
      mean. Still, we put up with it. We don't go handing off our kids to you. 
      No offense, ma'am."
      "None taken, Wolfram," Fire replied, and he was relieved to see that she 
      was amused, not angry.
      A shape-shifter, Fire had gone back to her dwarf form, and she walked 
      along beside him as any right and proper female dwarf would walk along 
      beside him. Since she could change into her true dragon form at any 
      moment, Wolfram didn't want to make either form mad at him.
      The two strolled through one of the gardens that surrounded the monastery. 
      Five dragons guarded the monastery, kept the monks safe from harm. Four of 
      these dragons were representative of the world's elements: Fire, Water, 
      Earth, Air. The fifth dragon represented the absence of the elements, the 
      Void.
      The people of Loerem were aware that dragons guarded the monastery, but 
      few knew that the dragons also ran the monastery, for the dragons 
      disguised themselves as monks when dealing with the other races. Wolfram 
      had discovered the truth quite by accident, having inadvertently witnessed 
      Fire transform from a female dwarf into a magnificent red dragon.
      Lies, that's what it is. All a pack of lies, Wolfram thought indignantly. 
      Not that he himself was above telling lies. A lie or two came in handy on 
      occasion. This wasn't the same, though. These lies affected people's 
lives.
      "People come to care about people," said Wolfram gruffly. "People come to 
      care about people as people, then they find out they're dragons. Some 
      people might get hurt. That's all I'm saying, ma'am."
      "I understand, Wolfram," said Fire.
      The garden was built on the edge of a steep cliff and provided a wonderful 
      view of the land spread out beneath the tall mountain peak. The two came 
      to a halt at a stone wall placed there to prevent anyone from taking a 
      tumble off the side of the mountain. Wisps of clouds scudded below them. 
      Far below, the river was a blue thread winding among red rock.
      Ranessa was out there among the clouds, practicing her flying. She loved 
      flight, she told Wolfram. Loved soaring on the thermals or diving down 
      upon some panic-stricken goat. She loved circling the tall, snowcapped 
      peaks, knowing herself high above the world and its problems.
      But Ranessa couldn't fly forever. She had to land, had to come back down 
      to solid ground. For some reason, Ranessa just couldn't seem to get the 
      hang of landing. The first time she'd tried, she'd flown in too fast, 
      skidded, put her head down too soon, flipped nose over tail, coming at 
      last to a crashing halt up against the monks' stables, wrecking the 
      building and killing two of their mules.
      Wolfram had been certain Ranessa had killed herself in the process. She'd 
      come out of the disaster with most of the scales scraped off her nose, a 
      torn leg muscle, and an avowed determination never to fly again. Blue sky 
      and clouds and freedom called her forth, however. Daily, she practiced her 
      landings (in a large, empty field). She claimed she was getting better. 
      Wolfram didn't know. He could not bear to watch.
      Wolfram rubbed his nose, scratched his beard, and looked out to see 
      Ranessa flitting restlessly among the peaks. Her red scales glittered 
      orange in the sun. She was a graceful and sleek winged beauty. He wished, 
      suddenly, that she could see herself as he saw her. Perhaps that would 
      help.
      "Our reasoning for placing our young among people is not completely 
      selfish," Fire stated. "We discovered that living among people gives some 
      of the young an understanding of you, how you think and act."
      "Too bad the reverse isn't true," Wolfram said grumpily. "I've been 
      wondering about something. Ranessa felt compelled to come here. She saw 
      the Dragon Mountain in her dreams. Does that happen with all your young?"
      "Only to a few," Fire replied. "It happens to those dragon children who 
      are dissatisfied with their lot in life. To those who are searchers, 
      seekers. Those who do not fit in. Like Ranessa. They know that life holds 
      something special for them, and they do not rest until they find out what 
      that is. Her search led her here, to me."
      "And what happens to the rest? Those who like being human or dwarven or 
      elven?"
      "They live and die as humans or dwarves or elves, never knowing that they 
      were anything else. Thus, we lose some of our children. We know this is a 
      danger, and we accept it."
      Gazing out at Ranessa, Fire smiled with pride. "Ranessa needs a friend 
      now."
      "Good luck finding one,"Wolfram remarked. "I'm leaving tomorrow."
      "Have a safe journey," Fire replied, and departed, walking back into the 
      monastery.
      Wolfram stood watching Ranessa, his hands jammed into the pockets of his 
      leather breeches, a scowl on his face. He could see she was growing tired, 
      for her head was starting to droop. She was probably putting off landing 
      as long as possible.
      Wolfram shook his head, then went inside the monastery, telling himself he 
      was going to see to his packing. Instead, he ended up heading out to that 
      barren field.



      He found Ranessa lying amidst a heap of boulders, beating her wings in a 
      fury, sending up clouds of dust.
      Fanning away the dust with his hand, Wolfram walked around to where she 
      could see him.
      "What are you doing here?" Ranessa demanded. "Come to have a good laugh?"
      "I came to see that you didn't break your fool neck," Wolfram returned. 
      "You're improving."
      "Meaning what?" Ranessa glared at him.
      "Meaning . . . you're improving," said Wolfram. "You didn't land in the 
      lake."
      The dragon glowered. "If you must know, I was aiming for the lake. I 
      missed."
      Ranessa heaved her massive body out of the jumble of rocks, kicking aside 
      boulders with her feet, lashing her long, scaly tail in irritation. One of 
      the boulders bounded very close to Wolfram, sending the dwarf scrambling 
      to escape being crushed.
      "Sorry," Ranessa muttered.
      She spread her wings in the sunlight. The late-afternoon sun shone through 
      the transparent red-orange membrane, making it seem as if the dragon was 
      lit by an inner fire. Red scales blazed. Her elegant head, set on the 
      sinuous neck, arched and dipped, as she forced herself patiently to search 
      the membrane to make certain there were no minute rips or tears, for even 
      the smallest hole in the wing can expand rapidly during flight, causing 
      severe damage if left untreated. Not being much given to patience, Ranessa 
      had learned this lesson the hard way.
      "Why did you want to land in the lake?" Wolfram asked.
      Sometimes, when he saw her like this, shining in the sunlight, he was 
      moved to tears. He cleared his throat and glanced with a shudder at the 
      icy blue water of the snow-fed lake.
      "I thought landing in the water would be easier," Ranessa replied sulkily. 
      "Softer."
      She shook herself all over, scales rattling, then folded her wings at her 
      sides. Heaving a sigh, she lowered her head to the rock-strewn ground, her 
      nose on a level with Wolfram. She jerked her head off the ground. She'd 
      set her chin down on a small pine tree. Breathing an irritated gout of 
      flame, she reduced the pine to cinder. Sighing again, she lowered her 
      head, nestled comfortably into the sun-warmed earth.
      "I like doing that," she said.
      "Setting things on fire," said Wolfram.
      "Yes. That and the magic. Except I'm not very good at either."
      "Fire says you're doing fine," Wolfram tried to reassure her. "It takes 
      time, that's all." He paused a moment, then said nonchalantly, "Maybe 
      you'd like to go back to the way you were? You can, you know. You can 
      change back to your old human self."
      The dragon's slit eyes were green, glittered with the brilliance of 
      emeralds in contrast to the fiery orange scales. Wolfram looked into the 
      eyes, searching for the Ranessa he'd known: the wild, untamed human woman. 
      A small part of that Ranessa was therethe part that was frustrated, 
      impatient, afraid. That part was receding, however, growing more distant 
      every day. The dragon part, the part he couldn't understand, was taking 
      over.
      "No," she said.
      Wolfram rubbed his nose, stared gloomily down at his boots, which were 
      worn with the road. He was leaving tomorrow. Most definitely.
      "I don't know if you can understand this or not," said Ranessa, and, from 
      the way she spoke, it seemed she was trying to understand it herself. "But 
      I was never comfortable in that body. Once, when I was little, I saw a 
      snake shed its skin. How I envied it! My own skin felt so small and tight 
      and constricting. I wanted nothing more than to rip open my back and 
      slough it off. Now I have, and I don't ever want to crawl back inside that 
      skin again. But I don't expect the likes of you to understand."
      "As a matter of fact," Wolfram stated with dignity, "I do understand. I 
      shed my own skin once."
      "What? How? Tell me," Ranessa urged, her green eyes widening.
      "Never you mind," said Wolfram. "It's a long story, and I just came up 
      here to tell you I'm leaving tomorrow."
      "You said that yesterday," Ranessa pointed out. "And the day before."
      "Well, this time, I'm leaving,"Wolfram returned.
      He waited for her to say something to try to stop him, but she didn't. The 
      air was freezing cold. He was starting to lose all feeling in his toes, 
      and he stamped his feet to warm them.
      "Good-bye, then," he said, adding stiffly, "Thank you for saving my life."
      That done, he turned away, started the long walk back down the mountain 
      peak toward the monastery below.
      He heard the dragon's tail restlessly smashing against the rocks. A small 
      avalanche of crushed stone cascaded around his feet, nearly tripping him. 
      When he was about halfway down the mountain, Ranessa called after him.
      "Thank you for saving mine."
      Wolfram ducked his head, pretended he hadn't heard.



      Circling the west side of the monastery, heading for the front entryway, 
      Wolfram walked around the side of the building and came to a dead stop. 
      For a moment, he stared, doubting his eyes. Then he ducked hastily back 
      around the side of the gray stone building.
      "Damn!" He cursed his luck. "I knew I should have left before now!"
      A party of dwarvesabout twenty of themwere setting up camp outside the 
      front of the monastery. He couldn't tell, from this distance, what clan 
      they belonged to. Every clan has some sort of marking by which they 
      identified themselves and, in the dimming twilight, he couldn't make out 
      any distinguishing markings. He would have to move closer to get a better 
      view and Wolfram had no intention of moving closer.
      He might tell himselfhe did tell himselfthat with a couple of million 
      dwarves roaming the plains of the dwarven lands, the odds that any one of 
      these twenty might know him by sight was remote, odds made better by the 
      fact that he hadn't been back to his homeland in twenty years. These were 
      Horsed dwarves, too, and Wolfram was Unhorsed. He came from Saumel, the 
      City of the Unhorsed, and while some clan dwarves did occasionally visit 
      Saumel on business, they never stayed long. If they had seen him, they 
      probably wouldn't remember him.
      The "probably" was a chance he couldn't take.
      Watching the dwarves unpack their horses, Wolfram was suddenly extremely 
      curious. What were they doing here? He had never in his life known dwarves 
      to travel all the way from their lands to the monastery on Dragon 
      Mountain. Few Clan dwarves even knew of the existence of the monastery or 
      Dragon Mountain, for that matter. The journey must have been long and 
      arduous; dangerous, too, for the dwarves would have been forced to pass 
      through the lands of the Vinnengaeleans, their ancient foe.
      The sun slid down behind the mountain. The sky turned a brilliant gold, 
      the land took on shades of night. Keeping in the shadows of the fir trees, 
      using them as cover, Wolfram crept nearer.
      The party was made up of twenty dwarves and double that number of horses: 
      the small, shaggy, sturdy horses bred by the dwarves and honored among all 
      those in Loerem who know horseflesh. The dwarves were heavily 
      armedcustomary for dwarves traveling into hostile territory, which was 
      any territory outside dwarven lands. Their arms and weapons were not the 
      crude sort made by most clan dwarves. Wolfram recognized in astonishment 
      the exceptional work of the Karkara Unhorsed, who lived on the eastern 
      side of the Dwarven Spine Mountains. Such marvelous weapons were extremely 
      difficult to come by, even among the dwarven clans, and were highly prized 
      and very expensive.
      This must be the escort for a clan chief, and no ordinary clan chief at 
      that. Perhaps the exalted Chief Clan Chief. Scraps of conversation he 
      managed to overhear confirmed this. The dwarves spoke of one called 
      Kolost. Judging by their respectful tones, he was an important personage 
      among them. Whoever this Kolost was, he was inside meeting with one of the 
      monks. Wolfram still couldn't make out the clan, though, and this puzzled 
      him.
      Some of the ponies had markings on them, but others did not. Some ponies 
      sported horse blankets of similar make and design, but not all. Several of 
      the dwarves wore red beads dangling from the ends of their mustaches, 
      while the others wore no beads at all. Another oddity about this group was 
      that the dwarves, while they all acted in concert, treated each other with 
      stiff, marked respect. When not engaged in some task, they separated, 
      clustering together in smaller groups of three or four.
      Suddenly, Wolfram figured it out, and he cursed himself for being the 
      world's greatest dullard. These dwarves were not high-ranking warriors 
      from one clan. This group was comprised of high-ranking warriors from 
      several clans.
      Wolfram might be excused for not having reached this conclusion earlier by 
      the simple fact that he had never in his life witnessed such an 
      occurrence: this many clans coming together under the leadership of one 
      clan chief. Even the Chief Clan Chief, who was nominal leader of all the 
      clans, customarily traveled with warriors from his own clan.
      The Unhorsed were an exception to this rule, but then, they didn't have 
      much choice. The Unhorsed were those dwarves who, because of injury or 
      law-breaking or some other mischance, had been thrown out of the clan. 
      Exiles, they had been forced to band together in order to survive, and 
      thus the four cities of the Unhorsed were established.
      Having figured all this out, Wolfram recognized Steel Clan by the red 
      beads, Sword Clan by their horse blankets, and Red Clan by the zigzag mark 
      on the rumps of their ponies. These clans had been bitter enemies in the 
      past. What had brought their high-ranking warriors together to make a 
      dangerous journey across half a continent?
      Who was this Kolost? What was he doing here at Dragon Mountain of all 
      places? What business could a dwarf possibly have with the 
      history-recording monks? So intense was Wolfram's curiosity that he was 
      tempted to make himself known to his fellows and find out what was going 
      on. He fought the temptation, however, reminding himself that he was an 
      outlaw, a criminal, and that he risked being dragged back to Saumel in 
      ignominy and chains.
      Meanwhile, his gear was inside the common room, and he was outside, with 
      twenty dwarves between him and the entrance. He glanced up at the wall 
      behind him. The windows were open to the crisp mountain air. He considered 
      trying to crawl inside, then remembered that the giant Omarah were always 
      roaming the halls, and they would view with ire any dwarf caught shinnying 
      unceremoniously through a window.
      Wolfram had no choice but to hunker down behind the fir trees and wait 
      until the dwarves wrapped themselves in their horse blankets and went to 
      sleep. Then he could sneak inside, grab his pack, and depart before anyone 
      saw him.
      Night closed in around the firs and around Wolfram. The clan dwarves built 
      the nightly fire sacred to the dwarves, one of whom, the Fire magus, is 
      given the responsibility of building the fire every night and carefully 
      extinguishing the fire every morning. The dwarves cooked their evening 
      meal, roasting rabbits on spits.
      When they were done, the dwarves wrapped themselves in their horse 
      blankets, set the watch, and bedded down for the night. Wolfram figured 
      that any moment this Kolost would return to camp, for no clan dwarf would 
      ever consider spending the night inside a building if he could help it. 
      The clan chief did not appear, however, and, eventually, hunger and the 
      fact that his knees were aching from squatting in the fir trees impelled 
      Wolfram to action.
      He rose to his feet, wincing at the pain of his stiff joints, and made his 
      way quietly through the darkness to the main doors. Wolfram waited until 
      the dwarf on watch had turned his back and was strolling in the opposite 
      direction, then Wolfram scooted along the back edge of the firs, dashed up 
      the stairs, and raced inside the front doors.
      He came face-to-face with an imposing-looking dwarf and Fire, the dragon, 
      in dwarven guise.
      "Ah, Wolfram," said Fire imperturbably. "We were just coming to look for 
      you. Wolfram, this is Kolost, Chief Clan Chief. Kolost, this is the dwarf 
      I told you about. The one who can assist you. He is Wolfram, the Dominion 
      Lord."
       



       2YOU ARE WOLFRAM, THE DOMINION LORD?" KOLOST ASKED.
      "Wolfram's my name," said Wolfram. "But I'm not a Dominion Lord."
      "So the monk is lying?" Kolost stared very hard at Wolfram, -who found he 
      couldn't meet the dwarf's piercing gaze.
      "Not lying," said Wolfram, ducking his head. "Mistaken. She's mistaken, 
      that's all."
      "How could she be mistaken?"
      Wolfram shrugged, kept his head down, muttered something.
      "What did you say?" Kolost demanded.
      "Same name. Common name, Wolfram. . . ."
      His words fell into a well of silence, went spiraling down into the 
      darkness, and landed with a thud. Kolost stood with his arms folded across 
      his chest, regarding Wolfram with a frown. Clearly, the clan chief 
      couldn't understand what was going on and, with customary dwarven 
      tenacity, he was determined to find out. The monk Fire watched Wolfram 
      with a patient smile, like a parent indulging a child in bad behavior, 
      aware that eventually the child will improve on its own.
      Wolfram could look forward to endless hours of badgering from Kolost and 
      endless hours of that damned patient smile. He capitulated.
      "All right! I am that Wolfram. Or rather, I was. I was once a Dominion 
      Lord. We all make mistakes when we're young and foolish. But then I came 
      to my senses. I quit, resigned." He ripped open the front of his wool 
      shirt, bared his chest. "You don't see a medallion on me, do you? Right, 
      you don't. Because I don't wear one. Because I'm not a Dominion Lord. Not 
      anymore. So, if that's all, I bid you both a good night. I'm going to get 
      something to eat."
      He stalked off, his head high, to the table where the monks had laid out 
      the nightly collation. In truth, Wolfram had lost his appetite, but he 
      made a show of being hungry. He piled the wooden bowl high with bread and 
      cheese and smoked meat and took it off to a corner of the common room. 
      Plunking himself down on the flagstone hearth, he began to chew bread 
      furiously. He watched Fire and Kolost out of the corner of his eye.
      The two stood with their heads together, conferring. Wolfram could hear 
      parts of the conversation, guessed the rest. Kolost asked about the 
      medallion Wolfram had mentioned. Fire explained that the medallion was a 
      gift of the gods to all those who undergo the painful Transfiguration to 
      become Dominion Lords. The medallion provided magical armor that protected 
      the Dominion Lord from attack and also gave him certain magical powers. 
      Wolfram had to work to swallow the bread. He managed, with the help of 
      some ale, to bolt it down, and started grimly on the meat.
      The conversation ended. Fire departed. Wolfram hoped that Kolost would 
      leave, as well. To his dismay, the clan chief came walking toward where 
      Wolfram sat with his back to the fire. Wolfram groaned inwardly. He eyed 
      Kolost, trying to get the feel of his enemy. This was the first chance 
      he'd had for a good look at the clan chief, and Wolfram was both surprised 
      and puzzled by what he saw. Kolost was about standard height for a dwarf, 
      but he was on the lean side, which made him appear taller. His hair and 
      thick eyebrows and long mustaches were black, his eyes a deep brown. His 
      face was so sunburnt and wind-ravaged that it was hard to tell his age. 
      From a distance, Wolfram had figured him for a middle-aged dwarf. Now, 
      viewing him close-up, Wolfram was startled to see that Kolost was still a 
      relatively young man. Far too young to be a clan chief. What was most 
      puzzling was that Kolost wore no clan insignia or markings of any sort. 
      His only ornament, if one could call it that, was a battle-ax that he wore 
      strapped onto his back. A connoisseur of weaponry, Wolfram had taken note 
      of this ax when Kolost was talking to Fire. The ax was of Karkara design 
      and workmanship and was one of the finest Wolfram had ever seen.
      Kolost veered off toward the table, and Wolfram's heart rose. The clan 
      chief was merely helping himself to a mug of ale. Kolost paused to take a 
      long drink, gave a belch of satisfaction, then came over and squatted down 
      on the hearth beside Wolfram.
      The two were the only visitors to the monastery this night. Wolfram sat in 
      tense and sullen silence, waited for the accusations, the denunciations, 
      the fight.
      "Good ale," said Kolost. "For humans."
      Wolfram said nothing, chewed his food.
      "It might help you to know that I was once one of the Unhorsed," said 
      Kolost. He did not look at Wolfram, but gazed out over the common room, 
      the trestle table, the baskets of bread, pitchers of ale. "I was born and 
      raised in Karkara."
      At this startling pronouncement, Wolfram nearly choked on his meat. His 
      head jerked up. He stared at Kolost.
      "But you're a clan chief." A thought occurred to Wolfram. "Those men out 
      there. They don't know, do they? Don't worry. I'll keep your secret."
      "They know," Kolost said. His dark, thick brows came together in a frown. 
      He glanced sidelong at Wolfram. "I would not live my life a lie."
      Wolfram snorted. "That sounds very fine, but you can't expect me to 
      believe any of this. An Unhorsed would never be accepted into a clan, much 
      less rise to clan chief. If you're trying to trick me"
      "It is the truth," said Kolost sternly. "Not only am I a clan chief, I am 
      Chief Clan Chiefthe ruler of the dwarven nation."
      Having made this pronouncement, Kolost relaxed, grinned wryly. "Of course, 
      there are those among some of the clans who dispute my claim, but that is 
      to be expected. They will come around."
      He was not bragging. He was supremely confident, and, looking at him and 
      hearing him, Wolfram could no longer doubt that what the dwarf said was 
      true.
      "My parents were Unhorsed," Kolost continued. "My mother was a cripple. 
      She'd been crushed by a horse during a raid. Her legs never healed 
      properly, and her parents took her to Karkara. She was only eight years 
      old when they abandoned her. The other Unhorsed raised her and eventually 
      she met and married my father. He was an outlaw who'd been banished from 
      his clan for coupling with another man's wife. He worked as a blacksmith's 
      assistant. That would have been my job, too, but the Wolf told me that my 
      destiny did not lie in Karkara. The Wolf did not intend for me to be a 
      soot-covered smithy all my life. The Wolf advised me to leave my parents, 
      to cross the Dwarf Spine Mountains and find a clan who would accept me. 
      This I did. I was twelve years old at the time."
      Wolfram gave up any pretense of eating. He stared, and he listened.
      "The journey was long and hard. I starved, I went thirsty. I lost my way. 
      But whenever I was hungry, the Wolf fed me. When I was lost, the Wolf 
      guided me. He led me to the Steel Clan. At first, they drove me away, 
      would not permit me even to enter their camp. I was persistent. I followed 
      them day and night. I had no horse, but I kept up with them as best I 
      could on foot. Whenever I lost them, the Wolf showed me how to find them. 
      I did my own hunting and gave them gifts of meat, to show I would not be a 
      burden.
      "And then came the day the clan chief left the camp and walked out to meet 
      me. He said that because of my courage and my stubbornness, the clan had 
      agreed to take me in. He gave me to a couple who had lost their only child 
      to sickness and said I was to be their son. And so I was taken into Steel 
      Clan. By the time the clan chief died, I had proven myself a strong 
      warrior and a skilled hunter. I held my own in contest and battle and, 
      against all precedent, I was made clan chief.
      "I traveled back to Karkara. I purchased and bartered for weapons, and 
      these I carried over the mountains and gave to the warriors of Steel Clan. 
      Under my leadership and with our fine weapons, we proved our prowess in 
      battle to both Sword and Red Clans. They agreed to accept me as Chief Clan 
      Chief, as have the Unhorsed of Saumel and Karkara. The other clans will 
      soon join them."
      Wolfram stared in wonderment. Kolost spoke in matter-of-fact tones about 
      his past, but Wolfram could see through the words to the reality. He could 
      envision the terrible hardships endured by the boy, the loneliness, the 
      fear. Wolfram could admire the nerve and determination that had overcome 
      all these obstacles, led Kolost this far. Where did Kolost plan to go in 
      the future?
      The clan chief read his thoughts. Kolost smiled and took another pull on 
      his ale.
      "I have no small ambition in mind, as you might imagine. I plan to rule 
      the dwarven nation, to bring all clans under my control. Once I have done 
      that, I will extend our territory, seize back the lands the humans and 
      elves and orks have taken from us. And I do not mean raiding cattle pens. 
      I mean take back the land, force them to give it to us, with perhaps a 
      little extra into the bargain."
      "So why did you come here?" Wolfram asked, feeling dazed and dazzled, as 
      though he brushed up against the blazing sun. "You surely didn't come 
      looking for me."
      "No, I did not," said Kolost. "Not you specifically. I had no idea that a 
      dwarven Dominion Lord even existed." He paused, then said, musing, 
      "Although in a way, perhaps I did come looking for you. The Wolf told me 
      that here at Dragon Mountain I would find the help I needed. Perhaps the 
      Wolf meant you."
      "Perhaps he didn't," said Wolfram shortly. He cast a sly glance at the 
      clan chief. "You don't seem the type to need help anywaymine or the 
      monks'."
      Kolost frowned into his empty ale mug. "I know myself, my strengths and my 
      limits. I know dwarves, the Horsed and the Unhorsed. I know how they think 
      and how they will react to what I do and say. I know battle and I know 
      peace. I know the ways of naturewind and flood and fire. But my problem 
      does not concern any of those, and I am baffled. That is why the Wolf sent 
      me here for answers."
      "So what is this burning question that has led you over hundreds of miles 
      into the land of your enemies? "Wolfram asked, relief making him bold. It 
      didn't seem likely he was going to be hauled back as a criminal, after 
all.
      "The dwarven portion of the Sovereign Stone has been stolen," said Kolost. 
      "I came to ask the monks if they had any information about the thief."
      "Stolen?" Wolfram was amazed. "Are you sure?" His voice hardened. "Perhaps 
      it was just misplaced. No clan dwarf and few of the Unhorsed ever gave a 
      damn about the Stone anyway." He marveled that even after all these years, 
      the anger was still hot inside him. "Why do you even care?"
      "It is true that, in the past, none of them cared," said Kolost, his tone 
      grim. "But now they do. The Sovereign Stone was given to the dwarves by 
      the Wolf. The Stone is ours. None has the right to steal it from us."
      "The truth is, you think you might need it," said Wolfram cunningly. "Do 
      you know who took it? Surely, someone must have seen the thief."
      Kolost shook his head. "It was done by stealth in the night. No one saw or 
      heard anything."
      Wolfram scratched his head. For two hundred years, the dwarven portion of 
      the Sovereign Stone had resided safely in the Unhorsed city of Saumel. No 
      dwarf would ever steal it. This Kolost was the first dwarf Wolfram had met 
      who even seemed to know or care about the Sovereign Stone. Saumel was a 
      center of trade for the dwarven realms. Members of other races were 
      permitted entry into the city, although they were supposed to keep their 
      movements confined to certain sections. The dwarves set no watch on the 
      Sovereign Stone, other than the children.
      "What did Fire say?" Wolfram asked. "Did she know who the thief might be?"
      "I do not think so," said Kolost, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead. 
      "That woman is very strange. Not like a true dwarf at all. I am not 
      certain that I trust her." He eyed Wolfram, as he said this.
      "Oh, Fire's all right," Wolfram said, passing it off. "And if she knew, 
      she'd tell you. What did she say?"
      "She said that she had no help to give me, but that there was a dwarf 
      visiting here who has knowledge of the Sovereign Stone, for he is a 
      Dominion Lord."
      " Was a Dominion Lord," said Wolfram testily." Was. I'm not anymore. I 
      gave it up."
      "That is not what Fire says," Kolost stated. "And what does she know about 
      it?" Wolfram huffed. "She knows that although you may have given up on 
      yourself, the Wolf will never give up on you."
      Wolfram grunted. He occasionally swore by the Wolf, but that was about as 
      close as the relationship between them went these days.
      Kolost rose to his feet. "We will speak more of this in the morning. Will 
      you share my fire with me this night?"
      To be invited to share a dwarf's fire is a great honor, a mark of 
      friendship. Wolfram saw the trap, though, and congratulated himself on 
      cleverly dodging it.
      "I thank you, Clan Chief," he said. "The moon is full, and the road 
      beckons. I have already stayed in this place too long. I must be off."
      He expected Kolost might be angry or insulted. Wolfram was prepared to 
      deal with either or both.
      "The Children were murdered," said Kolost.
      Wolfram flinched, as though someone had jabbed him with a needle.
      "What do you mean?" he asked, prevaricating. "What children?"
      "The Children of Dunner. The Children who are the Stone's self-appointed 
      guardians. Whoever took the Stone murdered them. The Children fought to 
      defend it. They died heroes. I bid you smooth grasslands, Wolfram."
      Meaning, have a safe journey. Kolost walked out of the monastery. Wolfram 
      stood staring into the fire long after Kolost had left. Wolfram stared so 
      long that his eyes began to water from the bright light.
      At least, that's what he told himself.



      Kolost and his escort were up with the sunrise, dousing their fire and 
      packing up their meager belongings. Kolost had completed his task. His 
      question had been asked and answered. Never mind that the answer wasn't 
      the one he wanted. He accepted that with the stoic fatalism that had 
      carried him through life. He prepared to move on.
      Wolfram watched the dwarves from the shadows of the doorway. He had slept 
      badly that night, troubled by strange dreams. He decided he might at least 
      ask Kolost a few more questions.
      The dwarves knew by his long beard and lack of clan markings that Wolfram 
      was Unhorsed, and they regarded him with pity. Wolfram ignored them. He'd 
      seen that look before, all too many times. He walked straight up to 
      Kolost, who was bent, peering beneath his horse's belly, checking the 
      tightness of his saddle girth.
      "Kolost," said a dwarf, warningly. "One comes."
      The clan chief straightened, turned to face Wolfram. If Kolost had been 
      smug or smiled knowingly or looked triumphant in any way, Wolfram would 
      have turned on his heel and walked off that instant. The clan chief's 
      expression was grave, calm, gave nothing, expected nothing, and so Wolfram 
      stayed.
      "How long ago did this theft take place?" he demanded.
      Kolost gave the matter thought. "The full moon has shone on our journey 
      three times since then."
      Wolfram gaped. "Three months?"
      "It has taken us that long to travel this distance," said Kolost. "We are 
      not elves. We cannot fly."
      "Neither can elves,"Wolfram muttered.
      "I would not know," said Kolost politely. "I have never met an elf."
      "You're not missing much."Wolfram stood in thought, wavering, undecided. 
      He looked back at Kolost. "I don't know what you expect me to do about 
      this theft. By the time we travel back, three more months will have 
      passed. Or longer. The thief could be on the other side of the world by 
      then. He might be there now, for all we know."
      He shook his head. "No, it's hopeless. There's nothing I can do. Nothing 
      anyone can do. I get around a lot, though. I'll keep my ears open. If I 
      hear anything"
      "Hello, Wolfram," said Ranessa, walking up from behind. "Who are your 
      friends?"
      Wolfram's toes curled. His hair rose. He could have cheerfully thrown 
      himself off the mountain and, for a brief moment, actually considered it.
      She was in her human form, the first time he'd seen her that way since 
      she'd become a dragon. He'd forgotten just how strange she looked with her 
      black, uncombed hair straggling down over her face; her well-worn and 
      none-too-clean leather pants and tunic; and that wild, half-mad glint in 
      her eyes.
      Dwarves have no use for humans. The clan dwarves exchanged dour glances. 
      Kolost looked stern and disapproving.
      Wolfram had been speaking Fringrese, the language of the clan dwarves. He 
      shifted to Elderspeak.
      "Now is not a good time, Ranessa," he growled. "You can annoy me later. 
      What are you doing here, anyway? And in that getup?"
      "I came to see if you'd gone," Ranessa returned coldly. "And, of course, 
      you hadn't. As for this 'getup' as you call it, Fire won't let me use my 
      dragon form around the monastery. She says I might break something."
      "Who is this human, Wolfram?" Kolost demanded, in Elderspeak.
      "Nobody important," said Wolfram, shifting back to Fringrese. "A human who 
      latched on to me. I can't get rid"
      "I am Ranessa," said Ranessa, drawing herself up and regarding Kolost with 
      disdain. "And I am a dragon."
      "A dragon!" Kolost repeated.
      "She's mad as a mistor," said Wolfram in low tones. "I know you want to 
      get an early start, so I'll just say my good-byes. Have a safe journey"
      "I am not mad!" cried Ranessa in a towering rage. "I am sick and tired of 
      people thinking me mad!"
      "Don't, Ranessa," Wolfram begged, realizing he'd made a terrible mistake. 
      "I'm sorry."
      "I'll show you who's mad!" Ranessa stated.
      Her human form flowed into that of the dragon. Her arms became I wings. 
      Her head glistened red as the scales sparkled over her flesh. Her black 
      hair transformed into a black, spiky mane that quivered with indignation 
      and triumph. Her green eyes glinted. Thick, heavily muscled I back legs 
      supported a massive body. Her red shining tail lashed moodily across the 
      ground.
      Catching one sniff of dragon, the horses stampeded, some galloping off 
      down the mountain, others dashing around the eastern wall of the 
monastery.
      The dwarves stared in horrified, frozen shock for a single moment. Then 
      Kolost shouted out orders. He grabbed his battle-ax and held it, braced. 
      The other dwarves snatched up sword or ax or bow and prepared to attack.
      Wolfram yelled himself hoarse, trying to calm the dwarves on one hand and 
      Ranessa on the other. The dragon gave out a roar and bared her glistening 
      fangs. Startled from their studies by the horrendous noise, the monks 
      looked out the windows and peered out from the door. The Omarah came 
      pounding across the compound, brandishing their huge staves, intent on 
      quelling the disturbance.
      Suddenly, Kolost pointed.
      "Another one!" he cried. A second dragon came flying out of the east, 
      winging her way over the mountains.
      At the sight of her mother, Ranessa collapsed back into her human form. 
      She huddled behind Wolfram, trying to hide. Since she was tall and he was 
      short, this was not a great success.
      The red dragon swooped low over the monastery.
      "Put away your weapons, gentlemen," said Fire, circling above them. "My 
      daughter means you no harm. Do you, Daughter?"
      Ranessa, crouched behind Wolfram, shook her head.
      "Forgive my child, sirs," Fire continued. "She is newly hatched and has 
      not yet learned proper behavior. I am sorry about your horses. The Omarah 
      will round them up and see to it that they are returned to you."
      Kolost gazed upward in dazed awe, too stunned to react. Wolfram touched 
      the clan chief's shoulder.
      "You better do as she says," Wolfram advised. "Put away your weapons. 
Now."
      Kolost lowered his battle-ax and gave orders for his escort to do the 
same.
      "This is all your fault!" Ranessa cried, and smote Wolfram between the 
      shoulder blades, a blow that knocked him to his knees. She stalked off, 
      leaving him to pick himself up.
      "Again, sirs, I apologize," said Fire.
      Lifting her wings, she sailed among the clouds, vanished around the side 
      of the mountain.
      The dwarves shifted their stares from the dragon to Wolfram. Let them 
      stare. He didn't care.
      "They'll bring your horses back."
      Wolfram turned on his heel and walked off, headed for the monastery to 
      retrieve his pack. He was worn-out from lack of sleep, but he figured he 
      could put several miles between himself and Dragon Mountain before he 
      collapsed.
      He snatched up his pack, put on his new fur-lined hat. He was on his way 
      out the door and off Dragon Mountainthis time, for goodwhen the heavy 
      hand of one of the Omarah engulfed his shoulder.
      "Fire wants to see you."
      "I don't want to see her," said Wolfram. "I'm leaving."
      "Fire wants to see you," the Omarah repeated. The hand tightened its 
      grip-Wolfram found Fire staring out the window, her hands clasped behind 
      her back. When she turned, she had a worried, anxious expression on her 
      face that reminded Wolfram forcibly of his own mother, who had often worn 
      just such an expression. He felt suddenly and unreasonably guilty.
      "Ma'am," he said, snatching off his hat. "I'm truly sorry"
      "It's not your fault, Wolfram." Fire smiled ruefully. "If it's anyone's 
      fault, I suppose it's mine. Ranessa is my first child, you see. I have 
      fallen into a trap common to parents with their firstborn. I have been 
      overprotective of her. Too indulgent. She is willful and headstrong, much 
      as I was when I was a young hatchling. In other words, I've made a hash of 
      motherhood. I'm going to send Ranessa out into the world, Wolfram. And I 
      want you to go with her."
      Wolfram tried to protest, but all he managed was a strangled gargle.
      "This could be the solution to all your problems," Fire continued, 
      pretending not to notice his discomfiture. "Ranessa will have a chance to 
      see the world through her dragon eyes. You and Kolost will travel swiftly 
      and safely to the city of Saumel. The disappearance of the dwarven portion 
      of the Stone is extremely serious, Wolfram. You understand that, don't 
      you?"
      "I ... I suppose so, ma'am," said Wolfram, dazed. "It's just ... I don't 
      know who could have taken it. Who would even want it . . ."
      "Don't you, Wolfram?" Fire asked quietly. Reaching down her hand, she 
      toyed with a small silver box, adorned with turquoise.
      Wolfram stared at the box that had once been in the possession of the dead 
      Dominion Lord, Gustav. Memories came flooding back. Gustav had died 
      defending that box, which had once held the portion of the Sovereign Stone 
      given to the human race. Gustav had bequeathed the box to Wolfram. Perhaps 
      the Dominion Lord had bequeathed something else along with it.
      Horrible suspicions flooded Wolfram's mind. He'd had two encounters with 
      Vrykyl, and he didn't want a third. The memories alone were enough to 
      shrivel his private parts. But then he thought about the children.
      Wolfram cleared his throat. "I'll go back to Saumel, ma'am. Though I'm not 
      a Dominion Lord, I'll do what I can."
      "Why aren't you a Dominion Lord, Wolfram? You underwent the 
      Transfiguration''
      "The gods made a mistake," he said, feeling the heat rush to his face. He 
      waited tensely for Fire to say something more, but she remained silent. 
      Taking a deep breath, he went on. "And Ranessa can come with me. She's a 
      pain in the butt, no offense, ma'am, but, well, I think I understand her 
      now. I know what she's feeling ..."
      "That the gods made a mistake with her, too?" Fire asked, with a sad 
smile.
      Wolfram put his hat on his head. "I don't know about Kolost. Dwarves are 
      fine riding horses, but dragons ... I don't know, ma'am. I don't think 
      he'll do it."
      "I have seen into his heart. He is eager to return to the dwarven lands. 
      He fears that while he is away, his rivals are working against him. I will 
      speak to him. I do not think he will raise any great objection," said 
      Fire. "And I will speak to Ranessa."
      Wolfram had ridden a griffon beforeon a dareand he'd enjoyed it. Flying 
      was an exhilarating experience, like galloping full tilt over a sunlit 
      meadow. He had a sudden vivid image, though, of riding on the back of the 
      willful, wayward, and awkward young fire dragon. He recalled her inept, 
      clumsy, and bone-jarring landings, and he wiped his forehead with the 
      sleeve of his shirt.
      "Uh, ma'am, if you could have a word with her about carrying riders. How 
      it wouldn't be wise to suddenly decide to flip over in midair and how she 
      might want to watch where she's setting down and not make it a lake, for 
      example, or an ocean or the pit of a volcano . . ."
      Fire smiled. "I think you will find that Ranessa has more sense than you 
      give her credit for, Wolfram."
      "Yes, ma'am," said Wolfram politely, dubiously, and he bowed his way out.
       



       3TIME PRESSED ON THE OTHER PEOPLE OF THE WORLD, HOUNDED them with its 
      steady, unrelenting pace. Time for Dagnarus was measured in centuries, yet 
      he heard its ticking clock.
      Time had slowed for Shadamehr and Damra and Griffith. Time for them was 
      measured in the ringing bells that announced the changing of the watch on 
      board the orken ship. Blessed with fair weather and a fast wind, they left 
      the Sea of Sagquanno, sailing west for the Sea of Orkas. Their days were 
      filled with leisurely strolls on the decks, serious discussions of the 
      future, less serious stories and songs, and, always, ork omens. Yet every 
      four hours they heard the bells, reminding them that even in the stillness 
      of the night, time rode the waves that flowed beneath their bow.
      Time beat with steady wings for Wolfram and Kolost. Ranessa managed, for 
      the most part, to take seriously the responsibility for the safety of her 
      riders. Her landings improved to the point that Wolfram could now almost 
      keep his eyes open. As for Kolost, he was enchanted with flight, saw 
      immediately how useful it could be in battle. He began to consider 
      seriously how he might import griffons, who were not native to the dwarven 
      lands.
      Time galloped on swift horses' hooves for the Grandmother and Jes-san and 
      Ulaf, riding west, riding home. Time cantered for Rigiswald, who had 
      fallen in with a wine-merchant's caravan traveling to Krammes. He 
      exchanged his services as a healer for protection and companionship and 
      wine enough to wash away the bitter aftertaste left by his experiences in 
      New Vinnengael.
      Time shoved at the backs of all those who had come into contact with what 
      might be called Lord Gustav's Sovereign Stone, with one exception. For 
      Raven, traveling with the taan, time was a long day's march, the breaking 
      down of one camp and the setting up of another, and more marching.
      The Trevinici make some attempt to count the passing of days, for a 
      warrior home on leave needs to know how many sunrises he can remain with 
      his people before he has to return to his post. But for Raven, time had 
      essentially stopped. There was nowhere he had to be, nowhere he needed to 
      go.
      Raven looked back across time to see his past life receding in the 
      distance. He watched without regret as it dwindled and faded away. He 
      could never go back to that lifea life of dishonor for a Trevinici who 
      had been captured in battle and dragged off a prisoner, while his comrades 
      fought and died.
      The killing of his captor, Qu-tok, was the bright beacon fire that now lit 
      Raven's way. He had taken revenge on the enemy who had brought shame on 
      him. He had taken his revenge on the enemy who had mocked him, laughed at 
      him, made sport of him. In slaying his enemy, Raven had earned a dubious 
      honorhe'd attracted the notice of one of the hideous, undead Vrykyl, an 
      albino taan called K'let, who had made Raven his bodyguard. Raven had 
      attained another honor, one that meant more to him. He had gained favor 
      with the taan tribe.
      No longer a prisoner, Raven was a warrior among the taan, granted full 
      warrior status. He had been given Qu-tok's weapons, his tent and its place 
      of honor in the outer circle of warriors, and all of Qu-tok's possessions, 
      which included a half-taan slave called Dur-zor. Raven had no use for most 
      of Qu-tok's possessions. Qu-tok had some fine armor, which had been 
      presented to him as a reward for his bravery in battle, but it wouldn't 
      fit Raven, and so he gave it away to some of the other taan in the tribe, 
      further gaining in goodwill. The very finest piecea helm that had been 
      presented to Qu-tok by the hand of their god, Dagnarus, himself, Raven 
      gave to Dag-ruk, the nizam, leader of the tribe.
      Dag-ruk was pleased with the gift and pleased with the giver. If Raven had 
      known how pleased the female taan was with him, he would have buried the 
      helm in the deepest hole he could dig and crawled in after it. He had no 
      notion, however. Dur-zor knew, for she saw the way Dag-ruk looked at 
      Raven, and she understood the true meaning that lay behind Dag-ruk's 
      flattering remarks. It was not for Dur-zor to stand in the way of Raven's 
      glory, and so she said nothing.
      The days passed, mostly unnoticed by Raven, who found it easier to live 
      from moment to moment, refusing to think of the past and ignoring the 
      future. He had work to keep him occupied, for which he was grateful. 
      Dag-ruk's tribe had made the decision to join with other tribes under the 
      rebellious taan, K'let.
      Dag-ruk's tribe had met K'let's tribes in battle, but the Vrykyl had not 
      wanted to fight his fellow taan. He had wanted to convert them to his 
      cause. He had spoken to Dag-ruk and her people, told them that this god 
      they worshiped, this Dagnarus, was not a god at all, but a mere human. A 
      human who cared nothing for the taan as he claimed, but who was using them 
      to gain ascendancy over the soft and sniveling races of Loerem. When he 
      was through with the taan, K'let claimed, Dagnarus would not reward the 
      taan, as he had promised. He would turn on them and try to destroy them.
      K'let urged the taan to break with Dagnarus, to go back to their worship 
      of the old gods, who were taan themselves, and who cared for and 
      understood the taan. K'let's words were persuasive, and Dagnarus was not 
      around to refute them. Dag-ruk had been taught to worship the Vrykyl, or 
      kyl-sarnz, as the taan know themthe "god-touched." She admired K'let, as 
      did all taan, who knew the story of his rebellion against Dagnarus, and 
      she felt in her heart that he spoke the truth. She had agreed to follow 
      him and brought most of her warriors along with her. Those who did not 
      agree had either kept their mouths shut or left the tribe.
      K'let and his taan supporters, including Dag-ruk and her tribe, traveled 
      east, heading for some unknown destination. What that was, K'let would not 
      say, but they were apparently in a hurry to reach it. He commanded the 
      taan to march long hours every day. They made no stops, but that was 
      nothing out of the ordinary for the nomadic tribes. All the taan felt the 
      urgency of their travel, and many speculated at their destination, 
      including Raven.
      What with the long marches by day, the evenings spent in practicing how to 
      use the strange taan weapons that he'd inherited and teaching Dur-zor the 
      ways of human lovemaking in the night, Raven had all he needed to keep his 
      mind occupied.
      He enjoyed most of it, even the marches, for he was accustomed to roving 
      and liked the freedom of the road. The exception was the time he spent 
      around K'let. The very sight of the Vrykyl gave Raven the horrors, 
      reminded him of that terrible ride he'd made to Dunkar, burdened with the 
      accursed armor of the dead Vrykyl who had slain Lord Gustav.
      Raven liked learning the use of a new weaponthe tum-olt. Similar to a 
      greatsword with a serrated edge to the blade, the tum-olt required two 
      hands to wield. He also enjoyed his nights with Dur-zor, whose only idea 
      of lovemaking up to now had been the brutal treatment of human females or 
      the almost-as-brutal coupling of taan mates.
      Dur-zor lived for the nights when the two of them could be alone together, 
      shut out the rest of the world. She yearned all through the day for the 
      touch of his hands on her body, the touch of his lips on hers. She had 
      come to learn the word "love" from him. She knew what it meant the 
      wonderful, terrible feelings she had for him. She never spoke the word to 
      him, though, for Dur-zor knew that he did not love her, and she did not 
      want to give him pain.
      After their lovemaking, they would lie together, and she would teach him 
      words in the taan language. Raven could never speak taanic, the guttural 
      language of the taan. The human throat is not capable of making the 
      sounds. He was learning to understand it, however. Because of their years 
      of serving among the armies of other countries, Trevinici had developed an 
      affinity for language. Raven was a quick study, and he rarely needed 
      Dur-zor to translate what he was hearing, though he still needed her to 
      give his replies.
      This night, Raven had just returned to the tribe after spending two 
      hateful nights standing guard duty for K'let. Several taan tribes had come 
      together under K'let's leadership. Dag-ruk's tribe had set up camp about 
      five miles from the main tribe, where K'let had tented. Raven came back 
      late at night. He was ravenously hungry and disappointed to see the cook 
      pot empty.
      "What is this?" he asked Dur-zor.
      She dropped down to her knees. "I'm sorry"
      Raven took hold of her hands, lifted her up. "I've told you, Dur-zor, you 
      don't kneel to me. I'm not your master. We're equals, you and I." He 
      gestured to her, then to himself. "Equals."
      "Yes, Raven," said Dur-zor hurriedly. "I'm sorry. I forgot. Dag-ruk has 
      sent"
      But Raven wasn't interested in Dag-ruk. He glanced around the camp, his 
      frowning gaze going to other half-taan, most of whom were down on their 
      knees, doing the menial jobs that were beneath the taskers, or accepting 
      the blows they received on a daily basis.
      "I can't believe they treat you and your kind like dogs," he said, his 
      anger growing. "Worse than dogs. I've a good mind to speak to Dag-ruk 
      about it."
      "Please, Raven," said Dur-zor, pleading. "Don't start this again. I've 
      told you before. You cannot help us. You will only make trouble for us and 
      for yourself." She cast a fearful glance at the tent of the nizam. 
      "Dag-ruk wants to speak to you, Raven. You should not keep her waiting."
      Raven set his jaw. His expression grim, he left his tent and walked 
      through the camp toward the tent of the nizam. Dur-zor hurried after, 
      worried and fearful. She had come to know that stubborn look. Nothing she 
      could say would deter him. He'd worn that same look when he'd challenged 
      Qu-tok in the kdah-klk.
      Dag-ruk stood in front of her tent, laughing at something with several 
      taan warriors. Tall and strong Dag-ruk bore her battle scars with pride. 
      She had won the favor of the shaman, R'lt, and her arms were lumpy with 
      the magically enhanced stones he had inserted beneath her leathery hide. 
      She was a fearless warrior and a powerful nizam. At Raven's arrival, 
      Dag-ruk turned from her conversation. She frowned, and the warriors 
      grinned. Although the taan admired Raven for his defeat of Qu-tok, the 
      warriorsparticularly the young oneswere jealous of him and did not mind 
      seeing him take a fall.
      "You have kept me waiting, R'vn," said Dag-ruk, her tone severe.
      Before Raven could respond, Dur-zor intervened.
      "It was my fault, great Kutryx," she said, dropping to her knees, humbling 
      herself before Dag-ruk. "I forgot to tell him."
      "I might have known," said Dag-ruk with a sneer.
      She started to kick Dur-zor. The half-taan braced herself for the blow, 
      but before Dag-ruk could strike, Raven stepped between the two of them.
      "If you want to kick someone, Kutryx, kick me," he said. "Only know thisI 
      kick back. Tell her what I said, Dur-zor."
      "Raven, please!" said Dur-zor, trembling. "Don't do this."
      "Tell her!" he said coldly.
      Dur-zor repeated the words in taanic, although she said them so brokenly 
      and softly it is doubtful if Dag-ruk heard them. Dag-ruk didn't need to 
      hear them, though. She understood Raven perfectly.
      So did the watching warriors. Their grins vanished. They stared, appalled 
      and shocked at his audacity. Most expected to see him die on the spot, for 
      no one defied the nizam.
      Dag-ruk's hands clenched to fists. Raven stood his ground, ready, waiting.
      Word of the confrontation spread as the shaman, R'lt, hastened to the 
      scene. He said nothing, moved silently, glided along the fringes of the 
      crowd. Dag-ruk was aware of him. Although she did not acknowledge him, her 
      hands relaxed. Her lips parted in a bestial grin, revealing rows of 
      yellowed teeth.
      "You are very bold, R'vn, to speak this way to your nizam," said Dag-ruk.
      "The nizam knows my great respect for her," answered Raven, astonished, as 
      was everyone else in the crowd, that he was not flat on his back. "The 
      nizam is fair and just. The fault was mine, not Dur-zor's."
      "She is a half-taan," said Dag-ruk dismissively. "The fault is always 
      hers."
      Raven opened his mouth, but he heard, behind him, Dur-zor make a soft, 
      pleading whimper, and he kept quiet. He had yet to find out why Dag-ruk 
      had summoned him.
      "You are bold, R'vn," Dag-ruk continued. "And you are brave. You have 
      proven yourself in the kdah-klk and in the calah. You please me, R'vn. You 
      please me so well, in fact, that I am going to take you for my mate."
      A gasp went through the ranks of the warriors. No one dared say a word, 
      however, except R'lt. He made a hissing sound. Dag-ruk glanced at him 
      disdainfully, ignored him.
      Dur-zor had to swallow twice before she could translate the hateful words, 
      the words that would take Raven away from her forever. She wished in that 
      moment that Dag-ruk had crushed her skull. The pain of death would be 
      nothing compared to this.
      Raven understood, though he could not believe it. He waited for the 
      translation to be certain.
      "Tell the nizam that I thank her for this great honor," said Raven. "But I 
      must refuse. Tell her I already have a mate. You are my mate, Dur-zor."
      Dur-zor stared, her breath stolen away. At last she managed to whisper, 
      "Is that true, Raven? Am I ... yours?"
      "Of course, Dur-zor," he said. "I would not lie with you otherwise. To do 
      so would dishonor you."
      "A half-taan has no honor, Raven," said Dur-zor, though her heart sang 
      within her. "Still, I thank you for that. You have made me very happy. I 
      will remember always. Now I will tell Dag-ruk that you will be proud to be 
      her mate."
      "What? No, you won't," said Raven. Catching hold of Dur-zor's arm, he 
      dragged her up to stand beside him. "I thank you, Dag-ruk," he said, 
      speaking loudly and distinctly, as though that would help her to 
      understand his words. "But I have a mate. Dur-zor is my mate." He raised 
      Dur-zor's hand in the air.
      "Furthermore," Raven called out, turning to face the crowd, "I expect all 
      of you to treat my mate with the same respect you treat me."
      Dur-zor tried to shrink into nothing. She was terrified, though not for 
      herself. She was terrified for Raven. Still, even as she cringed, she 
      could not resist casting one, small, triumphant glance at the furious 
      nizam.
      Dag-ruk made a swift gesture with her hand, a gesture that commanded 
      everyone to get out. The taan fell all over themselves in their haste to 
      obey, all except R'lt, who remained standing motionless. Dag-ruk glared at 
      him and, finally, he turned slowly and walked off.
      Dag-ruk thrust her face close to Raven's, who took care not to fall back 
      or give way, knowing that to do either would be a sign of weakness.
      "There is one reason I do not kill you for this insult, R'vn, and that is 
      because you have found favor in the eyes of K'let, the kyl-sarnz. You had 
      best hope that the shadow of his hand continues to protect you, for if it 
      is ever removed . . ." Dag-ruk snatched the tum-olt from its leather 
      sheath, held the blade to Raven's throat. "I will feast on your heart."
      Raven remained still. He did not flinch, though the sharp blade drew 
blood.
      Dag-ruk thrust the sword back into its sheath. With a last, enraged snarl, 
      she entered her tent.
      "I will give you time to reconsider your refusal," she said.
      Raven felt burning pain on his neck. He touched the wound, his hand came 
      away covered in blood. He put his arm around Dur-zor, who was so weak from 
      fear that she could barely stand. Holding fast to each other, they made 
      their way through the ominously silent camp. The other taan avoided 
      looking them in the face, fearful of raising Dag-ruk's ire. Raven could 
      feel the burning eyes stare at him as he passed. A few of the half-taan 
      did meet his gaze, though they lowered their eyes quickly afterward. He 
      saw in them a dawning respect and admiration, and that gave him an idea.
      Raven had not realized before then that being selected as one of K'let's 
      bodyguards gave him both status in the tribe and provided him with a 
      certain amount of protection. He guessed immediately that K'let's favor 
      was behind Dag-ruk's desire to take him for a mate, and that led him to an 
      intriguing thought. Raven had cursed the hours he was forced to stand in 
      close proximity to the Vrykyl. Perhaps, instead of cursing them, he might 
      make use of them. As a soldier, Raven had always scorned those who 
      ingratiated themselves with their commanders to try to obtain a promotion. 
      Raven didn't want a promotion. He wanted something else, something more 
      important. What could it hurt?
      All that could wait, however. His idea was only half-formed, and he was 
      too tired to think about it now. He drew the trembling Dur-zor inside 
      their tent, took her in his arms, and held her close. He began to kiss 
      her, but she stiffened and slid out of his grasp.
      "You must go to her, Raven," said Dur-zor. "You must tell her you are 
      sorry, and you want to mate with her."
      "But I don't, Dur-zor," said Raven. "You are my mate. I pledged myself to 
      you. Let Dag-ruk do what she likes to me."
      Dur-zor looked at him sadly. He would never understand, nor did she want 
      him to. Her life had already been so blessedthat was another word he had 
      taught her. She had no right to expect more. With a sigh and tremulous 
      smile, she nestled into his arms.



      Taan tents, even those that belong to the great among them, are small 
      structures, designed to be broken down rapidly and carried away on the 
      taan's back. The nizam Dag-ruk could not stand upright in her tent. She 
      could not pace about, could not walk off the fury that burned so hot in 
      her blood it seemed to blister her guts. She crouched on the dirt floor, 
      seething and gnashing her teeth, digging her sharp talons into the palms 
      of her hand so that they ran red with blood.
      Hearing a sound, she looked up to see R'lt.
      "Who gave you permission to enter?" she snapped, foam flecking her lips. 
      "Get out!"
      "Not until I have had my say, Dag-ruk."
      Although the nizam rules the tribe, the shaman holds the power of life and 
      death over its people, and so he is often the more feared of the two. It 
      is the shaman who places the magical stones beneath a warrior's hide, the 
      shaman who grants the warrior the gift of Void magic, the shaman who can 
      withdraw that gift or even turn the gift against the warrior.
      Dag-ruk glared at him.
      He stared back, his gaze cold.
      She thrust out her lower lip, sullen, defiant.
      "Say what you must, R'lt, then get out."
      "Why would you mate with an xkes? Would you shame us all?"
      "I have my reasons," she said. "And I don't need to explain them to you!" 
      She made a dismissive gesture. "You are jealous, that is all."
      "As if the day would ever dawn when I would be jealous of xkes!" said R'lt 
      with a sneer. "What will the taan think of you the day you bring forth his 
      babea mewling, puking half-taan . . ."
      Dag-ruk's lips curled in a smirk.
      "Ah, I understand. That is why you choose him," said R'lt, his voice hard 
      with anger. "You could rid yourself of his babe. You could not do so with 
      mine!"
      "I am a warrior!" Dag-ruk flashed. "I am nizam of my people. How long 
      would I be nizam if I were not able to join the battle because my belly is 
      swollen with your brat? There are other reasons, though. R'vn stands high 
      in K'let's favor. The shaman Deri told me in private that K'let has great 
      things planned for this xkes."
      Dag-ruk lowered her voice. "K'let plans to make this R'vn a Kyl-bufftt."
      "A Vrykyl? Pah!" R'lt spit on the ground in a show of defiance. He was 
      uneasy, however. The aged shaman Deri was known to be K'let's closest 
      friend and confidant. "Why would K'let choose to so honor an xkes?"
      "Ask K'let," said Dag-ruk, with an unpleasant smile.
      R'lt cast her an angry glance, but said nothing. Dag-ruk realized, 
      somewhat late, that it might be dangerous to thwart such a powerful man. 
      She adopted a conciliatory tone.
      "You understand, R'lt, that I do this for the tribe. For you, for us. In 
      order to be one of the gods-touched, R'vn must be killed. His corpse will 
      not need a mate. By then, I will be elevated in rank, perhaps even made 
      the commander of a calath. Then I would consider having a child."
      "My child?" said R'lt.
      "Your child," said Dag-ruk.
      R'lt eyed her. He did not trust her. She was lying, trying to placate him. 
      He saw that she feared him, and he was pleased. She would bear him a 
      child. He would see to that. He dared not touch her now. But the day would 
      come when she would be humbled and glad to take him for her mate.
      He left her tent, left her smirking, thinking she had won. He spoke softly 
      the words of his magic and cloaked himself in shadow, so that he was one 
      with the gathering night. He waited outside Dag-ruk's tent. He did not 
      have to wait long. She emerged from the tent, shouted in a loud voice for 
      Ga-tak, one of the warriors.
      The summons passed through the tribe and, within moments, Ga-tak came 
      hurrying to her.
      "I have a task for you, Ga-tak," said Dag-ruk.
      The warrior nodded, looked at her with a gleam in his eye.
      "You know the half-taan, Dur-zor?"
      Ga-tak hesitated, not wanting to admit to anything.
      "You know her," Dag-ruk growled. "I want you to kill her."
      "Yes, Nizam," said Ga-tak, and he would have dashed off on the instant, 
      but Dag-ruk stopped him.
      "Not now, you grolt! You must be subtle. I do not want R'vn to know. He 
      might cause trouble with K'let. You will do this when he is on duty with 
      the kyl-sarnz. You will take Dur-zor far from here, slay her, and hide her 
      body where it will never be found. I will tell R'vn that she has run away. 
      Do you understand?"
      "Yes, Nizam," said Ga-tak.
      "Good. Be off with you. Let me know when the deed is done."
      Dag-ruk ducked back inside her tent. Ga-tak departed, pleased with his 
      task. R'lt lingered, but Dag-ruk did not leave her tent, nor did she 
      invite anyone else to come in. He departed. He now had his own plans to 
      consider.
       



