James A. West

The God King

Chapter 1

With a crackle of thunder, a nacreous veil flashed into existence over the large granite basin, casting the chamber in a cold dead light. Prince Varis Kilvar stifled a fearful shout as the rumbling peal faded, replaced by demonic howls that burst through the luminous shroud and soared into the murky heights of the ancient temple’s domed ceiling. A shiver crept over his shaven scalp, rippled the muscles of his lithe figure, as those perverse cries slithered and crept over rotten stone with mindful purpose. Only a deep and abiding hunger rooted him to the spot, that which had first compelled him to journey to this wretched place. Fighting waves of dread, he waited and watched.

Rising from pale, dripping slime that covered the floor and walls, the moist reek of ancient death permeated the stuffy air. The gloomy vault of decayed stone was no place for the living. He glanced fully at the basin, which an ancient tome named the Well of Creation. The tattered book claimed that within the basin’s depths, waiting eons for someone to claim it, lay a source of power greater than any mankind had ever imagined … a power never meant for mortal hands. Old books said many things, some false, some not, but the woman of spirit, her voice heard clearly within his mind, had affirmed the tome’s claims.

Ignoring the unclean noises still eddying through the stagnant air, Varis edged closer to the Well of Creation. Long had he waited and planned for this moment. Moreover, he had driven cold steel into the beating hearts of more than one magus in order to safeguard his secret ambition. All the while, he had mistakenly believed the nameless temple and its lost treasure would be a thing of beauty, majesty. Instead, he found darkness and decay. No matter. He would not flee. He would take what he had come for, what was his.

A figure shifted under the veil, a vague outline of some … thing.

Varis swallowed nervously, unable to keep his hand from reaching out. His fingertips came within a hair’s breadth of brushing across the malformed face pressing up against the underside of the iridescent shroud. The lumpen features turned, slowly, drawn to the living warmth of his flesh. The creature’s toothless maw gaped wide and, at the last possible moment, just as those misshapen jaws abruptly snapped shut, Varis jerked back, lips curled in disgust.

Frantically scrubbing his hands together, it crossed his mind that the tome had not mentioned anything other than the Well of Creation resting within the lost temple, certainly nothing about a shimmering veil, or a demonic host lurking beneath it. But then, neither had that ratty volume mentioned the woman of spirit, she who had filled his head with grand visions of what he would become.

As if drawn by his thought, the woman’s voice filled the temple. “You stand at the threshold between two worlds, where no man ever has before.”

Varis flinched, eyes wild and searching, but finding nothing he had not already discovered. He had not heard the woman since he departed Ammathor. Yet, like a barbed hook gouged into the ethereal flesh of his spirit, her promises had pressed him into the company of uncouth warriors, dragged him across countless and searing leagues of desert, deep into a vast swamp, and finally here, to this place, this temple that held within its befouled core the key to his destiny.

“You stand within arm’s reach of all you desire,” she went on, as always her tone enticing beyond all reason, “yet you hesitate. Have you reconsidered my offer, Prince of Aradan?”

Prince of Aradan. Coming from her that title sounded more like a mockery than an honorific. Varis continued to search the shadows. Besides himself and a rat sharing a corner with a great spider on its web, there was nothing living within the temple. He could not see her now, and never had, but her presence pressed hard against his being, more so than at any other time since she had first spoken to him in the deepest subterranean reaches of the Hall of Wisdom.

“I assure you,” the spirit woman added in a low purr, “if you take what I freely give, you will gain boons greater than any man has ever imagined for himself.”

“Is your gift a blessing … or a curse?” Varis asked the spectral voice.

He had thought long and hard on the journey about just what she promised: power unchecked, absolute domination of friend and foe … immortality. Yet he was no fool. Niggling doubts remained. If her gift was a blessing then why had no others ever taken it in hand? Why had the knowledge of the Well of Creation been hidden away until it was forgotten and lost, save a single shred of evidence that he had chanced upon in an obscure book? What dangers awaited him, should he take what she offered?

Another face bulged under the veil, this one of angular features and long, ragged fangs. A fresh chorus of malevolent cries filled the dim chamber. Like wet tongues, those voices crawled through the shadowed temple, eagerly wriggled over Varis, seeming to savor the taste of his skin.

She spoke again. “If you were but a crofter who preferred grubbing in the muck to sustain your existence, then my gift would be wasted on you, a bitter curse. Yet your beating heart sings to me the song of unquenchable desire, a longing for supremacy. For you, Prince of Aradan, what I offer is the highest blessing you will ever receive. Freely accept what I give … and the power of gods will flow through your veins.”

Varis’s pulse quickened, but he tempered his eagerness. Life at the king’s palace had taught him that free gifts were often rife with hidden dangers and strings.

“These tortured creatures,” he said, sweeping his palm over a crablike shape, “were they once men who learned too late their folly of trusting a … a voice in the night?”

Cool feminine laughter raised a rash of gooseflesh over his skin. “Do these abominations look like men? No,” she answered for him, “of course not. These were never human. They are the Fallen, the mahk’lar, the children of the Three. They are, Prince of Aradan, what men name demons. I admit, the meaning of that word is fitting.”

Varis’s stomach clenched violently at her revelation, despite that she had spoken casually of the Fallen, as if such were of no matter. While the knowledge of the existence of the Well of Creation might have been all but lost, the Fallen were a source of nightmares and countless dark tales.

“Why are they here?” Varis asked, unable to hide the quaver in his voice. “It is taught that the Three imprisoned their first children in Geh’shinnom’atar, the Thousand Hells.”

“So they did.”

“But if this is the Well of Creation, then….” Varis’s unspoken question dwindled away.

Her silence lingered, weighing on him, before she finally spoke.

“When the Three learned that the evil of their children was growing too great to control, they destroyed them and imprisoned their spirits within the Thousand Hells. As a penance to their own creator, Pa’amadin, the Three made a race of gentler beings-mortal men-who are but weak creatures forced to rely upon their limited wit and the pathetic strength that rests in their limbs.

“As a final act of contrition, the Three devised the Well of Creation and forsook their own power-a choice that ultimately led to their demise. The veil you see before you is the manifestation of that collected power, all that remains of the Three. Since that time, those energies have served as the capstone to Geh’shinnom’atar, ensuring that the Fallen remain imprisoned.”

The Three are dead? Other than ceremonial acts, Varis had never been overly pious, but the idea that the Three, who were worshipped in Aradan and most southern realms as living gods, were in truth dead, shook him to his core. It took no imagination to understand that the unveiling of a secret such as that would destroy much, from the halls of power down to the common man.

His mind awhirl, Varis cautiously asked, “And who are you?”

Her rising laughter filled the chamber, even as the cries of the demonic spirits abruptly grew still. “I am the Precious One of the Three, Prince of Aradan, their very first and greatest creation. I am a being of spirit, made wholly in their image. In the beginning, I was free to explore the mysteries of the universe, but after my creators made Geh’shinnom’atar and destroyed the flesh of the Fallen, Pa’amadin created a means to cleanse the taint of sin from the wretched souls of men-this, so that he might enjoy their pure and childlike presence in Paradise. He forced that task of refinement upon me, and bound my spirit to the Thousand Hells. Only the smallest ways can I reach beyond my realm.”

She paused, letting her words wash over Varis, then went on.

“Men, in time, with all their emerging wisdom,” she said in a sardonic tone, “deduced my purpose and named me Peropis, Eater of the Damned. As the sins of men are my meat and wine, my title is accurate. Pa’amadin’s curse-an unrighteous punishment contrived simply because I was the first and strongest creation of his own wayward children-is that I must sup upon the poison of men’s souls before they join him. In his twisted judgment it is better that I, alone, though innocent, should be condemned for the sanctification of many.”

The hatred in her words seared Varis, but his dismay had nothing to do with her ire. That he stood in the presence of the Fallen horrified him, but having Peropis in his mind was another trouble entirely.

The temple walls seemed to be closing in, and the scant light was fading, wrapping him about like the bindings of a death shroud. He struggled for breath, began backing away. All thoughts of ruling an empire fled his heart, and the glory that awaited the one who wielded the power of gods was but a pathetic dream in the face of dealing with a being steeped for eons in the essence of absolute evil.

Before he could flee, Peropis spoke in calming tones. “No matter that children’s tales claim I ride the winds of midnight storms in search of innocent flesh to devour, I cannot don the mantel of my own living flesh, for I am and have ever been a being of spirit. Geh’shinnom’atar is my home, and the world of the living is denied me by the power of Pa’amadin. Rest easy, Prince of Aradan, for terrorizing mortals has never been my desire.”

After a few more halting steps, Varis drew up short. Peropis, by her own admission, would never trouble him, nor desired to.

“If I accept your offer,” Varis asked, “will I become as a god?”

“Indeed,” Peropis answered without hesitation.

“And what do you gain?”

“Vengeance,” Peropis growled.

“Against whom?”

“Pa’amadin.”

Varis mulled that for a time, then decided that a war between gods was nothing to him.

“Tell me what I must do,” he said, failing to hide his eagerness.

“You must prove yourself. Your worth must be tested, Prince of Aradan. And, too, your strength. The human weakness of your spirit and mortal flesh must be stripped away. You must come to me-into Geh’shinnom’atar. I will devour your failings, replace them with an indomitable spirit and incorruptible flesh. I will make you immortal.”

“And if I should fail this test?” Varis asked, cautious again.

“If you were so weak,” she declared, “I would not have drawn you to me.”

Drawn you to me? Varis bit back an acerbic response. Without her, he had found the ancient tome, with its secrets about the Well of Creation. Without her, he had gleaned from its ancient writing what holding such power would mean for him. Only after he had found the tome, and murdered the few doddering fools who had unknowingly guarded that secret knowledge, had Peropis made herself known to him. In truth, she had come to him like a beggar hoping for a morsel?

Or has she controlled my actions from my very birth? a speculative voice asked.

“I grow impatient,” Peropis warned. “For long ages have I waited for the birth of one as strong as you, a man after mine own heart … someone on whom I can bestow the powers of gods. Come to me, now, and take what I have held safe.”

I will be as a god, Varis thought again. His heart fluttered with anticipation. As if from a dream, a few words written in the tome drifted to the forefront of his mind, words meant as a warning, but were to him a promise: Within the Well of Creation are hidden powers to remake a man into a creator and a destroyer, the ruler of all.

Varis edged closer to the crumbling granite vessel, halting when his thighs pressed against the cool, rough surface. Distantly, he noted that the temple floor shifted with the sound of cracking stone. It was nothing to him, a trifle far, far away. He glided his palms over the rim, careful to keep from dragging his fingers across the shimmering membrane that held in check the creatures below it-the Fallen, the mahk’lar.

“Come to me,” Peropis urged. “Pass through the veil, my prince. This day, gods will die in men’s hearts, and another will rise. Come to me.”

Pushing aside all his inborn caution, Varis plunged his hands into the undulating shroud of silvery, blue-white radiance. His eyes widened as the fluidic barrier between two worlds closed over his wrists with an icy grip. The veil grew brighter with every beat of his thudding heart, bathing his stunned features in a frosty glow. The demonic howls climbed to a fever pitch. At the same instant, a column of blue fire burst from the Well of Creation, melting the flesh from his bones. Before his smoking corpse could fall, misshapen hands caught hold of his charred skeleton, and dragged it into Geh’shinnom’atar.

Chapter 2

With an irritated growl, mercenary Kian Valara hurled his dagger at a mossy tree several paces away. The blade flashed end for end and struck the trunk with a loud thud. On either side of the quivering blade hung two halves of the same leaf. The satisfaction of a fine throw did not lessen his frustration with his charge, Prince Varis Kilvar. Highborn fools of any land, he concluded for the hundredth time that morning, were barely worth the gold they paid for his services. And Varis was the worst of the lot he had ever had the misfortune of guarding. Of course, if he had trusted his instincts, he would not be idling about in the swamp.

His first experience with Varis was at a clandestine meeting in Ammathor’s most sordid district, the Chalice. The prince, a whip-thin, somewhat snaky youth who was too pretty by half, had been vague about his destination, saying only that he would pay a king’s ransom for protection along a secret journey. As to how his absence would be explained, Varis assured Kian that he would deal with the issue. Against his better judgment, Kian had obliged. Gold, after all, spoke with a powerful voice, especially when just half of what Varis had promised was enough to buy a throne in Kian’s homeland of Izutar.

After the company set out from Ammathor, the princeling ordered a fast march due west across the Kaliayth Desert. Varis’s continual study of the horizon at their backs told Kian that he feared the House Guard would come riding after them, no matter his assurances to the contrary. But after three days with no pursuit, the prince had relaxed, and so did Kian.

Afterward, Varis kept himself aloof, not uncommon for an Aradaner noble in the presence of men of lower birth, especially Izutarians. Such was something that used to anger Kian, but he had learned to take an Aradaner’s veiled insults and haughty manner as easily as he took their gold. Broad, brutish smiles and the occasional grunt ensured his employers never suspected that he loathed them as much as they loathed him. Still, crossing leagues of sun-baked rock, sand, and scrub with a prince in tow, had worn thin Kian’s practiced brutishness. Of smiles, he had none left to give.

The prince had spoken little, save to inquire about their daily progress. What angered Kian was that Prince Varis had purposely kept back the tidbit that they would ultimately journey to Qaharadin Marshes-a vile swamp avoided by all but madmen and desperate firemoss hunters. In this, the fool boy’s secrecy had made Kian’s task more difficult. Each mission required different preparations, men, and skills, but the prince had only grudgingly allowed that he desired to travel abroad in the kingdom. And so had Kian prepared, assuming Varis wanted to sow his seed throughout Aradan. Such a mission as that would have been simple, even boring.

Yet now, far from Ammathor and days deep into the vast border swamp between Aradan and Falseth, Kian and his company were standing about like fools, getting eaten alive by a thousand unnamed insects, stewing in their own foul sweat, all while the middling prince of Aradan investigated some rundown temple of unknown origin.

The temple-and how the prince had led them to it-had stirred an initial curiosity, but Kian was fast reaching his boiling point. Highborn or no, gold or no, he’d had enough of this farce. It was past time to take the princeling back to Ammathor and deposit him into the care of his family.

“A fair throw,” Hazad said, dismissing his captain’s anger out of hand. Bigger in girth and height than Kian, and ugly as ten sins, Hazad smirked behind his wild black beard braids. “I, however, could have done better.”

“Then do so,” Kian invited.

In mock astonishment, Hazad’s dark eyes flew wide as he slapped his palms around the leather belt girding his trousers. “Seems I’ve misplaced my dagger.”

“Use mine,” Azuri said with a wry grin. From a finely tooled leather sheath at his belt, he drew a blade as beautiful as it was sharp. The dagger suited his cold, handsome features. In carriage and dress, Azuri was more a foppish lordling than a hardened mercenary, but Kian had seen many a lout back down from the fair-haired Izutarian after taking a closer look into his flat gray eyes. Those poor fools who had mistrusted their instincts had suffered, greatly.

Hazad’s gaze lifted from the dagger to the owner, unfazed by Azuri’s troubling stare. “Your dainty knife would snap with the force of one of my throws,” he boasted. “Besides, I’d hate to mar the blade with sap and force you to carry something so tarnished.”

As he tucked the weapon back into its sheath, Azuri said to Kian, “Rest assured that yours was a marvelous throw. As for this unruly cur, he is more likely to make a eunuch of himself than toss a dagger in the right direction. Better to place a cudgel in his hand, and hope he does not batter in his own head with it.”

A wide grin split the unruly plaits of Hazad’s beard. Without a word, he hawked and spat. Azuri squawked in outrage and leapt backward, nearly losing his footing in the swamp’s pervasive mud and moldering leaves. “You son of a poxy whore!”

Hazad retorted with a mocking grin. He was the only man Kian had ever seen who could put Azuri out of countenance-and the only man who had no fear of doing so.

Kian could not suppress a smile. As often as the two squabbled, and as different as they looked from one another, they were, with himself included, as close as brothers. The two had stood fast beside Kian since they were but starving urchins trying to survive in an enemy’s city. Izutarians all three, they had suffered the same plight as many children during the aftermath of the war between Izutar and Falseth. The conflict went badly for Izutar, a disorderly nation made up of dozens of rival kings with no loyalties to one another. That disharmony led to the enslavement of many thousands of his people. Izutarian parents with honor, believing that starving free was better than dying in chains, sent their children away to fend for themselves. And so, lost half a thousand leagues from the icy steppes and forested mountains of Izutar Kian, Hazad, and Azuri had found each other in the wild streets of the Falsethian coastal city of Marso. Back then, stealing food and keeping clear of slavers had been their greatest concerns. Their fortunes, guided from the beginning by Kian, had eventually changed.

Now Kian’s companions offered strong and deadly arms in keeping wealthy charges safe. Commanding a mercenary company was not an endeavor that garnered fame and glory, but it served Kian and his men well enough. These days, more than ever.

As dark times had come to Izutar, now suffered Aradan, the greatest kingdom since the fall of the Suanahad Empire. As Izutar had been, Aradan was torn as much from within as from without. With new rebellions rising almost daily, and powerful nobles often standing against the Ivory Throne itself, as well as the danger of the nomadic Bashye clans, and Tureecian raiders from the south, there was more than enough trouble to keep all three men awash in gold.

While Hazad and Azuri settled into a deeper argument, Kian retrieved his dagger. After wiping off the sap, he armed sweat from his brow. The sun had been up a mere two hours, and already the day was sweltering. But then, nights in the swamp were hardly cool in comparison. Insects of all shapes and sizes droned in the marsh’s green shadows, lighting upon exposed skin to feast on sweat or blood. Just the sound of them was enough to make his flesh itch and crawl. With equal abandon, snakes and lizards slithered or scurried through high boughs and underfoot. Unnamed beasts screamed and howled in the steamy, verdant reaches. All around, birds called and flitted in colorful flashes, but of the sixty-man company of saffron-robed Asra a’Shah mercenaries Kian had hired for this mission, he saw not one. Like the dark-skinned folk of Aradan, the lethal men of Geldain were more accustomed to sand and stone and sun than dripping marshes. Despite this, they blended effortlessly into the foreign landscape.

Kian forced himself to wait for the prince to find whatever he was looking for, all the while thinking about escaping back to the arid wastes of the Kaliayth Desert-a harsh wasteland in its own right, but far better than the swamp.

Swatting a host of midges away from his face, Kian turned to study the stone temple, a domed building of unusual, even remarkable design. It might have been beautiful at one time, but now its pitted surface was covered in vines, creepers, and witchmoss. Dampness and invading roots had crumbled its stones, giving it the look of an ancient, slumbering beast stricken with leprosy. Towering trees obscured most of the sunlight, but a few rays filtered down, and the temple’s grim surface seemed to writhe with green and gold shadows.

Kian upended his waterskin, took a long swallow, then let the lukewarm stream dribble over his sun-darkened brow and cheeks to his broad chest. Next he wetted his long, dark hair. While not wholly refreshing, the water did cool him, a little. He and his companions had never returned to their icy homelands after escaping Marso, but at the moment he wished he were there, hunting frosted evergreen forests. Maybe after Varis was safely back in Ammathor they could ride that way, see about making new lives for themselves. By day they would hunt, and by night they would gather friends and family around the hearth fire, recounting their exploits. Yes, that sounded like a fine plan.

With a resigned sigh, Kian abandoned daydreams of the future, and called Hazad and Azuri to his side.

“Tell me what you saw in the temple,” Kian said to Hazad.

The man shrugged. “Same as you. Crumbled stone, moss, rats.” Sensing the deeper question, he added, “As to anything temple-ish, there was nothing, save maybe that crusty bathtub Varis was so interested in. Far as I’m concerned, that useless vessel would barely serve as a privy pot.”

Kian looked the question at Azuri, who repeated the assessment, though it seemed to pain him to agree with Hazad.

Kian glanced anew at the temple. “If none of us saw anything of worth or interest, what is keeping Varis so long? He has been inside at least an hour, perhaps longer.”

“I cannot speak to what he has found that is so appealing,” Hazad said. “But the boy is a strange one, even among Aradaner highborn. All he seems to speak of-when he talks at all-are the lost glories of Aradan, and what could have been had the right men sat the Ivory Throne. I suppose that old book he is always reading from has filled his head full of nonsense. More a scholar than a prince, I say. Worse than a Master of Wisdom of the Magi Order, or a Sister of Najihar. No one should read so much. Bad for the eyes.”

Azuri shook his head. “Pa’amadin grant that your willful ignorance remains your curse alone.” Before Hazad could respond, Azuri said, “Yet about Prince Varis, you have a valid point. The youth seems to have more interest in the forgotten kings, than becoming a king himself.”

“The princeling is far down the line of succession,” Hazad countered. “King Simiis may not be long for the world, old as he is, but Varis’s father, Prince Sharaal, is hale, as are Varis’s brothers. There is no reason the boy should worry overmuch about sitting the Ivory Throne for a good while, if ever. For that matter, I’d say no one is worried about him sitting the throne, given that he was so easily able to take his leave from the king’s city.”

“It is never foolish to prepare for the throne when you are of royal blood,” Azuri said ominously, using his dagger to clean his already immaculate fingernails. “The days are dark in Aradan, and growing darker. Who can say who will stand and who will fall, lowborn or high?”

Kian ran a hand over his still dripping hair. “We need not worry over the dealings of kings and princes of Aradan. Our only task is to see the princeling safe back to Ammathor, and there collect our due.”

Hazad nodded in agreement, but Azuri pressed on. “We tasted war with our mothers’ milk, and as boys supped on the meat of suffering and want. As I recall, neither flavor was sweet. Aradaners, to the last, can rot in the Thousand Hells for all I care, but I will keep a wary eye, and guard against the chance of getting caught up in their rivalries. If that means worrying over the dealings of highborn, in order to know when best to leave this realm, so be it.”

Kian silently vowed that he would not get dragged too deeply into Aradan’s strife. To his mind, he and his friends had earned the right to avoid this kingdom’s brewing troubles, even if they had collected the spoils of those troubles for many years.

“If the prince wants to stay here for a time, very well,” Kian said, “but we need to make sure he has not broken his fool neck, or been bitten by a viper-I daresay a dead prince is an unpaying prince.”

With Hazad and Azuri striding along at his flanks, Kian moved toward the temple. They were a score of paces away from the entrance when the earth shuddered with a low, almost inaudible groan. The trio halted, legs spread for balance. All around, hidden Asra a’Shah called out in alarm. From shaking trees, birds took to the sky in a discordant thunder of beating wings. When a stronger tremor hit, the shaking rumble of grinding stone filled the dank forest and threw the men to their bellies. Through a shifting screen of falling leaves, Kian saw a gaping crack spreading across the closest temple wall, and the domed roof was sagging inward, ready to collapse.

“To the prince!” Kian bellowed.

Before anyone could react, Kian was up and running, each stride precarious on ground that was no longer firm. He had not taken three steps when a blast of azure fire burst through the top of the dome and roared skyward. Those flames melded into a solid column, searing away hanging boughs. A heartbeat later a nearly invisible wall of something like air burst from the temple and sent Kian soaring. A single strand of blue fire, no thicker than his little finger, flicked out of the temple and crawled over him. At its touch a searing cold heat cut through the very fiber of his being, sank deep into his bones. All thought and awareness was blasted away, leaving only agony. Kian began screaming.

Chapter 3

Each of the four sides of Fortress Krevar’s outer wall measured a full mile in length, were a hundred paces thick at the base and tapered to twenty paces wide at the top, and stood over a hundred feet above the dusty floor of the Kaliayth Desert. At one time those walls had been a symbol of the distant Ivory Throne’s power and wealth. Now, with the extended absence of gold from Ammathor’s coffers, those walls were showing the signs of neglect, becoming an omen of Aradan’s looming demise.

Atop the Sister’s Tower, rising another hundred feet above the wallwalks, Sister Ellonlef Khala sat in a simple wicker chair enjoying the last of the cool breeze left over from the night before. For years, she had climbed the spiraling stairs before each dawn to collect her thoughts and prepare for the coming day. Over those years, she had come to understand that Aradan was suffering a slow death brought on by the internal squabbling of the king and his lords. Krevar, and all the other border fortresses, had once been well-supplied, but now the stronghold lay all but forgotten at the edge of the desert, and mostly left to fend for itself. Such freedom and anonymity might have been welcome in places that could sustain life, but built on the verge of the Kaliayth and the Qaharadin, day-to-day survival in Krevar was a brutal taskmaster that uncaringly molded and shaped its inhabitants into a hard and quietly bitter folk.

Dawn had come and gone two hours past, and now sunlight streamed through the four open arched windows ringing the tower’s square crown. As was her habit, Ellonlef sat writing in her journal. Instead of chronicling the goings on of Krevar as usual, this day she wrote that the three moons, the faces of the Three, were in near perfect alignment. At that, she gazed up at the unnerving sign. The moons had merged into what looked like a monstrous eye. The greatest of the Three, the face of the goddess Hiphkos, shone pale blue. Before her hung the middling moon, Memokk, which blazed with an amber light. Least among the Three, Attandaeus, burned a bright crimson that formed the pupil. That eye stared down on the world with undeniable malevolence. Before sunrise it had cast a greenish-red glow of putrefaction over the land. Now, with the sunlight gradually reaching the day’s full strength, the evil glare had waned.

Discomfited, she looked back at the journal. Soon she would deliver the leather-bound volume to King Simiis of Aradan, and another copy she would give to the Mother of the Najihar Order on the tiny island-city of Rida, which lay twelve leagues off Aradan’s eastern coast. From her current perch, home was nearly two hundred leagues distant. It might as well been a thousand, or ten thousand. A year left, Ellonlef thought wistfully, and her term of service and study would conclude.

She set the ink-stained scribing reed aside, sprinkled a pinch of blotting powder across the fresh words sinking into the velum page, then took a sip of tea. After a moment, she blew the chalky powder away. In the desert, ink dried as fast as everything else.

Taking another sip of tea, she supposed that Lord Marshal Otaker would be looking for her by now, no matter that she was guaranteed her quiet time. It was a rule based more on mutual respect than any authority on her part. Other lords of Aradan would not have been so lenient.

For near on a thousand years, since the fall of the Suanahad Empire, the Sisters of Najihar had exclusively served Aradan by secretly gathering knowledge from the other kingdoms of the world, as well as from within the borders of Aradan. Before that, the Sisters of Najihar, a sect solely made up of female scholars, had collected knowledge for knowledge’s sake. During the reign of Emperor u’Hadn of the shattered Suanahad Empire, all that had changed.

Emperor u’Hadn had been a man who greatly mistrusted his subordinates, and so ruled his empire with an iron fist. Of the Sisters of Najihar, u’Hadn had hated and feared them the most, though he had no reason to do so. To him, the merest potential that they could serve as the spies of his enemies meant that they should be eradicated.

Prince Edaer Kilvar, before he became the First King of Aradan, had also had his troubles with Emperor u’Hadn, his uncle. Like u’Hadn, he saw the potential in the Sisters of Najihar’s collected wisdom, but they refused to aid him in his struggle to break free of the bonds of the empire … at least until Emperor u’Hadn began a campaign of annihilation against the near defenseless Isle of Rida, to which the sisters had fled soon after u’Hadn had grasped the reins of power in Geldain.

As the prospects for the survival of Rida and the Sisters of Najihar grew dimmer, Edaer’s offer became more palatable, and the sisters finally agreed to trade their abilities of gathering information for Edaer’s protection. As it happened, he had not needed their counsel then. But in the years after his rebellion caused the Suanahad Empire to fracture into scores of rival kingdoms, he wisely used their insights to build Aradan into a great and rich kingdom, so much so that it eventually rivaled the past glories of the fallen empire that had given it birth. Edaer ultimately convinced the Sisters of Najihar to secretly produce a number of spies from among their order, which he directed against his enemies. And so it had been for near on a thousand years between the Ivory Throne and the Sisters of Najihar.

Though she had been trained in all ways of her order, Ellonlef served the Ivory Throne strictly in the capacity of an advisor to Lord Marshal Otaker, having spent nine of an allotted ten year term. Nine years. Such a long time it seemed since she had gained the white robes commonly worn by her order. While she had learned much about Aradan in general, and the desolate border fortress and the man who commanded it in particular, she desperately longed to return to the rocky shores of home, to hear the cries of gulls gliding over the fish markets, to stride the twisting alleys and streets between the white-walled buildings and colorfully tiled roofs of Rida. But home had to wait a little while yet, as did the future husband that Mother Eulari had picked out for her.

Sadrin Corron was the man’s name and, not surprisingly on the Isle of Rida, he was a fisherman. Mother Eulari claimed the young man was kind, wise, and astonishingly fair to look upon. Ellonlef had no reason to doubt her mistress, nor did she fear the woman’s choice. Mother Eulari, among other talents, had a gift for choosing satisfying mates for her daughters. Among the Mothers of the Sisters of Najihar, that was a rare blessing indeed.

Another year at Krevar would feel like an eternity, but Ellonlef would be sad to go. After a fashion, she had made Krevar her home. When she came to the fortress, she had been excited by the prospect of all the new things she would learn; it had been a generation since one of her sisters had served here. Upon reflection, she understood why the writings of Sister Fira, the last woman to have resided at Krevar, had been so impossibly dry. The very aridness of the landscape seemed to desiccate all life and emotion and desire from the folk who populated the massive fortress and the surrounding wastelands. Even the constant Tureecian and Bashye threat, and the kingdom’s internal machinations, held little interest for the folk hereabout. To them, Ellonlef had deduced with a deep measure of sympathy, life was naught but sand and dust, followed by death. If the latter came sooner, so much the better.

The people of Krevar are as hard and uncaring as the scorched red stones that pave the desert floor, had been the first words she had written in her journal. She stood by those words, save that she now understood that, in their own way, the people cared deeply for each other, if for few others. All she would add to the original assessment was that there was also a deep, underlying anger in these people, and that discontent was rising. They felt abandoned by the Ivory Throne, and she could not disagree with that carefully buried sentiment.

Ellonlef stood, stretched up on her toes, then walked to the window overlooking the verge of land that separated the desert from the dull greenish line marking the edge of the Qaharadin Marshes. That narrow slip of terrain was a dreadful place of reeking bogs and quicksand, scrubby brush with long thorns, stinging insects beyond count, and all manner of creeping death. It was much worse within the marshes.

More than once she had accompanied Lord Marshal Otaker along Aradan’s western border from Krevar to Yuzikka to El’hadar and back, but never had she journeyed into the Qaharadin. One day she would, and in so doing would have the claim of being the first of her order to do so. That particular trek would come just before she returned home, likely in late winter, when it was not so blindingly hot. Though common folk believed Sisters of Najihar were trained mainly to study, give counsel, and serve as healers, the truth was that they were adept in everything from history to warfare to personal combat. A Sister of Najihar could take care of herself in nearly all situations, and the order rarely produced fools. Ellonlef did not count herself a fool, and surely not enough of one to leap at the chance of going blindly into the Qaharadin.

A breeze, dry as crypt bones, with just a hint of the day’s coming heat, rustled the pages of her journal. She lifted her face to the desert’s breath, eyes lidded. Through long lashes, she noted the moons again, and felt a tickle of dismay wriggle up her spine. Opening her eyes, her heart leapt into the back of her throat. A trembling hand crept to her neck, a cry of shock fighting to get past her clenched teeth.

The eye formed by the Three was rapidly changing. Memokk was sinking into the breadth of Hiphkos, and the edges of the amber moon had become a dark red-and-black aura. All across its face jagged lines were spreading, like cracks in an eggshell. By heartbeats, Attandaeus fell into the combined crumbling girth of Memokk and Hiphkos.

Far below and behind Krevar’s protective wall, others began to notice what Ellonlef was witnessing. At first only a few frightened voices rang out, then more, as the denizens of Krevar became aware that something terrible was happening. As the faces of the Three became a solid mass of what could be nothing less than fire and ash, men’s shouts and women’s screams mingled horribly.

“This cannot be,” Ellonlef said, her voice harsh with disbelief.

Something at the periphery of her vision caught her attention. On the far side of the world it seemed, a filament of blue light lanced skyward. Almost as soon as seen, it vanished. Then came a violent quaking. Out in the desert a crack split the land, rapidly spreading south toward the fortress. As it widened and lengthened, the shuddering of the earth increased, and dust churned into a rising wall. The crevasse slashed across a road, swallowing a shrieking crofter, his vegetable cart, and team of lowing oxen.

As the world broke far below Ellonlef’s perch with a snarl of rupturing stone, her hands dropped to the sandstone sill and held on for dear life. The grinding sound filled her mind and body, made her teeth ache and her eyes water. Like a blow from a titan’s axe, the gaping wound in the earth opened under the fortress’s northern wall and continued across the enclosed town, scattering terrorized folk, and consuming others. A heartbeat later, that section of Krevar’s wall folded in on itself. Sandstone blocks the size of houses shattered and crumbled, falling down and down. A yellowish gray dust cloud billowed upward, quickly obscuring the destruction. The Sister’s tower shivered like a dying animal, then began listing sideways. Ellonlef screamed, but her voice was lost under the weight of the earth’s terrible, stony cry.

A year! she thought wildly. Just a year left-

The tower’s sliding motion came to an abrupt, jarring halt. Ellonlef sailed through the air and slammed against a wall. A foot to one side, and she would have soared out of a window and plummeted to her death. Although the tower’s pitch was not severe, Ellonlef clawed her way up the wall like a lizard scuttling up the side of a cliff, ripping her nails in a frantic bid to gain her feet. Once standing, she rushed across the floor’s slope to the doorway, longing more than anything to see the stairs waiting beyond.

She had just reached the doorway when a tingle of warning raced over her skin, a stealthy pressure, so slight as to barely disturb the fine hairs upon her arms. The pressure grew by the moment. She wanted nothing more than to escape the tower before it collapsed and buried her alive, but she had to look and know what was coming.

From the far-off haze of the marshes came a wave that shimmered like heat escaping a hot oven. The wave quickly passed the bounds of the swamp, spreading out over the desert like ripples in a pond. The pulse of air closed faster than she could imagine, booming like thunder as it slammed into the tower, shaking its stones.

Eyes stinging from flying grit, Ellonlef wheeled even as the tower began to crumble with a deep, grating moan, and ran down the twisting stair through the tower’s failing heart. She knew that she would surely perish, but still she ran.

Chapter 4

Varis remembered the instant agony of blue fire melting the flesh from his bones … but, somehow, now he was whole. He fought for breath that would not fill his lungs. Pain savaged every particle of him, as a rushing black pressure seemed intent on squeezing his body into the size of a thimble. Time’s passage stalled, leaving him to suffer an eternity in every moment.

Through the mind-bending torture, he felt another sensation, that of hands, cold and covered in jellied corruption, sliding over his skin. From the tips of each finger sprouted claws seemingly of blazing red iron. The bright heat of those fiendish daggers plunged deep, roasting his eyes in their sockets and scorching his tongue to a twist of blackened leather. The talons sank into his entrapped spirit. What he thought he knew of misery was lost as those claws, bit by bit, ripped apart his very soul. Under these grim ministrations, he found his voice. The force of his shrieks burst from his throat until all that remained were keening hisses.

The plummet ended abruptly. One moment he was falling, being torn apart through an infinite void of terrible lightlessness and crushing pressure, and the next he smashed against jagged stone. Every bone and organ in his body exploded. And still he was aware, unable to die, able to feel and see, to hear and to taste, to smell and to live and to suffer.