       4THOUGH THE SUN WAS HIGH IN THE SKY, THE SHAMAN DERL WAS asleep when he 
      received the summons to attend K'let. Any other taan caught slumbering 
      during the hours meant for work would have been driven from the tribe with 
      rocks and curses. Deri was in no danger, however. The most powerful Void 
      sorcerer ever to have walked on Loerem, he was revered only slightly less 
      than K'let, the god-touched, and was feared as much.
      Deri spent much of his time sleeping. Having extended his life through the 
      use of Void magic, he had not been able to extend the vitality of youth. 
      He was an ancient taan. He had lived so long he had forgotten how old he 
      was. His body was frail, and he was forced to conserve his strength. He 
      would need strength in the times that he saw coming. Deri had vowed to the 
      old gods, to Iltshuzz and Dekthzar and Lokmirr and to Rivalt, his patron 
      goddess, that he would live long enough to see Dagnarus destroyed, thereby 
      proving to the taan that this xkes was no god.
      Deri's body had grown feeble. His hair had turned white, his hide a 
      mottled gray. He slept more than he was awake these days, but when he was 
      awake, his mind was sharp and keen as the blades of a sut-tum-olt. A young 
      shaman touched Deri on the shoulder.
      "K'let summons you, Master," said the danhz-skuyarr in tones of reverence 
      and respect.
      Deri blinked at the bright daylight, then rose painfully from his bed.
      The young shaman assisted by rubbing the elderly taan's muscles to restore 
      the circulation.
      "Something has happened," Deri said, eyeing the young taan sharply and 
      noting her air of disquiet. "What is going on? Are we being attacked?"
      "No, Master," the young shaman replied. "But you are right. Something dire 
      has happened. Did you . . ." she hesitated. "Did you not hear K'let?"
      "You know that I am deaf in one ear," he said testily. "I heard nothing. 
      What about K'let? What did he say?"
      "He 'said' nothing, Master," the shaman replied, her voice hushed with 
      awe. "He gave a terrible shriek that pierced the heart. A shriek that 
      echoed through the camp and caused all the warriors to drop what they were 
      doing and grab their weapons and come running. All thought the scream was 
      his death cry. His bodyguards came out to tell us that nothing was amiss, 
      the kyl-sarnz was safe. They did not say what had happened. They said only 
      that K'let wanted to see you immediately."
      "Hand me my robes," said Deri. "Any of them. It doesn't matter. Make 
      haste."
      With the aid of the young shaman, he wrapped himself in the heavy garments 
      that were not heavy enough to keep out the chill he felt in his bones even 
      on the hottest summer day. He walked through the camp, moving slowly, but 
      under his own power. Daily routine had come to a halt. The warriors stood 
      about with their weapons in hand, wary and tense. The taskers gathered the 
      children near, just in case.
      The bodyguard, one of whom was the xkes, R'vn, stood aside to allow Deri 
      to pass.
      K'let's tent was built on a larger, grander scale than the tents of most 
      taan. Dagnarus had gifted K'let with a tent such as those used by human 
      kings and commanders, a tent large enough that a taan could stand upright. 
      Deri was grateful. Bending and stooping to enter the small taan tents was 
      starting to wreak havoc on his old bones.
      He entered the tent to find that K'let had abandoned his Void armor. He 
      had taken his taan form. Deri stopped to stare. K'let rarely used his taan 
      form, preferring to encase himself in the shining black armor of the Void 
      that set him above and apart from his people. Born an albino, K'let had 
      been shunned by his people, treated little better than a half-taan. Though 
      he had, even in life, risen to an almost godlike status among the taan, 
      the pain of those memories was so acute that they spanned the gulf of 
      death. Rarely did K'let adopt the guise of what he had been when he was 
      alivea taan male, strong and muscular, ferocious and formidable, with 
      clay white hide and lizardlike red eyes.
      K'let paced back and forth in the tent. His expression was unlike anything 
      Deri had ever seen, and he had known K'let for close to a hundred years. 
      His bestial face was twisted in a snarl of scowling fury, but there was a 
      gleam of fierce joy in the red eyes.
      "K'let," said Deri, "I come in answer to your summons. I fear you have had 
      dire news"
      "Your fear right," said K'let, halting his pacing and rounding on Deri. 
      "Dismiss the guard."
      Mystified, Deri lifted the tent flap. "You and the rest of the guard are 
      dismissed."
      The human, R'vn, might not understand the words, but he could hardly fail 
      to miss the gesture. He walked off, heading in the direction of his 
      tribe's encampment.
      "Yes, my friend, what is it?" Deri asked, dropping the tent flap.
      K'let motioned the shaman to come near. The taan's red eyes burned. "I 
      have been in contact with Nb'arsk."
      Nb'arsk was also a Vrykyl, a taan Vrykyl like K'let. The two communicated 
      through the Blood-knife.
      "Five thousand taan are dead at the battle of the God City," said K'let.
      Deri stared, shocked speechless.
      "They were murdered," K'let continued, grinding the words beneath his 
      sharp teeth. "By Dagnarus."
      Deri did not know what to say. The appalling news left him paralyzed, 
      shaken. His legs started to prickle and tremble, the blood left his head. 
      He was forced to sit down or fall. K'let assisted the aged shaman, 
      squatted beside him.
      When the dizziness passed, Deri felt better. Now he understood the 
      scowling fury . . . and the triumph.
      "Tell me," was all he said.
      "When the taan came to the God City, Dagnarus rode into the city by 
      himself, telling the taan he wanted to talk the xkes into surrendering."
      Deri shrugged, made a face. He had never been able to grasp this strange 
      concept, but he let the matter pass.
      "Dagnarus told the taan to wait for him before they launched the attack. 
      Days passed, and Dagnarus did not return. Then one morning he came to the 
      taan to say that the xkes had not only surrendered, they had agreed to 
      accept him as their king and their god. There would be no attack on the 
      human city. He ordered Nb'arsk and five thousand taan to march south, to 
      take one of the magical holes-in-the-air, and proceed from there to 
      reinforce the taan fighting in the human land of the xkes, 
      Nesskrt-tulz-taan (Those Who Die Like Taan)."
      "Nb'arsk captured the magic hole-in-the-air?" Deri asked with interest.
      "Of course." K'let dismissed this as nothing. "She did not immediately 
      enter the hole, however, for the taan had taken many slaves, and she knew 
      that they would fight better if they were permitted to enjoy their spoils 
      before going on. They had been there four days when a tasker came 
      stumbling into camp. The tasker was half-dead from her wounds. She 
      reported that Dagnarus had led the remaining taan into a trap. Once the 
      taan entered the walls of the God City, the gates closed behind them. They 
      were attacked by powerful wizards wielding foul magicks and by archers and 
      swordsmen. Our people fought bravely and took many xkes with them into 
      death, but no taan survived. Lokmirr gathered to her five thousand taan 
      that day. All died, including the taskers and the children. Yet, even 
      though they were ambushed, they died heroes, and they will be honored by 
      our people. I will see to that."
      Deri saw K'let's expression, and he understood why K'let chose to relate 
      this to him in his taan form. Taan usually did not honor warriors who had 
      gone down to defeat. In this instance, however, these taan had died nobly. 
      In their defeat, they had won a great victory for K'let and for all the 
      taan people.
      "The day that I predicted would come has come," K'let said with fierce 
      elation. "Dagnarus has proven that he is no god of the taan, that he cares 
      nothing for the taan. As he murdered these five thousand, so he means to 
      murder all the rest of usonce we have gained him his great victories, of 
      course."
      "Where is Nb'arsk?" asked Deri.
      "I ordered her to travel through the magic hole. She will continue to 
      fight the humans, but now she fights for the glory of the old gods and for 
      the glory of the taan, not for Dagnarus. The taan will keep all slaves and 
      loot for themselves, not give them to him. Eventually, she will bring her 
      armies to join up with us."
      Deri considered this a good plan, but he was skeptical. "Nb'arsk lacks 
      your strength, K'let. I fear she will not be able to break with Dagnarus. 
      He will continue to control her through the Dagger of the Vrykyl."
      "On the contrary, my friend," said K'let, "she and Lnskt have already 
      broken with him. He let them go. He said he had no need of them anymore 
      and he bid the Void take them."
      "Is he such a fool?" Deri asked in wonder.
      "Whatever else he is, Dagnarus is no fool," K'let growled. "I see his plan 
      now, as I have seen it all along. He will go to the other derrhuth of this 
      fat land and tell them that the taan have slipped the leash and are now a 
      threat to all derrhuth. He will admit that it is his fault, and he will 
      make amends. He will lead the battle against us, and he will need all 
      derrhuth to join him."
      "But, if we continue to fight the derrhuth, we are doing Dagnarus's 
      bidding," Deri argued.
      "We will fight only long enough to provide our warriors with strong food 
      and many slaves, jewels for our hides and armor and weapons.Then, when the 
      Dagger of the Vrykyl is mine and Dagnarus is my slave, we will return 
      through the magic hole-in-the-air to our old land."
      "A pity to leave this place," said Deri. "Such a fat land."
      "Bah! Too many trees and too much water for my liking," K'let returned. 
      "Our gods do not like it here either. They will be happy when we come back 
      home. Besides," he added offhandedly, "we can always return through the 
      magic hole anytime we want."
      "True," Deri agreed. "What is to be done now?"
      "We will send all the scouts we can spare to carry tidings of this to the 
      other tribes. I have ordered Nb'arsk and Lnskt to do the same. They will 
      tell those taan who already side with us to come out of hiding, to begin 
      to speak openly of the old gods and urge the people to renounce Dagnarus 
      and return to the old ways. They will proclaim that I am the new leader of 
      the taan."
      "That will cause discord among some of the tribes," Deri predicted. "Some 
      will remain loyal to Dagnarus. Blood will be spilled."
      K'let shrugged. "All the better. Let us purge our ranks of any who 
      continue to view this filthy xkes as a god. The Void take them."
      K'let assisted Deri to stand. "Summon the tribes to come together. I will 
      speak to the people, tell them what has happened, and send out the 
scouts."
      "I will go forth to prepare to give thanks to the gods," said Deri. 
      "Tomorrow will be a day of celebration."
      "Add one more matter to your prayers, Deri," advised K'let, as the shaman 
      was leaving. "I heard yesterday from our eastern travelers."
      "And?" Deri paused, looked back.
      "Their mission was successful," said K'let, grinning hugely. "They have 
      arrived safely at the meeting place and await me there."
      "All went well?" Deri asked.
      "All went very well," K'let answered.



      Unnerved by the memory of K'let's horrific shriek, Raven was glad to go 
      back to camp and do what he could to try to cheer Dur-zor. He was still 
      rattled from that terrible yell, when he had another unpleasant surprise.
      The shaman, R'lt, stepped out of the shadows and stood blocking Raven's 
      path.
      Raven brought himself up short, so as to avoid touching R'lt. Like all 
      Trevinici, Raven had an inborn repugnance to magic and those who wielded 
      it. He had no use for human magi, and this taan shaman, who stank of the 
      Void, turned Raven's stomach.
      Raven eyed R'lt warily. "What do you want?"
      "I came to warn you, R'vn," said R'lt, speaking through a half-taan 
      translator. "Your wretched Dur-zor is in danger."
      Raven stared at him, wary and suspicious.
      "Dur-zor!" R'lt repeated, then he drew his finger across his throat in a 
      slashing motion. "Dag-ruk's orders." He turned and jabbed a finger back at 
      the camp.
      Raven understood everything in a moment and took off running. He cursed 
      himself for a fool. This was why Dur-zor had been so unhappy. This was why 
      she had insisted that he mate with Dag-ruk. Thinking selfishly about 
      himself, he had never given a thought to her. Dag-ruk would not punish 
      him. He was a warrior and valuable to her. He was favored of K'let. 
      Dag-ruk would punish Dur-zor, remove her as an obstacle.
      Raven dashed into camp, his untoward haste and wild looks raising the 
      alarm. Warriors shouted at him, demanding to know what was going on. Raven 
      ignored them, ran straight to his tent, and thrust open the flap, peered 
      inside.
      Dur-zor was not there.
      He searched throughout the camp, but did not find her. The warriors, 
      understanding at last, went back to their work. Raven noted that many 
      exchanged glances, and his suspicions were confirmed. Everyone knew what 
      was going on.
      He accosted the first half-taan he found.
      "Where is Dur-zor?" he shouted.
      The half-taan shrank away from him. He grabbed hold of her, shook her. 
      "Tell me, damn you! Where did they take her?"
      Accustomed to obedience, the half-taan raised a trembling hand, pointed 
      east.
      Raven flung the woman away from him, turned and ran in the direction she 
      had indicated. He had not gone far before his trained eye saw signs that 
      someone had gone ahead of him. Grass stalks were crushed and bent. He 
      could see the talon marks of taan toes in the dirt. He followed the signs, 
      his heart in his throat, expecting at any moment to stumble across 
      Dur-zor's body.
      He continued tracking, making what haste he could, but fearful of going 
      too fast and losing the trail.
      But this trail would be hard to lose. The taan had not taken any care to 
      hide their tracks. Whoever had snatched Dur-zor was not bothering to shake 
      off pursuit. Her captor must be confident that Raven was back guarding 
      K'let.
      Either that, Raven thought suddenly, or this is an ambush.
      "That's why R'lt is suddenly so friendly," Raven said to himself. "He 
      wants to mate with Dag-ruk. Everyone in the tribe knows that. This way, he 
      rids himself of a rival."
      Well, it is as good a day as any to die, Raven reflected.
      He ran over the ground, glancing only now and then at the trail. He'd 
      traveled about a mile when he came to a small rise. The country was made 
      up of rolling hills and valleys, an ideal place for an ambush. He had the 
      warrior's instinct that he was getting close, and he slowed his pace as he 
      ran up the next hill, preparing himself for the danger that lay ahead. He 
      had almost reached the rise, when he heard Dur-zor scream.
      She did not scream out of fear. Her scream was that of a warrior, and it 
      came from just over the rise. Raven sped up the hill, his tum-olt in his 
      hand. Topping the rise, he saw a taan warrior and Dur-zor struggling. In 
      former days, she would have accepted her death as her due, but now she 
      fought for her life, kicking and clawing and biting, trying to grab the 
      dagger he had been about to use to stab her to the heart.
      Raven gave a fierce, challenging bellow.
      The warrior, Ga-tak, lifted his head, but he did not shift his attack from 
      Dur-zor to the Trevinici.
      Ga-tak knew he wasn't in any danger. At Raven's shout, two fellow taan 
      warriors leapt up out of the tall grass in which they'd been hiding.
      Raven was not fool enough to think he could defeat three veteran taan 
      warriors, and, even he if managed to, Dur-zor would die. Her strength was 
      already failing. She cast him a pleading look.
      Raven had only one chance. He flung down the tum-olt, so that it stuck, 
      quivering, in the ground. Raising his hands, he cried out in a loud voice, 
      "In the name of K'let, I command you to stop!"
      To Raven's shock, it worked. The taan understood only one word, but that 
      was the most important wordK'let, a taanic word even a human could 
      pronounce. Raven wore the ceremonial armor he'd been given when he joined 
      K'let's guard: an ornately etched breastplate of steel; a steel collar 
      ringed with spikes worn over chain mail, with a snow-white cloak 
      symbolzing the albino. He wielded a tum-olt that was a gift from K'let.
      "I am K'let's servant," Raven continued. "If you harm me, you harm K'let."
      A bit grandiose and not precisely true, but it impressed the taan.
      Ga-tak hesitated. That was all Dur-zor needed. She twisted out of his 
      grasp and ran to stand beside Raven.
      Ga-tak and the other taan warriors looked at each other uncertainly. They 
      had orders from Dag-ruk to kill the half-taan and orders from R'lt to kill 
      the xkes, but they also had a healthy fear of the Vrykyl K'let. Dag-ruk 
      and R'lt would be furious. They might kill their bodies, but K'let could 
      shrivel their souls, cast them into the Void, and prevent them from ever 
      joining the battle of the gods that would one day determine the rulership 
      of heaven.
      The souls won out.
      The taan sheathed their weapons. Ga-tak threw down the dagger. One by one, 
      they walked past Raven, who dared not give in to his relief. He maintained 
      his show of outraged indignation until they had departed.
      The taan cast him cool glances as they left, as much as to say, "You may 
      have won now, but where will you go from here?"
      Raven wondered that himself. When he was certain that the taan were gone 
      and that no more were going to leap out at him, he sighed deeply. Then he 
      turned to Dur-zor.
      "Oh, gods! What did they do to you?"
      Ga-tak had struck her repeatedly, by the looks of it. Her face was 
      bloodied and bruised, her nose broken, both eyes starting to swell shut. 
      One wrist was purple and swelling, probably broken, and she had slash 
      marks on her arms from where she'd fought to avoid the dagger. The 
      knuckles of her hands were cracked and bleeding.
      Raven was sorry at that moment that he hadn't chosen to fight. He put his 
      arms around her, held her close.
      "Forgive me, Raven," she mumbled through her bleeding lips. She spit out a 
      tooth.
      "It's not your fault."
      "Yes, it is. I should have let him kill me. I am a burden to you." She 
      hung her head. "If I had died, you would live in honor. Now, we will both 
      be hunted. I have caused your death. I am a coward."
      "You are not a coward," said Raven. "Do you remember the word I taught 
      youhope? So long as we are alive, we have the hope of making things 
      better."
      He kissed her gently, so as not to hurt her wounded flesh. "If I had found 
      you dead, I would have let them kill me. I would not want to live without 
      you."
      Dur-zor looked up at him as best she could through her swelling eyelids. 
      "Truly, Raven?"
      "Truly, Dur-zor," he said. "You are my mate. As long as I live, I will 
      have no other. I love you."
      Dur-zor hated herself for asking, but she could not help it. "Do you love 
      me as you would love a human woman, Raven? A human woman like my mother?"
      "I love you for you, Dur-zor," he said.
      "I love you, Raven," Dur-zor said. "But, then, you already know that.
      Unfortunately," she added, with taan practicality, "love does not help us 
      much. If I go back to the tribe, Dag-ruk will kill me"
      "And if I go back, R'lt will kill me," said Raven.
      "We could run away . . ." But even as Dur-zor said the words, she fell 
      silent.
      Both looked out at the bleak plains, brown and barren. A human and a 
      half-taan alone, without shelter or any idea of where they were, would 
      either perish from the elements or die at the hands of human or taan 
      raiders.
      The idea that had been in the back of Raven's mind for days surged to the 
      forefront.
      "I hate to ask it of you, after that mauling you took, but we have to 
      hurry. We have to reach K'let before the others do."
      "K'let?" Dur-zor repeated fearfully. "Do you run toward death now, Raven?"
      "No, I run toward life. Every taan around here seems to imagine that I 
      have some sort of influence with the Vrykyl," said Raven grimly. "We're 
      going to see if they're right."
       



       5RAVEN CAREFULLY AVOIDED GOING BACK TO HIS OWN CAMP, FOR fear Dag-ruk 
      would challenge him. He set a brisk pace, and Dur-zor managed to keep up 
      with him, nursing her broken wrist and peering through her swollen eyes. 
      Raven was worried about her, but he didn't have time to coddle her, not 
      that she would have expected coddling anyway. Raven did not think that 
      Dag-ruk would go to K'let to complain about him, but there was always that 
      chance. As for R'lt, there was no telling what he might do.
      Arriving in K'let's camp, Raven was startled to find the tribe in an 
      uproar. The taan were stirred up, shouting and yelling, making wild 
      gestures and brandishing their weapons. Shamans were huddled together, 
      conversing in low tones, while young shamans hovered near, waiting for 
      orders. Taskers bustled about, making readyor so it appearedto strike 
      camp.
      "What has happened?" Dur-zor wondered, staring about.
      Taan are nomads, and pulling up stakes was not that unusual, except that 
      Raven had been told K'let intended to remain behind for several days, to 
      await the arrival of another taan tribe. He recalled K'let's hideous 
      shriek. Now was not the time to start asking favors. Yet now was the only 
      time he had.
      He headed for K'let's tent. Hauling Dur-zor with him, he walked up to the 
      taan guards, saluted, and said that he had an urgent message for K'let.
      He counted on the excitement of the camp working for him in this instance, 
      and he was not mistaken. The taan guards knew Raven. They sent him through 
      to see the Vrykyl. He entered to find K'let in a meeting with all his 
      nizam, including Dag-ruk.
      She took one look at him, one look at Dur-zor, and knew the whole story. 
      She glared at him. He glared back and had the satisfaction of seeing her 
      lower her eyes. She slid one uneasy glance at K'let, then pretended to 
      ignore Raven. The nizam stood in a line before K'let, awaiting their 
      orders. K'let glanced at Raven and motioned him to join them.
      Raven took his place at the end of the line. Dur-zor crept behind Raven, 
      tried to make herself as small as possible.
      "What's going on?" Raven asked her softly. "What is K'let saying?"
      He listened in amazement to the story of the ambush and murder of the five 
      thousand taan in a place called God City. Raven squeezed her hand when she 
      had concluded.
      "Good," he said softly.
      K'let issued his orders, briefly and succinctly. Scouts would be sent to 
      spread the story among other taan. Those tribes with K'let would now 
      travel east with all possible speed, to join forces with other taan moving 
      up out of the south. The nizam had no questions, and K'let dismissed them 
      to go about their duties. After loudly expressing their outrage and their 
      fury, they departed. Dag-ruk flashed Raven one burning glance as she 
      passed him, but she said nothing. Raven concentrated on K'let, thankful 
      that the Vrykyl had retained his taan form. He was not so intimidating in 
      his own hide.
      Assuming that all his nizam had left, K'let turned to say something to 
      Deri. The aged shaman nodded in Raven's direction.
      "One remains, K'let. Your pet human."
      K'let turned, frowning. He looked Raven up and down. His frown increased 
      when he saw Dur-zor. She started to sink to the ground, but Raven held her 
      up.
      "I need you to translate," he said.
      "What do you want, R'vn?" K'let snarled.
      "A chance to speak to you, great Kyl-sarnz," said Raven.
      "I am not in the mood to talk to xkes now," K'let said. "I let you live 
      out of a whim."
      "I am here to see that you don't regret that whim, great Kyl-sarnz,"
      said Raven. "I have a proposition." He thrust Dur-zor forward into the 
      light. "Look at this. Look at what the taan have done to her."
      K'let shrugged. "She is an abomination. They may bash in her skull, for 
      all I care."
      "Yet were you not once considered an abomination, mighty K'let?" Raven 
      said boldly, to make up for the fact that his heart thudded in his chest. 
      He was taking a terrible risk.
      Dur-zor stared at him, afraid to repeat his words. There was no need. 
      Having been around Dagnarus for over two hundred years, K'let understood 
      well enough.
      His eyes narrowed.
      "Say what you have to say, R'vn, before I slay you."
      "Only this, great K'let. That once you were considered worthless by your 
      people and yet the tales of your triumphs in battle, the stories of your 
      bravery and courage are legend. I say that these you call abominations, 
      these half-taan, are being wasted. The taan use them as slaves, to haul 
      drinking water and wipe the backsides of children, when they might be 
      taught to wield spears in your army. The taan kill them for sport, when 
      they might be dying for your cause in battle. Look at her. Look at the 
      beating she has taken. Yet she stands before you, brave and uncomplaining. 
      You have seen her skill in battle, and she is self-taught. What might she 
      do with training?
      "I propose to you that I take the half-taan and form them into a tribe of 
      their own. I will train them to be warriors to fight for you."
      Deri said something in a soft voice. K'let listened and gave a brief nod. 
      He did not take his red eyes off Raven.
      "Why would you, a human, agree to fight other humans? For that is what it 
      will come to, you know," said K'let.
      Raven paused, trying to understand his own feelings, trying to explain 
      himself to himself as much as to K'let.
      "Like the taan, my people are warriors. Like the taan, we believe that 
      those who die in battle are blessed in the afterlife, given a chance to 
      fight heaven's battles. I heard your stories of the taan who were 
      massacred. I would not want to die like that, trapped inside the walls of 
      a city. I would not want to die at the hands of wizardscowards who hide 
      behind their magic and dare not fight a man face-to-face. Because I 
      understand, I want to avenge the deaths of those taan."
      As Dur-zor translated this, her own voice grew stronger. She caught some 
      of Raven's fire.
      "The taan use the half-taan as slaves, as you say. They will not be 
      pleased to lose them," said K'let.
      "It seems to me that you have given the taan much more important things to 
      think about now, great K'let, than the loss of a few slaves who are easily 
      replaced," said Raven.
      Deri gave a cough that might have been a chuckle. The shaman muttered 
      something. K'let muttered back, their words soft and indistinct.
      "I will be forced to pay the taan for the loss of their slaves," K'let 
      grumbled.
      "If I can turn your slaves into a fighting force, then your wealth will be 
      well spent," Raven answered.
      A glint shone in K'let's eye. "How do I know I can trust you? I would not 
      want it to be said later that I raised up the young bahk who then bit off 
      my head."
      "I pledge my honor to you, Kyl-sarnz. Your fight is my fight."
      "One other human made that vow to me once," K'let said softly. "And he 
      betrayed me."
      "I will not betray you, Kyl-sarnz," said Raven proudly. "You have my 
word."
      K'let grunted, unimpressed. He eyed Raven craftily. "Correct me if I'm 
      wrong, R'vn, but at the moment your life is worth less than a cracked 
      stewpot. Oh, yes, I know all about Dag-ruk and R'lt. I am kept well 
      informed."
      "That is true, Kyl-sarnz," Raven said, seeing no reason to deny it.
      "Then I will make you the same bargain Dagnarus made with me. I will give 
      you what you ask for. I will make you nizam of your own tribe of 
      half-taan. You will be under my protection. No taan will harm you or yours 
      in peril of my wrath. In exchange, when I demand your life, you will give 
      it to me."
      Raven thought this over. Dur-zor murmured a protest, but he silenced her.
      "I agree, Kyl-sarnz."
      "It will be done, then," said K'let. "I plan to speak to all our people 
      before we start. I will make the announcement then. When we set up camp 
      this night, you will make your own camp, and the half-taan will  join 
      you." He made a dismissive gesture.
      Raven saluted and departed. Once outside the tent, he drew in a gulp of 
      fresh air, a gulp that rid his lungs of the fetid stench of the Void. He 
      looked in triumph at Dur-zor, expecting to see her happiness reflect his 
      own. Instead, she was worried and thoughtful.
      "What is wrong now?" he demanded, irritated. "You have what you always 
      wantedfreedom for you and your people."
      "I know," she said, smiling as best she could with her split lip. "And I 
      am very proud of you, Raven. Still"she sighed"it will not be easy. There 
      are some who find comfort in being a slave."
      "I don't believe that," he said shortly. "You didn't."
      Dur-zor could not explain herself, and so she dropped the subject. She 
      moved close to him, snuggled near him. "I do not like it that you were 
      forced to sell your life to K'let."
      "Bah!" Raven shrugged. "I got the best of the deal. As K'let said, my life 
      is worth nothing now, so I have nothing to lose. I intend to make myself 
      so valuable to K'let that he won't want to collect on his debt. Besides, 
      I'll probably cheat him and die in battle anyway."
      "I hope so, Raven," said Dur-zor earnestly.
      He pretended to frown at her. "That's a fine thing for a mate to say."
      "Oh, not that I hope you die!" she cried, aghast. "It's just"
      "I know," he said, laughing and hugging her. He felt good with the world. 
      "I was teasing. One of the first things I'm going to teach the half-taan 
      is how to laugh."
      "The first thing you are going to have to teach them, Raven, is how to 
      live," said Dur-zor solemnly. "Right now, all they know is how to die."
       



       6THE DRAGON FLIGHT TO THE CITY OF SAUMEL HAD A STRANGE, dreamlike quality 
      to it for both dwarf passengers and the dragon who carried them. The 
      dwarves, wrapped in warm sheepskin coats given to them by the Omarah, sat 
      huddled together for warmth on the dragon's broad back, holding fast to a 
      leather harness that Kolost had fashioned from the harness of his horse 
      and attached firmly to the dragon's spiky mane.
      Neither dwarf nor dragon spoke during the time they were airborne. As they 
      soared over the land, the only sounds that could be heard were those made 
      by the dragonthe creaking of tendons and the slow swish of her wingsand 
      even these were stilled when Ranessa drifted upon the air currents. The 
      dwarves marveled at the sightstowering trees sliding smoothly beneath, 
      the dragon's shadow gliding across the ground below, the bright flash of 
      sunlight reflecting off the smooth surface of a small lake.
      Each dwarf was absorbed in his own thoughts. Kolost's were of conquest. He 
      looked at the land of Vinnengael below and saw it teeming with dwarves. 
      His ambitions were as broad as the horizon, and he was not daunted by the 
      vastness of the world viewed beyond the tip of the dragon's wing. In his 
      mind, Kolost galloped over his enemies, his dwar-ven troops riding to 
      victory behind him.
      Wolfram's thoughts were not as pleasant. He saw little of the land below, 
      took no notice of the sky above. His gaze turned inward, to the reason he 
      wasn't a Dominion Lord. And no one could convince him to go back to being 
      a Dominion Lord. Not even Kolost, no matter how often he spoke of it. As 
      on this night.
      After they landed, the dragon left them to go seek food and shelter. Bad 
      enough, Ranessa told Wolfram, that she had to bear their company during 
      the day. She needed to be alone at night, and so she often went off on her 
      own, seeking out some cave or hollow or grotto where she could rest by 
      herself.
      Kolost had a way of ferreting out a man's deepest thoughts. He was that 
      rare objecta good listener. He took an interest in all he heard. He did 
      so for a reason. Not only did he learn by it, but, snared by his interest 
      in them, people were inclined to share a bit too much of themselves.
      Kolost, like any good hunter, spotted his prey from a distance, circled in 
      on it, then pounced.
      "Tell me of this Dunner," said Kolost. "I know about the Children of 
      Dunner, those children of the Unhorsed who are self-appointed guardians of 
      the Sovereign Stone. But who is Dunner?"
      Wolfram did not want to talk about Dunner or anything to do with the 
      Sovereign Stone. But Wolfram was hoping to learn more from Kolost about 
      the clan chief's plans, and in order to get, Wolfram had to give. Tit for 
      tat as the saying goes among combatants, a blow for a blow.
      "Dunner was the first dwarf ever to become a Dominion Lord," Wolfram 
      replied. "He was an Unhorsed. He lived in Old Vinnengael, spent most of 
      his time in the Royal Library."
      Wolfram had to make a detour in order to explain to Kolost the concept of 
      a library. Dwarves have about as much use for books as orks do.
      Once libraries were established to his satisfaction, Kolost asked, "What 
      did Dunner do in the library?"
      "He read the books," said Wolfram.
      Kolost pondered this. "You say he was Unhorsed. Was he one of the mad 
      ones?"
      "Dunner wasn't mad," Wolfram replied, defensive of his hero. "He was like 
      youinterested in people. He learned a lot about people through book 
      reading. All sorts of people: humans and elves and orks. He later put his 
      lessons to good use."
      Kolost seemed struck by this. He pondered in silence for several moments, 
      then said, "These books . . . What did they tell him?"
      Wolfram gestured with a rabbit bone. "Oh, lots of things: books about 
      warfare, about strategy and tactics; books about plants, which ones are 
      poisonous and which ones can be used to heal; books about the history. 
      Because he read so much and gained more knowledge than any other dwarf who 
      had ever lived, Dunner was chosen to receive the dwarven portion of the 
      Sovereign Stone. He brought it back with him to the city of Saumel. 
      Unfortunately"
      Kolost stopped him. "These books . . . Can you read them?"
      "I can," said Wolfram. "All the Children of Dunner are taught to read. 
      Dunner taught the first, and they taught those who came after."
      "Go on," Kolost said. "What happened to Dunner? Why did he become a 
      Dominion Lord?"
      "No one knows for certain," said Wolfram cautiously. "One of the stories 
      is that he hoped the Transfiguration would cure his crippled leg, and he 
      could go back to riding again."
      "The Trans-fig-ur-a-tion," said Kolost, sounding it out slowly. "This is 
      the ceremony where the Wolf gives the Dominion Lord the magical armor. 
      Tell me about it."
      "I can't," said Wolfram. "We're sworn to secrecy."
      That wasn't quite true, but he wasn't about to relive that wrenching, 
      searing pain.
      "So what happened to Dunner?" Kolost asked.
      "He became a Dominion Lord and his leg was cured, but he remained one of 
      the Unhorsed. No one knows why. He had some great disappointment in his 
      life. It was said that he befriended the young prince, Dagnarus, and was 
      horrified when the prince turned to evil, became Lord of the Void. Dunner 
      left Vinnengael and took the Sovereign Stone to the dwarven realms. He 
      hoped that the Stone would help the dwarves grow strong, but"Wolfram 
      shrugged"since it came from the hands of a human, our people didn't trust 
      it."
      Kolost grunted, frowned, and shook his head at the stupidity of the 
      dwarves.
      "Dunner built a shrine for the Stone in Saumel," Wolfram continued, "but 
      few dwarves ever paid any attention to it. One day, Dunner found some 
      children playing with the sacred Sovereign Stoneor so he thought. He was 
      angry, until they told him that they were not playing with the Stone. They 
      were the guardians of the Stone. Dunner was pleased by this, and it was 
      then he left Saumel, never to return. It is said that when the first 
      Children of Dunner came of age, those who were called to be Dominion Lords 
      went in search of him. Are you thinking you might become a Dominion Lord?" 
      Wolfram asked slyly.
      "Me? No," said Kolost, looking shocked. "I mean no offense, and I hope you 
      will take none, but in order to lead the people, I must win their trust 
      and their loyalty, and I couldn't do that if I were a Dominion Lord. As 
      you say, dwarves do not trust any gift that came from the hands of a human 
      king."
      "But it didn't," Wolfram argued. "The Sovereign Stone was a gift of the 
      gods ... er ... the Wolf."
      "You know that, and I know that," said Kolost, his eyes glittering in the 
      firelight. "The Wolf told me that I must find the Stone and bring it back. 
      Even though I will not become a Dominion Lord, I want dwarven Dominion 
      Lords riding beside me. I want their strength, their wisdom"
      "Dominion Lords are not warriors."Wolfram felt compelled to point out. 
      "They are bound to peace."
      "Just so," said Kolost. "After war comes peace. You dwarven Dominion Lords 
      will help me keep what I gain."
      Wolfram scratched his beard, amazed and bemused by this remarkable man. 
      Most dwarves never see beyond this night's sunset, as the saying goes. 
      Here was one who saw beyond a lifetime of sunsets to a bright sunrise.
      He had to correct a flaw in Kolost's thinking, though.
      "You said 'you' Dominion Lords," said Wolfram. "Don't count me among 
them."
      "Why not, Wolfram?" Kolost asked. "What happened? Why did you give it up 
      and flee?"
      "I don't want to talk about it," Wolfram muttered.
      "But you already have. In your sleep. I know it has something to do with 
      Gilda"
      "Stop!" Wolfram roared. He glared at Kolost.
      "Who is she, Wolfram? Your mate?"
      Wolfram shook his head. The pain ached, throbbed.
      "Who then?" Kolost said softly.
      "My twin sister. Gilda."
      Kolost was silent. If he'd said anything, Wolfram would not have spoken. 
      But he had to fill the silence. Otherwise, he would hear her voice. He had 
      worked hard to banish the sound. He had filled his life with other voices 
      so that he wouldn't have to hear it. Now, in the silence, he could hear 
      her voice alone, and though it was far distant and he couldn't understand 
      her, he knew that she wanted him to tell her story, their story.
      "We were Children of Dunner. That's what you call us." Wolfram gave a 
      snort. "Children of wretchedness is more like it. You know what it is like 
      to be the children of the Unhorsed. Their lives are empty and desolate, 
      and that is the legacy they hand down to their children. You had the guts 
      to refuse that legacy. You had the guts to leave."
      "You also refused the legacy, Wolfram," said Kolost.
      "I thought so," Wolfram admitted. "When I first saw the Sovereign Stone, 
      saw how beautiful it was, shining crisp and clean like a star on a 
      bitter-cold night, I thought I'd found my calling. I told Gilda about it 
      and took her to see it. We pledged ourselves to the Stone. We served it, 
      guarded it, along with the other Children of Dunner. No one else cared 
      about it, but it meant something to ushope of a better life. We used to 
      talk about becoming Dominion Lords, like Dunner, and traveling to all 
      those wonderful, magical places we'd heard so much about from the traders 
      who came to our city. And now I've seen 'em all," he added softly, almost 
      to himself. "Every one of them."
      He sighed deeply and remembered.
      "All the Children start out wanting to become Dominion Lords, but few do. 
      Most lose interest in the Stone when they reach their teen years. They 
      think more of taking a mate, earning their way. But some are called. We 
      were, she and I. Dunner came to us in a fire-vision and told us to seek 
      his gravesite. The way was hard and long. Our trials were many. We 
      succeeded because we were together. Neither of us could have done it 
      alone. I knew we would be Dominion Lords together . . ."
      He paused, swallowed, but that was only to moisten his throat. The words, 
      the memories crowded thick on his tongue. Gilda was right. It was a relief 
      for him to speak of this. He'd never done so, not until now.
      "We wondered what the Tests would be, if they would be very difficult, for 
      we'd heard stories from the human traders about the Tests their lords 
      underwent. As it turned out, the search for Dunner's grave was the Test. 
      He told us that. His spirit told us, that is. He spoke to each of us, 
      alone, and asked us if we were ready to undergo the Transfiguration. It 
      was the proudest moment of my life . . . and of hers."
      Wolfram rubbed his aching forehead.
      "I'm not a Dominion Lord."
      "You passed the Test . . ." Kolost prompted.
      "The Wolf won't forgive me. I renounced the gods. I said terrible things 
      to them. And I meant them, every one," added Wolfram with a flash of ire. 
      "After what they did . . ." He fell abruptly silent.
      "What did they do?"
      He didn't answer, at first. When he did, his voice was soft with fury. 
      "Gilda wanted to be a Dominion Lord. She worked hard at it, twice as hard 
      as I did. She was more worthy than I was. I went along with it mostly 
      because of her. And they killed her for it. She died in the flames. I can 
      still see her . . . still hear her cries . . ."
      He could say no more. He bit his lip to keep the bile from bubbling up out 
      of his throat. When he was in command of himself again, he looked up, 
      defiantly.
      "I gave her my medallion. It was hers by right. I placed it in the coffer 
      with her ashes and buried it beneath the long grass of the plains of our 
      homeland, beside Dunner's grave. Then I left, and I haven't been back."
      Kolost began to bank the fire, reverently performing the parts of the 
      nightly ritual that are allowed to those dwarves who are caught benighted 
      without a Fire magus present. That done, he wrapped himself in his blanket 
      and went to sleep.
      Wolfram dreamed that night that he heard Gilda calling to him to wake up, 
      as she had done when they were children. When he did wake up, it was dawn, 
      and she was not there.



      The dwarves knew they had arrived in dwarven lands when they flew across 
      the river the dwarves call the Arven, a name that was adopted by humans 
      and is now found on human maps. The dragon flew over the city of New 
      Vinnengael, giving Kolost the unique opportunity of gauging its defenses 
      from the air. At his request, Ranessa even circled the city once, dipping 
      her wings. Her appearance brought people running out of shops and houses 
      to stare. Guards atop the battlements craned their necks to see. Ranessa 
      claimed that she did it to give Kolost a good view, but Wolfram suspected 
      that she was enjoying the attention.
      Dragons were a rare sight on Loerem. Ranessa was probably the first most 
      of these people had seen. So enchanted were they that some of the humans 
      raced along the battlements, trying to keep them in sight. Wolfram amused 
      himself by waving, though he knew that they couldn't see him.
      "A large city," Kolost announced. "With strong walls."
      Thinking he sounded daunted, Wolfram glanced back at him.
      "The trick is to lure them out of those walls," said Kolost with a wink 
      and a grin.
      Wolfram rolled his eyes, shook his head.
      Once across the river, Ranessa turned south. She was not yet confident 
      enough to fly over the high ridges of the Dwarven Spine Mountains, so she 
      followed the Sea of Sagquanno, intending to come up on Saumel from the 
      south.
      Saumel was built into the side of a mountain gorge that overlooked Lake 
      Saumel. Located near the Sea of Sagquanno, Saumel became the center of 
      trade for the dwarven realm. Saumel was the only dwarven city with a 
      harbor and the only dwarven city to welcome visitors of other races 
      (although welcome might be too strong a word).
      Members of other races were not permitted to dwell in Saumel, but 
      tradesmen were allowed to keep temporary residences on the city's 
      outskirts. Saumel was the only dwarven city where one could see humans and 
      orks and elves walking the streets, although the outsiders were now 
      supposed to keep to certain restricted areas.
      Because Saumel's Unhorsed dwarves interacted with people of other races 
      and actually got along with them (for the most part), Dunner had believed 
      that the dwarves of Saumel would be more open to new ideas, and so he had 
      brought the Sovereign Stone to the city of Saumel. He had been 
      disappointed in his belief. The Stone had been there for over two hundred 
      years, with no one but a group of ragged children to pay any attention to 
      it.
      "Trust the dwarves to want the Stone only after it is gone,"Wolfram told 
      Kolost.
      Ranessa set them down without incident in the foothills of the mountains. 
      Her landings had improved on the flight, as had her disposition. Fire had 
      been right. Away from Dragon Mountain, alone with her thoughts, Ranessa 
      was finding her dragon skin much more comfortable.
      Still and all, she was Ranessa. Wolfram had a sinking feeling that this 
      good behavior must be putting a strain on her and that it couldn't last. 
      He was right. No sooner had they set down than Ranessa shifted her form to 
      that of her disheveled and wild-looking human self and announced her 
      intention of coming to Saumel with them.
      "No," said Wolfram flatly.
      "And why not?" Ranessa demanded, bristling.
      "Because where we must go, humans are not allowed," said Wolfram. "If you 
      tried to enter those parts of the city, you would be turned back, maybe 
      even arrested."
      Ranessa gnawed her lip and regarded Wolfram with deep suspicion. "I think 
      you're lying. I'm going to go ask Kolost about this."
      "Go ahead," said Wolfram.
      Ranessa marched over to Kolost, who was repacking his gear. After speaking 
      to him, Ranessa returned, her steps slow while she thought through her 
      next ploy, which turned out to be flattery and charm.
      She brushed back her untidy hair from her face to smile at Wolfram. "You 
      will tell them to let me through.You're an important person. A Dominion 
      Lord. Kolost says so. They'll listen to you."
      "Girl, dear," said Wolfram, "I left Saumel twenty years ago, and I haven't 
      been back since. No one knew me before I left. No one will know me now. 
      Besides, the law is the law, and not even the Wolf himself could break it. 
      What if I had walked into the village of the Trevinici, alone and 
      uninvited? What would your people have done?"
      Ranessa glowered at him. "You expect me to stay here, alone, with nothing 
      to do and no one to talk to while you're out enjoying yourself?"
      "I'm not going to be enjoying any of this," Wolfram growled. "Besides, 
      dragons are solitary creatures, so Fire tells me. You're supposed to enjoy 
      being alone."
      "I do," she said haughtily. "I much prefer my own company to the likes of 
      you. I just thought you might need help. Considering that you're always 
      getting into some sort of difficulty."
      Wolfram ignored her last remark. "There is one possibility."
      Ranessa eyed him warily. "What's that?"
      "You could shape-shift into a dwarf."
      "I will not!" she stated with indignation.
      Wolfram shrugged. "Well, then, I guess there's not much to say."
      Ranessa realized too late that she'd -walked into his trap. "I've a good 
      mind to fly off and leave you stranded here."
      "I do thank you for bringing us here, girl," said Wolfram in mollifying 
      tones. "Kolost and I both thank you. I wish you could come, I truly do, 
      but you see that it's impossible. If you feel the need to go back to 
      Dragon Mountain, I understand. But I'd like you to stay. If you do," he 
      added, struck by inspiration, "I'll bring you a gift."
      "You swear by this Wolf you're always talking about?" Ranessa eyed him 
      suspiciously.
      "I swear by the Wolf," said Wolfram.
      "Very well," said Ranessa loftily. "You may go. I will wait here for you 
      and for my gift. But you better not be long about it."
      "Trust me," said Wolfram. "I don't plan to linger."



      Wolfram and Kolost entered Saumel on foot, passing through the Dwarf Gate, 
      that took them into the heart of the city, as opposed to the Outsider 
      Gate, that led into areas reserved for members of other races. Kolost had 
      told Ranessa that Wolfram was an important personage among the dwarves, 
      but, in truth, the important personage was Kolost. Knowing the customary 
      reserve of the Unhorsed, Wolfram was surprised to see Kolost greeted with 
      smiles and the backslaps that are the marks of respect among dwarves, and 
      even a few brotherly handclasps.
      Wolfram was amazed at this, for the Unhorsed were usually withdrawn and 
      reticent around clan dwarves. Watching Kolost walk the streets crowded 
      with dwarves, many of them afflicted with some sort of handicap, Wolfram 
      saw that in the City of the Unhorsed, Kolost was an Unhorsed. He knew 
      their language, he knew their customs. He knew and shared their pain.
      "And when he rides the plains, he is a clan dwarf," said Wolfram, 
      impressed. "He knows their ways. He understands their problems. He can 
      live in both worlds without offending either. I think I have 
      underestimated him. He may well conquer the world."
      As he had figured, Wolfram was looked upon as an oddity, a dwarf who 
      deliberately chose to live life apart from his own people, to live life 
      among the Outsiders or, as some termed them, the Outlandish. He found his 
      name recorded in the census book, however, though they had to flip through 
      a great many pages to find him. His name was written in alongside the 
      names of his mother and father, both of whom were now dead. Gilda's name 
      was next to his. He saw the notation beside her name, written in his own 
      hand.
      Dead.
      He turned away.
      Because he was in the census book, all areas of Saumel were open to him.
      Although Wolfram had deliberately pushed all memories of the city of his 
      birthplace out of his mind for twenty years, he still knew his way around. 
      The city had grown, of course, and changed, but the old part was carved 
      into the side of a mountain, and it had not changed.
      Saumel was a city built by Earth magic, human magic, a gift of some 
      long-dead Nimorean Queen in return for a forgotten favor done for her by 
      the dwarves. The old city was like a honeycomb, with houses and shops 
      built into the rock. With the numbers of the Unhorsed constantly growing, 
      Saumel had been forced to expand. The city now spread into the bottom of 
      the gorge and ran up the sides, spilled out into the river basin and 
      meandered around the lake.
      Wolfram had been born and raised in the old part of the city. The faces he 
      saw as he walked the familiar streets were the same faces he'd seen when 
      he left. Or rather, their expressions were the same: grave, solemn, 
      without joy. Joy was galloping freely over the plains, something these 
      dwarves would never know. The wonder was that more of the children of the 
      Unhorsed did not seek their fortune out on the plains, as had Kolost. But 
      dwarves have a strong sense of duty and family. Most know and accept their 
      lot in life.
      Like Kolost, Wolfram had rebelled against his lot. Unlike Kolost, Wol-fram 
      had turned his back on his people. Comparing himself with Kolost, Wolfram 
      felt ashamed.
      He trudged along the stone streets, worn smooth by generations of dwarven 
      boots, his eyes roving here and there, seeking out familiar sights. He 
      opened the gates and let memory flood through him. The memories weren't 
      the bitter torment he'd feared. They left him feeling warm and softly 
      saddened.
      "I'm sorry," said Wolfram, glancing at his Kolost. "What did you say?"
      "I asked if you would like to share my dwelling," said Kolost.
      Wolfram shook his head. "No, thank you. I know where I must spend this 
      night. It is the least I can do for them."
      Kolost understood. "You want to go there now?"
      "Yes," said Wolfram. "Enough time's been wasted already."
      "I see you know the way," said Kolost, as they turned into a little-used 
      side street.
      "I am not ever likely to forget it," said Wolfram.
       



       7THE DWELLING PLACE OF THE SACRED SOVEREIGN STONE WAS A tent in the old 
      part of the city. Most of the homes and shops of this part of Saumel were 
      built cavelike into the mountain, following the natural shape of the 
      mountain, so that some dwellings and businesses wandered up the 
      mountainside and tumbled down.
      Dunner had pitched the tent in a large plaza intended to be a recreational 
      area by the human builders, who did not know that recreation was something 
      unknown to any dwarfclan or Unhorsed. The plaza was unique in that no 
      dwelling places or businesses were built near it. The plaza was surrounded 
      on three sides by rock; the fourth looked out over the lake.
      Dunner had hoped that the dwarves would build a permanent temple for the 
      Sovereign Stone, but that had not happened. The tent was the same tent 
      Dunner had pitched there over two hundred years before. The tent was a bit 
      more worn than Wolfram remembered, with new patches sewn crudely into the 
      leather. He couldn't imagine what was holding the tent together.
      All in all, the tent and the plaza were just as he remembered it, except 
      for one thingthe number of dwarves gathered in the plaza.
      Wolfram regarded the crowd in amazement. This had always been a quiet, 
      out-of-the-way corner. He wondered what they were doing here.
      "They come to pay tribute to the Children," said Kolost, answering 
      Wolfram's unspoken thoughts.
      "A little late,"Wolfram remarked bitterly.
      "They know that now."
      Wolfram halted on the outskirts of the crowd. The dwarves stood in 
      silence, giving the dead the gift of their respect before going back to 
      their daily lives. The sight of all these people standing around the tent, 
      so different from what he was used to, made Wolfram uneasy. Then it made 
      him angry.
      "They are trying to make amends," Kolost explained.
      Wolfram snorted. Walking up to the tent, he listened to the stillness that 
      came from inside. He didn't have the heart to enter. Not yet.
      "Tell them to leave, will you?" he said to Kolost. "I can't think with all 
      these people about."
      Kolost seemed about to say something, then changed his mind. He went to 
      the dwarves, spoke to them in quiet tones, and, after a few curious 
      glances at Wolfram, the dwarves left the area. All except one. A female 
      dwarf remained behind, holding her ground with stubborn tenacity. She wore 
      her hair loose, unbraideda sign of mourning among some dwarves. She said 
      nothing, either with her mouth or her eyes. She watched in silence, not 
      venturing near, but not leaving either.
      "She is the mother of one of the murdered Children," said Kolost in a low 
      voice. "She was the one who found them."
      Wolfram glanced at her, then looked away. "She can stay."
      He paused another moment outside the tent, then, taking a deep breath, he 
      plunged inside. Kolost followed after.
      The tent was typical of those used by the clan dwarves. Made of hides, it 
      had an opening in the top that was used for both light and ventilation. 
      The interior of the tent was cool and shady, and it took a moment for 
      Wolfram's eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight gleaming off the rocks 
      outside. When he could see, he stood confused, for images of what had been 
      overlaid what was and, for a moment he couldn't tell one from the other. 
      So much was the same and, at the same time, so much was horribly 
different.
      "All is as it was," said the woman standing at the entrance. "I wouldn't 
      let them touch anything. Except they took away the bodies. My child runs 
      with the Wolf now."
      "I'm sorry," said Wolfram gruffly.
      "You are one of the Children, aren't you?" the woman said.
      "How did you know?" Wolfram asked, too startled to deny it.
      "You're not like the rest of us," said the woman. "You don't look guilty. 
      You look angry. I knew one of the Children would come back, sooner or 
      later. That's why I made them leave everything the way it was. That's why 
      I waited."
      "Am I the only one to come?" Wolfram asked.
      "That I have recognized," the woman answered. "If others came, their anger 
      did not burn the way yours does."
      Wolfram could recall them all. There had been six in his time, counting 
      him and Gilda. He wondered what had happened to the rest, decided he 
      didn't want to know.
      Kolost held back, staying out of the way, keeping quiet. The woman 
      remained outside.
      Wolfram walked closer to the altara horse blanket spread atop a wooden 
      box. The horse blanket was worn and threadbare from long exposure to the 
      elements. It had been worn in Wolfram's day, but no one ever thought of 
      replacing it, for legend had it that the blanket had belonged to Dunner 
      himself. The Sovereign Stone had been given the place of honor atop the 
      blanket. Placed directly beneath the opening in the tent, the Stone 
      sparkled with myriad rainbows when the sun was overhead, rainbows that 
      skipped and danced with the children.
      The wooden altar had been smashed to splinters. The horse blanket lay 
      trampled on the floor. The crude iron firebox had been overturned. The 
      Sovereign Stone, suspended from a thong made of braided horsehair, was 
      gone.
      Wolfram knelt beside the blanket, lifted it to the light. The blanket was 
      covered in reddish brown stains that had soaked deep into the fabric, 
      stiffened it. Even after three months, there was no mistaking the smell of 
      blood.
      Wolfram glanced around. The walls of the tent, that had once danced with 
      rainbows, were splattered with same brownish red stains.
      Wolfram let the blanket fall from his hand. He searched halfheartedly 
      through the debris, knowing he wouldn't find the Sovereign Stone among the 
      broken bits of wood, but thinking he should at least make the effort. 
      Whoever had murdered the Children had taken the Stone. That's why they had 
      come.
      He left the tent. Kolost came out after him, his face solemn.
      The woman stood outside the tent, huddled in her shawl. "I am Wolfram, one 
      of the Children of Dunner. Kolost has asked me to help him locate the 
      Sovereign Stone and avenge the deaths of these Children."
      The woman nodded. "My name is Drin. I will tell you what I know. My boy 
      was one of the Children of Dunner. I didn't think much of it, at the time. 
      I didn't care where he went, so long as he wasn't up to mischief. I am a 
      weaver by trade. I work at home, and he was out from underfoot. That's all 
      I cared about."
      As she spoke, a tear slipped out of one eye and trailed down her face. 
      "His father is a bootmaker, and he was very strict with Rulff. He wanted 
      him home at supper, and he would send me to fetch him if he was late. When 
      I would come here, I'd find him and the other Children sitting inside the 
      tent, telling stories or some such thing."
      Another tear, the mate of the first, slid down the other cheek. "When I 
      came to fetch him, they would playact like I was an enemy, trying to steal 
      the Sovereign Stone. They would grab up the sticks they used for swords 
      and surround the Stone, ready to defend it."
      She gazed up at Wolfram. "When I found his body, he had a stick in his 
      hand. He lay right inside the entrance, the first to be struck down."
      Wolfram wiped his sleeve over his nose.
      "After supper, RulfF would go back," the woman continued, her voice soft. 
      "Some of the Children had no homes, he told me, and they slept here. He 
      always came home, though. We waited until midnight. His father was 
      furious. I went to find him ..."
      "I am sorry, Drin," said Wolfram, clearing his throat.
      "There is one odd thing," she said. "There were nine Children of Dunner. 
      There were only eight bodies."
      "Maybe one of the children stayed at home that night," said Wolfram.
      "No." Drin was positive. "This girl was one who had no home. She'd been 
      recently abandoned by her clan. I had her to supper sometimes. Her name is 
      Fenella, and no one has seen her since that night. I've asked around."
      Wolfram rubbed his chin. "Well, now, I'll take that into consideration. Do 
      you have any idea who did this?"
      Drin shook her head. "I paid a Fire magus to cast a scrying spell to try 
      to see what had happened. He said his vision was blocked. He couldn't see 
      anything. But there was something strange about it. He gave me my money 
      back and told me not to try again."
      Wolfram glanced at Kolost, who nodded.
      "Is there anything else you want to know?" Drin asked.
      There was, but not from the boy's mother.
      "No," said Wolfram, "thank you for your help."
      "I can go home now," Drin said heavily and, hugging her shawl close, she 
      turned and walked away.
      Wolfram watched her depart, then turned to Kolost.
      "How did the Children die? What sort of weapon was used?"
      "Her boy, Rulff, had been stabbed with a sword. The others suffered 
      similar wounds, from what I was told. One little girl had her skull 
      crushed."
      "No one heard anything?" Wolfram demanded, frustrated. "No screams or 
      cries for help?"
      Kolost shook his head. "I asked those who live near here. If anyone did 
      hear cries, they said that the Children were always shrieking and carrying 
      on. No one paid any attention to them. What do you make of this missing 
      child?"
      "Likely she'll turn up," said Wolfram. "Why would anyone murder eight 
      children and carry one off? She probably ran away and is too terrified to 
      come back."
      "That was my thought," Kolost agreed.
      "This Fire magus. I take it you know him?"
      "I already talked to him. He was no help."
      "Still, I'd like to hear what he has to say."
      "He lives not far from my dwelling. We will talk to him, then you will be 
      my guest for dinner. Are you sure you don't need a place to spend the 
      night?"
      Wolfram glanced back at the tent. "I'm sure."



      The Fire magus was an elderly dwarf, who made his living selling his 
      scrying skills.
      "In eighty years of scrying," he said, "I have never encountered anything 
      like it. Do you know about casting, sir?"
      Wolfram did, but he pretended he didn't to hear what the old man had to 
      say.
      "To cast a scrying spell, I have to do it in a place where a fire has 
      burned in the past. I build a new fire where the old one burned, and I can 
      see in the flames what happened in the area. The Children generally built 
      a fire for warmth at night, so there was no difficulty with that. I went 
      to the tent and I built my fire and I looked into the flames. I saw the 
      Children sitting around the fire, their faces glowing in the light. One 
      said something about hearing a noise. He went to the tent entrance 
      and"the magus spread his hands"that was all."
      "What do you mean, that was all?" Wolfram asked.
      "A blackness rose before my eyes, as if the entire tent was filled with a 
      thick, choking smoke. I could see nothing through it. I could hear 
      nothing. I could not even see the flames of the fire. I felt as if the 
      smoke were suffocating me. The feeling was a horrible one and very real. I 
      lost my concentration, and the spell ended."
      "Did you cast another?"
      "I would not," said the Fire magus grimly. "I gave her back her money. It 
      was the curse," he added in dire tones.
      "What curse?" Kolost demanded. "You said nothing of this when I talked to 
      you before."
      "Ask him," said the magus, and slammed his door shut in their faces.
      "Did you try some other Fire magus?" Wolfram asked Kolost that night over 
      their shared supper.
      "I spoke to some others, but by then the old man had told his hair-curling 
      tale, and no one was willing to risk it. Thus, my trip to Dragon 
Mountain."
      Wolfram pushed aside a half-full trencher and reached for his mug. He had 
      a terrible thirst, but no appetite. Kolost's dwelling, like that of all 
      dwarves held only his gear and a few cooking utensils. He and Wolfram 
      squatted on the floor. The cook fire was their only light.
      "What did the old man mean about the curse?" Kolost asked. "He didn't 
      mention that before."
      Wolfram took a long pull at his ale. Reaching for the pitcher, he filled 
      up his mug again.
      "I suppose he means," he said, wiping foam from his lips, "the Curse of 
      Tamaros. You never heard of it?"
      Kolost shook his head.
      "Trust some old graybeard to recall it. It seems that when King Tamaros 
      split the Sovereign Stone, he made the recipients swear an oath that 
      should any one of the four races ever be in need, the members of the other 
      three should come to the aid of the one, bringing with them their portions 
      of the Sovereign Stone. You know of the fall of Old Vinnen-gael?" Wolfram 
      cocked an eye at Kolost, who nodded.
      "What you probably don't know is that when the Lord of the Void threatened 
      to attack Vinnengael, King Helmos sent to Dunner for his aid, required him 
      to bring the Sovereign Stone to Old Vinnengael. According to legend, the 
      Children of Dunner refused to hand over the Stone, saying that dwarves had 
      naught to do with the wars of humans."
      "Nor should we," said Kolost grimly.
      "True, but it broke the oath," said Wolfram. "The elves did not send their 
      portion, nor did the orks. Old Vinnengael fell. And thus many believe that 
      the oath-breakers were cursed by Tamaros from the grave and that they will 
      be called to account someday."
      Kolost frowned. Dwarves are not as superstitious as orks, nor are they as 
      bound up in their own honor as elves. Dwarves do have a strict moral code, 
      however, and to break one's sworn word is a very serious misdeed, one that 
      had often resulted in a dwarf being cast out of his clan.
      "If the human king did curse us, it was his right," said Kolost.
      "I suppose so," said Wolfram, unconvinced. He took another pull at his 
ale.
      "Do you think we are cursed?" Kolost asked.
      "Yes," said Wolfram after a moment's thought. He waved his hand. "I don't 
      believe that rot about Tamaros cursing us from the grave. From what I've 
      heard, he was a good man who wouldn't have cursed a flea for biting him. 
      What I do believe is that we have inherited the problem. The living should 
      have dealt with the Lord of the Void two hundred years ago. Just like 
      those who heard the screams of the Children," he added bitterly. "Instead 
      of crawling out of their warm beds to go to find out what was wrong, they 
      pulled the blankets over their heads and went back to sleep."
      "This Dagnarus, the new King of Vinnengael, is he the one they call the 
      Lord of the Void?"
      Wolfram nodded.
      "But what has he to do with us?" Kolost demanded.
      "He has a great deal to do with us," said Wolfram. "If you want the 
      Sovereign Stone back."
      Kolost's eyes widened in astonishment, then narrowed in anger. "He stole 
      our Sovereign Stone!"
      "I think his minions stole it," said Wolfram. "And murdered the Children."
      "Are you sure?"
      "No," said Wolfram bluntly. "I don't see how we can ever be sure."
      "Then how do we get the Stone back?"
      "You can't," said Wolfram, draining the last of his ale. "Call it 
      Tamaros's curse, if you like, or the dwarves' own curse. They should have 
      cared for the Stone while they had it, not after it was gone."
      He rose to his feet. "I bid you a good night and good fortune, Kolost."
      "You're leaving Saumel?"
      "In the morning."
      "But aren't you going to help us?"
      "There's nothing I can do," said Wolfram shortly.
      Kolost walked him to the door and opened it for him.
      "I wish you'd" Kolost stopped in midsentence. His gaze shifted to a point 
      behind Wolfram.
      "What?" demanded Wolfram irritably, whipping his head around to look. 
      "What's out there?"
      "Nothing. My mistake," said Kolost, shrugging. "Have a good journey."
      "I intend to," stated Wolfram.
      He peered intently up and down the street, but the hour was late, and most 
      dwarves were in their beds. The street was empty. Wolfram glanced back 
      suspiciously at Kolost.
      The clan chief stood in the door, watching him.
      Wolfram was not looking forward to spending the night in the bloodstained 
      tent, but it was the least he could do for them, the murdered Children of 
      Dunner. It was his punishment, his penance. With a parting wave at Kolost, 
      Wolfram trudged into the night.
      Kolost smiled to himself as he watched Wolfram depart.
      Trotting along behind the dwarf, as he wended his way through the dark 
      city streets, was the shimmering form of an enormous silvery gray wolf.
       



       8WOLFRAM RETURNED TO THE TENT THAT HAD ONCE HOUSED THE Sovereign Stone 
      and made ready for the long night. He did not build a fire in the firebox, 
      though the air was chill. He wanted to keep the darkness. He'd seen too 
      much for comfort already. Before he slept, he sat on the floor of the tent 
      and gathered the souls of the murdered Children around him. He'd never 
      seen them before, so he gave them the faces of the Children he'd known, of 
      those who had been his friends and companions. He wondered what had become 
      of them. Dead, he thought, like Gilda. Guilt-ridden, like himself.
      "You must not blame yourselves," Wolfram said, speaking to the Children. 
      "That darkness the Fire magus talked about. The one that choked him. That 
      was the Void. The creatures who took the Sovereign Stone were creatures of 
      the Void. They're terrible beings, these creatures called Vrykyl. I've 
      seen two of them, and I never want to see any more. They have the power of 
      the Void behind them. Maybe if every dwarf in the city had risen up 
      against them, they could have stopped them. But maybe not. You didn't 
      stand a chance."
      Wolfram sighed, sat in silence for some time. At last, he said, "You may 
      have lost the Sovereign Stone, but you kept the most important 
      treasure.You kept your souls. Because you stood up to the Vrykyl, because 
      you fought back, the Void couldn't take you. We'll get on without the 
      Stone. We've gone for two hundred years without it. We'll manage two 
      hundred more. I want you to go to sleep now. There won't be any more bad 
      dreams. I promise. Go to sleep and when you wake up, you'll run in the 
      sunshine. Run forever. The Wolf will be with you."
      The faces of the Children were solemn. He didn't know if they understood 
      or not. He hoped they did. He made himself comfortable, a bit too 
      comfortable, seemingly, for the next thing he knew he had fallen asleep 
      and was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because the tent flap opened and 
      Gilda stood there.
      Wolfram had banished her memory a long time ago. He had not brought her 
      face to mind for twenty years. Seeing her, he regretted that. He realized 
      how much he'd missed her. He found a comfort in her. The pain was still in 
      his heart, but it was no longer a torment to him. The pain was sad and 
      softened, warmed with the happiness of their childhood days together.
      "Gilda!" he said softly. "I'm glad you've come back to see me. It's been a 
      long time."
      "Too long," she said.
      "I don't understand, though. Why did you come to me now?"
      "I came when you called, Brother," Gilda answered with her own mischievous 
      smile. "Don't I always when you call?"
      "No. Hardly ever, as I remember. Yet," he added, his tone softening, "we 
      were never far apart for long."
      "We've been apart for twenty years. I was beginning to think you would 
      never call me, Wolfram."
      "I don't remember calling you now, Gilda," he said, embarrassed. "I'm glad 
      you came, but I don't remember"
      "But you did remember," she said. "You summoned the memory that you buried 
      in the long grass with my ashes."
      "I had to forget," Wolfram said. "I couldn't have gone on otherwise. I 
      buried part of myself in that grave."
      "I know," she said gently. "And that is why I have walked with you all 
      these years, though you never knew it."
      "You have walked with me?" He was astonished and yet he wasn't. Part of 
      him seemed to have known this already. He looked at her closely. "What are 
      you wearing, Gilda? It looks like armor."
      "It is armor," she said, smiling. "The armor of a Dominion Lord."
      The armor was of dwarven design, not the full plate and chain-mail armor 
      of a human Dominion Lord. Gilda wore the leather armor favored by dwarves, 
      the type of armor Wolfram had worn for the few, brief, anguished moments 
      he'd been a Dominion Lord. The leather was hand-tooled and adorned with 
      silver, with silver buckles. She wore silver bracers on each wrist and a 
      silver open-faced helm. A silver battle-ax hung at her side. She wore on 
      her breast two medallions, both adorned with the head of a snarling wolf.
      "I don't understand," said Wolfram, just for something to say. Reaching 
      beneath his shirtsleeve, he pinched himself, hard. He was ready to wake up 
      now.
      "This is not a dream, Wolfram," said Gilda. "I am here, and I have the two 
      medallions. Our medallions. The ones Dunner gave us when we became 
      Dominion Lords."
      "But you didn't!" Wolfram protested angrily. "You died! They killed you!"
      "I can explain, if you are ready to hear," Gilda said. Removing the second 
      medallion from her neck, she held it out to him. He glowered at it, did 
      not touch it.
      "When I underwent the Transfiguration, Wolfram, the Wolf appeared to me. 
      He said that the time was coming when the power of the Void would be on 
      the rise, and the power of the other elements would wane. In that dark 
      time, the Dominion Lords of all the races would be called upon to fulfill 
      their oath and bring the pieces of the Sovereign Stone together. The 
      choice would be theirs, and upon their choices would hang the destiny of 
      the world.
      "You were the Wolf's chosen, Brother. You would be a Dominion Lord, the 
      only dwarven Dominion Lord, for after us, the power of the Void would grow 
      strong, and no others would come to seek Dunner's grave."
      "It should have been you, Gilda," Wolfram said. "You should have been the 
      Dominion Lord. Not me. You wanted it more."
      "I wanted it for the wrong reasons. My heart was filled with hatred and 
      vengeance. I wanted to be a Dominion Lord in order to get back at our 
      people, to punish them for what they had done to you and me and the rest 
      of the children. I wanted to punish them for the suffering of our parents 
      and for the hardships we endured. The Wolf saw into my heart, and he made 
      me see the Void that was inside me. He gave me a choice. I could fail the 
      Test and live out my life as I wasbitter and vindictive and filled with 
      rage. Or I could be your guide as you walked into the darkness.
      "I chose the latter, Wolfram," said Gilda. "I have walked with you a long 
      time, though you have not known it."
      "What do you meanyou've walked with me?"
      Gilda grinned. "Do you recall the bracelet the monks gave you? The 
      bracelet that would grow warm when you met someone you were supposed to 
      follow? The bracelet grew warm when you met Jessan and Bashae, didn't it?"
      Wolfram nodded, perplexed.
      "The bracelet's warmth led you to Lord Gustav and the Sovereign Stone."
      "Yes," said Wolfram.
      "The warmth did not come from the bracelet, Wolfram," Gilda told him. "The 
      warmth you felt was the warmth of my hand."
      "I wish you had told me," he said, blinking back tears.
      "I thought you would understand without the need for words. We always 
      understood each other before."
      Wolfram looked into his own heart and saw the truth.
      "I did understand, Gilda. But I was angry. I pretended to be angry at the 
      gods, but I wasn't. I was angry at you. You were all I had left in the 
      world, and you chose to leave me."
      "I didn't leave you. You know that now. Take the medallion, Wolfram. Be 
      what you were meant to be. The Wolf has need of you."
      "I don't know . . . It's been so long . . ."
      Wolfram woke with a start to find the half-light of early morning 
      filtering in through the hole at the top of the tent. He had fallen asleep 
      under the bloodstained horse blanket and, with a shiver, he threw it off. 
      His dream was fresh in his mind, so fresh that he looked around the tent 
      in the hope that he might see Gilda again.
      The tent was empty, except for himself. Still, he felt a peace he had not 
      known in many years, a peace he hadn't found in all his restless 
      wanderings. He stood up, stretched to get the kinks out. Leaning down to 
      pick up his pack, preparatory to departing, he felt something thump on his 
      chest.
      He looked down to see a silver medallion, adorned with the head of a 
      snarling wolf.
      The medallion of a Dominion Lord.
      "You're back," said Kolost, opening the door to Wolfram's knock.
      Wolfram stumped inside. "You don't seem surprised."
      Kolost smiled. "I saw the Wolf follow you last night. I knew the Wolf 
      would reason with you."
      Wolfram grunted, not inclined to explain. "I've had an idea. I'm going to 
      do a fire-scry myself. I think I may be able to see through the darkness."
      Kolost opened his mouth to protest that Wolfram was not a Fire magus and 
      thus could not cast such a spell. He closed his mouth in time, before the 
      words came out. One does not question the mysteries of the Wolf.
      "I think you might want to be there," Wolfram continued. "I'd like to do 
      it while it's early yet. And we should seal off the area. Keep everyone 
      out. I'm not sure what might happen."
      "That can be arranged. I will meet you at the tent," Kolost promised.
      Wolfram nodded and trudged back to the temple, as the Children of Dunner 
      knew it. He clasped the medallion in his hand as he walked. The morning 
      was cold, and the metal was warm. He felt, when he touched it, as if he 
      were touching Gilda's hand. He thought of her remark about the bracelet on 
      his wrist, and he shook his head wryly. He might have known. She was 
      always getting him into trouble when they were kids. She was the 
      adventurous one, forging ahead. He, the more cautious, lagged behind. He 
      wished he had kept the bracelet, but he returned it in a fit of pique to 
      Fire.
      Reaching the plaza, Wolfram ducked into the tent and halted, alarmed. 
      Someone had been here in his absence. He didn't know how he knew, but he 
      knew. He poked and peered around, but could find nothing missing, nothing 
      rearranged. He emerged from the tent, walked around the plaza, staring 
      intently into any recessed area, where someone might be hiding. He found 
      no one. He did not discount his feelings, however. Instinct had saved his 
      dwarf behind more than once. He'd be sure to tell Kolost to keep a sharp 
      lookout.
      Wolfram had brought with him some wood and kindling, enough to build a 
      small fire. Returning to the tent, he picked up the maltreated firebox and 
      placed the wood inside. Then he sat back and stared at it, bemused. 
      Wolfram was no magus. He'd never cast a magic spell in his life, had never 
      wanted to cast one. Now he was going to attempt a grand spell, one that 
      even experienced magi find difficult.
      Wolfram wasn't worried about casting the spell. He was worried because he 
      wasn't worried. He felt a warmth inside when he thought about the spell, a 
      knowledge that he could do it, even though he had no idea how. And that 
      bothered him.
      Kolost peered inside the tent. Wolfram stepped out to meet him. The plaza 
      had been sealed off. Dwarves stood guard at the entrance, waved away the 
      curious.
      "Someone's been in the tent," said Wolfram. "Tell your people to keep a 
      sharp lookout."
      "They're good men. They know what to do," said Kolost. "Who was it? Do you 
      have any idea?"
      Wolfram shook his head. "Just a feeling, that's all. Come inside. Sit 
      there." He gestured to a place near the firebox. "If the spell works, 
      we'll see everything just as it happened that night, as if we were there 
      ourselves. But, of course, we won't be. It's just visions of the past."
      Kolost nodded to show he understood and took his place where Wolfram 
      indicated. Kolost sat down with knees akimbo, placed his hands on his 
      knees, and looked expectantly at Wolfram.
      "I'm going to ... uh ... change,"Wolfram said, his face flushing with 
      embarrassment. He didn't want Kolost to think he was trying to show off or 
      that he was putting on airs. "It's part of being a Dominion Lord. The 
      armor, that is."
      Wolfram eyed Kolost askance, waited tensely for him to ask questions. 
      Kolost said nothing, however, merely indicated that he was ready to begin. 
      Wolfram was relieved. He was liking this dwarf more and more.
      Clasping his fingers tightly around the medallion, Wolfram brought to mind 
      the remembered image of Gilda in her magical armor and, the next thing he 
      knew, he was clad in armor of his own: fine, supple leather with silver 
      buckles and a silver helm.
      Kolost's eyes widened at the sight, but he kept his mouth shut.
      The wondrous armor was as familiar as Wolfram's own skin, made him feel 
      secure and protected. He knew immediately what he had to do to cast the 
      fire-scry spell. The magic flowed from him at will. He had only to think 
      it and it was done. The wood in the firebox burst into flame.
      Wolfram stared into it, his thoughts concentrating on the night another 
      fire had burned in this box.
      Images of myriad nights flooded into his mind, so many that he was 
      overwhelmed. He needed something to connect him to the one particular 
      night. Reaching out his hand, he grabbed hold of a corner of the 
      bloodstained horse blanket.
      Fire swirled in the firebox, and the tent was filled with smoke, thick and 
      choking. Wolfram couldn't breathe. He heard Kolost coughing and gagging.
      "Get out!" Wolfram ordered the Void.
      The smoke roiled furiously. Then there came a wolf's howl. A gust of wind 
      shook the tent, sent the edges to flapping. The wind sucked the smoke out 
      of the tent, carried it away. Wolfram could breathe again. He heard Kolost 
      gulp air in relief.
      Looking into the flames, he saw the Children . . .



      The Children of Dunner each took turns being the bearer of the Sovereign 
      Stone. Every day, a different Child wore the stone. This night, Fenella 
      was the bearer. A sickly child, Fenella had been abandoned in the city of 
      Saumel. In leaving her behind, her parents were obeying the decree of the 
      clan chief, who maintained that the weak child placed the entire clan in 
      danger. Fenella had been given into the care of an elderly dwarf female. 
      Her caretaker had just recently died. The ten-year-old girl was on her 
own.
      By now, Fenella had outgrown the childhood illnesses. She was strong as 
      any young dwarf. But that didn't mean she could go back to her clan. She 
      had no idea where they were, and they probably wouldn't take her back 
      anyway. Fenella took over the basket-weaving business of the dead woman 
      and, though her life was hard, she was making do.
      Weaving baskets all day left her only the nighttime hours to pay tribute 
      to the Sovereign Stone. She never missed a night, however. She looked 
      forward to the day when she would be called to go on the quest for 
      Dunner's grave and ask his blessing to become a Dominion Lord. Fenella 
      knew this was her destiny. Dunner himself had told her in a dream.
      This night, Fenella lifted the Sovereign Stone from its place of honor in 
      the tent that was a temple and watched it sparkle in the firelight. Every 
      time she touched the Stone, she was awed, humbled. She felt as if she 
      could draw a straight line from herself to Dunner and from Dunner to King 
      Tamaros. The hundreds of years intervening were as nothing, when she wore 
      the Stone. The difference between a dwarven orphan child and a human king 
      was nothing.
      Fenella was a storyteller, and on those nights when she was the bearer of 
      the Stone, she entertained the other Children with stories of the Stone 
      and those whose fates were bound up in it. Although the stories were old, 
      having been handed down from Dunner himself, Fenella breathed new life 
      into them. The Children never tired of listening to her.
      Fenella sat on the box that was an altar and made herself comfortable. 
      Seven Children of varying ages ranged themselves around her. One, a boy 
      named RulfF, was put in charge of guarding the entrance to the tent 
      against intruders. The post was honorary. There had been only one 
      intruder, in all the history of the dwarven Sovereign Stone, and that had 
      been two hundred years ago, when a Dominion Lord, sent by King Hel-mos had 
      invaded the sanctity of the temple-tent to ask for the Stone's return. 
      Still, the Children were always on the lookout for someone to try to steal 
      the Stone. Rulff took his place proudly, a sharpened stick in hand.
      Fenella had been feeling sad all that day, and she chose for her story one 
      that always made the Children laugh.
      The tale had been a favorite of Dunner's. It dealt with a human child 
      called Gareth, who was companion to Prince Dagnarus, and told of the first 
      time Gareth had attempted to ride a horse. The tale was amusing to dwarven 
      children, for, although some had never ridden a horse, they were all born 
      to the saddle. They laughed heartily when Fenella came to the part where 
      the horse bucked and the human boy Gareth went sailing out of the saddle, 
      head over heels, to land in a hayrick.
      Rulff turned his head. "Hush," he said. "I think I heard something."
      He opened the tent flap, stared into the darkness.
      "Someone's out there," he reported, and he sounded puzzled, for few people 
      ever came this way during the day and none at all after dark.
      "Maybe it's another knight come to try to take the Stone from us," said 
      one of the Children hopefully.
      "Maybe it's your mother, Rulff," said another, and he snickered.
      "You get up on the box, Fenella," said a third. "We'll stand guard."
      Fenella, feeling proud and only a little nervous, took her place on top of 
      the box. The other Children lined up in front of her, sharpened sticks in 
      their hands. Fenella rested her hand on the Sovereign Stone and found 
      reassurance in the feel of the crystal that always seemed to her to be 
      humming to itself, as though the jewel had an inner life of its own.
      She was listening with her heart to the Stone's song, when Rulff gave a 
      scream that was so horrible she froze up inside. The blade of a sword, 
      smeared with blood, thrust out of Rulff's back. A beast-man tore open the 
      tent flap, barged inside. As the beast-man entered, it kicked impatiently 
      at Rulff, impaled on the sword. His body slid off the blade and landed in 
      a heap on the ground.
      Two more beast-men shoved into the tent. One of the older boys made a 
      desperate lunge at the beast-men with his sharp stick. The beast-man made 
      a kind of gurgling sound that might have been a laugh and brought his club 
      down on the boy's head, smashing it open, spattering the tent wall with 
      blood and gore.
      Some of the other Children fought. Some screamed and tried to escape. Some 
      stood staring, frozen in terror. The wicked swords of the beast-men 
      flashed in the firelight. Bodies fell, some of them headless, others 
      stabbed to the heart. The floor was red with blood.
      Fenella was the only child left alive. She couldn't move.' She stared at 
      the slavering beast-men, their arms bloodied to the elbows, and she waited 
      to die. One raised his sword, and Fenella shut her eyes.
      A voice said something in a commanding tone, and Fenella did not die.
      She opened her eyes to see the beast-men pointing at her and arguing. 
      Their language was as horrible as they were.
      The beast-men reached a decision. One walked toward her, his bloody sword 
      in his hand. Fenella felt a hideous warmth wash over her, and she was 
      afraid she was going to faint. She grasped hold of the Sovereign Stone, 
      and the cold of the crystal helped brace her.
      The beast-man knocked her hand aside. He grabbed hold of the Stone.
      A flash of white light blinded Fenella. She could not see anything for 
      long minutes except the blue afterimage of that flash. When that cleared, 
      she saw the beast-man who had tried to take the Stone lying on his back on 
      the ground, wringing a blackened hand.
      Fenella was proud of the Stone for fighting the monsters, and her pride 
      gave her courage. She stood straighter and stared at them defiantly.
      Another of the beast-men tried to seize the Stone. Fenella was ready and 
      she squinched her eyes tight shut. Even then, she could still see the 
      blinding light.
      The beast-man lay on the ground, shaking his head and groaning.
      The beast-men glared at her and at the Stone, at a loss for what to do. 
      One of them shouted something, and a fourth beast-man entered. This 
      beast-man was apparently some sort of slave, for he walked with his head 
      bowed and stood, cringing, before the other beast-men. This creature 
      looked like one of the beast-men, and he didn't, for he didn't have the 
      beast-man's snout. His nose was more like the nose of a human.
      The beast-men and the newcomer held another conversation. Fenella knew 
      that the conversation involved her, for they constantly pointed at her and 
      pointed at the Stone. The beast-man pointed at her hand, then held up his 
      own burnt hand.
      The beast-man said something in a tone of finality. He kicked at the slave 
      and pointed at Fenella.
      The slave picked up one of the sharpened sticks and approached Fenella. 
      She thought that he was going to kill her with the stick, and she braced 
      herself to die. Instead, he used the tip of the stick to gingerly catch 
      hold of the horsehair rope from which the Stone dangled and carefully 
      slide the Stone around so that it now hung down Fenella's back.
      Dropping the stick, the slave took hold of Fenella. He hoisted her onto 
      his back, grasped her wrists around his neck, and, giving the nod to his 
      companions, carried her piggyback out of the tent.
      The slave's nails dug painfully into Fenella's arms. His strong grasp 
      bruised her flesh. The smell of the beast-men, mingled with the smell of 
      the blood of her friends, made her sick and dizzy. She felt the hideous 
      warmth come over her again, and this time she let herself sink into it.



      Wolfram watched the vision in the flames, and his rage burned hotter than 
      the fire. Calming his fury, he paid close attention to all that was 
      happening, listened closely to the beast-men's talk, in the futile hope of 
      hearing anything that might be useful.
      The three spoke briefly in a language that was as ugly as they were. 
      Wolfram could make out only a couple of words amid the hoots and whistles. 
      He found, though, that he could understand the slave, who spoke the 
      beast-man's language, but the words came out clearer, not as clotted. One 
      word this slave repeated several times, always with a show of awe, was the 
      word, "K'let." The word was easy to understand, although Wolfram had no 
      idea what it might mean.
      As the slave carrying Fenella left the tent, one of the beast-men 
      accompanied him, probably to keep an eye on him. The other beast-men 
      stayed behind to ransack the tent, searching for more treasure. They 
      smashed the box and even searched the small bodies. Finding nothing, they 
      snarled their displeasure and departed. Wolfram tried to keep track of 
      them, but once they passed out of the tent, he lost them in the darkness. 
      The fire in the firebox dwindled and died. The spell ended.
      Wolfram gave a deep sigh. Neither he nor Kolost said anything. The sight 
      had been too awful for speech.
      When Kolost finally spoke, his voice was harsh, almost unrecognizable. 
      "What were those creatures?"
      "They are called 'taan,' " said Wolfram. "I heard about them at the 
      monastery. These are the same creatures who sacked Dunkar; killed many 
      hundreds, and enslaved hundreds more."
      "What was that other creature, the one that looked human."
      "He was a half-human. A gods-cursed mixed breed."
      "I have never heard of these 'taan' before. Where do they come from?"
      "No one knows. The Void, maybe. Dagnarus, Lord of the Void, brought them 
      to this land, or so I have heard. They serve him."
      "Then this Dagnarus is the one who has stolen the Sovereign Stone, the one 
      who is responsible for the deaths of the Children."
      "So it would seem," said Wolfram.
      "At least we have found out why there were only eight bodies. They carried 
      off the ninth child. What will they do with her, do you think? Why didn't 
      they kill her?"
      "You saw what happened when they tried to take the Sovereign Stone," said 
      Wolfram. "The magic of the Stone prevented them from touching it. They 
      could see that the girl touched it and that it wouldn't hurt her. My guess 
      is that they think she has some power over the Stone, and that's why they 
      took her. Hopefully, if they believe that, they'll do their best to keep 
      her alive. And that gives us a chance," added Wolfram, grimly determined.
      "A chance for what?" asked Kolost.
      "A chance to rescue her and recover the Stone."
      Kolost gestured to the embers that flickered in the firebox. "But this 
      happened months ago. They could be anywhere"
      His words were cut off by a shrill shriek of anger and an all-too-familiar 
      voice.
      "I will go where I please! Keep your filthy hands off me. Wolfram! Come 
      out here this minute! I said don't touch me, you dwarf, you. If you do, 
      I'll swear you'll be sorry. You don't want to see me angry"
      "The Wolf save us. It's Ranessa!" Wolfram groaned, and raced out of the 
      tent.
       



       9RANESSA! DON'T!" WOLFRAM SHOUTED, HAVING VISIONS OF her shifting into a 
      dragon right there in the middle of the plaza. "Ranessa?"
      He looked around, bewildered. He heard her voice, but he couldn't see her. 
      Then a dwarf female with long, untidy black hair came storming toward him, 
      brandishing her fists at the other dwarves, who were attempting to stop 
      her and pausing every now and then to kick at them or take a swing.
      At the sight of Wolfram, she cried, "Thank goodness!" and shifted to her 
      human form.
      The sudden transformation of the dwarf female into a human female achieved 
      one objective. The dwarves who had hold of her let loose and fell back, 
      muttering among themselves. Several raised weapons, and those who were not 
      armed picked up stones and sticks.
      "Girl, you mustn't" Wolfram began.
      She brushed his words aside. "One of those things was here! I saw it." She 
      pointed. "It was standing right over there, near that tent you came out 
      of."
      "One of what things?" Wolfram asked, thinking she might mean a beast-man.
      "Like the thing that tried to carry you off," she said, her eyes dark with 
      anger. "Like the thing that killed Lord Gustav. What did you call it"
      "A Vrykyl?" Wolfram gasped, the hair pricking the back of his neck beneath 
      his helm. He still wore his Dominion Lord armor, but armor hadn't helped 
      Lord Gustav. The Vrykyl had stabbed him right through it. "Do you still 
      see it?"
      "No. I was going to go after it, but these nincompoops wouldn't let me 
      pass. I tried to reason with them"Ranessa rounded on the dwarves, who 
      were slipping up on her from behind"but the thing must have heard me 
      shout, because when I looked for it again, it was gone."
      "Let her be," Wolfram ordered, waving his arms at the approaching dwarves. 
      "She's with me. I'll answer for her."
      The dwarves eyed him askance, none too certain of him either, this strange 
      dwarf in his fancy armor. Kolost came to back up Wolfram, assured the 
      dwarves that he had the situation well in control. The dwarves retreated, 
      but they kept a suspicious watch on Ranessa and on Wolfram.
      "What is she upset about?" Kolost asked.
      "There was a Vrykyl here," said Wolfram. "One of those Void knights I was 
      telling you about. He was listening at the tent."
      "If Void creatures walk the streets of Saumel," Kolost said grimly, "we 
      will find them."
      "No you won't," said Ranessa. "He was disguised as a dwarf. I could see 
      through it, but that's because I'm a dragon."
      "Keep your voice down!" Wolfram said sharply. "We're in enough trouble 
      already."
      "So how do we find this Void knight?" Kolost asked.
      "You don't want to," said Wolfram earnestly. "Trust me, Kolost. There's 
      nothing you could do to harm it. Just hope it got what it came for and 
      that it went away."
      "But what did it come for?" Kolost demanded. "The Sovereign Stone is 
gone."
      The unpleasant thought occurred to Wolfram that perhaps the Vrykyl had 
      come for him.
      "You didn't get a feeling that Vrykyl was following us, did you?" he asked 
      Ranessa. "You know, the way you felt the last time the Vrykyl followed 
us?"
      "No," she said positively. "We were not followed. Besides, Vrykyl can't 
      fly. Can they?"
      Wolfram didn't think so, but he didn't know that much about their habits, 
      and he didn't care to find out.
      "What was it doing by the tent?"
      "Eavesdropping," Ranessa answered readily. "The Vrykyl had his head 
      plastered against the side. He was listening to what you were saying."
      "Now that's damned odd,"Wolfram muttered.
      What possible interest could a Vrykyl have in his fire-scry? Wolfram 
      couldn't figure it out, and he decided he wasn't going to let it bother 
      him. He had a task ahead of him. He would concentrate on that.
      "It sticks in my craw to think of that child in the hands of those 
      monsters," Kolost stated, his dark eyes shadowed with anger.
      "Mine, too," said Wolfram. "Not to mention the Sovereign Stone."
      "Yes, the Sovereign Stone, of course," Kolost agreed, almost as an 
      afterthought. He looked back at the tent, his brow furrowed.
      Wolfram regarded Kolost with amazement. The clan chief continued to 
      astonish and impress him. Any other clan leader's first thought would have 
      been of the valuable jewel, not the orphan child.
      "Well, girl, we'd best be off, before you start a riot," Wolfram stated. 
      "We're walking," he added with emphasis, thinking he detected by the gleam 
      in her eye that she was planning to shift into her dragon form on the 
spot.
      Ranessa looked sullen, and he knew he'd guessed right. "I don't like this 
      place," she said, casting a disparaging glance around through the tangles 
      of untidy hair. "And I don't like these people. And I don't like being a 
      dwarf," she added accusingly, as if it was Wolfram's fault. "You are all 
      so ... so short."
      Kolost fell into step beside them. "You're going after the beast-men, 
      aren't you?"
      "Yes," Wolfram said.
      "The trail will be cold now. How will you even know where to start 
      looking?"
      Wolfram shrugged. He was busy keeping an eye on Ranessa.
      "It seems hopeless," said Kolost. "Still, the Wolf walks with you. The 
      Wolf will show you the way."
      At the edge of the plaza, Kolost came to a halt. "I wish I could come with 
      you, but I am needed here. In my absence, Sword Clan and Red Clan have 
      started a war. I'm going to have to go knock a few heads together."
      "Good luck," said Wolfram. "You, too," said Kolost.
      As they separated, each man said silently to the other, "You're going to 
      need it."



      the Vrykyl, Caladwar, had been an elf when he was alive. He would have 
      agreed with Ranessa, in that he found wearing the guise of a dwarf to be 
      tedious in the extreme. To an elf fond of licentious living, the 
      self-denying lifestyle of the Unhorsed was incredibly dull. Caladwar came 
      to hate the dwarves so much that he couldn't even take pleasure in killing 
      one, for that meant he'd have to crawl into the dwarf's skin and be filled 
      with a flood of depressing memories. Caladwar feared he was going to have 
      to go on being a dwarf for the rest of his undead life, but, fortunately 
      for him, the dwarven Dominion Lord turned up, and Caladwar was able to 
      secure the information his master had been so desperate to acquire.
      It was not the appearance of the dragon that had sent Caladwar running 
      off. Caladwar had been a member of the Wyred before he turned to the Void. 
      He held a high opinion of his own prowess in magican opinion that was not 
      unjustified. Caladwar could have fought the young and inexperienced 
      dragon, and probably defeated it. Caladwar wasn't interested in fighting 
      dragons, however. He wanted only to get out of this horrible dwarf skin 
      and back into his own. He left the plaza because he was eager to relay the 
      information to his lord, and then leave this godsforsaken place.
      Dagnarus had sent Caladwar to Saumel to secure the dwarven portion of the 
      Sovereign Stone. Caladwar had arrived only to discover that someone had 
      beaten him to it. He'd reported that to his lord, who had been furious and 
      ordered Caladwar to remain in Saumel until he found out the identity of 
      the thief.
      Caladwar had tried casting his own fire-scry, hoping to use his magic to 
      reveal the culprit. His plans were thwarted by the Void, which was 
      supposed to be their ally, a fact that Caladwar found extremely 
      perplexing. Someone out there was challenging Dagnarus for mastery of the 
      Void. And now Caladwar knew who.
      Reaching his dwelling place, Caladwar placed his hand on the Blood-knife 
      and sent forth an urgent summons to Dagnarus.
      The Lord of the Void was not quite as prompt to answer as he had been 
      before he became the ruler of Vinnengael, and Caladwar fumed in 
      impatience. He reminded himself that Dagnarus was in the public eye, 
      surrounded by people most of the day and well into the night.
      "Be quick," Dagnarus said, his voice coming suddenly and unexpectedly. "I 
      don't have much time. What have you discovered?"
      "I know who stole the dwarven Sovereign Stone, my lord," said Caladwar 
      smugly.
      "You had better, or I would not thank you for bothering me," Dagnarus 
      returned coolly. "Dispense with the dramatics and tell me."
      "The thief is K'let, my lord."
      Silence as empty as the Void met his words. When the silence continued 
      unbroken, Caladwar grew worried. He needed to obtain permission to leave 
      the dwarven city, and he'd not yet received it.
      "My lord?" he questioned. "Are you there?"
      "Are you certain?" Dagnarus demanded.
      "I am, my lord. A dwarven Dominion Lord performed a fire-scry in the tent 
      where the dwarves kept the Stone. I could not see the vision, but he and 
      another dwarf spoke of it afterward. The Stone was taken by three taan 
      warriors and a half-taan slave. You would have found this amusing, my 
      lord. The taan were not aware that the magic of the Stone would punish 
      them for touching it, and so they"
      "I find none of this amusing." Dagnarus cut him short. "Tell me thisdo 
      these taan have the Sovereign Stone?"
      "They left with it in their possession," said Caladwar.
      "By K'let's command?"
      "The taan spoke of K'let often. But how could K'let know the whereabouts 
      of the Stone?"
      "Side by side we fought many times," said Dagnarus, quietly, remembering. 
      "I saved his life. He saved my dream of conquest. We were different races, 
      yet of one mind. Of all the Vrykyl I ever created, he alone understood me. 
      I forgave his defiance, because it is what I would have done myself. I 
      could not forgive his rebellion. I would have taken care of his people. He 
      should have trusted me . . ."
      In other words, Caladwar thought, Dagnarus himself had told K'let how to 
      find the dwarven part of the Sovereign Stone. If Dagnarus had not told 
      K'let directly, he'd been careless of his thoughts, and the cunning K'let 
      had read them through the Blood-knife.
      "Yes, Caladwar, this is my fault," said Dagnarus, and Caladwar cringed.
      "My lord, I did not mean"
      "Enough," Dagnarus said. "This may yet work to my advantage. The Stone 
      means nothing to K'let. He cannot make use of it. He cannot even touch it. 
      He has taken the Stone because he knows I will come for it. And so I 
      shall. And so I shall . . ."
      "What are your orders for me, my lord?"
      Please let them be far away from here, Caladwar pleaded silently.
      "You will return to Tromek and assist Valura and the Shield in his war 
      against the Divine."
      "Yes, my lord! Thank you, my lord. I will leave at once."
      Caladwar was halfway out the door, the Blood-knife still clutched in his 
      hand, when his lord's parting thoughts came to the Vrykyl's mind. Caladwar 
      tried not to hear, for he was fearful that Dagnarus might change his mind 
      and order him to remain in Saumel. The Vrykyl could not very well help 
      hearing, however. He realized, with a sigh of relief, that the Lord of the 
      Void was not speaking to him, but to the rebel.
      "You have made a mistake, K'let," Dagnarus said, and his calm was more 
      frightening than his rage. "I would have overlooked much from you, but not 
      this."
      Hastily, Caladwar thrust the Blood-knife back into its sheath. He took 
      care not to touch it again until he was safely out of dwarven lands and on 
      his way back to Tromek.



      Wolfram and Ranessa spent three days flying around and about the southern 
      tip of the Dwarven Spine Mountains, searching for the trail left by the 
      taan. Three months had passed and the trail was as cold as yesterday's 
      porridge. But all Wolfram needed was a campsite or the remnants of a fire. 
      Once he found that, he could determine by his scrying if the fire had been 
      built by the taan, and from that he would know which direction they were 
      headed. Find one fire and it would be easier, so he reasoned, to find the 
      next.
      He figured, logically, that the taan would travel to the west. They had 
      come from the west, from Dunkarga. The taan were still fighting in the 
      west, in Karnu. The taan would naturally head back in that direction with 
      their prize. If Wolfram had known of the taan's fear of water, he would 
      have not wasted his time searching along the shores of the river. He did 
      not know, however, and so he assumed that they had crossed over by boat. 
      He and Ranessa spent several days gliding slowly up and down the 
      riverbanks, searching for the remnants of a campfire. They found several, 
      but each time he did the scrying, he saw only parties of dwarves.
      Ranessa thought the search boring. She complained during the day, sulked 
      through the night. She threatened every hour or so to return to the 
      monastery, with or without Wolfram.
      The third night, after another day of searching that turned up nothing, he 
      and Ranessa sat around their own fire.
      "I want to talk to you," she said abruptly. "We've wasted another whole 
      day flying up and down this blasted river, and I'm sick to death of it."
      "You didn't have to change out of your dragon form to tell me that," said 
      Wolfram, poking the fire. "Why do you bother?"
      "Because we're going to have an argument," said Ranessa, her dark eyes 
      glinting.
      Wolfram snorted. "We're always having arguments, girl! What's that got to 
      do with shifting your form to a human?"
      "Because," Ranessa said loftily, "dragons don't argue with the likes of 
      you. It's demeaning."
      Wolfram heaved a sigh. "I don't suppose I'll be able to get any sleep 
      until you've had your say."
      "No," said Ranessa.
      "Very well, girl. Get on with it."
      "Two days ago, you'd never heard of this dwarf child," stated Ranessa. "No 
      one cared for her before this happened. I don't see why you should start 
      caring about her now. No one cared about that blasted Stone, either, for 
      that matter."
      "I'm doing this for that very reason," said Wolfram.
      He muttered the ritual prayer over the night fire, began to bank the 
coals.
      "For what reason?"
      "For the reason you said. That no one cared about her." Wolfram stood up, 
      wiping his hands. He looked at Ranessa, looked at her hard and intently. 
      "You of all people should understand that."
      He walked off to his bedroll. Wrapping himself in his blanket, he saw her 
      still standing there, staring after him. Wolfram drifted off to sleep with 
      a warm glow. He'd finally managed to have the last word.



      The next morning, Ranessa was gone.
      Wolfram searched the area around their campsite, but there was no sign of 
      Ranessa in any formhuman or dragon. He told himself that she was hunting; 
      her dragon form required an enormous amount of meat, and she often left to 
      go after deer or mountain goat. Depending on her mood, she would sometimes 
      bring him back a haunch to roast.
      The nagging thought persisted that this time she'd carried through on her 
      threat. He'd made her angry enough last night that she'd left without him. 
      He wandered about the shoreline of the river, wondering bleakly what he 
      would do. With her, the quest had been just short of hopeless. Without her 
      . . .
      "I'll go on,"Wolfram said to his reflection that wavered in the water at 
      his feet. "I've committed myself. It will take years, maybe. The rest of 
      my life."
      He smiled ruefully. "I'll be like Lord Gustav and his mad quest. They'll 
      be singing songs of me next."
      A shadow glided over him, the shadow of vast wings. Wolfram looked up in 
      joy and relief. Ranessa flew above him, wheeling about him .in tight 
      circles.
      "You're looking in the wrong place!" she called down to him. "The taan 
      traveled north of here. Far north. They crossed the Arven River near New 
      Vinnengael."
      Wolfram gaped at her. "How do you know?"
      "What?" Ranessa bent her head. "I can't hear you."
      "How do you know?" he bawled.
      "Oh," she said. "I asked."
      "Asked what?" Wolfram demanded. "Asked who?" He waved his arms to indicate 
      the vast and empty wilderness. "There's no one around here to ask!"
      Ranessa muttered something.
      "What did you say?" he shouted.
      "If you must know, I asked a seagull."
      "Come down here!" Wolfram commanded, pointing at the ground. "I'm losing 
      my voice!"
      Ranessa circled down slowly. Finding a clear place to land, she settled 
      down on the sun-warmed rocks.
      "I thought you said you asked a seagull," said Wolfram, coming over to 
      stand near her snout.
      "I did," said Ranessa. "I asked a seagull if he had seen any of these 
      taan, and he told me all about them. It's been the talk of the bird 
      community for months," she added disparagingly. "They have so little to 
      occupy their tiny minds."
      "I didn't know you could talk to seagulls," Wolfram said, amazed.
      "Well, I can," said Ranessa. She didn't seem inclined to elaborate.
      "Is that something all dragons can do?"
      "I suppose so. Look, now that we know their direction, shouldn't we be 
      going?"
      "Just a moment," said Wolfram. "Do you mean to say that during this time 
      we've been flying hither and yon, searching for the trail of these taan, 
      all you had to do was ask a passing bird?"
      Ranessa stared straight ahead.
      "Girl," said Wolfram, in exasperation, "why didn't you?"
      Ranessa glanced down at her nose at him. "Talking to birds is just so ... 
      pecwae."
      "Pecwae?"
      "Yes, pecwae. Are you coming?" she demanded irritably.
      "I'm coming," said Wolfram. He climbed up on her back, careful to keep his 
      chuckle to himself.
       



       10THE VOYAGE OF THE ORKEN SHIP CARRYING SHADAMEHR AND HIS companions was 
      idyllic, a journey of bright sunshine and rushing winds and foaming water. 
      The ship sailed rapidly, thanks to the remarkably fine weather and the 
      magical talents of Quai-ghai, ship's shaman, and Griffith, ship's 
      passenger. One used her magic to calm the waters. The other used his magic 
      to summon the winds. The ship sped through the Sea of Sagquanno, rounded 
      the Cape of Bad Omens safely, and entered the Sea of Orkas in record time.
      Captain Kal-Gah was impressed. He'd never realized how valuable an elf who 
      worked Air magic could be. Taking Griffith aside, the captain offered him 
      a permanent job as Ship's Second Shaman. Griffith expressed his 
      appreciation and honor, but was forced to refuse.
      "Since the Wyred paid for my training," he explained, "they would not look 
      kindly upon me selling my skills in magic to anyone else."
      Captain Kal-Gah understood. He offered to cut the Wyred in for a small 
      share of the takings, if that would make them happy.
      Griffith said he was afraid that it wouldn't.
      Captain Kal-Gah did not give up on his scheme, however. Orks have long 
      been prejudiced against the magic of other races, considering that any 
      orken shaman who uses magic other than the magic of water is the next best 
      thing to a traitor. Captain Kal-Gah began to think that this was 
      narrow-minded of his people, and he hinted broadly to a shocked Quai-ghai 
      that she should broaden her horizons.
      While Griffith spent his time with Quai-ghai, learning Water magic spells, 
      Damra was relaxing for the first time in her life. Lulled by the beauty of 
      the sea and the knowledge that she was cut off from the world and that no 
      one could make demands"of her, she passed her days in quiet, spiritual 
      meditation and reflection. At night, she found comfort in her husband's 
      arms.
      Shadamehr spent the voyage improving his knowledge of the art of sailing. 
      He was already familiar with navigation, having learned that on a previous 
      voyage. Now he was intent upon learning all he could about the ship. He 
      climbed up the rigging and descended into the hold. He burned all the skin 
      off his palms sliding down a rope and nearly broke his neck in a fall from 
      a mast. Fortunately, he landed in the water. The orks were able to fish 
      him out. He came dripping wet on board, laughing and claiming that he'd 
      enjoyed the swim.
      Seeing that he was serious in his study, the orks were glad to teach him. 
      They said he was lucky, for there had not been a bad omen since he came on 
      board.
      Shadamehr didn't feel lucky, or even very content. For some inexplicable 
      reason, Alise was not happy, and he couldn't understand why. He went out 
      of his way to play the perfect lover, but romantic words brought sarcastic 
      responses and his melting looks caused her eyes to raise to the heavens. 
      She was by turns snappish and sharp-tongued or silent and aloof. 
      Sometimes, he would catch her regarding him with a look of sadness that 
      was mingled with frustration.
      "I don't understand women," Shadamehr complained plaintively to Griffith. 
      "I'm trying to be what she wants me to be, and yet she will have none of 
      me. Which rhymes, by the way."
      "Are you?" Griffith returned. "Or are you trying to be what you want her 
      to want you to be?"
      Thinking gloomily that he would never understand elves either, Shadamehr 
      went back to the rigging.
      The ship left the Sea of Orkas, turning north to sail up the Straits. One 
      daythe day after the day the orks hauled Shadamehr out of the seahe was 
      standing at the railing, practicing with the sextant, when Alise walked up 
      and stood beside him.
      She had been avoiding him as if he'd adopted the orken habit of slathering 
      himself all over in fish oil and he was surprised to see her, surprised 
      and pleased.
      "So, where are we?" she asked.
      "By my calculations, somewhere north of Tromek," Shadamehr replied 
      blithely.
      Alise looked at him in astonishment, and he saw the ghost of a smile play 
      on her lips. The smile vanished swiftly, however, and she turned her gaze 
      back out to sea.
      "You're working very hard at enjoying yourself," she remarked. "So hard 
      you nearly broke your fool neck."
      "If it comes to that," Shadamehr replied. "You're working very hard at not 
      enjoying yourself. Alise, we have to settle this between us"
      She gazed out over the sun-sparkled waves. "It is settled. I don't want 
      you to love me. I want things to go back to the way they were between us. 
      As if nothing had happened."
      "I don't think that's possible, Alise," said Shadamehr.
      For a minute she looked defiant. Then she sighed. "No, I don't suppose it 
      is."
      "You are afraid," he said suddenly.
      She bristled. "I am not."
      "Are, too!" he returned mockingly. Seeing her color rise in her cheeks, he 
      added, "You're afraid that if we're lovers, we can't be friends. That 
      we'll lose what we have together."
      "Well," she said to him, challenging. "Haven't we?"
      "No, I" Shadamehr paused. He stood there with his mouth open. For, by the 
      gods, they had lost it.
      She walked away, left him standing at the taffrail, staring unseeing at 
      the rolling waves and their foaming wake.



      The joyful spirit of the passengers evaporated as the Kli'Sha sailed into 
      what the orks knew as the Blessed Straits. In order to reach Krammes, the 
      orks would have to sail past the isle of Mount Sa 'Gra, their sacred 
      mountain that was now in the hands of the detested Karnuans. The orks 
      avoided sailing in this direction if they could help it. It was not that 
      they feared attack. Land-bound warriors, the Karnuans knew better than to 
      fight the orks at sea, where the orks would have all the advantages. The 
      orks could not bear to look at the peaks of the revered mountain and 
      imagine the humans defilers walking the halls of their temples.
      The orken lookouts sighted a few ships flying the Karnuan flag, but those 
      turned tail the moment they saw the orken pennant and sailed away, to 
      jeers and challenges from the orken crew.
      Mount Sa 'Gra, with its plume of smoke streaming from the snow-whitened 
      top, came into sight. The captain ordered all hands on deck. The orks 
      lined the rails and climbed into the rigging. Taking off their caps, they 
      gazed longingly at the mountain. Quai-ghai, their shaman, recited an orken 
      prayer in low, solemn tones.
      Although Damra could not understand the words of the chant, she could hear 
      the grief and aching pain in the shaman's voice and see it reflected on 
      the faces of the orks. The chant ended in a fierce, strong shout. The orks 
      shook their fists in the direction of their mountain, their voices joining 
      that of their shaman in a thunderous roar.
      "They vow to return," said Captain Kal-Gah, translating. "And on that day, 
      the Blessed Straits will run red with Karnuan blood."
      "Given your anger," Griffith said, "I am surprised that you haven't tried 
      to take your mountain back by now."
      "The Captain of Captains is wise," stated Kal-Gah. "We are gallant 
      warriors on board our ships, hopeless bunglers on land." He grinned 
      suddenly. "Being an ork, I can say that though I would cut your throat 
      from ear to ear if you said it, Baron."
      Kal-Gah clapped Shadamehr on the back, a blow that propelled him halfway 
      across the deck.
      "We have heard," Kal-Gah added more solemnly, "that the Captain has a 
      secret force of orks assembled in Harkon. They wait for the right omens to 
      attack."
      "Is that true?" Alise asked, interested.
      "Whether it is or it isn't, it keeps the Karnuans from sleeping well at 
      night," said the captain. He gazed back at the mountain, dwindling on the 
      horizon, and his smile tightened to a grim line. "We will come back. 
      Someday."
      The elves and humans took their meals in their cabin, away from the orks, 
      mainly because the sight and smell of orken food was too much for them to 
      stomach. That night, the orks had captured a large squid and were 
      anticipating a grand feast.
      The mere thought of eating the squirming, slimy creature was enough to 
      ruin Damra's appetite, and she only picked at her meal, which wasn't all 
      that great to begin with. The ship had stopped at one of the towns along 
      the coast to take on supplies, so the elves were able to add nuts and 
      dried fruits to the menu of hard-baked biscuit and cheese. Having eaten 
      nothing else for days on end, Damra thought that if she never saw another 
      fig for as long as she lived, it would still not be long enough.
      To add flavor to the meal, the four discussed the orken political 
      situation.
      "I can't imagine what it would be like to lose someplace that you love and 
      revere so much," said Alise. "To know that people who care nothing about 
      it are probably writing nasty words on the walls of the temple where your 
      god resides."
      "And where they toss their sacrificial victims into the bowels of the 
      sacred mountain," said Shadamehr cheerfully.
      "Do they?" asked Damra, amazed.
      "Yes, I'm afraid so. The orks consider it a great honor, actually, to be 
      given to the god of the mountain. And thus most of the victims they 
      sacrifice are orks, who presumably think a leap into molten lava leads to 
      heaven."
      "But to take life, which is sacred, is not right," Damra argued.
      "According to your gods. Not according to the orken god. Would you impose 
      your beliefs on the orks? That's what the Karnuans did, you know. That was 
      the excuse they used to capture the sacred mountain. They claimed that 
      offering living sacrifices was offensive to the gods."
      "It is," said Damra.
      "And slaughtering thousands of orks and enslaving thousands more isn't 
      offensive to the gods?" Shadamehr asked, with a wink at Griffith.
      "Don't encourage him, Damra," said Alise. "My lord Shadamehr will argue 
      that the ocean is dry and the sun shines at midnight, if you let him."
      "Still" Damra began.
      She was interrupted by the arrival of one of the cabin boys, the son of 
      Captain Kal-Gah, brought along on this voyage to learn the trade.
      "Sir," said the boy, thrusting his head in through the door, "the shaman 
      said for you to come right away. She's doing her daily water speak, and it 
      seems that someone is trying to contact you."
      "May I come along, my lord?" asked Griffith eagerly. "I've never seen this 
      spell performed. Unless you think this message might be private."
      "No, no," said Shadamehr gaily. "I have no secrets. So long as Quaighai 
      does not mind your presence, I have no objection. Ladies? Would you like 
      to come along, too? Although her cabin is small, and I suppose all of us 
      would be rather a tight fit."
      Alise said she was going to bed, and Damra wanted to meditate. Griffith 
      and Shadamehr were on their own.
      "I'll wager I'm not going to like whatever it is I'm about to hear," 
      Shadamehr predicted gloomily, as they followed the cabin boy below-decks 
      to Quai-ghai's quarters.
      "What makes you say that?"
      "Because no one goes out of his way to tell you good news, yet people fall 
      all over themselves to tell you the bad stuff."
      The cabin boy shushed them as they approached Quai-ghai's cabin. He did 
      not knock on the door, but gently opened it to admit the two men. They 
      slid quietly inside, trying their best not to disturb the shaman's 
      concentration.
      Quai-ghai sat at a table in front of a large bowl fashioned out of an 
      enormous quahog shell. Seawater in the bowl moved gently with the motion 
      of the ship. Quai-ghai was talking to the water, asking questions and 
      receiving answers. Cocking her head, she listened, then replied.
      "Wonderful!" Griffith breathed softly, as he took his place opposite the 
      table. "Have you ever seen this done before?"
      Shadamehr shook his head. Quai-ghai flashed them both an irritated glance, 
      and Griffith lowered his voice to a whisper.
      "She and another shaman can communicate directly with each other with this 
      magic. All that is required is that each have a bowl of water and know the 
      proper spell. Wyred who are permitted to study Water magic find this spell 
      to be invaluable for rapid communication over long distances."
      "I should think so," said Shadamehr, intrigued.
      "The two people must establish a certain time of day when both will be 
      present," Griffith continued. "According to Quai-ghai, almost all orken 
      shamans choose sunset as the time they will be at their posts, in order to 
      receive or send messages."
      Quai-ghai lifted her head. "The spell is ended. You no longer have to 
      whisper. Do you know someone named Rigiswald?"
      "Crotchety old geezer? Bad-tempered, but a snappy dresser?"
      "I didn't see him," said Quai-ghai with dignity. She frowned at the baron. 
      "This is a serious matter."
      "Sorry," said Shadamehr meekly. "Please go on."
      "The Rigiswald person hired a shaman to contact you through me. The shaman 
      has been trying for a week, and finally managed to speak to me this day. 
      The Rigiswald person says to tell you that Dagnarus, Lord of the Void, is 
      now King of Vinnengael."
      "At which news, I am sure, there was much rejoicing," said Shadamehr 
dryly.
      "The Rigiswald person says to tell you that Dagnarus has the support of 
      the people, for he led the battle against the taan army and slaughtered 
      them."
      "The taan army that he brought himself?" said Shadamehr, lifting an 
      eyebrow. "That was good of him. What else?"
      "The Rigiswald person says to tell you that Dagnarus has ordered all his 
      barons to New Vinnengael to do him homage and swear their loyalty to him. 
      If they decline, their property and assets are forfeit to the crown. 
      According to this Rigiswald," Quai-ghai added, her voice softening, "the 
      king has seized your lands and your keep and all your revenue. The 
      Rigiswald person warns that if you go back, you are in danger. Your keep 
      is not all that you will lose."
      "I see," said Shadamehr quietly. He could feel Griffith's gaze on him, but 
      he chose not meet it. He stared unseeing at the bowl of water. "Anything 
      more?"
      "An attempt was made on the life of this Rigiswald while he was on the 
      road, but he survived, and he will meet you and Alise in Krammes."
      "Tough old bird," said Shadamehr, smiling. "An assassin would have to get 
      up pretty early in the day to do in Rigiswald. Any other cheerful news? 
      The world about to come to an end?"
      "No, that is all," said Quai-ghai. "Is there anything you want to tell 
      this person?"
      "Just to take care of himself," said Shadamehr. "And we will see him in 
      Krammes.
      "Well, well," he said to Griffith, after they had both thanked Quai-ghai 
      and taken their leave, "it seems I am pfenningless."
      "I am so sorry, my lord," said Griffith.
      Shadamehr gave a lopsided smile. " 'Easy come, easy go,' as the Dunkargan 
      thief said when they chopped off his head. Still, I was fond of my keep, 
      even though it was a tad drafty in the winter."
      "What will you do?" Griffith wondered.
      "I rather think I'll have to get it back."
      "But, my lord," exclaimed Griffith, appalled. "Dagnarus is King of 
      Vinnengael, with thousands of troops at his command, and he's also"
      "Lord of the Void, with Vrykyls and ravenous taan and Void sorcerers ready 
      to satisfy his every whim? Yes, I know. But I have my health. That must 
      count for something."
      "I don't see how you can joke about this, my lord."
      Griffith could not imagine a greater calamity. To be exiled was the worst 
      possible fate that could befall an elf. Death was far preferable.
      "It's either that or sit down and sob uncontrollably," said Shadamehr. 
      "And sobbing always makes my nose swell. Don't worry. I'll think of 
      something. I always do."
      Shadamehr put his hand on the elf's shoulder. "Brace yourself, my friend. 
      Now comes the really hard part."
      "What's that?"
      "Telling Alise. You won't need to summon any winds this night, Griffith," 
      Shadamehr predicted. "The blast of her fury will propel us along so that 
      we'll be lucky if we don't end up in Myanmin by morning."
      The blast of Arises fury didn't quite propel them to the Nimorean coast, 
      but it came close. She was enraged at Dagnarus and the fools of New 
      Vinnengael for having fallen victim to his treachery, and she was equally 
      as enraged at Shadamehr for taking the disastrous news with such apparent 
      calm.
      "My dear," he said in response to one of her tirades, "would you feel 
      better if I hung myself from the yardarm?"
      "Yes," she retorted. "At least you'd be doing something constructive. You 
      spent this morning fishing."
      "Since we're stuck on a ship in the middle of the Blessed Straits, I'm not 
      certain what constructive thing I could be doing, other than catching our 
      dinner."
      "You could be making plans," Alise said, with a wild gesture. "Deciding 
      what to do, where to go"
      He leaned back against the rail, regarded her with a cool, insufferable 
      smile.
      "Damn you!" she said. Doubling her hand into a fist, she punched him in 
      the arm.
      "Ouch!" Shadamehr said, startled. "What was that for?"
      "To make you stop smirking. You knew this would happen," she said 
      accusingly. "You knew this would happen, and you didn't tell me. You knew 
      before we even left the keep"
      "I wish I could claim that I had foreknowledge that I was going to be 
      exiled and stripped of my lands and titles and made a target for 
      assassination, but I'm afraid I can't, dear heart."
      "Hah!" she said. "You chose Krammes for our destination because it is on 
      the other side of the continent from New Vinnengael and because you have 
      friends among the officers at the Imperial Cavalry School. Friends you can 
      recruit to help you take back your keep ..."
      Shadamehr rolled up his sleeve. "Look there. Look at that mark you made. I 
      bruise easily, you know."
      "You always said that the best-trained officers in the world came from 
      that school," Alise went on. "They won't be willing to follow Dagnarus, 
      nor will the people of Krammes. We'll form an army and march on New 
      Vinnengael. You have the Sovereign Stone. You'll have to become a Dominion 
      Lord, of course, but I'm sure the gods will overlook the defects in your 
      character and not fry you to a crisp during the Transfiguration"
      "What would you say the odds were, exactly?" Shadamehr interrupted. "On 
      not frying me to a crisp."
      "Oh, seventy/thirty," said Alise.
      "Seventy which way and thirty which way?"
      "Seventy they fry you."
      "Not great," he pointed out.
      "I don't honestly see how you can expect better."
      "I suppose you're right."
      "You could always do something to improve them," Alise said.
      "Do you think that's possible?"
      Alise was about to make a witty retort. Looking at him closely, she 
      changed her mind. "Shadamehr, I believe you're serious!"
      "I think about it sometimes," he said. "About Bashae, giving his life to 
      protect the Stone. And for what? To hand it off to me. What good am I 
      doing with it? Precisely nothing. I don't know what to do," he added, 
      frustrated. "Do I summon the Council, as Damra wants? Or do I take the 
      Stone to Old Vinnengael, as Gareth told me in the vision."
      He turned away, stared moodily out to sea.
      "You know I was joking, don't you?" Alise rested her hand on his arm, 
      massaged the place where she'd hit him. "I don't think there is a man on 
      this world who is better suited to be a Dominion Lord. The gods would be 
      crazy not to snap you up."
      "That's the rub," said Shadamehr. "The gods. All my life, I've been in 
      control of my own destiny. I may have bungled things here and there, but, 
      if I did, I had no one to blame but myself. To give myself into the hands 
      of fate or destiny or -whatever you want to call itthat's what truly 
      frightens me, Alise."
      "I don't think it's like that, exactly," she said.
      "What do you mean?" He turned to her, interested to know what she was 
      thinking.
      Shadamehr stood silhouetted against the backdrop of rolling blue waves 
      touched here and there by white froth. Seabirds skimmed the tips of the 
      waves, either in search of fish or because they loved the adventure of 
      flying through the foam. The wind ruffled his long hair. His face was 
      tanned from the sun, and that made his eyes blue as the ocean. The 
      laughter that usually danced in his eyes, like the sun glinting on the 
      water, was gone. Understanding that he was opening his heart to her, 
      laying bare his fear and his doubt, Alise pondered long before she 
      replied, trying to explain what was for her the inexplicable.
      "There is a spell that some Earth magi are taught," she said, her words 
      coming slowly as she went over each in her mind, to make certain it was 
      the word she wanted. "A spell that we know as Earthen Killer. With it, we 
      can summon into being a shambling mass of rock and order it to do our 
      bidding. The Killer has no mind. It has no will of its own. It gives no 
      thought to what it's doing. The magus has to keep this thing in control, 
      for it would just as soon kill him as his enemies."
      Alise looked into Shadamehr's eyes. "The gods don't want an Earthen 
      Killer. The gods want men and women who can think for themselves and make 
      decisions and act on those decisions. Sometimes those decisions will be 
      wrong, but the gods understand that. I don't believe that those who become 
      Dominion Lords act at the direction of the gods. I believe that they act 
      on their own. I think that what makes Dominion Lords special is that they 
      are given the chance to look into the minds of the gods. Not far, perhaps. 
      Just a tiny glimpse. But even that tiny glimpse helps them to judge what 
      to do."
      "Or perhaps," said Shadamehr thoughtfully, "Dominion Lords are given the 
      chance to look inside themselves."
      "Maybe it's the same thing," said Alise.
      He reached out with his hand and smoothed back the red curls that blew 
      across her face. "We can never go back to what we were, Alise," he said.
      "I know," she replied.
      "So where do we go from here?"
      Smiling at him, she kissed him on the cheek. "To Krammes, my lord," she 
      said.
       