Far above, like a solitary star in the night, hung a point of pure, blinding radiance. He imagined Pa’amadin, the silent God of All, gazing down at him with scorn and pity-

Suddenly, shadowed creatures ringed him about, blotting out that terrible point of light. Their eyes and gaping, mocking mouths roiled with flame, no two creatures the same. Some were small, impish. Others stood tall, if hump-backed and covered in horns and dripping spines. In the crimson light cast by their burning eyes, their skin was black, reeking of death and sickness. None had the limbs of men, or even of any beast Varis had ever seen. The Fallen … mahk’lar … demons! his mind gibbered, recalling Peropis’s words.

The imps began to dance about, cursing his name in a language of the vilest hate, while one brutish figure bent over him. With three of its dozen thrashing, tentacle-like arms, it lifted him to its chest in a bizarrely maternal way. Varis cried out in gratitude, thinking the horrid creature meant to spare him from further torments.

The creature’s drooping lips spread around a maw of glowing fangs. A revolting gurgle of mirth resonated in the demon’s chest, and the imps danced in a greater frenzy to the morbid delight of that vile laughter. From behind the creature’s teeth, a hundred tongues flashed out, long and snaking, burrowing into every opening of Varis’s body. The tongues dug recklessly through his eyes, swarmed up his nose and filled his mouth. More came and more still, forcing their way inside, eating, devouring all that he was.

The heaviness that had assailed him now pressed into his pores, filling every hollow and nook of his wriggling remains, swelling him. Then, like an engorged leech crushed under a boot, he burst asunder. The demonic host fell on his quivering gobbets of meat, gorging themselves. And through it all, somehow, Varis felt and saw, until absolute blackness fell over him.

The darkness faded away, brightened slightly. As if waking from a nightmare, Varis scrambled to his feet. He stood whole and unblemished atop a pillar of rough stone. All around him, as far as he could see, burned a turbulent ocean with flames of every hue. It was beautiful, but atrocious in the same instant. A steady wind drove the inferno and chapped his naked skin, dried his eyes and tongue. But that mild discomfort, after what he had already suffered, was like the cool kiss of morning fog rolling off a placid lake.

He took a careful step to the edge and looked down into the sea of colorful fire. Far below, the imps and hulking shapes of his tormentors stood upon islands of stone. They did not dance now, nor laugh or ridicule. Instead, they writhed and wailed in the heat of the undying furnace, their corrupted shapes melting away, only to be instantly replaced and consumed again.

“The greatest mercy I could offer them,” Peropis said at Varis’s back, “would be but one drop of water … or freedom, of course.”

Varis spun, expecting the worst terror yet. Instead, he found a stunning creature. To his eyes she was a woman, but somehow she was not. In her pale flawlessness, she was more than mere flesh. She stood taller than he, her nakedness cloaked in the fall of her long, silver-white hair.

With a seductive grin, Peropis took a step toward him and he caught an enticing glimpse of her bare hip, the outer swell of one rounded breast. His already parched tongue withered further. Her utter perfection twisted his mind, as if he were trying to comprehend the exact number of stars in the heavens, or the grains of sand on not one but every shore spread over the face of the world. Tears of blood dripped from his bulging eyes, but no matter how hard the muscles in his neck strained, he could not look away.

As she stepped closer, Peropis’s grin became a broad smile. One long-fingered hand reached out and she gently wiped away his bloody tears. Then her fingers gently cupped the back of his neck and pulled him near. Her lips on his were ice, yet soft and reviving. Her tongue slid smoothly, deliciously past his lips, tasting him, then sank deeper. In that moment, Varis knew no human woman would ever again satisfy him, and he cared not.

Fear and desire warred within him.

Desire won out, destroying his reason.

His hands, shaking with anticipation, swept aside her downy hair, moved down her shoulders, spread over the gentle curves of her hips, then drew her close. Without a hint of resistance or rebuff, she pressed against his searing flesh. A shiver rippled across his skin at her touch, and he thought he would go mad with desire. In that moment, he was hers … but not without a small measure of reservation. He understood her power over his body and senses made him weak, and that he could not allow such a weakness to exist in his heart. Despite his slight resistance, her persuasion still compelled him.

She knelt and leaned back, drew him down atop her, impervious to the baking heat of the stone beneath her. Varis cried out as they joined together, becoming one flesh. When his bloody tears came again, she kissed them away. When he kissed her in return, he tasted his own blood on her tongue. He did not care. He relished the flavor, hungered for it like a starving man. He greedily sought that sweet bouquet, and she offered it up as a flower weeps nectar. His passion soared and raged, and when his release came, he felt as if liquid silver were pouring from his loins.

Struggling for breath, he gazed into her eyes. Black through and through, those eyes stared back, shinning like wet obsidian. “You have survived my testing, Prince of Aradan,” she said. “You have taken your gift.”

Varis nodded mutely, vaguely knowing she did not mean the gift of her body.

“In you is now contained a measure of the powers of chaos and creation, of all life and death.”

Her eyes grew larger then, dragging him into their bottomless depths.

He did not try to resist.

“The world will be ours,” she whispered, “but first the battle must be joined, for all that the Three gave up and hid away is soon to be released fully into the world. Go, my prince, and remake all that the Three abandoned in their foolishness.”

Varis nodded again, captivated, yet suddenly uneasy about what she was saying. She had not previously mentioned anything about measures of the powers of creation, nothing about chaos, nor anything about him sharing the world with her….

His thoughts drifted. Looking into her gaze was like falling into a lightless sea, and he was beginning to lose himself, his questions.

Peropis’s voice came again, now as a dwindling sigh. “So, too, shall my kindred find their long-awaited freedom.”

She drew his head down as if for another kiss, but instead of meeting her lips, he felt as if he were dissolving, being rendered from flesh to liquid, and that distilled essence spilled into her eyes. A rushing sound filled his being, growing steadily louder until it became a roar. The dark pressure returned, propelling him not down or inward, but up and up. When he could not bear it anymore, the crushing weight vanished in an explosion of light-

Varis found himself standing within the confines of the lost temple, feeling at once confused and panicky. The smoking shards of the basin, the Well of Creation, once covered by collected powers of dead gods, were scattered around his feet. Where the basin had been now roiled with some boiling, black fluid. Of the nacreous veil, there was no sign. Overhead, a perfect circle had been cut through the dome, the edges clean and smooth as glass. The rest of the dome, and the walls of the temple, were crumbling.

He flinched at a stealthy touch and found monstrous, inky shapes swimming around his legs, caressing him with vaporous fingers. Her kindred, he thought, the mahk’lar … demons freed. As he watched, many of the spirits flashed through the crumbling temple walls, unhindered by stone. Others flew up and out through the hole in the ceiling, vanishing from sight.

Blinking, he realized that all he saw was in shades of gray. More importantly, though, a sense of long-sought power swelled inside him. Moment by moment, that sensation increased. It was her gift, the powers of creation forsaken by the Three. His head and eyes began to ache for want of release of that power.

A sudden, violent rolling of the earth knocked him off his feet. He lay on his side, gasping. With his ear pressed to the stony floor, he heard a low, steady grinding noise rise from the bowels of the earth. Or is it from the Thousand Hells?

A stone fell from the ceiling, striking him on the head. With a pained curse, he struggled to his feet. Gingerly, he touched the ragged wound on his scalp, then held his bloodied fingers up for inspection. The blood-hisblood-was black to his eyes, but that did not concern him as it might have. What did bother him was the thin, pale skin stretched taut over the bones of his fingers and hand. It was as if he had been sick near unto death, and all his color and flesh had been eaten away. As the trembling of the world increased, he glanced at his nakedness, shocked to see how wasted his legs were. But not just his legs. All over, his bones pressed out from under tight, pallid skin.

“What affliction is this?” he rasped. No discernable answer came, but he knew he had to escape the crumbling temple before it fell in atop him.

When Varis strode out of the temple, he instantly cowered back from the sunlight lancing through his eyes into his brain. Through slitted lids, he saw yelling men scrambling like disturbed ants over the quaking ground. All around, trees swayed and whipped, as if shaken by a giant’s hand. Varis barely noticed. As within the temple, the whole of the outside world filled his vision with shades of gray, save the once golden light of day. That radiance shone like white fire.

Someone pointed at him, shouting to be heard over the grumbling of the earth. Varis sensed danger, not from the pointing Asra a’Shah, but from somewhere else. He found a trio of men who had not seen him emerge from the temple. Two were hunched over a third sprawled on the ground. On the instant, he knew the source of danger: Kian Valara. Why the Izutarian mercenary posed a threat did not matter. All that did matter was that Varis knew he needed to destroy the man, with haste.

Varis’s hands flexed, power and an unbidden hate rising in him, bubbling out, like lightning bursting forth from jet black clouds. He could not contain it, nor did he desire to. In that moment all was clear. He began to wield his newfound power, ineptly, but deadly all the same.

Chapter 5

Kian’s spine arched until only the back of his head and his heels were digging into the damp soil. A thousand icy needles stabbed into his skull, and tiny crabs seemed to be feasting on his skin. He wanted to scrape them away, but could not control his arms.

“Do something!” Hazad roared.

Azuri slid into view, gray eyes searching Kian’s face. “Breathe,” he said evenly, “you are suffocating.”

If it had not been true, and had he not felt as if he were dying, Kian might have laughed at the request. Instead, he took the advice. Cool wind rushed into his lungs and, as if an elixir had been poured down his throat, all his paralyzing agonies vanished. He went limp and lay gasping. Before he could ponder what had happened, the world heaved upward and shuddered. Trees swayed and creaked; limbs snapped and fell to the forest floor. Shouting Asra a’Shah had gathered in the clearing about the temple, many of whom were trying to calm the lunging horses.

“Hazad,” Azuri said, his tone as calm as if asking for a glass of wine, “get that fool of a prince out of the temple.”

Hazad gave a last concerned glance at Kian, then leapt up. He moved no farther. “Gods good and wise,” he breathed. “I think he has come out on his own.”

Azuri looked toward the temple, eyes widening.

Feeling better by the moment, Kian lifted his head. A man stood in the doorway of the temple, his skin whiter than that which lay under the garments of the three northern-born mercenaries. The man was naked and hairless, emaciated to the point of death. A gash showed on his bald scalp, and from it flowed some black substance.

Blood … what manner of man has black blood? Kian thought uneasily.

No matter how impossible it seemed, the man standing before the temple bore a strong resemblance to Prince Varis Kilvar. Part of Kian denied this, but another part knew he was looking at his charge. Stranger still, swirling patches of oily darkness poured out of the temple. A few of those figures stayed near the prince, others streaked deep into the swamp and out of sight. Where they passed near Asra a’Shah, men screamed in revulsion.

“Help me up,” Kian commanded Azuri.

Varis stared at the trio, his teeth bared in an expression of hate, fingers curled as if he were about to throttle an enemy’s neck. His flesh rippled, seemed to swell.

“What is wrong with his eyes?” Kian muttered in shock, trying to understand how the youth could see anything with eyes gone completely white. The part of him that commanded he uphold the duty he had been paid to perform said he should go to Varis, offer some aid, but the appearance of the youth rapidly birthed a deep loathing in him that he could not quash.

As if Kian had shouted his feelings, Varis cocked his head contemplatively, his stark eyes never shifting. Kian knew he was being seen, no matter that sight should have been impossible for Varis. Moreover, he could feel his own abhorrence mirrored in that dead gaze.

Of its own accord, his hand dropped to the sword at his hip. At the same instant, Varis raised his arms wide, and lashing chords of blue-white fire sprang from his hands. Kian’s mouth fell open in shock, as the whipping flames ripped through the forest. Where those unnatural fires touched, be it upon Asra a’Shah, horses, mud or bole, flashes of smoke and puffs of ash quickly replaced what had been. For a long moment, as crackling thunder pealed around the shaking forest, no one moved.

The prince laughed then, a maniacal, sickly wheezing that seemed to extinguish the flames erupting from his palms. He held a hand before his face, split by a gruesome smile, then waved that unblemished hand like a man shooing a fly. The ground erupted at his feet in a spray of mud, and a twining root as thick as a man’s wrist rose up. This, more than the impossible blasts of fire Varis had produced, staggered Kian’s mind.

Varis motioned again and the root swiveled toward Kian and the others, like a serpent preparing to strike. With a sodden ripping sound, the root began tugging free of the ground. Inch by inch, foot by foot, the root climbed upward, fattening as it soared a dozen paces into the air. Knobby growths sprouted all along its length. One by one, those growths burst open to release quick-growing creepers. In moments, each new shoot had grown as large as the initial root had been. Worse still, what had been a bit of vegetation now had slitted, glowing emerald eyes spread over its length. Those inhuman orbs locked not on Hazad or Azuri, but Kian.

Overawed, Kian stood unmoving, his mind struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. A sudden emotion flitted through his soul, something familiar, though made distant with the passage of time. Yet he knew it, could taste it. Fear, stark and paralyzing terror, wormed through his bowels. Such had not assailed him since his youth on the streets of Marso. He had fought many battles since then, survived countless hardships, grown comfortable with the fright of bodily harm and even death, yet nothing could have prepared him for … for whatever this was.

The root continued to change and grow, ceasing to look like a root at all, but rather a great, thousand-eyed adder. The muddy brown skin roughened to a scaly gray-black hide, and the dozens of lesser roots waved about like ropey arms.

This cannot be real, Kian thought through a glaze of terror, his eyes flickering toward Varis. The youth was now stooped over, still watching Kian and his companions, but rigid with agony. His skin had split in scores of places, showing knuckles of protruding bone. Dark fluid dribbled from the fresh wounds.

Suddenly, with a dull roar barely heard over the steady grinding noises coming from the swamp’s shivering floor, the temple fell in on itself and sank into a bubbling substance as black as tar. Ethereal shapes rose and fell amid the bubbling morass, inhuman figures spawned of nightmares. Even as Kian watched, many of those inhuman figures broke free of that thick substance and arced skyward, while others hugged the ground and swirled away.

With a voiceless snarl, Varis lurched a few paces away from the collapsed temple and the widening pool of boiling sludge. Glaring at Kian, he made a pushing motion, and the towering root-serpent arched backward. A mouth had split open at its highest end, lined with sharp wedges of what looked more like stone than wood. When that maw gaped wide, a roar came forth to water the eyes and tremble the heart. Then, like a monstrous centipede, the root-serpent fell forward and slammed against the ground, spraying mud and sending leaves flying. With another of those debilitating cries, it surged toward Kian, its great girth plowing earth, its scores of arms propelling it along at a terrifying pace.

To either side of the advancing monstrosity, previously immobile Asra a’Shah scattered, their faces ugly with fear and disbelief, saffron robes flapping in their haste. One of the dark-skinned men did not move quickly enough. A handful of lashing roots caught him, twisted and tugged his limbs in different directions. The man howled and thrashed. With a grisly ripping sound, without slowing its advance toward Kian, the hell-spawned root-serpent tore the mercenary apart.

At Hazad’s warning cry the spell of terror was broken, and the trio scattered.

The root-serpent came on, tearing loose from the ground until a thrashing tail pulled from the earth. A volley of Asra a’Shah arrows struck the beast’s flank, but did not slow or deviate the creature from its path. From behind it, commanded by Varis, a fan of silver-streaked crimson fire, washed over the hiding Geldainian archers. With the flames, thunder raged. In its wake, smoke and whirls of ash rose from a wide, tear-drop shaped parcel of swamp where the mercenaries had been. Not even bones remained.

Kian registered all this with half a mind. He understood that the root-serpent was coming for him, and that Varis, whatever he had become inside the temple, had sent it after him. The why of it, the sheer impossibility of it, did not matter. All that did was escape.

Like a man trying to flee a charging boar, he jumped a rotten log, then began veering side to side at a dead run down a gentle slope. Unnatural fire splashed around him, searing trees, the heat singeing his clothing. Miraculously, the flames were so hot and so brief as to leave his flesh unscathed. Varis howled in frustration.

As the swamp thickened away from the temple, Kian slashed his sword at clutching, thorny creeper and hanging brambles. The hunting beast on his heels closed the distance, tearing through the undergrowth without slowing.

In that moment, Kian knew he could not escape. In the next, he tripped and sprawled flat, knocking the wind from his lungs with a grunt. Even as he tried to snatch a breath, he scrambled to his feet and turned, sword raised. Stunned, engulfed by a level of fear he had never known, a blessed cold fury stole over him.

I have never lost a battle.

Against men, a frantic voice warned.

The root-serpent was something else entirely. A part of him thought that maybe this was all some terrible vision, and that he was in truth still back at the temple, laying on the ground, dying for want of breath-

Cracking like a scourge, a whip of hot-fleshed vegetation struck his cheek, welting the skin, disabusing him of the hope that he was suffering dark fancies.

With nowhere to flee and no choice, Kian moved into an offensive stance. As the root reared up before him, he instantly pressed the attack. His broadsword flashed out and cleaved one thrashing arm after another. Despite the ease with which his blade sliced the creature’s abominable flesh, in the space of three breaths he knew he could never win this fight. This was no battle against one man, or even several. This was a war against a bloodthirsty abomination surely spawned from the Thousand Hells. Every wound he inflicted only gave rise to more enemies. Where one lashing root fell in a quivering coil, two more took its place, bursting from the main stalk.

Gradually, Kian was forced back on his heels. He stepped, blocked, and slashed. Over and over again. It was all he could do to keep the roots from grasping him. Splintered tips snapped and popped, leaving welts and cuts over his exposed skin. All was a blur of motion, attack and counterattack. Panic-sweat stung his eyes, and his thick arms began to grow weak with the effort of swinging his sword. Disbelieving horror began to fill his veins. I am about to die.

Of a sudden, the root-serpent rammed forward, its mouth gaping wide with a roar, and smashed into Kian. He landed on his back and tumbled down into a shallow gulley before splashing into a bog. He came up sputtering and searching for his lost sword. The root slithered toward him, lurching now, as if struggling. Just before it fell on him, Kian lashed out with his fists; it was like striking a tree, and just as useless. Tentacle-like roots fell on him, swarmed over his skin, pulsing with an unnatural heat. The reek of mold and rotted vegetation filled his nostrils. They wrapped him about, tightening … before those appendages could tear him to pieces, they abruptly fell away.

Kian, gasping, cracked his eyelids and stared. The swamp had abruptly ceased shaking, and the thick root-serpent stretched over the lip of the gulley and down to within a foot of him. It lay like a dying animal, quivering, its hide sagging with fast-moving corruption. Mold quickly covered its length, and putrid sap oozed from the many wounds he had given it. By heartbeats, it crumpled further under the pace of its own rot. Whatever dark powers had given it life, had fled.

Kian did not waste a moment to ponder his inexplicable good fortune. He jumped to his feet, cupped his hands to his mouth, and cried words he had never before uttered. “Withdraw! For your lives, flee!”

Near and far, the order was frantically repeated, but he took no measure of relief that he was not alone in his alarm. After a hasty search, he dragged his sword out of the murky pool, then obeyed his own command to retreat. It went against every instinct he knew concerning battle, but it made no sense to waste lives against an enemy of which he knew nothing about destroying-and the next root-serpent might not die.

Of Varis, Kian now saw him as an enemy, rather than a nuisance who had offered him a king’s wealth of gold for some grand expedition. Kian would protect a stranger for payment, and his friends for nothing, but either would face his wrath should they betray his trust. Varis had earned that fury, in the most explicit terms, when he had attacked Kian and his company.

Kian sloshed through the pool and scrambled up the slope, keeping as low to the ground as he could, just inches from crawling on his belly. Searching through the screen of bramble, he found Varis on his knees, weariness plain on his wasted features. As well, there was a loathing for all life written plainly in his expression. Like a physical manifestation of what bred behind his white eyes, ebon streamers curled around him, wolves of smoke and spirit. For the barest moment, Kian sensed that the greater danger lay in those ethereal shapes-then his mind shifted again toward escape.

Running Asra a’Shah paid the prince and his dark companions no mind. Like Kian, the gold paid to defend Varis mattered nothing now that he had tried to murder them, and succeeded in slaughtering a number of their brothers. Kian knew the only reason Varis had not yet lost his head to a sword stroke was because of the awesome, fearful power he had displayed-such a power only spoken of in stories of gods….

Of Hazad and Azuri, Kian saw no sign. If they were alive, they knew where to go.

With a last look at the youth, fighting off another wave of loathing so deep that it set his heart to pounding, Kian began to move. Keeping low, he stole from bush to bole, until he was out of sight of Varis and those vaporous figures swirling around him.

Once he was well away, bruised and battered, Kian began trotting east through a swamp that looked vastly different than it had just an hour earlier, toward the previous night’s camp. Unless stated otherwise on the line of march, the last camp always served as the point to regroup the company in case of trouble. And, without question, this was the most dire and confusing trouble Kian had ever encountered. What he had seen was beyond the realities of mortal flesh, something from a nightmare … it was something from the Thousand Hells. No priest or magus had ever warned that Geh’shinnom’atar could be breached, let alone unleashed upon the world by the hands of man but, seemingly, just such an event had occurred. Kian had a sickening feeling in his gut that all he had ever known was now changed, for the worse.

Chapter 6

The damp gloom of night was falling by the time Varis came around. He lay in the mud, exhausted. He could not have said how long he rested there before Peropis’s whispers filled his mind, urging him to rise. With a great struggle, he gained his feet, shaking like a poisoned cur. The powers of creation, he realized with shock, had nearly killed him.

In all directions, shattered trees lay atop one another. He vaguely remembered their falling, but that and all else was a jumble in his mind. Trees still standing were naked of leaves, limbs broken and twisted, as if torn by a gale. Evening shadows cast a pall over great slabs of broken stone that had thrust from the floor of the swamp amid geysers of stinking black water. Despite the extent of the swamp’s destruction, he had never thought to seek safety. He had been consumed by an unbidden rage against his enemies, a fury so powerful that what he had done to them was now lost on him.

At the moment, the how of it did not matter. What did was that he knew the source of his rage: the Izutarian, Kian Valara, who had somehow escaped his wrath. Even now, loathing flared anew in his heart, and he wanted to pursue the man. If he could but get his strength back, Varis would have gladly tortured the man to death, simply for the pleasure of it. He did not consider why he should hate the man so, only knew that he did.

At a loud gurgling noise, he turned about like an old man, hissing at the unfamiliar pains wracking his wasted frame. Where the temple had stood, now a spinning soup of steaming black mud and floating leaves churned around and around in a broad pool. The edges crumbled into the whirlpool and were instantly pulled down. More of the edge crumbled into the swirling morass, forcing Varis to ease farther away. He had no doubt the currents of this particular bog would take its victim to the bowels of the world, perhaps even to the Thousand Hells. For himself, Varis never intended to make that journey again.

Considering Geh’shinnom’atar, he looked about for the dark wisps that had followed him back from Peropis’s lair, but found no evidence that the souls of the Fallen were near. All were gone now … freed into the world of men. If he had not been so drained, he might have wondered what effect the presence of demons in the realm of the living would have.

“Peropis?” Varis called in a dry croak, unsure she could hear him. Always, it had been she who came to him, not the other way around.

“You have done well,” she said in answer, her voice drifting to him as if from an impossible distance. “However, you have much to learn, and you must learn quickly.”

Just the thought of expending more energy made Varis want to groan in protest. Instead, he whimpered, “I am tired. So weary….”

The last syllable dwindled to a sigh, as Varis unconsciously listed to the side. One foot, seeking balance, dropped into a deep furrow, and he fell. He sprawled there wheezing, almost too tired to breathe, let alone able to muster the strength to climb again out of the shallow grave.

Not a grave, he thought dazedly. This hollow marked the place from which his creation had risen to destroy Kian.

“He must be destroyed,” Peropis whispered then, as if reading his thoughts. There was a hint of uncertainty in her voice that bothered Varis. The Eater of the Damned should have no worry over a mortal.

“Destroy Kian?” he wheezed. “The man should die-I carry the desire in my heart-but he is nothing, an insect … and fled in cowardice besides.” He almost believed the bold statement, but he saw in his mind a vision of Kian fighting and prevailing against all that Varis had thrown against him. How could that be?

“The venom of some insects cause anguish,” Peropis advised. “Others can kill a man. Should that man, Kian, tread the world much longer, he will prove a formidable enemy.”

Varis tried to sit up, but only managed to flop a hand to the mud-slick rim of the furrow. He wanted her to bless him with the incorruptible flesh and indomitable spirit she had promised, but the tone of her words alarmed him.

“How could he be a danger to me?” he gasped. “He is but a man and I am … more than that, now.” He tried not to consider the incongruity between those words and the ruin of his flesh.

“There is little time to deal with our enemy,” Peropis said, sounding more troubled than ever. While he could not be sure, Varis felt sure that she had met an unexpected obstacle.

“What is of the utmost importance,” she added, “is that you heed my instruction. My time with you is short-I am weakening by the moment speaking to you, in this realm of living flesh. My spirit needs rest … and sustenance.”

Varis found it difficult to concentrate. The world seemed to be sliding sideways to his strange eyesight.

“Relax your mind,” Peropis commanded.

He expected her to speak further, but instead of words, a cascade of images flashed behind his closed eyelids, racing faster than thought.

She is in my mind, he thought, dazedly. He went rigid in alarm, but after a moment, he ceased trying to focus or resist. Rather, he laid back and absorbed what he was seeing. None of the images made sense. He relaxed further, for by any human measure, nothing he had experienced this day made sense.

I have become a god, he thought randomly, albeit a god trapped in the weak flesh of a man. It was wholly unfair.

The images began to blur into a lightless, incoherent blizzard inside his skull. Varis drifted in the void of his own mind, like a speck of dust on the swells of a warm sea. After long moments he understood, on some level, that the knowledge filling him was some measure of the lost wisdom of gods.

Then, all at once, a pulsing and amorphous force surrounded him. After a moment of consideration, he understood the sensations to be the presence of life. Clarity began to wash away confusion. Plants, he knew, had their own life, though even a mighty tree’s energy was miniscule compared to that of a worm’s. That power of life radiated outward from living things, like the fine strands of a spider’s spinning. The energy had always been there, but only now that he had taken the legacy of the Three into himself, breached the Well of Creation, and tasted the horrors of the Geh’shinnom’atar, could he take hold of that energy, use it as his own.

Tentatively, almost instinctively, he reached out with his mind to take that power, but the living filaments shrank away. He scowled in concentration, forcing what he wanted, stealing it into himself. Gradually, the power he craved and deserved drifted over him, lighting gently upon him like dew-covered spider webs. Some new part of his mind saw those threads glowing faintly, each so fine as to barely be seen. He began dragging them into himself. Distantly, he knew that if he were looking at himself, he would appear to be a man made of light. Within that cocoon, his hurts rapidly mended. Vitality swelled his muscles, thickened his skin, swept aside debilitating weariness. Varis gasped in ecstasy as the rejuvenating force of all creation filled his veins, surged through his heart.

“That is enough,” Peropis said sharply.

Varis barely heard the ruler of the Thousand Hells, and he was too enraptured with his own growing strength to heed her. He wanted to explore this gift, taste and feel it. He wanted to wield it. Although the strange knowledge Peropis had imparted in him explained much, the magnitude made his head spin. He simply could not conceive the whole potential of what was filling him, but what he did grasp was that no enemy, despite Peropis’s warning, would ever again stand against him.

“Enough!”

His eyes snapped open to a world that looked no different than it had when he closed them. But it was different, because he was changed, so much so. The strength of departed gods flooded through him, and where the life of the world had fled before at his attempt to grasp it, now it could not escape.

“Fool!” Peropis shrieked, driving a spike of agony into his mind. “You will destroy yourself!”

He winced away from the pain, angered. His thoughts raced with newfound knowledge. He could create life, and he could destroy it, on a whim. Nothing could stand before him. Not even Peropis!

Confident in his growing might, Varis ignored her, glorying in his strength. He recklessly diverted the growing life force into the roots below him, recalling now what he had done before. Roots twined together at his silent command into a woven, woody seat that conformed to his every contour. As his creation lifted him upright, the weave became more elaborate, grander, until he was raised up on a throne sitting high upon a still growing dais.

Darkness lay thick upon the swamp by now, but to Varis’s eyes all was lit by an otherworldly glow, the divine splendor of all life. It lay everywhere, was in everything … and it was his to take. He stood from his throne and threw his arms wide. Like a dry sponge doused with water, he soaked in the surrounding luminescence, drew it deep. Where life existed, he viciously ripped it away from its former possessor. By heartbeats, the swamp fell deathly still, quiet as the grave. In the death of many thousands of infinitesimal creatures, his own existence became greater, more vital and vibrant. He shone like the sun, like Pa’amadin himself.

Varis’s laughter filled the clearing, richer than ever it had been, reverberating outward through the dead swamp in crushing waves. At a stray thought, flames the hue of a thousand rainbows surged from his fingers, and in the joy of its creation he swept them around in a wide arc, destroying already dead trees. Where he ruined, he created again, and destroyed again. Drunk with the bliss of so much power, his laughter became a roar that shook the ground-

Then, without warning, the tide of life coursing through his veins became an uncontrollable flood. The elemental forces continued to pour into him, but the outflow became a mere trickle. He tried to sever the torrent, but it filled him further, bloating him like a carcass in the sun. One of his eyes burst and a wriggling surge of maggots cascaded down his cheek. Even as he frantically scraped them away, a tender green shoot tore through the skin of his palm, growing rapidly. The shoot became twining roots that burrowed through the meat of his arm and into his chest. A bulge grew on his belly, swelling and writhing, then erupted a wash of skittering beetles. They scurried madly over worms pushing out of his skin. He opened his mouth to scream, but a geyser of fire roared out of his throat and scorched a mile-long gouge through the tattered forest-

Then Peropis was there, faint and hovering amidst the flames of his making, an ethereal vision. For a long moment, she let him suffer, even as she suffered herself in the realm not her own. When it became obvious he would not long survive, she drew close. Her eyes swam before his, opening, growing wider, blacker, pulling at him, as if trying to drag his soul from his body. As suddenly as it began, the inrushing flood cut off, leaving Varis limp, his torn flesh oozing black blood, yet free of unnatural growths.

Pained though she was from taking her spirit from Geh’shinnom’atar, Peropis peered into his face. “Open yourself again.”

Near death, Varis did as he was told, though he would rather have not. As a result of his fear and caution, it took a long while before his ravaged flesh mended enough for him to stand on his own.

“Enough,” Peropis said, and Varis immediately strangled the inflow.

After looking him over, by some force Varis did not understand, Peropis hurled him from his makeshift throne. He landed hard, knocking the breath from his chest. High above, shimmering like a vision, she gazed down on him with utter contempt.

Varis rolled to his hands and knees, trying to get enough breath to demand to know why she had nearly let him perish, why she had kept from him the dangers of the powers of creation. Upon recognizing her fierce glare, however, his teeth clicked together. One day he might rise against her but, for now, he was little more than an acolyte, and she was the Eater of the Damned, a deity in her own right. Even as he finally caught his breath, he knew he would need to bide his time, and plan carefully his vengeance.

“You foolish child,” she snarled, no longer beautiful, but hideous with rage. “You are yet mortal. Mere flesh cannot hope to hold long the barest fraction of the power of gods. I trust you have learned this lesson well?”

Her berating shamed him and enraged him, but Varis could not help but cower from her wrath.

“If you desire to be my counterpart, you will heed me-at all times. Now, stand!” she commanded.

Varis gathered himself and stood, no part of his face betraying his emotions. If you desire to be my counterpart …. He had no intention of being her counterpart, or anyone else’s. He vowed to himself that he would rule all the world and all peoples under his own strength … in time.

“Heed me,” Peropis said, “as you should have done from the beginning. Life, by its very nature, is the easiest power to manipulate, because it is already created. True creation, that of making something from nothing, is a thousand and a thousand times harder and more dangerous.”

“I will succeed,” Varis boasted weakly.

Peropis smirked. “Indeed? The life force you took-that from mere worms and beetles and twigs-even that was too much for your flesh to contain. That meager life recreated itself inside you and sought escape, as life always will when wielded by those who cannot control it.”

“Did I not create fire?” Varis demanded.

“A fluke,” Peropis said dismissively, “an accident that, fortunately for you, did not destroy you utterly.”

Varis clenched his teeth and said what he knew she wanted to hear. “What would you have me do?”

“You’ve an army to build, and there are leagues to go between you and where it waits. On this journey, it would seem that there is also much for you to relearn.”

“Why would I need an army?” Varis asked without thinking.

Her glower suggested that she had never been questioned, and would not tolerate it.

After he was sufficiently cowed, she answered, “As yet, you are too weak to do alone what must be done. When I deem you are fully ready I, and I alone, will grace you with the ability to fully control the force of all life around you. In the meantime, you need the arms of men to protect your weak flesh. Even now, if you are not cautious with the gift I have given to you, you will die as easily as the next man.”

“You promised me incorruptible flesh-”

“Never think to make demands of me,” she interrupted. “I give what I will when and of my choosing. I made you what little you are … and I take what I will when I desire.”

Loathing warred with yearning in Varis’s heart, as he came to understand that his initial mistrust of her had been well placed. Yet, too, he recognized that time was on his side. He would grovel before Peropis, as she obviously wished, but only until his own ends were met. I will grow powerful, more so than the Three ever were-mightier even than Pa’amadin!

“Very well,” he said aloud, bowing his head with a convincing measure of meekness.

Peropis seemed to accept his subservience. “I have means to deal with this man Kian, and so I will.” There was something different in her voice when she spoke now of Kian, less concern, perhaps, and more curiosity. Before Varis could wonder about it, she added, “Your task, Prince of Aradan, is far more important. Heed me….”

Varis absorbed her plan, and despite his growing distrust of her and her hidden intentions, he found Peropis’s words intriguing. He had much to learn, to understand, but one day, he silently vowed, he would wipe her from existence for her seductive lies … and for shaming him.

Chapter 7

The shuddering tower crumbled under Ellonlef’s feet. A scream tore from her throat when a massive sandstone block crushed her legs, pining her to the stairwell. Agony gripped her, yet focused her mind. She heaved against the rough stone grinding her legs to pulp, but the fall of masonry was increasing. Smaller chunks battered her head and shoulders, slowly beating her senseless. Dust billowed, clogging her throat, cutting off all cries. Through the yellowish-gray haze, a growing shadow suddenly blotted out the thin light. Ellonlef wrenched her head up and found another huge block tumbling end over end through the stairwell’s open center. Her jaw yawned wide in terror and-

Ellonlef sat up, flinging aside twists of covers and a collection of pillows. Sweat beaded her brow, dripped down her neck to dampen her linen shift. She gulped a deep breath into sore lungs and sighed it out. The scouring dust in her dream had been very much real, and left her throat and lungs raw. The falling stones had been real as well, and she had the lumps and bruises covering her from head to heel to prove it. Her demise, however, had not occurred the day prior.

Of her escape from the falling tower, she had run headlong down the twisting stairwell, knowing she was near the bottom, but not near enough. Then, like a ragged mouth gaping wide, an opening had appeared, a blessed escape, letting in a wash of hazed sunlight. It had been akin to looking into a wall of golden fog, giving no indication where it would take her.

Ellonlef had not hesitated. There had been no time to consider what her choice might bring. She jumped through the gap into thin air. She did not fall far, however, though when she landed it was hardly on stable ground. Instead, she found herself rolling down the acutely listing base of the tower. Miraculously, she had come to a thudding stop on the wall walk, safely out of the way of the falling tower….

She swallowed dryly, now considering something else-the destruction of the moons, the death of the Three. The event was so monumental that it defied deep consideration. There would be time to think on that later, after Lord Marshal Otaker and the people of Krevar no longer needed her. And maybe, just maybe, when that time came, and the skies had cleared of the persistent dust, she would look up and see that the Three were as they always had been, instead of a burning mass of fire and ash.

Nothing will ever be as it was. This thought, which she knew was true, had been prevalent in her mind since the world had ceased shaking. Tremors still came, frightening even the hardened souls of Fortress Krevar to shouts of fear.

All is changed, all is lost.

Ellonlef shook away the dismal consideration and swung her legs out over the edge of the bed, scolding herself for behaving like terrified child. Tragedy had come, to be sure, but she was alive, and so were many others. While the faces of the Three had been destroyed, she still had purpose. The gods would take care of themselves.

She stripped off her sweaty nightclothes and set to gently rubbing a wet washcloth over her scraped and bruised skin. She had almost finished when her door flew open and banged against the wall. She yelped in startlement, jerked a large towel off a nearby rack to cover herself as best she could, then turned a glare on the intruder.

Lord Marshal Otaker stood gaping as if he had never seen a naked woman before, which would be difficult to believe, considering that his wife of over two decades had given him two sons and three daughters.

“Ellonlef-ah-Sister Ellonlef, I never-” he cut off abruptly, blinked like a sand owl, then spun on his heel and showed her his back. He wore his customary long, closefitting robe of white linen, and over this a steel breastplate bearing the embossed Silver Fist of House Racote. Like all Aradaners, his skin was dark as an old root, seemingly made darker by an iron gray top-lock that fell from the back of his clean-shaven scalp. Usually he had a stately demeanor, but this day he seemed out-of-sorts and one step from total exhaustion. For him and the rest of the people of Krevar, a long day had been followed by a longer night since the massive quake had leveled half the buildings in the city.

“You never what?” Ellonlef snapped, more out of embarrassment than anger. She tossed the towel away, hastily drew on a robe, and pulled it closed. He muttered some garbled response, and she immediately dismissed his chatter for the babble it was. Likely, he was just more humiliated than she was, and if she allowed him to keep spouting off, he would make an utter fool of himself.

“Lord Marshal,” she said, interrupting him. “Tell me what is so urgent that you have seen fit to barge into my chambers without knocking.”

“Are you …?” he started to look over his shoulder before deciding against it, and jerked his head back to the front.

She had to bite back a dozen sharp comments before saying in pleasant, disarming tones, “Yes, I am covered. Be at peace.”

Otaker turned, albeit cautiously, but would not look her in the eye. Instead, he stared somewhere just past her ear. “I came because, well-the short of it is, you are needed. Through the remainder of last night, my men have dug out scores more people. Most can be seen to by their families or Magus Uzzret. Others are closer to death than life, and need your care.”

“Give me a moment,” Ellonlef said without rancor.

Otaker nodded his way out the door, then closed it.

Ellonlef quickly dressed in her order’s white robes. They would not be white by the end of the day. If she was to spend this day applying poultices, compresses, and bandages to bloody and battered victims, she would look nearly as bad as them by the time she returned to her chambers. There was nothing for it.

She joined Otaker in the corridor, and they made their way through the keep’s dim corridors. More than once they had to step over a broad crack in the floor, or duck under hastily made support timbers jammed between floor and ceiling to prevent a collapse. Despite these gaps and cracks, the sturdy building seemed well enough intact. Doubtless it would have to be rebuilt, but for now it would serve, as it had for generations. The same could not be said for the rest of Krevar.

After the first crevasse had appeared in the earth and raced across the desert to level the Sister’s Tower, more tremors, each successively worse, had flattened half the town and most of Krevar’s outer walls. While Otaker’s concern for his fortress was understandable-it had taken four generations of House Racote to construct the defenses-Ellonlef was more worried about the number of shattered families. Few if any of the folk of Krevar escaped untouched. Even Otaker had tasted misery when his eldest son had been pulled from a heap of rubble. Ellonlef had treated the boy herself and knew he would live, but only time would tell if he would heal completely from his injuries.

With nowhere else to easily care for so many people, Ellonlef had advised Otaker to set up as many large tents as he could fit within the town square, which had a common well and usually served as an open market. Next she had suggested he gather as many healers, midwives, able mothers, and soldiers who had fought in past battles, to tend wounds. After that, it had been a matter of bringing washbasins, building fires to provide hot water, and collecting all available clean linens to serve as bandages.

Outside, the day was blistering, but felt all the hotter due to the thick haze of dust still hanging in the air. Before they were in sight of the square the smell hit them, a mingling of wood smoke, sweat, and blood. If not for that last, it might have seemed like any other day at market.

Ellonlef girded her mind for the coming rigors, both physical and emotional. Men and woman and children would no doubt die this day, while others would lose mangled limbs to sharp blades. Of all the things Ellonlef had been trained to do, healing was the most trying for her. She was adept, to be sure, but seeing the look in a once strong man’s eyes when he learned that some part of him would be lost forever, or telling a women that her child would never again awake, was trying beyond all reason.

As two of the most distinguishable people in Krevar, Magus Uzzret had no trouble spotting Otaker and Ellonlef as they approached the teeming, tent-filled market area. He wore deep blue robes and a woven silver belt common to the Magi Order. Common as well to his order, Uzzret’s head was completely shaved, but he sported a small, pure white chin beard.

As usual, he looked askance at Ellonlef. After nearly a decade, he still only trusted her and her order roughly half as much as she trusted him and his. From the beginning, the Magi Order had taken offence at the Ivory Throne using the Sisters of Najihar as spies-or relying on them at all, for that matter. All that aside, Ellonlef knew that he needed her help, and she was not so stubborn or proud as to make it a point of contention that she was, without question, the better healer.

“Lord Marshal, Sister,” Uzzret said, inclining his head slightly to each. “The day has already grown too short for the work that lies ahead.”

He led Ellonlef and Otaker to a tent marked out by the most moaning and weeping, and without a word, left them to see to another errand.

“If you need anything,” Otaker said, “or if Uzzret proves to be too much of a nuisance, send a runner to me.” He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze and turned away.

After three steps, he turned and said, “Forgive me for this morning. I should have asked permission to enter your quarters. I forgot myself.”

“It is understandable and forgiven,” Ellonlef said, already turning her mind to what needed to be done.

“I hope one day soon you will seek out a good man and husband.”

Ellonlef blinked at him, dumbfounded. “Why would you say that?”

Otaker gave her a wan smile. “Because you are a beautiful and capable woman. I would hate for you to grow old and not take the pleasure of having a special man at your beck and call.”

Ellonlef stared at him for a long moment, then burst out laughing. “I’ll have to ask Lady Danara if she feels the same as you do.”

Instead of being worried about such disclosure, Otaker merely shrugged. “She does. My wife noticed long before I did. If not for this morning, I would have no idea just how-” he cut off abruptly, lips tight, spun on his heel, and left her there. The first soldier he saw, Otaker began bawling orders, sending the poor young man running for his life.

Although she allowed herself a moment of secret pleasure at his clumsy attempt to compliment her, Ellonlef quickly dismissed the entire conversation, pushed up the white sleeves of her robes, tied back the waves of her dark hair, and set to work.

Straight away, she saw at least a dozen people cradling broken limbs. She called for a runner to replenish her dwindling supply of splints, strong wine, and swatarin, a potent herb used to induce deep sleep-or if you were one of the Madi’yin, the begging brothers, to bring on visions. While she waited for the splints, she doled out measures of both wine and swatarin. All became a blur of setting bones, cauterizing and bandaging gashes, pouring boiled wine into wounds oozing corruption, and removing those limbs beyond help.

While each procedure seemed to take hours, the day itself fled faster than she would have thought possible. One after another, the wounded kept coming. She stopped counting after she had seen to two dozen. As dusk fell, the numbers began to dwindle, but were still steady. An hour before midnight, they ceased coming at all. By then, Ellonlef’s robes were smeared with blood and dust and she was weary to the bone, but she had a final task ahead of her before she retired.

She strode from the now mostly quiet market, moving to the place where the Sister’s Tower had stood, a firemoss lamp held in her hand lighting the way. The water-soaked luminescent moss, stuffed in the glass sphere, gave off a comforting, pale amber glow. Despite the light, if she had not known where she was going, she would have become lost without any of the usual landmarks to guide her. Moreover, the dense, gritty fog still pervaded the air, obscuring clear sight of anything.

When Ellonlef came to the farthermost scatter of rubble where the Sister’s Tower had stood, she halted, gazing about in stunned wonderment. The remains of the tower lay before her like the carcass of some giant whale washed up on the shore by an angry sea. In the darkness, one might have guessed the fortress wall was still intact, if only a third its normal height, but she knew that it had been reduced to a ragged heap. The Isle of Rida experienced tremors on occasion, but she had never seen or imagined so much destruction. Even seeing it with her own eyes, she had trouble grasping the magnitude of what had befallen Krevar.

Moving to one side, she scanned about, calculating the best place to begin her hunt. Searching by daylight would have served her better, but many days would pass before she was afforded the luxury of using a day to her own purposes.

Before digging in the rubble, she walked back and forth, holding the lamp high by its woven hemp handle. Her guess proved accurate, for soon after she began searching she found the crushed wicker chair she had been sitting in before the first tremor had shaken the tower. Moving closer to the chair, she tried not imagine that she would have looked the same, crushed into a nearly unrecognizable pulp, had she not escaped.

As easy as the chair was to find, she searched over an hour for what she sought without luck. She was thinking that perhaps some passerby had found it already, when a man cleared his throat. Standing atop the heap of shattered stones, she turned to see Magus Uzzret regarding her from the safety of flat ground.

“Looking for this?” he asked, holding up her tattered journal.

Ellonlef scrambled down off the debris and moved to within arm’s reach of him. “Yes,” she answered guardedly. She had never written anything damning in the book, but an uninformed reader might come to a very different conclusion upon skimming her honest assessments of the people she lived amongst.

Uzzret handed it over without a word, then looked eastward. “Nothing will ever be the same,” he muttered, voicing her earlier thoughts.

Holding the journal in her hand, Ellonlef could not judge whether or not Uzzret had read her words, but it was not a stretch to believe that he had. “No, it will not,” Ellonlef agreed, running a palm over the journal’s battered leather cover.

“As you know, the Magi Order is enlightened enough not to hold with the existence of gods,” he said in tones mingled with conceit for his order’s wisdom, and pity for all the wretched fools who disagreed. “Yet we recognize that others do. The destruction of the Three is and will continue to be a colossal blow to the minds of common folk.”

Ellonlef looked up. “The faces of the Three may be destroyed,” she said, “but that does not mean the Three are dead. As well, the Creator of All, Pa’amadin, will heal both the lands and the hearts of men. He will guide his children, even if the Three cannot.”

“Your blind faith is astonishing,” Uzzret said, incredulous. “Can you not see that it is as my order insists, and that no gods exist? We are but beasts, though some few of us are beasts with considering minds.” The old magus stroked his small white beard, his dark eyes studying her.

Ellonlef imagined snatching hold of that ridiculous tuft and yanking it out by the roots. She was instantly mortified by the thought, knowing it was beneath both her and her order. “In that, you are wrong.”

“Perhaps … perhaps not,” he countered smoothly. “Perhaps, as you say, Pa’amadin-a god of notable indifference, among other questionable attributes-will indeed rescue the world. Though it would appear that, as usual, he has abandoned men and the world. How can you put your faith in a being that can so readily turn away from his creation-hide his face, as it were?”

“Perhaps,” she said tiredly, “we can speak of this later.” To her mind, it was not a surrender to his argument. There simply was no reason to waste her breath trying to convince him of the ultimate goodness of Pa’amadin, or that of any of the gods. They could argue back and forth for many long years and never reach an agreement, so to try was a fool’s errand.

“To be sure,” Uzzret said with a self-satisfied smirk, obviously feeling he had won the argument. He walked away, leaving her alone.

Ellonlef sat down on a block of sandstone. She stayed there until the ruined face of Hiphkos rose over the eastern horizon. As what was left of the Goddess of Wisdom climbed into the sky, Ellonlef wished she had not remained out of doors. Instead of a cool, comforting blue, Hiphkos’s light shown down upon the world through a face of boiling fire and ash. Of Memokk and Attandaeus, there was no sign they had ever existed, unless it was the scattered aura slowly expanding like a band of stars away from Hiphkos.

“All is changed,” Ellonlef said, fearing that what had happened the day before was only a beginning of an end to all things.

As if to mark the moment, a fiery cascade of falling stars slashed the night. The tears of Pa’amadin, Ellonlef thought, wondering if the god she held in the highest esteem actually wept, or was merely sending further signs of his wrath, portents of some greater destruction yet to come. Unable to bear the sight any longer, she looked away.

Chapter 8

“You look terrible,” Hazad said when Kian came into view, escorted by Ishin, the leader of the Asra a’Shah.

“So I don’t get a welcome kiss?” Kian said with a weary grin, clasping the big man’s hand. To be back among friends filled his heart with an indescribable gladness. There had been times on his long march when he felt he was the only living man striding the torn face of the world.

Hazad vacated the rock he was using as a seat and pushed Kian down in his place near a smoldering bonfire. The smoky fire was not meant to ward against cold, but rather to drive off the swarms of stinging insects. The stone was not shaped for comfortable sitting, and the fire’s acrid smoke burned the eyes, but Kian welcomed anything that resembled comfort after trudging for days through the swamp. Where the company had cut a trail on the way to Varis’s temple, the quaking had changed the face of the marshes completely. Bogs had appeared where there had been none, and where they had been, wide mudflats studded with slabs of jagged bedrock now dominated. He did not want to think on the countless fallen trees he’d had to scramble over, or go under, or skirt around, all without even the meanest provisions. Kian was absolutely certain that the last few days had been the most trying of his life.

Azuri shoved a plump skin into Kian’s hand. “It’s-”

Kian gulped what he thought was fresh water, but liquid fire filled his throat.

“-jagdah,” Azuri finished with a sardonic smirk.

“Damn me!” Kian rasped, coughing. He made to hurl the skin away, but Hazad snatched it out of his hand.

Leveling a fierce scowl at him, Hazad said, “Are you mad? Men have been killed for lesser offences than tossing out perfectly good spirits.” To quench his affront, he took a long pull.

“Water would have been better,” Kian said. “I’ve been running through this damned swamp for three days now, living off black water, slime, and grubs.”

“Grubs?” Hazad said in revulsion, and promptly dribbled more jagdah into his throat.

“Perhaps you should have found a horse,” Azuri suggested.

“A horse!” Kian laughed darkly. “How could I have, when the lot of you cowards rode away with them?”

Azuri rolled his eyes. Several of the Asra a’Shah, who suffered no slight to their honor even in jest, began muttering amongst themselves. Kian ignored them; he was too exhausted to worry over hurt feelings.

“Here,” Ishin said in his thick Geldainian accent. He handed over a fresh waterskin and a wooden bowl filled with a thin broth and floating globs of pale meat.

Kian rinsed out his mouth with water, then ravenously tucked into the stew. At the first bite, he flung the bowl aside and began retching. Ishin glared, the whites of his eyes prominent against his near-black skin.

Azuri flicked an invisible speck of dust from his immaculate sleeve-how the man stayed clean in a swamp was beyond Kian. “Now you know why I gave you the jagdah first. It has the blessed capacity to kill the taste of anything you eat afterward.”

Gasping, wondering if he had been poisoned, Kian wiped his lips with a shaky hand. With a Geldainian curse, Ishin snatched the bowl off the muddy ground and strode to the far side of the fire, and there began conversing with a group of his fellows, gesticulating with the empty bowl for emphasis. Two frowned and nodded in agreement to whatever he was saying, but the others laughed at Ishin’s expense and offered Kian sympathetic glances. Apparently, even Ishin’s brethren considered his cooking undesirable.

Hazad took a third pull of jagdah, then sighed with delight. “You should have been here last night,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m certain Ishin broiled up a pile of sheep flop and drowned it in a gravy of dog vomit.”

“Enough!” Kian cried, wrenching the skin of spirits from the big man. After two searing gulps, the liquid fire of his homelands did as promised, searing away all taste of the stew, and likely all meals he would eat in the next year.

After catching his breath, Kian asked, “Is there nothing else to eat besides-”

“Snake-fish stew?” Azuri said mildly.

Kian’s throat spasmed in revolt. He closed his eyes, willed his guts to settle. “Anything but that, yes,” he said when he could.

Hazad handed him a none too clean cheesecloth bag. “Salted meat. It should do.”

Kian stared at him with disgust, but rather than berate Hazad for holding out, he untied the bag, pulled out a thick slab of dried beef and stuffed it into his mouth. To make a point, he ate the entire contents, studiously ignoring Hazad’s fretting.

“That, my friend,” Kian said when he finished, “was most excellent!”

“I hope you enjoyed it,” Azuri said dryly, “because that was the last of anything palatable. As we are days from any settlement and any chance for refit, it is starve or suffer Ishin’s fare.”

Kian considered that for a time, mentally forming a map of Aradan and getting his bearings. “Fortress El’hadar is nearest, though I would rather not go to that accursed place.”

“We have no choice,” Hazad said with no small regret. Few men willingly ventured to El’hadar, what with its Black Keep and the half-mad lord marshal who ruled it. “El’hadar is maybe three days ahead, and right on the edge of the marshes. Yuzzika is easily a fortnight south and east from here.”

“Then El’hadar it is,” Kian said, unconsciously counting heads of the men around the fire.

Azuri guessed what he was doing. “Since first night, you are the only man to have returned. We sent out search parties, but they found nothing. With you, there are now twenty-four men.”

Kian sighed heavily. Not counting himself, Hazad, Azuri, and the prince, the company had left Ammathor with sixty Asra a’Shah. He had never lost so many under his command. Fury bloomed in his heart, but he had no enemy to attack, unless he drew his sword and began hacking away at fallen trees, or the earth itself.

Letting his head droop, he scrubbed fingers through his matted hair. Of course, there was an enemy, a young man that Kian had done his best to avoid thinking about since fleeing from the temple that Varis had led them to. Even now, he decided morning would be soon enough to broach that subject.

“Do we, at the least, have enough bedding to go around?” Kian asked.

Hazad nodded. “Come, and let father Hazad tuck you in.”

“As long as you do not try to swaddle my bottom,” Kian snarled.

Chuckling, Hazad led him a little way from the bonfire to a cleared area filled with a dozen crude, open-walled tents. Within the tents were raised beds made of branches that had been lashed together with vines. Insects were always a problem in the marshes, but the firemoss hunters’ trick of raising your bed ensured that most of the bugs that scurried about on the ground after dark stayed on the ground.

“You sleep on the right,” Hazad said. “The left is mine.”

Kian stifled a groan. Hazad had the unfortunate habit of rolling about in the night and groping anyone he was sharing a tent with. He snored as well, loud and unceasingly.

Kian was too exhausted to care. “Wake me for the last watch.”

“No.” Hazad said, shaking his head. “Sleep. You need it.”

Kian was not about to argue.

After shaking out his blankets to ensure no spiders, ants, or worse had made a nest, Kian unbuckled his swordbelt and set it near to hand, then flopped down on the makeshift bed with a relieved grunt. He had caught only snatches of sleep since he ordered the retreat, and the prospect of getting close to a full night of uninterrupted rest made him sigh in gratitude. He started to drift off as soon as his eyes closed, the low chatter of those men not on watch acting like a lullaby.

From seemingly a mile away Ishin said, “Fenahk?” His voice carried the barest touch of alarm. “Your watch is not over for another turn of the glass. Unless you have something to report, get back on the line.”

Kian found himself unconsciously waiting for a response. Of all the men he had ever hired, the Asra a’Shah were the most duty-bound he had met. They simply did not shirk responsibility, and not one of them would have come in from their turn at watch unless something was wrong. The horses became restive, stamping their hooves and snorting.

“Fenahk, are you … well?”

Kian’s eyes flared open at Hazad’s harsh, if quiet, curse. He sat up to find everyone staring at the saffron-robed figure standing just at the edge of the firelight. At first, Kian could not see what all the fuss was about, then Fenahk took a halting step closer to the fire, and Kian’s insides twisted. He knew Fenahk, as he knew all the men under his command, and this was not that man. Like all the Geldainians, Fenahk was not so large as an Izutarian, but rather a short, slender fellow. This man’s bulk rivaled Hazad’s. Yet there was more. It was as if something huge and malformed had donned Fenahk’s skin like a coat, and that too-small garment was threadbare and coming apart.

“Kiaaan,” Fenahk croaked in a voice that in no way resembled that of a man.

“Everyone, stay where you are,” Azuri warned in his eerily calm manner.

Ishin seemed not to hear or see what everyone else did. He angrily strode forward. “Get back to your post!” he ordered.

Fenahk’s eyes, black through and through, locked on the approaching mercenary. Kian was sure those orbs had not been so large when Fenahk had stepped into the firelight. Ishin halted abruptly, uncertainty flickering across his features. He stood but four paces from Fenahk. Whatever he saw at that short distance caused him to slowly reach for the hilt of the scimitar strapped across his back. All at once, everything was in motion.

Sword in hand, Kian leapt to his feet. Hazad ran toward Ishin. Azuri produced a gleaming dagger. Most of the Asra a’Shah dragged their great scimitars free, while the rest hastily strung their bows. Fenahk rushed forward far more quickly than his previously shambling gait had suggested was possible. Ishin was the first to die.

With a demonic roar, Fenahk’s mouth gaped wide, shredding his cheeks and revealing a bloody, slavered maw full of slanting ebon teeth. Ishin screamed when that mouth snapped closed over his neck and shoulder. There came a gruesome crunching noise as those teeth sank deep and ground together. Ishin’s shrieks drowned out all other sound. Fenahk shook Ishin back and forth like dog worrying a rat, then cast him aside. The Asra a’Shah rolled limply in death, torn nearly in half.

As the Geldainians closed, the thing that had been Fenahk spread wide its arms. The saffron robe, and the flesh beneath those robes, tore apart in a spray of gore. The creature did not so much grow in size, as burst forth from weak constraints. Old flesh fell away to expose a creature of thick and twisted bones, freakish slabs of muscle, and blood-red skin covered in needle-like spines. The demonic beast straightened to its full height of at least twelve feet, and bellowed with a sound like a falling mountain.

A mercenary swung his scimitar in a deadly sidestroke, but the razor-edged steel managed only a thin slice before exploding like glass. The creature’s six-fingered hand flashed out in a blur of motion, impaling the Geldainian on dagger-length talons. It swept the dying man aside even as it came forward to meet the next attacker.

A wild-faced Hazad stopped midstride and spun to retrieve his bow. Azuri, eyes narrowed in concentration, cocked his arm and, in a blur, brought it forward. His dagger flew true, striking the creature’s chest, penetrating but an inch, before falling way. Azuri looked at the bent blade for the barest moment, then called, “Back, you fools!”

The mercenaries did not heed him. Nor did Kian. He raced past Azuri, who tried but failed to grab his arm. Kian came in low, thinking nothing, acting instinctively. His mind afire with purpose, his emotions cold and unfeeling as ice, he attacked. With his blade held before him like a short spear, he rammed it into the creature’s groin, the weakest point of any enemy. Where other steel had shattered or bent, his sword struck with a flare of blue fire that seemed to originate from his own hand. His steel sank deep with a horrid screech of metal scraping over bone. The creature threw its head back and let out a bloodcurdling scream. Kian’s eyes watered, and his ears felt as if they would burst. Teeth bared, he wrenched the sword free, just as a freakish hand thrice the size of a man’s swung at his head. He ducked away, just missing being decapitated, and fell into a graceless roll.

The Asra a’Shah had paused at Kian’s unexpected attack, but now they redoubled their efforts, their swords shattering or clanging against inhuman flesh, leaving only small wounds. Arrows from farther back shrieked through the smoky air, deadly true. To the last, each bolt exploded in a rain of splinters, as if having been fired at stone. One man went down, his head nearly torn from his neck by raking talons. Another instantly filled the gap in the circle of warriors, but fell an instant later, his innards spilling from a ragged gash in his belly. Despite their disadvantage, the Geldainian mercenaries continued their assault, effectively keeping the creature’s attention off Kian.

Kian scrambled to his feet, drawing his dagger to compliment his sword. He stabbed the shorter blade into the creature’s thigh, and again, blue flame erupted from his hands, traveled the length of the blade, and surged into the beast’s flesh. His sword came up as the creature bowed its great height. Glimmering black eyes, lifeless as that of a creature dragged from the deepest sea, focused on Kian. He instantly sent his sword into one of them. Thick, scalding ichor poured from the wound, forcing Kian to dance back without his weapon.

With blurring speed, the thing that had been Fenahk caught Kian in one of its enormous hands and drew him close. Kian tensed every muscle, sensing some queer energy rippling through him, a force that resisted the long claws pricking his skin-claws that should have shredded him. Slaver dripped from massive teeth onto Kian’s upturned face. His hands shot out, catching hold of two of those fangs. He pushed against them to avoid being torn asunder. The tip of his sword, covered in black fluid, jutted from the top of the creature’s massive head. Such a wound should have been mortal, but Kian sensed only the swift approach of his own death.

Rage filled his mind, bringing with it the cold fury of a winter storm scouring the barren ice fields of his homelands. With the only weapon left to him, he bellowed his defiance into the face of his doom. The creature abruptly drew back, as if in pain. It loosed its own deafening howl, and Kian howled with it, that sense of inexplicable power surging through him, seeking escape. Their combined voices rose higher, wordless cries filling the night. Asra a’Shah staggered back, gaping in shock.

As the twin bellows rose higher still, a dark mass of oily smoke oozed out of the creature’s face, which seemed to be dissolving before Kian’s eyes. He ceased his wild shout, arching backward to avoid the foul touch of those greasy tendrils. The creature suddenly hurled him away. Kian flipped through the air, weightless and tumbling until he hit the ground. He rolled and skidded, bouncing along like a skipping stone, halting only after he struck the base of a tree.

He leapt up, casting about for something with which to strike the hell-spawned nightmare. Before he could find a weapon, Hazad was there, one big hand on each of Kian’s shoulders, shaking him. “It’s over. Whatever you did, it worked. That thing is gone. It … melted.”

Kian shook his head, clearing the battle rage, thawing the iced blood in his veins. He abruptly stopped trying to get loose of Hazad’s grasp. “How?” he asked, breathless, not sure exactly what had happened.

“We can worry about that later,” Azuri said. “Unless you want to wait around here for another one of those demons to show up?”

“Demon?” Kian rasped. “Only in children’s tales can demons escape the bounds of the Thousand Hells.” To his own ears, the explanation sounded hollow, for as hard as it was to believe, what else besides a demon could the creature have been? And had he not himself considered the same when those monstrous, vaporous shapes had escaped the temple with Varis?

Gingerly holding each weapon by its hilt, Azuri handed over Kian’s sword and dagger with a look of more than passing curiosity. The blades were covered in a rank wetness that Kian could only name blood, though it was thicker than any he had ever seen, and black besides. As he set to wiping them clean, Azuri elaborated in a rational tone.

“If that was not a demon escaped from Geh’shinnom’atar, then we are all mad. While I concede that a group of men might all go insane at once, it is doubtful that we would all suffer the same vision.”

Hazad gulped his jagdah. In most things the big man was fearless, yet now his eyes were feral. “What if those living shadows at the temple with Varis were demon spirits, as well?”

Azuri shook his head with a troubled look. “Some old stories claim that demons can possess a man, and remake them. Fenahk, whatever he became, seems to prove that.”

“Gods good and wise, what did that fool boy bring on us?” Hazad snarled. “And how did he do it?”

“I do not know,” Azuri said. “Whether by his deeds or another’s, it would appear that Geh’shinnom’atar has been breached.”

Kian held his sword up for inspection, found it clean, and slid into the scabbard. “I do not recall any stories ever saying a man could kill a demon with steel,” he said. “Nor do I recall ever hearing that the gates of the Thousand Hells were located in a tumbledown temple within the Qaharadin.” He set to scrubbing the dagger.

“Nor have I,” Azuri admitted. “Yet, stories of demons and Geh’shinnom’atar are as old as mankind. Who can say what has been lost in their telling over the ages?”

Kian frowned at the memory of those vaporous shapes, dozens of which had surged out of the roiling pit where the temple had been, monstrous figures that had seemed to circle and brush against Varis, like old companions. “How could demons-the Fallen, the mahk’lar-escape Geh’shinnom’atar, a prison created by the Three before the first men walked?” He thought a moment, then added, “What’s more, why did that demon call out my name?”

Azuri shrugged. “My guess is-”

“Guesses are useless,” Kian interrupted. “I-we-need answers if we are to defend ourselves well enough to reach El’hadar with the remaining men we have.”

“Possibilities are all we have,” Azuri answered, unperturbed by the force of Kian’s demands. “The Hall of Wisdom at Ammathor may have answers and, too, the scholars of the Magi Order, or even the Sisters of Najihar.”

“There might be others who know,” Hazad said flatly.

Kian raised his eyebrows in question.

Hazad looked torn between distaste and hopefulness. “The Madi’yin.”

“Leave it to you to trust in anything the begging brothers have to say,” Azuri said in derision.

The big man glared. “When the world goes mad, I trust that madmen may have answers closer to truth. Demons, after all, seem to be their favored topic.”

Azuri seemed to be searching his mind for a retort, but found none.

Kian glanced over his companions’ shoulders at the demon’s remains-a pool of reddish sludge. Somehow, his sword alone had truly harmed the creature.

My sword, he thought, knowing that was not the truth, not entirely. It had been that blue fire that had traveled through him and into his weapon that had caused harm. Even that, in the end, had not slain the demon, but rather his voice. None of it made sense. Still, if he was to defend himself and others against further attack, he needed to know why he had succeeded where others had failed-but not yet. Now they must run.

“Something has happened in the world that should not be,” he said, imposing himself between Hazad and Azuri. “And that something must have to do with whatever Prince Varis did and became at the temple.”

He purposefully did not mention the blue fire that had issued from his own flesh, nor did he mention that his cry had destroyed the creature, though by the look in their eyes, he knew his friends had noted it all. It was not lost on him in that moment that something similar had happened with the serpent-root that Varis had called forth to attack him. It too had perished at his touch. He did not want to talk about these things, until he’d had time to ponder the strange events. But the undeniable truth, no matter how hard he tried to avoid or disbelieve it, was that whatever had changed Varis, had also changed him. A chill crept over his skin at the thought of sharing any kind of bond with the young prince of Aradan.

Hazad and Azuri shared a look that suggested they had at least broached the issue of what had happened to Varis while Kian was trying to reach them. Had he the luxury of time, Kian would have welcomed any opinion, but he sensed danger closing in from all sides, stalking them … stalking him. He had never been one to fear shadows, but in that moment, he did not doubt that he had the right of it.

It called me by name. The tingle of fear crept again over his flesh. He had known fear as a child, when roving the deadly streets of Marso. He had not enjoyed the sensation then, and he liked it even less now.

“We must get out of this accursed swamp,” Kian said, pushing all else aside. “Then we make for El’hadar to refit. Lord Marshal Bresado keeps a magus there. Perhaps he can shed some light on this. After that, regardless of what we learn from El’hadar’s magus, I intend to make for Izutar. Our Asra a’Shah friends can return to Geldain, or go wherever they wish.”

“Do you not think the prince’s family should learn of what happened to him?” Azuri asked.

“They will, I’m sure, but not from my mouth,” Kian said with a disgusted snort, his mind made up. It was not fear that drove him now-he would not and had never let fear control him-but rather a large measure of antipathy he had for all of Aradan and her people. The realm, as he had always known it, was surely a land fit for demons and strife. More, he had survived Varis’s attack, and now a demon spawned from the bowels of the Thousand Hells. In his mind, he had given enough to Aradan. His duty to the Kilvar line was concluded, even if for but half of the agreed upon gold. As for Varis’s attack against him, Kian reasoned that there were battles that needed fighting, and then there were grudges best left to fate and destiny to decide.

“I’m finished with demons and princes,” Kian announced. “I’m finished with this kingdom and this gods-cursed swamp. I cannot guess Varis’s intentions, whatever he is now. The people of this godless realm can fight him, or bow to him, or sacrifice themselves for his amusements, for all I care.”

Dozens of eyes studied him, but no one seemed inclined to disagree or offer a different choice.

“To horse!” he ordered. “We make for the desert. At least there we will be able see what is coming long before it gets to us.”

Chapter 9

In the predawn light, a young man nearly unrecognizable as Prince Varis Kilvar of the Kingdom of Aradan halted a dozen miles beyond the broken walls of Krevar. He surveyed the destruction, noted the deep crevasse zigzagging across the desert before reaching the collapsed northern wall of the fortress.

I did this, he thought with a mirthless smile. With but one action, that of taking the powers long hidden within the Well of Creation, he had remade the face of the world. He would not stop there. The glorious reshaping would continue for an age of man under his reign.

Although Varis had been running almost the entire time since leaving the temple, he was neither exhausted nor breathing hard. The need for rest had become as irrelevant to him as the need for sleep. He required only the living world around him to sustain his strength. Where another man would have collapsed long since, he simply drew on the life forces of a thousand living things, forcing their energy to replenish him. In time, should Peropis fail him, he would learn on his own the ways to make his life and flesh incorruptible. Not only would his reign be glorious, it would be eternal.

Before returning fully to Geh’shinnom’atar, leaving him to secure his army, Peropis had taught him more directly how to harvest miniscule portions of the life all around him, and how to resist taking more than his mortal body could contain. There was a balance to be struck, she told him, between taking life and releasing it in equal measures. It was a constant war not to draw too much of that mysterious power and simply hold it, but Peropis had explained, “Soon, Prince of Aradan, the breadth and depth of your strength will exceed your greatest desires. You are but a babe taking his first steps. In the fullness of time, you will run. However, you must understand that the gift you possess was never meant for the hands of men. For you, I have changed that. Do not waste that gift by destroying yourself.”

Varis kept secret that he desired more than she promised, and that he knew she was not telling him the full truth of her intentions. For now, he would allow her to serve as his teacher and guide. All the while, he would expand his power. After Aradan was his, he would then stretch out his hand over lands known and unknown, across all the face of the world, and subdue them. Afterward, he would destroy Peropis and take what sustained her-not a life force, he had discovered, but something like it.

But all that would come later, he reminded himself again. As Peropis said, for now he needed an army to do his bidding and shield his still very human flesh from the weapons of men too foolish to understand that a living god stood in their midst.

Deciding that he would not move on Krevar until nightfall, thus utilizing the darkness of night to bring out men’s inborn fears, he found an outcrop of rocks that would provide shade from the rising sun, and settled down to wait. As the day grew brighter, the eastern sky exploded in a crimson wave that stretched all the way to the western horizon. To Varis’s changed eyes, he saw only smudges of silver-lined gray, an image of stark beauty in its own right.

The acrid scent of smoke drew his attention toward the Qaharadin. Infernos raged throughout the swamp, doubtless brought to life by the fiery streaks that had fallen every night since he set out from the collapsed temple. To the north and west, far out into the swamp, a great roiling black and gray plume rose like a storm cloud. He placed it somewhere near where the temple had been. He knew not what would come of it, but before he had left the site of his rebirth, molten stone had began to bubble and spew from under the spot where the Three had hidden their powers. No doubt a day would come that he might return to the spot and find a monument in his honor, an offering given by the lightless heart of the world itself.