       11THE CITY OF KRAMMES HAD BEEN THEIR DESTINATION FROM THE start of their 
      voyage and, as they drew nearer, their expectations for this city shone as 
      brightly as the beacon fires the orks built nightly to serve as guide for 
      the ships sailing the treacherous shoals of the Blessed Straits. Time had 
      been suspended while they were at sea, but now the pendulum was swinging 
      again, the ticking resumed.
      Shadamehr was eager to see if any of the Dominion Lords, warned by Ulaf, 
      had arrived. He would at last be able to hand over to them responsibility 
      for the Sovereign Stone. And he was also looking forward to talking with 
      Prince Mikael, ruler of the city, and the officers of the Imperial Cavalry 
      School, to find out what they thought of their new king, Dagnarus. Arise 
      was looking forward to seeing Ulaf and their friends. Damra and Griffith 
      were both hoping and dreading to hear news of their homeland. Captain 
      Kal-Gah had cargo to sell in Krammes. The crew smacked their lips when 
      they thought about the ale houses. Everyone was looking forward to fresh 
      food and water and walking on dry land.
      Orken vessels were generally to be found in this part of the world, so 
      near their homeland, and so it was no surprise when the shout of "sail, 
      ho" came from the lookouts.
      An orken ship appeared on the northern horizon. The ship did not run down 
      to meet them, but hove to and waited for them to come up to her. Once 
      within hailing distance, the orks bellowed across the waves at one 
      another. After some moments of this, Captain Kal-Gah, his expression grim, 
      ordered a boat to be lowered to carry him across to the other ship.
      "I don't like this," said Shadamehr, looking grave. "Somethings wrong."
      "I hope whatever it is doesn't prevent us from going to Krammes," Damra 
      said. "I cannot eat another dried fig. They're starting to stick in my 
      throat."
      The four of them hung over the rail, watching the other ship and waiting 
      anxiously for the captain's boat to return. Griffith questioned Quai-ghai, 
      but she knew no more than they did. The omens, she said, had been 
      particularly good that morning. Griffith took that as a hopeful sign, 
      until Shadamehr pointed out that good omens for orks didn't necessarily 
      mean good omens for humans and elves.
      Captain Kal-Gah returned to his vessel, coming aboard to the blast of a 
      conch shell. He barked sharp orders that sent the crew racing to their 
      duties, then summoned his passengers to his cabin.
      "We are not going to sail into Krammes," he announced.
      "Why not?" Shadamehr asked, as the others stared bleakly at the captain. 
      "What's wrong?"
      "The city is under attack," the captain replied.
      Alise gasped. "Dagnarus! I knew it!"
      "No," said the captain, and his face split into a grin. He slapped himself 
      on the chest. "Orks!"
      "Orks are attacking Krammes?" Shadamehr repeated in dazed tones.
      "The Captain of Captains is here," said Captain Kal-Gah proudly. "And her 
      entire fleet. They are laying siege to the city now."
      "But . . . why?" Alise asked, bewildered. "The orks and the 
      Vinnen-gaeleans aren't at war. Are we?"
      "We are now," said Captain Kal-Gah fiercely. "The Captain has long been 
      angry at the Vinnengaeleans for helping the Karnuans seize our mountain. 
      The Captain summoned the fleet, and now they are laying siege to Krammes."
      "The Vinnengaeleans didn't help the Karnuans," Alise protested 
      indignantly. "Not willingly. Our fleet was tricked."
      "So you claim," said Captain Kal-Gah, with a wink.
      "But it's true"Alise began.
      Shadamehr seized her hand, squeezed it.
      "Can you take us closer?" he asked. "So we could see the battle."
      "Yes, I can do that," stated Kal-Gah. He brightened up. "It should be a 
      wondrous sight. I expect that half the city is ablaze by now."
      He went back to the deck to shout orders. The four friends returned to 
      their quarters, where they stared at each in blank dismay.
      "This doesn't make any sense," said Shadamehr thoughtfully.
      "They're orks," stated Damra, as if that explained everything. "They 
      probably read it in this morning's fish entrails."
      "Orks may be superstitious, but they're not stupid," said Shadamehr. "They 
      have a reason for everything they do and, I repeat, this doesn't make 
      sense. True, the orks are angry with the Vinnengaeleans, and they had 
      reason to be. We were fools to let the Karnuans trick us and steal our 
      ship. But that happened long ago. Why didn't the orks attack then? Why 
      suddenly decide to attack Krammes now? Unless . . ."
      He paused, then said quietly, "Maybe they do have a reason."
      "Dagnarus," Alise said.
      "Our new king," Shadamehr agreed. "He's allied himself with the orks. 
      Makes perfect sense, of course. He seizes control of eastern Vinnen-gael 
      and the orks conquer western Vinnengael for him. They attack Krammes by 
      sea. He has taan forces ready to move in by land."
      "I see one problem with that," Griffith protested. "The orks have no love 
      for Void magic."
      "They probably have no idea Dagnarus has anything to do with Void magic," 
      Alise pointed out. "The Vrykyl was able to fool all of you into thinking 
      he was a human child. As Lord of the Void, Dagnarus would find it much 
      easier to hide his alliance with the Void."
      "Alise is right," said Shadamehr. "All Dagnarus would have to do is 
      promise the Captain of Captains he would help her gain her sacred mountain 
      back, and the orks would be only too happy to comply. Especially if it 
      meant they had a chance to avenge themselves on Vinnengaeleans in the 
      process."
      "Promises he has no intention of keeping," said Damra.
      "He might," said Shadamehr speculatively. "Dagnarus might well be 
      interested in taking the sacred mountain from the Karnuans. Not that he'll 
      give it to the orks."
      "Why would he want it?" asked Alise. "The island has some strategic value, 
      I suppose, but"
      "I know why. Because the orken portion of the Sovereign Stone is rumored 
      to be hidden there," said Griffith.
      "Precisely," Shadamehr replied.
      "The orks would die before they told him where to find it," said Damra.
      "He's Lord of the Void," said Griffith grimly. "He wouldn't find death 
      much of an obstacle. He can drag the truth from their corpses."
      The four regarded each other in dismay.
      "Very well. Now that we have this all figured out, what do we do to stop 
      him?" Damra asked. "I suppose we could try to talk to this Captain of 
      Captains, but why would she believe us?"
      "Because of my honest face and stunning good looks?" said Shadamehr.
      Alise snorted in derision. "What would be really helpful is a bad omen. 
      Something that would frighten the orks into fleeing Krammes." She cast 
      Shadamehr a withering glance. "There, you might be useful."
      "A bad omen," Shadamehr repeated. He looked speculatively at Griffith. "It 
      would have to be something more spectacular than fish entrails."
      "I think that could be arranged," said Griffith, smiling back.
      "I don't like this," said Damra frowning. "It's tampering with the works 
      of the gods."
      "Have another fig," said Shadamehr, holding out a basket of dried fruit.



      Captain Kal-Gah's ship joined the orken fleet, whose ships were taking 
      turns lobbing flaming jelly at the city of Krammes. Captain Kal-Gah had 
      exaggerated when he said the city would be ablaze. The orks had barely 
      begun their bombardment. The city was not yet in flames, although smoke 
      could be seen rising from some buildings along the wharf.
      The history of Krammes proved the old adage that it is an ill wind that 
      blows nobody good. Two hundred years earlier, Krammes had been the orphan 
      child begging for crumbs at the table of the wealthy city now known as Old 
      Vinnengael. Krammes was located south of Vinnengael, at the mouth of the 
      estuary that led to Lake Ildurel and the city itself. The Vinnengaeleans 
      had built a fortress at Krammes, intended to guard that estuary. A trading 
      post had grown up around the fortress, but it struggled to survive. Few 
      ships bound for the lucrative markets of Old Vinnengael cared to stop at 
      the smaller, poorer markets of Krammes.
      With the fall of Old Vinnengael, the fortunes of Krammes changed almost 
      overnight. Survivors of the disaster fled downriver to Krammes, swelling 
      the population and bringing in what wealth they had managed to salvage. 
      Krammes continued to grow and now, two hundred years later, it was a 
      thriving city, second only to New Vinnengael in size and importance. 
      Markets teemed with customers. The city was home to foreign traders. 
      Black-skinned Nimrans could be seen rubbing shoulders with olive-skinned 
      Dunkargans and pale-skinned Vinnengaeleans. Elven merchants traveled to 
      Krammes via the trade route that ran south from Dainmorae. Weapons of 
      dwarven make could often be found in the markets, brought by the orks from 
      the dwarven lands to the east, or sometimes by dwarven traders.
      The fortress that guarded the entrance to the estuary stood on a 
      promontory overlooking the Blessed Straits. The fortress had been 
      strengthened down through the years, for Krammes was always wary of her 
      Karnuan neighbors, one reason for the founding of the Imperial Cavalry 
      School. The fortress was equipped with the most recent developments in 
      weapons technology, and the orks were angered to discover that this 
      included the orken specialtyflaming jelly. The fortress could heave 
      enormous boulders that would tear through sails, smash holes in the 
      bulkheads, or fling red-hot metal that would set fire to a ship's decks 
      and the rigging.
      Fearful of the fortress's weapons, the ork ships could not sail as close 
      to Krammes as they would have liked. Thus the orks were doing little 
      damage to the city itself, although the siege was bound to have a 
      devastating effect on the city's economy. So long as ork ships blockaded 
      the harbor, no other ship dared enter.
      At least, that was Captain Kal-Gah's thinking, explained to Shadamehr, as 
      they sailed toward the battle. Shadamehr agreed with the assessment. He 
      did not mention his suspicions that taan forces might well be on their way 
      from the east.
      "If the orks can be persuaded to retreat," Shadamehr told his companions, 
      "I can enter the city, reach the prince, and alert him to this danger. 
      That's where your bad omen comes in. We have to cause the orks to 
retreat."
      "You'll have to make certain that Quai-ghai doesn't see me," Griffith 
      warned. "She would know immediately I was casting a spell, and that would 
      prove disastrous. Captain Kal-Gah may be your friend, Baron, but orks take 
      their omens very seriously and if they were to discover that we were 
      cooking one up, they would kill us."
      "You could do the spell in the cabin," Shadamehr suggested. "Or do you 
      have to be on deck?"
      "For the spell I have in mind, so long as I have line of sight, I can cast 
      the spell from the cabin."
      "Fortunately, the battle should keep everyone distracted," said Shadamehr. 
      "We'll make sure they stay that way. If anyone asks, Griffith, we'll say 
      that you are indisposed."
      "And that I have my own cures," Griffith emphasized hastily. "I don't want 
      Quai-ghai down here lathering me with fish oil and banging drums."
      "Agreed. Especially about the fish oil. When do you"
      An orken cabin boy banged on the door and opened it simultaneously, 
      causing all of them to start guiltily. Fortunately, the youngster was too 
      excited to notice. "Captain says the battle is in sight, Baron." The 
      youngster grinned, hopping with excitement. "You can see flames and smoke 
      and everything."
      "Glorious!" said Shadamehr heartily. "We'll be straight up."
      He and Alise ascended to the deck, leaving Damra and Griffith below. Damra 
      kept watch at the door. Griffith groaned pathetically in his bed.
      Shadamehr headed off Quai-ghai's offers of leeches and stewed fish heads. 
      Fortunately, Quai-ghai was interested in watching the battle, and so she 
      did not press her attentions on the sick elf. Shadamehr and Alise took up 
      positions where they could see the proceedings and keep an eye on the 
      ladder leading to their quarters.
      According to Kal-Gah, the battle had reached a stalemate, with neither 
      side able to gain the advantage over the other. One orken ship was aflame. 
      Her crew worked frantically to douse the fire and had not yet been forced 
      to abandon ship. Smoke rose from the dockyards of Krammes, but only a few 
      thin trails. The orks could not sail closer to attack the city proper. The 
      Krammerians could not sail out to drive away the orks. So they blazed away 
      at one another, flinging great globules of flaming jelly through the air, 
      along with anything else that seemed likely to do harm.
      All the while, Shadamehr speculated, Dagnarus's forces might be drawing 
      closer.
      "Stop fidgeting!" Alise ordered him. "And quit peering down the ladder. 
      Someone's bound to notice."
      "What's taking him so long?" Shadamehr demanded impatiently. "!_"
      "Look!" Alise whispered in excitement, tugging on his sleeve.
      The orken sailors posted up among the rigging "hallooed" out for the deck, 
      several of them pointing. All eyes turned that way, diverting their 
      attention from the battle.
      The ocean this day was relatively calm, with only a light breeze that 
      barely ruffled the flag. That made the sight they witnessed all the more 
      strange. It seemed to Shadamehr's startled gaze as if the seawater in one 
      small part of the ocean suddenly lifted, not in a wave, but a vast circle 
      that had a smoky gray hue. A long, sinuous tendril of gray snaked out of 
      the darkening heavens, twisting with deadly grace as it slid over the 
      surface of the foaming water.
      "A waterspout!" breathed Alise.
      "By the gods!" said Shadamehr softly. "I've never seen one."
      To judge by their clamor, the orks had seen waterspouts before and knew 
      them to be erratic and sometimes lethal, if they caught a ship in their 
      spinning turbulence. A worse omen could not be imagined. Quai-ghai shouted 
      at the top of her lungs; her bellows coinciding with the captain's orders 
      to up anchor and set sail. His commands and the shaman's cries echoed from 
      every orken ship in the fleet.
      The waterspout slid over the ocean waves, churning up water in its path, 
      kicking up the clouds of sea foam and spray. The spout moved slowly toward 
      the fleet's position, too distant to threaten any ship, but clearly 
      visible to all.
      Shamans aboard the ship of the Captain of Captains used their magical 
      skills to shout orders that carried over the water to all ships of the 
      line.
      "They're being ordered to break off the attack," said Shadamehr with 
      satisfaction.
      The waterspout continued to snake over the ocean. Several ships were 
      already sailing away.
      "You realize," said Alise suddenly, "that our ship is going to go haring 
      off along with all the rest. How do you plan to enter Krammes when we're 
      five hundred miles away?"
      "Damn!" Shadamehr swore. "I never thought of that. And my plan was so 
      exceedingly brilliant! Strange I never noticed this minor flaw. Captain? 
      Where's the bloody captain?"
      Shadamehr went bounding across the deck, bumping into the rushing sailors, 
      who muttered apologies and shoved him out of the way. Alise shook her head 
      and smiled and sighed simultaneously.
      A thundering shout came rolling across the water and slammed up against 
      the ship. The mate responsible for communicating ship to ship answered 
      with his own magically enhanced "halloo" and turned to report to Kal-Gah, 
      just as Shadamehr came running up on the other side.
      "Captain!" the mate said, with a salute. "We have orders to heave to. The 
      Captain wants to speak to us."
      (The word "Captain" is the same for the captain of the ship and the great 
      Captain of Captains, the leader of the orken nation. The manner in which 
      the title is inflected indicates the difference.) Captain Kal-Gah shot a 
      glance at Shadamehr.
      "That is a very great honor," Shadamehr said, relieved. They would not be 
      leaving Krammes yet, apparently. "Or is it?" he asked, noting that the 
      captain did not appear to be wildly enthusiastic.
      Kal-Gah grunted. "Take your friends and get below. Keep out of sight."
      He began to shout orders so fast that his words clotted on his tongue.
      "Seems a sound idea," said Shadamehr.
      Collecting Alise, he hastened back to their quarters, where he found 
      Griffith in bed. He was not shamming now. He was exhausted after his 
      spell-casting.
      "Remarkable, Griffith!" said Shadamehr, going to shake hands. "Scared the 
      bejeebers out of everyone, myself included. The orken fleet is fleeing 
      hither and yon."
      "With one exception," said Alise in ominous tones.
      The elf lifted himself up on one elbow. "What's wrong? Did somebody 
      suspect something?"
      "Not that / could tell," said Shadamehr.
      Alise rolled her eyes.
      "Then what's happening?" Damra demanded. "What's all the commotion."
      "We're heaving to. The Captain of Captains wants to have a word with our 
      captain," said Shadamehr.
      "What does that mean?"
      "I'm not sure. Kal-Gah thought it best if we removed ourselves from the 
      premises."
      "Maybe she suspects our omen was a hoax," Griffith said grimly.
      "If that was the case, she wouldn't have let the other ships of the fleet 
      leave," Alise pointed out.
      "Does she even know that humans and elves are on board?" Damra asked.
      "Kal-Gah had a little chat with his fellow captain aboard that other ship 
      when we first arrived," said Shadamehr. "He might have kept the fact that 
      he carried passengers secret"
      A knock sounded on their door.
      "Captain's respects, and you're wanted up top," said the cabin boy.
      "Or he might not," Shadamehr conceded.
      "I have spoken to the Captain of Captains. She wants to meet you," said 
      Kal-Gah. "She is sending a boat to take you over to her ship."
      "You told her about us?" asked Damra.
      "Of course," said Kal-Gah, shrugging. "She is the Captain."
      The four looked at each other.
      "I don't like this," said Alise. "What if she is in league with Dagnarus? 
      She might know all about us and what we carry!"
      "I don't see that we have much choice," Shadamehr said quietly.
      As if to make his point, the orks on board the Captain's ship could be 
      seen lowering a boat into the water.
      "We could refuse to go," Griffith suggested. "Kal-Gah likes us."
      "Kal-Gah could love me like a brother, but if the Captain told him to slit 
      my throat, he'd be sharpening his knife."
      "An all-too-apt analogy," said Alise.
      "Sorry, but it's the best I could do on short notice. No ork would dare 
      disobey the Captain of Captains," said Shadamehr with finality. "I think 
      we have two choices: We either climb into that boat or we try to swim to 
      Krammes."
      The boat bumped alongside the ship. At Kal-Gah's order, his crew lowered 
      rope ladders.
      "What about the Sovereign Stone?" Damra asked softly, speaking in elven. 
      "Will you take it with you or leave it here?"
      "Take it with me, of course," said Shadamehr. "I trust Kal-Gah, but orks 
      have their own code of ethics that sometimes don't agree with ours. What 
      about you?" he asked Damra.
      "My part of the Stone is always with me," she replied with a smile. 
      "Safely hidden."
      "As is mine," said Shadamehr. "Stuffed somewhere into the folds of time 
      and space, according to Bashae."
      Kal-Gah came up to them. "The boat is here. You must not keep the Captain 
      waiting."
      "We're eager to meet her, but I have to go back to the cabin to fetch 
      something. Aa present for the great Captain," said Shadamehr.
      Captain Kal-Gah started to frown at the delay, but his frown cleared at 
      the mention of a gift.
      "A good idea," he said.
      "Now what am I going to give her?" Shadamehr muttered as he went 
      clattering down the stairs that led belowdecks. Snatching up the knapsack, 
      he grabbed one of Alise's pearl hair combs and was ready to toss it 
      inside, when he saw something glittering at the bottom of the sack.
      "Lord Gustav's amethyst ring," he said, drawing it out. "The ring he told 
      Bashae to take to his true love: I hope you won't mind, sir," said 
      Shadamehr, speaking respectfully to the spirit of the gallant knight, "but 
      your true lover is going to stand six-foot-five and have fangs. I'd almost 
      forgotten it was in there."
      He held the amethyst to the waning light. The sun glowed deep in the 
      purple heart.
      "Oh, no, you don't!" said Alise, bounding into their quarters. She 
      snatched up her comb and thrust it defiantly in her hair. "I know the way 
      your mind works. The minute Damra told me what you were up to, I knew 
      you'd give my pearl comb to the ork."
      "I stand wrongfully accused," said Shadamehr, wounded. "I'm going to give 
      the Captain this." He held up the ring.
      "It won't fit," said Alise. "Except maybe through her nose."
      "Still, I think she'll like it. I seem to recall hearing that orks value 
      the amethyst, because they believe it protects them from the intoxicating 
      effects of strong drink." He thrust the ring back into the knapsack.
      "She can always wear it on a chain around her neck," suggested Alise.
      "Excellent idea, my dear. It's why I keep you." He kissed her on the 
      cheek, swiftly, before she could evade him. "That and for love of your red 
      hair."
      "And my pearl comb," she said, pushing him away. "Ulaf brought this comb 
      all the way from Nimra and, no, you're not giving it to some ork."
      "Always best to have a fallback position, though," Shadamehr muttered 
      under his breath.
      "I heard that!" said Alise.



      Damra stared at the rope ladder dangling over the side of the ship and 
      wondered how she was ever going to manage to descend the fragile-looking 
      thing, especially with the ship riding up and down in the waves and the 
      small boat bumping up against the hull. She was relieved to find out that 
      she and the others would ride down in what was known as the "lubber's 
      chair," a contraption that looked very much like a child's swing attached 
      to ropes.
      She did not enjoy the ride, however. The lubber's chair twisted in the 
      wind. The boat was far beneath her, and the orks who stood ready to catch 
      her laughed and snickered and made crude jokes at her expense. They knew 
      their business, however. The moment the chair came near, they grabbed her, 
      hoisted her out of the chair, and flung her into the boat, leaving her 
      gasping for breath and staring at the waves that had looked small from 
      aboard the ship, but appeared mountainous now that she was down among 
them.
      Alise came next and then Griffith, who caused the orks much amusement by 
      riding down with his eyes tightly shut. He was unconcerned by their 
      sneers, however. Shadamehr was last.
      "Take away your lubber's chair," he said with dignity, and, before Kal-Gah 
      could argue some sense into him, Shadamehr was over the side and climbing 
      down the rope.
      Falling down the rope proved more accurate. He managed a few feet and then 
      a wave came from out of nowhere, slapped against the hull, drenching 
      Shadamehr and causing him to lose his grip. He tumbled backward into the 
      arms of the orken sailors, who shook their heads and rolled their eyes and 
      hustled him onto a seat. They began to row back to the Captain's ship.
      "Must you always play the fool?" Alise demanded.
      "I thought I would impress them with my seamanship," said Shadamehr 
      plaintively.
      "You impressed them with something, that's for sure. Shadamehr," she said, 
      her voice changing. "What is Kal-Gah doing?"
      Kal-Gah had been standing at the rail, watching them depart. Now, after a 
      wave, he turned around and began shouting orders. Sailors ran up the 
      lines, began to unfurl the sails and shake them out to catch the wind.
      "He's leaving," said Shadamehr.
       



       12THE GREAT CAPTAIN OF CAPTAINS WAS IN HER FIFTIETH YEAR.
      Big-boned, with iron gray hair that she wore in one long braid, she looked 
      to be part of the sea on which she'd spent her life. Her eyes were the 
      color of the waves on a gray morning in winter. She rolled in her gait as 
      the waves rolled onto shore. She wore around her neck a strand of 
      seashells and shark's teeth. Golden earrings hung from her earlobes. She 
      was dressed as any other orken sailor, in leather breeches and a 
      loose-fitting shirt that bellied out with the wind like a sail. She was 
      barefoot and bare-armed. All of her flesh that was visible was covered 
      with tattoos of dolphins and seagulls, whales and starfish.
      The trip in the small boatsliding up waves and diving down into themhad 
      been unsettling to elven stomachs. Both Damra and Griffith once again 
      became seasick and could barely stand by the time they staggered out of 
      the lubber's chair.
      "Time for my notable charm," said Shadamehr, rubbing his hands.
      "It's worked so well so far," said Alise caustically. "As I recall, in the 
      past few weeks, you've been slapped, stabbed, and thrown overboard."
      "I fell overboard," said Shadamehr with dignity.
      "You might try to find out if we're guests or prisoners," Griffith 
      suggested. He was pale, but composed, feeling more at ease now that he was 
      out of the small boat.
      "You may not want to the know the answer," said Shadamehr. "Shush, here 
      she comes."
      The Captain of Captains strode across the deck, approached them without 
      ceremony. She towered over them by a head and shoulders, stared down her 
      nose at them. Her expression was stern, and the hard gray glint in her eye 
      did little to make her guests feel at ease.
      "Baron Shadamehr at your service," he said, bowing. "Meeting the Captain 
      of Captains is a very great honor."
      The Captain eyed him up and down and grunted. The feeling was obviously 
      not mutual.
      "Captain Kal-Gah told me about you," she said. Her gaze flicked to the 
      elves. "And them."
      "I have the pleasure of introducing Damra of Gwyenoc," said Shadamehr. 
      "Her husband, Griffith. This is Alise."
      The Captain eyed each in turn, her gaze long and penetrating.
      "You are a wizard," she said to Griffith.
      "I have the honor to be one of the Wyred," he replied.
      The Captain switched the gray glint to Alise. "And you, as well."
      "I have some small skill in Earth magic," Alise replied.
      The Captain glanced from Alise to Shadamehr and back to Alise again. "Are 
      you his woman?"
      "No, I am not," said Alise in frost-rimed tones.
      "You are wise," said the Captain.
      Her voice was deep, but well modulated, not harsh, as are some orken 
      voices. She spoke Elderspeak fluently, with a trace of an accent that 
      Shadamehr recognized as Nimran. According to Kal-Gah, the Captain of 
      Captains had grown up on a ship that sailed the trade routes between Nimra 
      and the orken territories. Kal-Gah had provided little other information, 
      except the fact that Captain was a widow, with grown children who were now 
      sailing ships of their own. She had been Captain of Captains for 
      twenty-five years. She was an orken hero, having sunk two Karnuan vessels 
      and captured three more.
      "Now that everyone has been introduced," said Shadamehr, "I brought you 
      this in honor of our meeting."
      He presented the Captain with the amethyst ring.
      She took the ringit seemed small as a child's christening ring in her 
      huge handheld it to the light and watched it sparkle.
      "A good omen," she said and deposited the ring in her capacious bosom.
      "You're welcome," said Shadamehr. "Now I was wondering if you could tell 
      us why Captain Kal-Gah has departed in this sudden manner"
      "He left because of the bad omen," said the Captain, frowning. "The 
      waterspout."
      "Oh," said Shadamehr, discomfited. "I see."
      The Captain's eyes narrowed. "The omens were good until you came among us. 
      You brought a bad omen with you. Why is that?"
      "Uh, no, you've got that wrong," protested Shadamehr. "I didn't bring the 
      bad omen. My omens are all good, as you can plainly see with the ring 
      there. You could ask Kal-Gah. Well, you can't since he's left. But I 
      didn't have a bad omen to my name the entire voyage. Same with my friends. 
      Lucky, very lucky. All of us."
      "Perhaps I can provide a reason for the bad omen," Griffith interjected 
      smoothly. Now that he was on the ship's deck, which was far more stable 
      than the cockleshell boat, he and Damra were starting to feel better. "It 
      seems to me that it came because the gods are trying to tell you that you 
      are attacking the wrong people. You should not be attacking Krammes. Your 
      war is not with Vinnengael. Your war is with Karnu."
      "We would go to war against them," the Captain growled. "If the 
      sons-of-weasels would fight us on the open seas, ship to ship and man to 
      man. The vermin hide behind the walls of their forts far inland, so that 
      we have to march for days to reach them and then, instead of fighting a 
      fair and honorable battle, they form into squares and columns and march 
      this way and dash that way and come at us from all directions. We do not 
      know how to fight on land."
      The Captain nodded in the direction of the city of Krammes, where thin 
      tendrils of smoke could still be seen rising into the air. "I have heard 
      that some of the best generals in all of Loerem are in Krammes. What do 
      they call that placea horse school?"
      "Imperial Cavalry School," said Shadamehr. "But 'horse school' pretty 
      well sums it up."
      The Captain glowered at him. "I was planning to ask them to help us learn 
      how to fight our foe on land. How to deal with these columns of pikemen 
      and hordes of archers and horses. We go to war to fight humans, not 
      horses, yet that's what we're up against."
      She thrust her lower fangsthat had been filed to sharp pointsover her 
      lip and nodded again toward Krammes. "As I said, I was going to ask for 
      their help, then you came, bringing your bad omens."
      "But," said Alise, confused, "you weren't asking for help. You attacked 
      them. Set buildings on fire."
      "Yes?" said the Captain. "So?"
      "You don't pummel someone you're going to ask a favor of" Shadamehr 
      began. His voice petered out, as he realized that it might, in fact, be an 
      orken custom.
      "Answer me this, Baron." The Captain jabbed Shadamehr in the chest with 
      her forefinger. "If I limped into this wonderful horse school of theirs, 
      showing off my wounds and begging the horse teachers to help me, what 
      would they say?"
      "Well" Shadamehr began.
      " 'Wounded ork,' they would say in pity. 'You are bleeding on our carpet. 
      Please go away.' "
      "I don't think"
      "I come to them wielding a fiery sword," said the Captain with a fierce 
      snort. "I want them to say, 'These orks are fighters! Worthy of our 
      teaching.'And then you come along," she grunted, "and ruin it."
      "Could I confer with my colleagues for a moment?" Shadamehr asked. 
      "Explain this to them? They don't speak orken."
      The Captain waved her hand, walked a few paces off.
      "She does have a point, in a twisted sort of way," Damra said.
      "If you believe her," said Griffith skeptically.
      "I find it impossible to see how anyone could have thought up a lie like 
      that," Shadamehr said, sighing. He scratched his head. "I may have mucked 
      up things rather badly."
      "Don't worry, dear," said Alise, in soothing tones. "It's not the first 
      time, and I'm sure it won't be the last."
      "My woman!" cried Shadamehr heartily, putting his arm around her and 
      hugging her. "Such a comfort! I think I have a remedy, though.
      "Captain," Shadamehr called out. "I know many of the officers at the ... 
      er ... horse school, and I think I could persuade them to help you. You 
      and I could go ashore under a flag of truce and speak to them. Explain 
      about the fiery sword and all that."
      The Captain eyed him narrowly. "Do you think they would listen to you?"
      "I've donated quite a lot of money to the school over the years," said 
      Shadamehr. "I think they might listen to me. And to the great Captain of 
      Captains, of course."
      "Humpf," said the Captain, sucking her lower lip. "I will think on it." 
      She folded her arms across her ample bosom, tilted back her head.
      "Captain Kal-Gah said he was taking you to Krammes. What business did you 
      have there?"
      "Sea voyage," said Shadamehr promptly. "Good for our health." To his 
      surprise, the Captain gave a great guffaw of laughter. "So Kal-Gah said," 
      she said and, still laughing, she walked off.



      The orks escorted the four to their quarters belowdecks, similar in all 
      respects to their quarters aboard Kal-Gah's ship: four small cubbyholes 
      built into the walls; a table on which some dried-out bread had been 
      placed along with a slab of cheese, a bowl of water, and several crockery 
      mugs.
      "So what do you suppose Kal-Gah really told her about us?" Damra asked.
      "Kal-Gah is a loyal friend, but an ork's first loyalty is to the Captain. 
      We can safely assume he told her everything he knows," said Shadamehr. 
      "Which would include finding Alise and me half-dead and tainted with Void 
      in the sewers of New Vinnengael. Cheese anyone? I think it's goat."
      "And he would have told her everything that happened at the keep," Alise 
      observed. She stood leaning against the door, glancing out every so often 
      to make certain no one was eavesdropping. "Some of the orks on board the 
      ship were with us at the keep. The arrival of Damraan elf traveling in 
      company with a pecwae and a Trevinici was the talk of everyone there."
      "And we've never made a secret of the fact that Damra is a Dominion Lord," 
      said Griffith, exchanging glances with his wife.
      "A lackwit could reach the conclusion that Bashae was carrying something 
      of value in this knapsack," said Shadamehr, throwing the knapsack on the 
      bed and throwing himself after it. "Something so valuable that a Dominion 
      Lord was guarding him. And while orks have their own way of thinking, 
      they're certainly not lackwits. I don't trust this Captain." He glanced at 
      Damra. "Do orks have Dominion Lords these days? I know they did years 
ago."
      "If they do, I haven't met any. They stopped attending the Council 
      meetings after the fall of Mount Sa 'Gra. The trouble began when they 
      petitioned the Dominion Lords to assist them in recovering their mountain, 
      and the Dominion Lords refused."
      "Why did they think they would help?" Shadamehr asked, propping himself up 
      on his elbow.
      "Because the orken portion of the Sovereign Stone is in Mount Sa 'Gra," 
      Damra replied.
      "I see." Shadamehr looked grave.
      "Supposedly the Stone is safe and well hidden," said Damra. "At least, 
      that's what the orks told the Council."
      "But they still refused," said Alise.
      "We had good reason to," Damra stated. "The duty of a Dominion Lord is to 
      try to bring about peace between the races, not to join in a war with one 
      race against another. We tried to explain that to the orks, but we didn't 
      get very far. Their Dominion Lords walked out, and they haven't been back 
      since."
      "Meanwhile, Dagnarus is exerting all his efforts to find the four parts of 
      the Sovereign Stone. His Vrykyl have infiltrated governments of other 
      races. I don't see any reason why the orks should be different. Which 
      brings us back to our original theory that he has offered them to help 
      take back Mount Sa 'Gra in return for attacking Krammes from the sea, 
      keeping them busy while he marches overland."
      "I have to admit that makes more sense than giving the people of Krammes a 
      bloody nose with one hand and offering to shake with the other," said 
      Griffith.
      "Still," argued Shadamehr, "there's a certain wonderful logic to that 
      which I like."
      "So what do we do?"
      "Nothing we can do," said Shadamehr. Leaning back on the bed, he rested 
      his head on his arms. "Keep the two Sovereign Stones safe and secure until 
      we manage to reach Krammes"
      "Griffith," said Alise suddenly, "wouldn't you like to wash your face?"
      "Do I have dirt on it," asked Griffith, startled. "Where"
      "Yes, it's filthy. Wash your face in that bowl of water," Alise said 
      urgently, pointing. "That nice, refreshing bowl of water . . .
      "Ah!" cried Griffith. "Thank you for pointing that out to me."
      He grabbed hold of the bowl and hurled it to the deck. The bowl broke into 
      pieces. Water splashed over his shoes and the hem of his robes.
      Shadamehr sat up on the bed, staring. "Are you generally in the habit of 
      smashing up the crockery?"
      Griffith ignored him.
      "I fell for that same trick when I was a student," he said bitterly. "I 
      had to live on nothing but water for a week to teach me the lesson. 
      Obviously a week wasn't long enough."
      "If someone would explain" said Shadamehr.
      Alise bent down, picked up a piece of the bowl. "Do you remember that 
      message Rigiswald sent to you? Quai-ghai looked into a bowl of water and 
      she could hear"
      "everything that other ork said to her," finished Shadamehr. He came over 
      to view the wreckage. "Well done, Alise, though you might have been a bit 
      quicker on the uptake."
      "It looks harmless enough," said Damra, carefully picking up another one 
      of the crockery shards. "Maybe we're letting our fears run away with us. 
      Is there any way you can tell for certain if they were using this to spy 
      on us?"
      "Not now," said Griffith. "The spell has been dissipated."
      "What do we do?" Alise asked.
      Shadamehr shook his head. "Nothing much we can do. We talked a lot about 
      the Sovereign Stones, let any number of cats out of the bag. It's too late 
      to go chasing after them. Are you positive it was you who created that 
      waterspout, Griffith?"
      "Yes, why?" he asked, startled.
      "Just checking," said Shadamehr, adding gloomily, "I don't know about you, 
      but this is the last time I ever dabble in bad omens."
      They had a small porthole in their cabin. The sunset was spectacular, the 
      sinking sun spreading a trail of blazing purple-orange across the surface 
      of the blue-gold water, but none of the four had the heart to enjoy it. 
      Griffith swept up the shards of the broken bowl and piled them on the 
      table, prepared with his apologies if the orks asked what had happened to 
      it.
      The orks did not. The orks did not disturb them. The elves lay on their 
      beds, trying vainly to sleep. Shadamehrbent doublepaced restlessly about 
      the cabin, listening to the creaking of the ship and the shipboard sounds 
      of running feet, flapping sails, and the chants that accompanied every 
      part of shipboard life. Alise sat and watched him.
      "At least," said Shadamehr, peering out the porthole, "they're not sailing 
      off."
      "True," said Griffith. "They haven't raised the anchor."
      "That's not such a hopeful sign," said Alise. "If your theory is correct, 
      the Captain could be waiting for the taan army to show up."
      "You're right," said Shadamehr somberly. "I'd forgotten that."
      A knock thundered on the door, then a large ork thrust his shaved and 
      tattooed head inside. "Captain says you're wanted for dinner."
      "Not the main course, are we?" Shadamehr asked.
      "Naw," said the ork, grinning. "We got squid!"
      At that, Damra, who had risen to her feet, sank back down. "No, thank you. 
      I'm not hungry."
      The ork's grin was gone in a moment. "You will come," he said. "You will 
      all come. The Captain commands it."
      "At least it's not dried figs," said Shadamehr in her ear as they walked 
      out.



      The Captain's quarters were located in the ship's prow and were quite 
      splendid, by orken standards. A large window provided a stunning view of 
      the ocean. The table, made of a slab of wood resting on top of trestles, 
      could accommodate ten orks or fourteen humans. An enormous map of the 
      continent of Loerem and all the surrounding seas hung on a wall. Another 
      mapthis one smaller and more detailed, featuring the Blessed Straits, the 
      estuary, Krammes, and Old Vinnengaelwas spread out on a desk, anchored in 
      place by various navigational instruments. So interested was Shadamehr 
      with the maps that he had to be persuaded to leave them to take his place 
      at the table.
      The Captain of Captains sat at the head of the table, with her guests 
      ranged along either side. Joining them were two other officers. The rest 
      of those in attendance were shamans.
      The food had been prepared for orken and human and elven palates, with 
      fried squid and fish chowders for them and a purple soup for the elves. 
      The orks drank ale. The Captain provided wine for the humans and the 
      elves, a treat they had not tasted since they had left New Vinnengael. 
      Orks do not drink wine, considering it a drink suitable only for very 
      young children, and sickly children at that.
      Shadamehr accepted the generous mugful the orks poured for him. He tasted 
      it, rolled it on his tongue. The wine was the heady, spiced red wine from 
      southern Dunkar, and it tasted wonderful, especially after weeks of 
      drinking stale water from barrels. He hesitated a moment before drinking, 
      thinking things through. He thought he knew now what was going on. Smiling 
      to himself, he lifted the mug to his lips and drank the spiced wine. He 
      drank it all and asked for more.
      Conversation flowed with the wine. The Captain spoke of the political 
      situation in the world. Shadamehr was impressed with her knowledge. He had 
      the feeling he should be uneasy about certain things she said, but the 
      wine was too good to ruin by arguing. She knew about Dag-narus. Shadamehr 
      tried to get some sense of how the Captain felt about him, but she proved 
      noncommittal, with one exception.
      "If it had been left up to the orks two hundred years ago," said the 
      Captain, tearing off a hunk of bread and using it to sop up the remains of 
      her soup, "Dagnarus would not be a problem for you humans."
      "What do you mean?" Shadamehr asked politely, feeling a story coming on.
      "When King Tamaros was given the Sovereign Stone, he invited all the 
      representatives of the four races to come to share in it. He held a great 
      ceremony. Our Captain of Captains was invited to it. He didn't know 
      whether to go or not, for the omens were very bad. His shaman assured the 
      Captain that the bad omens were for the humans, not the orks, and so the 
      Captain went. During the ceremony came the worst omen of all for the 
      humans. The young princeling, Dagnarus, was given one of the pieces of the 
      Sovereign Stone to give to his elder brother, Helmos. When he handed the 
      stone to his brother, the stone slipped and cut Helmos, so that he bled."
      The orks were silentsolemn and serious in the presence of such a terrible 
      sign from the gods.
      "King Tamaros went on with the ceremony," the Captain continued. "He could 
      do nothing else, I suppose. The Captain of Captains and the shaman waited 
      around, to be witness to the slaying of the young princeling, for, of 
      course, with blood spilled between brothers, Dagnarus could not be allowed 
      to live. Nothing happened, however, except a party. The Captain wanted 
      very much to return to his ship, and so he asked King Tamaros when he 
      planned to kill the prince, expressing his hope that it would be before 
      the next tide. He even offered to do it himself, if it would speed up the 
      proceedings. Imagine the Captain's shock when he heard Tamaros say that he 
      had no intention of killing Dagnarus. That it had all been 'an accident.' 
"
      The shamans shook their heads over the criminal stupidity of humans.
      The Captain chewed vigorously on her bread. "Blood spilled between 
      brothers. We were not surprised when war broke out. If Tamaros would have 
      listened to the orks, his kingdom would not now lie in ruins."
      "This calls for another glass of wine," said Shadamehr. "Change the 
      subject," he ordered under his breath.
      "Is it true, Captain," said Griffith, "that you have orken shamans who are 
      skilled in all forms of elemental magic?"
      The Captain nodded. "It is true."
      "Most orks consider any magic except Water magic an abomination. Yet, you 
      have orks who practice Fire magic and Earth magic."
      "And Void magic," said the Captain.
      "Indeed," said Griffith uneasily. "Void magic? But you orks despise the 
      Void."
      "Some orks despise elves," said Captain. "Some elves despise orks. Yet 
      here you are. The Void is the center of the great circle of life. Without 
      nothing, there cannot be something. The Void has its uses," she added 
      complacently. "As do elves. Or so I am told."
      "More wine," said Griffith.
      Shadamehr poured out the ruby red wine for himself and his friends. He 
      lifted his glass in a salute to the Captain of Captains. Drinking the 
      wine, he listened to the ship's bell ringing the changing of the watch. He 
      looked at Alise, whose red hair glowed like flame in the light of an oil 
      lamp that hung above their heads. The lamp swayed with the gentle rocking 
      of the ship . . .
      The lamp swayed round and round . . .
      The walls swayed round and round . . .
      A cry and a crash.
      Alise on the floor. Damra on the floor.
      Griffith on his feet, reaching out . . .
      Griffith on the floor.
      Round and round. In a circle.
      In the center was the Void.
       



       13ALISE AWOKE WITH THE WORST HEADACHE SHE'D EVER EXPERIenced in her life. 
      Her head felt as if it had been stuffed with rocks, whose sharp and jagged 
      edges jabbed her painfully when she tried to move. She would not have 
      moved if she'd had a choice. She would much rather have remained still 
      until death took her, which she felt certain would not be long. But 
      beneath the pain and the nausea ran a nagging sense of danger that 
      impelled her to open her eyes and try to lift her head from the pillow.
      She groaned and lay back down. Bright sunlight, streaming in through a 
      window, lanced straight to the back of her head. Lying there, trying to 
      understand what was wrong, she finally figured it out.
      The bed wasn't moving.
      Wincing, she shaded her eyes with her hand, looked about the room. The 
      objects in her vision swam about, and only after intense concentration 
      could she manage to make objects stop wiggling and crawling. Her 
      suspicions were confirmed. The window was a windowit wasn't a porthole. 
      She was in a room with whitewashed walls and nothing much else, except 
      crude beds and a single chair.
      An elderly man sat on the chair beside her bed. His beard was clipped and 
      smooth. He wore robes of finely combed wool and he regarded her without 
      expression.
      "Rigiswald . . ."Alise said dazedly. She tried to sit up.
      "Take it easy," Rigiswald counseled. "You've had a rough night. And your 
      day isn't going to be much better, I'm afraid."
      Fear cleared her head.
      "Shadamehr!" Alise said thickly. Moving her swollen tongue was difficult. 
      She looked around the room, could not find him. "Where is he? What has"
      "Not here," said Rigiswald. "He and the elven Dominion Lord are both 
gone."
      "Griffith?"
      "He's here. He's in the next room, sleeping it off."
      Alise looked down at herselfher red hair bedraggled, her dress disheveled 
      and filthy.
      "Where are we?" she asked, dazed. "This isn't the ship . . ."
      "No," said Rigiswald. "You're in Krammes. An inn. The Merry Tippler."
      Alise sat up. "Where is Shadamehr?" she demanded firmly.
      "I believe, my dear," said Rigiswald, "that the orks have both him and the 
      elven woman. I forget her name."
      "Damra," said Alise. She rose to her feet, lurched unsteadily across the 
      floor, and grabbed hold of the window ledge to steady herself. She stared 
      out to sea. She stared until her eyes ached and the tears streamed down 
      her face.
      "The ship . . . The Captain's ship . . ."
      "Gone," said Rigiswald crisply. "Sailed off. You should come back to bed. 
      Lie down before you fall down."
      Alise turned away, but she did not go back to her bed. "Tell me what 
      happened. How did you find me? Us?" she amended, remembering Griffith.
      "I've been keeping a watch," Rigiswald replied. "The orks message stated 
      that the ship was nearing Krammes. I have friends among the orks here and 
      put the word out that I would appreciate being informed when my friends 
      arrived. I gave them descriptions of you and Shadamehr.
      "Last night, an ork came to my room about midnight. He said that I should 
      come with him right away. That one of the persons I'd been inquiring about 
      was in trouble. He brought me here, to this establishment. Are you certain 
      you won't sit down?"
      "I feel better standing up. I am standing up, right?"
      Rigiswald nodded.
      "I hoped that was the case. I wish the floor would quit moving," Alise 
      said.
      "You don't have your land legs back yet," said Rigiswald. "When I arrived, 
      I found four orken sailors. One had you slung over his shoulder. The other 
      was carrying the elf. They were in an argument with the owner of this 
      place that terms itself an 'inn.'The orks stated that arrangements had 
      been made to leave you and the elf here for the night. Money had been paid 
      out, as I understand it.
      "The owner stated that the money wasn't enough. That he ran a respectable 
      business and he didn't want anything to do with 'drunken hussies.' I 
      should add here that the orks had wrapped a scarf around your friend 
      Griffith's head. With his ears hidden, he makes a rather 
      attractive-looking female."
      "Oh, gods!" Alise groaned. She made a feeble attempt to shove her hair 
      back out of her face and gave up. "I wake up feeling like something that's 
      been run over by a wagon and left to die in an alley, to find you here, 
      Griffith dressed like a woman, and Shadamehr gone."
      Her voice trembled. "I think I will sit down," she said, and staggered 
      back over to the bed. "What happened after that? Did you question the 
      orks?"
      "I did. They claimed that they had met you two in a bar on the waterfront. 
      That you had all been having a 'good time' until you and your friend 
      passed out from too much drink. They were told to bring you here. I asked 
      who told them, who paid the money, and so on and so forth. In answer, they 
      handed me this, said I was to give it to you."
      Reaching into a leather pouch, Rigiswald drew out a ring, held it out to 
      her. The amethyst glittered in the sunlight. Alise took it, her fingers 
      shaking.
      "Did they say anything else?" she asked.
      "They said the ring belonged to 'Shadamehr's woman.' " Rigiswald smiled 
      slightly.
      A tear slid down Alise's cheek.
      "It does," she said softly, to herself. "It really does."
      She clasped her hand tightly over the ring.
      "Where do you think the orks have taken them? To . . ." She swallowed, 
      trying to force the words past the lump in her throat. "To Dag-narus?"
      "I don't know," said Rigiswald gravely. "But I fear so. Both were carrying 
      portions of the Sovereign Stone, after all." He patted her hand.
      "Still, we must keep up hope. All is not as bleak as it seems. The message 
      they sent you about the ring doesn't sound as if it came from someone with 
      evil intent."
      Alise made another shove at her hair. "I don't know. They knew we had the 
      Sovereign Stones with us. The orks knew who was carrying them, and they've 
      kept those two people. What other reason could there possibly be except to 
      turn them over to Dagnarus?"
      Sighing, she sat silently a moment, holding fast to the ring.
      "Have you heard from Ulaf? When do you expect him and the others?"
      "I haven't heard anything," Rigiswald replied. "As to when he'll arrive, I 
      have no idea. He was meeting with various Dominion Lords along the way."
      "I don't suppose any of them have shown up here in Krammes?"
      "No," said Rigiswald curtly. "I don't expect them to. I doubt if he found 
      any alive. Dagnarus and his Vrykyl would have seen to that."
      "So, what are we going to do?" Alise asked.
      "Move you and the elf to a different inn," said Rigiswald, casting a 
      disparaging glance about the room.
      "And after that?" Alise couldn't help but smile. At least some things in 
      her life remained the same.
      "I plan to finish reading my book," said Rigiswald, unperturbed. "You are 
      the energetic one. You should probably hang about the waterfront, see what 
      information you can pick up among the orks. They won't tell you anything, 
      but at least you'll feel useful."
      "Thank you," Alise said dryly. She put her hand to her throbbing head. "I 
      can't believe we let them drug us! We should have known. It was so damn 
      obvious. The orks didn't drink the wine. That alone should have tipped us 
      off that something was wrong."
      "Sometimes we pull the wool over our own eyes," said Rigiswald 
      sententiously.
      Alise stared, appalled. "Are you saying that Shadamehr knew he was being 
      drugged and he let it happen? But why?"
      Rigiswald didn't answer. He regarded her intently. "Think of the message, 
      my dear."
      "Oh, no!" Alise cried. "He wouldn't. ThatThat"
      "He knew where he had to go, didn't he?"
      "Nonsense! He couldn't have figured all that out," said Alise with a toss 
      of her head, a move she immediately regretted.
      "He knew where he had to go. He knew he alone was responsible for the 
      Stone. He must have been fairly certain that no Dominion Lords would come 
      to Krammes. And he knew that you would be in danger if you came with him. 
      And he also knew that if he tried to insist that you leave him"
      "He knew, he knew, he knew," said Alise impatiently. "He doesn't know 
      anything. He doesn't know me like he thinks he knows me. He had no right 
      to send me away. I hate him," she added, sitting up straight and wiping 
      her eyes. "I hate him with every fiber of my being. I have hated him from 
      the first moment I met him. I have hated him in the past and I intend to 
      hate him in the future. He's the most expasperating man in the universe."
      She held the amethyst ring tightly, very tightly.
      "And now," she said, "I'm going to go wake Griffith, and the two of us 
      will set about finding out what has happened . . . what has happened . . 
."
      She stood up or tried to. The room tilted. The floor slid out from beneath 
      her feet. Fully intending to walk to the door, Alise landed facedown on 
      the pillow. She moaned softly. "Oh, Shadamehr, how could you go and get 
      yourself kidnapped by orks."
      "I'll be here when you wake up," said Rigiswald, pulling another book from 
      his pouch.
      "Tell Shadamehr . . . when you see him . . . that I hate him," Alise 
      mumbled, closing her eyes.
      "I'll do that," said Rigiswald.



      The Captain of Captains sat in the stern of the shore boat, her hand on 
      the tiller, guiding the boat that was slowly, silently crawling up the 
      estuary. The boat's oars had been muffled. The six orken sailors who rowed 
      the boat took care to lower the oars into the water quietly, with only the 
      smallest splash, so that their presence would not be detected. The orks 
      traveled by night, gliding past the fort that had made such a nuisance of 
      itself during their bombardment of Krammes.
      The Captain was not particularly worried about being discovered. The omens 
      had been exceptionally good this night, as the omens had been good all 
      week. She did not count that pitiful attempt at omen-faking performed by 
      the elf. The Captain chuckled every time she thought about the waterspout, 
      forming out of a clear blue sky with not a cloud in it. A goony bird could 
      have seen through that!
      Tonight's omens foretold the cloud cover that hid the moon and stars and 
      promised the rain that obliterated the sounds of a boat sneaking 
      underneath the humans' very noses.
      And the rain came, dancing across the water in sheets. An ork stood at the 
      prow, staring into the darkness, watching for obstacles in the estuary. 
      The Captain did not expect any. The orks had sailed this estuary in their 
      tall ships for centuries. They had mapped and charted every eddy and snag. 
      The orks rowed with ease, making good time, chanting their rowing chant 
      beneath their breaths, instead of booming it aloud. The Captain's shaman 
      sat nearby. At her feet were two largish lumps, covered in tarps to keep 
      them warm and dry.
      One of the lumps began to snore loudly. The shaman glanced at the Captain 
      in concern.
      "Turn him over on his stomach," said the Captain.
      The shaman did so, with the result that the snoring ceased.
      "Even in his stupor, he holds on to that knapsack," said the shaman in 
      admiration.
      "Yes," said the Captain, "he does."
      "Is that where he hides the Sovereign Stone?" the shaman asked.
      "It is," said the Captain.
      "And the other?"
      "She is a Dominion Lord. It will be protected by her armor."
      The shaman nodded his understanding.
      "How long will they sleep?" the Captain asked.
      "As long as you want, Captain," the shaman replied. "All I have to do is 
      cast the spell again."
      "Good." The Captain grunted. "Let them sleep a long time. They will need 
      their rest . . . where we're going."
      The shaman nodded, and the rest of the night passed in silence as the boat 
      glided unseen up the estuary.
       



       14LOCATED IN THE ILLANOF MOUNTAINS, ABOUT FIVE HUNDRED miles northeast of 
      Krammes (as the dragon flies), Mardurar was a mining town, noted not only 
      for its gold and silver mines, but also for the fiercely independent 
      spirit of its citizens. "Independent" was how the Mardurs viewed 
      themselves. Others had another word for them: "outlaws."
      The mines belonged to the crown and were run by crown-appointed ministers. 
      A posting to Mardurar had one great advantagethe person who supervised 
      the removal of vast quantities of wealth from the mountain could do very 
      well for himself in the process. A posting to Mardurar had one great 
      disadvantageit was in Mardurar.
      The first problem the pampered royal official from the sunny climes of New 
      Vinnengael had to face was the weather. The cold was unbelievable, and the 
      snow was worse. The snow began falling in the autumn, stopped for a brief 
      time during the three sunny months of summer, then started all over again. 
      The natives were not the least bothered by snow or the cold. Earth magi 
      kept the mountain passes open, so that the wealth from the mines flowed 
      down the mountain all year long. The natives strapped sticks to their feet 
      and slid down the mountainside or hitched up teams of dogs or elk to pull 
      them about in sleds. The royal official sat shivering in his log house, 
      unable to get warm.
      Mardurar was home to a great many magi, far more than any other town of 
      comparable size. Most of the miners were Earth magi, who used their 
      talents to drag the ore from the mountain. One might think that a large 
      number of magi would lend an air of refinement and graciousness to the 
      town.
      One would be wrong. These magi were not the bookish scholars of the 
      Temple. Few of the miners could read or write. Most had learned their 
      craft from their parents, who had learned it from their parents, and so 
      forth, going back generations. The spells they used were often sung or 
      chanted as the miners went about their daily tasks of forcing the mountain 
      to give up her wealth. Big and brawny, hard-living and hard-drinking, 
      quick with their fists and glib with their tongues, the magi of Mardurar 
      considered themselves the rulers of Mardurar, and woe betide those who 
      thought otherwise.
      One group who did think otherwise were the soldiers of the Royal Army. 
      Posted in the city to ensure that the wealth of the mountains actually 
      made it down the mountain and not into the pockets of corrupt officials or 
      bandit lords, the soldiers of the Bastion of Mardurar, known disparagingly 
      among the miners as the Bastion Bastards, were as tough as the miners and 
      just as quick and skilled with their fists.
      The two had a healthy hatred for each other, but also a certain grudging 
      respect. Brawls were a daily occurrence. But whenever there was a tunnel 
      collapse in the mines, soldiers and miners worked side by side to dig out 
      the unfortunate victims. As might be expected, the other large group of 
      Earth magi located in Mardurar were healers.
      Mardurar was also famous for the Meffeld Cross-road.
      Located about ten miles outside the city, on the east slope of the 
      II-lanof Mountains, the Meffeld Cross-road was the junction of two major 
      highways. One highway led west through the famous Meffeld Pass, the only 
      route known at that time through the Illanof mountain range that split the 
      country of Vinnengael down the middle. The other highway led to the city 
      of Mardurar itself. The crossroads was a well-known meeting place, despite 
      the fact (or perhaps because of it) that crossroads were known to be 
      cursed.
      Earth magi kept both highways open throughout the winter. They used their 
      magic to create huge beings made of stone known as Earthen Killers. 
      Animated mounds of rock, the mindless monstrosities stood twenty feet tall 
      and were completely under control of the Earth magi. At their commands, 
      the Earthen Killers went thundering down the road, their huge "arms" 
      flinging snow in great clouds to the left and right, their boulder "feet" 
      stomping the road smooth. The magi had to keep careful control over their 
      magical creations, for the Killers were aptly named and would wreak havoc 
      if they once got loose, stomping and pummeling any living being they could 
      catch.
      On the day that Ulaf and his band arrived in Mardurar, the highways had 
      been newly cleared, the latest snowfall tamped down and shoved aside. Its 
      services no longer required, the Earthen Killer was once more an 
      inoffensive pile of rock and boulders heaped up in a mound near the 
      crossroad, waiting to be reanimated with the next snowfall.
      The stones resembled a gigantic cairn, and were a startling and sometimes 
      unnerving sight to newcomers, particularly due to their proximity to the 
      crossroad. Although the royal officials of Mardurar stoutly maintained 
      that no unfortunate suicide had ever been buried at this important 
      crossroad, few believed them.
      Ulaf and his band came to the crossroad in the late afternoon. A light 
      snow was falling, just enough to cause the horses to twitch their ears and 
      blink their eyes when the cold flakes hit them. The snow was not going to 
      last. The clouds were thin. Sometimes the sun would actually break 
      through, causing the snowflakes to sparkle, dazzling the eye.
      At the crossroad, Ulaf reined in his horse.
      "The rest of you ride ahead into Mardurar," he instructed. "You'll find 
      rooms at the Hammer and Tongs. I'll see Jessan and the Grandmother off, 
      then join you."
      The others departed, taking the road to Mardurar, their thoughts on a warm 
      fire and the mulled wine for which the Hammer and Tongs was famous. Ulaf 
      turned to his companions.
      "Here is where we part, Jessan. That road"Ulaf pointed"leads down the 
      western face of the mountain to the plains below. Once you are out of the 
      mountains, keep your face toward the sunset and you will eventually reach 
      Karnu. You will not have difficulty traveling in Karnuan lands?"
      Jessan shook his head. "Many of my people serve with the Karnuan army. The 
      Trevinici are well respected and highly prized. No Karnuan would be so 
      foolish as to attack me." He glanced behind him, at the Grandmother. "Or 
      those under my protection."
      "No Karnuan, perhaps," said Ulaf gravely. "But who knows if Karnu even 
      still rules its own lands? We've heard stories that the taan have been 
      fighting to conquer Karnu. They may well have conquered it by now."
      Ulaf went on to urge Jessan to continue traveling with him and his men, 
      even though he knew he would waste his breath, and he was not surprised 
      that the young Trevinici refused. Jessan was determined to return to his 
      homeland, as was Grandmother Pecwae. No matter that the journey would be 
      longperhaps a year or moreor that they would be traveling through 
      dangerous territory. Wounded in body and in soul, both Jessan and the 
      Grandmother longed for the healing powers of home.
      "Very well, if you insist on going, at least accept this. I have drawn up 
      a rough map." Ulaf handed over a square piece of leather. Unrolling it, 
      Jessan spread it out on his horse's neck. "You do not want to travel too 
      far to the north. You will run into the lands of the elves, and that would 
      not be wise."
      Jessan nodded. He'd seen enough of elven lands to know that he wanted to 
      keep clear of them. Ulaf went on to provide advice as to the best routes 
      and how to avoid places where there might be fighting. Although impatient 
      to be on his way, Jessan forced himself to pay attention. There are 
      different types of warriors in this world, Jessan had come to learn. Not 
      all of them need to brandish a spear and charge the enemy headlong in 
      order to prove their courage or their worth. He had grown to respect Ulaf 
      on their journey, and he was grateful to the man for his advice.
      "I would travel with you into the pass," Ulaf added, handing over the 
      rolled-up map. "But I want to stop at Mardurar for a couple of days to 
      catch up on the latest news and to replenish my supplies at the Temple of 
      the Magi."
      "Then this is good-bye," said Jessan. "Good luck to you. Give my greetings 
      to the baron. I often think of him, traveling with the Sovereign Stone. He 
      is the one who is truly in danger. I hope he fares well."
      "He will," said the Grandmother. "He is one of the god's favored, that 
      one. Although"
      The Grandmother did not finish her thought. She turned her head around to 
      stare back down the road they had just ridden. Lifting her newly carved 
      agate-eyed stick in the air, she twitched it this way and that, so that 
      all the eyes could take a good look.
      "Evil," she said suddenly. "Coming this direction." She gave the stick a 
      shake. "At least now you have sense enough to warn me ahead of time."
      Ulaf glanced down the road. He could not hear or see anything, but that 
      meant nothing. The sound of hoofbeats would be muffled in the snow.
      "a Vrykyl?"
      The Grandmother shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe."
      "Could the Vrykyl be following us still?" Jessan asked, alarmed.
      "I don't think so," said Ulaf. "You no longer have the Blood-knife or the 
      Sovereign Stone, so I don't see how it could. Still, it will be best to 
      find out. You and the Grandmother ride on ahead. I'll wait around and see 
      who comes along. If it's trouble, I'll catch up with you and let you 
know."
      "Agreed," said Jessan, relieved. This would spare them both a long and 
      uncomfortable good-bye. "We had best hurry." Waving his hand, he and the 
      Grandmother rode on.
      Ulaf turned his horse's head and guided the animal among the rocks of the 
      fallen Earthen Killer toward a pine forest that rose up behind the rock 
      pile. Hidden among the trees, he tethered his horse, counseled the animal 
      to silence, then crept back on foot to the rock pile. Ulaf crouched behind 
      the rock, choosing a position where he could see through the chinks in the 
      stones.
      Jessan and the Grandmother proceeded up the road, riding pillion. The 
      horse bore a litter carrying Bashae's body, wrapped in its soft cocoon. 
      The litter dragged along the road, leaving a distinctive trail that would 
      be difficult to miss.
      Ulaf waited a long time, so long that his feet began to grow numb with the 
      cold. He was beginning to regret having trusted in a stick. Then, just as 
      dusk was falling, a lone rider came into view. The rider, like most 
      travelers, was heavily wrapped in a thick, hooded cloak. If it was a 
      Vrykyl, the creature would be traveling in disguise, so Ulaf did not pay 
      much attention to the person seated on the horse. He was far more 
      interested in the horse's trappings, which were like nothing he'd ever 
      seen, particularly the caparison, red with golden trim around the edges 
      that had been fashioned to resemble flames.
      Ulaf would have bet his eyeteeth that the caparison was magical. The 
      rider's cloak was stained with the mud and slush of the road. The 
      caparison was as clean and bright as if it had been new-made that very 
day.
      If the rider was following Jessan, he would halt at the crossroads to 
      study the trail, trying to determine which "route the Trevinici had taken.
      The rider did halt, but he did not look at the trail. He turned in his 
      saddle and searched the surrounding woods with an intense scrutiny that 
      caused Ulaf to press himself against the rocks and quiet his breathing.
      Not finding what he sought, the rider remained seated on his horse at the 
      very center of the crossroads. Obviously, he was waiting for someone.
      His curiosity now piqued, Ulaf wiggled his toes in his boots to try to 
      restore the circulation and settled down to wait also. He hoped the 
      meeting happened soon; otherwise, he'd been walking home on blocks of ice. 
      Times like this he wished he'd been born a Fire mage.
      The rider appeared as impatient as Ulaf, for just as the sun dipped down 
      behind the mountain, the rider began to shift restlessly in the saddle. 
      Fortunately, neither the rider's patience nor Ulaf's frozen toes were 
      tried too long. He could hear another horseman approaching at a gallop. 
      The rider guided his horse off the road, took up a position in the shadows 
      where he could see the stranger.
      Reaching the center of the crossroad, the stranger halted his horse and 
      looked around. He caught sight of the rider by the side of the road and 
      said loudly, "A fine night for travel, is it not, sir. Bright and crisp."
      Since the sky was, in fact, overcast, Ulaf guessed that the words were a 
      coded greeting. His guess was confirmed when the first rider emerged from 
      the shadows.
      "Is that you, Klendist?" said a deep voice.
      "Is that you, Shakur?"
      Shakur! The name sent a tingle up Ulaf's spine. Shakur was the most 
      ancient of the Vrykyl and the most powerful. If there was such a thing as 
      a commander among the ranks of the Vrykyl, Shakur would be it. Ulaf forgot 
      his frozen feet.
      "You have my orders?" Klendist asked.
      "You are to proceed with all haste to Old Vinnengael, there to await the 
      arrival of Lord Dagnarus. You are to arrive there in a fortnight."
      "A fortnight! Are you mad"
      Shakur handed over a scrollcase. "Here is the location of a rogue Portal. 
      It will cut the time of your ride to Old Vinnengael. His Lordship wants 
      you there as soon as possible, so I suggest you leave immediately."
      "Old Vinnengael," Klendist said in grim tones. "What does His Lordship 
      want us to do in that accursed place?"
      "You will find out, but all in good time. You have your orders"
      "Not so fast, Shakur," said Klendist, and there was an edge to his voice. 
      "My men and I didn't sign on to go to Old Vinnengael."
      "What's the matter, Klendist?" Shakur sneered. "Afraid of ghosts?"
      "Ghosts are the least of my concerns," said Klendist coolly. "I once 
      thought of doing some business inside Old Vinnengael. The treasure of an 
      empire lies buried there. I did some investigating and decided it wasn't 
      worth it. There's bahk living there, for one thing. Hundreds of them. I'm 
      not riding into Old Vinnengael or anywhere near it until I know more about 
      what it is I'm supposed to do once I get there."
      Shakur did not immediately answer. Perhaps he was asking Dagnarus for 
      orders, or perhaps he was trying to outwait Klendist. If so, he failed. 
      Klendist hung on with grim determination. Night had fallen. The two were 
      black blobs against the white backdrop of the fresh snowfall. Ulaf tried 
      to warm his fingers with his breath.
      At last, Shakur spoke. "His Lordship says that there is no need for you to 
      enter Old Vinnengael. Four Dominion Lords are traveling to the ruined 
      city. He wants you to apprehend them before they reach their destination."
      "Dominion Lords?" Klendist laughed. "I didn't know there were any still in 
      existence. Why does he want them?"
      "He does not want them," said Shakur. "He wants what they carry."
      "What's that?"
      "Something they stole from His Lordship. Do not push your luck, Klendist."
      Hearing the warning note in Shakur's fell voice, Klendist apparently 
      decided he had all the information he required.
      "So we ride to Old Vinnengael in search of these Dominion Lords. How do we 
      know we're all going to arrive there at the same time?"
      "The Void is with us. They will be there."
      Klendist shrugged. "If you say so. Do we kill them?"
      "No, you will take them alive and you will keep them that way. His 
      Lordship wants to question them," said Shakur.
      "Catching is more trouble than killing," Klendist said reflectively. "I'll 
      expect to be rewarded accordingly."
      "You've had no reason to complain of your treatment in the past," Shakur 
      replied.
      "Just tell him that, will you? Now, what do these Dominion Lords look 
      like?"
      "The Void will guide you to them."
      "It's like squeezing water from a rock, getting any information out of 
      you, Shakur," said Klendist irritably. "We're all on the same side, you 
      know. Speaking of which, what about the gigs? What are they doing here?"
      "The what?" Shakur was clearly baffled.
      "The gigs. The taan." Klendist made a gesture with his gloved hand. "We've 
      spotted a group of them here in the mountains. They're skulking about in 
      those woods to the north."
      "Indeed?" Shakur turned his head in that direction, as if he could see 
      through the night and the pine trees. "How many?"
      "A small group by the looks of it," said Klendist. "A hunting party, 
      maybe."
      "Did they see you?"
      Klendist snorted, insulted. "As if they could. So His Lordship didn't send 
      them here?"
      "No," said Shakur, after a moment's pause, "he did not."
      "Want us to kill them?" Klendist offered. "Won't take long. We can do it 
      before we leave in the morning."
      "You will leave now, Klendist," said Shakur coldly. "Summon your men. 
      There is no time to waste. As for the taan, they are of no consequence. 
      You have your orders."
      Turning his horse's head, Shakur rode off, the horse's hooves kicking up 
      chunks of frozen ground. He rode toward the north.
      "No consequence, eh?" Klendist chuckled. Then he growled. "An all-night 
      ride for us, after being in the saddle most of the day. The boys will not 
      be happy. Still, when there's His Lordship's reward in the offing"
      Tucking the scrollcase carefully into the breast of his tunic, Klendist 
      turned his horse's head back in the direction from which he'd come.
      Ulaf shoved himself away from the rocks and began to hobble on his 
      half-frozen feet toward where he'd left his horse. The pain of the 
      returning circulation was agony, and he stifled a groan. He spent a moment 
      deciding what he was to do, but only a moment. Mounting his horse, he rode 
      off after Jessan.
      Ulaf was not worried about locating the Trevinici. He figured that Jessan 
      would be the one to find him and he was right. Ulaf had ridden about five 
      miles west of the crossroads when Jessan stepped out of the shadows of the 
      woods and stood in front of him. Ulaf brought his horse to a halt.
      The on-again, ofF-again clouds had vanished for good. The night was 
      brightened by the light of a three-quarter moon shining on the snow. The 
      fir trees cast eerie moon-shadows in stripes across the road.
      "It was a Vrykyl," Ulaf reported, leaning over his horse's neck. "But it's 
      not following you. The fiend was here to meet with a mercenary captain, a 
      man named Klendist. He and his men will be riding this way shortly. 
      They're bound for a rogue Portal. I'm going to follow them to discover the 
      location of the Portal's entrance. I need for you to ride back up the road 
      to Mardurar, alert Shadamehr's people. Tell them to ride after me. I'll 
      wait for them at the Portal. You'll have to make haste. Unfasten the 
      litter and leave it by the roadside. The Grandmother can stay here with 
      Bashae's body while you're gone."
      "What is wrong?" Jessan asked. "What did you hear?"
      "The baron and Damra are walking into a trap. I've got to try to find them 
      and warn them."
      Ulaf smiled grimly. "the Vrykyl said that the Void was working with them. 
      It wasn't the Void brought me to that crossroads in time to hear what they 
      were plotting"
      A stone struck Ulaf in the chest with such force that it knocked him 
      backward off the horse. He was wearing a thick leather vest and a heavy 
      fur-lined sheepskin coat, or the blow might well have stopped his heart. 
      As it was, he lay stunned in the road, unable to move or to react as two 
      figures, dark against the moonlit sky, bent over him.
      Lips parted in a horrible grin. Sharp teeth gleamed in the moonlight. A 
      fist struck him on the jaw, and Ulaf went limp.
      The Grandmother screeched a warning. Jessan grabbed hold of the hilt of 
      his sword, but before he could draw his weapon, strong hands seized hold 
      of him, pinned his arms to his side. A bestial face loomed in front of 
      him, leered at him.
      Jessan smashed his head into the taan's forehead.
      The taan let loose and toppled backward. Jessan drew his sword, turned to 
      face his attackers. The Grandmother's screeching abruptly ceased. Two taan 
      stood crouched in a defensive stance, both eyeing Jessan, waiting for him 
      to make the first move. He swung his sword and started to leap forward.
      A blow struck him from behind. His brain seemed to explode with pain, but 
      he fought it off, kept upright. He tried to turn to deal with this new 
      menace, but another blow fell, and Jessan slumped into the snow.
      The taan stood looking down at him and, although he would never know it, 
      they paid him the ultimate compliment.
      "Strong food," said one.
       