Varis found himself hoping for great fires and worse catastrophes, knowing that he could combine the uncertainty and terror of widespread destruction and calamity with his plan to take the Ivory Throne as his own, and then the surrounding kingdoms of Tureece, Falseth, and Izutar. Geldain, across the Sea of Drakarra, would fall, too, for though it was a wasteland every inch as much as the Kaliayth Desert, it was also a rich land. He cared not for the wealth, but rather for the sumptuous temples he would have constructed in his honor, places where people could properly worship him. For the time being, here at Krevar, admittedly Peropis’s design, he would employ different methods to gain the devout followers he needed to ensure his ascension to the Ivory Throne.

As the day lengthened, Varis turned his mind to Kian Valara, the Izutarian barbarian, a man who sold his sword to the highest bidder. Although Varis still could not conceive why or how the man posed a threat to him, Peropis had assured him that Kian was dangerous enough to let her deal with him, rather than taking a direct hand in it. Once more, he suspected she knew more than she was telling, but decided what she knew did not matter. Given the chance, he would deal with Kian himself.

As heat shimmers began rising off the desert, Varis reclined deeper in the outcrop’s shade. Even at a distance, he sensed the many hundreds of people milling about within the walls of Krevar. When he looked that way, the heap of rubble that had once been Aradan’s mightiest fortress shone with shades of silver and gray. At first he had believed that Peropis had cursed his eyes by stealing from them the ability to see color, but now he knew differently. His new sight showed him exactly what he needed to see, and where to strike. As for the rest of his body, which he had first seen reflected in a pool of water a two days past, the transformation was shocking. To his new sight, he appeared to be a risen spirit. His skin was pale, and his flesh was so thin as to be nearly transparent. While he would not have traded what he gained from those changes, it assaulted his pride enough that he had clothed himself from head to heel at the first opportunity.

He had first come out of the swamp at night and, guided by the glow of life, made for a firemoss hunter camped nearby. Varis’s appearance had reduced the poor fellow to a gibbering, begging imbecile. Without hesitation, Varis had drained the man like a waterskin, until all that was left behind was a leathery husk wrapped about jutting bones. All the while, the ‘moss hunter’s team of oxen had chewed their cud with bland indifference. With matched callousness, Varis had sorted through the man’s chest of clothes until he found what he needed: a tunic, trousers, and a long, hooded cloak that when belted looked like lowborn robes. After, he had begun again the long, swift march to Krevar….

Over long hours of rumination, day gave way to night, and even that was waning by the time Varis stirred. Across the firmament, the now familiar streaks of fire flashed past overhead. To the east, the waning, burning face of Hiphkos rose, crowned with an ever growing ring of what looked like stars, but could not be. It struck him that what he was seeing was actually the ruptured remains of Memokk and Attandaeus. He could not be certain, but he thought that the celestial fires that had initially spread across the face of Hiphkos had grown dimmer.

He laughed at the idea of various priesthoods and their followers, across many lands, running about in a panic believing that the gods they worshipped had just died, when in truth those gods had actually sacrificed themselves at the dawn of mankind. The perceived deaths of the gods would ensure mankind would embrace him and his dominance. Men, for the most part, were but lowly beasts ever-seeking a leader of strength and authority, someone or something stronger than themselves. In the face of his own power, such fools would eagerly bow, thinking to curry favor or, at the least, to stave off due punishment. Like all canny leaders, Varis would use such fawning idiots to further his own ends. When their usefulness expired, he would dispose of them. The rest, he supposed, he would spare for his amusement, for if nothing else, fools provided all manner of entertainment.

Pushing aside these trifles of interest, Varis stood and looked to the south. Ethereal filaments danced and swayed like radiant sea grass above Krevar. He could gauge each strand’s strength by the force of its glow. And in Krevar, he judged, there was much pain and suffering.

With careful study, he found a particular life force, studied it, and concluded that that one strand was the only one he must protect. Then, with reckless abandon, he added to the pain and fear of the rest, draining away the vitality of the living. Before the great wealth of living energy could destroy him, he began pouring it into the Qaharadin Marshes, some miles distant. By the time he finished his work, the swamp had grown deeper and wider.

Chapter 10

A loud rapping drew Ellonlef from a restless sleep. Before she raised her head from the pillow, a woman wearing the white and gray livery of House Racote burst through the door. Cast in the light of a firemoss lantern, her features were a mask of dismay. “Sister!” she cried, “Lord Marshal Otaker has summoned you. Please … please hurry!”

Groggy, Ellonlef sat up. “What is the hour, Alia?”

“The third past midnight, Sister. Please, you must come. It’s terrible.” Her face crumpled and tears began to stream.

“Alia, are you ill?”

“No,” she wailed. “Not … not yet.”

“Tell me what is amiss,” Ellonlef ordered, sliding out of bed. She drew on her white robes, then tied back her dark hair with a leather thong. While she hastily washed the sleep from her eyes, Alia spoke in broken sobs.

“People are … they are dying everywhere. It’s a plague.”

Ellonlef looked up from the washbasin, water dripping off her cheeks.

“You must come, Sister.”

Ellonlef dried her face and followed Alia out of the room. The servant woman hurried down corridor after corridor, all blazing with the light of rush torches and firemoss wall lamps. Everywhere she looked, death and stunned grief met her eyes. Here and there, guards stood over their brothers in arms, men who had perished from what looked like a year-long wasting sickness. The faces of the dead were gray as bathwater, with glazed eyes floating in hollow sockets; mouths gaped, as if they had been crying out even as they perished.

Ellonlef sank to her knees at a child’s side. The girl looked the same as the rest. The mother, another servant woman, was shrieking and clawing at her cheeks in despair. Suddenly, as if she had been slapped, the mother’s cries cut off. Ellonlef made to touch her arm, but Alia caught her wrist and dragged her back.

“Do not touch her!” Alia screamed.

Before Ellonlef could protest, the mother’s face began to gray, and her cheeks thinned and sunk. Alia released Ellonlef and backed away, a hand held over her mouth. Ellonlef’s attention remained on the dying woman, who had fallen to her knees and pitched over on her side to lay gasping like a landed fish. Guards approached from the other end of the corridor, but when they saw the woman, they halted.

Disregarding her own safety, Ellonlef moved to the dying woman’s side. Alia begged her to stay away, and would come no closer herself. Ellonlef took the woman’s head in her lap and smoothed back her black hair. It had been dark and thick moments before, but now was brittle as straw, and broke off at her touch. The woman’s skin was cold as the grave, dry as desert sand. Searching eyes found Ellonlef. She tried to speak but no words came, and her lips pulled back from her teeth in a withering rictus.

Ellonlef did not know how long she held the woman before Lord Marshal Otaker joined her side.

“Sister, please, come away. This sickness seems to spread by … touching a victim, or by the very air we breathe.”

“I have never seen the like,” Ellonlef said, voice hollow. “This cannot be a catching sickness. Nothing save poison kills so swiftly. But even poison cannot drain away one’s vitality in this way.”

Otaker gently pulled Ellonlef to her feet and directed her away. The servant woman, along with all the others who had perished, was left where she had fallen. Those still alive stared with sad surety etched on their features as Ellonlef and Otaker departed. To them, there could be no question that both would soon fall.

They were rounding the corner to Otaker’s chambers before Ellonlef regained her composure. “There is no need to pull me along.”

Otaker released her arm and looked away, a sheen of unshed tears in his gaze. Her insides twisted with sudden insight. “Lady Danara … your children?” She let the unvoiced question hang before them.

The lord marshal bowed his neck, his chin trembling. The strong, proud features she had always known was lost behind a face of abject misery.

“Come,” Ellonlef said, but in her heart the brief flare of hope she had that Danara and her children remained alive had already perished.

Together they hastened to Otaker’s chambers, only to be stopped short by a handful of grieving servants waiting outside the door. Otaker eased through them. When they saw who it was, the women bowed their heads, and the men touched their fists to heart in homage. Ellonlef followed, hard on his heels.

She halted as soon as she caught sight of Lady Danara lying on the bed, a wasted gray husk like all the others. Her heart ached at the mewling sounds she heard emanating from Otaker’s throat. He stumbled to his wife’s side, took her hand, and collapsed to his knees. He looked at her a long time, then raised his face to the ceiling and howled in anguish. The echoes of that despairing cry swept through the keep, and wherever it was heard the listeners felt their blood run cold.

Desolation sank into Ellonlef, playing havoc with her soul. It overwhelmed her. She turned and fled, shamed by her weakness, but unable to bear the pain of so many, not after all she had seen since the Three had collided and burned in the heavens. But no matter where she went, sorrow followed her. Men, women, and children, with no regard for rank or birth, lay like cordwood at every turn. Eventually she fled the keep, only to find worse out of doors.

On she ran, until coming to the market square, where she finally halted. There, instead of grief, the power of fear had taken hold, backlit by leaping, roaring flames. Those not yet stricken ran to and fro with blazing torches raised, eyes wild. Standing atop a pile of crumbled mud bricks, Magus Uzzret urged on the frenzy.

“Burn the dead!” he bellowed, his eyes bulging with a desperation bordering on insanity. “Burn them all!”

Soldiers and townsfolk alike rushed to do his bidding, so lost in terror that they did not conceive that touching the dead might poison their own lives. Bodies were dragged from the shadows and haphazardly thrown onto roaring bonfires. Thick smoke poured from the tangled corpses, which seemed to catch and burn as easily if they had been dipped in oil.

Uzzret raised his arms before the flames, the wafting heat rustling his blue robes. He shouted incoherently, as if urging the inferno higher.

“Tell them to stop!” Ellonlef urged. “This is madness!”

The magus cut off his incoherent ranting to glare down at her. Spittle flecked his quivering lips. “Would you defy the judgment of the gods?”

Ellonlef was taken aback by the rapid change of heart of a man who had so recently proclaimed that there were no gods. He had gone from an unbeliever to a zealot in a matter of hours.

As if reading her thoughts, Uzzret added with disturbing calm, “To my shame, I have disavowed the gods, as has my brotherhood. I see now my folly, and the folly of the world. This sea of death is a sign as surely as is the shaking of the world and the destruction of the Three, and even the fires that rage in the west.

“Too long has the world cavorted at the perverse altars of debauchery and bloodlust, with the Kingdom of Aradan serving as the High Priest. Too long have we been turned from the faces of the true gods, chasing after the desires of our hearts.” The longer he spoke, the faster and higher came his voice.

“We who should have known better! You and I, our orders, have cringed in cowardice, trading our morality for peace, rather than speaking against sacrilege and debauchery. Now, the gods of old have bestirred themselves, have awoken from their long slumber, weighed our worth, and found the world of men wanting. Judgment has come! The fires of their enemies’ burning brighten the heavens by night, and terrible rumblings lay waste to the lands by day.” He leered down at her. “This is only the beginning of the end! We must appease our true creators before it is too late.”

“Pa’amadin, the God of gods, Creator of All, desires our devotion-not toasted corpses,” Ellonlef offered in a soothing voice, hoping to instill a sense of calm into Uzzret.

His dark eyes, mirroring the flames all around, took on a hard light without a whit of compassion. He jabbed an accusatory finger at her. “Pa’amadin is but another false god, a device created by corrupt and shameless hearts. The true gods, be they nameless or their names merely forgotten, demand fire and blood, as in the days of old! You deny that which is undeniable. Even as the waves of catastrophe break around us all, you stand apart from truth. If you will not humble yourself, even as the realm burns in the fires of our own making, then you must burn in those fires … as will all heretics.”

Ellonlef began backing away, telling herself this must be a terrible dream. How could a man lose his mind so swiftly? And not only that, how could he come to such outlandish conclusions?

“Seize her!” Uzzret screeched. “Cast her into the fires!”

Ellonlef spun to flee, but came face to face with a creature risen straight from Geh’shinnom’atar. When its dead white eyes found her, she choked on a scream.

Chapter 11

With veiled amusement, Varis watched the Sister of Najihar recoil. Between her shock at seeing his ravaged features, and hearing the ravings of Magus Uzzret, it was all he could do not to fall into a fit of laughter. Peropis had assured him that she knew the hearts of men, had learned their ways from their beginnings. She had painted a picture of what to expect, and what to utilize, that was uncannily similar to the scenes of chaos he had encountered since passing within the broken walls of Krevar. But jumping so quickly to burning heretics alongside corpses as an appeasement to nameless gods, no less, was more than even Peropis had anticipated.

A pair of guards who had not heard Uzzret’s wild command to hurl Ellonlef into the flames, came from the shadows dragging the body of one of their fellows, intending to burn the corpse. Their grim labor sobered the prince. If he did not put a stop to this nonsense, and soon, the seeds of his future army would, quite literally, go up in smoke.

Varis strode to the feet of the old gaping fool perched atop the hill of broken stone. “Magus Uzzret,” he said, knowing the man’s name as well as the woman’s, just as he knew all the advisors to the lords marshal across all of Aradan. “I’m sure that gods, forgotten or not, disdain such an empty sacrifice as charring the dead. Call off this madness if you ever hope to see these hapless souls walk again.”

“On whose authority do you speak?” Uzzret demanded, voice shaking. By his expression, it was all he could do not to succumb to the same fear filling Ellonlef’s heart.

Varis had the distinct impression that the man was a blustering imbecile who thought more highly of himself than did his peers, an assessment that had never reached his grandfather’s court in Ammathor. Of course, Varis considered, troubles and hardship often brought out a man’s true nature. At a furious shout, Varis was sure the old fool would soil himself. But there was no need for that, no matter how amusing it would be.

Raising himself up to his full height, Varis said, “By the authority of the blood of my Royal House, Magus Uzzret, that which has flowed through the veins of all the heirs of the Ivory Throne since the First King Edaer Kilvar stormed off the Kaliayth to bring about the fall of the Suanahad Empire, a thousand years gone.”

Both Uzzret and Ellonlef stared. To hasten their burgeoning understanding, he added, “Though I bear the recent scars given me by an enemy to all men, I am Prince Varis Kilvar, heir to the Ivory Throne of Aradan, Keeper of the Kaliayth in the West, and Holder of the Golden Plain in the East.”

“My lord,” Uzzret gasped, as recognition finally bloomed in his gaze. “What … what has befallen you?”

Varis did not bother answering. He did not wish to have to repeat himself incessantly, and he knew well that the tale he was about to tell was one created to coerce, not convince. He must act quickly, giving no time for deep consideration. He commanded, “Call off these men, Magus. This is no plague, and neither is it a curse of the gods.”

Uzzret and Ellonlef responded with questioning looks, and Varis laid down the first paving stone that would become the road to his accession.

“These deaths are the work of one man, who has stolen into himself the very powers of creation, once held by the Three. Before we lose anymore of the time needed to mend these wrongs, take me to Lord Marshal Otaker-if he still lives,” he added belatedly, not wishing these two fools to guess that he knew of at least one man, in particular, who still drew breath. Neither could know that he had purposefully spared Otaker, and so they did as he ordered.

Chapter 12

It had taken Ellonlef much urging to get Otaker to leave his dead wife and grieving children, but now he sat behind his writing table, his eyes red from weeping. He stared at Prince Varis as if he were an apparition. As a frequent visitor to the king’s court, he had recognized the youth with little prompting, but it was apparent he was having a difficult time fully accepting what he was seeing.

Ellonlef knew how the lord marshal felt. She tried to ignore the revulsion she felt when she looked at the prince. She had briefly seen him as a child when she passed through Ammathor on her way to Krevar, but he no longer resembled that child. The dark skin given him by his ancestry had been bleached bone-white, and all the flesh beneath that skin had melted away, leaving him gaunt to the point of death. His eyes were whiter still than his skin, and every hair on his body had either fallen out or been burned away. He looked like a resurrected corpse, though without the warm blush of life.

Despite his abominable appearance, things he had mentioned troubled her more. “Call off this madness,” Varis had said in the market square, “if you ever hope to see these hapless souls walk again.” Though unspoken, it seemed that he had claimed the dead would be raised to life. Her conclusion of what he had meant was implausible enough for her to consider that she must have misheard him-except she knew she had not. Also, when the prince had demanded to be taken to Otaker, there had been a brief hesitation before he had added, “if he still lives.” It was as if he had known full well that Otaker was still alive.

“My lord,” Otaker said in a hollow tone, interrupting Ellonlef’s thoughts, “you have come at a grievous time for Krevar. We-”

Varis quieted Otaker with a raised hand. “I fear it is a ‘grievous time’ for the whole of Aradan and, perhaps, the entire world. The powers of the Three, the gods who created the world and men, have been stolen by a mere mortal, and the gates of Geh’shinnom’atar have been breached and the Fallen freed. This night, the mahk’lar stalk the face of the world.”

He spoke in such a matter-of-fact tone that it took Ellonlef a moment to fully register the import of his words. Uzzret moaned, low in his throat.

“The Three … the Fallen,” Otaker muttered, shaking his head. “Forgive my disbelief, but you speak the ramblings of the Madi’yin.”

Ellonlef struggled to keep her features calm, but she could not still her tongue. “How could a man steal the powers of living gods?” she asked incredulously.

Varis turned his lifeless gaze on her. “Suffice it to say, the Three live no longer. In truth, they destroyed themselves at the dawning of the age of men. The moons that represented their deity are but remnants-ghosts, if you will. And now, even their ghosts have been destroyed.”

Uzzret began bobbing his head, as if he had known as much all along.

“That is impossible,” Ellonlef said, shaken.

“If I had not believed the same,” Varis said, suddenly morose, “then I could have avoided suffering the living nightmare of my own ruination. However impossible, I saw that power unleashed and, too, I saw demons freed that those same energies held trapped within the Thousand Hells-demons that now soar free in the world of living men. That force melted my flesh, ripped through my bones, nearly destroyed me. I watched my supposed protector-a man who beguiled me with false tales of treasure large enough to aid Ammathor hidden within a secret temple-as he went mad with power and fury, and slaughtered those few under his command who were not loyal to him. He scorched them with fires created from nothing. When that did not slake his bloodlust, he fashioned a vile and corrupt form of life from that which was once pure, using it to destroy all the rest who opposed him. By good fortune, I was able to escape-though not without paying a high price, as you can see.”

Varis pointed to the doorway. “Your people, Lord Marshal, are not the first to have their very lives drained from their flesh by this treacherous devil, and they certainly will not be the last. This man, along with those who follow him now, and those who will surely follow him later, must be destroyed. An army must be assembled and marched to Ammathor, for this man thinks to begin his conquest of the world by usurping the Ivory Throne. Though an army may not be enough to stop him, I would forewarn Ammathor, rather than let the city of my birth be taken completely unawares, as have been the people of Krevar.”

“Your protector,” Otaker asked, “he is one of the House Guard?”

Varis shook his head. “No. The man is Kian Valara, an Izutarian mercenary leading a complement of Asra a’Shah hirelings.”

Before Otaker could respond, the prince explained: “With open rebellion more frequent than ever in Aradan, and the danger of Tureecian raiders increasing with every season, as well as the ever-present threat of the marauding Bashye, I wrongly chose men who I believed would be absolutely loyal to the gold I paid them, if not to myself. As it happened, Kian used my outing as a cover for his own diabolical ends. How long he has planned this, or why he needed me along, I cannot say.”

Uzzret abruptly coughed to gain everyone’s attention. “Perhaps this traitorous bastard intended to use you as a ransom?” he suggested, all but panting in his eagerness to provide an answer for Varis.

To Ellonlef, if no one else, the prince’s entire story sounded contrived. There could be some measure of truth in Varis’s words, but it struck her that despite all his professing ignorance, at the same time he seemed to know far more about the intricacies of what was happening than someone who had supposedly been surprised by a mercenary’s actions, and the ensuing results. As a Sister of Najihar, she was well-trained in looking for truths hidden amongst clever lies. While she could not put a finger on exactly what Varis’s secrets were, she knew they were there, and she knew Varis was lying to hide some greater, perhaps damning, truth.

“You may be correct, Magus,” Varis said with a dismissive shrug.

Uzzret bowed graciously, eagerly, as if Varis had bestowed upon him lands and titles. “You are too kind to your humble servant, Your Highness.” He took that moment to glance furtively between Ellonlef and Otaker. “Without you here to lead us, I fear that Krevar would have soon vanished under the shifting sands of the Kaliayth.”

The thinly-veiled slight had no apparent effect on Otaker, but Ellonlef felt rage growing in her heart, tempered only by pity. Uzzret was like a drowning man, searching for any hope, no matter how thin, so that he could escape certain death. It was not death by water that he fought against, Ellonlef knew, but a crushing wave of insanity. Too many tragedies had befallen Krevar over the last few days, and now a plague that was supposedly not a plague but rather the work of a man wielding the powers of gods, was simply too much for Uzzret to contend with. How many others were fighting the same battle, Ellonlef wondered, and what foolishness would those distraught minds gravitate towards, in order to save themselves?

Otaker said, “I have heard of this mercenary, and those reports never suggested he might be capable of such treachery. Izutarians, for all their reckless nature and uncouth ways, are heralded as men of both valor and honor. And, as you know, Your Highness, many serve with distinction in Aradan’s legions.”

Ellonlef sighed with relief. Though grieving, Otaker had not completely lost his wits to remorse. He was bringing to light ideas that flew in the face of Varis’s story.

“I cannot speak to what turned this Izutarian’s heart to embrace this darkness,” Varis said, somewhat defensively to Ellonlef’s ear, “but know that his heart is turned. By his own words-which I overheard spoken to his cohorts-he intends to begin his campaign of domination by subjugating all of Aradan. What he desires after that can only be imagined, but I dare say he will not stop at seizing the Ivory Throne.”

“Why would an Izutarian mercenary want to prop himself up as a king of Aradan and, as you hint, perhaps even an emperor?” Ellonlef asked, thinking this tale was growing more unbelievable by the moment. Men of all stripes were capable of seeking such enormous power, but never in all her studies had she learned of anyone who sought the accession to such authority by initially overthrowing the throne of a foreign land, instead of their own.

“Why does any man seek to rise above himself?” Varis said, evasively. Speaking quickly, he added, “All that matters, here and now, is that we must act with all haste. For Kian, from afar and by means I do not fully understand, has murdered scores in Krevar alone. Who can say what atrocities he has wrought along the rest of the border? If you seek hard answers, I have few enough, and much more speculation.”

Before any could respond, still speaking rapidly, Varis offered the details of his own speculation, which again sounded too much like firsthand knowledge to Ellonlef.

“My guess,” Varis began, “is that Kian intends to strike fear into the peoples’ hearts, using that trepidation to gain control over them. Unless you heed me, tens of thousands, all across the kingdom, shall perish. Be it terror or desire to spare themselves, others will surely align themselves with Kian and his army. I can do little on my own. I need your allegiance, lord marshal, and that of our countrymen, to swiftly build a counterforce greater than Kian’s-an army where fealty is earned through love, not terror.”

“The Magi Order has always provided strong, loyal supporters to the crown under that which they serve,” Uzzret blurted. “While I am not the head of my order, I can promise our support.”

Ellonlef bit back a derisive oath at such shameless bootlicking. It was not hard to do, because her greater concern was that Varis was using his astonishing story and highborn influence in an attempt to maneuver both Otaker and Uzzret to his side.

Otaker said, “My fealty has always been to the Ivory Throne and House Kilvar, Your Highness. But, if even half of what you say is true, then you are claiming that an Izutarian, a barbarian of the north, is planning to bring Aradan under his rule by means of the powers of … of deceased gods. If so, how can such a man possibly be stopped with swords and spears and bows?”

Varis looked at his hands, turning them over and back, his features miserable. “Perhaps what has been done to me is a blessing … perhaps it is a curse. I know not.”

He looked up, dead eyes fixed on Otaker. There seemed to be something behind those white eyes, a sudden understanding of a troubling mystery. That understanding, it seemed, he kept to himself. Aloud he said, “What I do know is that when Kian seized the powers of creation, some measure of that power escaped into the world-and some was given to me.”

Varis’s expression of enlightenment quickly faded, and his voice came as a whisper. “In my ignorance, I could not save the men Kian killed at the temple, nor spare myself this affliction.” Abrupt tears streamed over his scant cheeks. “But it is not too late for Krevar or Aradan.”

Otaker’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

“I can offer no promises, but in some manner I cannot fully understand, I believe I can restore the life which was stolen from our people.”

Uzzret gasped in shock, then threw himself prostrate before Varis.

Startled by such an unbelievable proclamation, Ellonlef frowned. Magus Uzzret might be ready to hand over his soul at a word from Varis, but she felt an ever-growing distrust for the prince. All that he spoke smacked of half-truths at best, and outright falsehoods at worst. Furthermore, he sounded like a madman. While she had never seen or met this Kian Valara, as Otaker had said the man’s reputation preceded him. He was said to be a hard man, but an honorable one. By the same measure, Varis’s repute had ever been that he was a cruel, selfish, spoiled youth.

Striving to solve the puzzle before her, to find hidden intents, Ellonlef let every word and deed Varis had said and done since his arrival wash over her, filtering his words through her own experience and wisdom. As a scholar of her order, she had much history and personal knowledge upon which to draw.

She abruptly caught her breath, a dread excitement surging through her veins. It took all of her will to remain silent, as she considered the truth dawning in her mind. She clearly saw how the youth had baited all present, deftly using the last days’ troubles to twist their minds and hearts toward his own ends. Save for the inclusion of the powers of creation, Varis’s was a common ploy often used amongst rabble-rousers and usurpers. Ellonlef could scarcely believe it had taken her this long to decipher his methods.

Varis’s strategy was not elegant, and did not need to be. Such manipulators relied heavily upon the predictable fickleness of the human soul when overburdened with disaster, loss, and uncertainty. Such opportunistic men cunningly positioned themselves at the fore of rudderless groups by providing simple, direct answers and solutions to troubling questions. It did not matter how irrational those answers might be, or how vile the solutions were, for the heavy-laden heart desired most of all to lash out against the incoming tide of pain. Once drawn into the maelstrom of his cause, such a manipulator directed his followers to focus upon a carefully provided enemy, inflaming them further still. As long as those fires raged, reason languished. Ellonlef’s study of past uprisings had taught her that after the passions of the bestirred masses waned, they often realized it was too late retreat back along the monstrous road they had tread. And, more often still, the enemy they had savaged and warred against proved less of a threat than the very leader who had guided them from the start.

Ellonlef’s mind worked frantically, putting the pieces of the puzzle together, as they related to Varis.

First he had come to Krevar, his flesh devastated, looking nothing like an Aradaner highborn, which gave weight to his commiseration with the plight of the townsfolk. Then he stirred in a crucial ingredient by suggesting a common enemy existed who was responsible for Krevar’s woes-Kian Valara. Going further, he had presented the mercenary as an undefeatable enemy with the power of gods at his disposal. Finally, after building a subtle sense of hopelessness, Varis shared that he had the means to reverse the enemy’s grim deeds. Of course, like all usurpers, he also needed willing followers.

“Why have you waited until this moment to reveal that you, as well as Kian, can wield these powers of creation?” Ellonlef asked, unable to contain herself any longer. She had to stop this madness before it went too far. But at the same time, she needed to proceed with caution, for it was no small matter to accuse a sovereign son of Aradan. “Why not act first, and explain later?”

Varis turned on her. No hint of life shone in his eyes, but she felt cold hatred issuing from them. Before he could begin to speak, Uzzret was on his feet.

“You thankless, wretched woman,” he snarled. “You dare question the virtue of this man?”

“Enough!” Otaker shouted. Then, in a quieter voice, he asked Varis, “Can you bring back Danara, my wife?”

Taking advantage of the distraction, Varis avoided answering Ellonlef. He nodded to Otaker and, belying his earlier statement that he could offer no promises, spoke now with absolute surety. “I can and will bring back your lady wife, as well as all the dead of Krevar-save those who have been devoured by flame. Those are lost, even to me.”

At this, Uzzret dropped his worshipful gaze and began babbling of his sorrow for ordering so many burned to ash. Varis ignored him.

“Tell me what I must do,” Otaker said fiercely.

Ellonlef felt her heart fall at his fervor. Whatever he had glimpsed behind the veil of Varis’s strange tale was now hidden by the false hope that he would again see his wife. For herself, Ellonlef had no doubt that the dead were dead and could not be raised. The only question was why Varis would make such a claim, when the evidence of his failure would destroy his standing. What is he up to?

“Assemble the townsfolk as quickly as possible,” Varis ordered, “but let the dead remain where they fell.”

Otaker had begun nodding even as Varis spoke. When the prince finished, Otaker called in a handful of guards. “Assemble the townsfolk in the market square. If they cannot walk, carry them!”

After the guards ran out, Otaker led Varis, Uzzret, and a watchful Ellonlef to the market. Ellonlef wanted to draw Otaker away, tell him her concerns, but there was no chance. Everything was moving too fast.

Whatever means the guards used to get the people to come, it did not take long for them to gather. Varis ordered an empty, high-wheeled wagon brought into the open, then invited Otaker and the others to join him in its bed. Ellonlef stoically suffered Uzzret’s glares and harsh muttering, and Varis’s vacant if disdainful looks. Otaker said nothing, but paced back and forth in the wagonbed, fidgeting with expectation.

When the arriving stream of people trickled off, Otaker said to Varis, “My lord, there is no way to be certain if this is all who are left, but you spoke of haste.”

“So I did,” Varis said, scanning the mournful faces.

“You have only to ask,” Uzzret said, placing a hand on Varis’s forearm, “and I will provide any assistance you need.”

Varis shrugged the man off without a word, then faced the gathering. He raised his arms to gain their attention, and quickly repeated a similar story to that which he had related in Otaker’s quarters. It was not lost on Ellonlef that the prince’s tale was more refined now, adding to her belief that he was untrustworthy.

As Varis spoke, she saw confusion and fear written on the faces of the people ringed about the wagon, but mostly she saw deep sorrow. If not for the lassitude that grief produced, she was sure many would have slipped away. When Varis began telling them that he could bring their loved ones back to them, however, every face slowly, hesitantly, became rapt.

Ellonlef looked around for a way in which she might escape, for if Varis’s promises proved to be lies, as surely they must, the crowd was apt to go mad with fury, and tear apart anyone who stood at the prince’s side.

When Varis stopped talking, the market square was dead silent. Nodding as if that was what he had expected, Varis raised his arms and closed his eyes. Ellonlef, who had not heard his last words, gazed around, but saw nothing unusual. Not at first.

Chapter 13

Varis raised his arms and closed his eyes. The gestures were unnecessary, but he wanted to focus everyone’s gaze on himself. After a moment, he opened his eyes. As he had expected, the attention he sought was fixed on him. To his sight alone, threads of life burned as bright, sinuous strands woven throughout those gathered. This life before him, he did not need. Instead, he sought the stolen life he had earlier placed within the Qaharadin Marshes. In his mind, he imagined the hundreds of miles worth of new growth suddenly wilting and dying. Carefully, he gave back the stolen life to the dead, just as Peropis had instructed.

Moments passed, and during that time the life he harvested became a torrent visible only to him. Everything around him was bathed in silvery white radiance. Long moments slid past without anything happening, and he began to worry that he had overstepped the limits of his ability … or was it that Peropis had lied to him yet again? Still, he continued, for while he did not trust Peropis, he could not afford to doubt her in this matter. He was almost certain she wanted something from his ascension, so his failure could not be part of her plan.

Suddenly a shout went up, far away. More followed the first, rapidly becoming joyous cries. Varis knew then that the dead were rising. A tide of murmurs swept through the crowd before him. Blinded as he was by the fierce radiance he was pulling into himself and then releasing, he could neither see the corpses revived, nor see them rise to look around with blank gazes, indifferent to the manic attention they received. He could not see it, but he could feel it happening.

He did not know how long he labored to reverse what he had done, but after what felt an age, the powers of creation slowly began to recreate life inside him, as they had at the temple. At that moment, he ceased pulling life from the swamp and, as planned, used his own life energies instead upon the dead of Krevar. His skin rapidly grew taught over fleshless bones, and he bowed under the weight of his own skeleton. His intention was to show that he was literally sacrificing his own flesh for his people, thus gaining even more devoted followers. In the end, he went on far longer than he should have, even until he wavered on the threshold between life and death.

As he toppled off the wagon to sprawl in the dust, he knew the sacrifice had been worthwhile. He lay before the wagon, dazed but smiling to himself, as the voices of men and women and children rejoiced over the risen dead and, too, shouted his praises. His subjects-his army-rushed forward, blessing him, doing all they could to comfort him. When they raised him up, wasted but alive, they broke out in song.

His elation was tempered by one thought.

Ellonlef’s questioning had spawned a revelation in his heart, or at least a suspicion. Peropis, though she had not elaborated, had warned him that Kian was a true danger. In reversing the truth of what had happened at the temple, by blaming Kian and claiming that some measure of the powers of creation had stolen into himself, Varis believed he understood why Kian made Peropis nervous. The longer he considered it, the more he understood that some part of the powers of creation had indeed graced the mercenary’s flesh, giving him the ability to survive the fires Varis had used to try to turn him into a cinder, and to prevail against the root-serpent he had birthed by mere thought. It was the only answer that made any sense.

Unlike Peropis, however, Varis did not fear Kian. The bumbling warrior could not know what had given him his protection. He no doubt believed it was luck, or that his own prowess had spared him. Varis smiled wanly. Kian, with his secret now known to Varis, could pose no threat. Not in the slightest

Chapter 14

When Otaker saw the dead begin to rise and join the jubilant throngs, he leapt off the back of the wagon and ran as fast as his old legs could carry him, crying out the name of his lady wife. Ellonlef followed. Others came as well, those who had loved ones who had died in the keep.

Ellonlef felt as if she were caught in a frenzied herd of sheep, all bleating of “miracles” and “salvation” and the “blessed one.” What caught her unawares was that some part of herself responded in kind to their ecstasy, embracing the hope Prince Varis offered. Another part of her, however, reeled from what she had just witnessed. As a healer, she had seen men rise from apparent death, and as a scholar, she had read of similar accounts, but the frequency of those occurrences were rare and, in the end, often explainable. And yet, between one moment and the next, Prince Varis Kilvar had given back the lives and vitality of hundreds of men, women, and children who had been reduced to nothing save leathery skin and bones. Without question, the dead had been truly dead. Her mind shouted that it was impossible, even as her eyes made a liar of her intellect.

Ahead of her, Otaker wheeled into his chambers, and Ellonlef nearly slammed into him when he unexpectedly halted. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Lady Danara regarded her husband with a flicker of recognition, but little else. For the most part, her gaze was as cold and blank as it had been when she was without the breath of life. She croaked a few unintelligible words.

Otaker rushed to her side and took her hand. Concern flickered over his features when he touched her, but just as quickly he looked into her face, seemingly dismissing his unease. “It is over, my love. It was just a dream.”

Danara fixed a disconcerting gaze on him, her voice thicker than ever. Her words were understandable, though the voice with which she spoke was not her own. “Where is the man who destroyed the veil between the living world and Geh’shinnom’atar? Where is the man who freed us from the Thousand Hells, he who will lead us.”

Otaker sat back from his wife’s emotionless expression, his mouth working soundlessly as he sought an answer.

“I do not think she means Kian Valara,” Ellonlef said quietly. Her heart’s rhythm had taken on a slow, heavy beat. If she was right, then that would affirm that Varis had indeed lied about his and Kian’s roles.

Lord Otaker cast her a nervous look, then turned back and gripped his wife’s shoulders. “I do not know of whom you speak, my love. Perhaps if you describe him?”

A muted expression of bliss fell across Danara’s features. “His are eyes that do not see, but he will never stumble for want of sight,” she murmured, her voice a wet rattle. “His heart does not beat, yet his breast rises and falls for want of breath. The blood of his veins flows as shipwright’s tar, black and hot, but without the promise of life. He is the one who dared pass through the veil to suffer the agony of death, and now lives again. The pale one, the Life Giver, once a man, now a god made flesh. Where is he?”

Ellonlef caught her breath, the triumph of confirming Varis’s lies paling in the light of Danara’s revelation: a god made flesh. Those words chilled her heart in a way she could not describe, made her flesh creep.

Otaker swallowed audibly at his wife’s description of Varis-a description he knew was one that she should not have known. “The one you seek, Prince Varis, is in the market square.”

“He is a prince no longer,” Danara said in a reverent tone. “He is a king of all men, the king of all kings. I must go to him. We must go to him … we must serve his will.”

Otaker again gripped Danara’s hand, but he might not have been there, for all the attention she paid him. She rose from the bed as if her limbs were not her own, pulled free of her husband, and retreated from the chamber, shuffling along at first, as if uncertain of the ground beneath her feet, then striding out with more confidence.

“I’m sorry,” Ellonlef said when the woman was gone, though it was not sorrow she felt, but formless, suffocating dread.

“For being right about mistrusting Prince Varis?” Otaker responded, gazing on the doorway through which his wife had exited.

“No, my lord,” Ellonlef said. She hesitated, not wanting to utter what else needed to be said. She assured herself that Lord Marshal Otaker was no fool, and that he had a heart of iron, besides. “I am sorry for the loss of your wife.”

His tears, which had so recently dried in the bright light of hope, began to flow again. “She is lost. They all are. Gods good and wise, what is happening, Sister? Each day the lands continue to rumble and tear apart, the Three are dead, the heavens burn by night, and into our midst comes a youth who can bring forth the dead from the torments of the Thousand Hells … but the risen dead are not the living who we once knew.”

Ellonlef could only shake her head. She had no answers and too many questions.

In the corridor, more people were following after Otaker’s wife. It was easy to tell between the resurrected and those who had come in with Otaker and Ellonlef. Those who had never known death looked torn between joy and confusion, a horrid mix of emotions that lent their faces a gruesome aspect. The revived walked without looking left or right, but instead focused their glasslike stares on the corridor ahead and beyond, as if they could see through stone to the man they sought waiting beyond the keep.

Soulless. The word drifted through Ellonlef’s consciousness, slid across her heart like a serpent of ice. She told herself that such an idea was nonsense, that these people were in states of shock.

But it was not true, and she knew it. Even Otaker saw the truth, though he did not want to see. Whatever had made them human was now gone.

Despite the distance to the market square, a rousing wave of cheers flooded to the keep, and the drumming of many feet and clapping hands vibrated the ground. Together, Otaker and Ellonlef moved to the balcony. From their vantage they could easily see over the keep’s outer wall to the market.

Torches and firemoss lanterns illuminated a boiling cauldron of humanity. At the center of that spectacle, once more elevated on the back of the wagon, Prince Varis Kilvar scanned the denizens of Krevar with a calm eye.

“They are his now,” Ellonlef said, speaking of the risen dead. “They will follow him to their death-their second death-if that is where he chooses to lead them.” As well, she knew that those who had not perished were his also. They had seen and received a gift of a miracle, and so would count that blessing as a debt they owed.

Otaker said nothing, only stared, gaze fixed on something far beyond the market square and Varis Kilvar.

At Varis’s side, Magus Uzzret was waving like a fool, shouting indistinct words to further enliven the throng. Knowing him as a reasoned man, his frenzied actions left Ellonlef nervous to the point of taking flight. She saw in Uzzret a man converted from absolute unbelief, to a man who worshiped a man in place of the gods. The same held for the denizens of Krevar. Still, it was one thing to see the townspeople behave with such abandon at the observance of a single apparent miracle, and quite another to see Uzzret act so. He had ever been the image of calm, measured, even pompous sagacity. At least until the earth had split open and swallowed half of Krevar, and the Three had begun to burn.

Those things have changed us all.

And now, Ellonlef considered further, after the townspeople had died by the score, comes a man to perform the wonder of restoring life. No matter his intentions, or what had caused the changes in him, Ellonlef knew that Prince Varis Kilvar was more than a mere man.

But what is he? Could he truly be a god made flesh?

As if in answer, Uzzret suddenly bawled, “ALL HAIL THE LIFE GIVER!”

A cheering roar filled the night, punctuated by shouted praise and blessings. Varis accepted their adulation with an air of preeminence. Around the square, all but unnoticed, the resurrected gathered and stared. They stood like dolls, a gruesome imitation of life.

After several more moments, Varis raised his hands for silence. The quiet he sought was long in coming.

“My people,” he said when the clamor died down, voice carrying strong and sure in the cool night air. The throng exploded again, as if his laying claim to them filled some deep emptiness in their hearts with gladness. After they quieted once more, Varis continued speaking, but now in grave tones.

“I come to you not as your prince, but as a witness to your suffering. Some time past, I went into the kingdom searching for answers to troubling claims. I admit that I disbelieved the reports of Aradan’s distresses. How could the foundations of our great kingdom be crumbling? How could Aradan be dying and her people suffering, when Ammathor yet stood high upon the mountain, overflowing in gold and luxury, her lords wanting for nothing?”

Not a little grumbling met this statement, but Varis quickly went on.

“Once I passed beyond the protective shade of mighty Edaer’s Wall, I did not have far to look before finding that the long-ignored desolation of my people was true. As was your right-all of you here, and your brothers and sisters scattered abroad in every corner of the realm-you have, for a generation and more, pleaded for support to rebuild that which time and our enemies have gradually brought to ruin and despair. Instead of help, you received platitudes and promises as dry and dead as the dust that blows over the Kaliayth. Despite these affronts, you continued to bleed and die to defend the heart of Aradan.”

Now a constant low muttering filled the night. While those he had drawn from the Thousand Hells gazed at him expressionlessly, many of the rest now seemed angry with the prince and his House. He absorbed those ill-feelings with bowed humiliation. Ellonlef had listened intently, wondering just where the additions to Varis’s original tale would lead, but it was to Otaker which she paid the closest attention. A troubled frown pinched his brows.

“There is some truth to his words,” Otaker said slowly, as if doubting his own words. “Yet the people of Krevar have never felt like slaves or castoffs.”

Ellonlef was not so sure. “Perhaps, in their secret hearts, they believed that they were enslaved, and only needed someone to give them leave to voice their complaints.”

Before Otaker could respond, Varis raised his head to speak again.

“I come to you ashamed of the Kilvar blood that flows through my veins,” the prince said. “I am humiliated by my forbearers’ selfish edicts, those laws which have bound you to lives of thankless servitude. I see now the weariness of your souls and the bitterness of your hearts, for these troubles infect me, as well. Understand that I do not stand in judgment of you, for to judge you is to oppose the righteous awakening in myself. I see the evils that have been done to you and your children. These crimes must rightly destroy all the tethers of fealty to my bloodline.”

A few furious shouts now punctuated the mutters. Magus Uzzret drew himself up and cast a baleful eye over the gathered. “Let the Life Giver speak!”

That title served as a reminder of what the prince had done for them and their loved ones this night, and swiftly settled the crowd.

Varis placed a gentle hand on Uzzret’s arm and nodded his thanks. Even with the distance, the youth looked stooped by long, hard years. His was the perfect face of a martyr.

“My shame alone cannot amend the sins of my forefathers,” Varis called, “so I beg forgiveness for myself, one who has seen that he has long been your unwitting enemy. For my part, I vow to stand with you, now and forever.”

“Praise to the Life Giver!” someone shouted.

In moments, that chant reverberated around the market square. Where there had been anger, now there was again only hope and reverence. Varis scanned the faces, his own expression fierce, uncompromising. Shame and humility had vanished. After a long pause, his voice rose strong and defiant in the night. Impossibly, he even began to look stronger, as if merely breathing the night air gave him vitality.

“The Kingdom of Aradan stands on the brink, caught between the unimagined hope of new glories and the anguish of the old ways. In this moment, here and now, a choice must be made. Will you allow your enemies, and all their cohorts, to push you into the darkness and obscurity of a forgotten tomb?”

“NO!”

Prince Varis waited for quiet to fall again. In the still, he quietly asked, “Will you, then, stand with me against a secret and striving usurper who thinks to gain a failing kingdom for his own and shape it into a device of oppression worse than the one before it? Will you stand with me to topple the old kingdom, so that it might not rise against you again?”

“Yes!”

“All hail the Life Giver!”

“Then lend me your strength, and I shall lend you my authority, and together we shall right the wrongs done to you. We shall destroy this usurper and those who have sided with him. We will crush those who have greedily reaped from your toil and suffering!”

“All hail the Life Giver!”

“Our enemies will beg for mercy, but we shall not grant them peace. From the ashes of their pyres, a new age will rise, a new Aradan, a new world. I shall lead you there, and we will take for ourselves glories long denied us!”

“All hail the Life Giver!”

The raucous cheers went on and on, before a new chant went up.

“When, Life Giver?”

“When?”

“WHEN!”

“Soon!” he cried. “We will sever the collars from the throats of our brothers and sisters, and we will destroy our foes. Some of you will march east with me to Ammathor. Some will remain and hold this fortress, your home, until I return. The Ivory Throne, and all for which it stands, must fall and be rebuilt. Lend your strength to mine, and from us shall be born a new and golden age!”

“ALL HAIL THE LIFE GIVER!”

“HAIL!”

“HAIL!”

“HAIL!”

Chapter 15

While the chanting continued, Otaker led Ellonlef into the quieter reaches of his chambers. With a tired grunt, he fell into a high-backed chair. Scrubbing his scalp with a shaking hand, he cleared his throat.

“The Life Giver,” Otaker said hollowly, “wastes no time. In one stroke, he has subverted the mightiest fortress in the history of Aradan, and turned her people against the realm and the king-his own grandfather. Yet when he spoke to us, his ire seemed directed only at Kian. Now the prince has lain plans to strike at the very heart of Aradan and the Ivory Throne, as well. Why the sudden change of heart?”

“In your misery,” Ellonlef said gently, “you misremember Varis’s words. He spoke of destroying Kian and all who sided with him. As to his change of heart, well, he would not be the first leader to hide his true intentions in order to gain a foothold of trust.”

“As you say,” Otaker said, his eyes downcast and empty.

After a moment, he gave himself a vigorous shake and looked up, hurt, but not yet broken. “Varis named Kian a dangerous man with a desire to raise an army, yet from all indications, it is Varis who is building the army.”

“I believe,” Ellonlef said, speaking of an idea that had slowly grown in her mind, “that Kian and Varis’s roles are reversed from what the prince told us. If so, then Varis not only brought the dead back to life … he also may have killed them by the same means he leveled against Kian-using the powers of the gods. In all of this, I believe Kian may well be a scapegoat completely unaware of Varis’s intentions.” She considered a moment, doubting what she said next, but needing to put voice the option. “In truth, Kian may not have had any dealings with Varis.”

“No,” Otaker said contemplatively. “By twisting the truth, and weaving Kian’s and his role into those lies, our young prince has shown us the man he fears most: Kian Valara.”

“Finding Kian could be a boon,” Ellonlef suggested, “if indeed he has some of these godly powers himself. But he is also a mercenary. I doubt personal honor will keep him from distancing himself from Aradan and Varis. For all we know, he could be back in Izutar already.”

“You are right, of course. That leaves us to spread the warning. Varis seeks the Ivory Throne, and he must be stopped, immediately. I will muster-”

With a raised hand, Ellonlef forestalled what she knew Otaker was about to say. “Some few of your men would turn aside from the allure they feel for Varis, but most will not. Since coming to Krevar, I have watched your people’s hardship as they scratched out a miserable existence for themselves, mostly without aid from the crown to which they have sworn fealty. Varis has already cut the tenuous threads of loyalty to the Ivory Throne and bound them to himself. Moreover, I am sure that all the risen dead are Varis’s until their last breath.”

She paused until Otaker gave a nod indicating that he understood that those devoted souls included his lady wife. She empathized with his anguish, but pressed on.

“It troubles me that Magus Uzzret has thrown his lot in with Prince Varis. In light of Varis’s perceived deity, Uzzret has established himself as the prince’s high priest. With all the calamities that have and are still befalling the world, people will look at those happenings as omens in need of interpretation. Prince Varis, together with Magus Uzzret, will doubtless provide whatever enlightenment serves their needs.”

Otaker sighed. “If I had not seen these signs with my waking eyes, I would name it all madness spread by the begging brothers … but I have seen. And though I do not understand the half of it, my highest duty is to defend Aradan, which, in this instance, means defending Ammathor against one of her own sons.”

“We must thwart Varis at every turn” Ellonlef said. “And we must act with haste, before Uzzret or Varis decide our lack of fervor poses a danger.”

Otaker gazed at her in confusion. “But you said I could not defeat him.”

“I fear you cannot.” Ellonlef paused there, knowing that if his wife had not been lost to him, he would have already worked out for himself what she was about to say. “However, if Kian is indeed a threat to Varis, we must find and use him against Varis. At present, the prince’s forces are a fraction of what can be mustered from across the whole of Aradan. Birds must be sent out, warning all the border fortresses of what is coming … though I think it best not to directly name the prince as the threat-not yet. Better to let the leaders see for themselves who betrays them, than hear of it and summarily deny the possibility.”

Otaker began nodding his head, the dazed expression leaving his eyes as he cast away doubt and despair to think on a line of attack, his greatest strength. “I will send the warnings, but if Varis did actually murder all those he later raised, strength of arms will not be enough,” Otaker said. “A messenger must go out, someone to ride with all haste for the northern border, and if necessary, beyond to Izutar, in order to find Kian.”

Ellonlef considered the cheering throngs in the market square. “How will you know whom to trust to deliver such an important message?”

He gazed at her. “There is only one answer. With Uzzret turned, and most if not all of my men ensnared by Varis’s wiles, you are the only one in whom I can put my faith. Though I despise the choice for the danger it places you in, it is you who must go. As you well know, Sisters of Najihar live and watch all lands in secret, even Izutar. If it comes to it, with the aid of your sisters, you will be able to track Kian.”

“We should go together,” Ellonlef countered. She hated to admit fear, even to herself, but the Kaliayth was no safe place for any lone traveler. Besides the natural hardships of the desert, made all the worse since the world had begun to destroy itself, there were the loose-knit clans of the Bashye, who raided caravans at every chance, and attacked outposts with impunity. A rider alone amongst roving Bashye would be as a tethered lamb before a pack of wolves. And more, she feared what might happen to Otaker should he remain alone in Krevar.

Otaker shook his head. “I must stay close to Varis, gain his trust, seek out his weaknesses, and pass that knowledge along. As well, I may be able to find a few of my men who remain loyal to Aradan, and myself. If fortune favors us, perhaps I can find a means to stay Varis’s hand or, as a last resort, eliminate him as a threat.”

Ellonlef saw problems upon problems and dangers beyond count in his plan, but she also saw that he was right. What he had not mentioned, but what she knew in her heart to be true, was that Otaker would not leave his wife and children.

Reluctantly, she nodded in agreement.

“We have no idea how fast Varis will act,” Otaker said, “but we must assume that he will bar all the gates from those who might turn against him. You need to ride as soon as possible. Along the way, I would ask that you act as my voice to give authority to my missives. The lords marshal of Yuzzika and El’hadar must understand that my warning is no twisted prank.”

“You know these men better than I,” Ellonlef said. “Will they believe?”

“If not by my word alone,” Otaker said gravely, “you must make them believe.”

Ellonlef did not bother asking how she was supposed to do that. All she had was the truth, and that would have to be enough. Looking at their plan in that light made her fully realize just how fragile it was, how prone to failure.

Otaker closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “We must prepare for war to defend the kingdom from itself. The sooner Varis’s insurrection is stopped, the better. With any luck, this madness will have ended before Tureece or any other of Aradan’s enemies hear of it. If not, while Aradaners battle Aradaners, the realm will be set upon from all sides and torn apart.”

More than before, Ellonlef imagined a rising tide of troubles washing away Aradan, but she kept the pessimism to herself. “I must prepare to leave.”

“Take only water, food, and weapons enough to see you to Yuzzika,” Otaker said. “I will give you a string of my swiftest mounts.”

Within half a turn of the glass, Ellonlef had loaded her limited supplies on six of Lord Marshal Otaker’s finest mounts and departed Krevar through a secret passage that travelled well under a section of the collapsed wall. Beyond Krevar, her way was lighted faintly by occasional streaks of golden-white fire streaking across the belly of the night sky, and by the waning face of Hiphkos, which burned a dull, ashen red.

Not wanting to alert any watchers to her flight with the sound of galloping horses, she kept on at a sedate pace. She rode north until coming to the gouge in the earth that had ripped across the border road and swallowed down that hapless crofter the day Krevar had been torn apart … presumably the day that Varis had become more than a Prince of Aradan, became more than a man. A god made flesh.

A few miles beyond Krevar, the crevasse divided, forcing her to ride due east for several leagues. Behind her, Krevar was lost to the darkness. After several hours, Ellonlef began to lose hope that the deep crack in the earth would allow her to find a route leading back to the north, but within another hour it began to shrink in size. An hour after that, the split had faded to a mere ditch. By then, what remained of Hiphkos had settled behind the western horizon, leaving the ever-present trails of fire to streak from east to west across the dark face of night.

She knew she had spent far too long trying to navigate around the crevasse, and a nagging worry told her she would have to make up for that lost time as soon as possible. There would be no sleep or rest anytime soon, at least not until she found Kian.

At some point, she halted and surveyed the sunken scar in the desert floor. She dismounted, cut a long branch from a tough bush, and slashed her knife blade down its length to rid it of inch-long thorns. She left the horses where they were and walked to the long, shallow depression. With her makeshift pole, she jabbed at the dirt to make sure that a hidden trap did not wait just below the surface. After she had poked along several paces of its length, she strode closer and pressed down with her foot. Sand and stone shifted, but it appeared solid enough to cross.

She climbed back into the saddle and edged the horses forward, listening intently for any sound that might signal a collapse. None came, and she kicked the mounts into a plunging canter down and over the depression. Other than her mount’s hooves sinking deep into the disturbed, sandy soil, the crossing was uneventful.

A hundred paces beyond her heart was still pounding, but she breathed easier as she steered to the north. The land lay dark as a tomb ahead of her, and she tried to think only of her mission, instead of the many dangers waiting ahead. She had the prevailing sense that she was riding not to find the man who could stop an uprising, but rather to escape certain death at the hands of living a demon loosed from the Thousand Hells cloaked in the flesh of a prince.

Otaker, she thought desperately, why did you not come with me?

But she knew well his answers: he must learn what he could of Varis’s power and intentions; he had his wife and children to consider; and he must uphold his own role as a lord marshal. As he had known his path, however unpleasant, so too she knew the path she must take. North toward Izutar … north to Kian Valara.

Chapter 16

“Answer your master!” Uzzret roared, the tendons in his neck pulled taught by his ferocity.

Otaker felt as if he were looking upon a stranger, rather than the man who had served him for over a score of years. Despite the command, he did not answer.

At the prince’s almost offhand order it had taken two guards-men who had been dead, Otaker noted straight away-mere moments to reduce the lord marshal to a battered heap. He now lay gasping and shuddering under the stabbing agonies of broken ribs and other hurts. The two guards stared blankly, not breathing hard at all. They would kill him, or skin him alive without hesitation, if Varis so commanded them. “ … we must serve his will,” Danara had said. This time, his shudder had nothing to do with pain.

“Answer the Life Giver,” Lady Danara said, her croaking voice similar to that of all the resurrected. There was something to that, he knew, a disconcerting unity, but he had not the time or presence of mind to consider it.

At Danara’s sides stood their children, their eyes swimming with the same unnerving emptiness as hers. Where Uzzret’s betrayal angered Otaker, seeing his own children join Varis left a chill in his breast, smothering his desire to live.

Otaker continued to hold his tongue. Doubtless, he would die this night, which had not been part of his plan in the least. But he had no intention of telling them when or by what road Ellonlef had departed. More importantly, he would not tell them why. He steeled himself against the tortures that surely must come.

Carefully, he ran his fingers across the swelling bulge that was already closing one of his eyes. Hot trickles of blood leaked from his nostrils and over puffy lips. His tongue probed a loose front tooth and, with the slightest effort, dislodged it from its socket. He spat it out, along with a mouthful of blood.

Otaker glanced between his interrogators, struggling to focus. His head was splitting, and he was having a hard time not rolling to his side and vomiting. He had already tried castigating them for traitors, but that had achieved nothing. Delaying the inevitable was all that was left to him.

“I did not know that Sister Ellonlef had left the fortress until you told me. I do not suppose, Uzzret,” he said accusingly, “that your addled mind has considered that she might still be within Krevar’s walls?”

Uzzret’s self-righteous indignation melted away in a blink, and he glanced furtively at Varis.

From a skull-like countenance, Varis’s bulging white eyes stared down at Otaker. “As we both know, lord marshal, she is most assuredly gone … along with six horses.”

Otaker did not openly react to Varis’s uncanny accuracy, but his muddled thoughts sharpened in bemused horror. How can he know such exact details? Otaker and Ellonlef had been careful when gathering what she would need for her mission. And before they had moved into the stables, they made sure that Varis was still holding forth over his new followers. There had not even been any guards manning the collapsed walls when Ellonlef departed. Otaker had been positive no one had spied their activities. And yet….

Varis smirked. “You wonder how I can know so much, lord marshal? Suffice it to say, I see and know many things. It matters not if you tell me where she is going, for I know this already … and why.”

“If you are so wise,” Otaker snarled, “then why beat the answers from me?” The one joy Otaker cradled in his heart was that while Varis spoke of Ellonlef’s departure with near omniscience, he had not yet mentioned the two messenger hawks Otaker had managed to send off. He wished he had been able to send others, but wishing for things that could not be was a game for fools.

Varis hesitated for the barest moment, and Otaker was sure that he saw doubt flicker across the prince’s face. When Varis spoke, the words rang with lies. “You have been beaten for your insolence … and to prove the truth of who I am to any who have lingering doubts of my claims. I have found deceit in your heart, lord marshal, and now so have those gathered here. Sadly, for your sake, your continued resistance and deception have proven that you cannot be trusted.”

“A charlatan dares name me a liar?” Otaker laughed until he fell into a fit of coughing.

Varis’s expression hardened, and the enthralled looks of his followers fell away to reveal masks of inhuman fury. Otaker nearly cried out when he saw his wife and children looking at him in the same manner. Then, as if obeying an unspoken command, everyone save Varis set upon Otaker, kicking and striking him on all sides. None spoke, none raged, only their eyes told the tale of their wrath.

Otaker tried to resist, holding his arms up around his head, curling into a tight ball, but the battering only increased. Someone shouted for them to stop, but in his agony, he did not realize it was he himself who was crying out. The last thing he heard, a secretive and deadly noise below all that shouting, was the sound of steel sliding free of a leather scabbard. The last thing he felt was that same icy steel slamming into his chest, past his ribs, and into his fluttering heart. Ride, Ellonlef, he thought, eyes glazing over in death, ride!

Chapter 17

Pleased and not a little stunned that his followers had acted at his merest thought, Varis strode forward, pushing aside the guard who had stabbed Otaker. The prince searched for the glimmer of luminosity that marked the lord marshal’s life force, but it was gone. Needing answers, despite what he had told Otaker, Varis drew the strength from those in the chamber, letting it flow through him and into Otaker’s corpse. Distantly he heard gasping, then choking, and finally the heavy thuds of his underlings falling to their sides, as the strength of life was torn from their bodies.

Yet the lord marshal did not reawaken. No matter how much life Varis forced into the corpse, Otaker did not stir. To Varis’s eyes, it looked as if he were trying to fill a sieve with a glowing silver fluid, and that fluid was simply draining away and dissipating.

When it became obvious that Otaker was well and truly dead, Varis cut off the flow with a curse, and began pacing. Scattered across the floor, the only person still conscious was Uzzret, and him just barely. Varis did not bother to help him, not yet. He needed to think, and did not want the distraction of the man’s fawning.

Varis left the room and moved to the same balcony where he and Uzzret had earlier found Otaker. As he had then, Varis scanned the eastern horizon. The glow of living things was miniscule out on the desert, from the faintest threads emanating from bushes and dry grasses, to the brighter but still faint glow of lizards and vipers and desert-dwelling birds roosting for the night. Of Sister Ellonlef and the horses with her, the shining pillar of light of her being that he had seen earlier burning amongst so much darkness, there was nothing. She was gone.

When he had last looked for her, she had been just at the edge of his sight, moving due east. He concluded that she was riding for Ammathor, which dictated that he had to intercept her before she could warn the Ivory Throne of his intent. While he could easily destroy every citizen of the king’s city and then resurrect them, that was not what he wanted. He desired more than a kingdom full of mindless puppets over which to rule. Any man could lay claim to a field of stones and declare them his worshipers, but he needed people to worship him in truth-though it mattered nothing to him whether they heaped adoration on him out of fear or desire.

He turned back to Otaker’s corpse with a scowl, wondering why his powers had failed to draw the man back from Geh’shinnom’atar. Was it another secret Peropis had kept from him?

He shook his head in irritation. More than ever, he acknowledged that he needed to move quickly and decisively. There was so much he could envision doing with the powers of creation, but there was no time to waste in learning. He could take life from the living world and sustain himself. As well, he could take a person’s life and then restore it … but perhaps he could not raise those who had died by another’s hand, as seemed to be the case with Otaker? Ultimately it did not matter. If he had to personally slaughter a thousand men, then revive them in order to have an army, then he would. Soldiers, to his mind, were more puppets than men already.

In time, Varis found himself considering how Kian had managed to take into himself the powers of creation, unwittingly using that power to shield himself. This led to another more troubling consideration. Were there men and women who had taken in enough of the powers of creation to create life, steal it away, raise the dead, and more? In the future, could there be other contenders to his rule?

For every answer there were hundred more questions without answers. Varis shook them off, sure that deeper understanding would come in time. For now he would use the strengths he understood to take Ammathor, all of Aradan, and more. Once his rule was secure, he would destroy all of his enemies-Peropis, Kian, and any others who harbored the power of dead gods within them.

He looked again at the people strewn across the floor, and pulled life from the living of Krevar, just enough, and emptied it into Uzzret and the others. One by one, their flesh grew fuller and flushed with the heat of living blood. One by one, they were roused, and turned their eyes upon him. All except Uzzret, who had barely survived but survived all the same, gazed at him with a disconcerting, breathless worship.

“Life Giver,” they murmured, over and over again, until it became a low, croaking chant. The tone of their words disturbed Varis, albeit only a little. He could not be sure, but he sensed something in their inflection, a guarded mockery. He abruptly shook his head, sure he was imagining things.

Uzzret got to his feet, never raising his eyes. “Master, forgive me.”

Varis frowned. “For what?”

Uzzret scanned his sandaled feet as if trying to find the answer. “For … for displeasing you?” he said, making it into a question.

Varis did not have time to coddle the man. “We must prepare to depart this heap of blasted stones. Assemble my Chosen.”

“M-master?” Uzzret stammered, his old bones shaking. “Are we not all your chosen?”

I liked him terrified better than fawning, Varis considered. Focusing on the question, he said, “Only those I freed from the Thousand Hells will have the strength to travel with me. As for you, I will sustain you. The others I will leave behind to secure this portion of my kingdom. They owe me their lives, as well as the lives of their loved ones.”

Uzzret seemed to relax upon learning he was among those who would travel with Varis. “Very well, Master, but is such haste necessary? Should we not plan?”

“The opinion of the Sisters of Najihar has great sway with the Ivory Throne-too much, I have always thought. I cannot wait for Sister Ellonlef to reach Ammathor, where she will doubtless warn the enemies of my ascension. Whether she is captured or killed, I care not, but she cannot be allowed to reach Ammathor ahead of me. I will send riders out immediately to search for her. The rest of us depart at dawn.”

After Uzzret bowed his way out of the room, Varis turned on the still kneeling people before him. They stared at him with blank eyes, and to his sight, their auras seemed not to burn with the normal brilliance of life that he had come to expect from the living. He tried to recall if that glow had been so weak and pallid before. It was as if they were only half alive. Or are they half dead? he thought distractedly, wondering if there was a difference.

To satisfy what he already suspected, he asked, “Why did you attack Lord Marshal Otaker without my leave?”

They stared at him, expressionless.

“Lady Danara,” he said, irritated than no one offered an explanation, “why did you attack your husband without my leave to do so?”

She was a handsome woman of middle years with only a few threads of silver in her black hair. Her dark eyes lost some of that emptiness and regarded him with something unreadable, as if she held a secret within her. “Life Giver,” she said, her voice a grating sigh, “you did give us leave. It was in your heart that we should destroy him.”

Varis turned away from her, excited. Somehow, he shared a deep bond between the people that he had delivered from death. They had read the desires of his consciousness, then acted on those emotions. The why and how of it did not matter to Varis, but-

I must guard my mind, he thought suddenly, lest his followers take action on his behalf when he did not necessarily want them to. Half dead or half alive, he saw straight away that his Chosen could be used as the perfect weapons and tools to further his dominance. Unlike a sword, they were living extensions of himself. With a mere thought, he could send them against an enemy, or bring them to his side should he face danger.

He smiled as plans and future campaigns formed in his mind. Soon, Aradan would be his, and after, the world.

Chapter 18

Under the pall of dense smoke, breathing was difficult. Overhead, the sun shone an angry red. Kian halted his diminished company some distance from the dilapidated walls of Fortress El’hadar, sitting atop a low hill. Of all the western border fortresses, it was the closest to the Qaharadin Marshes, and the denizens had need to constantly trim back and burn the surrounding lands in order to keep the vegetation from overrunning the walls. By the looks of it, Lord Marshal Bresado Rengar had failed in overseeing the execution of that chore for several years.

Daubing sweat from his brow, Kian supposed he could not blame the man for that. Given a choice, he would have burned the fortress to the ground, rather than tend it. Men have tried before and failed to raze the fortress, he thought nervously, considering the many stories he had heard of this accursed place.

In truth, El’hadar was little more than an outpost, with its rickety timber palisade surrounding a disproportionately large keep of ancient black stone. It was a place of dark mystery and strange, disturbing tales. When men spoke of Fortress El’hadar, they did so in uneasy whispers. A thousand years gone, the Suanahad Empire sent an expeditionary force across the Sea of Drakarra to explore the virgin territories of what would become Tureece in the south and Aradan to the north. Those legions pushed deep into the uncharted wilds searching for anything of value, from gold to silver to arable lands. They found all those things and more. As well, they discovered the Black Keep.

At that time, the only inhabitants of the nearby lands were the pale-skinned nomads of the Grendahl clans-Kian’s own ancestors. Even then, his forbearers had been more eager to fight than talk of treaties. What was readily apparent at the time to the Suanahad explorers was that instead of occupying the keep, the clans shunned it, naming it a place of death to be avoided.

But the Aradaners had not avoided it, Kian mused, looking over its sad state of disrepair. A place better suited for nightmares than habitation, it was said that no matter what work was done to its grounds and walls, Fortress El’hadar always looked unkempt. Tales told that stone and mortar crumbled and wood rotted, all too fast. And yet the Black Keep itself stood resolute, an undying blight upon the land. It had never shone forth in glory, yet it seemed that neither would it ever decay to ruin.

“I can see why Aradaner kings have always sent irredeemable rabble to fill El’hadar’s barracks,” Azuri said, his nose wrinkled in distaste.

The Asra a’Shah looked about with tired expressions, perhaps feeling as Kian did, that it was simply a relief to see something made by the hands of men.

The dirty haze hugged the wilted crops below the fortress, smelling strongly of burning green wood and leaves. The night before, after they had finally broken free of the clinging grasp of the marshes, they had ridden as hard as their horses could manage, before setting up camp some leagues from anything that resembled a bog. When they looked back the way they had come, a dull orange glow stretched across the western horizon, indicating the heart of a great fire.

Kian could only guess that the inferno in the marshes had something to do with the streaks of flame that raced across the heavens by night. But all of that paled in comparison to his first glimpse of a night sky lacking two of its three moons, and the third moon, a waning crescent though it was, looking as if it had been cast into a raging fire and burned to ash. Two of the Three, Attandaeus and Memokk, had perished, while Hiphkos had been scorched unto death. Kian, like most northern-born peoples, followed the Silent One, the Creator of All, Pa’amadin, but he could not dismiss the death of the Three. No good, he was sure, would come of their demise.

“You would think someone would have hailed us by now,” Hazad said, scratching at his unruly beard braids.

Kian nodded in agreement, looking for but not finding any indication of activity. The fortress had the aspect of long abandonment. A trio of vultures perched on the eastern wall, while at the base of the same wall others vultures had gathered around and were fighting over something under a bush.

“What is that there, on the ground?” Azuri said, pointing to something just outside the gates. There was no agitation in his voice, but his eyes were hard and searching. Though it had taken a full fortnight longer and countless leagues farther than Kian had expected to get out of the marshes, Azuri alone, as usual, had somehow managed to stay relatively clean.

“Let’s find out,” Kian said, fighting the urge to kick his horse into a northward gallop. Izutar called him home like never before. Nothing in all of Aradan seemed right, and he did not feel up to stumbling across more of the kingdom’s troubles. Ever since Prince Varis had come out of that damnable temple, Kian and his company had been surrounded by difficulty. While no one had spoken of it since, battling the demon that had taken Fenahk’s body for its own seemed to only be the beginning. The beginning of what, however, left Kian guessing, and he hated uncertainties.

A few moments later, sitting astride his horse with Azuri and Hazad on either side of him, and close to twenty Asra a’Shah arrayed to their rear, Kian knew he should have listened to his instinct to forsake anything of Aradan and headed north.

“How long do you suppose he has been dead?” Hazad said, holding the back of his hand to his nose to ward against the sickly reek of decaying flesh.

“First off,” Kian said, “it is impossible to say if this was a man or a woman.” All that remained of the corpse was a skeleton loosely cloaked in tatters of skin and maggots, a roiling mass of them deep in the chest cavity. “As to how long, I would lay gold that they died soon after Varis stepped out of that temple.”

Unperturbed, Azuri leaned over and studied the remains and the nearby ground. “Whoever they were, they tried to flee from the fortress … apparently without a stitch of clothing on their back.”

“I do not see any reason we should refit here,” Hazad said abruptly, taking a long drink of jagdah. “The sooner we depart, the sooner we reach Izutar. Cut these Geldainians loose, and let’s be on our way.”

At the sound of retreating hooves, Kian turned. Ba’Sel, the man who had stepped into the Ishin’s role as leader of the Asra a’Shah, had moved his men a safe distance off.

“Did you see something?” Kian demanded.

“No,” Ba’Sel said.

“Then what is it?”

Ba’Sel looked around at his men, receiving nods from each. He faced Kian again. “This is a place of the dead … a tomb. To enter is to invite a curse upon the blood of the living.”

“As you will,” Kian said dismissively. He dismounted and moved to the gate, skirting the ragged skeleton.

“By the gods good and wise, what are you doing?” Hazad asked.

“If everyone here is dead, there may be gold within, and it would not hurt to make up for what we will not receive from Varis,” Kian said, though in his heart he cared nothing for gold. Answers of any sort, no matter how flimsy, were more precious to him at the moment.

Kian heaved against the sally port gate, expecting it to be locked from within, or at the least to offer some resistance. Instead, it swung inward with a screech. As soon as the gate was fully extended, the rusted hinges gave way. Kian leapt out of the way as it came crashing down.

“We are going with you,” Azuri said.