       15THE LEADER OF THE SMALL BAND OF TAAN WAS TASH-KET, A TAAN scout whose 
      exploits had already made him a legend among his people. None of his 
      achievements equaled this, however. He had crossed a continent teeming 
      with his enemies, located a strange city in a strange land, entered that 
      city unseen, and made off with the prize he'd been sent to acquire.
      He and his fellow scouts had found their way with the aid of an excellent 
      map, provided by Dagnarus, though he did not know it. The taan had also 
      reluctantly relied on the help of a half-taan named Kralt. The taan would 
      never have lowered themselves to travel in company with a half-taan, but 
      Deri had ordered them to do so, telling them that they would find Kralt 
      useful. More human-looking than most half-taan, Kralt had proven his 
      worth. He was able to disguise himself well enough to enter human towns 
      and gather information.
      Having stolen the "lightning rock" K'let had sent him to acquire from the 
      dwarves, Tash-ket and his troop made their way back across Vinnengael to 
      the rendezvous point, the town of Mardurar, where they were to meet up 
      with K'let. The taan had arrived first. Tash-ket had been here for several 
      weeks with orders to lie low and do nothing that might give away his 
      presence. Tash-ket obeyed those ordersto a certain extent.
      The taan scout is a unique individual. Sent out ahead of the tribe by the 
      nizam to search for game, enemies, and good camping grounds, the taan 
      scout lives an isolated and solitary existence and is expected to think 
      and act on his own. Thus he tends to develop an independence not usually 
      found among the majority of taan.
      Tash-ket revered K'let and obeyed orders as far as the scout ever obeyed 
      any orders. Tash-ket followed those he agreed with and ignored those he 
      did not. Having been holed up in this godsforsaken wilderness for weeks on 
      end, forced to endure the wet, cold slop that fell from the skies and 
      covered the ground with white, Tash-ket grew bored and extremely hungry. 
      Both prompted him to ignore the order to lie low.
      Tash-ket and his band had arrived in the forests of Mardurar to find the 
      woods almost denuded of game animals. They came across the occasional deer 
      or rabbit or goat, but the taan considered those animals weak food. 
      Tash-ket needed strong food, needed it to start the sluggish blood pumping 
      through his veins and bring the fire back to his belly and his heart. His 
      companions needed strong food as much as he did.
      Tash-ket did not see the harm in attacking a small party of humans in 
      order to assuage his appetite. His attack was well planned. He and his 
      fellow scouts struck at night, when no one would be around. Once they had 
      brought down their preyone of whom fought well, which was extremely 
      gratifyingthe taan dragged them far off the road, so that their remains 
      would not be discovered.
      Tash-ket was pleased with the results of their hunt. One human had proven 
      to be stronger than Tash-ket had hoped to find in the land of the xkes. 
      Tash-ket laid claim to this human's heart. The other xkes would serve well 
      enough for his comrades. The scrawny old female would feed the half-taan. 
      Tash-ket looked forward to torturing the xkes, in order to test their 
      strength further. Kralt argued against torturing them, saying they should 
      be killed at once, their screams might be heard by others, and that would 
      be disobeying K'let's commands. Tash-ket paid no attention to the words of 
      a slave.
      As for the dwarf child, Tash-ket didn't worry about her. The taan fed her 
      whatever was left over from their meal, which wasn't often much. Kralt had 
      learned to communicate with the child, and he would sometimes go into 
      towns to steal human food to give her. Kralt was the one who insisted that 
      they keep her alive. She had powers over what they came to call the 
      lightning rock. She could touch it without harm, and they could not. 
      Tash-ket didn't argue. So long as he had nothing to do with either the 
      rock or the child, he didn't care what Kralt did.
      Tash-ket sat near the fire, sharpening his knife, his stomach growling 
      with anticipation.



      Ulaf regained consciousness to find himself sitting on the ground, ropes 
      wrapped around his arms and chest, binding him to a tree. Next to him, 
      Jessan was also propped up against a tree. He was trussed up in much the 
      same way, except that his wrists were also bound. Ulaf's wrists were free 
      and he managed to wriggle his arms around in the bindings until his 
      fingers could touch the ground.
      Jessan was still unconscious. His head slumped on his chest. His face was 
      covered in blood.
      The Grandmother lay on her side in between Ulaf and Jessan. She was not 
      tied to a tree, but had been dumped onto the ground. Her hands and feet 
      were bound, but the taan did not seem to worry much about her escaping, 
      rarely even glanced at her. The Grandmother was conscious, her bright, 
      dark eyes gleaming in the firelight. She did not look at Jessan or Ulaf. 
      Her gaze was fixed intently on something on the other side of the taan 
      camp.
      "Taan," Ulaf repeated groggily to himself. "We've been captured by taan."
      He remembered Klendist telling Shakur that taan were in the area. Ulaf 
      hadn't paid much attention to that part of the conversation, a fact he now 
      regretted.
      His head hurt abominably. He needed to be able to think clearly, and he 
      couldn't through the pain. Scraping up a small bit of dirt with his 
      fingernails, Ulaf used the earth to cast a healing spell on himself. He 
      longed to cast one on Jessan, who appeared to be very seriously injured, 
      but the spell required that he be able to touch his patient.
      The taan mostly ignored their captives, beyond casting them a hungry 
      glance now and then. They sat around their fire, laughing and talking. One 
      was busy sharpening a knife.
      "Grandmother!" Ulaf whispered.
      She didn't hear him.
      "Grandmother!" Ulaf whispered again, more urgently, keeping one eye on 
      their captors. He nudged her with his foot.
      The Grandmother twisted around to face him.
      "Jessan's in a bad way," said Ulaf softly. "He needs healing."
      The Grandmother shook her head.
      "His wounds are the wounds of a warrior," she said. "He would be angry if 
      I took them away."
      "Better angry then dead," said Ulaf grimly. "I need him alert and awake, 
      Grandmother, and you're going to have to do it. I can't get close enough 
      to touch him."
      "He did permit Bashae to heal the pain of his injured hand once," said the 
      Grandmother. She made up her mind. "Very well."
      She scooted and wriggled her small body over to Jessan. Her skirt, with 
      its jingling bells and clicking stones, made muffled sounds, and one of 
      the taan looked over at them. He said something to the others, and they 
      all made hooting sounds and grinned widely. Apparently they found their 
      captives' struggles amusing. The Grandmother managed to touch Jessan's 
      foot with her hand.
      "It won't be perfect," she said. "I can't reach my healing stones."
      "It will do," Ulaf said, and hoped he was right.
      The Grandmother closed her eyes and began to mutter words in Twithil, the 
      pecwae language that was like the shrill twittering of birds.
      Ulaf watched Jessan closely. The young man's breathing eased and smoothed. 
      Some color came back to his face. He ceased to groan, and his eyelids 
      fluttered. He blinked and looked around dazedly.
      "I left the scars," the Grandmother assured him, then she went back to 
      staring intently at whatever it was that had attracted her attention.
      "What is it, Grandmother?" Ulaf asked, peering in that direction. "What 
      are you looking at?"
      And then he saw it. Ulaf gasped softly.
      Seated some distance from the fire was what appeared to be a child. At 
      first, he thought it might be the child of one of the taan, but on second 
      glance, he saw it was not. Ulaf could not immediately tell what race the 
      child was, for it was bundled up in so much clothing that he could not 
      distinguish the features. Incredibly, dangling from the child's neck, was 
      a dazzling, radiant jewel.
      The jewel caught the firelight and transformed it into myriad glittering 
      sparks of rainbow brilliance, so beautiful that Ulaf wondered if he'd been 
      struck blind, not to have noticed it immediately. The jewel was largeas 
      big as his fistand it was an unusual cut for a gem. The jewel was 
      triangular and smooth-sided, as if it had been sheared from some larger 
      portion . . .
      Ulaf gasped again, this time loud enough to attract the attention of the 
      taan, who stood up and glared at him. He changed the gasp into a cough. 
      The taan sat back down again.
      "I have never seen a stone like that," said the Grandmother, her voice 
      soft with awe. "Its magic must be very powerful."
      "It is," said Ulaf quietly, for now he recognized what the child was 
      wearing. "It is the Sovereign Stone."
      The Grandmother twisted around to stare at him. "The same as the rock 
      Bashae carried? Are you sure?"
      "I recognize the jewel from the pictures I've seen in the old books. But 
      who it belongs to, what it's doing here, and how it came to be in the 
      possession of a child are questions beyond my ability to answer. Maybe I 
      can talk to her."
      The taan paid no attention to the child. In their excitement over their 
      captives, they appeared to have forgotten about her. She sat alone, off to 
      herself. Ulaf tried a smile. He tended to be a favorite with children.
      The child rose to her feet and took a tentative step toward him. Then he 
      saw that she had a rope tied around her neck, like a dog's lead. The other 
      end of the rope was tethered to a tree.
      The child's movement brought her nearer the fire, so that Ulaf could see 
      her clearly. Because of her short stature, he had taken her for a child of 
      about six. Now, when he saw her face, he realized he had been mistaken. 
      This child was at least twice that age. By her swarthy complexion and dark 
      hair and flat-nosed features, he knew her to be a dwarven child. He 
      motioned again, but the child regarded him with dark, empty eyes and did 
      not come closer.
      Ulaf recalled reading that children guarded the dwarven portion of the 
      Sovereign Stone. Children of Dunner, they were termed. That could be the 
      answer to part of this riddle. He wanted very much to find out the answers 
      to the rest, but he didn't see much chance of that happening. His destiny 
      appeared to be the main ingredient in a taan stew.
      "What happened?" Jessan's voice was weak, but his words were clear, 
      coherent. "Where are we?"
      Ulaf twisted around to look at him. "How are you feeling?" "Fine,"Jessan 
      answered. A pain-filled grimace belied his words. "Who are these beasts 
      that walk like men? What is going on?" "They are taan," said Ulaf. 
      "Creatures of the Void." "What are they going to do with us?" "My guess is 
      that they're going to eat us."
      Jessan stared, appalled. The Grandmother blinked, then grunted. "The taan 
      have a taste for human flesh," Ulaf explained. "No beast-man is going to 
      eat me!" 'Jessan's arm muscles bulged. He tried to break free himself of 
      his bonds.
      Hearing the commotion, the taan jumped to their feet. Gathering around 
      Jessan, the taan watched him with interest. They gestured and grinned, 
      seemed to be urging him on.
      "Taunt them!" said Ulaf swiftly. "See if you can't trick them into cutting 
      you loose."
      "Cut these ropes!" Jessan cried, straining against his bonds. "Fight me 
      man to man, you cowards!"
      At this one of the beast-men, who looked different from the others, a taan 
      with almost human features, said something to the other taan. They hooted 
      with glee.
      "Tash-ket has no intention of fighting a slave," said the human-looking 
      taan, speaking fluent Elderspeak. "But he will honor you by permitting you 
      to fill his belly."
      Jessan snarled and threw himself against the ropes. The taan jeered and 
      poked at him with sharp sticks.
      Ulaf had a spell in mind, one he called "Ankle Biter" that would shake the 
      earth beneath their feet, causing them to fall heavily, maybe break a leg 
      or perhaps even knock themselves senseless. If they released Jessan, Ulaf 
      could use his spell to take out one or two of the taan, giving Jessan a 
      chance to tackle the rest.
      Unfortunately, the taan weren't falling for it. The taan who had been 
      sharpening the knife took a step toward Jessan. By the gleam in the taan's 
      eye, he wasn't planning to use his knife to cut the ropes. Jessan kicked 
      out violently with his legs. In desperation, not knowing what good it 
      would do, but thinking he had to do something, Ulaf prepared to cast his 
      spell.
      Then the Grandmother began to sing.
      The taan's hide was thickly scarred, he had what appeared to be gemstones 
      embedded in his flesh. The scar tissue had grown partially over the gems, 
      forming bizarre-looking lumps, but enough of the gem-stones were still 
      visible to catch the firelight. Ulaf was wondering what the gems were 
      forit seemed a strange way to wear jewelrywhen one of the gemstones in 
      the taan's arm burst out of his hide and fell to the ground.
      The taan gave a grunt of astonishment. Lowering his knife, he stared at 
      the bleeding gash in his arm. The Grandmother continued to sing, her song 
      growing louder and stronger. After staring at the stone for a moment, the 
      taan gave a shrug and raised the gleaming knife, holding it above Jessan's 
      heart.
      Two more gems erupted from his flesh, one falling out of his forehead and 
      the other bursting from his breast. The taan howled in anger and whipped 
      around to glare at his fellow taan. He lost two more gems, this time from 
      his left arm.
      The taan said something in a loud voice, made a motion toward himself, as 
      if demanding to know what was going on.
      His fellow taan shook their heads and backed away from him, eyeing him 
      warily. One raised his weapon, held it pointed at him.
      Another gemstone popped out of the taan's leg. Furious, he turned his 
      stare on his captives. His gaze went from Ulaf to Jessan and finally to 
      the Grandmother, singing in her shrill voice. The taan thrust his knife at 
      the Grandmother. Jessan gave a roar and lunged helplessly against his 
      bonds. Ulaf started his spell-casting, but before he could utter more than 
      the first words, an eerie darkness came over his mind and he forgot the 
      spell, lost it completely.
      The firelight vanished. The moonlight disappeared. The light of the stars, 
      the light of the world was quenched, replaced by vast, empty night. The 
      Grandmother's singing hushed. The taan's snarling fury died away.
      The darkness was complete, yet Ulaf could see someone inside it. Black 
      armor gleamed with a dark iridescence, like a crow's wing.
      "Kyl-sarnz!" cried the taan. "Kyl-sarnz."
      "a Vrykyl!" breathed Jessan, his voice catching in his throat.
      "Shakur," thought Ulaf, slumping back against the tree. "And here I was 
      thinking so smugly that other powers were at work against the Void. He's 
      come for the Sovereign Stone, of course."
      He looked for the dwarven child, but she was not where he'd last seen her.
      "She is here," said the Grandmother softly revealing the child crouched 
      beside her. "She is with me. She came to me when I sang."
      "You have the Sovereign Stone," said the Vrykyl, his hollow voice echoing 
      as if it came from a deep and empty well. "Your god, Dagnarus, will be 
      pleased. You there, slave. Translate my words."
      The half-taan did as he was told, repeated Shakur's words to the taan in 
      their language.
      The taan cast glances at each other. The taan who had lost his stones 
      spoke a word of command. He said something to Shakur, gestured for the 
      half-taan to translate.
      "My master, Tash-ket, says to tell the kyl-sarnz that Dagnarus is not our 
      god. Dagnarus is an imposter who will lead the taan to ruin. We serve 
      K'let. We serve the old gods."
      "And K'let says that you serve him well," said a taan, walking into the 
      camp.
      This taan looked different from the others. He was older, much older, and 
      his white skin glimmered eerily in the darkness. He spoke the language of 
      the taan, but his voice was cold and hard and empty as that of Shakur's. 
      The half-taan translated the words.
      "K'let says that we will be rewarded. K'let says that you are old and 
      decrepit, Shakur, and that he has no honor in fighting you. He bids you 
      crawl back to your master"
      Shakur gave a growl of contempt and turned to face K'let. The Void grew 
      and expanded, its darkness immense, consuming. Ulaf felt himself start to 
      slip into the emptiness. A touch on his arms and a gruff whisper in his 
      ear jolted back him back to his senses.
      "Don't move," came the whisper, tickling Ulaf's ear. He could hear and 
      feel the blade of a knife sawing through the ropes. "Be ready."
      "To do what?" Ulaf asked softly.
      "Fight, if you've a mind," the whisper answered. "Run if you don't."
      Ulaf freed his hands of the ropes, moving slowly and carefully so as not 
      to draw the attention of the taan. He cast a glance over his shoulder, saw 
      a dwarf with a knife in his hand slipping through the darkness, heading 
      over to Jessan.
      "Good to see you again, lad," said the dwarf, cutting the ropes.
      "Wolfram?" Jessan tried to twist around to stare.
      "Face forward, you daft Trevinici!" Wolfram hissed irritably. "Don't give 
      me away."
      Jessan did as he was told. He glanced at Ulaf, to see if he had an 
      explanation.
      Ulaf shook his head. He was concentrating on his spell. He didn't know 
      what the dwarf had in mind, but he was ready.
      Wolfram dared not try to reach the Grandmother and the child, who were out 
      in the open. He hovered in the trees near them, watched them closely.
      "Dwarf!" Ulaf whispered urgently. "How many are with you?"
      "One other," said Wolfram.
      Ulaf's heart sank. He'd been hoping for an army, and even that might not 
      be enough to halt two Vrykyl, who were still facing each other.
      "Don't threaten me with Dagnarus, Shakur," K'let was saying. "He can't 
      touch me. And that should tell you something, Shakur. You could be free of 
      him, as I am free. Don't pretend you haven't dreamed of that day. I know 
      your thoughts, Shakur. I've felt them through the Blood-knife. I know how 
      much you hate him"
      Blazing light split the darkness of the Void. Vrykyl and taan and 
      prisoners stared upward in astonishment to see the tops of the fir trees 
      burst into flame. The fire flashed off glittering red scales. A dragon's 
      enormous wings fanned the flames. Her two dark eyes glared down at them. 
      The firelight shone on her sharp fangs and sparkled in her mane.
      Ulaf had a momentary glimpse of something rushing past him. He thought it 
      was Wolfram, but if so, it was Wolfram encased in shining silver.
      He grabbed hold of the Grandmother and the dwarven child. Plucking them 
      off the ground, Wolfram tucked one under each arm, turned, and fled back 
      into the shadows of the trees. Ulaf began his spell-casting. Jessan cast 
      off his bonds and surged out to do battle.
      Tash-ket was the first to recover from the shock. He grabbed hold of a 
      spear and aimed it at the fleeing dwarf. Ulaf cast his spell. The ground 
      lurched beneath Tash-ket's feet. He flung his spear, but his aim was off 
      and it sailed into the darkness. The taan lost his balance, and Jessan was 
      on him. Grabbing hold of the taan's head by the hair, Jessan jerked the 
      head backward, snapping the neck.
      Tash-ket's body went limp.
      Another taan, wielding a stone-headed club, leapt at Jessan. He tried to 
      scramble out of the way, but he slipped. The taan raised the club over 
him.
      A fiery blast from the dragon turned the taan into a blazing torch. 
      Screaming horribly, he took off running, panic-stricken, into the woods. 
      Flames trailed behind him, and it was not long before his screams ended.
      Jessan ran out of the smoke, his body glistening with sweat and stained 
      with streaks of soot and blood.
      "Where are the Vrykyl?" he demanded tensely. He brandished a taan weapon 
      he had grabbed. "Did you see them? Where did they go?"
      Ulaf shook his head. Coughing, he covered his mouth with his sleeve. His 
      eyes burned and stung. He peered back into the flaming trees, into the 
      darkness made deeper by the light of the dragon's magical fire. Taan 
      bodies lay on the ground, but there was no sign of the Vrykyl.
      "I don't know," said Ulaf.
       



       16WITH THE ASSISTANCE OF SEAGULLS AND VARIOUS OTHER BIRDS and beasts, 
      Wolfram and Ranessa had tracked the taan who had taken the Sovereign Stone 
      from Saumel across Vinnengael, had finally caught up with them on the 
      outskirts of the town of Mardurar.
      Ranessa had urged rushing in and slaying all of them at once. Wolfram had 
      reminded her curtly that they didn't want to slay them all. There was the 
      safety of the dwarven child to consider. He had scouted the taan camp, 
      hoping to find a time when they all slept, so that he might sneak in and 
      make away with the child. But the taan were never negligent about setting 
      the watch, and no taan ever fell asleep at his post.
      He had tried to think of some way to rescue the child, but the taan 
      watched her and the Sovereign Stone day and night. Despite being a 
      Dominion Lord and possessing magical powers and wondrous armor, Wolfram 
      had no thought of attacking the taan by himself. The gods may bless the 
      weapon, but they can't guide the hand that wields it, and Wolfram had 
      never received any training as a warrior. He had only a rudimentary 
      knowledge of fighting, just enough to be able to extricate himself from a 
      brawl. He had only to look at the taan, see their strength and their 
      prowess with their weaponsfor they practiced dailyto know that he could 
      never hope to fight all of them. He could always unleash Ranessa on them, 
      but he could not do that and guarantee that any of them, himself included, 
      would come out alive.
      He had fretted and fumed. He had just gone to sleep after another 
      disheartening day of spying on the taan, when he suddenly sat upright, 
      certain he'd heard someone talking to him.
      "Go to the taan camp!"
      Wolfram glanced over at Ranessa. He had insisted that she remain in human 
      form, so as not to alert either the taan or the residents of Mardu-rar to 
      the fact that a dragon was hanging about. Wrapped up in a bearskin, she 
      was sound asleep.
      "Probably I dreamed it," he told himself.
      He tried to go back to sleep, but he could still hear the words quite 
      clearly. He got up, walked over, and roused a resentful Ranessa.
      "You're a fool," she told him, but she went with him to the camp.
      They skulked about the shadows of the trees.
      "They've got prisoners!" Wolfram said. He had the feeling that the 
      Trevinici looked familiar. He squinted, stared into the firelight, and he 
      gave a great gasp.
      Ranessa punched him in the arm. "Shut up! They'll hear you!"
      "Look! Look there!" he said to Ranessa, actually reaching out and shaking 
      her to emphasize his amazement. "That Trevinici man. Get your hair out of 
      your eyes and tell me I'm not seeing things."
      "I do think I know him," she said, but she sounded doubtful.
      "He's Jessan!" Wolfram hissed, scandalized. "Your nephew."
      "My nephew." She paused, then said softly, "I had forgotten him. They all 
      seem so far away. I wonder what he's doing here?"
      "Never mind about that now. Here's our chance," said Wolfram, rubbing his 
      hands. "I'll run and cut their bonds"
      "Does your plan include Vrykyl?" Ranessa asked, her voice hardening. 
      "Because one just walked into the camp. No, wait. Now there are two 
      Vrykyl. One is disguised as a taan, but I can see through him."
      So could Wolfram, now that she pointed it out. He had been so hopeful and 
      now he could have flung himself facefirst into a snowbank and wept.
      "We can do it," said Ranessa. She turned to him and smiled. "You can do 
      it. You're a Dominion Lord. And I am a dragon."
      Before he could argue, she was gone, racing off into the darkness. Wolfram 
      gripped his knife and slipped into the camp. He cut loose the 
      Vinnengaelean and Jessan, then slipped quickly back into the shadows to 
      await his opportunity to rescue the child.
      He heard Ranessa circling above in the darkness. He had come to know the 
      sounds of her, the flap of the wings through the cold, still air. He heard 
      her draw in a deep breath, then let it out with a whoosh.
      The treetops burst into flame. Grasping hold of his medallion, Wolfram 
      said a prayer, and the silver armor of the Dominion Lord slid reassuringly 
      over his body. Wolfram dashed into the taan camp. He grabbed hold of the 
      Grandmother and Fenella. Ignoring the Grandmother's indignant screech and 
      her wail about some stick, Wolfram tucked the pecwae under one arm and 
      Fenella under the other and dashed into the woods.
       



       17WOLFRAM HEARD THE DRAGON'S ROARING AND THE CRACKLING of the blazing 
      trees, the screams of a dying taan, and Jessan's war whoop. Wolfram 
      ignored them all, continued running.
      The moon, shining bright on the snow, lit their way. Unaccustomed to 
      running and carrying a heavy load, Wolfram was growing tired, his hold on 
      the pecwae and the dwarf child weakening. He had just decided that they 
      were far enough from the camp for safety when he suddenly went blind, as 
      blind as if his eyes had been gouged out. Not only was he blind, he was 
      deaf and dumb and had lost the use of his limbs. He could not see because 
      had no eyes. He could not run, because he had no feet. He had no hands to 
      fight or to a keep hold on anything, including his very life. He tried 
      hard to grasp it, but his fingers started to slip, and he felt himself 
      falling into a vast emptiness.
      A hand caught hold of him. A hand gloved in silver. The hand drew him back 
      from the Void. Radiant in her gleaming armor, Gilda stood over him. She 
      raised her shield and, by its light, Wolfram looked up to see the Vrykyl. 
      The creature was armored in the Void and wore a helm that was made in the 
      hideous likeness of the taan that they had been following.
      Gilda stood over her fallen brother, holding her shield so that it 
      protected both of them. The Vrykyl drew a strange-looking weapon, a huge 
      sword with a serrated edge. He leapt at her, swinging the sword.
      The blade struck the shield. The Vrykyl gave a snarling cry and dropped 
      his weapon. He fell back, wringing his hands. Picking up the sword, he 
      glared at her, glared at the shield.
      Wolfram found purchase with his hands. Clinging to life, he pulled himself 
      up over the chasm of the Void. He staggered to his feet, went to stand 
      beside his sister.
      The Vrykyl seemed to be trying to figure a way around this shining 
      creature of heaven. Raising his sword, he made another rush. He didn't 
      strike the shield. He smote it with his hand and knocked it out of his 
      way. He aimed a blow at Wolfram.
      "Foul creature of the Void!" Ranessa cried out from the darkness. "He's my 
      dwarf! You will not harm him!"
      The dragon breathed out a huge gout of flame. Catching the fiery ball in 
      her talon, she flung the blazing orb at the Vrykyl.
      The fire rippled over the black armor of the Void. K'let absorbed the 
      blaze harmlessly, sucked the flame into the Void, where it flickered and 
      went out. Lifting his helm, the taan Vrykyl gazed up in wonder at the 
      dragon.
      "Your kind are not native to the world of the taan," he cried out, though 
      none of them could understand him. "I would like to stay and fight you, 
      for my honor and for yours. But I must decline your offer of battle. A 
      cohort of mine is around here somewhere, and it would be just like Shakur 
      to attack me from behind."
      K'let glanced back at the dwarf and the shining creature of heaven who 
      guarded him.
      "As for the Sovereign Stone, I'll know where to find it."
      K'let slid into the Void himself, became the darkness, became the 
      emptiness.
      "Where did it go?" Wolfram demanded, twisting his head in a panic to see. 
      "I can't find it. Is it behind us?"
      "The Vrykyl is gone for the moment," Gilda answered. "But so long as the 
      Sovereign Stone is in the world, he remains a threat. Wolfram, you must 
      take the Stone to Old Vinnengael."
      "Old Vinnengael?" Wolfram repeated, stunned. "Why? No, don't go, Gilda! 
      Tell me!"
      "Wolfram!"
      He opened his eyes.
      Ranessa, in human form, knelt at his side.
      "Wolfram! Wake up! Are you hurt?" She began to pummel him, apparently with 
      the intention of assisting him to regain consciousness.
      "If I wasn't, I am now," Wolfram stated, shoving her fists away. He sat 
      up. "Where is Gilda? Where did she go? I have to ask her something. 
      Gilda?" he called out. "Gilda, I don't understand."
      The moonlight shone down among the fir trees. The dwarven child, Fenella, 
      sat near him, holding fast to the hand of Grandmother Pecwae. The 
      Sovereign Stone shone brightly in the pale, cold light. "Dunner," said 
      Fenella. "I'm glad you found me." Reaching around her neck, she removed 
      the chain on which hung the Sovereign Stone and held it out to him. "I 
      kept this for you, Dunner," she said shyly.
      Wolfram made a swipe at his eyes, cleared his throat. He hesitated a 
      moment, then took the Sovereign Stone, on its braided horsehair thong, and 
      held it fast.
      "I'm not Dunner," he said, embarrassed. "My name is Wolfram. I'm trying to 
      follow in Dunner's footsteps and not doing such a great job. But I will 
      take this, and I thank you for guarding it so well. Dunner would have been 
      proud of you."
      Fenella smiled, pleased. She did not venture to come near him, but stayed 
      close to Grandmother Pecwae.
      The Grandmother frowned at Wolfram, regarded him with deep suspicion. 
      Reaching out a bony finger, she poked at his armor. "Did you steal that?" 
      she demanded.
      "Aren't you going to thank me Wolfram?" Ranessa demanded shrilly. "I saved 
      you from the Vrykyl. That's the second time I've had to do that by the 
      way."
      "Ranessa," said Grandmother Pecwae, "I see you found yourself." Ranessa 
      was ready with a pert reply, but she looked into the old woman's eyes and 
      changed her mind. "I shed my skin," she said, confused.
      "Good," said the Grandmother. "I always knew it was too tight." Wolfram 
      gazed down at the Sovereign Stone in his hands, watched it splinter the 
      moonlight.
      "Someone's coming," said Ranessa in warning tones. Wolfram stood up, put 
      himself in front of Fenella and the Grandmother, and faced the darkness.
       



       18THE DARKNESS COALESCED INTO THE VINNENGALEAN AND JESSAN.
      Wolfram heaved a great sigh.
      "The Vrykyl may still be around," said Ulaf. "We should leave here 
      immediately. We're all in danger"
      "Aunt Ranessa?" Jessan exclaimed, thunderstruck. "Is that you? What are 
      you doing here?"
      "Hello, Nephew," said Ranessa coolly. "Did you bring me a present?"
      Wolfram stared into the Sovereign Stone, into its bright, pure, clean 
      heart. He hung the Stone around his neck. The Stone melded with the silver 
      armor and vanished. He knew the Stone was with him, though. He could feel 
      its weight on his soul.
      Gilda stood beside him.
      "Old Vinnengael," she said.
      Wolfram nodded.



      They heeded Ulaf's advice and left the forest. They returned to the 
      highway, only to find that their horses had bolted and were nowhere in 
      sight. The litter carrying Bashae's body lay off to one side. Jessan said 
      it had fallen off when the horses fled but the Grandmother said, no, the 
      gods had kept hold of it. By the looks of the roadthe churned-up earth 
      and muddy snowa large group of horsemen had ridden this way.
      "Klendist. I missed them," Ulaf said glumly. He kicked at a pile of dirty 
      snow with his boot. "Damn it, who said the Void wasn't at work around 
      here?"
      "You did, as I recall," said Jessan, smiling. "They left a trail that a 
      blind ogre could follow. Their tracks will lead you to the Portal."
      "From what I've heard of this Klendist, he'll take care to cover his 
      tracks," Ulaf returned morosely. "Still, it's the only thing left to do." 
      He glanced around, his frustration growing. "I suppose I must walk, for I 
      see no sign of our horses."
      "The taan frightened them, but they did not run far," said the 
      Grandmother. Putting her fingers to her lips, she gave a piercing whistle. 
      Then, lifting her voice, she called out something in Twithil. "What is she 
      saying?" Ulaf asked.
      "She has told the horses that the danger is gone and that it is safe to 
      return," Jessan replied. "Will it work?" Jessan pointed.
      The horses came trotting down the road, coming from opposite directions. 
      They went straight to Grandmother Pecwae, nuzzling her and nibbling 
      playfully at her hair.
      As soon as his horse was at hand, Ulaf mounted and turned to head back in 
      the direction of the crossroad.
      Jessan caught hold of the bridle. "You're in no condition to ride, my 
      friend. You're half-frozen, as it is."
      "I don't have much choice," Ulaf said. "I have to locate Klendist and see 
      where he enters that rogue Portal. It's the only way to reach Baron 
      Shadamehr in time to warn him that if he takes the Sovereign Stone to Old 
      Vinnengael, he could be walking into a trap."
      "Eh?" Wolfram looked up, startled. "What did you say about a trap?" "I 
      overheard one of the Vrykyl, the one known as Shakur, talking to a 
      mercenary in the pay of Dagnarus," Ulaf explained. "He said that the 
      Dominion Lords carrying the pieces of the Sovereign Stone were told to 
      take them to Old Vinnengael. According to Shakur, they're walking into a 
      trap set for them by Dagnarus." A thought came to Ulaf. He eyed the dwarf 
      with sudden, keen interest. "Why do you ask?"
      "No reason," said Wolfram. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turned 
      away.
      Ulaf looked at him in concern, but he was in a hurry. He couldn't stay to 
      discuss the matter further. The dwarf wasn't likely to tell him anything 
      anyway.
      "The gods go with you," Ulaf said.
      His blessing went to all of them, but his gaze lingered longest on 
      Wolfram, who met it stubbornly.
      Ulaf kicked his horse's flanks and galloped down the road.
      Wolfram watched him go, gnawed his lip.
      "We should be going," said Jessan. "I don't like the feel of this place."
      "The Void is very strong," Ranessa agreed. "Where are you going, Nephew?" 
      she asked diffidently.
      "Home," said Jessan shortly. He found he could not look at her. It seemed 
      very right, that she should be a dragon. They had always known something 
      was wrong with her as a human. But he still was having trouble 
      understanding.
      "The way back to Trevinici lands is long and dangerous," Ranessa said. "I 
      know. I rode it with the dwarf."
      She shook her hair out of her face, made her pronouncement. "I will take 
      you, Nephew, and the Grandmother and the body of Bashae back to the lands 
      of the Trevinici."
      Jessan looked startled, then dismayed. "No, Aunt"
      "We agree," stated the Grandmother. "The plan is a good one."
      "Grandmother," said Jessan. "You don't understand."
      "I do understand," said the Grandmother irritably. "I'm old. I'm not 
      stupid. She is a dragon, and she's going to fly us back to our home. A 
      home that may not be where we left it," she added, cocking a bright eye at 
      him. "Did you think of that? What if the tribe has picked up and moved? 
      How will we find them? It would be much easier if we had wings. She"the 
      Grandmother pointed at Ranessa"gives us wings.
      "I lost the stick, Jessan," the Grandmother said with a little tremor in 
      her voice. "I had to leave it behind. I don't have any way to see the evil 
      now. We should go with Ranessa. She wants to do this for you. She wants to 
      make things right."
      "Ranessa is a good soul, lad," Wolfram added. "You can trust her with your 
      life. I've done that, and I've had no reason to regret it."
      "You want to go home, don't you, Jessan?" the Grandmother urged softly.
      "Yes," said Jessan. "More than anything else, I want to go home."
      "Very well, then," said Ranessa. "No more discussion. Jessan, you and the 
      Grandmother"
      "And Fenella," the Grandmother chimed in. "She's coming with us."
      "Out of the question," said Wolfram firmly. "Fenella is a dwarf. She 
      belongs with her people."
      "How will she travel there? Will you take her?"
      Wolfram was caught. He scratched his chin in perplexity. He couldn't take 
      Fenella to Old Vinnengael. And he couldn't very well haul the child all 
      the way back to Saumel.
      "It's just . . . Well, I thought maybe I could . . ."
      "Were her people good to her?" the Grandmother asked.
      Fenella held fast to the Grandmother's hand, her dark eyes fixed on 
      Wolfram. He thought of the shrine, that was now empty. He thought of the 
      Children of Dunner and the child no one had missed. He thought back to two 
      other children, himself and Gilda, alone in the world, except for each 
      other.
      "It's up to you, Fenella," Wolfram said. "Where do you want to go, child? 
      Do you want go back to your homeland? Or would you like to live with the 
      Grandmother and her people?"
      "Will you be coming back to Saumel, Wolfram?" Fenella asked. "Will the 
      Sovereign Stone?"
      "I don't know, Fenella," Wolfram told her honestly. "I can't answer that."
      "I would like to be a Dominion Lord someday," Fenella said. "But, until 
      then, I think I would like to go with the Grandmother. I can always go 
      back home, can't I?"
      "Yes," Wolfram said. "You can always go back home."
      They picked up Bashae's body in its soft cocoon, removed it from the 
      litter. Jessan and the Grandmother and Fenella began to make the body 
      ready for the continuation of its journey.
      Wolfram watched for a while. It was time for him to leave, but he was 
      suddenly reluctant to do so. It had been a long time since he'd traveled 
      alone.
      He walked over to Ranessa, who stood staring up into the stars as though 
      she could not wait to be among them.
      "I'll miss you, girl," he said. "I wish you were coming with me."
      "I have an obligation." She glanced over at Jessan. "They were good to me. 
      I didn't do much to deserve it."
      "It wasn't your fault."
      Ranessa smiled the ghost of a smile. "Even as a dragon, I could have been 
      kinder, I think. Still"she shrugged"what's done is done. I will take 
      them to their land and help them find their people. It's the least I can 
      do."
      "Where will you go after that?" Wolfram asked, an aching in his heart.
      "I need to be on my own for a while," Ranessa answered. "Maybe a long 
      while. Dragons are solitary beings, Wolfram."
      "So are dwarves," he answered. "Some of them."
      "Then come and find me someday," Ranessa said with a sudden, dazzling 
      smile. "We will be solitary together."
      "I'll do that," he promised.
      Ranessa leaned down, gave Wolfram a swift, hard kiss on the cheek, a kiss 
      that burned like the touch of flame. She turned away from him, spread her 
      arms and flung back her head. An expression of joy suffused her face, and 
      the dragon's face, the dragon's wings, the dragon's body shone in the 
      moonlight.
      "Hurry up, Nephew!" she commanded. "We don't have much moonlight left."
      Jessan began to lash the pecwae's cocoon onto the dragon's spiky mane.
      "I'm sorry about Bashae," Wolfram said.
      "He died a hero," said Jessan. "Not many pecwae can say that."
      No, thought Wolfram. And I doubt many would want to. He remained politely 
      silent, however.
      "My people will take good care of the dwarven child," said Jessan, adding 
      in a low voice, "I will see to it that she is not raised by pecwae."
      "Thank you," said Wolfram, hiding his smile. "It was good seeing you 
      again, Jessan. Or maybe I shouldn't call you that now. Did you find your 
      adult name?"
      "That will be up to the elders to decide," said Jessan. "But, yes, I found 
      it." He paused a moment, then added somberly, "It wasn't -what I 
expected."
      "It never is," said Wolfram.
      Jessan nodded. He lifted the Grandmother to the dragon's back, hoisted up 
      Fenella to sit beside her. He climbed up onto the dragon, settled himself 
      between the wings.
      Putting one strong arm protectively around both the Grandmother and 
      Fenella, Jessan grasped the dragon's mane with the other. "We're ready__"
      He paused, looked back at the dwarf, and smiled ruefully. "We're ready, 
      Aunt Ranessa."
      Spreading her wings, the dragon dug in with her powerful hind legs, then 
      leapt into the air.
      "Good-bye, Wolfram!" Ranessa called out as she soared toward the stars.
      "Good-bye, girl," Wolfram said softly.
       



       

      III 
       



       1SHADAMEHR HAD THE SENSATION OF BEING A CHILD AGAIN, BEING rocked to 
      sleep in his cradle. He might have enjoyed it, except that for some 
      strange reason, his mother kept flinging cold water into the bottom of his 
      cradle, water that was continually sloshing back and forth. And as if that 
      wasn't bad enough, she covered him with a blanket made offish.
      He tried repeatedly to wake up to complain about this rude treatment, and 
      sometimes he managed to do so. He would wake up just enough to be able to 
      drink water that tasted of fish, eat fish that tasted of fish, and when he 
      was starting to think he was sufficiently awake to sort things out, he 
      would sink back to sleep in the waterlogged cradle.
      Shadamehr had no idea how long this lasted. Day blurred into night and 
      back to day again. His sleep was dreamless and peaceful, except for the 
      sloshing water and the smell of fish. No one hurt him. Indeed, they were 
      very protective of him. Just like his mother. Despite that, he felt 
      resentment start to grow inside him, and one day when he had been hoisted 
      out of the bottom of the cradle and carried onto dry land, Shadamehr 
      stared at a cup of water they shoved into his hand and tossed it away.
      "No," he said groggily. "I won't stand for this."
      His words came out sounding as if they'd been mixed with mush, but 
      apparently the orks understood, for one of them ran off to report. The 
      Captain appeared. She stood over him, glared down at him. Shadamehr roused 
      himself, looked up at her. She seemed to swell in his vision, then recede 
      and swell again, and he spent a few moments blinking until she settled 
      down.
      "Whash going on?" he demanded. His tongue felt as if it had got into the 
      wrong mouth.
      "You have been asleep for six days. How do you feel?" the Captain asked.
      He gave her question a moment's thought. "Well rested," he answered.
      The Captain laughed heartily.
      The boat had been beached on the bank of a wide, sluggishly flowing river, 
      where willow trees dropped dead yellow leaves into the water. One ork 
      stood guard over the boat. Other orks were fishing or cooking fish. The 
      air was chill. The winter sun shone overhead, danced off the water. Damra 
      lay beside him, slumbering soundly.
      "Is Damra all right?" Shadamehr asked.
      "She is well," said the Captain. "She sleeps, that is all. We have fed her 
      and given her water. Do not worry."
      Shadamehr cudgeled his weary brain, forced himself to try to think. Damra 
      was there, but others were missing. He started to remember.
      "Alise and Griffith," he said. "Are they safe?"
      "Your fire-haired woman and the elven omen-maker? I left them behind." The 
      Captain chuckled. "I have no need for bad omens on this trip."
      Shadamehr winced. "You knew the truth about that?"
      "Of course!" 'The Captain was disdainful. "A shaman who can't tell a 
      god-given omen from an omen made by an elf wouldn't be much of a shaman."
      "Why did you go along with it, then?" Shadamehr asked. "Why order the 
      ships to leave?"
      "It suited my plans," said the Captain.
      One of the orks shouted something. The Captain waved her hand.
      "We have to go." She pointed at the fish. "Eat your meal. You will grow 
      weak otherwise. Even in sleep, your body requires food."
      "Where are we going?" Shadamehr asked.
      He heard chanting and began to feel drowsy. They were casting a spell on 
      him. He fought against it, but it was no use.
      The Captain took the food from his limp hands. The last words he heard 
      were those of the Captain. "You know where," she said.
      Again the enforced slumber, the smell of fish, the water sloshing around 
      him in the boat, as he lay at the bottom, covered in an oil-slick tarp. 
      Again the passage of time, slipping past him like the river water, the 
      waking and wondering and eating, all ending with the sounds of chanting. 
      The Captain did not speak to him again, and the other orks stared at him 
      with blank expressions when he demanded answers.
      Then the motion of the boat ceased. Strong hands grabbed hold of him. A 
      muscular ork flung him over his shoulder. Once he got Shadamehr properly 
      settled, the ork wrapped an enormous arm around Shadamehr's legs and 
      carried him off as if he were an obstreperous child being hauled away to 
      bed.
      His head and arms hanging down behind the ork, Shadamehr could see nothing 
      except orken behind. His brain was still sleep-fogged, and he drifted in 
      and out of consciousness. But the next time he awoke, he awoke fully, 
      without the horrible sensation that someone had stuffed his head full of 
      goose feathers.
      He sat up. His hands and feet were securely bound, but, checking himself 
      over, he found that otherwise he appeared to be in good condition.
      "About time," came a deep voice from the darkness, speaking Elder-speak. 
      "I'm sick and tired of listening to you snore."
      "I don't snore," Shadamehr returned with dignity, then added, "I wonder 
      why it is we always deny that we snore. One would think it was some kind 
      of terrible malady, like the plague."
      "Who cares?" the voice said irritably. "Who are you, anyway?"
      Shadamehr didn't immediately answer, for a rock was jabbing him 
      uncomfortably in his posterior. He scooted his body into a more 
      comfortable position and looked about. As near as he could make out, he 
      was in a cave. Sunlight streamed in from a large opening about ten paces 
      distant. Outside, he could hear the crash of rushing watera far different 
      sound than the gentle rippling of the placidly flowing river.
      Hearing a groan and a sigh, he wriggled around and saw Damra lying next to 
      him. Her hands and feet were bound like his.
      "How very extraordinary," Shadamehr said. "Her magical armor should have 
      protected her. Strange. Very strange."
      He wiggled his hands experimentally. Finding that the knots were secure, 
      he gave a shrug. He wasn't going anywhere, not for a while at least.
      "I saidwho are you?" repeated the voice belligerently.
      "Are you a prisoner?" Shadamehr asked.
      "No, I'm here for my health!" the voice snapped.
      As Shadamehr's eyes adjusted, he could eventually make out a short, squat 
      figure, trussed up with ropes around his arms and legs, sitting with his 
      back against the rock wall. Shadamehr could see nothing of the face, 
      except a pair of eyes that gleamed with indignation.
      "You're a dwarf!" said Shadamehr.
      "What has that got to do with anything?" the dwarf demanded.
      "Look, I'll tell you my name. It's Shadamehr. I was formerly Baron 
      Shadamehr, but now I'm landless, pfenningless Shadamehr. I'd shake hands, 
      but I'm rather incapacitated at the moment."
      "I've heard of you," said the dwarf.
      "Good things, I hope?"
      "I'm trying to remember." A pause, then the dwarf said grudgingly, "The 
      name is Wolfram."
      "By the gods!" Shadamehr gasped in astonishment. "I've heard of you 
      myself!"
      Something clicked in Shadamehr's mind, like the inner workings of a water 
      clock. It was only a trickle of thought, but enough to start the mechanism 
      moving. He had the feeling that something had clicked for Wolfram, too, 
      for he grew a shade less distrustful.
      "Do you know a Vinnengaelean named Ulaf?"
      "Do you know a Trevinici named Jessan and a pecwae named Bashae?"
      Damra sat up, stared down at her bonds in perplexity. "What has been going 
      on?"
      "I was wondering that myself," said Shadamehr. "Your magical armor should 
      have acted to protect you."
      "What magical armor?" Wolfram asked suspiciously.
      "Who is that?" Damra asked, just as suspicious.
      "For that matter, who are you?"
      "Damra, this is Wolfram, who was with Lord Gustav when he died, according 
      to Bashae. Wolfram, this is Damra, the person Bashae gave the Stone to. It 
      seems we have come full circle," said Shadamehr. "I know how we got here, 
      Wolfram. The orks brought us. How did you come to be here? Did the orks 
      bring you?"
      Wolfram hemmed and hawed a great deal, but eventually his story came out.
      "So you ran into Shakur. You travel in exalted company, Wolfram," said 
      Shadamehr.
      "And you are lucky to be alive with your soul intact," said Damra.
      "Your friend, Ulaf, is looking for you, Baron. He had a message for you."
      "We'll get to that later. When did all this happen?" Shadamehr asked.
      "Not long ago," said the dwarf evasively.
      "If we are where I think we are," said Shadamehr, "Mardurar is a far piece 
      from here."
      "If you must know, there's a rogue Portal in the Meffeld Pass," said 
      Wolfram. "I took it. I'm in a hurry, you see. I inherited a manor house in 
      the north"
      "From Lord Gustav," said Damra.
      "Never mind Lord Gustav," Wolfram growled. "I was on my way to my manor 
      house. I walked out of the Portal and the next thing I know, a shadow 
      comes alive and looms up in front of me. Then the sun falls from the sky 
      and gives me a blip on the noggin that knocks me cold. And that shouldn't 
      have happened, because" He halted, clamped his mouth shut.
      "Because . . ." Shadamehr prompted.
      Wolfram remained silent.
      "Because your magical armor should have protected you," said Shadamehr. 
      "Just as Damra's should have protected her."
      "What magical armor?" Wolfram groused. "I don't know what you're talking 
      about."
      "I'm afraid I don't either," said Damra.
      "He is a Dominion Lord," said Shadamehr. "He carries the dwarven portion 
      of the Sovereign Stone. And he's not going to his manor house. He's going 
      to Old Vinnengael."
      Wolfram's jaw dropped so that they could practically hear it thunk on the 
      cavern floor.
      "Here, now," he said suspiciously. "How do you know all this?"
      "Because I carry the human portion of the Sovereign Stone," said 
      Shadamehr. "And Damra of Gwyenoc carries the elven portion. And, unless I 
      am much mistaken," he added, as the Captain of Captains entered the cave, 
      "the fourth part of the Stone is with us as well."
      Reaching beneath her shirt and the leather, fur-lined vest she wore over 
      it, the Captain of Captains drew out a silver chain from which hung 
      suspended a jewel, smooth-sided, triangular in shape.
      "You told us that the Sovereign Stone was inside Mount Sa 'Gra," said 
      Damra.
      "I lied." The Captain shrugged. "But there was a second full moon that 
      month when I said it."
      "A lie told under the second full moon in the same month doesn't count as 
      a lie," Shadamehr explained.
      "Besides," the Captain continued, her voice hardening, "there was a reason 
      for the falsehood. We discovered that an evil creature, one we call a 
      Soul-stealer, seeks our Sovereign Stone. He thinks it is in Mount Sa 'Gra. 
      He searches for it there. Not here." She thrust the stone back into her 
      breast.
      "What's a Soul-stealer?" Wolfram asked, puzzled.
      "A Vrykyl," said Shadamehr. The mental waterwheel was turning very fast 
      now. "Dagnarus sent one of his Vrykyl to take the form of an ork to try to 
      steal their Stone."
      "But why spellbind and tie us up and make us prisoners?" Damra demanded. 
      "Why bring us here to this cave?"
      "I know the answer!" Shadamehr cried, wriggling in excitement, as pleased 
      with himself as any brown-nosing schoolboy. "You had to drug us to 
      separate us from Alise and Griffith. A very wise idea. I had that part 
      figured out. The spellbinding took me a bit longer, but I've solved that, 
      too. You had to keep us spellbound because the person who is behind this 
      was afraid we would try to escape before he could meet us and explain it 
      to us. Right so far?"
      The Captain nodded. Summoning two orks, she told them to untie the 
      captive's bonds.
      "You had to keep us tied up in the cave," said Shadamehr, wincing and 
      flexing his fingers as the circulation started to return to his hands, 
      "because you were afraid that in our groggy condition, we would wander out 
      and tumble into the Orken Gorge which is where we are. Right?"
      "We had to secure the boat," said the Captain.
      "Of course you did!" said Shadamehr. "Which meant you had to leave us 
      alone. And you treated our friend Wolfram here in such a rude fashion 
      because the person behind this wants all four bearers of the Sovereign 
      Stone to make this journey together. Am I right again?"
      "But the dwarf said that he was stopped by a 'shadow come to life,' " 
      argued Damra, "and struck over the head 'by the sun falling from the sky.' 
      "
      "And so I was,"Wolfram stated, still wrathful.
      "I think I can answer that, too," said Shadamehr. "There is your sun."
      He pointed to the orken Captain.
      In response, she clasped hold of a medallion she wore on the same chain as 
      the Sovereign Stone. Silver armor flowed over her body. A silver helm, in 
      the form of a dolphin leaping from the waves, adorned her head. Standing 
      in the sunlight in the cavern opening, the orken Dominion Lord did look 
      very much like the sun come to Earth.
      "And here is your shadow," Shadamehr added.
      An elf, clad all in black, slipped silently into the cavern. Coming to 
      stand beside the ork, he bowed to the group.
      "Silwyth," said Damra, understanding at last.
      "One night," said the Captain, "as I was out for an afternoon's fishing in 
      my boat, a strange sleepiness overcame me. I dreamed that a human came to 
      me. He said his name was Gareth, and he told me that I must take the orken 
      portion of the Sovereign Stone to Old Vinnengael. The time had come for 
      the oath-breakers to make good the vow that they had taken long ago.
      "When I awoke, I went back to shore. I summoned the shamans and told them 
      of my dream. I asked them to perform the omens to see if I should obey 
      this human's command. A strange thing happened. None had seen the like 
      before. The omens were good and badboth at the same time.
      "What did it mean? What was I to do? Who could explain it? My shamans 
      tried." The Captain made a contemptuous gesture. "Those with the good omen 
      said I must go or all would be lost. Those with the bad omen said I must 
      not go, for if I did, all would be lost. The shamans actually came to 
      blows over the matter.
      "My great-grandfather was the Captain of Captains who received the 
      Sovereign Stone from King Tamaros. He was the oath-breaker. The orks fell 
      on hard times after that. My great-grandfather came to believe that he had 
      brought bad luck to us because he broke the oath. Our sacred mountain has 
      been taken from us. Many thousands of our people are enslaved. It is time 
      to fulfill the oath and return the Stone. That was what I thought. Yet, 
      what of the bad omens?
      "Perplexed over what to do, I went out again in my boat, hoping to find 
      the human in my dream. While I was waiting to fall asleep, I passed the 
      time fishing. I caught nothing. That was very strange, for I am always 
      lucky with my fishing. I began to fear that the gods had turned their 
      backs on me. I cast out my net one last time and that time I caught 
      something." The Captain pointed. She pointed at Silwyth. "I caught an 
      elf." "I don't believe it,"Damra muttered. "Not even of him." "But don't 
      you see how clever this is?" Shadamehr murmured. "Oh, he is very clever," 
      Damra returned.
      "The stories of Dunner tell about this one," said Wolfram, joining their 
      conversation. "Silwyth the Serpent, Dunner called him. He claimed it was 
      this Silwyth who lured the young prince to ruin."
      "He's watching us," Damra warned. "Look at his expression. Smug, knowing. 
      As if he could hear every word we were saying about him."
      It was hard to find any expression amidst the etchings of time that 
      crisscrossed the elf's leathery skin. His dark eyes were on them, and they 
      glittered with what might have been smugness or might have been amusement 
      or might have even been malice. It was hard to tell. "You still don't 
      trust him?" asked Shadamehr. "I don't know," Damra replied, troubled. "I 
      just don't know." The Captain halted her tale, eyed them grimly, waiting 
      for them to be silent.
      "Sorry," said Shadamehr in meek tones. "Didn't mean to interrupt. Please 
      go on."
      "The elf came up with my net, dripping water," the Captain continued. "He 
      said that the gods had sent him and that he came about the Sovereign 
      Stone. I told him about the two differing omens, and he was able to 
      explain them."
      "I'll bet he was," said Damra.
      Shadamehr nudged her to be silent.
      "The omens meant that taking the Sovereign Stone to Old Vinnen-gael would 
      be both good for the orks and bad. But that the good outweighed the bad. 
      Which was right," the Captain added. "The shaman with the good omen decked 
      the shaman with the bad one. I decided to take the Stone to Old Vinnengael 
      and fulfill my great-grandfather's oath.
      "The elf told me that I should travel up the Darkstream River. I planned 
      to do that, but the sons-of-hop-toads in Krammes refused to give my ship 
      passage"
      "And so you attacked them!" said Shadamehr.
      "I did, indeed," said the Captain, her face brightening as she remembered 
      the battle. "Then Kal-Gah came along and told me of his passengers and 
      that they were humans and elves fleeing this Lord Dagnarus in New 
      Vinnengael. The elf had told me that humans and elves and dwarves would 
      all be making the same journey and that it would be wise if we traveled 
      together. When I heard what Kal-Gah had to say, I consulted the omens, and 
      they were good. I found out that you were the bearers of the Sovereign 
      Stone, and I decided to bring you along with me.
      "I didn't know about the dwarf," the Captain added, with a nod for 
      Wolfram. "The elf came to me this morning and told me that he needed my 
      help in fetching the last part of the Sovereign Stone. He said that it was 
      being carried by a dwarven Dominion Lord and that only another Dominion 
      Lord could persuade him. That was how you came to be here, dwarf."
      Wolfram rubbed his bruised head. "You call that knock persuasion?"
      "I didn't have time for a discussion," said the Captain imperturbably. 
      "The river rage was coming."
      Wolfram grunted, rubbed his head, then his chin. His gaze, lowering and 
      speculative, went around the group. Outside the cavern came the sound of 
      what the orks called "the river rage" thundering through the gorge.
      "I saw the river rage once," said Shadamehr. "A magnificent sight. Unless 
      you're a boat that happens to be caught in it. The water boils and churns 
      as the river rushes headlong to the sea. Twice a day, though, the rage 
      calms, as the tidewaters neutralize the flow. At that time, the river is 
      navigable. Which means we are stuck here until the water settles down 
      again," said Shadamehr. "What is everyone thinking?"
      "That Griffith should be with me," stated Damra, accusingly.
      "He is not a Dominion Lord," said Silwyth calmly. "Old Vinnengael would 
      mean his death."
      Damra looked at him. Then she glanced at Shadamehr. Then looked away.
      Shadamehr, for once, had nothing to say.
      Uneasy silence fell, then Wolfram spoke, his voice so low that they could 
      barely hear him over the crashing water.
      "Your Vinnengalean friend said it was a trap."
      "What?" Shadamehr asked, his head jerking up. "My friend? Do you mean Ulaf 
      ?"
      "That's why he wanted to find you," said Wolfram. "He said that he 
      overheard the Vrykyl talking to a mercenary. The Vrykyl said that 
      Dag-narus is setting a trap for the bearers of the Sovereign Stone, a trap 
      in Old Vinnengael."
      "Yet you were headed there anyway," said Shadamehr.
      "The person who told me to take the Stone there would never lead me into a 
      trap," said Wolfram firmly.
      "But it is a trap," said Silwyth. "A trap within a trap within a trap. The 
      hunter tethers the goat to lure the lion. The lion stalks the hunter. The 
      hungry dragon watches them all."
      "Why do I get the feeling we're the goat?" Shadamehr said beneath his 
      breath.
      "Were you planning to tell us this?" Damra demanded.
      "You already knew, Damra of Gwyenoc," said Silwyth. "You didn't need me to 
      tell you."
      Outside, the sound of the churning water began to diminish.
      The Captain listened, then rose to her feet. "The river rage has nearly 
      run its course. We must be on our way before it starts again. Those who 
      are going to Old Vinnengael, meet me at the water's edge."
      Walking out of the cavern, she began bellowing orders to her crew.
      Wolfram rose, cast a defiant glance at the others.
      "I'm going. If I have to go alone, I'm going."
      He stalked out of the cavern.
      Damra stood up.
      "I will go," she said. "You are right, Silwyth. I have known all along it 
      was a trap. So sings the minstrel about the faithless lover, 'She has my 
      trust, whom I have never trusted.' "
      "May the Father and Mother walk with you, Damra of Gwyenoc," said Silwyth.
      "I would say the same prayer for you, Silwyth of House Kinnoth," said 
      Damra gravely, "but I do not know if that would be a blessing or a curse."
      She walked out of the cave.
      "I'll go," said Shadamehr, slapping his knees and standing up. "I've got 
      nothing better to do"
      He halted, staring. Only a moment before, Silwyth had been sitting calmly 
      on a boulder. Now he stood in front of the cavern's entrance, his staff 
      held before him horizontally, so that the way was barred.
      "Here, now. What's the meaning of this?" Shadamehr asked playfully.
      "You may not go, Baron Shadamehr," said Silwyth. "You are not a Dominion 
      Lord."
      "Oh, for the love of" Shadamehr bit off the words. He regarded the elfin 
      exasperation. "I have the human portion of the Sovereign Stone. If I don't 
      go, who will?"
      Silwyth shook his head. "You do not have the sanction of the gods. You do 
      not have the blessed armor. Without that, you will not withstand the 
      perils of Old Vinnengael. You will die, and the doom of the mission will 
      be assured."
      "So what am I supposed to do? Ride back to New Vinnengael and ask Dagnarus 
      to make me a Dominion Lord? Should I do that before or after he has me 
      assassinated? I've made it this far in my life without the benefit of the 
      gods' blessing," Shadamehr went on, his anger rising. "I've fought bahk 
      and dragons, trolls and giants, klobbers and blueroots and Void-spawn and 
      I have overcome them all"
      "All but one," said Silwyth.
      "And what is that one?" Shadamehr challenged.
      "You know your foe," said Silwyth. "You have met him in the lists many 
      times, and always he has defeated you."
      Shadamehr stood glowering, his jaunty mockery gone.
      "Think of your comrades," said Silwyth, glancing over his shoulder at the 
      other Dominion Lords. "They will do what they can to protect you, but at 
      great cost to themselves and to the mission."
      "I don't want their help," said Shadamehr shortly. "I don't need it."
      Silwyth smiled. "Your foe is here now, if you would care to do battle."
      "The Void take you!" said Shadamehr.
      Knocking aside the elf's staff, he stalked out of the cavern.
       2LEAVING THE CAVE, SHADAMEHR DID NOT LOOK AT THE DOMINION Lords. He 
      turned his back on them to climb up the rocks and boulders that lay at the 
      foot of the steep gorge through which ran the Darkstream River.
      "He is a good man with a good heart," said Damra to Silwyth, both watching 
      Shadamehr as he slipped and stumbled among the rocks. "Once I faulted him 
      for refusing to become a Dominion Lord. I thought him a coward or perhaps 
      one who wanted only to make a mockery of us. Now I have come to know him, 
      and I understand his reasons."
      "He does not even understand his reasons," countered Silwyth, his gaze 
      fixed on the solitary figure. "And there are not so many men of good heart 
      in this world that I would lose one for lack of trying."
      "You truly believe he would perish?" Damra asked.
      "I know he would perish, Damra of Gwyenoc," Silwyth replied.
      "I have heard many rumors of the perils to be found in Old Vinnen-gael. 
      But that is all they arerumors. Have you been there?"
      "I have," said Silwyth.
      "And you survived," she returned coolly. "Yet you are not a Dominion 
Lord."
      "I survived because I knew them," said Silwyth softly. "And they knew me."
      "Who knew you?" Damra wondered, puzzled. "The dead," Silwyth replied.
      Chilled, Damra stared at him. "Void magic?"
      "All manner of magicks swirl about the ruins of that once proud city," 
      Silwyth said. "You must be prepared for them, or they will drag you down 
      to death and worse. The gods' blessing is your lifeline; it will keep you 
      afloat."
      "Will you be coming with us?" she asked abruptly.
      "I will meet you there," Silwyth replied. "This news the dwarf brought 
      about a trap troubles me. I must see what Shakur is up to. And so, 
      farewell, Damra of Gwyenoc, until we meet again."
      "Tell me this, Silwyth," Damra said, halting him. "If we bring the four 
      parts of the Sovereign Stone into the Portal of the Gods, will all this 
      end? Will our homeland be safe?"
      "Ask the orks," said Silwyth with a sly smile. "They have seen the omens."
      Damra turned to look down at river's edge, where the orks had gathered 
      around the boat. They were in deep discussion, some gesturing up the 
      river, others shaking their heads and pointing back down.
      "Silwyth" Damra turned back, only to find that he had gone.
      She made a halfhearted search, not truly expecting to find him among the 
      jumble of boulders and the scrub trees that clung perilously to the sides 
      of the gorge. She thought of his dire warnings, of the peril of her 
      people. The gloom of her dark musings threatened to overwhelm her. From 
      below came the voices of the orks raised in argument. Above her, Shadamehr 
      sat alone on a large outcropping of rock, tossing pebbles down the side of 
      the cliff.
      Damra began to climb.