Hazad scowled. “Speak for yourself. You heard them,” he said, jabbing a finger at the Asra a’Shah, “this place is an accursed tomb. That is all I need to know to decide there is no reason to enter.”

“If the promise of gold is not enough, are you not even a little curious about what might have happened here?” Azuri asked, having the same inquisitiveness as Kian.

Kian smiled up at the big man. “I promise not to let any spirits get you.” He left it unspoken that he wanted both Azuri and Hazad at his back. The two made a formidable team, and given the unknowns of what lay ahead, he would rather not trust his sword alone.

“So be it,” Hazad said, throwing up his hands up in surrender. He glanced at Ba’Sel. “When the screaming starts, just ride away.”

Ba’Sel gave him a bemused look, but nodded anyway.

After remounting, Kian led the way through the sally port and into a charnel house.

The dead lay everywhere, some alone, others piled high, all rotting. To the last, the corpses had been torn apart, the pieces scattered. There was no way to tell for sure whether that savagery had caused the deaths, or happened afterward. Something about the scene, beyond the sheer enormity of death, struck Kian as odd, though he could not say what tickled his mind. The stench was nearly unbearable, and flies clouded the air. Huge rats scrabbled about, boldly fighting vultures for scraps.

“Who could have done this?” Hazad gasped.

Azuri gave him a speculative look. “I would say what did this.”

“Another demon,” Kian answered flatly.

Azuri, who looked to be thinking the same thing, said, “There can be no doubt that Varis parted the veil of Geh’shinnom’atar, freeing the evil of that place upon the world.”

“I have seen enough,” Hazad said. “Gold and curiosity be damned.”

Before the big man could turn his mount, Kian raised a hand. “Wait.”

Azuri followed his gaze to the outbuilding built hard against the base of the keep. “Did you see that?” he gasped.

“What?” Hazad demanded, jerking his sword free of the scabbard.

Kian felt eyes on him, but saw nothing. He had been in enough battles to sense danger before it struck, but that did not fit with what he thought he had seen.

Hazad grabbed his arm. “What was it?”

“A child, I think,” Kian said slowly.

Hazad released Kian and looked around the body-strewn courtyard. “Come out,” he called, “and we will see you safe from here.” His shout did not echo off the palisade or the keep’s walls as it should have, but fell flat.

A vulture screeched, flies droned, and a thousand rats ran hither and yon, but for a long time there were no other sounds. The Black Keep loomed over them, its dark and blocky walls spotted with pale lichen. The tall, narrow windows and arrow loops were as dark as the rest of the keep’s stonework. Higher up, a square corner tower squatted on the battlements, and from its crenulated peak a tattered banner flitted in the wind, revealing the ebon boar of House Rengar charging across a crimson field.

“I think your eyes betrayed you,” Hazad said. “There is nothing here, save ghosts and vermin.”

“I’m here,” a phlegmy, croaking voice called from somewhere near the keep.

Kian tried to pinpoint the speaker, who sounded young despite the sickly tenor of their voice. Shadows lay deep and heavy around the outbuildings, so the child could have been anywhere. “Show yourself, and we will help you.”

Thick, tittering laughter rose up, then drifted away, the sound leaving Kian’s skin crawling. After a long moment, the child-a boy-said, “I do not need help.”

“I don’t like this,” Hazad muttered.

“Should I fetch your mother?” Azuri said, trying for a mocking quirk of his lips that fell short.

“If you are so brave,” Hazad said, “then you go find the boy.”

“Damn me!” Kian snapped. “Can you two cease your bickering, even for a moment?”

Chastened, both nodded in acquiescence, but Kian had already dismissed them and climbed out of the saddle. Azuri sighed and Hazad grumbled, but both climbed down. Together, the trio moved toward the keep, alert for any hidden danger.

When the boy showed himself, stepping out from between a pair of barrels set against what appeared to be the kitchens, all three halted. Hazad gasped, not doing half so well at hiding his revulsion as Kian and Azuri.

The scrawny boy’s cracked lips parted to show crooked yellow teeth in what Kian told himself was a smile instead of a hungry leer. His unkempt black hair stuck out at all angles, and his filthy tunic was coated in straw and dung. Every inch of his exposed skin was just as filthy, and covered in running sores besides.

“Have rats been at you, boy?” Hazad asked sharply.

“A leper,” Azuri said, swiftly dancing back a few paces, rubbing vigorously at his arms.

Kian gave him a quizzical look before understanding dawned. To Azuri, the boy must represent all that he hoped to avoid from the touch of filth.

“Can’t be a leper,” Hazad said. “He’s got all his bits.”

“Where are the others, your parents, the soldiers, Lord Marshal Bresado?” Kian asked, wanting to find out what was wrong with El’hadar. “Was there an attack?”

“My master wishes to see you,” the boy said, as if he had not heard a word from any of them.

“Lord Marshal Bresado?” Kian asked uneasily.

The boy nodded. “Yes. My master. He has been waiting for you.”

Obviously expecting to be followed, the boy turned and strode on scrawny legs and bare feet through the keep’s main doors.

“Tell me you are not going to follow after him,” Azuri pleaded, looking truly out of sorts for the first time Kian could ever recall.

“Should I fetch your mother?” Hazad mocked, sniggering to himself.

At any other time, Kian would have laughed with the big man at Azuri’s expense, but not now. “With or without you two, I am going after that boy. My guess is that he has lost his wits, but he may lead us to Bresado’s corpse … and the lord marshal’s coffers. If nothing else, perhaps we can learn what happened here.” It troubled him that the boy was still alive, surrounded by so much death, but then, everything about El’hadar was troubling.

“Then let’s be about it,” Hazad said with false enthusiasm.

“I’ll go,” Azuri said, “but when your ‘bits’ start falling off, do not say I did not warn you it would happen.”

Kian trotted after the urchin, calling for him to slow down. They had to stop at the huge double doors, through which the child had entered the keep, and force them farther open. Beyond lay a long corridor, lightless save for a flickering bubble of luminescence cast by the candle now held in the boy’s hand. Even this near the Qaharadin, firemoss was hard-earned, and cost too much for most border lords to use lavishly. To Kian’s mind, it was no loss. Stark light would only show how rotted was El’hadar’s heart and the rotting dead, which were just as plentiful inside the keep as outside.

“Come,” the boy urged, waving them forward in a slow and exaggerated manner. When the trio obeyed, he trotted ahead of them, as indifferent to the corpses as he was to the feasting rats.

Each new turn led into another corridor smelling more strongly of rank meat than the last, and every set of stairs led downward. The continual descent and absence of any outward-facing windows told Kian they were moving deeper into the Black Keep.

The final corridor, low and sloping sharply downward, was free of death, but the reek of slime and mold was nearly suffocating. When Hazad, who was taller than either Kian or Azuri, smacked his skull against a support beam, they all hunched over as a precaution. In short order, the corridor ended at a broad, circular landing. To one side a heavy door stood open. Faintly, Kian could make out a steep stairway falling into utter darkness.

The boy gazed at them. Up close, his eyes seemed devoid of not just emotion, but of any hint of life. He placed the candle on the floor, then turned and shambled back the way they had come. Before he vanished into gloom, he called over his shoulder, “Follow the stairs. My master is waiting.”

The trio stared after him, none willing to take the first step.

Visibly shaken by the degree of grime and corruption all around them, Azuri said, “This is madness. Why would Bresado be down there?”

“I have heard it told that Bresado favors tormenting captured Bashye in the bowels of the keep,” Hazad offered with a shrug.

“So you think,” Azuri said sarcastically, “that while the fortress was being assaulted by gods know what, Bresado would have retired to the cellar to persecute prisoners, instead of defending his people?”

“From what I’ve heard of the man,” Kian said, “I can believe it.”

“See there?” Hazad said accusingly.

Azuri’s eyes narrowed at Hazad. “You are nothing but a great, hairy child.”

“By now, Bresado is most assuredly dead,” Kian said, stooping to retrieve the candle. “While I doubt he retreated to torture anyone, I am more sure that he would have fled the lost battle to secure his hoard. Such is the way with most Aradaner highborn who value gold more than their lives. The sooner we find out what happened here, the sooner we can depart-but after we collect whatever treasures Bresado has tucked away.”

“Right now,” Azuri said, “it seems to me that you are saying gold is more important than our lives.”

“We will need coin to refit anywhere we go,” Kian said. “Besides, the dead are no threat.”

“Demons are,” Azuri retorted.

“Stay here if you will,” Kian said with a stubborn set to his mouth, trying not to consider how often Azuri was right about most everything. In truth, he only pressed on because he felt compelled to understand what was happening.

He crossed the landing to the stairs and started down. Despite Azuri’s reservations, the man followed, with Hazad hard on his heels. The air grew cooler with each downward step. After a hundred steps, dampness began to collect in the joints between undressed stone, and leaked over niter-crusted walls. Soon after, the trio were easing themselves down crumbling steps made treacherous with pallid slime. Kian did not have to look over his shoulder to know that Azuri was pinching his shoulders together to avoid touching the walls, and wincing in abhorrence at every step.

After another hundred steps, the stairwell ended at a low archway. Beyond, a long double line of torches ran through a chamber so vast that the light failed under an oppressive murk. At the end of the torches, an array of oil lamps set haphazardly on a trestle table held open a wide gap in the darkness. Within that space sat the bulk of a man thrice the size of Hazad.

“Is that Bresado?” Azuri asked.

“If not,” Kian said in a hushed voice, “then he has a twin matching the descriptions I have heard of him.”

“So much for him being dead,” Hazad said.

“And so much for collecting his gold,” Azuri said under his breath. “Unless you plan to do murder for it?”

Kian did not answer. He was suddenly wondering whether he should turn himself and his friends around and leave. Bresado took that option away.

“Join me,” Lord Marshal Bresado Rengar ordered, his voice sounding more clogged with phlegm than the boy’s had been. Clad in robes of black and red leather, Bresado slouched in a throne of a chair behind the table.

Footsteps echoing, Kian led his companions, unconsciously hurrying from one set of torches to the next. On either side of the guttering flames, just seen in the gloom, rusted chains and manacles hung from the ceiling. Barrels, their staves ruptured with decay, spilled all manner of rusted, wicked-looking irons and pincers. The misery of old suffering hung in the air like a stench. Kian was almost happy to come into the greater light offered by Bresado’s lamps. Almost. The problem was that Bresado was somehow worse than anything they had yet seen, even counting Varis and the demon within Fenahk.

“My lord-”

“I’ve been expecting you, Kian Valara,” Bresado interrupted in his clogged, wheezy voice.

“Expecting me?” Kian muttered under his breath, his blood going cold. He did not wonder how the man had named him, for along with wealthy merchants many Aradaner highborn knew of him, as his services were widely sought. But Bresado would have had no idea he was coming to El’hadar, for coming here had been happenstance prompted by Varis’s attack. Thinking it safest, he chose not to respond to the lord marshal’s claim.

Despite the chilly air, Bresado’s shaven scalp glinted like a large wet egg, from which hung a thin, greasy black top-lock. Just out of reach of his thick fingers, in the center of the tabletop, was an inlay of the charging boar of House Rengar. Its ruby eye, Kian concluded at once, held more reason than did the lord marshal’s own squinty black stare.

“My lord,” Kian said, “what has happened here?”

Bresado grinned, rotted teeth leaning in all directions. “Death has happened here.”

“What manner of death?” Kian insisted.

Bresado squinted. “After the world shook and the faces of the Three died, the heavens began to burn. From that burning, death came on a foul breath out of the Qaharadin. Creatures, the mahk’lar, nightmares of shadow and hate, scaled the walls. In all their weakness, men fought, but in the end the mahk’lar glutted themselves on the living blood of the savaged.”

With a madman’s bemused stare, Bresado studied Kian and the others, offering no further explanation. He suddenly began to chuckle, then doubled over in a fit of retching. After a moment, he cleared his throat and spat on the floor. As he straightened, Bresado licked his lips slowly, like a drunkard savoring the taste of his own vomit.

“It is again as it once was,” he said mysteriously, “as it should have always been. But we were betrayed by the most high, and too, by our own makers.”

“We?” Kian asked, decidedly uneasy.

“Yes,” Bresado sighed, glazed eyes surveying the darkest shadows as if he could see into them. “We are the first race of creation, come again to these ancient lands. We who once died in the flesh have reawakened and been loosed from Geh’shinnom’atar.” His stare refocused abruptly, and turned on the three men before him. He smiled. “It is the place of men to serve or die, as the old order-the First Order-is rebirthed.”

“We will get no answers from this madman,” Azuri said in a gasping whisper.

Kian was not so sure Bresado was mad, and he suddenly found himself thinking of Fenahk. He knew he should order a retreat, but a disquieting uncertainty had ensnared him. He was not a man for prayers, but he could not help but send a plea to Pa’amadin asking for protection.

Bresado’s eyes rolled slowly toward him, as if reading his thoughts. Like a mouse before a serpent, Kian could only look back. During Bresado’s long, unflinching study, which had grown as blank as the boy’s had been, he sucked at the stumps of his teeth, making a squelching sound. “We often hope for things that cannot be, isn’t that so, Kian Valara?” He spoke the name like a curse.

“I suppose all men do,” Kian answered, caught off guard by the odd question, his voice sounding distant and hollow to his ears.

Bresado leaned forward, belly oozing over the wide leather belt girding his befouled robe. His head turned this way and that, as if he were looking for something lurking beyond the light. “I know what you hope for, Kian Valara, and all men like you … men who are so sure of themselves and their strengths. But you will never gain what you seek.”

“What is it that you think I seek?” Kian asked distractedly, a sense of danger and alarm building in him. Although he knew it was past time to leave and ride for Izutar, and be shut of Aradan and whatever curse had befallen these lands, he could not seem to make his body do what it desired.

“You seek to supplant the master of the mahk’lar, the Life Giver! But you will die. Fortress El’hadar, the first home of the Fallen, will be your crypt.”

“I know of no one named the Life Giver,” Kian said. “Of demons, I leave them to Peropis, the demon whore of the Thousand Hells.”

Bresado’s eyes flared and he lurched out of the chair with an explosive grunt. “You dare speak so of the Queen of Geh’shinnom’atar?” he hissed, even as his huge hands grasped the table’s edge. With far more strength than his flaccid body suggested was possible, he sent the massive furnishing flying to its side with a thunderous boom. Oil lamps exploded against the floor and burst into a whooshing roar of flame. Still frozen, Kian watched the inlaid boar’s ruby eye shoot out and bounce into the shadows beyond the light, leaving behind a small dead socket in the wood.

“You will die!” Bresado said. In an impossible show of strength, he bent and lifted the massive table up over his head.

Roused by sudden alarm, Kian’s sword came into his hand. He began moving away even as Bresado hurled the table at the trio. Freed now from invisible bonds, Kian scrambled to one side, his boots slipping on the slimed floor. The table smashed down and the old wood burst apart in a shower of splinters.

“Rats will dance among your bones!” Bresado raged.

Kian was preparing to attack the man when Azuri shouted a warning. Frantically looking around, Kian felt his bowels go to water. The darkness beyond the torches had come alive with indistinct shapes, all writhing and lurching toward the light.

“Come, my children,” Bresado invited, “and take your fill.” He looked as if he had more to say, but at that moment his skull cracked apart, disgorging a flood of grave worms and a gush of something like boiling pitch. From that horror, something else struggled to get free-

“Run!” Kian ordered.

The trio had not sprinted half the distance back to the stairwell when the creeping darkness on either side of them spilled into the light. Forced into a tight, three-sided formation, Kian and the others pressed forward against a host of creatures no larger than children. But these were not children, they were living nightmares born of Geh’shinnom’atar.

Kian swallowed as an abrupt understanding flooded his mind. He had thought something strange about the scenes of death in and around the fortress, and now he knew what it was. All of the dead had been grown men and women. Save the boy who had guided them, he had seen no children among the corpses. And the reason gathered around him. The demons of Geh’shinnom’atar, the mahk’lar, had taken the bodies of El’hadar’s children for their own, twisting them into horrors.

The demons scrambled forward, long talons scraping over the stone floor. Focusing on the nearest one, Kian’s sword arced down, cleaving deep into a wedge-shaped, spine-crested head. Where steel struck, a faint spark of blue fire burst forth. An instant later, black flesh parted, releasing a smoky plume. The demon’s mouth gaped wide in a chittering howl, showing a deadly collection of obsidian fangs. Three-fingered taloned hands rose up on crooked arms, and the mahk’lar fought to rip the blade free. Kian wrenched his weapon loose and quickly slashed out with a sidearm blow to the demon’s neck. Before hitting the floor, the body and the severed head began melting, but an inky shape within escaped and blew apart to flutter in the air like a collection of black, vaporous moths.

Everything became a blur of chaotic motion, even as a bedlam of human shouts and demonic howls filled the chamber’s vast gloom. Kian and the others slashed and stabbed wildly at every shape that barred their way, steadily driving toward the stairwell, which would be more readily defensible-if it were clear. As the battle raged, Kian felt a queer sort of pressure filling him, seeking release. He did not know what that pressure was anymore than he understood the tiny flares of bluish fire that sprang from his fingers to the hilt of his sword and raced down the edge of his deadly steel.

Talons raked across his chest, leaving searing furrows, and he pushed aside all thought, save staying alive.

Somewhere nearby, Azuri screamed.

Desperate to help his friend, Kian violently hacked at another monstrous face before him, barely registering that the demon’s eyes shone like dull silver coins in the faltering light. One eye winked out under his assault, then he drew back and stabbed the other glowing orb. A brutal kick sent the dissolving creature rolling. With the briefest respite, he wheeled, searching for Azuri.

The mercenary lay face down on the floor, thrashing about in a bid to dislodge a mahk’lar from his back. Hazad stood over him, entangled by another demon, swinging his blade like a man warding off angry bees. Ducking Hazad’s frantic swings, Kian grabbed at the freakish thing on Azuri just before it could bury its long teeth into his neck. Its flesh felt cold and dead, and his fingers sank deep into the spongy meat of its shoulder-but not as deep as his blade sank into its midsection. The sword pierced ribs and burst out the other side. As all the others before it, the creature did not bleed, but rather melted, loosing putrescence and puffs of soot.

Leaving Azuri to get up on his own, Kian caught hold of the skull spines on the demon trying to devour Hazad’s face. With all his strength, he wrenched its head back. Hazad recovered quickly, brought his sword up, and rammed the edge against his assailant’s neck-the vicious attack barely scored the black skin. The wound, slight though it was, was enough to release the smoky substance beneath. With an oath, Kian hurled the thing away before it could dissolve in his hands.

And so they fought, every step as grueling as sprinting a mile up the face of a mountain. While Azuri and Hazad’s blows did not so easily dispatch their foes as did Kian’s, they were not ineffectual. It flashed through Kian’s mind that the same had been true during the fight with the demon that had taken Fenahk. There was no time to consider this however, for to turn his mind from the struggle would mean his death.

At long last, they reached the blessedly empty stairwell. Kian did not hesitate to shove Azuri and Hazad ahead of him. “Run, both of you!”

“You cannot fight them alone,” Hazad retorted, but Kian pushed him off.

“There is barely enough room for one of us to fight, let alone three. GO!”

Following Azuri and Hazad, Kian backed up the steps, slashing back and forth against the tide of stalking horror. For him, killing the mahk’lar was not so difficult, at least when they came one at a time. But they did not come alone, rather they bound forward in surging waves.

Soon, ragged gasps were searing his lungs and throat. Sweat poured into his eyes, blurring his vision, and each step was precarious on stone coated in slime. But he could not stop fighting, no matter how terribly his arm and shoulder ached. To rest, even for a moment, would mean his death-an end like that which had come to the denizens of El’hadar, eaten alive and torn limb from limb at best, or at worst possessed by demons and remade into something inhuman. He could not imagine what happened to such a man’s soul, nor did he want to.

After a seemingly endless period of time, the light of the chamber’s torches faded, and the only visible target were dozens of pairs of silver eyes, and monstrous faces lighted by the flares of blue fire arcing from Kian’s defensive strokes.

Hazad and Azuri shouted their encouragement behind him, ineffectual spectators in a deadly game. Kian fought past the deadness in his limbs. Still, his powerful swings grew weaker, less effective. He drew his dagger and used both weapons to stab and slash at the closing demons.

Not long now, he thought with a black calm, and abruptly stumbled backward and sat down hard. Seemingly of its own will his sword came up. Fangs shattered against steel, and the blade rammed deep into the creature’s throat.

“We’re at the door,” Azuri called urgently.

Kian pulled his sword free, but there was no strength left in his legs. Strong hands jerked him to his feet and dragged him from the stairwell. When Hazad shoved him aside, Kian fell against the wall, gulping each breath. Between the two of them, Azuri and Hazad slammed and barred the door. On the far side, a terrible howling went up, and heavy thuds shook the door in its frame. The mahk’lar might have begun as beings of spirit, but they were now creatures of flesh, and could not simply pass through solid barriers.

“This door will not long hold,” Hazad said, his voice rumbling in the dark.

Kian let the two men help him along the shadowed ways. When they reached a crossing corridor lighted by scant daylight, the sounds of splintering wood echoed behind them, propelling them onward.

When they finally came to the doors leading into the courtyard, dusk was old and ready for the grave of night. And there waited the boy, off to one side of their horses. Not far back the way they had come, a tumult of howls went up. The boy, eyes glinting in the thin light, smiled broadly. Something pale and slender wriggled out from between his lips.

“We are leaving,” Azuri snarled. “Stand aside!”

The boy’s narrowed eye were black, through and through. “Noooooooo-”

Azuri’s dagger flipped through the air and slammed into the boy’s throat. The child floundered backward, gagging on a mouthful of black blood, then pitched over and started quivering, seemingly shaken from within, as if something were trying to flee the dying flesh.

“Gods good and wise,” Hazad rasped. “He was but a child!”

Azuri leapt into his saddle. “And I suppose where you grew up children bled black and had worms squirming out of their mouths? He was another demon, fool!”

Hazad looked back and forth in confusion, his wits seemingly fled.

Kian moved in close and grasped his elbow. With gentle pressure, he led Hazad to his horse, and helped him climb up. “That was no child, my friend,” Kian said. “It was as Azuri said-another of the mahk’lar.”

Hazad nodded absently, gaze flickering from shadow to shadow. Kian did not like to see such confused fear in his friend’s gaze.

“There can be no doubt any longer,” Azuri said, his voice low and ominous. “Varis somehow freed the Fallen from the Thousand Hells.”

“We make for Izutar,” Kian said. “These fool Aradaners can reap the troubles sown by one of their own sons.”

“The outpost of Oratz is but twenty miles south from here,” Azuri said. “Though it is the wrong way, we must refit. And while I agree with you about these Aradaners and their troubles, it would be the right thing to at least give them some kind of warning about what they will soon face.”

Kian climbed into the saddle and wheeled his mount. He wanted nothing more than to head straight for Izutar, but Azuri had the right of it, on all scores. “So be it. If we ride hard, we’ll be there before dawn.”

A deep, hellish baying pushed out from the Black Keep, turning all heads. Whatever had cried out, it was not one of the small demons. Kian recalled the thing trying to escape Bresado’s corpse, and was unable to contain a shiver of dread.

“It is time to leave,” Kian rasped, heeling his mount into a gallop that took him from the accursed grounds of Fortress El’hadar and toward Oratz. It was a place none of them would ever see.

Chapter 19

Ellonlef kept her head down. The speed of the galloping warhorse brought tears to her eyes that cut tracks in the dust coating her cheeks. Thoughts of actually escaping had begun to fire in her mind when an arrow hissed out of the night, striking her mount in the front shoulder. The horse trumpeted in pain, stumbled, then regained its stride, hooves thundering over the hard-packed roadway. Its muscles trembled from both pain and fatigue under the saddle, but she could not let it stop. She would run it to death before she halted, even if it only bought her a few moments to make ready to defend herself.

Far ahead, off to one side of the road and silhouetted against the smoky night sky, loomed a large heap of boulders. The frantic shouts of the trailing band of Bashye warriors spurred her on. If the lord marshal’s warhorse had not been weary from the long journey, and wounded besides, the Bashyes’ smaller desert horses would never have kept pace. Her ill-fortune was their blessing.

Knowing what she had to do, but not liking it in the least, she jammed her heels into the horse’s flanks. The mount surged ahead, its great lungs laboring for each new breath. As the rocks grew closer, the Bashye fell farther behind. She would have to trust in the darkness … and hope that the horse would not do what it was trained to do. With no time to fret over that, she kicked her feet free of the stirrups and cradled her short bow protectively to her breast. When the time was right, she rolled out of the saddle, tucking head and legs.

The shock of the hitting the hard ground was more than she had expected, and her breath gusted from her chest. Desperation made her hold tight to her bow, as would a mother protecting her infant. She was up and running before she had time to register any pain, or rejoice that the horse had continued on, instead of halting to defend its rider against the enemy.

Within a few steps, she knew there was something wrong with one of her knees, for her run quickly became a lurching stumble. The battle cries of the Bashye grew closer. She ducked behind a large boulder just as the band of warriors passed. In the darkness they were flashing shadows, but still she tried to count as they sped past.

Six! she thought with dismay. She had hoped there were only three or four. That there was nearly twice that meant she had not killed as many of the bloodthirsty renegades as she had believed. There was no point in fretting over numbers that would not change … unless she changed them with arrows from her bow.

After she caught her breath, she started climbing up through the boulders. She had to get to high ground before they discovered that she was no longer riding the horse they pursued. The agony in her knee became worse with every step, swollen stiffness setting in faster than expected. She almost laughed at that. Better had the pain not come at all, better if she had never left the Isle of Rida nine years gone. Knowing she could afford the luxury of feeling sorry for herself only if she survived the night, she pressed on.

The higher Ellonlef went, the steeper and harder the ascent became. In the stillness of the night, she paused on the rough curve of a boulder, biting her bottom lip to stifle a whimper of agony. Her knee, along with gods knew how many other scrapes and bruises, pulsed with her heartbeat. But the knee was by far the worst. Without the ability to move easily, her chance of seeing another dawn as a free woman grew slim indeed.

She ran cautious fingers over the bulge under her dusty robes and hastily pulled back. Breathing hard, she continued to search out other, less grievous wounds. There were dozens of small, painful lumps that told her what she already knew-jumping off a galloping horse was only advisable when the alternative was enslavement or death at the hands of the Bashye. Still, she felt confident that she had suffered no broken bones. Another quick check told her the dagger sheathed on her hip was secure, and the arrows in their quiver were, all save one, unbroken. Such was a small miracle in and of itself.

Ellonlef tested her weight on the bad leg and nearly screamed.

“Gods good and wise,” she hissed after she caught her breath. At that moment, she would have happily carved out the living eyes of every one of the filthy bastards hunting her. Not out vengeance, but because of their sheer, blind stupidity. The world and the heavens above were coming apart, yet the single-minded fools still persisted in hunting down anyone they thought weak enough to easily defeat and rob. But such was the way among the loose-knit bands of outcasts, brigands, and traitors who shared no common ancestry, save unto themselves.

“But I was no easy prize, was I?” she growled into the night, mortified by the hatred in her heart.

The Bashye had come at her soon after she left the outpost Oratz, many leagues north of Yuzzika. It had taken them little time to kill off her string of reserve mounts, and set her to galloping north. She could not say how many hours past that had been, but it felt an eternity. Briefly, the horrors that had waited at both Yuzzika and Oratz filled her mind, despite her desperate need to seek higher, safer ground.

Even now, days after seeing the first strew of flyblown corpses in and around Fortress Yuzzika, she shuddered in revulsion. She had initially believed some great battle had ensued, leaving corpses sprawled everywhere. After that, she guessed that jackals and other carrion eaters must have swooped in to feast on the remains. All along the road north, she had held this belief, until finally reaching Oratz, where her presumption had been devastated.

The inhabitants of Oratz had not perished long before she arrived. The dead there, scattered over the ground outside the walls, had all died the same way. Each to the last had shown many wounds, but what had killed them were ragged gashes to their throats. And the way that blood had poured from those gruesome rents, leaving behind wide fans and pools of drying blood, she understood that the wounds had been inflicted while the men’s hearts were beating-

A faint noise drew Ellonlef’s attention to the north. She cocked her head, trying to hear over her thudding heart. Her fear grew at the sound of many hooves beating against the roadway, coming nearer. Though she had known the foolishness of hope, some small part of her had believed she would escape.

She swiped angry tears from her eyes and resumed her climb up the small mountain of boulders. She vowed to open her own veins before letting the Bashye turn her into a broodmare, but before that she would make them suffer-just as she had suffered at their hands since they beset her. Vengeance was not a part of her nature, but a sense of justice demanded that the Bashye pay for their assault against her, and no doubt countless others before her. Whether the world was coming apart or no, justice would have its place.

By the time she was at the highest point she could climb, the group of renegade warriors had passed by going south, then returned, riding slower, looking carefully over every inch of sandy ground to either side of the roadway. For all their vile faults, they were excellent trackers, and in short order she knew they would find where she had leapt from her horse. Not long after, they would guess that the sheltering rock pile was the only reasonable place for her to hide.

Ellonlef studied her surroundings, gauging her defenses. She stood in a wind-hollowed basin of stone with a sandy floor. Behind her, a sheer sandstone face rose up a dozen feet. To either side, boulders fell away in twenty-foot drops. To the front, the haphazard path she had taken would help funnel them into a single line. A grim smile turned her lips. They would be cautious, for she had already thinned their numbers-and that while firing arrows from the back of a galloping horse. Cautious or not, they would come, but she would be ready.

She counted her arrows out, stabbing each one into the thin layer of sand between her feet. In the end she had only eleven arrows and the broken one. This last she tossed aside.

Down below, one of the Bashye gave an excited call in an unmistakable Falsethian lilt, indicating that he had found her trail. Settling down to rest her knee, Ellonlef watched to see what they would do, unconsciously loosening her dagger in its sheath. All of her actions were second nature, for the Sisters of Najihar were trained in everything from history to healing to battle. Even after nine years of being locked away in the relative safety of Krevar, the warrior training she had received was still with her. To be sure, she was not as polished as she had once been, but she was far from helpless.

The Bashye gathered together, and Ellonlef’s heart fell. Now that they were still, she counted eight of them. Two looked to be of Izutarian heritage, by their greater size; one’s accent named him the Falsethian; the rest could have been Aradaners, Tureecians, Kelrens, or a mongrel mix of all five bloods, for all she knew. Those who were of distinct bloodlines had, at some point, proven both their ruthlessness in battle in order to gain acceptance into the clans. These men, she knew, would give her no quarter.

Heads together, they spoke quietly, all pointing in different directions, but deferring to the shortest man among them. He alone seemed to be gazing straight at her place of refuge.

Ellonlef weighed her options, and quickly decided on a course of action that would force them to react to her, rather than the other way around. Moving slowly, so as to attract no undue attention, she plucked up an arrow and nocked it the bowstring. Taking account of her higher elevation, she drew back the string and lowered her aim. Although she knew they would not show her mercy, she hesitated, fighting against what she knew she should do, and the natural abhorrence she felt for killing someone who was simply standing about talking.

They are talking about how best to capture you, a voice warned, and what depraved, brutal pleasures they will take with your flesh afterwards.

Still she hesitated.

The few people who had ever escaped from Bashye camps always told similar tales of their enslavement. Straight away, men and women alike were stripped naked, then collared and leashed like dogs, with only enough rope to allow them to gain their hands and knees. After their tormentors broke their will, the women became breeders, while the men were castrated and forced into whatever labors the Bashye needed. Enslavement in the hands of the Bashye usually lasted only a short time before death or madness took the slave. As adept at taking slaves as the Bashye were, there was no reason to spare them or keep them hale.

Ellonlef imagined herself raped by numerous men, day after day, until she became pregnant, saw herself giving birth to a child that would be taken from her as soon as it was weaned, and then taught to hate her and all peoples save for the clans. She imagined that cycle repeating, for years on end, her health diminishing with each successive birth, until she was nothing but a wasted sack of bones. In the end, her reward would be abandonment out on the Kaliayth, where the sun would scorch away the last of her life, leaving a corpse barely fit to feed vultures….

Despite all this, Ellonlef still resisted, hoping these monstrous men would decide she was not worth their effort and ride away. But that was not to be.

The apparent leader of the Bashye raised his hand for silence, then began pointing out the routes he wanted his men to take in order to secure the hill of broken stone to prevent her escape. He was only a dark shadow against the lighter-hued sandy roadway, but when he looked up, Ellonlef imagined she could see his cruel, cunning eyes. He would lay claim to her first, ravish her in front of his men, then let them have a turn-

The bowstring made an insignificant popping sound when it slipped off her fingers. Invisible in the night, the arrow sped on its deadly course and struck the man in the throat-at least, Ellonlef thought it did, given the abrupt gagging noises. Six of the remaining seven men scattered. The seventh moved to his prostrate leader and tried to drag him to safety. Ellonlef’s second arrow took him in the back, high up on the left side. He shrieked and fell to the ground, scrabbled a few feet like a dying beetle, then went still.

Now there are six, came her grim thought.

For long moments all was quiet, save a sigh of wind carrying the stench of smoke from the burning Qaharadin. In the heavens, a shower of falling stars briefly flared and then were gone. A sudden hail of hissing arrows forced Ellonlef to dive to the ground and cover her head. None of the bolts harmed her, though a few bounced around and fell close by. She was about to praise her choice of a defensive potion, when she heard the soft but unmistakable sounds of leather-soled sandals scraping over stone somewhere down below her. She crawled forward, keeping her head down until she could peer back the way she had come.

Prickly sweat sprang from her skin at the sight of three men rapidly working their way up the tumble of weathered stone. Even as she thought to raise her bow, they halted and began firing arrows at the only place she could be. Dismay filled her when the three remaining men sprinted across the roadway and scaled the rocks under the cover of their comrades’ barrage of arrows. In short order, the second group rushed past their brethren. As the former group had done, the second trio halted a third of the way up and fired more arrows her way. In a practiced tactic, the trailing group again climbed past the firing group, effectively scrambling over half the height of the outcrop.

Desperate to slow them, Ellonlef raised up and fired off two arrows of her own. Neither struck their mark, but gave her assailants pause. After firing another pair of arrows, she ducked back behind cover.

She thought the situation could not get worse, but then she heard a harsh rasping noise, like steel scraping over stone. Suddenly a fire-arrow whooshed up and up, before falling back. It landed harmlessly behind her, but the dancing flames reflecting off the face of stone, the same that she had counted on to defend her back, now acted as a dull mirror, increasing the small flickering light and casting it in all directions.

She popped up with a pained wheeze and managed to launch another arrow before they pinpointed where she was, but again her shot flew wide of the mark. Someone shouted a mocking insult, even as arrows began streaking toward her. All at once, the funnel of stone she had planned to use to her advantage became a deathtrap.

Ellonlef drew back, hissing each time her weight fell on her bad knee. Eyes locked on the notch between two boulders, she kicked sand on the fire-arrow. Almost at once another cut a flaring streak across the darkness, then another, and another. Some flew wide, disappearing over the back side of the outcrop, but enough fell close by, illuminating the entire area.

The men were so close now she could hear them breathing with the effort of their climb. She swallowed dryly as her palm brushed the hilt of her dagger. With enemy arrows laying all around, she had plenty to ward off her enemies until the very end, even if doing to do so would ensure her death.

A cynical, despairing chuckle climbed her throat and rolled over her tongue. If she waited for them to take her, a fate worse than death was certain. Her only choice seemed be a quick death or a prolonged one. She chose the former, and wrenched her dagger free of the leather sheath … then abruptly slid it back. It will be easier for me to empty my veins if I am already dying, she thought.

Despite the demise of the Three, she prayed to their spirits for strength, then she prayed to Pa’amadin as well, he who had created All and then set his creation adrift, leaving it to fend for itself. Lastly, and with the least conviction, she prayed for miraculous strength and cunning, for she did not want to die here, on the edge of a wasteland so far from home.

As if in answer to her silent appeal, a reckless idea formed in her mind.

As more arrows rained down around her, she calmly collected up a double handful and placed them into the quiver on her right hip. With a last calming breath, she stepped forward, placing herself into the stony breech. Her first arrow slammed through a startled man’s eye socket, not ten feet away. He was the Falsethian warrior, marked out by his colorful robes. The other Bashye roared in fury. An arrow hissed by Ellonlef’s ear, tugging her loose hair. Another sliced through her robes, scoring her ribs. She did not flinch or falter, for though she was riding the wings of certain death-and perhaps because of that knowledge-she felt completely calm. She drew another arrow and fired. In her heart, she knew it would be her last. Her idea, that perhaps granted to her by the gods, was as simple as it was stark: force them to kill her, before she had to kill herself.

Chapter 20

“Look,” Hazad said, pointing southward.

Riding half-asleep, Kian snapped his head up, instantly alert, and focused on the night-shadowed landscape ahead. For a moment, all was black, then a flaming point of light rose high, before dropping amid what looked to be a great outcrop of loose boulders. The dancing firelight showed a wind-worn bowl of stone, in the midst of which his keen eyes made out a moving figure. After a few moments, the figure rose to douse the flames. In quick succession, more flares went up, and Kian understood that someone was shooting fire-arrows in an attempt to highlight the hiding target.

Lacking Kian’s better eyesight, Hazad missed the figure. “Who, in the middle of the night, would be lobbing fire-arrows into a pile of rocks?” he wondered aloud.

“Bashye would,” Kian said, “if they had someone cornered.”

As they rode closer, Kian was startled to see that the someone was a white-robed woman, as she popped more clearly into view. She held a bow, and began launching arrows at her assailants. Distant shouts rushed up the road toward Kian and his company, even as the Bashye returned fire. The woman, surely mad with terror, never shifted her position, save to direct her aim. After a moment, the guttering firelight atop the hill of stone went out. Several more fire-arrows streaked upward and fell back to light the entire the area where the woman had chosen to make her stand, but this time she was out of sight, and the Bashye were closing.

Delaying no longer, Kian tugged his short horse bow free of its leather case on the back of his saddle, and kicked his mount into a gallop. With practiced efficiency, he strung the bow’s thick limbs as he rode. He offered the night a hard smile when he heard the thundering of hooves behind him, and the ululating battle cries of the Asra a’Shah. It was not that he relished the idea of battle, but rather he was glad that he rushed to fight men, and not a demonic horde risen from the Thousand Hells.

His company had ridden over half the distance to the outcrop when an arrow sailed out of the night and scored a painful cut across Kian’s forearm. Silhouetted once again by firelight, the woman in the rocks paused her renewed attack to watch for the newcomers. Kian paid her little heed, for the faintly illuminated Bashye were now scrambling for deeper cover among the boulders below her.

In a single fluid motion, Kian nocked, drew, and released. His arrow ripped through the air with force enough to knock the target off his feet. From both sides of Kian, the Asra a’Shah released a volley with their longer bows, and nearly two dozen arrows whistled amongst the stones, skewering or scattering the rest of the Bashye.

Then the company was charging past. They left the road and wheeled in two separate columns, and came thundering back. Kian called a halt just out of bowshot. Nothing was moving amid the boulders.

“Hazad, Azuri, with me. Ba’Sel,” he said to the Geldainian mercenary, “you and your men spread out. Follow us until you are within range, then halt. If you see anyone moving besides us and the woman, end them.”

The black-skinned man was nodding before Kian stopped speaking, and used hand signals to position his men. When Kian was satisfied that any Bashye foolish enough to show himself would die, he motioned Azuri and Hazad forward.

Without needing a command, Hazad and Azuri angled their horses away from Kian, who continued to slowly ride forward. Across the road from the towering pile of boulders, horses shifted around in the gloom. Without question, they belonged to the Bashye. He hazarded a quick glance over his shoulder, searching for the handful of Asra a’Shah on that side of the road. He was comforted to see that two of the mercenaries had found the enemy’s mounts, and were peering into the darkness for anyone guarding them.

When Kian decided they had come close enough, he halted Hazad and Azuri. Other than a gentle breeze rustling nearby bushes and carrying the scent of acrid smoke from the marshes, all was quiet, motionless. Bashye, for all their ruthless ways and renegade hearts, were brilliant fighters. He did not take them lightly.

“Do you see anything?” Kian called in a overloud voice, ensuring another arrow was securely nocked to his bowstring.

Understanding that he was trying to draw out the enemy, Hazad and Azuri both answered, “No,” in the same exaggerated manner.

Kian waited, letting his eyes rove the darkness, back and forth. Nothing moved amongst the shadowed boulders. If he did not miss his mark, the Bashye had fled. Above, silhouetted by the dwindling light of fire arrows, the woman continued to look down at him.

Kian called up to her, “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she answered. Then, hesitantly, she amended, “Well, actually, yes I am.”

She sounded young, but she was no wisp of girl, if her womanly shape outlined by the firelight told him anything. He imagined her ambiguous response was the product of absolute terror.

Or insanity, he reconsidered uneasily, thinking again of how she had twice placed herself in mortal danger of Bashye arrows. With the way things had been since Varis came out of that temple, it would be just his luck to have to carry a woman to Oratz whose mind had come unraveled.

“Well,” he said, almost hating to ask, lest she truly was mad, “do you need help?”

After a long moment, she muttered something.

“Speak up!”

“Yes, I need help!” she shouted, not sounding hurt in the least, and ungrateful besides.

Kian looked to Azuri, but the man pointedly ignored him. Next, he glanced at Hazad, who shook his head. Neither man, it seemed, was ready to obey an order to retrieve the woman.

“Traitorous bastards,” he growled under his breath, swinging out of the saddle. He ignored their soft laughter.

Not wishing to dither, he trotted along, relishing the feel of stretching his legs. It took little time to scamper up the path wending through the boulders. When he was within a dozen paces of the woman, who was staring down at him with an air that he should have come faster, something moved off to one side.

Kian wheeled as a Bashye reared up from behind a boulder, his face a mask of blood. The broken end of an arrow shaft jutted from one eye socket, and the other end poked out from his temple to disappear behind his ear. His good eye burned with hatred, as he slashed his sword in a downward arc. Kian flung up his bow, wood shattered under the blow, and he toppled backward with a shout, the two ends of his severed bow held in either hand. He landed hard on his back, jarring every bone against unyielding sandstone. The Bashye leapt with a fierce cry, even as Kian rolled clear and clattered down amongst the boulders. The man’s steel sparked against the stone where his neck had been.

Kian tried to gain his feet, but was horrified to find one of his ankles was caught between two rocks. He wrenched at it, trying to get loose, but the angles were all wrong. He need to go uphill to get free, yet he was all but hanging upside down. With an air of victory, the Bashye crept forward, grinning.

“Shoot him!” Kian bellowed, knowing his men would hesitate because the renegade was so close to him.

Not waiting to see if they would heed his command, Kian tried to free his sword, but the weapon was pinned under his backside. The man eased closer while Kian struggled, sword raised with the obvious intention of hacking off Kian’s leg. At the last moment, Kian found his dagger, drew it, and threw. The same instant Kian’s blade soared past the man’s twisting body, the woman fired an arrow that blossomed from the Bashye’s throat. The wild fury in his good eye became a look of bemusement, as he fingered the steel barb lodged in his neck. His sword fell away with a ringing clatter, and he toppled out of sight.

A moment later, the woman appeared where the Bashye had been. Using her bow as a crutch, she limped down and around the curve of a large boulder, gritting her teeth in obvious pain. Though the light of the fire-arrows were erratic, Kian found himself forgetting his near brush with death and blinking in surprise. Though tattered and torn, and covered in road dust, she was a beauty out of a love story.

“You were supposed to help me,” she said, sounding both irritated and breathless, “not the other way around.”

The spell of her looks broken by her hard tone, Kian glowered. “You could have warned me there was a man waiting to take my head off!”

“Only a fool would have assumed there were no dangers about,” she replied blandly, taking hold of his wrist and heaving him into a sitting position. “Bashye are not given to fleeing a fight.”

At that moment the sounds of struggle-clashing swords, a scream of agony, curses and grunts of effort-came to them from the desert floor. Just as quickly, all fell silent. Kian and the woman waited, listening.

“That seems to be the last of them,” Azuri called up a few moments later, only a little out of breath.

“Be sure,” Kian shouted back. It worried him that he and his men had made so many out of character mistakes during this skirmish, even as he knew that he and his men needed, at the least, a good night’s rest.

Pushing that aside, he belatedly dislodged his ankle. Where the rocks had held his weight, now it fell to the woman. Her grasp slipped, and she stumbled back and sat down with a shuddering cry. Kian rolled to his feet and went to her, seeing for the first time the blood coating her robes. White robes.

“You’re a Sister of Najihar,” he said, incredulous. Why would a such a woman be in the desert, alone, in the middle of the night?

She looked at him with pain-glazed eyes, and nodded.

Shaking away his surprise, he knelt beside her. “You’re bleeding. Have you been stabbed, or was it an arrow?”

“Arrow,” she murmured through clenched teeth. Shock made her as pallid as one of the northern-born, though she had the features and hair coloring of one born in the southern realms.

Kian eased her onto her back. Her eyes fluttered and showed the whites. “Stay awake,” he said. He had to stop the bleeding, quickly.

She mumbled something, but he did not hear. He drew her dagger and sawed at the hem of her robes, cutting off a broad swath to use as a bandage. He hesitated only a moment, then loosened her belt and pushed the robes open, noted her feminine curves, then studiously focused on her wounds-a man he may be, but this was no time to act the lecher. The arrow had passed through the flesh covering her ribs, and the gash was bleeding profusely. The good of it was that the wound was not deadly, unless corruption sank in.

“By the gods good and wise,” Hazad blurted from behind. “What are you doing, having your way with the poor girl?”

“Give me some jagdah!” Kian snapped.

Coming closer, Hazad grunted when he saw her wounds, and quickly handed over a skin of the Izutarian spirits. Kian wrenched the cork free and poured a liberal amount of the clear liquid over the wound. As blood sluiced away, the woman sat up with scream, flailing her hands at what surely felt like fire sinking into her flesh. Kian cursed only half as loud as Hazad when a wild blow sent the skin of jagdah flying, squirting the precious spirits onto the ground.

As softly as he could, Kian leaned his weight on the woman, forcing her back down. “I must stop the bleeding,” he said, trying for a gentle tone, but failing. He was used to dealing with wounded men. If a man lost his wits to pain, you could always backhand him to silence.

She ceased her struggles and closed her eyes, breathing hard.

Taking the long swath he had cut from her robes, he tore off a large square, folded it several times, soaked it with jagdah snatched from Hazad’s protective hand, and pressed it against her side. Next, he draped the remaining length of material over her belly and tucked it far under her back. Urging her to arch up, he grasped the end under her back and pulled it out the other side. Keeping the folded bandage firmly against her skin, he wrapped the swath tight, tied a knot, and tucked away the loose ends.

With the crisis seemingly averted, he pulled the edges of her robe together, covering her nakedness, careful to keep his eyes on her face. Gods good and wise, he thought distractedly, she is beautiful. “This will have to do, until we get you to Oratz,” he said aloud.

She murmured something indistinct, forcing him to lean in close. She spoke again, but he still could not hear her. He bent over until her lips were against his ear. “What did you say?”

Her breath was warm against his skin, but her halting words chilled his veins. When she stopped speaking, he sat up. Absently, he reaffixed her belt.

“What is it?” Hazad asked, noting the disturbed look on Kian’s face.

The mercenary captain looked out over the darkness to the south, his mind seeking answers to questions that seemingly had no rational response.

What is happening? Is this all because of what one misguided youth has done … or something more?

“Kian,” Hazad said, looking uneasy, “what did she say?”

“She has come from Fortress Krevar,” Kian said, voice hollow. He did not know the exact numbers, but he knew there were several thousand folk living along Aradan’s western border. They were a tough people, hardened by desert life and the constant worry over defending against Bashye and Tureecian raiders. “From Yuzzika to Oratz, she said, all along the road between, everyone has been … slaughtered,” he finished, using her word.

If not for what he’d seen with his own eyes at El’hadar, he would have disbelieved. Even still, he did not want to believe, but until the sister spoke more, he had no choice but to accept that the western border folk of Aradan had been all but eradicated.

Chapter 21

Though the night had been one long ride followed by a short, violent battle, Kian awoke before dawn was fully born, having scarcely slept. The desert was cold at night, and the bed it provided was all stone and grit.

Uncomfortable as he was, Kian remained on his back, thinking that he had not felt so out of sorts since he had been a child alone on the Falsethian streets of Marso. In length of years, surviving those dangerous coastal streets and alleys had not been all that long ago, but he had lived three lifetimes in experience since that first lost and lonely day. He had not enjoyed feeling adrift and frightened then, and he liked it less now, all the more because he did not know what caused his present uncertainty. It seemed as if some part of his mind was coming awake and trying to warn him of some lurking danger in a language he did not understand.

He abruptly sat up and scanned the desert, unconsciously searching for threats. All was quiet and still. He noted with approval that three Asra a’Shah formed the points of a broad triangle around the crude camp. He had no doubt that each man on watch had stood so with their fullest attention. While an Asra a’Shah was the worth of any three men, the Bashye were crafty, ruthless, and fearless fighters who commonly bested their foes with inferior numbers and weapons. That aside, they would face their greatest foe, should they ever think to attack Kian’s company while he had Asra a’Shah in his employ.

To the east the sky was a deep, muddy crimson that he was rapidly becoming used to. It seemed the smoke of the Qaharadin’s burning would never clear. To the still dark west, the fires raging in the swamp cast a dull orange glow skyward. Without question, the breadth of those fires was growing larger by the day. As to any unexpected menace, there was no sign, though the sensation of trouble had not lessened.

He turned his head on a stiff neck and found the Sister of Najihar looking at him with eyes as dark and cool as a pond in a midnight forest. Despite himself, he swallowed. He could not conceive what peril she might pose, but he suddenly felt sure she was the source of his strange anxiety, at least in part.

Telling himself he was acting the fool, he studied her features. Though the morning light was weak, her normal dark coloring was back, which had to be a good sign. That was where his scrutiny fell apart. He simply could not watch her watching him. She was not the first Sister of Najihar he had ever come across, and she was hardly the first pretty woman he’d had contact with, but there was something about her, a quality that made him want to saddle his mount and ride away, as if from an approaching storm. At the same instant, he wanted to take her in his arms and….

“How are you feeling?” he asked brusquely, pushing aside amorous thoughts.

“Better,” she said, her voice slightly raspy. “Do you have water?”

He tossed his dusty blanket aside and retrieved a waterskin. As he was holding it to her lips, it struck him that he was behaving like a servant, which would simply not do. Sisters of Najihar might hold sway in Aradan, but elsewhere they were thought to be more spies than scholars, which was why they tended to remain anonymous, posing as healers and the like. They were not hated, for their healing ways and insights were almost magical, but neither were they entirely trusted in lands outside of Aradan-or even in Aradan, for that matter. At any rate, he did not want to set a precedent by fetching and carrying for her.

“Take it,” he said gruffly, tossing the skin into her lap.

She gave him a bemused look, and he walked a few paces away, showing her his back.

Without question, she was attractive, but he’d be damned if he was about to start bowing and scraping to a comely face. If he wanted to make an idiot of himself over a woman, he could just as easily get well and drunk in some bawdy winehouse, toss a few bits of silver at a wench, and behave as he would without regret.

Winehouses … wenches? He shook his head in irritation, at odds with the way his mind seemed to be jumping about.

Looking out over the now glowing eastern horizon and scratching at his stubbed jaw, he grudgingly admitted he was losing his normal poise. Just as quickly, he convinced himself it had nothing to do with the woman, but rather the simple truth that the world had gone absolutely mad. What with the quakes, raging infernos, and demons running about, a man had a right to be put out of sorts by even the mundane things in life. And, too, he had to face the truth that something in him had changed when that tongue of blue fire had snaked out from the temple and touched him.

After a long moment, she said, “I am Sister Ellonlef Khala.”

Reluctantly, Kian turned. She had dribbled water over her chin and chest. “I am Kian Valara,” he answered. Her eyes flared at that, which seemed strange, for it appeared that his name had brought not just recognition but something more.

Pushing the thought aside, along with his ridiculous aversion to accommodating her needs, he squatted down and dug through his panniers for something to dry her off. The best he could find was a not-so-clean tunic. When he straightened, she was still staring at him with deep curiosity and, perhaps, a touch of mistrust … or was it fear?

“Something wrong?” he asked, irritated. He dropped his tunic into her lap and waited for a response.

Instead of answering right away, she scrutinized the camp and his small party, dabbing at her chest with the tunic. One by one, men tossed aside their blankets and rose to stretch away stiffness from their bones.

“For a man seeking to usurp the Ivory Throne,” she said offhandedly, “you seem short of warriors.”

Kian’s mouth fell open, stunned. “The way you fought the Bashye last night, standing in the open and making a perfect target of yourself, I knew you were mad,” he snapped.

“I faced certain capture by the Bashye,” she said slowly and precisely, speaking as if to a lackwit. “I would rather have died in battle than become their slave-a concept I should not have to explain to an Izutarian, if I rightly understand your people.”

“She has you there,” Azuri said, coming near with Hazad at his side.

Kian looked between the two men, fully aware that he had spoken before thinking, which was not his habit. He was starting to wish he had never laid eyes on this Sister Ellonlef. Yet he had, and the question of her sanity or unflinching bravery aside, the accusation she had leveled at him was, without question, unacceptable. The last kingdom he would want-if ever he sought a kingdom-was Aradan, a realm filled with all manner of debauched and lazy highborn, men and women so long from true struggles that they had to invent problems over which to be angry or concerned. To be sure, the kingdom contended with the Bashye, as well as Tureecian raiders, but to these threats the Ivory Throne conscripted vast armies and paid hordes of mercenaries to keep safe Aradan’s great cities and holdings, ensuring the highborn had all the more time to invent depraved entertainments in which to wallow.

Before he could respond to her outlandish statement, Azuri bowed at the waist and introduced himself, followed by Hazad, whose movements were far more crude.

“If you need anything, Sister,” Azuri said, “you have only to ask. Hazad may be as ugly as Kian, but he is usually far more pleasant.” He finished with a wink that brought a sudden and delighted grin to Ellonlef’s lips.

Kian glared at his friends. They had openly betrayed him, all for a pretty woman. It was simply disgusting.

Ellonlef’s grin became a captivating smile that momentarily set Kian back on his heels. “Thank you,” she said.

Kian forcefully regained his wits and demanded, “I would know why you accused me of seeking to depose King Simiis.”

Ellonlef’s smile faded, replaced by a look of concern. “I am not your accuser, rather the messenger.”

“Then who is my accuser?” he asked, anger rising. Such a slight could not go unanswered.

Ellonlef appraised him, as if trying to determine his worthiness. Finally she answered. “Your former charge, as it happens, Prince Varis Kilvar.”

“Varis!” Azuri hissed, voicing the surprise of all three.

“He arrived in Krevar several days ago-exactly how many, I cannot be sure, as I have been riding hard and sleeping little since Lord Marshal Otaker sent me north. And, so you know exactly what you face, Varis’s followers now call him the Life Giver.”

“ ‘You seek to supplant the master of the mahk’lar, the Life Giver,’ “ Hazad muttered. “Lord Marshal Bresado said that, or something very close, right before he-”

Kian cut the big man off with a sharp look. He wanted Ellonlef to tell all that she knew before he shared anything in return. As far as he knew, she might be in the service of Varis. Yet, by the look on her face, eyes wide with shock, mouth slightly agape, what Hazad had said obviously disturbed her greatly. Too greatly, Kian silently conceded, for a woman of her stripe. A Sister of Najihar, it was said, was never out of countenance. That Ellonlef so obviously was, suggested she could not be in league with Varis … unless her emotions were a ploy.

“You are sure,” she asked, “that Lord Marshal Bresado spoke those words, named Varis so?”

“No question at all,” Hazad said. “Though I would like to, I will never forget Bresado-or whatever he was-as we last saw him.”

Azuri confirmed the big man’s statement with a nod.

Ellonlef bowed her head in thought. When she looked up again, her eyes glinted with unshed tears, and Kian felt something inside himself soften, just a little. He had never seen eyes more ill-suited for tears.

“If …” Ellonlef trailed off, voice cracking. Visibly composing herself, she said, “If you speak true, then Lord Marshal Otaker Racote is dead … or changed.”

Kian did not like the way she said that last. With all that he had recently seen of demons, changed was not a word he wanted to apply to a man.

“Last night you claimed,” Kian said, “that all the people between Yuzzika and Oratz have been slaughtered.”

“I made no claims,” Ellonlef retorted. “I saw the dead-hundreds, thousands. Most were too far gone to guess what had killed them. In Oratz, however, it was obvious that something had … had torn out their throats before they died.”

Creatures of shadow and hate, Bresado’s voice rose up from deep within Kian’s mind, glutted themselves on the blood of the dying.

Kian lost the opportunity for the secrecy he needed to glean all that Ellonlef knew or suspected when Hazad spoke aloud the words in his mind, and naming Bresado as the speaker. Kian wanted to shout at the man, but held his tongue. The nervousness that had greeted him upon waking reared up again, larger than ever. A storm, of sorts, was coming. There could be no question that sharing details with the Sister of Najihar was hastening its approach. Bowing to fear was not in Kian’s nature, but more than ever he wanted to run far and fast, before the first stroke of lightning fell from the envisioned storm, before the first drop of poisoned rain touched his brow.

Azuri began speaking next, telling her what had happened at the temple, about Varis creating fire from thin air, of the battle with the diabolical root-serpent. Then he moved on to the demon that had taken Fenahk’s flesh for its own, and how Kian had miraculously defeated it. Hazad took up where Azuri left off, recounting in a hollow voice about the many dead at El’hadar, as well as the demons seemingly under Bresado’s command, creatures only Kian could easily kill.

After they finished, Ellonlef mulled their words, then said, “These demons are, in truth, the Fallen. Lady Danara, whom Varis brought back from death, told that she had been to Geh’shinnom’atar, and that she had seen the Fallen freed.”

“Why is it that you believe Lord Marshal Otaker is dead?” Kian asked.

“The message Otaker intended to send to Bresado, and all the lords marshal along Aradan’s borders, as well as the king, was a warning about the danger facing the kingdom at Varis’s hands, not a warning about a mercenary vying for the Ivory Throne-that was the story Varis told Otaker and myself. The only way Bresado could have suspected you might be coming is if Varis told him as much … or Otaker, though not the Otaker I left behind.”

Azuri looked about at his companions, then faced Ellonlef. “Doubtless Otaker the man is dead, for it was not Bresado who was waiting for us, anymore than it was Fenahk who attacked us in the swamp. It might have been them in appearance, but demons had taken control of their flesh.”

While Kian did not personally know Lord Marshal Otaker, it was said that he was one of the last true Aradaners, cast from the mold of the kingdom’s forefathers. The idea of him becoming a creature like Bresado was disheartening. Even if true, he had larger questions that needed answering.

“I still do not understand why Varis would claim I intend to usurp the Ivory Throne.”

Ellonlef gathered her thoughts. “The short of it is this: I believe that Varis fears you. As such, he desires your death … but your death is seemingly the one thing he cannot bring about by his own hands. He claimed that you stole the powers of creation, long ago hidden by the Three within something he named the Well of Creation. He said that some part of those powers were released into the world and, consequently, into himself.

“Given his actions at Krevar-slaughtering, I believe, the people of Krevar with a strange plague and then bringing those dead back to life in order to convince all others that you are after the Ivory Throne, and are in turn supported by a cohort of corrupt highborn-it seemed more likely that the situation was reversed. Seeing you now before me, and having witnessed the very natural means by which you fought last night, I believe even more strongly that Varis is the one who stole the powers of creation for himself, and that he intends to take the Ivory Throne, as well.” She held his gaze until he grew uncomfortable, then added, “However, from your friends’ account, it must also be true that some part of the powers of creation are inside you, Kian Valara.”

Kian gazed at Ellonlef, wanting to deny her words, but unable to.

Azuri nodded to himself. “At the temple, just before Varis came out, you were struck down-”

“The same would have happened to any man unexpectedly knocked to his backside by a blast of strong wind,” Kian argued weakly.

“It was no wind that bowled you over, my friend, but a strand of blue fire. As well,” he went on, “only you, among all the others of the company, survived the direct touch of the unnatural fires Varis created. And not only did you survive, but those flames did very little to the area around you. Those same fires turned to ash anyone else they fell upon.”

“And let’s not forget that root-serpent,” Hazad said. “It had you cornered. Yet when it tried to tear you apart, it died at your touch. The same power in Varis must also lie in you,” Hazad finished in a whisper, looking distinctly ill at ease.

Before Hazad could add what Kian knew was coming next, Azuri said, “And the demon in Fenahk … only your steel was able to cause true harm. Yet, even then, it was not your sword that destroyed the creature, but your voice. And if you had not been with us in the Black Keep, Bresado’s minions would have torn Hazad and me to pieces.”

“This cannot be so,” Kian said, feeling trapped. He had been able to accept that he might have had some protection from Varis, inexplicable as it was, but that he shared something with that vile princeling revolted him. The imagined storm he had sensed before was closing, and he hastened to ward against it, futile as those efforts were. “Your steel worked as well as-”

Kian stopped before the statement was finished. The truth was clear and undeniable in his mind. To continue on, as if he were the same man he had always been, was to mark himself a fool.

“Even if true,” Kian said, abruptly changing course, “it matters nothing. With Oratz destroyed, along with any chance of refitting or giving warning that demons now haunt Aradan, I will make for Izutar. Anyone who wants to join me, can.”

“Is your heart so callous,” Ellonlef said then, “or is it fear that drives you?”

“Fear lives in all men,” Kian growled, “but I have never let it rule me. As to a callous heart, I owe nothing to this wretched kingdom. I have given them a sword and blood when needed, and they have returned that service with gold. There is no outstanding debt.”

“Perhaps not,” Ellonlef answered, “but with the gift you have received-an ability to resist Varis, and all the powers he wields-does that not obligate you to help as you can?”

“No,” Kian said promptly. He did not like the way she was looking at him, as if he were some heartless beast. Neither did he enjoy the way a part of his own mind suggested to him that he was being both a coward and a fool, and indeed, a heartless beast.

“Very well,” Ellonlef said slowly, “but know this: Varis will not stop at the Ivory Throne. In due course, Izutar will fall as well.”

“How can you know that?” Kian demanded. Some part of him knew she had the way of it, but another, more stubborn part of him, refused to accept defeat.

Ellonlef’s tone grew hard. “As with all of Varis’s lies, when he claimed that you would seek to rule all nations, doubtless he gave away his own intentions. This is not Aradan’s problem alone, but the problem of all kingdoms … all the world. Some of those kingdoms might well be Izutar’s enemies, and their falling would, for a time, even benefit Izutar. But in the end, with the power Varis has displayed, friend and foe will be subjugated together.”

“If so,” Kian said, grasping for any conceivable argument, no matter how weak, “then those kingdoms will stand together against him.”

“Alliances between friend and foe might arise against Varis, but it is unlikely they will bury old hatreds in time to save themselves.” At this she gave him a pointed, accusing look. “Varis is moving too quickly. He must never be allowed to grow his forces strong enough to attack other kingdoms, let alone the Ivory Throne. He must be stopped-and you Kian, by my estimation and the testimony of your companions, for good or ill, are the only man with even a chance to stand against him. So, while you may not owe Aradan loyalty, can you say the same for your own homelands and people?”

Kian scowled at the woman before him. “Why are you here, so far from Krevar, if you yourself did not flee a fight you wanted nothing to do with?” It was a weak, petty accusation, and he knew it straight away. More troubling still, was that he was willfully denying many truths about himself, and the world in which he lived. He had never been one to shirk responsibility, and he had never turned his back on his honor, but some unknown force within himself kept driving him to do just that.

She did not so much as flinch at his charge. “Otaker commanded me to travel north, all the way to Izutar, if that was where I would find you,” Ellonlef said flatly. “We both concluded that you may hold the key to Aradan’s survival, and the power to stand and defeat Varis.”

“And what were you to do if I denied your request for aid?”

Ellonlef looked at her hands clasped in her lap. “That possibility never entered our minds.”

“It should have,” Kian said harshly, hating himself for speaking words that seemed to pierce her heart. “I am a mercenary, after all.”

“Indeed,” Ellonlef said with no small measure of disgust in her voice, and tossed aside her blankets. Despite her wounds, she managed to get to her feet with no help. Without another word, she hobbled to the picketed horses.

“What are you doing” Kian demanded, “running off to find some other witless champion? Save yourself the effort, for there are few enough of those in Aradan.”

Ellonlef turned slowly. While her eyes were not made for tears, they apparently had no trouble holding the fires of wrath in their dark depths. “As you say, there are few enough champions in Aradan, witless or otherwise. As such, I must count myself among their limited number, and go alone to Ammathor. If you will not burden yourself with at least warning the Ivory Throne of the danger Aradan faces, which in turn may be able to protect countless innocents, then I will go-alone.”

“We will accompany you,” Azuri and Hazad said in unison. For once, they did not fall to throwing snide comments back and forth, but merely shared a determined look and nodded to each other.

Kian felt like a mule had kicked him in the groin at his companions’ words, for they signified the breaking of the imaginary storm above him. But that selfish, little-known part of him still struggled, sought to turn them from this senseless endeavor.

“You would throw away your lives for a pack of highborn, Aradaner fools?” he said with as much scorn as he could muster.

“I have no love for the highborn of Aradan,” Azuri said calmly, “save for the false affections they purchase from my sword. I do not go because of them, I go for the small folk of Aradan, who are like small folk of all realms, men and women who simply want to live their lives in what peace can be found. I cannot believe that you, a man close to me as a brother, would condemn a people simply because of the foolish wretchedness of their rulers.”

Kian bit back an oath, but said nothing. Azuri went on.

“Varis has proven he is a demon-if not in truth, then in his heart. Like the Falsethian invaders that ravaged our homelands, he will destroy peace where he finds it. I do not want to find myself in Izutar one day soon, watching his conquering armies burning and cleaving their way through the forests of our homelands, and know that I had thrown aside the once chance to stop him.”

“And if you fail and die, instead of him?”

“Then the spirits of our fathers will be pleased that we died choosing of our own freewill to stand against a tyrant and a monster, instead of selling our honor for the price of our lives,” Hazad answered stoically.

“To speak of danger and death, honor and duty,” Kian said, each word icier than the last, “is easy enough when you are safe. But you were both there when Varis called forth fires that turned men to ash in a blink. You have heard the sister tell how he killed the people of Krevar from afar, then raised them back from the very bowels of the Thousand Hells. This is no man you would have us face, but a creature with the power of gods.

“She claims I have some measure of that same power, and perhaps this is true, but I have no understanding of its use. If we stand against Varis, doubtless none of us will long survive. Our deaths will earn honor that no one will ever sing of. Is this what you want?” Even as Kian spoke, he wondered if he were chiding his companions, or himself.

“Death after a life lived good and well,” Azuri said, “is never a vain life. Even if we only please Pa’amadin, and any other watching gods with our actions, then that is enough.” Before Kian could say more, Azuri held up a hand. “All that aside, my friend, you have not considered a key point.”

“What is that?” Kian asked dismissively. While he loathed standing against doing what was right, no matter how unpalatable that choice, he remained steadfast. This was no small decision, but one of life and death on a scale he could scarcely imagine.

“The demon within Fenahk called you by name,” Azuri said. “As well, the demon within Bresado was expecting your arrival to El’hadar. Perhaps you can explain that away, but I believe that Varis has already sent his hounds after you. It is only a matter of time before they find you, no matter where you go. You either face him and risk your life, or be hunted until you are found.”

Kian’s mouth went dry, his doggedness broken. He tried to deny what his friend had said, but had he not sensed that he was hunted, even marked out, almost from the moment Varis strode out of the temple like a risen corpse? That feeling, coupled with what Ellonlef had revealed, assured him that Varis wanted him dead. Even should he run, there would never be a safe place to rest his head.

After a moment of reflection, he realized his choice was that he had no choice, save to decide when he would face Varis, and on whose terms. Hazad was right, as well, and Kian wanted to choose of his own freewill to stand against Varis, and not sell his honor for the price of his life.

So be it, Kian thought, setting aside all the recent thoughts he had nurtured about heading to Izutar and living out a leisurely life, all the while spending the gold he had earned as a mercenary. Without question, his own death was more likely than Varis’s when they met again, but death did not frighten him, for all men died. Of fear, he only struggled with the idea that in facing Varis, he could become one of Varis’s risen followers, like the many folk of Krevar, or worse, the demons of El’hadar. Both ideas sent a chill of trepidation through the core of his soul, and had, perhaps, had been the sole reason for his resistance. Despite this possibility, he made his decision. And whether right or wrong, when a course of action was determined, a man must cast aside all doubt and plunge into the fray, and let the gods mind the outcome.

“Break camp!” Kian shouted abruptly. “We make for Ammathor.”

As understanding filled Ellonlef, relief and gratitude shone in her eyes.

Though he would not give her the satisfaction of telling her, Kian decided he liked that better than the anger and scorn she had first directed at him.

Chapter 22

As the small company finished packing the last of their scant supplies and saddled the horses, a booming clap of thunder exploded overhead. Ellonlef, who had been considering a way to thank Kian for his decision, ducked like everyone else. The abrupt movement flared the pain of her wounds and stole her breath.

A second boom followed the first, then a third.

The horses fought against their staked lead ropes. The Asra a’Shah, wearing dismayed expressions, ensured none broke free. As the rumbling peals faded away, Hazad pointed skyward, his jaw slack.

Ellonlef’s heart began slamming in her chest. Streaking across the smoke-laden sky, a handful of massive fireballs burned with the brilliance of falling suns, trailing tails of fire and smoke. The roar of their passage crushed all other sound. After a few moments, the thundering began to diminish, and the fierce light of the fireballs was lost over the horizon. A few moments later, a succession of flashes pulsed back toward them. Several moments longer, and the ground began to shake under another long, steady rumble.

“By Peropis’s poisoned teats,” Hazad shouted, “what was that?”

The tears of Pa’amadin, Ellonlef thought, recalling when she had first seen the stars falling from the sky over Krevar. Before she could say this aloud, another explosion rippled the air, and the pebbles at her feet began to bounce over the roadway. All eyes searched the reddish sky. At first Ellonlef thought she had lost track of time, for directly overhead she saw the hazed glow of the sun-but it was not the sun.

“To the rocks!” she screamed, her voice small under the rumbling onslaught.

No one seemed to hear.

She quickly limped to Kian’s side and dragged his startled face close to hers. “Take shelter in the rocks!” She pointed at the mound of boulders she had used to escape the Bashye. When he nodded, she moved for cover as fast as her injured knee would allow. She did not know what protection the outcrop would offer, but anything was better than standing in the-

An explosion of light and sound flung her and the others to the ground. In her distress, she felt no pain, and instantly rolled to her feet. Off to the south, not more than a quarter mile away, a flaming pillar rose skyward, mushrooming at the top. At the column’s base, a ring of flames, sand, and dust billowed out and away. Several more claps of thunder, one after another in rapid succession, propelled her back to her original course. Overhead, more small suns had been born in the sky.