      "Would you like some company?" Damra asked.
      Shadamehr squinted up at her, shading his eyes from the westering sun. "If 
      by company, you mean yours, yes, I would be grateful." He tossed a handful 
      of pebbles down the cliffside, watched them go bounding and clattering 
      among the rocks. "The company I've been keeping is abysmal."
      "And what company would that be?" Damra asked, smiling.
      He slid to one side to make room for her. She sat down next to him, picked 
      up a handful of pebbles, and began to toss them one at a time down at the 
      water.
      "My foe," he said with a rueful smile. "The foe I cannot defeat."
      He flung the pebbles away from him with a curse and sat with his elbows on 
      his knees, his head bowed.
      "Alise nearly died trying to save my life when the Vrykyl stabbed me," he 
      said, his voice muffled. "Did you know that?" "No," said Damra. "Neither 
      of you ever spoke of it." "I wouldn't now," said Shadamehr, a shiver 
      raising the hair on his arms, "except that it has something to do with 
      what I've been thinking. When I regained consciousness, I saw her lying 
      half-dead next to me, her face and body a mass of oozing sores from the 
      Void. She had saved me unworthy beast that I amand I couldn't do 
      anything to save her. Just like I couldn't do anything to save Bashae. I 
      told myself then that if I'd been a Dominion Lord, both of them would be 
      alive and well. None of this would have happened."
      "It is folly to think like that," Damra said gravely. "If you had taken 
      the path of a Dominion Lord, who knows where it would have led you? 
      Perhaps far from where you were needed."
      "Perhaps," Shadamehr said, though he sounded dubious. "Anyway, that's what 
      I believedthat I should have been a Dominion Lord. I thought I had missed 
      the chance. I regretted it, certainly, but" "But . . ." Damra said, 
      gently prodding.
      "But apparently not enough." He didn't look at her. He stared, frowning, 
      down at his boots. "Why do you say that?" "Because I'm being given another 
      chance." "And . . ."
      "And I'm not taking it." Shadamehr sighed, grimaced. "I stink of fish."
      "We all do," said Damra.
      "I was thinking of taking a dip in the river. Want to join me?"
      "So why won't you become a Dominion Lord?" Damra asked. "You've given me 
      reasons before now, but those are reasons you've been making up to fool 
      yourself."
      "How very astute you are," said Shadamehr admiringly. "You and Sil-wyth. I 
      didn't know I was making up reasons. Not until just a few moments ago. And 
      here you knew all along."
      "What conclusion did you come to?"
      "It's not very pretty," he warned.
      "I think I can stand it," she said, smiling.
      He paused, then took a deep breath, as if he were about to leap into the 
      river below. He let his breath out slowly, then said, "I don't like having 
      to say 'thank you.'
      Damra stared at him.
      "It's very simple," he said with a shrug. "I'm supposed to say 'Thank you, 
      gods' whenever they step in to save my silly neck. Well, I won't do it. I 
      don't want them stepping into my life. I'm in control of my own destiny, 
      and, while I admit that I've pretty much made a hash of it, it's my hash. 
      I made it; I'm the one who has to choke it down. It's not someone else's 
      hash, if you take my meaning.
      "And there's another thing," he said, frowning, in deadly earnest. "If I'm 
      attacked by a thug in an alleyway, I don't want to find myself covered 
      head to toe in fancy armor, looking like the Lord of Silver-plated 
      Teapots. I want to be able to deal with the wretch myselfman to man, 
      human to human, human to ork or dwarf or elf. I don't want to lose control 
      of my life," he concluded with finality. "And I don't want to lose my 
      humanity."
      "I see," said Damra coolly.
      "Oh, blast!" He swore, suddenly stricken with guilt. "I didn't mean that 
      you had lost control of your life. You and your gods have an 
      understanding. Me and my godswe don't."
      He took hold of her hand and pressed it to his lips. Keeping fast hold of 
      her fingers, he looked at Damra intently.
      "I am the bearer of the Sovereign Stone. I may not have been the chosen 
      bearer, but I have accepted the burden, and I will carry it faithfully to 
      the end, as I promised Bashae. Whatever courage and brains and skill and 
      luck I've got, they're all at your disposal. I can be nothing more than I 
      am, but everything I ammy life and my honorI dedicate to you and to the 
      others and to the sacred cause that brings us together."
      He kissed her hand again, then stood up.
      "I think I will take that bath." He started picking his way among the 
      rocks.
      Something glittering caught Damra's eye. She reached down among the 
      pebbles he'd been tossing.
      "Shadamehr," she said. "You dropped this."
      He came back. "What is it?"
      And then he saw what it was. He froze, did not touch it.
      "I found this, as well," Damra said. "I think it goes with it." She held 
      up a strip of paper. "There's writing on it."
      She read the words, that were in Elderspeak.
      "Lord of Seeking."
      Shadamehr reached down, slowly, and took from her hand the holy medallion 
      of a Dominion Lord. "I don't understand. What about the 
      Transfigurationturning to stone, dying to be reborn ..."
      "You did die," Damra said mildly. "You just told me. Alise brought you 
      back."
      "Alise ... not the gods."
      "What are the gods, if not love?"
      Shadamehr stared at the medallion for a long time, undecided, then, with a 
      shrug and a sigh, he thrust the medallion into a pocket of his breeches.
      "Lord of Seeking," he said ruefully. "I guess it beats Lord of 
      Silver-plated Teapots. Thank you, Damra. Thank you very much."
      "There now," said Damra, "that wasn't so hard."
       3JOINING THE OTHERS AT THE WATER'S EDGE, SHADAMEHR SILENTLY and without 
      comment showed them the blessed medallion that marked him a Dominion Lord. 
      Wolfram scratched his chin, twitched an eyebrow. The Captain grunted, as 
      if this were something she'd expected all along, and went back to 
      haranguing her crew for some infraction regarding the boat.
      "Feel any different?" Damra asked.
      "No," he said bluntly. He tried to put the medallion around his neck. His 
      fingers fumbled at the clasp. "I can't latch this damn thing!"
      "Let me," said Damra. Her own medallion had no clasp. The gods themselves 
      had placed it around her neck.
      The Lord of Seeking. His way would never be smooth, but that was as he had 
      chosen.
      "There you are," she said, patting the chain.
      "It itches," he muttered.
      "You'll get used to it."
      He said nothing, but only rolled his eyes.
      "Hold this a moment."
      He handed her the knapsack, then leapt off the rocks into the river, 
      landing with a splash that soaked those standing on the bank. He bobbed 
      back the surface, puffing and blowing and treading water.
      The orks grinned. Wolfram snorted in disgust. He had little use for water, 
      either for bathing or drinking.
      "Is it cold?" Damra called.
      "Yes," said Shadamehr, his teeth chattering and his lips turning blue.
      He dived beneath the surface, came up snorting, then crawled out onto the 
      bank. He gave himself a luxurious shake, like a dog. Wolfram drew back, 
      scowling and wiping water off his shirt.
      "Humans," muttered the Captain of Captains. "They're all mad. No wonder 
      the omens were bad."
      She gestured at the boat. "Get in."
      One of the orks, still grinning, handed Shadamehr a blanket to use to 
      towel himself down. The others climbed into the boat. The orken rowers 
      took their places. The Captain entered last, manned the rudder.
      Damra handed Shadamehr the knapsack. He took it, slung his arm through the 
      straps. He noticed that it felt it different. Heavier than usual. 
      Suspecting Damra of playing a joke on him, Shadamehr opened the sack, 
      expecting to find a rock inside.
      The sunlight gleamed on the crystal-smooth sides of the Sovereign Stone.
      Shadamehr stared in wonder at the sparkling jewel.
      "Maybe I do feel a little different," he said softly. He took it out, held 
      it up to the light.
      The jewel was beautiful, remarkable. The stone was heavy in Shadamehr's 
      hands, far heavier than it should have been, to judge by its size. The 
      edges were sharp, so that he was wary of touching them, lest they cut him. 
      The sides were smooth, so that he delighted in running his fingers over 
      them. The stone was cold to the touch, yet warmed as he held it.
      He searched for his reflection in the crystalline surface, but could not 
      see himself. Yet, it seemed, he could see the eyes of millions. Turning 
      the stone one way, he could see through the clear crystal to the rocks and 
      water and clouds and the flickering flames of their fire and they were all 
      magnified in his sight, each one close to him. Turning the stone in 
      another direction, all was blurred together, a jumble of grays and greens, 
      blues and orange. He began to understand the mystery of the stone and the 
      wonder of it, and he felt awed and humbled to think that this precious 
      jewel should have come into his hands.
      It was as if he held a tiny sliver of the mind of the gods.
      "Are they all as beautiful as this?" he asked. "Could I see them?"
      One by one, each of the others drew forth the portions of the Sovereign 
      Stone, held them, gleaming, in the sunlight. He knew by their expressions 
      that they all felt his wonder and awe.
      "Here's an idea," said Shadamehr suddenly, thrilled and elated. "Let's try 
      putting all the four pieces together!"
      The expressions on the faces changed. They were suddenly dark and 
      shadowed, wary and suspicious.
      "And who would carry it?" Wolfram demanded. "You, I suppose."
      Shadamehr was taken aback. "Why, I don't know. I honestly didn't think of 
      that. I guess . . ."
      "No one's carrying my part of the Stone," said Wolfram, his brows 
lowering.
      "I ... I would not burden anyone with mine," said Damra, her cheeks 
      flushing.
      "I carry the ork's portion," said the Captain. "None other."
      "I see," Shadamehr said quietly. He dropped the Sovereign Stone into the 
      bottom of the magical knapsack. It vanished from his sight. He felt more 
      secure, now that it was hidden away, but the elation was gone. He was 
      suddenly tired and oppressed.
      He climbed into the boat. The others climbed in after, arranging 
      themselves so no one sat near another. They started the trip upriver to 
      Old Vinnengael.
      Shadamehr sat by himself, staring into the dark water. He wondered if King 
      Tamaros had also seen the emptiness that was the Stone's heart.
      And if so, why hadn't he smashed it into pieces?



      Silwyth thought about the Dominion Lords, as night fell. He wondered where 
      they were, wondered if Shadamehr had accepted the gods and vice versaif 
      the gods had accepted Shadamehr.
      Silwyth's thoughts turned from Shadamehr to Shakur and from there to 
      Dagnarus. He wondered what the Lord of the Void was plotting. The 
      mercenary band of which the dwarf had spoken was something new. Silwyth 
      had not figured them into his calculations. Would they disrupt his plans? 
      He needed to find out more about them.
      Silwyth made no sound as he walked. He went barefoot, the soles of his 
      feet hard and supple as the finest boot leather.
      He had lived so long in the wilderness, lived off it and amid it, that he 
      was part of it. The animals did not stir as he passed. The deer continued 
      to graze. The rabbit slept. The squirrels mistook him for a tree. The 
      snake slid over his foot. The fox hurried past on fox business with never 
      a glance.
      Silwyth had seen signs near the Portal that a large band of riders had 
      been in the vicinity. Busy with the Captain and Wolfram, he had lacked the 
      time to investigate. He planned to return to the Portal, pick up 
      Klendist's trail, and follow him. They were all bound for the same place 
      Old Vinnengael, where he would meet the Dominion Lords. They would need a 
      guide through the ruins, someone who knew the dangers. First, he would 
      deal with this Klendist.
      Silwyth came to a shallow stream that flowed among the trees. The stream 
      was lazy, took its time. The water murmured softly to itself as it tripped 
      over rocks and slid beneath willows, its ripples decorated with winter's 
      dead leaves. Silwyth was about to cross the lazy stream when he felt a 
      sudden, strange lethargy seize hold of him.
      He sat down on a moss-covered tree stump, suddenly and heavily. The 
      weakness had robbed him of the power to walk. He'd been subject to such 
      attacks before, but never this severe. He knew immediately what was 
      happening.
      He was dying.
      Silwyth thought of all he had left to do, all that remained undone, 
      unfinished.
      "Let me live," he prayed to the Father and Mother. "Just a little longer." 
      "Lay down your burden," was the answer. "Others will take it up. That is 
      the way of all things." With a sigh, he let it go.
      He sat on the rock and looked at the water, dappled with shadow and 
      sunlight. He saw himself as another of the brown, dried-up leaves, falling 
      onto that rippling surface, carried to the endless sea.
      Now that the burden was gone, lethargy brought peace. He was not afraid. 
      He waited for death patiently, as a lover waits for his beloved. The song 
      of the stream, the warmth of the sun made him drowsy. His head fell 
      forward on his breast. He was drifting into the sleep that is the final 
      gift of the Father and Mother, when a shadow fell over him, a shadow cold 
      and empty.
      The shadow, the danger, roused him and pulled him back. Silwyth opened his 
      eyes.
      "Lady Valura."
      She stood before him in her woman's form, beautiful, young, her skin white 
      and waxen as the petals of the gardenia, her mouth carnelian, her body 
      matchless in its form and grace. The eyes, the empty eyes, stared down at 
      him.
      "If you seek revenge, Lady," said Silwyth, "you come too late. I am 
dying."
      "Liar!" She spit the word. Her lips twisted in a sneer. "What have you 
      ever done but lie? You are not capable of speaking the truth!"
      "I have never lied to you, Lady Valura," said Silwyth.
      She moved closer, watching him warily. He had tricked her before, tricked 
      her and hurt her and humiliated her. She did not trust him, would never 
      trust him, not until she held his chilling body in her arms and sucked his 
      soul into the Void.
      Silwyth did not move. In his eyes she saw what she always saw: pity. When 
      he was dead, she would pluck out those eyes.
      Valura reached into her bosom and drew out the Blood-knife, the knife made 
      of her own bone.
      "You seek to thwart my lord," she said.
      "I have done my best," Silwyth replied.
      "Why?" she demanded.
      "You know why, Lady Valura." He looked up at her, into the empty eyes. 
      Once, long ago, he'd seen in those eyes a lovely garden.
      "Dagnarus loves me!" she cried.
      "He hates you. He loathes you. He cast you off. He sent you away. He does 
      not want you around him . . ."
      She clutched the bone knife, her fingers clenching and unclenching. "He 
      will. When I save him from his peril. When I give him what he has long 
      sought. He will love me. He will! And you will be witness to it. For I 
      will take your body and your soul!"
      She stabbed the knife into Silwyth's chest. In her fury, she struck wildly 
      and she missed her target. The knife did not pierce his heart.
      Enraged, she jerked it out, held it poised to strike again.
      Silwyth saw his own blood glisten on the knife. He saw his blood spattered 
      on the lady's white gown.
      "You may steal my body," he said. "But you will not claim my soul. That I 
      have given to the Father . . . and the Mother ..."
      Valuta struck again. Her aim was true. She stabbed to the heart.
      Her form altered, changed. Valura vanished. Silwyth stood in her place.
      His corpse remained seated on the stump, slumped over, blood oozing from 
      the two chest wounds. Valura kicked the corpse, knocked it sideways into 
      the stream. She kicked it again and again, viciously, until at last her 
      rage was spent.
      "Curse you!" she said with Silwyth's lips. "Curse you to the Void!"
      But that did not happen. He had escaped the fate he deserved. His corpse 
      lay in the stream. The water flowed red with his blood. His dead face 
      stared up at her. In his eyes, the pity.
      She had taken his face. His soul had escaped her.
      Valura had stabbed a dead man.
       4ACTING ON K'LET'S ORDERS, THE TAAN TRAVELED EAST. THEY moved rapidly, 
      their strong legs eating up the ground. Their destination was unknown to 
      them.
      That K'let had a purpose, none doubted. Taan did nothing without purpose. 
      No moment was ever wasted in frivolity. Even during those rare times when 
      the taan were permitted a day of recreation, their sport consisted of 
      honing the skills of their warriors, the skills that meant their very 
      survival.
      Raven continued to lead his tribe of half-taan, a task that was proving 
      extremely difficult. Although K'let had mandated that the taan accept the 
      half-taan as fellow tribesmen, not even the revered kyl-sarnz could force 
      the taan to treat the half-taan with respect. They were shunned and 
      tormented.
      K'let had ordered that the half-taan should march with the main body of 
      taan, so that they could be protected. This meant that the half-taan were 
      relegated to the rear of the column, forced to eat the dust of the 
      hundreds of taan ahead of them. The taan had the first pick of camping 
      ground. The half-taan were given the worst. Lately, the taan had taken to 
      raiding the half-taan camp at night, stealing their food, cutting slits in 
      their tents, destroying anything they found.
      Raven protested this treatment to Dag-ruk and the other nizam. They 
      laughed at him and jeered. What did he expect? These wretched half-taan 
      could not take care of themselves, could not think for themselves. Even 
      K'let knew that. It was why he had ordered that they march close to their 
      protectors. Half-taan were fit only to serve the wishes of their masters. 
      Raven soon realized that he would never change the mind of the taan. Only 
      the half-taan could do that.
      Raven worked with the half-taan, teaching them to use weapons, teaching 
      them fighting tactics, teaching them to think for themselves and respect 
      themselves. The last, the most important, proved the most difficult. Every 
      time a taan walked into their camp, the half-taan cringed and groveled. 
      When Raven berated them, they cringed and groveled before him.
      Raven was patient. He had worked with raw recruits during his days with 
      the Dunkargan, and he knew that teaching them self-respect would take 
      time. Fortunately, the taan blood in each of the half-taan ran hot. They 
      were natural-born warriors. And although their half-human bodies lacked 
      the physical power and stamina of the taan, they proved to be quicker and 
      more agile. Every day the half-taan improved with their weapons, and, as 
      they gained confidence in their skills, they began to gain confidence in 
      themselves. Raven only hoped that they managed this before some taan 
      killed them.
      Acting on K'let's orders, the taan continued their journey, turning 
      northward. Their destination now had a name, Krul-um-drelt, meaning "City 
      of Ghosts." One of the half-taan told Raven that the human name for the 
      city was Old Vinnengael.
      Raven opened his eyes wide on hearing that. The ruins of the city of Old 
      Vinnengael had an evil reputation, not only among his people, but among 
      all peoples he'd ever encountered.
      "City of Ghosts," Raven muttered to himself. "K'let will fit right in. I'm 
      not sure about the rest of us."
      He tried to find out more about why they were traveling to Old Vinnengael. 
      He spoke to Dag-ruk about it, but if she knew, she would not tell him. She 
      went about openly with the shaman, R'lt, and had proclaimed that she would 
      take him for her mate. Dag-ruk treated Raven only slightly better than a 
      half-taan himself and would deign to speak to him only if she felt like 
      it. Raven redoubled his efforts to train the half-taan in fighting.
      The taan were within a day's march of Old Vinnengael when they were 
      ordered to halt and set up camp. K'let had been away from camp for 
      sometime, gone on some mysterious mission. Orders came from Deri, who was 
      in command in K'let's absence. The taan would camp there to await K'let's 
      return.
      Raven took advantage of the respite in their constant marching to work 
      with his half-taan. He was pleased with their progress. They were starting 
      to hold their heads up, to look straight ahead instead of constantly 
      staring at the ground. He was so pleased with their advancement in their 
      fighting skills that this day, he sought out Dag-ruk.
      "Dur-zor," said Raven, "tell Dag-ruk that I propose a contest between our 
      two tribes."
      Dag-ruk burst into laughter. Turning to the taan warriors who had gathered 
      around her, she told them Raven's proposal. The taan hooted and grinned.
      "Does she refuse?" Raven asked.
      "Of course, Raven," said Dur-zor. "There is no honor for the taan to fight 
      a slave."
      "But the half-taan are not slaves," Raven argued. "Not now. K'let has set 
      them free."
      Dur-zor looked uneasy.
      "What is it?" Raven demanded.
      "The taan do not see it that way, Raven," said Dur-zor. She gave him a 
      pleading glance. "I did not want to tell you the truth. You were so 
      pleased with what you were doing."
      "Tell me," Raven said grimly.
      "The taan believe that K'let gave you all the half-taan as your own 
      slaves."
      Raven stared. "Of all the" He halted, baffled, then said, "Tell them the 
      truth, Dur-zor. Tell them that the half-taan are not my slaves, any more 
      than you are my slave. Tell them that the half-taan are . . . are"he 
      fumbled for a word"are my brothers."
      "Do you mean that, Raven?" Dur-zor's eyes shone with pleasure.
      "Of course I mean it. What do you think I've been doing all these weeks? 
      Training an army of slaves for my own personal protection?"
      "No, Raven, of course not," said Dur-zor hastily. "I will tell Dag-ruk."
      The nizam was not impressed, however. Her lips curled in a sneer, and she 
      said something that Raven could not understand, then walked off. When 
      Raven asked Dur-zor to translate, Dur-zor would say only that Dag-ruk 
      would not even consider a contest.
      As they trudged back to their tribe, Raven was silent and thoughtful. 
      Dur-zor had come to know that look on his face.
      "Raven, what are you plotting?" she asked with trepidation.
      He glanced at her and smiled. "Am I really so transparent?"
      "I do not understand that word, Raven."
      "Can you really see through me? Like seeing fish through clear stream 
      water?"
      "Oh, yes, Raven," said Dur-zor. Again, noting his look, she said, "Was 
      that the wrong answer?"
      He gave a rueful laugh. "We all like to be thought of as mysterious. I 
      guess I'm not. What am I plotting?" His tone grew grim. "We'll have our 
      contest, whether Dag-ruk wants it or not."
      Dur-zor sighed deeply, but she took care that Raven did not hear her.
      Back in camp, Raven summoned together his half-taan.
      "I have been to Dag-ruk, to ask if the taan warriors would compete in a 
      contest with us," Raven announced.
      Most of the half-taan looked eager. Some looked startled. Others just 
      looked sick.
      "The answer was no. Not only that, but their 'no' was an insult."
      He was pleased to see flashes of anger in the eyes of most of the 
      half-taan, and he heard several growl. A few were vastly relieved, but 
      that was only to be expected.
      "We're going to shove that 'no' down their throats!" Raven continued, and 
      several of the half-taan grinned and shook their spears. "Tugi, you and 
      Gar-dra and Mok will come hunting with me. We're going to bring down the 
      largest beast we can find and haul it back to camp. Once we've got it, 
      we'll make a fine show of it. We will spread the word among the taan camps 
      that we have strong food for tomorrow night's meal. They will come to our 
      camp to steal it. We will hide in our tents, and when they sneak into 
      camp, we will teach them a lesson."
      The half-taan began to grin. One gave a whooping cheer that was silenced 
      at Raven's frown. Only a few appeared fearful. Raven noted these. He'd 
      make sure they were assigned some task that would keep them out of the 
      way, keep them from being harmed. Overall, he was pleased with the 
      response. His half-taan were eager to prove themselves. Thoughts of 
      groveling and cringing were gone.
      Raven assembled his hunting party and went out in search of a wild boar 
      that had been sighted in the area. Dur-zor remained in camp, continuing 
      the weapons lessons for those who had yet to fully master the skill. The 
      lessons were accompanied by insults and laughter, as some of the taan 
      warriors came to watch. Taan children threw rocks at them. Dur-zor gritted 
      her teeth and continued on with grim perseverance.
      The half-taan killed their boar. Returning to camp, they gutted the animal 
      and hung the meat high in a tree to let the blood drain. They spread the 
      word among the taan that the half-taan would have a fine feast tomorrow. 
      Strong food.
      Back in their camp, the half-taan practiced with their weapons and waited 
      eagerly for sundown.



      Klendist and his force reached Old Vinnengael at about the same time as 
      the taan, although neither was, for the moment, aware of the other. 
      Klendist rode from the east and made camp south of the ruined city, that 
      was about ten miles distant. The taan were camped about twenty miles to 
      the west. On the morning that Raven asked Dag-ruk about the contest, 
      Klendist formed scouting parties, sending them out to observe the lay of 
      the land. He ordered his men to keep special watch for any small parties, 
      such as this group of Dominion Lords.
      The scouts departed. Klendist remained in camp, waiting for Shakur.
      The day passed with no sign of the Vrykyl.
      Klendist found the wait boring. He had no real idea when to expect Shakur, 
      and the thought came to him that he might be stuck there for days on end 
      without action unless, by some stroke of good fortune, they came across 
      these Dominion Lords.
      The scouts returned at sundown with their reports and, at about the same 
      time, Shakur rode into camp. He motioned peremptorily to Klendist to ride 
      with him.
      "I see your scouts have returned. What have they found?" Shakur demanded 
      when they were alone.
      "A group of bahk have taken up residence outside the ruins of Old 
      Vinnengael," Klendist reported. "My men counted about fifteen of the 
      monsters, but there may be more inside the city."
      Shakur eyed him. "That will make no difference to you, Klendist. You have 
      no need to enter the city. Not unless you fail in your assignment."
      "We're not going to fail."
      "Good. What else?"
      "No sign of those Dominion Lords" Klendist began.
      "No, it is early yet."
      "But this is a vast area. There are more ways into the ruins than there 
      are holes in a Dunkargan cheese," Klendist stated. "If I had five hundred 
      men, we couldn't begin to cover them all."
      "You will not need five hundred men. You probably won't even need five. 
      The Dominion Lords have a guide, who will lead them straight to you."
      "Ah, well, that's better," said Klendist. "Who is this guide? We don't 
      want to kill him by mistake."
      "Valura is in no danger from the likes of you," Shakur returned coolly. 
      "And you are not to kill anyone."
      "Sorry, my mistake. But these are Dominion Lords, Shakur. Powerful 
      warriors who fight with the blessing of the gods. We may not have any 
      choice"
      Shakurs helmed head leaned close.
      Klendist was a brute, with a brute's callous courage, but he could not 
      help feeling a clenching in his gut as he stared into those empty eyes and 
      caught a whiff of the rotted flesh beneath the black armor.
      "You have a choice, Klendist," Shakur hissed. Drawing out the Blood-knife, 
      he held it in his palm. "This is your choice."
      The knife was yellowed with age, stained russet brown with the blood of 
      those whose lives it had drained.
      "I understand you, Shakur," said Klendist harshly. "Put that damn thing 
      away."
      "See that you do understand me," said Shakur, thrusting the knife back 
      into its sheath. "The Dominion Lords are to be captured alive."
      Klendist growled in dissatisfaction. His horse shifted restlessly. "I've 
      been thinking about this. Taking them won't be easy."
      "You have war wizards who can deal with them, and Valura will be there to 
      help you." Shakur was fast losing patience. "By the Void, Klendist, there 
      are only four of them! You are two hundred. You can all pile on top of 
      them, if nothing else."
      "And what do we do once we have them?" Klendist retorted, undaunted. "They 
      will be difficult to guard. I don't want the responsibility for them."
      "You will not have it long, rest assured of that," said Shakur. "His 
      Lordship is eager to meet with them. Once you have captured them, His 
      Lordship will come retrieve them."
      "And he'll pay us?"
      "And pay you."
      "Very well," said Klendist. "We'll wait until we hear from you. Just out 
      of curiosity, Shakur. While we're dealing with the Dominion Lords, what 
      will you be doing?"
      "There is another Vrykyl out there, one who is far more dangerous to my 
      lord than any twelve Dominion Lords. My task is to deal with their rebel."
      Klendist gave a whistle. "That powerful, huh? Mind telling me who he is or 
      what he looks like? I wouldn't want to run across him."
      "If you did, it wouldn't matter," said Shakur. "Because by the time you 
      figured it out, you would already be dead."
      The Vrykyl turned his horse's head, galloped off.
      Klendist glowered after him. He remained watching until he was certain 
      that Shakur was gone. Klendist didn't believe this story of a rebel 
      Vrykyl. Shakur was up to something.
      "Something private on his own," Klendist muttered. "All that bullshit 
      about dealing with some deadly foe. As if there was any foe a Vrykyl 
      couldn't handle. Well, whoever the rebel is, I wish him luck. I wouldn't 
      mind seeing that Void-cursed monstrosity fall off his high horse."
      Returning to the campsite, Klendist found his men in a state of 
      excitement. The last patrol had ridden in, and they came with good news.
      "Did you find the Dominion Lords?" Klendist asked, swinging down out of 
      the saddle.
      "No, sir, not them," said the scout contemptuously. His face split in a 
      wide grin. "Something better, sir. We found gigs."
      "Taan?" Klendist said with interest. "Where? How many?"
      "Looks like several tribes of the fiends, sir. They're camped about twenty 
      miles from here, off over there."
      He pointed to the west, where the shapes of rolling hills were silhouetted 
      against the twilight.
      "How many, do you estimate?"
      "Not many, sir. We could take them."
      "We figure we could attack them at night, sir," said another. "Catch them 
      off guard."
      "Gigs don't like to fight at night, sir," one reminded him.
      "They may not like to, but they're still damn good at it," said Klendist. 
      "Did it look like they were expecting trouble?"
      "No, sir," said the scout. "They had posted their pickets, but just the 
      usual number. It will be easy enough to shut them up." He drew his finger 
      across his throat.
      "We lived with the gigs, Captain," one reminded him. "We endured their 
      stink and their filth for months. Now it's time to get some of our own 
      back. We know their ways. We know where to find their chief's tent, and we 
      know -where the big muckety-muck warriors sleep. We can sneak in, take 
      them, by surprise."
      "We can wipe 'em out, sir. See to it that their little gigs don't grow 
      into big ones."
      "By the time they wake up, they'll find our spears in their bellies. What 
      do you say, Captain?"
      Klendist was tempted. True, he was working for Shakur, but the Vrykyl 
      himself had said that their quarry was not due to arrive for days yet. 
      Having lived side by side with the taan for months on end, Klendist had 
      come to hate them every bit as much as his men did. He hated their stink, 
      hated their beady little eyes, hated their superior attitude. He thought 
      of what they did to the humans they took prisonerthe torture, the rape, 
      the butchering, and after that . . . Well, what the taan did after that 
      didn't bear thinking about.
      "Saddle your horses," Klendist ordered, adding in a shout, to be heard 
      above the cheers, "Try not to kill them all. Let's keep a few for sport. 
      We may be stuck Here a long time."
      Laughing, the mercenaries rode out into the night, taking along several 
      wineskins to lighten the tedium of the ride and fire their blood for the 
      coming slaughter.



      The night deepened. Raven crouched in his tent, his eye to the tent flap. 
      Dur-zor knelt behind him, her kep-ker in her hands. The other half-taan 
      were hiding in their tents, watching, waiting. Raven had taught them an 
      old Trevinici trick used when fighting at night. They had smeared their 
      faces and bodies with mud so that they blended into the darkness.
      A half-moon shone, low in the sky. The starlight was bright. Shortly after 
      midnight, Raven saw the hulking shapes of six taan warriors lope into 
      camp. They did not even bother to sneak in quietly, but came laughing and 
      chortling. Roaming carelessly through the half-taan encampment, the taan 
      kicked over drying racks and sent cooking pots rolling. One taan snagged a 
      tent post with his toe, bringing the tent sagging down. The taan chortled.
      Raven held his breath, hoping that the tent's occupantGar-dra, one of the 
      more militant half-taansdid not spring the trap prematurely. Raven heard 
      a grunt and a muttered curse coming from the tent, but Gar-dra remained 
      inside. The taan did not even hear that much. Their eyes were fixed on the 
      boar meat that hung from the branch of a nearby tree, to keep it from the 
      ravages of coyotes and wolves. The taan smacked their lips and talked of 
      how well they would dine that night.
      "Slaves do not deserve such strong food," one said loudly.
      "I am amazed the slaves managed to bring down such a fierce animal," said 
      another. "Probably the animal was old and weak, unfit for a warrior's 
      feasting."
      "Then we will give it to the children," said a third, and they all hooted 
      with laughter.
      The taan headed for the tree that stood some distance outside the camp. In 
      their arrogance, none bothered to look behind. Padding soft-footed, Raven 
      crept from his tent. A wave of his hand brought the half-taan slipping out 
      after him. Gar-dra emerged from his wrecked tent, his face twisted in a 
      scowl, his eyes glittering with anger. The half-taan had heard the 
      insults. Even the meekest were roused.
      They were so roused that Raven started to worry. All the half-taan carried 
      weapons. He wanted to show the taan that the half-taan could fight and 
      fight well, but he didn't want any taan killed, and he was concerned that, 
      in their current mood, the riled half-taan might cave in a skull or break 
      someone's neck.
      It was too late to halt them now. The half-taan had almost caught up with 
      their former masters, whose eyes were on the boar meat. Something, either 
      a rustle of the grass or a warrior's sense, alerted one of taan. He 
      glanced around. Before he could shout a warning, Raven leapt on him and 
      bore him to the ground.
      Dur-zor let out a war cry. The other half-taan joined in and fell upon the 
      taan in a rush. Fists swung, clubs thunked. The air was filled with the 
      sounds of grunts and snarls and gurgling laughter from the half-taan. The 
      occasional yelp came from the taan.
      Raven smashed his fist into his taan. The warrior lay on the ground, 
      stunned, but not unconscious. Before the taan could recover, Raven grabbed 
      hold of the taan's wrists, bound them securely with a length of sinew. He 
      did the same with the taan's ankles. By then, the taan had come to his 
      senses. Struggling futilely in his bonds, he glared at Raven with fury.
      Raven looked around the field of battle to find that the fight was over. 
      The half-taan had done well. All six taan lay tied up on the ground, 
      snarling and snapping and making impotent threats. The half-taan laughed 
      and poked at them with their clubs or sticks. The half-taan were pleased 
      with themselves, proud of their accomplishment. Raven was pleased with 
      himself. He'd given his people confidence, and he'd also given the taan 
      something to think about.
      "Don't worry, friends," Raven said to the angry taan, through Dur-zor, "we 
      won't let anything happen to you. We'll take you back to your camp."
      At that, the taan were so enraged that they began to foam and froth at the 
      mouth. Being hauled back to their camp in ignominy and shame, prisoners of 
      their former slaves, would make them objects of ridicule and shame. The 
      half-taan tied ropes around their chests, preparatory to hauling them 
      bodily over the ground. Remembering how he himself had been hauled in the 
      same way, when he was captured by the taan, Raven basked warmly in his 
      revenge.
      With their taan prisoners trussed up like pigs going to market, Raven and 
      his half-taan started their triumphal procession toward the taan camp.



      Topping one of the many rolling hills, Klendist could see the taan 
      campfires. His men were keyed up, excited. They'd gone a long time without 
      action and were spoiling for a fight. They laughed and made vows as to 
      what they would do to the "gigs" when they caught them.
      They were close enough to see the occasional figure moving about the camp. 
      Most of the taan were asleep in their tents, for the hour was late. The 
      scouts had reported that there were two main camps and one small camp, set 
      off by itself. Klendist figured they would hit the two main camps first, 
      destroy them, then ride down on the small camp.
      The sight of the taan whetted the appetites of the raiding party. The men 
      spurred their horses and rode wildly toward the camp, each man wanting to 
      get in the first kill. Klendist rode at their head.
      A taan rose up out of the long grass, practically underneath the nose of 
      Klendist's horse. The taan let out an eerie howl that split the night wide 
      open and caused the horse to rear in panic.
      All around Klendist, taan leapt up out of the grass, howling and moaning 
      like fiends of the Void in their final torments. Horses bucked and reared. 
      Several ran off with their riders, who fought desperately to bring them 
      under control. By the time Klendist drew his sword, the taan had dashed 
      off into the night, running to warn the camp.
      Klendist cursed roundly. They'd lost the chance for a sneak attack. Still, 
      he figured, he and his raiding party were mounted, while the taan were on 
      foot. They would be on the taan before they had time to form an organized 
      resistance.
      "Jonson!" he yelled, when all had recovered. "Take half the men, attack 
      that big camp over there. I'll deal with this one. We'll meet back here!"
      He galloped forward.
      "The taan will have to honor us now," Raven said in satisfaction as they 
      dragged their prisoners to Dag-ruk's camp.
      "Either that or they will kill us," said Dur-zor. "It will be worth it, 
      though."
      "They won't kill you," said Raven. "They can't. We bested them in a fair 
      fight. Well, an almost fair fight."
      "We are slaves, Raven," Dur-zor reminded him. "And to them we will always 
      be slavesslaves who dared raise their hands against their masters. For 
      that, we must die."
      "You're serious, aren't you," Raven said, coming to a stop. "Do they all 
      think this? Do all the half-taan believe the taan will kill them for 
this?"
      "Oh, yes, Raven," said Dur-zor complacently.
      He looked back at the half-taan, laughing and chattering happily over 
      their victory.
      "And they did this anyway?" he asked.
      "As I said, it will be worth it."
      "I won't let them" Raven began angrily.
      An unearthly sound split the air. The sound came from far away, echoing 
      among the hillshowls rising from many taan throats.
      The half-taan froze, listening. The taan prisoners ceased their cursing 
      and threats. They twisted in their bonds, trying desperately to see what 
      was happening.
      "What is it?" Raven demanded. He'd never heard anything like this terrible 
      sound.
      "An attack!" Dur-zor gasped.
      The ground shook beneath their feet. Raven had been in countless battles 
      against mounted troops, and he recognized the pounding made by horses' 
      hooves. A forcea large forceof mounted men was riding down on them.
      The taan do not ride horses. Taan have no use for horses. Taan warriors 
      fight best on the ground, even against a mounted foe.The hoofbeats came 
      closer. Shouts and cries carried on the still night air. Raven could hear 
      other shouts, as well, and recognized the voiceshumans.
      His heart lurched in his chest. His eyes stung with sudden tears. He could 
      not remember the last time he'd heard a human voice.
      This is salvation, he realized. This is rescue. This is a return to my 
      homeland, my people.
      "They are human, Raven," she said, her face pale. She knew him so well, 
      knew what he was thinking.
      The half-taan looked to him, wondering what to do. The taan prisoners 
      looked at him, crying for him to set them free. "Cut them loose," Raven 
      ordered, drawing his knife. The taan were up and running almost before the 
      half-taan had finished slicing through the tough sinews. As they ran off, 
      the taan stopped, looked back.
      "Bgrt, taan-helarrs," he said harshly, then he turned and dashed off 
      toward the sound of battle.
      Dur-zor's eyes glimmered with tears.
      "You will stay, Raven?" she asked.
      "I will stay. You are my people," said Raven. "What did the taan say?"
      "He said, 'Join us in glory, warriors,' " said Dur-zor proudly.



      Klendist galloped into the taan campDag-ruk's camp, though he couldn't 
      know that. Although he had lived in proximity to the taan, he knew nothing 
      about them. He expected to find in the taan what he would find in humans 
      caught in the same situationpanic, confusion, maybe some resistance, but 
      nothing that he and his men couldn't handle. They had the advantage. They 
      were mounted, they had superior weapons. They were humans, not beasts.
      Klendist rode his horse over taan tents, smashing them, trampling them. He 
      had hoped to catch taan slumbering in those tents, taan who would be 
      crushed beneath his horse's hooves. He was disappointed. The tents were 
      empty.
      He cheered up when he saw a taan with a young child in her arms go running 
      out of another tent. Klendist dug his heels into his horse's flanks and 
      caught up with her in a bound. He sliced off her head and the child's in a 
      single stroke. He laughed heartily. Waving his bloodied sword, he looked 
      back to see if his men had seen this neat trick.
      They cheered and laughed. Klendist galloped on toward the center of the 
      camp, where the taan warriors would gather to protect their chief.
      One of the men rode up beside him.
      "The boys want to know what we do if we find any human women?" the man 
      shouted.
      "Kill them!" Klendist shouted back. "They've got taan seed growing in 
      their bellies. We'll be doing them a favor."
      The man nodded and rode back to spread the word.
      The half-moon had set by then, but they had full advantage of the lambent 
      light of the stars. The taan stood together in a single mass. The light 
      gleamed here and there on a weapon. There were children among them.
      Klendist felt the first twinge of unease.
      These taan were not warriors. Warriors would not be saddled with the care 
      of children. Much as Klendist despised the taan, he knew that the warriors 
      would not have run off to leave their children to die. Where, then, were 
      they?
      A shriek was the answer to his question. The warriors were behind him, all 
      around him. They came running through the darkness, running in for the 
      kill. He'd led his men straight into an ambush.
      Taan warriors came out of nowhere, their mouths wide-open in slavering 
      grins, screaming and howling like accursed souls being dragged into the 
      Void.
      Klendist turned his horse's head, yanking the beast about so fast that it 
      nearly foundered. He turned just in time to see a taan catch one of his 
      men. Reaching up, the taan caught hold of the mounted man from behind, 
      dragged him off his horse. The taan drove his spear through the writhing 
      body, then set off on foot in pursuit of another rider.
      Klendist was not one to fight against overwhelming odds for the sake of 
      honor or heroics. He knew when he was whipped. Wielding his sword with 
      savage efficiency, he fought back the taan who had him surrounded.
      "Retreat!" he shouted, striking savagely to the right and left. "Retreat!"
      He bent over his horse's neck and dug his heels into the brute's flanks. 
      The horse, already maddened by the shrieks and the smell of blood, charged 
      into the midst of the taan, bowling them over and trampling them beneath 
      its hooves.
      Klendist's only thought was to escape the carnage. He was surrounded by 
      tents, surrounded by taan. One of his men cried out to him for orders, but 
      he ignored him. It was every man for himself now.
      A few of his comrades caught up with him, and they banded together, trying 
      to fight their way out of the ring of death, slashing at taan faces that 
      loomed, shrieking, out of the darkness.
      Klendist saw a way out. He headed for it and at last he was free of the 
      camp, out on open ground. He had maybe ten men with him, and most of them 
      were wounded. He alone was unscathed.
      He glanced back toward the taan camp and was relieved to see that the taan 
      were not coming after them. They too busy with their killing. He could 
      hear screams, moans, and the pleas of his men not to be left behind.
      He knew very well what would happen to those who remained in taan hands. 
      He'd seen for himself how the taan treated their prisoners. He'd seen 
      living men disemboweled, seen their arms and legs hacked off.
      Klendist grunted and rode on. He wasn't about to go back into that fiends' 
      nest. Not with ten men, some of whom were riding dead men, by the looks of 
      them. He galloped on, heading for the meeting place. Perhaps the other 
      half of his force had experienced better luck. He'd join up with them, 
      regroup, come back, and finish off these slimy gigs.
      "Captain! Look!" one of his men called.
      Klendist turned in the saddle, looked to the north. An orange glow lit the 
      grasslands, coming from the direction of the other taan camp. Klendist 
      smiled grimly and urged his horse toward the fire, hoping to at least 
      arrive in time to slit a few taan bellies before they were all killed. One 
      man, riding beside him, slid off his horse, fell to the ground, too weak 
      to remain in the saddle. Klendist ignored him, rode on.
      He was close enough to see black shapes milling about the dancing flames 
      when a figure loomed at him of the darkness. Klendist raised his sword and 
      bore down on the foe.
      "Captain! Hold! It's Jonson!"
      Klendist arrested his killing stroke, yanked hard on the horse's reins to 
      pull it up.
      "Looks like you've had some fun!" he shouted. Then he was close enough to 
      see Jonson's face.
      "Fun, sir!" Jonson echoed in a hollow voice. He was deathly pale, his eyes 
      wide and starting out of their sockets. He was covered in blood, and half 
      the hair had been singed off his head.
      "We rode into a hornets' nest! Or worsea nest of Void sorcerers! I've 
      never seen the like, Captain, and I hope to the gods I never see anything 
      like it again. Dick Mar tie was riding next to me and one of those 
      black-robed fiends came out and pointed at him and he ... he ..."
      The man choked, leaned over his horse to vomit.
      "Well?" said Klendist grimly.
      "He turned into a living corpse. Right there in the saddle. They sucked 
      the life out of him, all the juice, the flesh. I saw his skull grinning at 
      me, and then he was nothing but a pile of ashes . . . Gods, sir! It was 
      horrible!" Jonson retched again.
      "But who set the fires? Didn't you?"
      "They set them," said Jonson with a shudder. "Who would have thought the 
      gigs'd set fire to their own camp? Gives 'em light to kill by, I guess. 
      You hear those screams, sir?"
      Klendist was trying hard not to. "I hear them."
      "They're tossing our men into the blaze. Alive. Roasting 'em like pigs."
      "How many came out with you?"
      "I don't know, sir," said Jonson. "I wanted only one thing and that was to 
      get out of that Void pit! I didn't wait around to see what anyone else 
      was going to do."
      More of his men were arriving, riding up singly or in groups of twos or 
      threes. Some who'd lost their horses rode double with their comrades.
      Klendist made a swift count of about thirty. Thirty out of two hundred. He 
      pondered "what to do.
      He did not like to be beaten. He was tempted to ride back into the taan 
      camp with his troop and gain his revenge. Some of the men had their blood 
      up, were urging him to do just that. Others sat trembling in the saddle, 
      shaken and stunned, their faces blanched from the horrors they'd 
witnessed.
      Better to cut my losses, he decided. Shakur will be angry enough at it is. 
      At least, I still have men enough left to deal with the Dominion Lords
      A horse whinnied, someone shouted, but it was too late. Klendist thought 
      for a wild moment that the night itself had taken on form and shape, for 
      the darkness came alive. Strong hands grabbed hold of him and yanked him 
      from his saddle.
      Klendist landed heavily on his rump. He'd dropped his sword, but he had 
      his fists and his wits. He knew that to lie for long on the ground was to 
      lie forever in his grave, and he scrambled to his feet. He lashed out with 
      his fist at the first face that came near, felt the satisfying crunch of 
      bone.
      Death was all around him. He saw Jonson fall, his skull crushed. Something 
      struck him on the head. The blow dazed him, and he reeled backward, 
      stumbled into strong arms.
      "I can save you," said a voice in his ear, a human voice, speaking 
      El-derspeak. "But you'll have to keep your mouth shut and do as I say."
      Klendist gave a groggy nod.
      An arm strong as a steel band wrapped around his chest. He felt the prick 
      of a knife at his throat and any thought of struggling against his captor 
      vanished.
      "This one is mine!" said the human in harsh tones. "He is my prize."
      Klendist saw that his attackers were half-taan, the accursed offspring of 
      human and taan. He was surrounded by these monstrosities, with their 
      half-human, half-beast faces and their half-human voices. They regarded 
      him with wide grins of glee. Their hands were dark with blood.
      "I killed one, Raven!" said a half-taan in excitement. She wore hardly any 
      clothes. Her breasts were bare and smeared over with mud. "I killed him as 
      you taught me."
      "All are dead, Raven," said another. "As you ordered."
      "You did well," said the human, who had hold of Klendist. "Drag their 
      bodies back to our camp. We showed the taan we could outwit them. We will 
      now show the taan we are warriors!"
      The half-taan gave a cheer and shook their weapons in the air. "Still, it 
      would have been better if we had taken slaves," said one of the half-taan. 
      "The taan would have even more respect for us."
      "No!" said the human sharply, his voice rasping in Klendist's ear. "There 
      will be no slaves in our camp. Your own mothers were slaves. You were 
      slaves. You were tortured, tormented. Would you do that to another person? 
      If so, you can leave my tribe. Clear out. I don't want you." The half-taan 
      hung their heads.
      "We are sorry, Raven," said a female, chastened. "We did not think. Of 
      course, you are right."
      "We make clean kills," Raven said sternly. "These men were armed, they 
      came to fight and to die. We came to fight and to die. That is war. Death 
      and glory are the fate of the warrior, not slavery. And it is not a 
      warrior's fate for his flesh to fill our bellies. Once we have shown the 
      bodies to the taan, I will teach you how to build a burial mound for these 
      men and how to honor the dead."
      The half-taan were bewildered by this concept. Several scratched their 
      heads, but no one protested.
      "What about the one you have, Raven?" asked the female. "What will you do 
      with him?"
      "He is their leader, their nizam, Dur-zor. I will question him." The 
      half-taan chuckled. They thought they knew what was coming for the human.
      "Could we watch?" asked one eagerly. "No. He will talk more freely if it 
      is just the two of us." The half-taan were disappointed, but the human 
      added, by way of distraction, "You can keep the armor and the weapons you 
      captured. Those are the honorable prizes of a warrior. And we will keep 
      the horses. I'll teach you how to ride. No more walking. Walking," he 
      added with a grin, "is for taan. Now they will eat our dust!"
      The half-taan cheered again, but the cheering was subdued. They were happy 
      about the armor, but they glanced askance at the horses, clearly not 
      enthusiastic about learning to ride the tall, formidable beasts.
      The human gave Klendist into the keeping of the half-taan he had called 
      Dur-zor, a female. Klendist had the disgusting impression, from the way 
      she looked at him and talked to him that this half-taan was the human's 
      mate. He wasn't surprised. This Raven was a Trevinici, humans who were 
      little better than savages themselves.
      The half-taan bound Klendist expertly, hand and foot, then left him lying 
      on his belly on the ground. From that vantage point, Klendist watched the 
      half-taan fling the bodies of his men over the saddles of the horses and 
      lash them securely in place. This done, Raven showed the half-taan how to 
      lead the horses by their reins, showed them how to calm a spooked horse by 
      rubbing its nose and speaking gently to it. The half-taan had a way with 
      horses, seemingly, for the animals responded well to them. The half-taan 
      began to grow more at ease.
      "Will I stay with you, Raven?" Dur-zor asked.
      "No, go back to camp. See that my orders are carried out," said Raven. 
      "You are nizam in my absence."
      A shadow of fear fell across her face. She looked from him to Klendist, 
      lying on the ground.
      "Leave me that horse," said Raven, pointing. "That's your horse, isn't 
      it?" he said to Klendist, who gave a nod.
      "Raven . . ." said Dur-zor uneasily. She touched him gently on the arm. 
      "Raven, will you . . ." She couldn't go on. Her courage failed her.
      He put his hand on her ugly face, leaned down, and kissed her on the 
      mouth. Klendist thought he was going to be sick to his stomach. "Go back, 
      Dur-zor," Raven said. "Watch over our people." "Yes, Raven," she replied 
      quietly.
      Rounding up the others, she led them away. She looked back once, as she 
      did so. Raven smiled at her, and she smiled tentatively back. Then she 
      faced forward, continued walking. Her people came behind her, leading the 
      horses loaded with their gruesome cargo.
      Raven watched them until they were out of sight, never spared a glance for 
      his prisoner. Klendist had lots of time to think, and he finally had it 
      all figured out.
      "You're a free man now, Trevinici," said Klendist. "Cut these ropes, and 
      we'll get out of here before the gigs ever miss you. My horse can carry us 
      both, at least back to my camp."
      The sky to the east was gray with the first faint light of the coming 
      dawn. Raven squatted down beside Klendist, looked him in the face. "That 
      wasn't a ruse," Raven said. "I belong with them. I don't expect you to 
      understand." He shrugged. "I'm not sure I understand myself. But that is 
      the way it is."
      Klendist scowled, struggled in his bonds. "I might have known.You're a 
      damn savage. No better than these gigs."
      "And you, by your stink, are a Vinnengaelean mercenary," said Raven. "Who 
      hired you to come attack us? Who knows we're here? The Vin-nengaelean 
      army? Some local lord? Who?"
      "The gigs are damned Void-spawn!" Klendist growled. "No one paid me to 
      attack them. I had to live among them myself for months. I never turned 
      into one of them, though. I never turned traitor to my race! It's a 
      human's duty to rid Loerem of the monsters. It's the duty of every human." 
      He glared at Raven.
      "I'd say you failed in your duty," said Raven, grinning. "So you claim you 
      thought up this raid yourself? You are either a great fool or a cunning 
      liar."
      Raven gazed intently at Klendist.
      "I believe you," Raven said at last. "Which means you are a great fool."
      "Cut me loose!" Klendist swore. "I'll fight you with my bare hands."
      "I'll cut you loose," said Raven coolly. "But I won't fight. I could never 
      wash away the yellow of your coward's blood."
      He sliced through Klendist's bonds. Klendist rubbed his wrists and looked 
      about for his sword. He saw it lying nearby.
      "I will take your horse," Raven was saying. "A noble animal, far too noble 
      to bear the likes of you"
      Klendist made a leap for his weapon. His hand closed over the hilt. He 
      swung himself around, swinging the sword at the same time.
      Raven ducked the wild, slashing blow. His foot slammed into Klendist's 
      groin, doubled him over. Klendist fell into the dirt, lay there clutching 
      himself, rolling about in agony.
      "I would not stay here long," Raven advised. "Taan scouts will be out on 
      patrol. You won't want them to find you."
      "You'll be sorry for this," Klendist gasped. "I'll remember you, don't 
      think I won't. There'll be rewards out for your head, Trevinici. Every 
      bounty hunter from here to Dunkarga and back will be on the lookout for 
      you, you damn gig-humper."
      "You've already wasted a lot of valuable time," said Raven.
      Picking up Klendist's sword, Raven swung himself up onto Klendist's horse. 
      With a smile and a mocking salute, the Trevinici rode off and was soon 
      lost to sight among the hills.
      Left alone, lying on the blood-soaked ground, Klendist took stock of his 
      situation. He thought about Shakur. He thought about the taan scouts. 
      Klendist decided that the Trevinici's advice was sound. Gritting his 
      teeth, he pulled himself to his feet. Massaging his burning member, he 
      staggered off, heading northward.
      Klendist had a lot of ground to cover this day. Not only did he have to 
      escape the taan.
      He had to escape Shakur.
       5TOWARD MIDDAY, RAVEN, MOUNTED ON HORSEBACK, RODE INTO Dag-ruk's camp. 
      His half-taan tribe followed him on foot, leading horses behind them. All 
      was silent in the taan camp, except for the moans of the dying prisoners, 
      staked out in the tall grass. The taan warriors gathered around Raven, but 
      said nothing, made no move. The warriors eyed the bodies that the 
      half-taan brought with them, eyed the horses that the half-taan led, the 
      bloodstained weapons they carried. They noted that the half-taan walked 
      with heads held high, walked proudly, as would a taan.
      Raven did not deign to look at any of the warriors. He kept his gaze fixed 
      on Dag-ruk's tent.
      She emerged, as Raven rode up to the front of her tent. He dismounted, 
      stood facing her. Dur-zor came hurrying up to translate. She did not kneel 
      to Dag-ruk, as she would have once done. She stood proudly at Raven's 
side.
      Dag-ruk looked at the bodies of the humans. She looked at the half-taan. 
      She looked, last, at Raven.
      "These humans escaped your warriors," Raven told her. "They were going to 
      regroup, attack your camp again. We stopped them."
      Dag-ruk's eyes flickered. She seemed uncertain how to respond. She could 
      not deny that some of the humans had managed to escape, nor could she deny 
      that the half-taan had brought them down.
      Raven waited for her to say something and, when it became clear she had 
      nothing to say, he remounted his horse. Reaching down his hand, he caught 
      hold of Dur-zor and pulled her up behind him.
      "We are returning to our camp now," he said, "to celebrate our victory and 
      to put the dead to rest."
      Dag-ruk found her voice. "They are strong food. Your warriors will dine 
      well this night."
      Raven understood the compliment, and he was immensely pleased by it. He 
      was careful not to show his pleasure, however.
      "We will dine on the wild boar we killed yesterday," he said. His gaze 
      went to the six taan who had tried to steal it. "The dead we will bury."
      "That is not the way of the taan," Dag-ruk said coldly.
      "No," said Raven, "but it is the way of the half-taan."



      K'let returned to the taan camps the morning after the raid. He cast a 
      curious gaze at the human prisoners as he walked through the camp. K'let 
      said nothing, asked no questions until he reached his tent. Immediately on 
      arrival, he sent for Deri.
      The aged, wizened shaman had been on the lookout for K'let, and he 
      responded to the summons with eager alacrity. K'let took his preferred 
      form, that of the albino taan he had been in life. He met Deri with a 
      frown, for the shaman had to be assisted into the tent, leaning on the 
      strong shoulder of one of his assistants.
      "What have you done to yourself?" K'let demanded.
      "I was injured in the battle last night," Deri replied, with a proud glint 
      in his eye. "A twisted ankle, nothing more."
      "He was leading the attack, Kyl-sarnz," said the assistant. "He killed 
      many before he slipped in some blood and went sprawling. Fortunately, the 
      warriors found him and carried him to safety."
      "That the day should come when I have to be carried to safety," Deri 
      muttered, irate.
      "Still, they did well," said K'let. "I cannot afford to lose you, my 
      friend. Now of all times. Leave us, Shaman. I will take care of him."
      The shaman deposited Deri gently upon the floor. The elderly taan appeared 
      so frail and fragile that it seemed his bones might snap at a touch. K'let 
      did not make a fuss over him, for that would have disgraced both of them. 
      He ordered that strong food be brought to Deri and encouraged him to eat 
      in order to regain his strength.
      Deri had long ago lost any appetite for food of any kind, but he ate a 
      little to do honor to his host.
      "What happened here?" K'let asked, when Deri had shoved away his bowl.
      "A human raiding party," said Deri, and that was all that needed to be 
      said on the subject. "But what of your mission, K'let? Do you have the 
      Sovereign Stone?"
      "No," K'let replied.
      "No?" Deri was disappointed. "Did Tash-ket fail in his mission?"
      "He did not fail," K'let said. "He obtained the Stone from the gdsk. I 
      could have taken it. I chose not to."
      "But, K'let, your plan . . ." Deri was bewildered.
      "My plan." K'let chuckled. "Why settle for one Stone when I can have all 
      four and Dagnarus into the bargain?"
      Deri stared, amazed.
      K'let was pleased with himself. He started to slap Deri on the knee, 
      thought better of it. He might break something. He contented himself with 
      tapping Deri on the chest.
      "You have always said that the gods of the taan are with us, even in this 
      strange land. You are right. I was on my way to meet with Tash-ket to 
      obtain the Stone, when I came across Shakur. It seems that Dagnarus 
      discovered that Tash-ket had stolen the Stone in my name. Dagnarus was 
      furious, and he sent Shakur after me."
      "Shakur!" Deri spit on the ground. "Did you dispatch him to the Void where 
      he belongs?"
      "Shakur is a slave," said K'let with contempt. "What honor is there in 
      fighting a slave? It is his master I seek."
      "And you have found a way?"
      "I have. The gods brought me in time to overhear Shakur tell one of his 
      human toads that Dagnarus has set a trap for the four Sovereign Stones. 
      Even now, chosen warriors of each race bring the stones to Old Vinnengael. 
      And there, too, comes Dagnarus. The gods are with us, Deri," said K'let, 
      nodding. "The gods are with us."
      "We will give thanks this night to L'K'kald and Lokmirr for it is their 
      hands I see in this," Deri said, nodding wisely. "Are you certain that 
      this Stone means so much to Dagnarus that he will come for it?"
      "All that he has done in this land, all the blood of our people that he 
      has spent has gone to gain him this one object, this Stone. He will come 
      for it."
      "This Stone must have very powerful magicks," said Deri, his watery eyes 
      shining with greed. "Perhaps you do wrong to give it up."
      "Bah!" K'let gave a snort. "Xkes magic. Worthless. The Dagger of the 
      Vrykyl, now. That is Void magic. With it, I will create an army of 
      kyl-sarnz. When we go back to our own land, we will be invincible. None 
      can stand against us."
      "What do we do now? What are your orders?"
      "You and the tribes will remain here and wait for Nb'arsk and L'n-skt and 
      their tribes to meet up with us. I will go on to Old Vinnengael. When I 
      come back with the Dagger and my slave, we will travel to the 
      hole-in-the-air and return through it to our land."
      "Your slave!" Deri rubbed his withered hands. "I know who one will be . . 
      ."
      K'let gave a hooting laugh. "Dagnarus will serve me for a change. Eternity 
      will not be long enough for my pleasure at the sight of him kneeling 
      before me."
      "But who will be your other Vrykyl?" Deri asked. He bowed his head. "I 
      hope that one day you will so honor me, yet, I feel that I still may be of 
      some use to you alive"
      "Not you, my friend," said K'let, resting his hand on Deri's shoulder. 
      "Someday, as you say, but not now. You must take us back to the gods, back 
      to the old ways."
      "Then who?"
      K'let rose to his feet. Going to the tent's entrance, he parted the flap. 
      "Send for the human, R'vn. Tell him to bring food and water and his 
      weapon. I have a journey to make, and he will accompany me. We are going 
      to the City of Ghosts."



      Dur-zor and the other half-taan were elated when the messenger arrived 
      with word that K'let had chosen Raven to accompany him on his mysterious 
      mission to the City of Ghosts. Dur-zor could barely contain her glee as 
      she translated the taan's message, and the other half-taan whooped and 
      shouted and chanted Raven's name. The commotion grew so loud that some of 
      the young taan warriors of Dag-ruk's tribe came running over to find out 
      what was going on.
      Proudly, Dur-zor told them. The young warriors gazed at Raven with 
      admiration and envy. Some touched him in hopes that his good fortune would 
      rub off on them.
      Raven said what he knew that his people wanted to hear. He spoke of the 
      great honor done to him, then he went into his tent to pack what he would 
      need for the trip.
      Dur-zor entered the tent. "Raven, the messenger grows impatient What is 
      the matter?" Alarmed, she caught hold of his arm. She stared at him, her 
      face contorted in horror. "Raven! I forgot! The claim he made on your life 
      . . . you can't go!"
      "I have to. This is a great honor. Dag-ruk would give every magic stone in 
      her hide to have this honor."
      He smiled at her, shrugged. "I am a nizam, Dur-zor, and one of the 
      responsibilities of the nizam is to look after the welfare of the tribe. 
      If I go with K'let, the half-taan will be honored and accepted by the 
      taan, even if I am no longer here to watch over them." He picked up his 
      pack. "You are nizam while I am gone."
      Dur-zor flung herself into his arms. "I will wait for you. I will be here. 
      We will all be here, waiting for you. I will pray to the gods for you. I 
      will pray to your gods."
      "I would like that, Dur-zor," he said.
      As he left the camp, the half-taan cheered their nizam and, to his 
      astonishment, cheers went up from Dag-ruk's camp.
      Raven left the cheers behind, left all that he cared about behind. Looking 
      back, he saw Dur-zor standing in the midst of the tribe, her tribe now. 
      She raised her hand, waved to him. He waved back, then he faced forward. 
      He never expected to see any of them again, and he was startled to find 
      how much that hurt him.
      He had gone about two miles when a dark shadow of enormous wings slid over 
      him. Tilting his head, Raven looked into the cobalt blue sky.
      A dragon flew among the clouds.
      Raven had heard of these wondrous beasts all his life, but he had never 
      been privileged to see one. He stopped walking to stare, entranced by the 
      dragon's marvelous, deadly beauty.
      The dragon was far, far above him, but even at that height, he could see 
      the sun shimmer on red scales, so that they flashed with fire. He could 
      see the sinuous curve of the neck, the glistening tail, the slow dip and 
      rise of the enormous wings. The dragon was too high to see him, save 
      perhaps as a speck on the rolling hills.
      The dragon flew on. Raven watched until it had disappeared from sight. He 
      would never know that in that moment he had seen his wayward sister, 
      Ranessa. Yet he knew that in some strange way, the sight of the dragon 
      lifted his heart, gave him courage.



       6THE PEOPLE OF NEW VINNENGAEL WERE MAKING PREPARATIONS for the annual 
      spring festival. They had worked hard to remove all traces of the taan 
      invasion, repairing buildings that had been damaged, scrubbing the 
      exterior walls to remove the black, greasy soot that fell from the skies 
      after days of burning the bodies. They had washed most of the blood stains 
      from the streets. The wounded were healed by now, although they would bear 
      scars of the battle for the rest of their lives. Few would show off there 
      scars or boast about them to their grandchildren. None was proud of what 
      had been done that day. Everyone looked forward to the fragrant spring 
      winds, which would blow away the lingering stench of death, and the gentle 
      spring rains, which would cause flowers to bloom in the blood-soaked 
      ground.
      Even though the festival was yet a month away, shop owners sent out 
      apprentices to cover the plaster walls with a fresh coat of whitewash. 
      Sign painters repainted or touched up the colorful shop signs. Dressmakers 
      plied their needles by candlelight, for every gentle lady must have a new 
      gown to wear to His Majesty's Spring Revels.
      The sounds of hammer and saw could be heard from dawn to dusk, as the 
      carpenters erected booths on the fairgrounds. Small boys were employed to 
      walk every inch of the grounds, clean them of stones and sticks. The 
      innkeepers and tavern owners and Hospitalers laid in fresh supplies, for 
      this was the busiest time of year for them all. The Spring Faire attracted 
      people from every part of Vinnengael. Merchants would travel from 
      Dunkarga, Nimra, and Nimorea. Even in this time of civil war, elven 
      merchants were expected from Tromek, and a few dwarf merchants would make 
      the trek from Saumel. Ork ships filled with goods had already started to 
      clog the harbor.
      The weather might be gray and gloomy, rainy and cold now, but the sun 
      always shone on the Spring Faire. People listened to the rain dripping 
      from the eaves and closed their eyes and imagined warm sun and laughing 
      children.
      Times were good for the people of New Vinnengael. They were pleased with 
      their new king, and they had reason to be. Dagnarus might have climbed 
      over the broken, twisted bodies of hundreds to reach the throne, but, once 
      there, he washed the blood from his hands and tried his best to do what he 
      considered right.
      "Someday, they will speak of King Dagnarus of blessed memory," he said to 
      himself, standing before the portrait of his father. "Well, perhaps not 
      'blessed memory,' for I won't be dead. I won't be a memory. I will be 
      their living king, ruling through the ages, leading Vinnengael to eternal 
      prosperity."
      He had long puzzled how he was going to explain the fact to his people 
      that he would never age, never die. He could not tell them the truth, of 
      course, that he lived on lives stolen through the Dagger of the Vrykyl. 
      Already, since he'd been king, he'd found two people willing to give their 
      souls to the Void in return for favors from their royal master. The favors 
      they received were not quite the favors they had sought. The Dagger of the 
      Vrykyl had found them both acceptable candidates, and now Dagnarus had two 
      new Vrykyl, one of them a lord who spied on his privy council and the 
      other a Temple magus.
      Dagnarus decided to tell his people that the gods would grant him eternal 
      youth in return for the safe recovery of the blessed Sovereign Stone. The 
      Church would be appalled. He'd let them rant and rave, silence those who 
      grew too tiresome. He had his supporters, and they would come through for 
      him. Meanwhile, the people would see their young and handsome king 
      standing with his hand upon the sacred Stone, all four parts together at 
      last, as it was meant to be. In time, the clamor would diminish. His 
      opposition would dwindle away. Those who were babes in arms today would 
      grow old under his kingship and commend their children to him on their 
      deathbeds.
      All was in readiness to accept the Sovereign Stone. He'd ordered the 
      carving of a new marble altar on which to place it. Curiosity ran high as 
      to what this altar might be for, but Dagnarus would say only that it was 
      destined to bear the greatest gift the gods had ever given mankind.
      Dagnarus was meeting with his privy council when he felt the Dagger of the 
      Vrykyl grow pleasantly warm against his flesh. He carried the dagger with 
      him always, thrust into his belt beneath his silken shirt. The warmth 
      meant that one of his Vrykyl was seeking to contact him. Dagnarus hoped 
      and expected it would be Shakur, for the last report he'd received from 
      Gareth indicated that the four Dominion Lords bearing the Sovereign Stones 
      were drawing near the ruins of Old Vinnengael.
      "Gentlemen," said Dagnarus, rising to his feet. "No, please, do not stand 
      up. I must beg your indulgence for a few moments. I hate to interrupt our 
      discussion, but I must make use of the privies. I do not know why it is 
      that happens to me whenever we meet, gentlemen," he added with a grin. 
      "I'm beginning to think that is why it is called the 'privy' council."
      The members laughed heartily. They always laughed at the king's jokes.
      Dagnarus managed to rid himself of courtiers and servants and hangers-on, 
      who continually dogged his footsteps. He recalled Silwyth, how adept he 
      had been at filling the royal life with courtiers when they were wanted 
      and shooing them away when they weren't. The elven chamberlain had taught 
      him all he knew about the intrigues of court life. Dagnarus supposed that 
      elves had a natural gift for this sort of thing. His current chamberlain 
      was an ass. Dagnarus made a mental note to contact the Shield and ask that 
      he send him an elf to serve in this capacity.
      On reaching the royal bedchamber, Dagnarus ordered his chamberlain to shut 
      the door, ordered his guards to refuse entry to anyone. A modest man who 
      was fond of his privacy, Dagnarus had built for himself a water closet for 
      his own personal needs. In this windowless chamber, with its stone walls 
      and stone floor and heavy doors, Dagnarus responded to the Dagger's call.
      "There is a problem, my lord," Shakur said. "Klendist did not arrive at 
      our meeting place. I warned you that he was unreliable"
      "What happened to him? Something must have happened."
      "I have no idea, my lord. When I went to their camp, it was empty.
      They had not been there for several days, by the looks of it. I waited 
      another day, but they never came back."
      "And the Dominion Lords? The Sovereign Stone?"
      "I have no idea," Shakur said dourly. "I have lost track of them. It was 
      not my responsibility"
      "If you value your tongue, Shakur, you will cease to wag it," said 
      Dag-narus.
      "Yes, my lord."
      "I should not have left this to underlings," Dagnarus muttered. "Yet how 
      could I leave my responsibilities here? There are certainly disadvantages 
      to being king. It curtails the freedom of one's movement. By the Void! If 
      only I could find a way to split myself in two, be in two places at once."
      "Yes, my lord," said Shakur. "What are your commands?"
      "I will come take charge of the situation. It is what I should have done 
      all along."
      "Yes, my lord. By the way, my lord, K'let has arrived, along with a large 
      force of taan."
      "If you think to disconcert me with this news, Shakur, you fail. I know 
      K'let's plan. The taan is clever, but he is not capable of subtlety. I 
      will deal with him, once I have dealt with the Dominion Lords."
      "Very good, my lord."
      "I will be with you shortly, Shakur," said Dagnarus, and the contact 
ended.
      Fortunately, he had already made arrangements for his absence. He had let 
      it be known that he was fond of hunting. The former king had kept a 
      hunting lodge in the Illanof Mountains. Pleading a need to escape the 
      rigors of court life, Dagnarus was going to go hunting. The dragon of the 
      Void, one of the five who lived upon Dragon Mountain, was already waiting 
      for Dagnarus's call, waiting to bear him swiftly to Old Vinnen-gael. Once 
      there, he would search for and find the four Dominion Lords.
      He ran his finger lightly over the sharp edge of the Dagger of the Vrykyl.



      "Where is Silwyth?" Shadamehr asked.
      Damra glanced around. "I thought he was helping you and the Captain with 
      the boat."
      "And I thought he had gone ahead with you to scout," said Shadamehr. "And 
      now, it seems, he's nowhere."
      Acting on the advice of Silwyth, the Dominion Lords left their boat behind 
      on a shore some distance from the ruins of Old Vinnengael. They walked 
      along an old highway running through the Grain Coast, a stretch of rich 
      land nicknamed Vinnengael's "bread basket." Even now the remnants of 
      farming villages could still be seen. Although the villages had escaped 
      the effects of the magical blast, they had not escaped the ravages of war. 
      Dagnarus's troops had raided the farms, stealing the food, slaughtering 
      the cattle, setting fire to anything they had not been able to carry off.
      "Good soil here," said Shadamehr. He bent down to pick up a handful of the 
      black earth, let it trickle through his fingers.
      "I am surprised that no one has returned to farm this land," said Damra. 
      "It is far from the ruins of the city. They could ship their goods down 
      the river."
      "There's the reason," said Shadamehr, and he pointed to the side of the 
      road. "Bahk tracks. Fresh ones."
      "Those tracks are enormous," said Damra, awed. "I could lie down full 
      length in one."
      "Yes, nasty beasties, the bank. I've fought one or two in my time. Didn't 
      enjoy it much."
      "It figures. What with us hauling around the Sovereign Stones," said 
      Wolfram, returning from a trip to the underbrush, "those great hulking 
      monsters will be drooling all over us."
      "Do not worry, Wolf's Son," said the Captain in sonorous tones. "They 
      drool on you only after they rip you apart."
      "Wolfram!" the dwarf insisted dourly. "I keep telling you. It's Wolf-ram."
      The Captain grinned and shrugged as she always grinned and shrugged when 
      the dwarf corrected her, something he did at least three times a day. The 
      ork had made up names for all of them. Shadamehr was Shadow Man and Damra 
      was Dame Rah. The Captain was quite fond of these names and stuck to them. 
      Only the dwarf was bothered by it. Something about his nickname struck a 
      nerve, seemingly, a fact that did not escape the ork. The only person she 
      had not given a nickname to was Silwyth, and that was because the Captain 
      rarely spoke to him directly, though she spent a great deal of time 
      watching him, her expression grave and troubled.
      She read the omens everywhere they went. As the others were staring at the 
      bahk tracks, the Captain left the trail, went crashing through the 
      underbrush. She came back holding the carcass of a dead squirrel. She 
      muttered words over it, then stood gazing at it, her lips pursed.
      "What's the outcome?" Shadamehr asked.
      The Captain shook her head.
      "I can't say. My shaman is not with me," she told him.
      She had left the other orks behind with the boat, with instructions to 
      wait for her for a moon's half cycle. If she had not returned by then, the 
      orks were to go back to their people and choose a new Captain.
      "I may not be reading these right."
      "But are they good or bad?" Shadamehr persisted.
      The Captain handed him the maggot-ridden corpse. "See for yourself."
      "I can see the omens were bad for the squirrel," said Shadamehr, with a 
      grimace.
      The Captain again shook her head.
      "Will the bahk attack us?" Damra asked. "I've never encountered a bahk, 
      but I know that they are drawn to magical objects and, as Wolfram says, we 
      have with us four of the most powerful magical objects in the world."
      "It depends on where they have their lairs. Silwyth said he knew"
      Shadamehr turned to find Silwyth at his elbow.
      "Damn!" Shadamehr took an involuntary step backward. "Don't sneak up on me 
      like that. You took ten years off my life. Provided, of course, that I 
      have ten years to spare, which at this point appears doubtful. You should 
      really make some sort of noise, my dear fellow," he added earnestly. 
      "Belch or sneeze or something. The dead make more racket than you do."
      Silwyth bowed and took a step backward. "I am sorry if I have offended."
      "No, no, that's all right." Shadamehr mopped his brow with his 
      shirtsleeve. "Did you see the bahk tracks?"
      "Yes, Baron. I followed them a mile or so." Silwyth pointed north. "They 
      go north, toward the ruins. A single bahk, probably an elder by the size 
      and depth of the tracks."
      "Heading straight for Old Vinnengael?"
      "Yes," Silwyth replied. "There are many bahk in the area. The tracks of 
      this one joined several others, all traveling north. My guess is that they 
      make their homes in those cliffs over there to the east. The rock is 
      limestone, and it is riddled with caves."
      "Why are they here?" Damra asked.
      "There was a part of the city known as the Mysterium, where you could buy 
      magical artifacts from all over Loerem. Hundreds of these artifacts still 
      lie in the rubble. The bahk are drawn to them, seek them out."
      "So how do we avoid them? And what do we do if we come across one?"
      "Run," said Shadamehr succinctly. "No, I'm quite serious. The bahk are 
      huge, hulking creatures. They move relatively slowly, and most of the time 
      you can outrun them."
      "We will not be going into the Mysterium, so I trust that we will not 
      encounter them," said Silwyth. "Still, if we meet one, the Baron's advice 
      is sound."
      Old Vinnengael lay due north of them. To the east was the good, rich 
      bottomland, surrounded by limestone cliffs. To the west was Lake Ildurel. 
      The lake water was a deep, deep blue, cool and dark in the early-morning 
      sun. The ruins of the city were shrouded in clouds, a fact that struck 
      Shadamehr as odd, for the day was warm and dry, and no mists rose from the 
      motionless lake.
      "Where does that mist come from?" he asked.
      "The waterfalls," answered Silwyth. "Once there were rainbows, but not 
      anymore. Now there is only gray fog."
      They continued walking in silence, each thinking, perhaps, about the 
      rainbows.
      "It was a bahk took the Sovereign Stone from Dagnarus," Silwyth said 
      quietly, almost as if he were talking to himself.
      "Eh?" Wolfram said sharply. "How do you know that?"
      "So say the legends of my people," Silwyth replied, with a sidelong glance 
      at the dwarf. "I do not know for certain, of course."
      "Well, your legends are right," stated the dwarf bluntly. "I was with Lord 
      Gustav when he died. He found the Sovereign Stone on the corpse of a dead 
      bahk."
      "Come, Silwyth," said Shadamehr. "Let us hear this legend."
      The elf's face darkened. He seemed to regret having spoken.
      "According to what I have heard, the magical blast that destroyed much of 
      the city spared the life of Dagnarus. How is that possible, you ask? Only 
      the Father and Mother know."
      "Or the Void," said Damra coolly.
      Silwyth glanced at her, but did not reply. He continued with his story. 
      "Dagnarus regained consciousness to find himself in a forested land 
      unknown to him. He was horribly hurt, but he was alive, and he had the 
      prize for which he had sacrificed so much, the prize that should have been 
      his by right. He had with him the blessed Sovereign Stone."
      " 'That should have been his by right'?" Damra repeated. "I thought you 
      were on our side, Silwyth."
      "I relate the legend as I have heard it, Damra of Gwyenoc," said Silwyth.
      Damra and Shadamehr exchanged looks.
      "I don't much like the sound of that," Shadamehr whispered, his brow 
      puckered.
      "I don't either," said Damra. "In fact, I think our Silwyth has been 
      acting very strange lately."
      Silwyth continued to talk, his voice soft and empty. "Dagnarus gave thanks 
      to the gods for giving him the Stone, and he vowed he would be worthy of 
      their faith in him. At that moment, a monster of a type that had never 
      before been seen in this land came out of the foresta bahk. Drawn by the 
      magic of the Sovereign Stone, the bahk attacked Dagnarus. He fought with 
      the very last ounce of strength he had remaining, fought to save what the 
      gods had given him. He was too weak, however. The bahk tore the Stone from 
      his hand and took it away. Dagnarus lost consciousness. He was too weak, 
      too horribly wounded to go after the Stone. Many long years he searched, 
      but in vain."
      He looked up at them. "So goes the legend."
      "Strange," said Damra. "I've never heard that tale."
      "You are not of House Kinnoth," he returned. "We should increase our pace. 
      We have no time to waste. You do not want to be caught in Old Vinnengael 
      after dark."
      "Where are we going once we get there?" Shadamehr inquired. "The temple? 
      The palace? Your favorite tavern?"
      "We are bound for the Temple of the Magi, or what is left of it," said 
      Silwyth. "To the Portal of the Gods."
      "Is that where we're going to meet up with Dagnarus?" Shadamehr asked, 
      offhandedly.
      Silwyth remained impassive. His expression did not change, although 
      reading any expression in that wrinkled mass of flesh was difficult. 
      Silwyth's almond-shaped eyes, in their slits of puckered flesh, were 
      always hooded, shadowed. The elf had developed a trick, in later days, of 
      never quite meeting one's gaze full ona trick Shadamehr found intriguing.
      He looked into the eyes, hoping to see a flicker of surprise, annoyance, 
      fearhe wasn't certain what. What he saw astonished him so much that he 
      almost forgot the question.
      "I don't know what you mean," Silwyth said, and his voice was calm. He had 
      hesitated a moment too long, however.
      "I am . . . um . . . sure you must recall it," said Shadamehr, recovering 
      his wits with an effort. "What we talked about in the cave. How Lord 
      Dagnarus"
      "He is now your king," Silwyth corrected.
      "I beg his pardon," said Shadamehr. "How His Majesty King Dagnarus was 
      setting a trap for us. Wolfram told us. He'd had a message from my friend 
      Ulaf. Surely you remember?"
      "You must forgive an old man," said Silwyth, "who is often forgetful." He 
      glanced pointedly at the sun, which was starting to sink into the west. 
      "We should be hurrying. We have several more miles to cover before 
      darkness. We will want to enter the city in the morning hours and it will 
      take us all day to reach our goal. We do not want to be trapped there 
      after dark."
      "Speaking of traps," Shadamehr said blithely,"! was just wondering if 
      Dagnarus was setting his trap for us in the Portal or somewhere else."
      "The others perhaps find your foolery amusing, Baron," Silwyth replied. "I 
      fear that it is lost on me. Each of you has been told that you must take 
      the Sovereign Stone to the Portal of the Gods. I will guide you there or 
      not, as you choose." He shrugged his thin shoulders. "If you think it is a 
      trap, do not go."
      He bowed and walked off down the road. The dwarf stumped after him, and 
      the Captain fell into step beside Wolfram. Damra was about to follow, but 
      Shadamehr caught hold of her arm, detained her.
      "Look into his eyes!" Shadamehr said softly.
      Damra stared at him. "What?"
      "I've looked into eyes like that once before. Back in the palace in 
      Vinnengael. When I picked up the young king."
      "Do you mean Silwyth?"
      "He's not Silwyth," said Shadamehr grimly. "Not anymore. He's a Vrykyl."



       7FOUNDED BY VERDIC ILDUREL IN THE YEAR ONE, THE CITY OF OLD Vinnengael 
      had been built on the shores of the lake that would one day bear his name. 
      Originally a fortress, the city grew quickly and was forced to expand up 
      into the cliffs. Over the years that followed, magi skilled in the 
      manipulation of rock and stone built ramps and stairs that extended from 
      one level to another, providing access for both wagons and pedestrians. 
      Bridges spanned the gorges. Orks constructed marvelous cranes that raised 
      and lowered goods too heavy to be moved by wagon. Wealth flowed into the 
      city by boat from the sea and by land, traveling over the smooth roads 
      built by the Earth magi and guarded by the Vin-nengaelean army.
      The city was already the center of Loerem when, under the reign of King 
      Tamaros, the magical Portals made it the center of the universe. Forged by 
      magi of all the elements, the Portals extended into the homelands of the 
      other races, bringing elves, orks, and dwarves to Vinnengael. Journeys 
      that would have taken months or years were cut to days and weeks. Traders 
      from all races came to Old Vinnengael. Though they might have small use 
      for humans, they had great use for the glittering silver coins known as 
      tarns, in honor of Vinnengael's King Tamaros.
      Envisioning a world in which all races could live in peace, King Tamaros 
      encouraged all people to come to Old Vinnengael, and he did everything in 
      his power to make them welcome. The city was at the height of its glory at 
      that time.
      The king's magnificent palace, set against the backdrop of the seven 
      waterfalls, was one of the wonders of the known world, and many made the 
      climb up the steep stairs that led from cliff to cliff to gape at it and 
      envy those fortunate enough to live in such splendor. Their envy would 
      have changed to pity had they known the jealousy and malevolence and 
      sorrow that dwelt within those shining walls amongst the glittering 
      rainbows. None could know, and so they went away thinking how great and 
      wise was their king and that his strong rule, as evidenced by the castle, 
      would never falter.
      Tamaros's younger son, Dagnarus, decided that he should be king. Defying 
      the gods, Dagnarus was the chosen of the Void. He became Lord of the Void 
      and was given the Dagger of the Vrykyl. Banished from the kingdom by his 
      elder brother, Helmos, Dagnarus returned a year later to lay claim to the 
      throne, bringing fire and death to the city. With the help of Gareth, his 
      childhood friend, who had become a powerful Void sorcerer, Dagnarus dried 
      up the River Hammerclaw, which Vinnengael counted upon for defense of its 
      walls, and marched his troops down the riverbed to enter the city from the 
      rear. Led by the Vrykyl, whom few could withstand, his armies attacked the 
      city from the front. His siege towers hurled flaming orken jelly into the 
      city, and fire soon raged throughout Vinnengael's streets.
      Dagnarus's two objectives were to obtain the Sovereign Stone and make 
      himself king. To do so, he had to depose his elder brother, Helmos. 
      Dagnarus looked for his brother in the palace, but could not find him. He 
      determined that his brother must have fled for help to the gods, and so 
      Dagnarus went to the Portal of the Gods, located inside the Temple of the 
      Magi.
      According to legend, Dagnarus and his brother, Helmos, met and fought over 
      the Stone. The magical forces unleashed in that terrible battle swirled 
      out of control, snapped like whips. The resulting blast brought down the 
      Temple and the surrounding buildings, sent shock waves through the city. 
      Buildings collapsed and fell into the streets, which were clogged with 
      fleeing people and battling soldiers. Cracks opened in the ramps, sending 
      people plunging to their deaths. The great cranes toppled, crushing many 
      beneath.
      Death and ruin came to Vinnengael and her people. The survivors fled. The 
      city was left to its ghosts.



      The Dominion Lords and their fell guide entered the outskirts city at 
      dawn. They stood at the edge of the lake, where the turgid water lapped at 
      their feet. The remains of what had once been the bustling docks of that 
      great city stood crumbling around' them.
      This part of the city had been the farthest from the blast and had been 
      little damaged by the explosion. Fire had been the enemy here. The fires 
      started by the orken jelly set the wooden docks ablaze, destroyed the 
      warehouses, with their rich store of goods, burned down the taverns and 
      the brothels and the homes of sailors and fishermen. The remains of the 
      docks could still be seenblackened fingers of charred wood reaching out 
      into Lake Ildurel, like the blackened hands of the wretched burn victims, 
      who had flung themselves into the chill water to try to ease the terrible 
      pain. They had found ease, most of them, by drowning.
      "People ran from the upper levels to the lake level to escape the flames," 
      said Silwyth, pointing to the cliffs high above, barely visible in the 
      strange gray mist that hung over the ruins. "Those who lost their footing 
      were crushed to death beneath the feet of the panicked mob. Those who 
      reached the lake had nowhere to go, for there were no boats. They were 
      trapped on the shore, the deep waters of the lake before them and the 
      fires behind."
      The Dominion Lords stood amidst the rubble, their hearts subdued. They had 
      heard all their lives of the terrible tragedy of that day, but it was a 
      legend, a tale told in the twilight. Now they stood inside the tale. The 
      smell of burnt wood was sharp in their nostrils. The water that lapped on 
      the shore was filthy, littered with debris. The gray mist from the falls 
      congealed on their skin and made everything wet to the touch, so that 
      their clothes felt clammy. The air was chill. The sun shone on the lake, 
      but could not burn through the watery fog that made every object seem 
      misshapen and distorted. The streets had disappeared under piles of debris 
      that had once been buildings. The Dominion Lords stared in shock, 
      overwhelmed by the appalling level of destruction. The thought came to 
      each of them: How do we find our way through this?
      The practical and pragmatic Captain put the thought into words.
      "If the ramps that lead to the upper levels are destroyed, how do we reach 
      the Temple?"
      "I did not say the ramps were destroyed," Silwyth replied. "I said that 
      there were cracks in them. The ramps are still there and can be climbed by 
      those with courage."
      "But if we have to crawl and hack and pick our way through all this mess, 
      it will take us daysmonths maybeto reach our destination," said 
      Shadamehr.
      "And you have warned us not to be caught here after dark," Wolfram stated. 
      He gestured to the rubble, which was stacked up in great heaps "Hah!"
      "Yet there is a way," said Silwyth. "Remain here while I search it out."
      "Wait, Silwyth!" Shadamehr said. "I'm going with you"
      Silwyth vanished. Wolfram plunged into the mists searching for him, but 
      returned alone.
      "He's disappeared," Wolfram reported. "I lost him in the fog."
      "I think he's made of fog, that one," said the Captain.
      "Or worse," said Damra. She looked at Shadamehr. "Should we tell them?"
      "Tell us what?"Wolfram demanded.
      "That Silwyth is no longer Silwyth," said Shadamehr. "We think that the 
      real Silwyth was murdered and that this one is a Vrykyl."
      Wolfram reached for his sword. "Then we should kill it."
      "What makes you think so?" the Captain asked, laying a restraining hand on 
      the dwarf's shoulder.
      "He has changed," said Damra. "When I first met him, I trusted him even 
      though I did not trust him. Now"she shook her head"I do not trust him at 
      all."
      "I never trusted him," Wolfram stated.
      "I agree with Dame Rah," said the Captain. "He has changed. I trusted the 
      Silwyth I caught in my fishing net. But I do not trust the one who brought 
      us here."
      "The question is, what do we do?" Shadamehr asked. "Do we confront him and 
      maybe risk his turning on us?"
      "Yes," said Wolfram, raising his sword.
      "I think we have to," Damra agreed.
      "No," said the Captain. She folded arms across her chest. "We don't say a 
      word to him."
      "I side with the others," said Shadamehr. "Why should we continue to 
      follow this evil being?"
      The Captain shrugged her massive shoulders. "Each of us was told to take 
      the Stone to the Portal. And that is what we must do. Do you know the way 
      to this God Portal, any of you?"
      "But the Vrykyl is most probably leading us into a trap," argued 
Shadamehr.
      "All the better," the Captain said.
      "Wait!" Shadamehr raised his hand. "I fell off when you went around that 
      curve. Please explain."
      "If the elf is a Vrykyl and the Vrykyl intended to kill us, it could have 
      done so anytime," said the Captain. "Instead, the Vrykyl promises to take 
      us to the Portal of the Gods. Probably, as you said, Shadow Man, to fall 
      into the trap of this Void lord. Therefore, the Vrykyl will see it to that 
      we arrive at the Portal safely."
      "In order to kill us once we get there," said Shadamehr.
      "The fish you have been eating has done your brain good, Shadow Man," said 
      the Captain, nodding in approval. "Once we reach the Portal, then we 
      confront the Vrykyl and this Void lord and do whatever it is that must be 
      done."
      "I wish I could be that calm about it. Still, forewarned is forearmed," 
      said Shadamehr thoughtfully. "At least we'll be prepared." He shrugged and 
      kicked at a bit of charred wood at his feet. "I'll stay here and wait for 
      our friend. The rest of you might want to take a look around, see if there 
      are signs of any bahk."
      The party split up. Wolfram and the Captain went to investigate the ruins 
      of a large building. Damra walked along the shoreline, which was littered 
      with the burnt-out hulks of ships; twisted, rusted iron, and rotting nets. 
      She stepped on something and, looking down, she saw that she had trodden 
      upon a skull, half-buried in the sand.
      Elves revere death, for in death the soul is free to return to the Father 
      and Mother, to dwell with them in the wondrous, glittering realm of 
      heaven. Elven dead are treated with immense respect, the body burned, so 
      that the soul is freed to rise into the heavens, on the breath of the 
      gods. The skull seemed to repudiate everything in which she believed.
      There are no gods, the empty eyes revealed. Death is the Void, and there 
      is nothing beyond.
      Hearing her cry out, Shadamehr came to her. He took hold of her, drew her 
      close. His arm around her was strong, warm and comforting.
      "I'm sorry I frightened you. It's only a ... skull. But there is so much 
      death here. So much terror and despair." Damra pressed her hands over her 
      eyes. "It is too awful, too sad to bear."
      "I know," Shadamehr said somberly, his own heart oppressed. "I 
understand."
      "Do you?" She looked up at him, her brow furrowed. "I don't believe you. 
      You never take anything seriously."
      "I'll tell you a secret," said Shadamehr. "The reason I laugh is to keep 
      my teeth from chattering."
      He looked up at the cliffs they were going to have to scale, at collapsed 
      buildings, cracked roads, crumbling stairs. In the distance, he could hear 
      the roar of the falls, a roar muffled by the dank mists that shrouded the 
      city.
      "I'll tell you something else, Damra," he said somberly. "From here on 
      out, things are only going to get worse."



      "I heard something!" said Wolfram. He pointed toward the ruins of the 
      building. "It came from in there."
      "I heard it, too," said the Captain. She drew the enormous curved-bladed 
      weapon that she wore thrust into her broad leather belt.
      "This used to be a warehouse, maybe," said Wolfram, eyeing the rubble 
      warily.
      "Whatever it was," said the Captain, "it's not anymore."
      The two moved closer, keeping their eyes fixed intently on the rubble.
      "What did you hear?" Wolfram asked in a low voice. "What did it sound 
      like?"
      "A board moving," said the Captain. "I don't see anything. Do you?"
      Three of the four walls of the warehouse were still standing. Built of 
      brick, the walls had resisted the fire that had destroyed other structures 
      nearby. The roof had collapsed, however, taking down most of the front 
      portion of the building with it. Sword in hand, Wolfram peered through the 
      mist into the darkness. He strained his ears, but could not hear the sound 
      again, nor any sound, beyond the rasping breath of the ork.
      "Why don't you orks breathe through your noses, like the rest of us?" 
      Wolfram asked irritably. "I can't hear anything with you huffing away like 
      a bellows."
      "Our noses are smaller than our mouths," said the Captain. "We take in 
      more air this way."
      Wolfram thought this over. He couldn't very well find a flaw in her 
      argument, and he let the subject drop. He poked at the rubble.
      A board shifted. Something moved, and Wolfram leapt backward.
      "There!" he gasped.
      "A rat," said the Captain, sheathing her sword in disgust.
      "What's going on?" asked Shadamehr, coming up with Damra.
      "We heard a sound. Turned out to be a rat," said the Captain.
      "Maybe it was," said Wolfram, still peering into the rubble. "And maybe it 
      wasn't. It sounded bigger to me."
      He took a long look into the mist-shrouded shadows, but saw nothing. Even 
      the rat had fled.
      "Smart little bugger," he muttered. "Smarter than us."
      "Silwyth's been gone a long time," Damra observed, shivering in the chill, 
      dark air. "Maybe he isn't going to come back."
      "I wouldn't, if I was him," Wolfram said.
      "But you are not me, dwarf. I am back and I have found a path through the 
      ruin," Silwyth announced, emerging from the mist. "The path will take us 
      to the first of the ramps. From there, we climb. I will show you the way."
      He started off, then realized that he was alone. He looked back.
      "Are you coming? Or would you rather hunt for rats?"
      "We found one already," said Shadamehr. "And one is more than enough. Lead 
      on, Silwyth. We're right behind you."
      At a gesture from K'let, Raven left the mist-shrouded shadows of the 
      warehouse in which they'd taken refuge and looked to see if the dwarf and 
      his companions were well away. The Trevinici had been amazed to see the 
      dwarf, Wolframbut Raven did not need K'let's sharp, warning hiss in order 
      to keep silent. The dwarf was from another world, another time. He had 
      nothing to do with Raven, and Raven wanted nothing to do with him. He'd 
      had his fill of dwarves and humans, orks and elves. Let them go their way. 
      He would go his.
      This City of Ghosts was a city of silence, anyway. To give voice in these 
      blackened ruins would be as disrespectful as shouting in a tomb.
      Raven noted that K'let was not surprised to see the dwarf and his oddly 
      assorted companions traipsing around the ruins. K'let might have been 
      expecting them, even watching out for them, for he and Raven had kept 
      watch on the city for days before they entered it. The taan Vrykyl had 
      brought Raven to the ruined warehouse, where they crouched in the shadows, 
      watching as the dwarf and his friends entered the ruined dockyards, had 
      their little talk, then went their way.
      Certain that they were alone, Raven returned to the warehouse, where K'let 
      was waiting for him.
      The Vrykyl was in his taan form, as he had been throughout their journey. 
      Raven had the impression that K'let didn't much like his black, Void-made 
      armor, for which Raven was thankful. The Trevinici could almost fool 
      himself into believing he was with a taan, not one of the hideous Vrykyl.
      Their journey together had been a strange one. K'let could not speak 
      Raven's language, although Raven had the feeling that the Vrykyl 
      understood much of what Raven said. Raven could not speak the taan 
      languagehis throat could not make its crackling, popping, and whistling 
      sounds, but he had learned to understand many of the words. They managed a 
      communication of sorts.
      "They are gone," Raven reported.
      He was about to say more, when he felt the ground shiver beneath his feet. 
      The rotting, blackened timbers shook and trembled.
      K'let made another hissing sound, his lip curled back from his teeth. He 
      ducked back into the shadows, motioned Raven to follow.
      "Bahk!" K'let said and pointed.
      An enormous creature, standing some twenty feet high, lumbered slowly 
      along the crumbling street. Raven had heard stories of these monsters from 
      warriors who had fought them, but he had never truly believed the tales. 
      Not until now.
      The bahk's hulking head with its small eyes, shadowed by an overhanging 
      forehead, swung back and forth as it walked. The bahk's shoulders were 
      stooped and rounded. Bony protrusions extended the length of its spine. 
      Its huge feet shook the ground as it walked. The bahk halted as it came 
      near the warehouse. Its head shifted in their direction, the small and 
      lackluster eyes turned their way.
      K'let snarled low in the back of his throat. Raven held still, not daring 
      to breathe. The bahk gave a grunt and went on its way, continuing into the 
      ruined city. For a long time after its passing, Raven heard the crashing 
      and rending of timbers and the thud of falling rock  the bahk clearing a 
      path through the debris.
      K'let sniffed the air, appeared satisfied. He left the warehouse, gestured 
      to Raven to accompany him.
      Raven held his ground, shook his head.
      "You can understand me, can't you, K'let? You've been around humans a long 
      time and, if you can't speak our language, you know what I am saying. I 
      want to know what we're doing here in this accursed City of Ghosts."
      Raven forced himself to stare straight into the Vrykyl's empty eyes, 
      though it was like looking into a well of darkness.
      K'let took a step forward and thrust a taloned finger into Raven's chest. 
      At the touch, Raven could see through the facade of taan flesh and taan 
      hide to living death  the bestial skull, marred by the cracks and 
      fissures left by old injuries; the yellow teeth; the empty eye sockets. He 
      smelled the stench of rot and decay.
      K'let tapped his finger against Raven's chest. "I made you nizam. In 
      return, you promised me your life."
      Raven said nothing. He stared into the dark eyes.
      "It is time for you to fulfill your promise," said K'let. He frowned, 
      leered, "Or are you just another oath-breaking xkse?"
      "I keep my promises," said Raven.
      "Good," said K'let with a grunt. Turning, he walked off into the dark 
      mists.
      Raven stood a moment, thinking of Dur-zor, thinking of his people. "I keep 
      my promises," he repeated, and followed.
       



       8THE DOMINION LORDS LOST TRACK OF TIME, FOR THE SUN'S LIGHT was blotted 
      out by the swirling mists. Their way was easy at first. The streets on the 
      lower level had been cleared of debris, the rubble swept aside, pushed 
      into precariously balanced piles along the edges of the street or shoved 
      down alleyways. They marveled, until Shadamehr explained the cause.
      "The bahk did this," he said. "They've cleared a path to the inner part of 
      the city."
      "But they won't go up top," said Wolfram, tilting his head to try to see 
      through the gray tendrils of mist that dragged across the higher levels of 
      the dead city.
      "Not according to Silwyth," said Shadamehr.
      Wolfram placed his hand on an enormous iron beam, part of one of the 
      marvelous cranes that the orks had built. Forty feet long, heavy as a 
      house, the huge beam had been picked up and tossed aside as if it weighed 
      no more than a twig.
      "A beast that can move this crane," said Wolfram, "is afraid to go up 
      there." Shaking his head morosely, he sighed and moved on.
      They followed the bahk-cleared streets through the first level and up into 
      the second, where the way grew more difficult. Silwyth chose to make a 
      wide detour around the central portion of the city that was frequented by 
      the bahk, thus they could no longer rely on the bahk to clear the path.
      They climbed over and around and sometimes under piles of debris and were 
      soon weary and aching, wet and filthy. Without Silwyth's guidance they 
      would have been utterly lost, for the mists grew thicker as they drew 
      nearer the waterfalls, and they soon lost sight of cliffs above them. The 
      buildings on the second level had been better constructed than those in 
      the dockyard. Many had survived both fire and the blast. Standing amid the 
      rubble, these sentinels, with their gouged-out windows and scarred faces, 
      stood silent and lonely watch over the dead. Here and there, one had 
      finally tumbled down, its broken stones clogging the streets.
      But though the destruction was less, the sadness and sorrow were greater. 
      The houses had once been vibrant with life, and the absence of that life 
      was emphasized by the simple possessions of the living: chairs and tables, 
      pitchers and cups. A spinning wheel in a corner by a fireplace. A kettle 
      on the hearth. A rag doll. A wooden sword. Dust-coated. Cob-webbed. Whole. 
      Broken. Sometimes these objects lay in the streets, as though the owners 
      had taken them with them in their mad rush to flee the devastation, only 
      to drop them by the wayside. Too heavy, perhaps. Too cumbersome. Or maybe 
      the people realized that this bit of their lives to which they clung so 
      desperately meant nothing anymore, was useless.
      "How unfair it seems," said Shadamehr, picking up a cup that had rolled 
      out into the street, "that something so inconsequential as this should 
      survive, when the hands that made it perished. Makes you wonder, doesn't 
      it. We work and strive and suffer, and all that remains of us in the end 
      is some pewter mug."
      "That is the Void talking," said Damra in a low voice.
      "Maybe it speaks the truth," said Shadamehr bitterly, and he tossed the 
      mug aside.
      There were bodies on this level, skeletal remains lying where they had 
      fallen two hundred years before. Many of the bodies were those of soldiers 
      who had fought a raging battle in the streets. Some lay on the 
      cobblestones, side by side, the shafts of arrows or rusted sword blades 
      mingling with their bones. Some lay slumped on crumbling door stoops, as 
      if they had grown weak from loss of blood and sat down to rest, only to 
      fall into a sleep from which they never woke. Several bodies carried 
      shields marked with the symbols of elven nobility. They were found lying 
      around a single corpse, probably their commander.
      The bodies of ordinary citizens were here, too. Those who waited too long 
      to flee their homes, or who had been caught up in the battle or the 
      firestorm, succumbing to the choking smoke, crushed beneath a fallen 
      building. In one area, they came across the remains of a family: man, 
      woman, child, and the small skeleton of a dog.
      The sorrow and the horror of the piteous sights weighed on their hearts 
      and drained their souls.
      "I hear their voices," said Wolfram in hollow tones. "And I feel their 
      touch. They don't want us here."
      "Stop it," Shadamehr said sharply. "We're scaring ourselves. They're dead. 
      They died long ago."
      "Wherever their spirits are, they are at rest," Damra added gently and 
      whispered a prayer.
      "The elves do not rest," said Silwyth. "They were traitors, who died 
      dishonored. They lie here unburied; their spirits refused admittance to 
      the blessed presence of the Father and Mother."
      For the first time since Damra had known Silwyth, he betrayed emotion. 
      When he said "refused admittance" his tone was one of bitterness, regret.
      Is the voice speaking Silwyth's? Damra wondered. Or the Vrykyl who has 
      seized hold of him? Or are they both so close that the living and the dead 
      speak as one?
      She was tempted to ask, but Silwyth kicked suddenly, savagely, at the 
      corpse of the elf.
      "We must hurry," he said, and led them on.
      It was about midday, or so they guessed, when they reached one of the 
      ramps that ran from the second level to the top of the high cliffs, where 
      stood the magnificent Temple of the Magi and the wondrous palace, set 
      against the backdrop of the seven waterfalls. They could hear the thunder 
      of the water, though the falls themselves remained unseen in the fog.
      The ramp had been carved out of the cliff by human magi, experienced in 
      Earth magic. The ramp did not lead straight up the cliff, for the grade 
      would have been too steep for wagons and pedestrians. Instead, it made a 
      gentle curve that wound round the face of the rock.
      On a bright and sunny day in Old Vinnengael, walking up this ramp would 
      have been a pleasurable experience. One could have looked upon the vast 
      and bustling city spread out below, the blue lake beyond, and upward to 
      the palace, with its glittering towers and dancing rainbows.
      The rainbows had gone gray, the glittering towers had fallen to ruin. The 
      mists blotted everything from view except the ramp, which was slick and 
      slime-ridden, pitted and crumbling, with wide, gaping cracks. Each person 
      in the group knew that this ramp carried them to destiny.
      What a strange and terrible path to lead us to the gods, thought Damra.
      I wish I had brought some rope, thought Shadamehr. A few stout lengths of 
      rope would make all the difference.
      "Dunner walked this road," Wolfram said to Gilda, whose spirit he felt 
      near him. "I am walking in his footsteps. I must do nothing to disgrace 
      him."
      The shaman read the omens, recalled the Captain of Captains. The omens 
      were bad for the humans, but good for the orks, or so the shaman said. 
      Omens do not lie, but sometimes they do not tell us all the truth.
      "Are you here, my lord?" Valura called out silently to Dagnarus. "Do you 
      lie in readiness? I bring you the gift you have long sought. They follow 
      me like sheep, trusting, unknowing. It will be easy to take them by 
      surprise. Tell me that you are here, my lord. Tell me you are here, 
      waiting for me."
      No answer came. Only the rushing crash of the water spilling over the 
      falls.



      The climb was long and arduous, the rock so slippery and treacherous that 
      in places they had to crawl on all fours. Their hands and knees were soon 
      scraped and scratched, their clothes soaked, torn and covered with slime. 
      They kept away from the ramp's edge, so that a misstep would not send them 
      plunging over the side. At one point, Shadamehr slipped and slithered 
      halfway back down the ramp before he could stop himself. At another, they 
      came to a crack in the ramp so wide that Wolfram, with his short legs, 
      could not jump across. The Captain picked up the dwarf. With a heave of 
      her huge arms, she sent the stout Wolfram flying. He landed with a thud on 
      his stomach on the opposite side, the breath knocked clean out of him.
      And as they climbed, a sense of dread fell on them, grayer and danker than 
      the mists.
      "What did you say?" Wolfram looked around at the Captain.
      "Me? I said nothing," replied the ork. "I need my breath for more 
      important thingslike breathing."
      "You said something," Wolfram stated. "I heard you clearly."
      The Captain shook her head and continued climbing.
      "What is it?" Shadamehr asked, alarmed, looking around at Damra.
      "What is what?" She stared at him blankly.
      "You touched me on the arm," he said. "I thought you wanted something."
      "I did not touch you," Damra said. Both her hands clung to a stone jutting 
      out from the wall. "I don't dare let go. If I did, you'd have to pick me 
      up at the bottom."
      "Something touched me," said Shadamehr.
      "And I heard a voice," said Wolfram.
      Then they all heard the voices, distant, indistinct, echoes of shouts or 
      screams from centuries before. They felt the hands, unseen fingers 
      grasping, clutching, pushing. They began to see things, too, glimpses of 
      movement caught from the corner of the eye, only to vanish when 
confronted.
      "Let go of me," Wolfram cried, taking a swipe at something with his fist.
      He lost his balance and would have toppled into a crack, if the Captain 
      had not caught him by his belt and dragged him back. They were near the 
      top of the cliff. The path was here steeper and more treacherous, for 
      parts of the ramp had been buried beneath rockslides. The mists closed in. 
      They could not see the ground below, nor could they see anything above 
      them. They seemed suspended in nothingness.
      It was hard to move, to keep going. Unseen bodies buffeted them, pushing 
      and shoving.
      I can't keep this up much longer, Shadamehr realized, gasping for breath. 
      He shivered with the cold; sweat beaded on his forehead and rolled down 
      his neck. He lost two steps for every step he took forward. Then something 
      struck him, knocked him off his feet. He fell onto his hands and knees on 
      the rain-slick rock. The crowds surged around him. They were carrying him 
      over the edge of the cliff. . .
      Stop it! Damra pleaded.
      Their voices clamored in her ears, all of them filled with terror or 
      crying out in pain.
      Please stop! I cannot help you! She pressed back against the wall, crying 
      for them to stop.
      The Captain struggled on, then the unseen force slammed her up against the 
      side of the cliff, held her pinned. Voices shrieked and howled, so that it 
      seemed she must go deaf or mad. Fists pummeled her, feet kicked her.
      Walking within the Void, Valura could see what the others could not. She 
      could see the screaming mouths and the panic-widened eyes, the battering 
      fists and the bloodstained hands. The mob caught her up and swept her back 
      in time to the night that should have been a triumph for her lord, but had 
      gone so terribly wrong. Caught in time, Valura could not move. She fought 
      and struggled, but centuries stood in her way.
      "My lord!" she cried in silent supplication. "The dead have us trapped. We 
      are within sight of the Temple, but we cannot reach you. Our path is 
      blocked. If you do not come to my aid, I must fail you!"
      But if he responded, she could not hear his voice for the terrifying cries 
      of the dying.
      Caught in the unseen tide of terror, Wolfram couldn't see for the mobs 
      that surrounded him, couldn't hear for the screams that shrilled in his 
      ears.
      I have to get away from here, he thought, his heart swelling with panic. I 
      have to flee the flames and the falling rock and the murderous soldiers. 
      Death stalks me. I have to flee death and no one is going to stand in my 
      way. These are not people who block my way. They are beasts, trying to 
      save their lives at the cost of my own.
      With a roar, he turned around and started to run back down the ramp, only 
      to slip and fall. He lay on the ground, cursing and shrieking.
      Shadamehr was on his knees, his hand raised in a futile effort to protect 
      himself. Damra huddled in a crack in the wall, her hands covering her 
      ears. The Captain fought unseen foes, lashing out at the gray nothing in a 
      frenzy of panic.
      "What is this that blocks our way?" Shadamehr cried.
      "Ghosts," said Silwyth. "Ghosts of despair. Ghosts of terror. Ghosts of 
      fear. Held prisoner by the wayward magic, the ghosts endlessly scream, 
      endlessly flee, endlessly try to escape the inescapable. None can 
      withstand them. They carry all before them in a mad rush to an end that 
      for them is nothing but another horrible beginning."
      A chill, pale light glimmered before them, burning like ice on wet flesh. 
      The figure of a woman, helmed and armored, took shape out of the mists.
      "Did my master send you?" Valura called out.
      "I am come," said the chill voice.
      "That is no answer," Valuta returned.
      "It is the only answer you will have from me," was the response.
      "You are a Dominion Lord. I can tell by your armor."
      "I am."
      "What are you, then?" Valura cried. "What are you called?"
      "I am the Lord of Ghosts."
      The woman stood before them, clad in armor that shone ephemeral and 
      beautiful as moonlight on a cobweb. Her helm was a mask of her face, set 
      in the calm serenity of death. She carried no weapon. The dead fight no 
      battles, know no fear.
      When she spoke, the screams and clamoring voices went silent. She raised 
      her hand, and the shoving, pushing, bashing hands fell limp. The ghosts 
      halted in their terrible flight, fell back, gave way. They bowed before 
      her, permitted her to pass.
      The Lord of the Ghosts.
      She passed the Tests for a Dominion Lord. She underwent the 
      Transfiguration, and she was granted the blessing of the magical armor. 
      But though her spirit was strong, her body was weak. Her heart burst, and 
      she fell down dead before the altar.
      The Lord of the Ghosts beckoned to the four Dominon Lords, motioned them 
      to come forward.
      "I have watched for you a long time," said the Lord of the Ghosts. "And so 
      have others. They await you in the Portal of the Gods."
      "Who is it that waits for us in the Portal of the Gods?" Shadamehr 
      demanded, not moving.
      "You wait there, Dominion Lord," said the Lord of Ghosts.
      "I don't understand," said Shadamehr.
      "You are not meant to."
      "I will come," said Damra, clasping her hand around the medallion she wore 
      on her neck.
      "We will come," said Wolfram firmly. "Gilda and I together."
      "I come to fulfill the oath," said the Captain. "And put an end to bad 
      omens."
      One by one, they vanished. Only Shadamehr remained. He and the Lord of 
      Ghosts. His ghosts. Ghosts of regret, lost opportunities, past mistakes, 
      failures.
      "I will come," said Shadamehr, humbly.
      That left Valura, in the guise of Silwyth, standing on the ramp with the 
      Lord of Ghosts. The calm, serene face of hallowed death looked into the 
      hollow eyes of the hideous, rotting skull.
      "You cannot pass," said the Lord of Ghosts.
      Fear and despair filled the emptiness of the Void. Yet Valura did not 
      falter. She faced her fear. She faced the Lord of Ghosts.
      "You cannot stop me. Nothing can stop me," Valura said. "My lord wants me. 
      All this I did for love of him."
      "A love that dishonored you," returned the Lord of Ghosts sternly. "A love 
      that gave nothing and took everything. A love that fed on itself, fed on 
      you."
      "Nonetheless," Valura answered, staring straight into the cold and burning 
      light, "it was the only love I ever knew."



       9FOR MANY DAYS, RAVEN HAD WALKED ALONGSIDE LIVING DEATH IN the form of 
      the taan Vrykyl. Perhaps prolonged exposure to that horror inured him to 
      the terrible sights he witnessed in the ruins of Old Vin-nengael. Or 
      perhaps his years on the field of battle had hardened him. He felt cool 
      pity at the sight of the innocents who had died, but a warrior knows that 
      the god of war does not bother to differentiate between those paid to 
      bleed and those who stumble unwittingly into his clutches. Raven felt 
      nothing at all when he came upon the bodies of the unburied soldiers, 
      except to repeat the soldier's prayer in his heart, asking that he be 
      spared such a fate or, if he wasn't, that the god of war accept his spirit 
      anyway.
      He and K'let traveled a different route from the one taken by the Dominion 
      Lords. He and K'let did not take the ramp. They could see the others 
      climbing it, and K'let, with a gesture, motioned Raven to a stone 
      stairway. K'let ascended it, and Raven followed. He did not know his fate, 
      but he accepted it, made his peace with it.
      Their destination was somewhere at the top of the cliffs on which the city 
      had been built. Every time they halted, K'let turned his gaze in that 
      direction. Raven had no idea what was up there. He knew little or nothing 
      about the city. He'd heard tales of its destruction, but he couldn't 
      remember details. Cities under siege hold little interest for Trevinici 
      warriors. Proper battles are fought in wide-open spaces, with armies 
      charging at one another to meet with a resounding clash of arms. Flinging 
      flaming jelly on helpless people trapped behind walls is not a Trevinici's 
      idea of warfare.
      Whatever was up there, K'let was in a hurry to reach it. The taan climbed 
      swiftly and eagerly, using both his hands and feet to scale the crumbling 
      stairs. Lacking the Vrykyl's undead strength and endurance, Raven climbed 
      more slowly, with frequent stops to rest and catch his breath. He could 
      feel K'let glowering at him every time he paused, and since meeting the 
      taan's dead-eyed gaze was not pleasant, Raven forced himself to keep up as 
      best he could.
      They were about halfway to the top when Raven felt the touch on his arm 
      and heard the scream. He drew his knife, looked swiftly about. He saw 
      nothing. The hair rose in prickles on his neck. Trevinici do not tell 
      ghost stories. Their respect for the dead is too great, and Raven was not 
      one to give way to his imagination.
      "Cobwebs," he told himself, and continued on.
      The hands pushed at him and shoved him and tried to knock him off the 
      stairs. Their voices dinned in his ears, howled and shrieked so that they 
      nearly deafened him. He sought to ignore the unseen foe and continue 
      climbing, but he was falling farther and farther behind. The battle sapped 
      his strength. He gasped for breath. Every movement was a struggle. The 
      stair seemed endless, the mist-shrouded cliff top high above him.
      Raven collapsed, unable to go on. He crouched against the stairs, beating 
      at the unseen fists and feet, cursing and flailing at them.
      A hand closed over his arm.
      Raven gasped and shuddered and cried out in agony. The hand was the hand 
      of a Vrykyl, and its touch was the touch of the Void. The hand burned with 
      a dreadful chill that struck to Raven's heart.
      K'let's talons dug into Raven's flesh. Rivulets of blood trailed down 
      Raven's arm. K'let yanked Raven to his feet.
      Raven tried to jerk his arm free, but K'let's grip was strong, and Raven 
      could not break it.
      "Let go of me," Raven said through teeth clenched against the painful 
      burning of the Vrykyl's touch. "I can make it on my own."
      K'let's dark and empty eyes stared at him.
      "I can make it," Raven repeated. "The ghosts are gone."
      K'let stared at him a moment longer, then, with a grunt, he let go of 
      Raven and began once again to climb.
      Raven looked down at his arm. The flesh was a ghastly white in the imprint 
      of a hand. Raven rubbed it, to try to restore some color. He could not 
      feel his own touch, however. It was like touching the flesh of a dead man. 
      At least, he could still use his hands, and he used them to good purpose. 
      He climbed rapidly, fear lending him strength.
      If there were still ghosts around, they held no terrors for him. Not 
      anymore.
       



       10THE DRAGON OF THE VOID CIRCLED THE RUINS OF VINNENGAEL.
      He was enormous, the largest ever to walk upon Loerem, and he had been 
      here once before. Descending on the ruins of what had once been the proud 
      city of Vinnengael, the dragon had lifted the body of the monk of Dragon 
      Mountain from the rubble of the destroyed Temple of the Magi. The monk had 
      come to record the history of hubris and jealousy, treacherous ambition 
      and blinding pride, heartbreaking sorrow, noble self-sacrifice, and the 
      dragon had been sent to bring the dead monk home.
      Shredding the gray mists with his black wings, the dragon settled upon the 
      mountainous ruin that was all that remained of the Temple.
      The dragon of the Void was the eldest of his kind upon Loerem and the only 
      dragon wholly dedicated to the Void. How many years he had lived, not even 
      he could say, for the passing of the seasons meant very little to him. He 
      had been an elder dragon when King Tamaros was born. He had witnessed the 
      rise of Dagnarus as Lord of the Void. The dragon had watched the fall of 
      Old Vinnengael, had been the one to rescue the body of the monk from the 
      ruined city so that the history of the moment should be preserved.
      The dragon generally took no active part in mankind's affairs, except as 
      one of the five guardians of the monks of Dragon Mountain. The dragon of 
      the Void had little care for mankind, but he did find man's struggles as 
      he plodded along life's brief path to be an endless source of amusement, 
      thus he had agreed to become one of the dragons who guarded the recorders 
      of that struggle.
      Over the centuries, the dragon had watched another strugglean eternal 
      struggle, between the gods and the Void for the souls of man. The Void 
      dragon had watched the tide of battle ebb and flow, with now one side 
      coming close to victory and now the other. He thought it likely that 
      neither would ever win (or should ever win, as the elemental dragons were 
      wont to preach). Then Dagnarus looked inside the Sovereign Stone. He saw 
      the Void and embraced it. He claimed the Dagger of the Vrykyl. The Void 
      dragon was intrigued.
      He foresaw that Dagnarus's fire would not blaze up only to gutter out like 
      the fires of so many others before him, extinguished by vacuum of the 
      Void. The fire of Dagnarus needed no air. It fed on itself and it had the 
      potential to burn long and bright. Through him, the Void gained power, and 
      the dragon could actually envision a time when the Void might reign 
      supreme in the world.
      "The gods marshal their forces," the Void dragon warned Dagnarus, as the 
      Lord of the Void climbed down from the dragon's back. "They have sent 
      their champions to test you."
      Dagnarus laughed. "The gods only think they sent them. The champions come 
      at my behest."
      The Void dragon was troubled. "Do not trust your friends, Lord of the 
      Void. And do not underestimate your foes."
      "I have no friends," Dagnarus returned. "And my foes fall before me. This 
      day, the Sovereign Stone will be mine."
      "Eschew the Sovereign Stone," said the Void dragon contemptuously. "You do 
      not need it."
      "I do not need it," Dagnarus agreed. "But I want it. Farewell, Wise 
      Master, and thank you for bearing me to my destiny."
      The dragon was black as the Void that is the heart of the universe, around 
      which all the other elements revolve. In his eyes was the darkness that 
      surrounds the stars. Everything that is born, even the stars, must 
      eventually fall into that nothingness. There the gods waited, with hands 
      outstretched, to gather up the nothingness and cast it back into the 
      heavens, where it burst into suns.
      The dragon spread his black wings. Night fell over Old Vinnengael, so that 
      the mists were only felt, not seen. The rainbows had long ago disappeared.
      Yet, for a moment, the dragon paused.
      "Lord of the Void," called the dragon, as Dagnarus walked away, "what will 
      you do with the Sovereign Stone, when it is yours?"
      Dagnarus stood atop the mountain of ruin that had been the Temple of the 
      Magi. The rubble was unstable and shifted beneath his weight. He had 
      always possessed a feline's ability to keep his footing, no matter how 
      treacherous the path he walked, and he retained his balance.
      "I will bring peace to the realm," Dagnarus answered. "I will stop all 
      wars between all nations. I will put an end to strife, so that people 
      everywhere may prosper."
      "Your father's dream," said the dragon.
      "I will make it a reality."
      "Your father was told, when he was given the Sovereign Stone, to beware 
      the bitter center," said the Void dragon.
      "You forget," said Dagnarus with his charming smile, "that I was the one 
      who looked directly into that bitter center."
      "I do not forget," said the dragon. "But I think you have."
      The dragon spread its wings and blended with the darkness.
      "You are wrong," said Dagnarus quietly. Standing atop the ruin, he looked 
      around him and saw the destruction that his hand had wrought. He saw the 
      ghosts, rushing endlessly to their doom. He saw the ash and the rubble, 
      the corpses lying in the broken streets.
      "I never meant for this to happen," he cried to the gods, trying to pierce 
      the smoking mists, trying to see to heaven. "It would not have happened, 
      if you had given me what I was meant to have! I will take the gift you 
      gave my father, and I will do what you should have done!"



      Raven watched in wonder to see the handsome, richly dressed man slide and 
      scramble with catlike grace and surety among the ruins of what looked to 
      have been a Temple.
      "Who is that man?" Raven asked.
      "Ko-kutryx," said K'let.
      "Dagnarus? Your god?"
      K'let's lip curled. "Ko-kutryx," he repeated, and spit on the ground.
      Raven saw reflected in the Vrykyl's empty eyes the figure of the richly 
      dressed man, bold and fearless.
      K'let pointed at the man, then put his finger to his lips.
      Raven nodded. They were to follow this Ko-kutryx, go where he led them, 
      keep silent, not alert him to the fact that they were on his trail.
      Dagnarus walked with assurance toward his destination. Either he had no 
      thought of pursuit, or he had no fear. He did not bother to look behind 
      him. K'let rose to his feet and motioned Raven to do the same.
      "What of the four Dominion Lords?" Raven asked.
      K'let grinned broadly, chuckled in his throat, and shrugged.
      Dagnarus rounded the corner of the partially destroyed temple, one of the 
      few buildings still standing. K'let and Raven followed after him.
      The taan moved rapidly over the cracked and crumbling pavement, using his 
      toes and their long talons to grip the broken flagstones and secure his 
      footing. Raven had to be more careful, watch every step, for fear that a 
      stone would turn beneath his foot, causing him to slip and wrench an 
ankle.
      He did not have to worry about making noise that might alert the man they 
      tailed. The roar of the nearby falls was so loud that it was hard to think 
      over it. Raven risked one quick look, trying to see the waterfalls, but 
      the coming of twilight and the clouds of fog roiling up out of the chasm 
      into which the water plunged blocked his view.
      "In here!" said K'let, gesturing to the Temple.
      Raven judged that this had once been some type of holy site by the four 
      mandalas engraved on the marble blocks. This part of the building had 
      survived relatively intact, with only a few cracks in the walls and a 
      partially collapsed roof. This temple was similar in design to the Temple 
      of the Magi in Dunkar, only much, much larger and far more magnificent.
      Raven did not feel comfortable in temples. The gods of the Trevinici were 
      gods of the trees and the earth, the sun and the moon and the stars, the 
      water and the fire and air. There were gods of life and gods of death and 
      war. Such gods did not reside inside stifling walls, were not held 
      prisoner beneath domed ceilings or locked up behind gates.
      As Raven moved deeper into the ruins, his unease increased. He had no 
      light. Apparently K'let needed none, for he forged ahead without pause, 
      following the sound of Dagnarus's boots echoing hollowly through the empty 
      corridors. Raven stumbled along as best he could, bumping into things and 
      making a racket.
      K'let growled and muttered, hissed at him impatiently to keep up. Raven 
      did the best he could, but at one point, he tripped over something and 
      lurched forward. He thrust out his hands to stop his fall. His fingers 
      touched cold, smooth stone, and he was face to face with a grinning skull. 
      Realizing in horror that he fallen headlong into a tomb, Raven scrambled 
      out as fast as he could move. He was not one to believe in omens, as did 
      the orks, but he couldn't help wondering with a shudder if this was not 
      some sort of portent. Perhaps the tomb into which he'd fallen was his own.
      Gritting his teeth, Raven stumbled after K'let.



      Only twice before had Dagnarus walked the corridor that led to the Portal 
      of the Godsthe first time the night he'd met his brother there and the 
      second time when he'd come there in a futile search for the Sovereign 
      Stone.
      The first time, he'd found the Portal easily. The second, he'd searched 
      for it for many weary days. The Portal was not some grand chamber, as 
      might have been expected, but a small monk's cell located in a part of the 
      Temple that was out of the way, not easily found. At last he had found it, 
      or it had found him, he wasn't certain which. This time he knew exactly 
      where he was going. He had committed the route to memory.
      He also remembered to bring a lamp, for the Portal was in a part of the 
      Temple shrouded in darkness. The lamplight guiding his footsteps, Dagnarus 
      walked the silent corridors and the empty halls. He paused once, hearing 
      footsteps and a scrabbling sound, as if someone had fallen.
      "The Dominion Lords," he said to himself, smiling, "stumbling along in my 
      wake. They bring the Sovereign Stone to me, in the Portal of the Gods. At 
      long last, the fulfillment of a dream."
      He wore the black carapace that was the armor of the Void, and now he 
      called upon the Void to remove its protection. Let the Dominion Lords come 
      armored and accoutered to the teeth. They would find him in his traveling 
      cloak and silken doublet. He had no fear of them. Let them attack him, 
      stab him, cut off his head, poison him. They could do all that and more, 
      kill him thirty times over. He had but to kill each of them once.
      Confident, at ease, Dagnarus knew he had reached the Portal when the light 
      of his lamp shone upon the skeletal remains of his whipping boy, Gareth.
      The bones lay huddled in a heap at the base of a wall in a corridor that 
      led to the Portal. The back of the skull was crushed. The smear of blood 
      that trailed down the wall was still there, clearly visible. The sight of 
      the blood irritated Dagnarus, for it called to mind Gareth's murder one 
      of Dagnarus's life-long regrets. There had been no need to kill Gareth. 
      The fact that Dagnarus had done so, acting out of jealous rage, was a 
      lapse in judgmentmarked him as petty, weak, and vengeful.
      The sight of the bloodstain brought back too many memories memories of 
      Gareth, memories of childhood. Those brought memories of his father, and 
      those brought memories of Helmos. Dagnarus felt himself tumbling down a 
      well of memories.
      "The first thing I will do, once I have the Sovereign Stone, will be to 
      wash away that blasted stain," Dagnarus promised.
      Gareth had died close to the small cell that was the Portal of the Gods. 
      Dagnarus tried to see inside, but failed. He stepped over Gareth's body, 
      held the lamp high, to illuminate the room.
      The chamber had the appearance of a monk's cell, small and win-dowless, 
      quiet and plain, furnished with a bed, a desk, and a chair. Dagnarus felt 
      a sharp disappointment. This was not the chamber he remembered.
      His was a careless mind, which did not recall details wellwith one 
      exception. He could recall every single detail of that final meeting with 
      his brother Helmos. He could recall every detail about the Portal of the 
      Gods.
      "An enormous chamber," Dagnarus said, flashing the light about the room. 
      "With no walls beneath the dome of heaven. The dome was empty, yet the 
      emptiness was filled with light. In the very center the Sovereign 
      Stonethe quarter piece of the Sovereign Stonesparkled bright against the 
      radiant light, as the evening star shines at sunset."
      Only his brother stood between him and his greatest desire.
      His brother stood alone.
      Helmos's expression was grave, serious. The light that shone in the Portal 
      shone in his eyes.
      "All this is your fault," Dagnarus told Helmos. "If you had given me what 
      should have been mine, none of this would have happened. I will finally 
      make it right, but you will never know the pain this has cost me.
      And so I say, damn you, Helmos. Damn your soul to the Void, as mine has 
      been damned all these years. These empty, hollow years . . ."
      He stood holding the lantern, looking into the small room with four walls 
      and a ceiling and a bed, a chair, a desk.
      "When I get rid of the stain, I'll get rid of this Portal, too," Dagnarus 
      vowed. "I don't need an avenue to the Gods. If the gods want to speak to 
      me, they can come to me. I'll raze this temple, raze the palace and all 
      that's left standing in this horrible place. I'll build a new city here, 
      my own city. I'll rid this place of its ghosts."
      As Dagnarus took a step toward the Portal, a pale, ephemeral figure rose 
      up from the bones on the floor.
      "My prince." Gareth's spirit bowed, but when Dagnarus tried to move past 
      the ghost, he found his way blocked.
      Gareth looked in death as he had looked in life. He wore the black robes 
      of a Void sorcerer. His face was marred with the birthmark that inspired 
      Dagnarus to nickname him "Patch."
      "I want to go in, Gareth," said Dagnarus. "Stand aside."
      "I am not keeping you out, Your Highness," said Gareth.
      Dagnarus flicked a glance past the spirit into the Portal. Shrugging, he 
      turned carelessly away. When he had the Sovereign Stone, he would enter. 
      Or maybe he wouldn't. After all, what would be the need?
      "Have you done as I commanded? Are the Dominion Lords coming? Do they 
      bring with them the four portions of the Sovereign Stone?"
      "Yes, Your Highness," Gareth replied.
      "I am king, now," said Dagnarus sharply. "King of New Vinnengael."
      "Yes, Your Majesty," Gareth replied. "I'm sorry. I am accustomed to the 
      old way of speaking."
      "Never mind," Dagnarus muttered. "You can call me what you want. The other 
      sounds funny when you say it."
      "Thank you.Your Highness."
      Dagnarus paced the narrow corridor, his hands clasped behind his back, his 
      gaze going to that annoying smear of blood on the wall.
      "Will it take them long?" he demanded, rounding on Gareth. "I never liked 
      waiting. You know that."
      "The way for them is difficult, my lord," said Gareth. "You remember"
      "I remember too damn much." Dagnarus stared, frowning, at the blotch on 
      the wall. "I am sorry for that, Patch," he said abruptly.
      "Sorry for what, my lord?"
      "For . . . this." Dagnarus touched the bones with the toe of his boot. 
      "You served me well for many years. You tried to warn me what would happen 
      if I defied the gods. Perhaps I should have listened to you, Gareth. What 
      do you think? Should I have slunk off like a whipped pup, my tail between 
      my legs? Should I have lived out my days in the small, mean room of my 
      brother's charity?"
      "I do not know, Your Majesty," said Gareth, quietly.
      "Neither do I, although sometimes . . ." Dagnarus turned his head. "Is 
      that you, Shakur?"
      The Vrykyl emerged from the shadows of the narrow corridor. "I have been 
      trying to talk to you, my lord"
      "You've been trying to talk to me.Valura's been trying to talk to me!" 
      Dagnarus made an impatient gesture. "I can barely hear myself think for 
      all the yammering in my head. Well, you're talking to me now. What is it 
      you want?"
      "I found out what happened to Klendist and his command."
      "What in the name of the Void makes you think I give a damn?" Dagnarus 
      demanded impatiently.
      "He ran afoul of K'let."
      Dagnarus fell silent. Having no orders to the contrary, Shakur went on.
      "I told you about the tribes of taan camped near Old Vinnengael. I do not 
      know for certain what happened, for there were no survivors, but my guess 
      is that Klendist and his men found the taan and decided to raid their 
      camp. Unfortunately for them, one of the camps turned out to be K'let's."
      "So K'let is near here" Dagnarus murmured.
      "K'let is very near, my lord," said the taan. "K'let stands before you."
      "Gareth, Shakur, now K'let. This place is getting crowded. Shakur, leave 
      me."
      "Never, my lord!" Shakur protested.
      "I said leave me, Shakur. Go find out what is keeping those Dominion Lords 
      and my Sovereign Stone."
      Shakur cast a glance of loathing at the taan. "K'let has brought someone 
      with him, my lord. A human warrior." Shakur motioned to the shadows.
      "I can handle K'let and his human," Dagnarus said. "Shakur, you have your 
      orders."
      Sullenly, the Vrykyl stalked off. Dagnarus placed the lamp on the floor, 
      near Gareth's outstretched, dead hand.
      "Come closer, K'let, so that I can see you. Unless you are afraid of me."
      "How many times have we fought together, Ko-kutryx?" K'let asked, striding 
      forward. He retained the image of a taan warrior, a proud taan warrior. 
      The scars of his triumphs mottled his white hide. He did not wear the 
      armor of the Void. He wore the armor that the taan fashioned in their 
      homeland, armor made of bone and hide and sinew. "In all those times, did 
      you ever know me to be afraid? Even my last battle, was I afraid, 
      Ko-kutryx? When you stabbed me, did I flinch or cry out?"
      "No, K'let," Dagnarus answered. "You did not. Of all those who served me, 
      you were the best, the most courageous. We might have been brothers, you 
      and I. And that is why your treachery hurt me, K'let."
      "My treachery!" K'let hissed the words in taanic. "What of your treachery, 
      Ko-kutryx? What of the five thousand taan who fought your battles and gave 
      you victory after victory. Death was their reward. And what of the rest of 
      the taan you have brought to this godless land? Will death be their 
      reward, as well?"
      "I promised"
      K'let pointed a taloned finger. "You have promised much, Ko-kutryx! And 
      all that we have seen of that promise is death!"
      "Are you listening to yourself, K'let?" Dagnarus asked in contempt. "You 
      whine like a slave! I brought the taan to this fat land. I gave the taan 
      their pick of females and strong food. The taan have grown rich with 
      slaves and steel armor and weapons. Your bellies and your waterskins have 
      always been full. Your children have grown into powerful warriors. Yes, 
      many taan have died, but what better fate for a warrior than death in 
      battle? What fate does he want?
      "You did yourself and your people a disservice when you defied me, K'let. 
      I would have made you powerfula king in your own right. I would have 
      given the taan all the land and slaves they wanted and strong food for 
      every meal. All that and more, I would have done for you, K'let," said 
      Dagnarus. "If you had not betrayed me."
      K'let was silent, pondering.
      "I did not know, Ko-kutryx," K'let said at last. "You are right. A 
      warrior's fate is death. To be taken by the gods . . ."
      "One god, K'let," Dagnarus interrupted. "I am the god of the taan."
      "You are the god of the taan, Ko-kutryx," said K'let. His clenched fingers 
      relaxed, his twisted scowl eased. "I am sorry I spoke as I did. I came 
      here intending to ask for your forgiveness, to be taken back into your 
      favor. Anger ran off with my tongue. Will you forgive me?"
      "I will," Dagnarus said. "And now, if that is all, you have leave to go. I 
      will have orders for you later. You are dismissed."
      He turned to Gareth. "Where are the Dominion Lords?" he demanded.
      "Soon, Your Majesty," said the whipping boy. "Soon."
      Dagnarus frowned. "If you have failed me, Gareth . . ."
      "I have not, my lord."
      "Ko-kutryx," said K'let, thrusting himself forward. "To prove my loyalty, 
      I have brought you a gift."
      "Very well," said Dagnarus, frustrated and impatient. "What is this gift?"
      "Him," said K'let.



      Raven stood in the shadows of the strange place and tried to make some 
      sense of what was going on. Worn-out by his long and exhausting climb, he 
      was confused by the darkness and the maze of corridors. He had come 
      suddenly out of the darkness into the daunting presence of Dagnarus, Lord 
      of the Void, and Raven was shaken to the depths of his soul.
      Raven had heard of Dagnarus from Dur-zor, who had once worshipped him, 
      until Raven had told her of his gods. Even though she said she believed in 
      all that he believed in, Raven still suspected that Dur-zor had not quite 
      given up her worship of her Ko-kutryx. Standing before him, Raven could 
      understand why.
      Raven was a military man, and he judged all men in those terms. He knew, 
      at once, that here was a born soldier, a born commander. Dagnarus was not 
      a god, but he was a man whom other men might follow to the Void and back.
      To the Void. That old saw held new meaning for Raven. This Dagnarus had 
      given his soul to the Void. He owed his power and his long life to the 
      Void. The handsome, strong, commanding man who faced down K'let and, with 
      a snap of his fingers, brought the terrifying taan Vrykyl to heel, was 
      Lord of the Void.
      Raven shrank back among the shadows, and asked himself, "What am I doing 
      here?"
      He had been able to follow the conversation between Dagnarus and K'let. 
      The taan spoke taanic. Dagnarus spoke Elderspeak, his native tongue. Even 
      if Raven had not been able to understand, K'let's fury transcended mere 
      words. Raven admired K'let's temerity, but he didn't think defying this 
      Void lord was very wise. Raven was vastly surprised that Dagnarus did not 
      blast K'let to the ground. The two appeared to mend their differences. 
      Raven was thinking that this was the end of the matter, it would be time 
      to go. And none too soon.
      And then K'let said, "I have brought you a gift."
      Raven understood the taan word for "gift." He did not understand, at 
      first, that the word applied to him. He found this out when K'let grabbed 
      hold of his forearm and gave it a yank that nearly tore his arm from the 
      socket.
      K'let dragged Raven forward, flung him in front of Dagnarus.
      The Lord of the Void cast Raven a bored glance. "A fine specimen of a 
      Trevinici, K'let, but at the moment I have all the barbarians I need."
      "You do not have all the Vrykyl you need, Ko-kutryx," said K'let. "This 
      R'vn is a valiant warrior, an excellent commander. He has taken a bunch of 
      useless half-taan and transformed them into warriors as skilled and 
      valiant as himself. I know your loathing for Shakur. I know that you think 
      he has outlivedso to speakhis usefulness. Here is a fine replacement. 
      Accept this xkes and make of him a Vrykyl. I will deal with Shakur, if 
      such is your command."
      Dagnarus disliked waiting, disliked uncertainty. He was beginning to grow 
      angry at the delay. He wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. The fact 
      that he couldn't have it meant that situation was not entirely under his 
      control. Here was K'let, where he had no business being. The Dominion 
      Lords were not here and neither, for that matter, was the Portal of the 
      Gods.
      "Any sign of the Dominion Lords, Patch?" Dagnarus demanded.
      "My lord, you must be patient" Gareth began.
      "Oh, shut up," Dagnarus snapped. He eyed Raven, who stared at him, 
      stupefied. Dagnarus needed something to do. He needed to show he was 
      master. Reaching beneath his cloak, he removed the Dagger of the Vrykyl.
      Shaped like a dragonwith the blade the body, the hilt the head, the 
      crosspiece the wingsthe Dagger was an object of revulsion and horror.
      "You are right, K'let." Dagnarus grasped the dagger firmly. The hilt had a 
      strange way of conforming to his touch, nestled securely in his grip, 
      almost as if it were alive. "I am sick to death of Shakur's whining, his 
      insubordination. I need a new commander of the Vrykyl. This man is a 
      soldier. Where did you serve, sir?"
      Raven stared at the commanding figure, and he stared at the dagger.
      "I was a captain in the Dunkar army, my lord," Raven managed to reply.
      He had to try twice, to moisten his mouth enough to force out the words. 
      He did not know what was going on, but he sensed danger. He glanced 
      swiftly around, searching for some means of escape. Every Trevinici knows 
      that there is a time to fight and a time to run for your life. This was 
      assuredly the latter.
      The Lord of the Void stood in front of him and beyond him was a 
      cul-de-sac, a dead end, nothing but a small, windowless room. The way 
      behind was blocked by K'let, and the walls of the corridor blocked Raven 
      in on either side. He glanced down at the corpse of the murdered man, and 
      his throat constricted.
      "You see, Gareth," Dagnarus was saying. "This man is accustomed to 
      obedience. Look at him. He guesses he is about to die, yet you see no 
      panic, no groveling or pleading. He searches for a way out. He sees none. 
      His hand goes to his sword. I fought the Trevinici in my youth, Raven. 
      Your people gave my poor father fits. Doughty warriors, all of your kind, 
      the women as strong and fierce as the men.
      "I would very much like to have a go at you, Raven, soldier to soldier," 
      Dagnarus concluded, "but I do not have time. I am expecting guests."
      He raised the dagger.
      "Do not do this, Your Majesty," Gareth warned. "He is not of the Void!"
      "Nonsense, Patch," Dagnarus scoffed. "This human lives among the taan! 
      Isn't that what you said, K'let?"
      "True," K'let replied. "He lives among the taan much as you did yourself, 
      Ko-kutryx. R'vn has even killed his own kind in defense of the taan."
      "There, you see, Gareth? I'm going to kill you, Captain," Dagnarus told 
      him. "Your death will be quick, painless. I am going to make you like 
      K'let here, a Vrykyl. Only I hope that you will have more sense than K'let 
      and not try to defy me."
      Raven understood his fate. He was to become a thing of evil, an 
      abomination to the gods. He would be cursed by every living being, cursed 
      by the honored dead. His soul shriveled within him. Fear seized hold of 
      him, blind panic. Raven gasped and shuddered. He raised his gaze, saw the 
      dragon-headed dagger poised above him.
      "Hold him, K'let," Dagnarus ordered. "I must strike to the heart."
      K'let reached out his hands. Seizing hold of the Dagger of the Vrykyl, 
      K'let wrenched it from Dagnarus's grasp.
      Raven lunged sideways, careened into the wall. Smashing against it, he 
      nearly knocked himself senseless. Dazed, not certain what had happened, he 
      slid to the floor. Beside him lay the corpse of the murdered man. Feeling 
      a strange sort of companionship with him, Raven slumped down next to the 
      shattered skull and the outstretched bony hands and kept as quiet and 
      still as the corpse itself.
      "This time, K'let," said Dagnarus, cold with rage, "there will be no 
      forgiveness. I will send your soul to the Void! Give back the Dagger!"
      "My prince," said Gareth, coming to stand between Dagnarus and K'let, as 
      he had once stood between Dagnarus and Helmos. "Let it go. You do not need 
      the Dagger. You have the Sovereign Stone."
      Dagnarus looked into the dome of heaven and there, standing beneath it, 
      were the four Dominion Lords, armored in silver, armored in light, armored 
      in the blessing of the gods. Around each neck, resting against each heart, 
      was a quarter of the Sovereign Stone, bright against the radiant light, as 
      the evening star dims with the sunrise.
       



       11THE DOMINION LORDS STOOD BENEATH THE DOME OF HEAVEN and looked up into 
      the stars and the endless and eternal darkness that bound the stars 
      together, and they knew themselves to be very small and yet very large, 
      for they were made of the stars and of the darkness.
      An elderly man stepped out of the darkness and the stars. His face was 
      benign, his eyes wise. The stern lines of arrogance and willful pride that 
      had once creased the mouth had been softened. He was royal as his 
      portraits had portrayed him, yet more frail, more vulnerable. He had cast 
      aside all trappings of his kingshipthe crown, the robe, the scepter. He 
      had cast off his human body. He was, as we all are at the end and the 
      beginning, a child of the gods.
      The Dominion Lords knew Tamaros, knew him in their souls, and they did him 
      homage, each in his or her own way. He spoke, and they answered, but the 
      words were silent as the emptiness that lies among the stars.
      "Captain of Captains," said Tamaros, "Child of Dunner, Lady Damra and Lord 
      of Seeking. I would say that you have fulfilled the oath I once asked of 
      each bearer of the Sovereign Stone, but I know now that the oath I asked 
      and the oath your forebears sworesome falsely, some under constraint, 
      some without true understandingwas not mine to ask. As the Sovereign 
      Stone was not mine to give."
      "Then why did the gods give you the Stone?" asked Shadamehr.
      "I do not know, Lord of Seeking," said Tamaros. "Sometimes I think I was 
      meant to keep it secret, keep it safe, use it to work small increments of 
      good where and when I could. Sometimes I think I was meant to know myself 
      well enough to refuse it."
      "Yet you must know, Your Majesty. The Church says in death we are given 
      all the answers."
      Tamaros smiled. "They are wrong, Lord of Seeking. In death, we are given 
      more questions, as many questions as there are stars. It is our privilege 
      to roam the universe in search of answers, and it is then we come to know 
      what the gods know, that there are as many answers as there are stars and 
      that each answer leads only to more questions. The blessing is that in 
      death, we do not fear eitherthe questions or the answers.
      "When the world was first made, the gods fashioned creatures in the images 
      of themselves to place upon the world and care for it and prosper and 
      thrive. Orks, elves, humans, and dwarves lived together in the world, 
      existing in harmony as the elements themselves exist, Air and Water, Earth 
      and Fire. Content, the people lived from day to day, but they did not 
      thrive, the world did not prosper.
      "On that world were two brothers and two sisters, one of each race, much 
      as yourselves. The gods gave to the four a jewel of such radiant, dazzling 
      beauty as none of them had ever seen. They all immediately wanted the 
      brilliant gem for their own. The four, who had once loved each other as 
      siblings, fell to quarreling over it. Their love turned to hatred, so that 
      they could not stand the sight of each other. Each determined, in his or 
      her own heart, to take the jewel and leave his siblings, use the jewel to 
      establish his or her own kingdom. In the night came each brother and each 
      sister and stole away the Sovereign Stoneor thought they did. In reality, 
      each took only a portion of the Stone. Each sibling moved to a different 
      part of the realm. When the jewel was split, the interior was revealed and 
      thus did discord and disharmony, enmity and hatred, sorrow and death enter 
      the world."
      The four Dominion Lords could not look at Tamaros, and they could not look 
      at each other. Each knew, with shame, that he or she was a part of the 
      story.
      "True, the jewel had a bitter center," said Tamaros, "but each portion of 
      the stone gleamed and sparkled, and rainbows danced within. Only now the 
      siblings could see them, where before they had been blind to the beauty. 
      Death opened their eyes. Realizing that their time was brief, they came to 
      enjoy what time they had and to value it. With sorrow came hope. With 
      death, came life.
      "The gods took back the Sovereign Stone. Once more after that, they sent 
      it into the world, but that is another story. Then I asked for it and it 
      was given to me and whether I did right or wrong, only the gods know. And 
      now I ask you, what will you do with your portion of the Stone."
      "I know the answer," said Shadamehr. "I give it to my brother."
      He held out the portion of the Sovereign Stone in his hand.
      "And I," said Damra, holding out hers.
      "And I." "And I," said the Captain and Wolfram.
      Within the Portal of the Gods, beneath the dome of heaven, each brought 
      the four portions of the Sovereign Stone together. The four parts formed a 
      pyramid of radiant light, beautiful, sparkling, dazzling, gleaming with 
      myriad rainbows. Bright as a sun, the Sovereign Stone shone, and each 
      Dominion Lord withdrew his hand.
      The Sovereign Stone fell to the floor of the Portal of the Gods, the floor 
      that was hard and cold and stained with blood. The Stone shattered, broke 
      again into four pieces.
      "Why did that happen?" Shadamehr demanded.
      "Because you forgot the bitter center," said Dagnarus.
      Accoutered in his black armor, which had been forged in his soul to fit 
      his body, the Lord of the Void entered the Portal of the Gods, his steps 
      quick and firm, his hand on his sword hilt. He wore no helm. He looked 
      then much as he had looked two hundred years before, when he had last 
      entered this dome. His auburn hair, thick and carelessly arranged around 
      his face, brushed his shoulders. His handsome face was smiling and certain 
      of his victory.
      "Thank you all for coming," he said. "And for bringing the Sovereign 
      Stone. My friend, Gareththat's his corpse you see, lying on the floor 
      did his job well.Valura, my dear, I do not like you in that guise. The 
      traitor Silwyth is dead, finally. Let's have no more of him."
      The facade of Silwyth rippled, as on still water. The ripples, faded away. 
      The form of a Vrykyl, clad in black armor, emerged from the shadows and 
      came to stand beside Dagnarus.
      And then he saw his father.
      Dagnarus retained his smile, but his eyes were suddenly watchful, wary.
      "If you have come to stop me, Father . . ."
      "I would stop you, if I could," Tamaros said. "But not perhaps for the 
      reason you think. I cannot raise my hand to you. I cannot touch you. My 
      mortal body lies at rest. I cannot move you, my son, save only with my 
      prayers."
      "And it's late for that, Father," said Dagnarus. "The one prayer you 
      should have prayed, you didn't. The prayer that I had never been born."
      Dagnarus reached down to pick up the glittering portions of the Sovereign 
      Stone. A sword blade struck the stone floor near his hand, nearly severing 
      his fingers. Dagnarus snatched back his hand, looked up.
      "And who might you be, sir?"
      "I am called Shadamehr. And my hand can touch you."
      Shadamehr had no armor. He wore his usual clothes and his traveling cloak, 
      now much stained with wear, mud-spattered and wet. Dagnarus looked from 
      him to the three Dominion Lords, their armor shining in the lambent light 
      of the flickering stars, and he laughed.
      "What's the matter, Baron Shadamehr?" said Dagnarus. "Could the gods find 
      no human Dominion Lords to come to challenge me? Or did they all die of 
      mold and mildew along the way?"
      "Strangely enough, I am a Dominion Lord," Shadamehr replied. "I know. 
      Surprised me, too. I didn't want it, mind you. I didn't ask for it. The 
      honor was thrust upon me, so to speak. But," he added, more gravely, 
      "since the gods have chosen me as their champion, I will intervene on 
      their behalf. The Sovereign Stone cannot be yours. It was never meant to 
      be yours or any man's."
      "And you are going to stop me from claiming it?" Dagnarus said. He drew 
      his sword. "I should warn you, Baron, that I have more lives than the 
      proverbial cat. You will need to kill me forty times over to stop me."
      "Well, then, I guess we had better get started," said Shadamehr, taking 
      his stance.
      Dagnarus faced him, but he could not take this contest seriously. His gaze 
      was drawn by the Sovereign Stone that glittered at his father's feet.
      Shadamehr watched his opponent's eyes and, taking advantage of his 
      distraction, lunged to strike Dagnarus.
      The Lord of the Void, armored in the Void, did not shift his rapt gaze. 
      There was no need. As Shadamehr's sword hit the black armor, the blade 
      splintered, broke apart. Shadamehr dropped the sword's hilt, all he had 
      left of the weapon, and clutched his hand. His palm was covered with 
blood.
      Smiling, Dagnarus reached down to pick up one quarter of the Sovereign 
      Stone.
      "He will not be able to touch it," cried Wolfram hoarsely. "The gods will 
      stop him."
      "No they won't," said Dagnarus. "They can't."
      Grasping the portion of the shining Stone that Shadamehr had carried and 
      Bashae before him and Lord Gustav before him, Dagnarus gazed at the jewel 
      admiringly, turning it this way and that to see it sparkle in the 
      starlight. Then he thrust it into his belt and reached for the next part.
      Wolfram stood over the Sovereign Stone, his sword in his hand. His twin, 
      Gilda, stood before him, her shield raised to defend him.
      Dagnarus struck the shield with his sword. The blow sliced it in half. 
      Dagnarus ran his sword through her.
      Gilda fell, the bright light of her spirit fading. Crying out in grief and 
      rage, Wolfram attacked Dagnarus.
      The Lord of the Void plucked the dwarf's sword from his hand and crushed 
      it in his grasp. He dropped the dust onto the dying Gilda.
      Reaching down, Dagnarus picked up the second part of the Sovereign Stone.
      Damra caught up the elven part of the Stone, held it tightly in her hand.
      "My sword was given to me by the Divine and was blessed by the Father and 
      Mother," she said, facing the Void lord without fear. "I may not be able 
      to slay you, but I can unravel the foul magic that holds you together long 
      enough for me to retrieve that which you have stolen."
      "I do not steal," said Dagnarus. "I take back what is mine. And you can do 
      your damnedest, Lady, but I will have the Sovereign Stone."
      "My lord, she speaks the truth!" Valura cried out. "Her weapon is holy and 
      will do you harm! Do not go near her."
      "Be gone, Valura," said Dagnarus impatiently. "I am finished with you. 
      Trouble me no more."
      He feinted a lunge, then, shifted his blow, striking at Damra's sword in 
      an attempt to knock it from her hand.
      Damra was not fooled by his maneuver. She was ready for his attack and, 
      deftly, she dodged him. The shining blade that had lain for seven years 
      upon the altar of the Father and the Mother slid through the black armor 
      of the Void and pierced to the dust that had once been a beating heart. 
      But the armor was not Dagnarus's armor. The heart was not his heart.
      Valura threw herself in front of her lord, took the blow meant for him. 
      The blessed sword filled the Void that was her soul. Valura gave a 
      strangled scream. Her body writhed in agony.
      Damra fought to wrench her sword free, but Valura wrapped her hand around 
      the blade and held it fast, though that meant holding the terrible blade 
      within herself. With her other hand, she grasped hold of the Sovereign 
      Stone, tore it from Damra's grasp.
      The black armor vanished, revealing the grisly remains of what had been a 
      woman, beautiful and vibrant. Valura shed no blood, for that had been 
      drained from her long ago. Leathery skin stretched taut over her bones. 
      Her hair, ragged and long, flowed over her mummified remains. Moving with 
      pain-filled effort, Valura reached out her ghastly hand, reached for 
      Dagnarus.
      He drew back from the horrible touch, stared with loathing at the rotting 
      corpse.
      "Dagnarus," said Valura. "I am dying . . ."
      "You are already dead," he cried. "And I wish to the gods that I had never 
      brought you back to life. I have long learned to hate the very sight of 
      you!"
      "Not me," she whispered, a whisper that was almost all that was left of 
      her. "Yourself."
      She crumbled, dwindled, withered to ash, a heap of ash that fell to the 
      floor. Dagnarus reached into the dust of the dead, plucked out the eleven 
      Sovereign Stone. Last to face him was the Captain of Captains.
      "Your grandfather sought to try to convince my father to slay me," said 
      Dagnarus. "He saw what none of the others could see. He saw what I would 
      become."
      "It would have been better if he had killed you then," said the Captain. 
      She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, the Sovereign Stone in one 
      hand, her blade in the other.
      "There are moments, Captain," said Dagnarus, "when I reach the same 
      conclusion. Give me the Stone. For the sake of your wise grandfather, I do 
      not want to harm you."
      "For the sake of his wisdom, I give you the Sovereign Stone," said the 
      Captain. Bowing her head, she lowered her sword and held out her hand.
      All four parts of the Sovereign Stone were his in the Portal of the Gods, 
      beneath the dome of heaven. Dagnarus stared down at them, the prize he had 
      sought all his life, two of the parts of the jewel sparkling in his left 
      hand, two in his right.
      Exulting in their beauty and his triumph, he brought the four pieces 
      together. He remembered, as he did so, the moment that his father had 
      split the sacred Stone. Tamaros saw only the beautiful, radiant rainbows. 
      Dagnarus had looked into its heart and seen the darkness. He did not see 
      the darkness now. He saw only the rainbows. He brought together all four 
      pieces.
      One by one, they slipped from his grasp and fell to the bloodstained and 
      dusty floor.
      Angrily, Dagnarus bent down to retrieve what he had lost.
      "Beg pardon," said Shadamehr politely. "Those belong to us."
      He kicked Dagnarus in the teeth.
      The black helm of the Void shielded Dagnarus from harm, but the force of 
      the unexpected blow sent him staggering backward.
      "The Void take you!" he cried, and tendrils of oily black swirled from his 
      fingers, crawled toward Shadamehr . . .
      Toward twenty Shadamehrs. Damra's magic peopled the corridor with 
      Shadamhers. Dagnarus glared furiously from one to another, his own deadly 
      magic coiling about him. He pointed at Damra.
      Cracking like a whip, a tendril snaked out, grasped Damra around the ankle 
      and dragged her off her feet. Another curled around her neck, tightening, 
      choking, and her illusions vanished. Damra writhed on the floor, tearing 
      at the tendril to try to free herself, but the tendril was made of the 
      Void. She grasped at nothing, yet nothing was killing her.
      Shadamehr made a leap for her.
      "Stand clear!" cried the Captain.
      She swung her sword, which had been forged in the holy fires of Mt. Sa 
      'Gra. The blessed weapon severed the Void, freed Damra. With the downward 
      stroke, the Captain sliced off Dagnarus's outstretched hand.
      Dagnarus laughed for he assumed the Void would protect him. But Valura's 
      dying warning proved true. The blessed weapon had the power to harm him. 
      He saw his hand lying on the floor, the fingers upturned and curling in on 
      themselves, the red blood pooling around the severed limb.
      Then the pain hit, and the fury. He reared up. The Captain plunged the 
      blessed sword into his chest.
      The weapon pierced the black breastplate, slid through the Void, but it 
      could not reach his heart. One of the many lives he had stolen, perhaps 
      that of Valura or Shakur, perhaps that of the wretched Jedash or one of 
      the countless others, died for him.
      Using his left hand, Dagnarus plucked the sword from his body and, 
      grasping it tightly, he squeezed it in his hand. The metal began to glow 
      red, as if it were once again in the forge fire, and the sword dissolved, 
      flowed into a silvery pool at the feet of the Lord of the Void.
      The portions of the Sovereign Stone lay together in a pool of blood. His 
      severed hand crawled toward the pieces of the Sovereign Stone, leaving a 
      gruesome trail behind.
      The fingers of the severed hand could touch the portions of the Stone, but 
      only touch. The four parts would not come together.
      "One part is still missing," said Gareth.
      "What part is that?" Dagnarus demanded, pain making him angry. He clasped 
      his wounded arm to his body, glared down at the bloodstained crystals. 
      "There are four here. My father split it into four."
      "He split it into five. The fifth part, I gave you. I gave it out of love, 
      though it cost me my soul."
      "Speak plainly, Patch," said Dagnarus. "No more riddles. I had enough of 
      those during those damned Tests I took for a Dominion Lord." He paused, 
      drew in a breath. "That's the answer! You didn't want me to take the 
      Tests. You tried to stop me by bringing me a dagger.
      "K'let!" Dagnarus ordered peremptorily. "Give me the Dagger of the 
Vrykyl."
      There was no reply.
      Dagnarus turned to look into the darkness that massed at the edges of the 
      dome of heaven. K'let stood in the shadows, the dragon-shaped dagger 
      clasped tightly in his hand.
      "K'let," said Dagnarus, "I forgive your treachery. I will make you a king. 
      Bring me the dagger."
      Slowly, the taan walked forward. He did not wear the armor of the Vrykyl. 
      He kept the guise of the taan that he had been, his pallid hide roped with 
      scars, the claws on his feet scraping the stone, his face unreadable to 
      those who saw only its bestial snout and fangs and small, alien eyes.
      But they were not empty, those eyes. Not empty as the eyes of a Vrykyl 
      should have been empty. The life had not completely drained out of them.
      Only one person in the room saw the shadow in the taan's eyes. Raven, 
      huddled against the wall, his soul shrinking as he watched spirits of the 
      dead walking, spirits of the murdered speaking, husks of the dead dying. 
      The darkness was too deep for Raven to see Dagnarus, the light too bright 
      for him to see the Dominion Lords. He could see K'let, however. He had 
      come to know K'let in their long journey together. Raven saw the shadow, 
      like smoke drifting over still, dark water.
      K'let came to stand before Dagnarus. K'let held out the Dagger of the 
      Vrykyl, held it in his palms, the blade resting on one hand, the hilt on 
      the other.
      "You were different from the others, K'let," said Dagnarus. "You alone 
      gave your life to me willingly. You alone had the will to rebel against 
      me. I have always said that we were brothers."
      "So you did," said K'let. "And you killed your brother."
      Clenching his hand over the hilt of the dagger, the taan drove it with all 
      his strength into Dagnarus's breast.
      The taan gave a hideous cry as the Void shredded him, tore him apart, 
      ground his flesh and bone into nothing. All that remained of him was his 
      skull, bestial, alien. Grinning.
      Dagnarus stared down at it and, at first, it seemed he might laugh. But 
      then he felt the pain. Understanding, swift and terrible, came to 
      Dagnarus. K'let had buried the dragon-shaped dagger deep. The accursed 
      blade, sharp as hatred and bitter as jealousy, pierced the black armor. 
      The Dagger cut through all his lives in a single slice to find the last 
      life, Dagnarus's own, buried at the bottom.
      Dagnarus slumped to the floor, crouched on his hands and knees above the 
      four shards of the Sovereign Stone.
      A spasm of agony made him clench his teeth, but he did not scream or cry 
      out. Grimacing, he clasped the hilt of the Dagger and, with a gasp, 
      wrenched it free.
      Blood spewed from the wound, flowed over the four parts of the Sovereign 
      Stone. Dagnarus, his hand shaking, placed the Dagger in the center. He 
      began to gather up the pieces of the Sovereign Stone, one by one.
      "My son."Tamaros came to stand beside the shuddering body of his dying 
      child. "The gods are merciful. They are loving of their children, and they 
      understand their weakness."
      "Like you, Father?" Dagnarus struck at the spirit, tried to banish it. 
      "Patch!" he gasped, blood trickling from his lips. "Patch, come to me!"
      Gareth came to him, stood over him, looked down on him.
      "You promised me the god's greatest gift," Dagnarus said accusingly.
      "The gods hold it out to you. You have only to ask for it, as I did."
      Gareth knelt beside Dagnarus, looked into the eyes of his prince. "The 
      gods' greatest gift is forgiveness."
      Dagnarus raised his gaze to the dome of heaven. "No," he said defiantly. 
      "You will ask forgiveness of me. For I have .. . the Sovereign Stone."
      Grasping the four parts of the Sovereign Stone in one hand, he jabbed the 
      Dagger of the Vrykyl, wet with his life's blood, into the heart of the 
      jewel.
      The Sovereign Stone began to glow, its light at first pale and chill, then 
      growing stronger, brighter, more radiant, shining with the aching 
      brilliance that was the mind of the gods. The pure fire illuminated 
      Dagnarus, so that for an instant he was ablaze with argent light. And then 
      the darkness consumed him.
       



       12ONE SPOKE.
      The Dominion Lords were too awed to be able to put their feelings into 
      words.
      Raven was too shaken.
      Shakur was too busy assessing his situation.
      The Vrykyl had overheard the conversation between Dagnarus and K'let. 
      Shakur knew Dagnarus meant to banish him to the Void. Shakur might have 
      stopped K'let from slaying Dagnarus, but he chose not to. Expecting to 
      fall into the Void with his master, Shakur was astonished to find himself 
      still here.
      He did not know why, except that the Void was always.
      Astonishment gave way to pleasure. The Dagger of the Vrykyl was gone. He 
      remained. He had the Blood-knife, made from his own bone. He could 
      continue to use it, continue to steal souls, continue his existence, an 
      existence he hated, but one that might come to be bearable.
      "For now I have no master," said Shakur. "No one to order me about, to 
      tell me to go hither or do this. I am free to go where I please, do what I 
      choose. Other Vrykyl are out there. Other Vrykyl who, like me, are now 
      masterless. They will need a leader and who will they look to, now that 
      their lord is gone, but to me."
      Shakur had long had plans of his own, plans that he could now put into 
      action. The Vrykyl was not as ambitious as Dagnarus. Shakur had no desire 
      to rule the world. He had other, more modest goals. Shakur slid into the 
      Void, became one with the darkness, and left before the Dominion Lords 
      could find him.



      The Dominion Lords looked into the dome of heaven, saw only a ceiling made 
      of wood covered over with plaster, a small room furnished with a bed, a 
      desk, a chair. A single candle, burning with an unwavering flame, stood on 
      the desk. The open door led out into a corridor. The Captain, with a 
      shrug, turned and, ducking her head, walked out the door.
      Wolfram started to follow, then he stopped, paused, looking for Gilda. He 
      could not see her and he knew then that he would never see her, not until 
      he joined her to run with the Wolf. But she would always be with him. 
      Sighing, smiling he walked out alone.
      Raven retraced his steps down the dark corridor, hoping to avoid talking 
      to anyone. He couldn't move very fast, however, for he had no light, his 
      body was bruised and aching, and he was trembling with the reaction to the 
      overwhelming and mind-numbing sights he had witnessed. He had not gone 
      very far, therefore, when he heard heavy footfalls clumping behind him.
      "Wait up, Raven," called out Wolfram.
      Raven came to a halt, turned around.
      The dwarf had found an oil lamp. He flashed the light in Raven's face, 
      then on his own. "It's me, Raven. Wolfram. Didn't you recognize me?"
      "I didn't," Raven lied. "I'm sorry."
      "Probably that silver armor I was wearing," said Wolfram, looking 
      embarrassed. The armor was gone, replaced by the dwarf's own comfortable 
      traveling clothes. He looked quizzically into Raven's face. "What are you 
      doing here, anyhow?"
      "It's a long story," said Raven. "And one that I don't have time to tell. 
      It is good to see you again. I wish you a safe journey."
      Raven started off down the dark corridor.
      "Hey, wait! "Wolfram said, doggedly pursuing him. "You're alone.You don't 
      have a light. Do you know the way?"
      "No," said Raven. "But I'll manage."
      He kept walking, and so did the dwarf.
      "Where are you going?" Wolfram asked.
      "Back to my people."
      "Back to Trevinici lands, huh." Wolfram grunted. "Well, good luck to you."
      "Thank you," said Raven. He wasn't going back to Trevinici lands, but the 
      dwarf didn't need to know that. "What about you?"
      Wolfram could see that the Trevinici was trying to get rid of him. He 
      slowed down, halted.
      "I'm going back to my people," he said, startled to find out that was his 
      destination. He hadn't known it until the words came out. He felt the need 
      of some explanation. "I'm a Dominion Lord. The only one they've got."
      Raven didn't understand, but he nodded. "Good luck to you," he said, and 
      went on his way.



      Damra waited for Shadamehr, who was aimlessly poking and prodding, looking 
      at the bed, peering into the desk and underneath the chair.
      "Lord of Seeking," she said. "Truly a wise choice for you. What do you 
      seek now?"
      "I don't know. Some crumb of the Stone, maybe. Left behind by accident."
      "I don't think you will find one," she said.
      "No. I suppose not." He sighed, stood up. He looked at her, his expression 
      somber. "The Sovereign Stone is gone. That makes me the last of the 
      Dominion Lords."
      "Then you must be a good one," said Damra gravely. "And live for a very 
      long time."
      "Two of the Vrykyl are gone, but one escaped," said Shadamehr. "I saw it 
      disappear into the shadows, just before the light faded. They are still 
      out there, and who will fight them?"
      "The power of the Void has diminished, but it will never be vanquished. 
      Nor should it, as Tamaros said. That is the lesson we have learned."
      "I suppose you're right," said Shadamehr. He gave another look around. "I 
      wonder who will be given the Sovereign Stone again."
      "Let us hope it is someone wiser than we have been," said Damra.
      "Or more foolish," said Shadamehr with a mischievous grin. "Where will you 
      go now, Damra?"
      "To find Griffith. We must return to Tromek, take up the battle against 
      the Shield. What about you?"
      "I'll find Alise. Or rather," Shadamehr amended cheerfully, "she'll find 
      me. We always seem to, you know. Find each other. It's the knowing what to 
      do with each other that is the hard part."
      He looked out the room and into the darkness, an emptiness that was yet 
      filled with possibilities. He thought at last he was beginning to 
      understand, if only just a little.
      "The throne in Vinnengael is vacant," suggested Damra, half-teasing, 
      wholly serious. "Perhaps you will be king someday?"
      "The gods forfend!" said Shadamehr, alarmed at the thought. "Being a baron 
      is trouble enough. Perhaps Alise and Ulaf and dear old Rigiswald and I 
      will go help the Captain take back her sacred mountain. Or maybe we'll go 
      hunt down these Vrykyl. Or come help you and Griffith fight the Shield."
      "Thank you," said Damra firmly. "But I think we can manage."
      "Well, if you're sure . . ."
      He took one last look about the room, the Portal of the Gods. Then, 
      bending down, he started to blow out the candle.
      "No," said Damra, stopping him. "We are meant to take it with us."
      Shadamehr lifted up the candle, carried it out the door, and shut the door 
      behind him. Turning around to look, he saw only darkness.
       
      EPILOGUE
      IT IS A TEMPTATION FOR THE CHRONICLER TO END THE journeyings of our heroes 
      with this momentous event and pronounce that they lived happily ever 
      after. The truth is that the journey of their lives did not end here, but 
      continued on, albeit in directions that none of them could have 
      anticipated. Their lives were forever changed by the Sovereign Stone, and 
      that is the fate of the hero.
      Raven returned to the taan, bearing with him the story of K'let and how he 
      had sacrificed himself to prove that Dagnarus was not a god. The taan were 
      skeptical and more than inclined to think that Raven was lying and were 
      ready to slay him. The shaman, Deri, confirmed the truth of Raven's story, 
      however, as did the taan Vrykyl Nb'arsk, who had witnessed much of what 
      had happened through the Blood-knife. Instead of being tortured and slain, 
      Raven was formally proclaimed a taan and accepted fully into the tribe. 
      From that day forth, no taan ever referred to him as xkes.
      Klendist reported to the authorities that a Trevinici had turned traitor 
      and was living with the enemy, with the result that the Karnuans and the 
      Dunkargans both put out bounties on Raven's head. In order to find peace, 
      Raven eventually led his tribe of taan and half-taan back through the 
      Portal to the taan's ancient land, a harsh and brutal and savage realm, 
      where the taan gods were glad to welcome their lost children home.
      Having defeated the taan, the Karnuansbeing in a martial mood turned 
      their steely eyes on weakened Vinnengael, floundering about without a 
      king. The officers of the Imperial Cavalry School in Krammes, alerted by 
      Baron Shadamehr, acted quickly to establish order in the city of New 
      Vinnengael. They reinforced the border and took back the Portal at Delak 
      'Vir. The Karnuans, disappointed, decided instead to pounce upon weakened 
      Dunkarga, which they did. Wolfram returned to the dwarven lands, where he 
      joined the clan of Kolost, whose fame and glory and great deeds spread 
      across the dwarven nation like lightning-struck fire, which would soon 
      engulf the world.
      Damra and Griffith returned to Tromek to do battle against the Shield, a 
      struggle that was long and terrible, for the Shield allied himself with 
      Shakur and several remaining Vrykyl. Before it was finally finished, the 
      battle extended even into the realm of elven dead. One of Damra's first 
      actions, on returning to her land, was to ensure that House Kinnoch was 
      once more restored to a place of honor among the elven Houses.
      Bashae was laid to rest in the burial mound that held the body of Lord 
      Gustav. The pecwae joined the ranks of the honored Trevinici dead and, to 
      this day, when the great warriors of history are summoned to aid the 
      living, Bashae takes his place proudly alongside the likes of Ale Guzzler, 
      Skull-Basher, and Bear-Mauler.
      Although Jessan had no liking for cities, he found the life of a farmer 
      too dull for his taste, and he was persuaded to travel with a group of his 
      fellow Trevinici to Nimorea, where he served as a mercenary with the army. 
      While there, he renewed his friendship with Arim, the kite-maker, andso 
      it is rumoredoccasionally performed secret missions for the Nimorean 
      Queen.
      Ranessa swore Jessan to secrecy regarding the fact that she was a dragon, 
      for it would never do for the Trevinici to know that they had 
      inadvertently reared a dragon child in their midst. (They would have been 
      deeply suspicious of their own children ever after.) Ranessa never 
      returned to the Trevinici. She remained at Dragon Mountain and eventually 
      took over guardianship of the monks upon the death of her mother.
      The Grandmother found life intolerable on her return home. The pecwae were 
      so glad to see her and so grief-stricken over Bashae that she could not 
      stand the weeping and wailing. Taking her newly made agate-eyed stick, the 
      Grandmother bid them all good-bye and departed in search of her sleep 
      city. She never returned, and no one ever discovered what became of her.
      As for Shadamehr and Alise, the -where and how of their eventual marriage 
      was never known, for he would only laugh heartily whenever it was 
      mentioned, at which Alise would fly into a rage and refuse to speak to him 
      for days on end. They apparently loved as heartily as they quarreled, 
      however, for the barony was soon overrun with red-haired children. Though 
      how they found time to either create them or raise them was a mystery to 
      their friends, for they were either off in Tromek assisting the elven 
      cause, or getting themselves nearly killed fighting with the orks to 
      liberate Mount Sa 'Gra, or working with the Council of Dominion Lords to 
      establish new guidelines for their continuation in the absence of the 
      Sovereign Stone, in which the baron, as the new head of the Council, took 
      a very interested and active part.
      Last, it is a great temptation for the chronicler of this history to write 
      that the downfall of Dagnarus caused those who had been responsible for 
      his defeat to be honored as heroes throughout Loerem. The truth is that 
      most of Loerem's people were so intent upon living their own lives that 
      they soon forgot the Lord of the Void and those heroes who had sacrificed 
      so much to stop him.
      Which, as the Captain, in her wisdom, pointed out, is as it should be, for 
      returning life to the living is the goal of the hero.