As she reached the first weathered boulder, brilliant flares to the east drew her eye. Like arrow-straight bolts of lightning, a half dozen fireballs streaked into the earth. The blinding flashes and subsequent peals of thunder ripped at her senses. Where those flashes originated, pillars of grimy fire and ash rose up like malignant toadstools.

Ellonlef slapped her hands over her ears, trying to ward against the concussive blasts, but their noise was too huge. Each one shuddered the earth, the air, her flesh. She wanted to dive into a deep black hole and bury herself under the sand of the Kaliayth, but she could not close her watering eyes against the terrible sight.

Streaks fell near and far, and in all directions sooty plumes rose up and up. Thunder rolled incessantly, until it all became an unbroken wall of sound. Across the road, the horses were mad with terror, jerking against their lead ropes, but she could not hear them trumpeting. Asra a’Shah scrambled amid the rocks around her, blindly seeking shelter. One man, terrorized beyond reason, flung himself flat and began clawing at the ground with his bare hands, his eyes bulging.

Ellonlef felt herself succumbing to a strange and horrified wonder. She forgot about everything, save what could be no less than the true end of all things-all that had happened before were but the first sparks of the coming inferno.

She did not know how long she stood there, watching as the midmorning sky went from a reddish brown to a deep and poisoned sable. The scent of burning rock stuck in her throat, choking her, but she could not look away from the awesome destruction all around. Buffeting winds, coming first one direction then another, pelted her with stinging grit, brought with them the heat of nearby blazes. If this was the end, then she would see it.

Another brilliant flash, brighter than any so far and so close as to leave her momentarily blinded, sent her reeling despite herself. A hot, grainy cushion of air slammed into her. She landed hard on her back and stayed there, looking straight up. The sky above roiled like a cauldron of ash and blood. Now true lightning flashed, bolts of blurred crimson.

A face appeared over hers, framed by the nightmare sky. Kian’s braided ebon locks hung down, almost touching her nose. Rather than fear or panic, his blue eyes were wide with a reckless excitement, and she was glad of that. If she had seen him in a terrified state, a man in whom she sensed great strength and resilience, she might have begun shrieking and never stopped.

He was shouting, but his words were buried under a sound like that of mountains dying. She could only look at him, and he did not look away. Again, she was glad of it, though she did not know why. It did not matter. In that moment, she decided that if he was the last thing she ever saw, it was enough.

When she did not answer whatever he had asked, he looked her over, his hands following his eyes. His touch, somehow rough and gentle at the same time, brought a queer tingle to her skin, and she could not help but smile.

He abruptly stopped what he was doing and peered at her with that same mistrust as before, as if she were dangerous in some way. Then, with a shake of his head, he spoke again, and his hands pushed under her shoulders and the back of her knees. Seemingly with no effort, he lifted her. Tentatively, she reached her arms around his neck and drew herself close, pressing her head against his broad chest. Again, seemingly without effort, he began leaping through the tumbled boulders.

Despite all the grinding roar that filled the world, Ellonlef was sure she could hear the strong galloping beat of his heart. She pressed herself closer to that sound, taking strength and comfort from it, relishing the heat of his skin pouring through his clothing. Even his scent, that of sweat and horse, steel and the dust of the desert, brought a sensation of peace that she had not realized she needed, let alone wanted. She closed her eyes.

She opened them again as the noise of the crumbling world faded. She was surrounded by absolute darkness. Cool air washed over her skin. Everything was still shaking, but at least the deafening blasts were reduced.

“Where are we?” she asked, surprised that she could actually hear herself.

Kian did not answer for a moment, and she sensed his reservation toward her in the darkness. “This heap of stoned is riddled with hollows and crevices,” he said after a time. “Hopefully the others, gods help them, have all found places to hide from … whatever this is.” When he spoke again, his words were hesitant.

“Your order is different than that of the Magi Order, but the Sisters of Najihar are said to have great knowledge of many things.”

“Ellonlef,” she said, for no reason she could understand she wanted him to say her name.

“Ellonlef,” he said gruffly. “I would know, do you have any knowledge of what is happening? Is this the end of … of life, too often spoken of by the begging brothers?”

She heard his concern and, too, a thread of deep foreboding. The same trepidation lurked within her own heart. She reached for him, seeking to reassure him-and, as well, to take from him a measure of his vigor, that she might comfort herself. Though she could not see, she imagined his visage in her memory. She reached out, knowing her shaking fingers were within an inch of the hard line of his jaw-

The darkness exploded around them in a shuddering flicker of blinding white, and then something slammed into her head. The pain was immediate, crushing, worse than anything she had ever felt, and blessedly short-lived. Then an enormous, suffocating weight landed on her, crushing her down against the sandy floor of their deadly sanctuary.

Tomb … this is a tomb, she thought distantly, sensing with a dreamlike clarity that she was dying.

From a long way off, Kian shouted in a desperate voice. “On my life,” he cried, “I will protect you.”

Then blackness, like a living thing, swallowed her down….

The next Ellonlef knew, someone was carrying her into a monstrous daylight the hue of old blood. The very air stunk of char and molten rock. A few men were shouting back and forth to each other, and somewhere someone was howling in agony. From the poisoned sky fell what looked like gray-black feathers with the reek of a hearth fire. Ashes, she thought, falling like snow on the highest mountains of Rida. What manner of fire could produce such amounts of ash within a desert devoid of all but the barest vegetation?

“Rest easy,” Hazad said, gently settling her on a folded saddle blanket. The big man’s face was covered in sweat-streaked grime. Where he usually seemed quick to smile, now he was quick to leave her.

Ellonlef sat up, carefully, but no pains troubled her. The same could not be said for the others. When she had first surveyed Kian’s company, she had estimated there were just over a score of men. Now, she counted less than half that.

“Ellonlef?” Kian said tentatively, as he came next to her.

She looked up, remembering snatches of what had been going through her mind when he had carried her to safety, and her face flushed. He was not a handsome man, at least not in the foppish way counted as handsome by highborn women of a king’s court. His face was rugged, even craggy, and just now covered in drying blood. And his eyes were the color of the ice fields of his homelands, harsh and unforgiving, yet beautiful in their own right. Within in him lay a strength that far exceeded that of his sword arm-

Ellonlef abruptly halted that line of thought. The man before her, while he might have commendable attributes, was a mercenary. As well, he was also a man with too much pride by half in his own abilities and opinion-this her training as a Sister of Najihar told her.

She glanced away from him to take in the surroundings, but could see no farther than a hundred paces in any direction. Beyond that, a choking fog of smoke and dust blocked all sight.

“What is it?” she asked, her tone cool.

He seemed taken aback.

As well he should be, she thought. She had lived and thrived in this inhospitable land nearly a decade, alone amongst strangers. She was more than capable of seeing to herself. And besides, she had a husband promised to her already-

Again, Ellonlef cleaved her random thoughts, though not without some measure of bemusement. Here the world was coming apart, and her mind was contemplating promised husbands and the beauty of a mercenary’s ice-blue eyes.

It was shock, of course, she reasoned, that was clouding her wits.

“One of my men is dying,” Kian said, matching her tone. “It would be well if you could comfort him … before the end.” He took pains to hide his emotions, but she could tell that he held a deep commitment for those under his command.

“Help me up,” she ordered, and Kian obliged.

As she strode along at his side, she demanded, “Why did you not send for me straight away?”

He looked askance at her. There was a deep cut across his brow, and a fan of blood and dirt had dried down one side of his face. When he spoke, it was obvious he was striving to remain civil. “As Hazad and I just managed to get you free, and since we did not know if you were hale or dead at the time, it seemed premature to ask anything from you.”

Ellonlef ignored the rude edge in his voice. When she saw the screaming Asra a’Shah, she raced forward.

“Get me hot water and bandages,” she said, staring at the Geldainian’s mangled leg. “As well, wine and swatarin.”

She eased herself down, unconsciously preparing for the pain in her knee-a pain that never came. She did not have time to think on it. “Azuri, hold him down.”

The Izutarian obliged without a word. With deft hands, she pushed up the hem of the injured Geldainian’s saffron robes. Something, a large stone presumably, had nearly smashed the man’s leg off below the knee, and blood was pouring from the wound. Acting quickly, she unbuckled the leather belt that held the sheathed scimitar to his back. The weapon she set aside, but she wrapped the belt around his leg and cinched it tight. As soon as the pressure began to mount, the mercenary started thrashing and yelling. Ignoring this, she pulled harder, until the blood rapidly pooling in the sand under his knee became a weeping trickle. Next, she wrapped the loose end of the belt around his mangled leg several times, and tied it off. With the bleeding staunched, the man flopped back, panting hard, his black skin ashen.

Ellonlef noticed that Kian had not moved. “Is it beneath you to fetch and carry?”

He eyed her, jaw flexing. “We have jagdah, some water, and little else.”

Kian glanced at the Geldainian, and his expression of tightly reined anger became one of deep regret. He handed over his waterskin and a soiled rag pulled from a pocket. It was the tunic she had used earlier to dry herself.

“Do what you will,” he said, “but this man will soon be dead.”

Ellonlef thought she was going to be sick. Never had she seen such heartlessness. He might be ready to give up, but she was not.

“Start a fire,” she commanded. “After I remove what cannot be saved, I will use flame to seal the wound.”

She drew her dagger and leaned over the ruined appendage. Very little meat and sinew attached the leg to the man. Before she could make the first cut, the mercenary began shaking and his breath came quick and frantic. And then he went still. A bit of ash drifted down, landing in one of his glazed eyes. He never blinked.

Kneeling at the man’s head, Azuri said, “He is gone.”

A moment later, the sound of Kian’s boots crunching away told her he was leaving. She almost called him back, but decided she did not want him near. He was a brutish man, born of a brutish land, and could be nothing more.

What else would you have him be? a small voice asked in the recess of her mind. Surely he is nothing to you, save a tool to be used against Varis.

She pointedly ignored that voice.

After a time, Azuri left to help find other survivors. Ellonlef sat with the deceased Geldainian, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, listening to the preternatural quiet that had fallen over the world. It was all too easy to imagine that the end had come. Yet, somehow, she was alive. This despite knowing she had died. This idea startled her, but she remembered all too well the blow to her head, the sensation of being crushed, and feeling the press of a darkness that had nothing to do with the light of the world, but rather the empty blackness of death.

She stretched out her hurt leg, but there was no pain. Despite the lack of hurts, relatively fresh blood covered her robes and exposed skin in large splotches. She blinked in confusion. Her thoughts awhirl with uncertainty, she carefully pushed a hand beneath the fold of her robes, feeling for the bandage wrapped about the arrow wound. Where there should have been soreness, there was nothing. She folded the bandage down, and again her fingers searched for what should have been there, but found nothing save whole skin. There seemed to be a small bump, like a scar, but she would not know for certain until she was able to look on the wound directly. Confused and not a little nervous, she looked up.

To one side of the outcrop, Kian stood with his back to her, unmoving as he gazed down at a growing line of dead Asra a’Shah. While not positive in the dim light, when he looked away and revealed his profile, she saw a man struggling under a great weight. As well, she recalled the words she had heard while buried under stone and a blinding wave of pain: On my life … I will protect you.

In her memory, she had a hard time believing the voice was his, for it had been filled with a despair that did not fit his outward appearance. But it had been him. Who else could it have been? Just as sure, she knew that she had been dying when he spoke them. Yet now she was alive, seemingly unblemished. Even her old wounds were healed.

Still gazing at him, her heart softened. She understood now that his harshness toward the dying Asra a’Shah had not been a merciless indifference, but rather a carefully sculpted cliff of solid granite that he hid his pains behind, hurts that no man-of-arms could allow to show to those under his command.

What else are you hiding? she thought, considering the miraculous healing she had undergone. A moment later, she wondered if he even knew he had done something to her, something like Varis had done to the people of Krevar, yet altogether different. Without question, she felt as she always had, unlike Varis’s followers, who had come back from death, somehow changed.

“The power of creation,” she murmured to herself, awed. She did not know if what Kian had been blessed with would be enough to stop Varis, but she began to hope.

Chapter 23

Prince Varis Kilvar sat motionless astride his horse, while the wind pushed back his long, pale hair. He was not exactly sure how it had grown, other than that he had dreamed it so some nights past. When he had come awake, the dream and reality had become one. At the moment, however, his mind was not focused on his locks, but rather the wide chasm gouged into the face of the world before him.

The deep gorge ran from the southern horizon to the northern, its sheer sides of freshly broken rock plunging hundreds of paces before meeting crashing waves that churned and tore at all they encountered. The waters smelled of the sea mingled with mud. The Gulf of Bakaal lay over a hundred leagues south, off the coast of Tureece, and yet, here before him, salty waves roared far inland. It was not the first evidence he had seen of the recent disasters that had fallen upon the world, and he could not help but wonder at the breadth of the world’s destruction.

Some days before he had watched, awed despite himself, as stars fell from the heavens like bands of molten silver to strike the earth far ahead of his vast company. Where those stars fell, great pillars of seared rock and ash had billowed up, higher than any cloud. By the following day, those columns had dissipated over the desert, becoming a fog of smoke and dust denser than what had already been in place from the fires burning in the Qaharadin Marshes. Storms had come next, with lightning the hue of blood and torrential rains. The deluge cleared the air for a short while, but an hour after the last drops had fallen, the acrid smoke and drifting ash rushed back, thicker than ever. And with that choking fog, Varis had noted that the usual blistering wasteland of the Kaliayth had grown much cooler.

Such calamities could only aid him, for where destruction fell people grew fearful, and when fear persisted, hope was lost. Soon enough, people would seek out a strong and guiding hand to lead them through the darkness. It took no imagination to see that, in time, for the mere promise of bread, people would raise him above themselves and all other kings. Moreover, they would fall to their knees in worship, naming him their savior.

“Master,” Uzzret said, reining in at Varis’s side. “Master of Spears Hur’aun has confirmed that none of his scouts have been able to find any sign of either the traitor Kian nor the heretic.”

Varis smiled at the word the magus used for Sister Ellonlef, but for now pushed that aside. Although Peropis had claimed she would destroy Kian herself, he had continually sent out riders to scour the north for any sign of him. To Varis’s mind, whether Kian died by Peropis’s hidden machinations, or at the hands of his followers, made no difference. In truth, he doubted that he would ever see Kian again. The man was an ignorant mercenary, and without gold to sway him, he held no allegiance to Aradan. As for the Sister of Najihar, Varis had sent riders ahead of the company to search her out as well, ordering them to range far to the east.

“They will be found,” Varis said, somewhat disappointed about the sister. A king-an emperor with the powers of gods-deserved to have such a woman as Ellonlef as a concubine. Not only was she beautiful, she was learned, as were all the Sisters of Najihar. Varis smiled to himself, considering that having a harem of such women would prove quite exhilarating. If not Ellonlef, there would be others.

Ultimately whether Ellonlef was found or not made no matter. In all likelihood, she had already been captured by one Bashye clan or another. If they did not kill her outright, then by spring of the coming year, she would birth her first of many bastards to the clans. Likely, he would never learn what had become of her.

“Master?” Uzzret said, breaking Varis’s reverie.

Varis glanced at Uzzret in irritation, his lifeless gaze forcing the magus to bow his head in fearful respect.

“Speak your mind,” Varis commanded.

“How can we possibly cross this obstacle?”

Instead of answering, Varis dismounted and strode to a small bush at the edge of the chasm. It was withered, and it deep roots were exposed to trail several feet down the face of the gorge. He knew this would be a test of his strength and control, but he had little fear that he would fail.

Spinning on his heel, he looked out over his arrayed forces, nearly ten thousand strong, all gazing raptly in his direction. Men and women and children, all who had seen the horrors of Geh’shinnom’atar, all who would give their lives for him without thought or hesitation, his Chosen. Under the oppressive clouds of smoke and ash, their strange half-life shone to his eyes like a sea of glimmering silver threads.

Carefully, he reached out to that life, drawing it into himself, then releasing it into the scraggly bush at his side, gently shaping it to his will. He imagined he could feel the love and acquiescence of his Chosen flowing through him and into the bush.

The ground shifted and rose, groaning as new roots fattened and sank deep into the earth. Varis closed his eyes in concentration, working with his mind the way a sculptor worked stone with hammer and chisel. He sensed his followers growing weaker as their life drained away, but he did not stop harvesting that life from them. He felt more alive than he ever had before, more powerful. By the day, he realized, he was growing stronger.

The ground at his feet rose up amid a great crackle of breaking stone. Behind him came a vigorous rustling of vegetation, growing louder and deeper by the moment, like a forest assaulted by a gale. As the available life force began to fade, Varis delved deeper … deeper … until the weakest among his followers began to drop. Still, he drew more, draining them to the brink of death, and by turns forcing their life into the shrub at his back, bending its growth to his will.

The flood of life soon became a trickle, no matter how hard he strove to continue the flow. With some regret, he severed the connection and opened his eyes. The sea of silver had gone to dull gray, and a large number of his Chosen had fallen to their knees, heads bowed. Dismissing them for now, he turned to face the chasm, and nodded in satisfaction. It was all he could do not to shout in victory at his accomplishment.

Stretching across the mile-wide gulf, the stunted bush had grown a thousandfold, even ten thousandfold, forming a lush bridge of densely entwined branches and vibrant foliage no less than a hundred paces wide, and half again as thick.

Uzzret, lying on the ground, struggled to raise his head. When he saw what Varis had done, tears began to trickle from his eyes. He tried to speak, but nothing would come, whether from weakness or from awe, Varis did not know. However, Varis saw that his Chosen would be unable to cross the bridge unless he fed them back a measure of the life he had taken. Directing his mind away from the bridge, he reached out farther than he ever had before. He found scant life here and there, for miles all around, and stole it away, then dribbled it into his followers until they began to stir, and then stand on their own.

“Cross!” he called.

At his command, the weary army pressed forward.

It took hours to get everyone across the bridge, but when the last one strode off his creation, Varis drained the living bridge, and returned that life to his Chosen. The bridge remained, dead wood but solid. Belatedly, he realized he could have revitalized his army before the crossing, but to do so could have risked losing them all if the bridge had proven too weak to support them.

Still gazing on the incredible bridge, he vowed to himself that he would eventually learn to shape the very stones of the earth, and more. That day could not come soon enough. In time, he would become truly immortal, and wield the powers of creation as had the gods who abandoned those powers. He would be indomitable. When that day came, Peropis would suffer for denying him all that was his from the outset.

After sending north thrice the number of searchers as before, on the off chance that Kian was foolish enough to have remained in Aradan, Varis rode to the fore of his army. Projecting only his wish that they again take up the march, he led his forces due east at a ground eating trot. At this pace, faster than any army had ever travelled, and never needing to rest besides, Ammathor and, more importantly, his first of many crowns was but a few days away.

Chapter 24

Kian’s diminished company rode in heavy silence along the faded ruts of an ancient supply road running south and east. They formed a group, yet each member of the party rode in self-imposed isolation, keeping grim company with their own dire thoughts. Kian, used to days spent chiding his companions while they guarded their charges, and nights lounging about campfires recounting stories of past adventures and humorous mishaps, inherently knew he could not allow his company to continue on as they were. Such constant introspection was as dangerous as an open pit to a midnight rider, and all the more so when dangers could lurk anywhere.

For the time being, he ignored his own instincts, and let the grave mood hold, if only because there were too many dark things to consider for himself. Things that did not bring smiles to men’s faces.

After many days under thick clouds of dust, smoke, and ash, an unnatural chill now gripped the Kaliayth. Not having proper coats or cloaks, all had donned an extra set of clothing and wrapped blankets about their shoulders, giving them the look of vagabonds. For himself, Kian found the lack of heat pleasant, despite knowing there was something terribly wrong with it, given that it was the height of summer. Winters in the desert were nothing like those in Izutar, where snow fell continuously during the long dark months, piling up to the height of a man, even in the lowlands. The Kaliayth did grow cold on occasion, especially through the winter nights, but if it was so cold now, and that chill held until winter set in, Aradan’s people would suffer greatly for lack of preparedness.

If Aradan still exists come winter, he thought.

Though he was not given to pessimism, he could not help but feel besieged when he surveyed the broken lands they rode through. As far as the eye could see, the desert had been transformed into more of a wasteland than it had ever been before. Since they had begun travelling east, they’d often had to ride around great rents and chasms in the earth. In other places, mile after mile, deep and smoking craters pocked the lands, creating impassible areas of blasted rock and heaped sand. In other places, the heat of falling stars-what Ellonlef named the Tears of Pa’amadin-had melted the desert sands and left behind wide, thin sheets of crumbly glass.

Considering Ellonlef, he peered about in the reddish haze and found her riding some distance back, her head bowed as if in prayer. If she were praying, he could not fault her. Though his people considered Pa’amadin a god of silence, lately of a night he often looked heavenward, wondering if he cried out if the Creator of All would hear him.

As if sensing his scrutiny, Ellonlef looked up with a small, secretive smile. Discomfited, Kian nodded to her, then turned in the saddle to study the desert. For no reason he could see, she seemed to have warmed to him. Strange as it seemed, he almost wished she would treat him as she had initially, as if he were a crude but useful utensil. Being irritated with her was easier than sharing the occasional grin, or even a laugh. Simply put, there was a bond growing between them that he did not entirely trust or understand.

Mostly, however, when he thought of Ellonlef, he recalled the words of protection he had spoken to her. Not merely spoken, though. He had fairly wailed his vow, even while holding her dead in his arms. Thinking back on that moment, and those that had followed, little of what had happened made sense to him. Somehow, despite being buried under a darkness so pure and thick as to drive a man insane, he had seen her reaching for him. His mind showed a memory in which all had been bathed in a ghostly light. The next he knew, the cramped space had exploded with a flickering glare and flying rock. Before he could throw himself over her, a large stone had crashed into her brow, crushing-

Kian tried to shake the image away, but failed. He tried to drown it with a drink from his waterskin, focusing on the sour grittiness of water they had dug from the ground. He told himself that he could not-would not-relive the moment Ellonlef had perished, but his will failed.

He had heaved the stone off her head and jammed it deeper into the recess, still able to see Ellonlef with his strange sight, but wishing he could not. She glowed with a fading silvery radiance, and somehow he knew that once that glow was gone, she would be gone, as well. What had nearly broken his mind, and still kept him awake at night, was the terrible wet heat of her blood pouring over his hands as he lay over her, cradling her head. He could still feel her trembling, dying, even as more rock crushed down from above. Pinned though he had been, he strained against that smothering layer of death, holding it off her. He whispered words of comfort, offering what solace he could, despite knowing the futility. When she went still, her luminescence dimmed further. At that moment, a wholly unfamiliar sense of despair spread over him like a great black wing, beating at him with a torment unlike any he had ever known. It was then that he had felt something inside of him, something he wanted-needed-to set free. The desire of that emotion was more than anything he had ever wanted before.

It was then that a queer but not unpleasant sensation had begun coursing through his being, pulsing with his heart, growing stronger with each new breath. The sensation became a searing heat that wormed its way through his bones and sank deep into his very soul. At once he recognized the sensation as the same that had assailed him when the tongue of blue fire had streaked from Varis’s accursed temple and slammed into him. At the temple, he had believed he was dying. With Ellonlef lifeless in his hands, the feeling of his own demise did not come, but rather a growing feeling of indomitable strength. Lest he burst under the rapturous pressure he somehow poured some measure of himself into Ellonlef, even as he cried his vow to her.

Almost at once, warmth had flooded back into her limbs, and her radiance blossomed like a silver rose. After that, Kian recalled falling into a numb stupor, aware, but separate from himself. During that time, he continued to speak to Ellonlef, though she was unconscious. Even now, he did not know all that he said.

When Hazad dragged them free, Ellonlef’s face was covered in a crust of dried blood and dirt. But when Kian wiped her face clean, there were no wounds upon her, not even a scar. Somehow, he had given back her life … the same way that Varis had given back the lives of the folk of Krevar. At first this troubled Kian, but after Ellonlef snapped at him about fetching and carrying instead of worshipping him as some kind of Life Giver, he realized there must be a difference between what he had done for Ellonlef, and what Varis had done to the people of Krevar….

Kian firmly set aside the recollection of Ellonlef’s death and rebirth.

Feeling a little shaky, he scrubbed a hand over his dusty face. His one regret on that day had been his inability to save the Asra a’Shah. As he had watched Ellonlef work, he sensed the desire to help, much as he had revived her, but nothing had come. For all he knew, what he had done for Ellonlef was the first and last time he would ever be able to use the power of the gods. Much like a stick of wood thrown onto a fire, he considered, once it became ash, it stayed ash. Deep in his heart, a part of him hoped that was so. Lesser powers by far than those wielded by gods had destroyed men’s souls.

“It’ll be getting dark soon,” Azuri said, riding up next to Kian. “Do you want to order a halt and set camp?”

Thankful for the distraction, Kian took in the hazed desert. A ridge of broken hills rose up not far to the east, and farther south a tall cliff of sheer red rock sprouted from the desert floor.

“If I am not mistaken,” he said, as Hazad joined them, “the ruins of Salev are just over those hills.”

Hazad, his eyes as bloodshot as everyone’s for the smoke and drifting ash, nodded toward two outcrops on either side of the road. “I believe you are right.”

Ellonlef reined in, looking at the three men. Kian was sure her gaze rested on him longer, and he tried to resist the pull of her dark, warm gaze. “Are we halting?”

“Within the hour, Sister,” Azuri answered.

With a tired nod and a final, mysterious glance for Kian, she heeled her mount forward, leaving them there.

Kian looked after her, an unusual pressure tightening his chest. Hazad and Azuri both smirked at him. As if they had issued a challenge, he quietly cursed them for fools, then kicked his horse into a trot that took him abreast of Ellonlef. She glanced at him. Kian did not take that as an invitation to ride with her, but neither did he take it as a dismissal. Together, they rode in a comfortable silence to where the road passed between the two outcrops, and halted. He was keenly aware of her presence, and had to force himself to concentrate on the task at hand-that of finding proper shelter for the night.

The road dropped steeply into a valley less than half a mile across, then climbed back up the opposite side, and continued on through a broken terrain of hills and flat-topped mountains. The low, flat lands of the Kaliayth were behind them, and from now until they reached the feet of the Ulkion Mountains, the seldom-used road would gradually climb through a more rugged landscape. Without question, the days ahead would be harder than the days behind.

Kian examined the narrow slash of valley he had not seen in many years. At first it was difficult to make out the ancient village’s location, and he began to wonder if this was Salev after all. Then, low down at the base of the far canyon wall, he found the telltale remains of the small, scorched mud brick abodes of those folk who had lived here a hundred years gone. Raiders-be they Tureecian or Bashye, no one knew-had razed the village, and now the weathered buildings resembled rotten, soot-streaked teeth jutting from the sand.

After locating the ruins, he searched the deepening gloom and noted that green things grew amid the ruins-overgrown fig and olive trees picked over by birds, a few date palms, and summer-wilted areas that had once been well-tended gardens. The presence of greenery proved the existence of water, but time would tell if any wells remained with water fit to drink. The Bashye had a nasty habit of despoiling wells along the kingdom’s roads with wild goat carcasses, in order to ensure travelers were thoroughly weakened and demoralized when the renegades launched their attacks. If they had done so here, digging parties would have to find water below ground. There would likely be water, if full of silt.

“Send scouts ahead,” Kian said to Ba’Sel, when the man reined in beside him and Ellonlef. Before Ba’Sel could deliver the order, Kian added, “Tell them to take no chances. If they come under attack, tell them to retreat. If we have to, we will fight our foes here, from this high ground.”

Within the hour, the Asra a’Shah scouts returned with word that the only things that had been moving about in the ruins over the last several months were scorpions, lizards, and vast coveys of quail, of which they had managed to take down enough of to feed the company for the night.

With a hungry peek at the birds hanging from their saddles, Ellonlef said, “Perhaps this is a good place to rest not for just one night, but a few days.”

Kian was about to disagree, but Hazad butted in. “I favor that.”

“As do I,” Azuri said, flicking a deepening drift of ash from the sleeve of his robes. “A bath would be welcome, as well.”

“Have all of you forgotten,” Kian asked placidly, “that Varis is bent on usurping the Ivory Throne and, after that, every throne of the world? We leave before first light, as always.”

“We have been pushing hard for too many days and nights,” Hazad said. “While I’m sure I could keep on, the horses need a good rest, plenty of water, and proper graze.”

Kian scrutinized the faces around him and considered his earlier thoughts about their increasingly gloomy dejection. Even the Geldainian mercenaries, men known for impossible endurance, looked beyond tired. Grudgingly, he acknowledged that he could not continue to press the march without a respite.

“Very well,” he said, relieved despite himself, and turned his mount to clatter down the steep road to the village. “We will rest here-but no more than this night and the next.”

Chapter 25

After camp had been set amid a row of tumbledown huts, and bellies sated with roasted quail, dates, figs and all the water they could drink from a pure well, Kian strode northward through night’s darkness. Behind him the camp slept, save him and two Asra a’Shah taking first watch. It was not a long walk to get beyond the remains of the last burned-out building. Darkness lay thicker for the smoke blocking the light of the stars. Except for the distant yipping howls of jackals on the hunt, the night was absolutely silent.

Kian wrapped his improvised cloak-a spare blanket with a hole cut in the center for his head to poke through, and slits for his arms-tighter around his shoulders. He tried to believe that it was not as cold as it felt, but a shiver crept over his skin, reminding him of the nights he had spent on the Kaliayth during winter.

Deciding the he would rather keep moving than sit still and let the cold sink into his bones, he strode along a scant trail that ran alongside a dry streambed. Kian had not gone a hundred paces when he saw a faint blur of white up ahead. He halted at once, hand falling to his sword hilt.

All remained relatively quiet.

Careful to make no sound himself, he scurried behind a mound of stone slabs that had fallen from the eastern side of the canyon’s wall. The shape moved closer, silent, ghostlike. He did not hold to tales of spirits … but then, not so long ago, he had disbelieved that demons could walk amongst the living. The figure drifted nearer, as if traveling on an unfelt breeze. The closer it came, the harder his heart beat, visions of Fenahk and Bresado alive in his mind. He dropped lower, making sure he was out of sight. Though he disliked ambush, in this instance a surprise attack was his best option.

After a time, there came a soft grating of feet moving over sand, and he tensed. Spirits did not make such sounds, at least in any story he had ever heard. As the shape came within arm’s reach then moved by, he rose up, sword poised to strike at the junction of neck and shoulder. The figure spun with feline grace, and in the gloom Kian saw the faint glimmer of a dagger coming to bear.

“Ellonlef?” Kian gasped, aghast that he had been but a heartbeat from striking off her head. “What are you doing out here alone?”

She sheathed the dagger, seemingly unperturbed by the edge to his voice. “I was collecting dates. If I had thought you wanted to join me, I would have asked.”

“Scavenging dates, in the middle of the night?” he asked incredulously, wondering how she had managed to slip by him.

“Unless you mean to run me through, you should lower your sword,” she said with a disarming laugh.

He started, realizing his sword was still raised. With an irritated shake of his head, he slammed the blade into the scabbard. He embraced his rising irritation, for that alone could break the odd spell she held over him, which seemed to always steal his wits. “You should have told someone you were going to go frolicking about in the night,” he chastised.

She laughed again, a sound that stirred something inside him. “Are you my father, then,” she said, somehow playfully, “demanding obedience from a wicked daughter?”

Kian’s tongue withered, for what came to mind at her statement had nothing to do with fathers and daughters. “No,” he said, his voice rough with uncertainty, “of course not. But, for your safety and everyone else’s, you should have told someone of your intentions. These are dangerous lands.”

“You are right. It was foolish of me.” She hardly sounded chagrined.

“I should get back to my watch,” he said, thinking it best to distance himself from her before … well, before he began to pursue what was in his heart, which he felt sure would lead to regret.

“Would you like a piece of fruit?” she asked before he could turn away. “They are sweet. Of course, now that I dropped them, they will be sandy as well.”

She knelt, a graceful movement that stole Kian’s breath. Swallowing, chiding himself for behaving like a lovesick boy, he inspected the surroundings for any sign of trouble. There was none he could see. Nevertheless, he felt it. He told himself he should simply excuse himself, continue his rounds, but he remained.

He watched Ellonlef, knowing she was the source of his trouble. Two nights gone while repairing his damaged bow, it had taken him far longer to get the job done properly, for Ellonlef had sat with him in silence, as if what he was doing was the most important thing in the world. The problem, he realized, was not that she made him nervous, but rather that having her about was so easy. Such distractions could be dangerous at the best of times, and these times were far from that.

And yet, he still did not move away, though he was sure it would have been the right thing-the safe thing-to do. After a deep breath and another glance around, he released some measure of his caution, and knelt to help gather the dates. Using a fold in her robes like a basket, they piled up the withered fruit. The last one, he kept for himself. After he dusted it off, Kian took a bite, relishing the sweet flavor, leftover sand and all.

“It has been too long since I have tasted anything this good,” he said. “At least since we departed Ammathor.”

“When did you leave the king’s city?”

Kian nibbled the fruit, thinking back. Despite his better judgment, he let her presence wash away his concerns, and a comfortable peace stole over him. “Four months, or there about.”

Ellonlef picked out a date and sampled it. “A long time to live rough.”

Kian shrugged. “There have been longer journeys. Merchants are the worst for wandering about looking for prospective buyers. As well, after they pay for two months of protection, they do all they can to squeeze four from you.”

They were silent for a time, then Ellonlef said, “Do you think what happened along the border has befallen Ammathor?”

Kian gazed off into the night. It was not the first time he had considered the same question. “At first I was sure the quakes happened only in the marshes. What we have seen since crossing the Kaliayth suggests that the whole of Aradan, perhaps all the world, has suffered.”

“What do you think is happening?”

Kian chuckled wryly. “I had hoped you could tell me. Are you not the scholar? All I am is a man with a sword.”

“You are more than that,” she said quietly, then rushed on. “All I really have are guesses. Once, my order studied all there was to study, but since Edaer Kilvar employed our services a millennia gone, we now mostly learn about the deeper workings of Aradan, her people, and her enemies. Varis, I fear, will prove to be the greatest enemy Aradan has ever faced. He is a man who has stolen the power of gods. While he has done miraculous works, I cannot doubt that he has only begun to understand his powers.”

There seemed to be a suggestion in her words directed toward Kian, but before he could think on it, she added, “The only certainty I have is this fear: if the same Prince Varis Kilvar who came to Krevar is allowed to reach even a tenth of his potential, for millennia his is the name people will remember when they tell stories of these days.”

“He cannot be allowed to survive,” Kian said before he could temper his words.

“I agree,” Ellonlef said at once.

“You do?” Kian asked, startled.

She nodded. “I saw with my own eyes how Varis raised the dead that he himself surely must have killed in the first place. His act was no mere crime to be judged, but rather the manifestation of a cunning evil the likes of which the world has never seen.”

“Why would he kill so many just to raise them again?”

“I believe he did it to curry favor among the living, adding true believers in his power and benevolence to his cause. What he did ensured that the people of Krevar owed him their lives, and the lives of their friends and family. Before Varis came, if the people of Krevar had been asked, they would have considered Varis Kilvar a prince with little chance of ever sitting the Ivory Throne. He was a highborn and royalty, but of no true real importance in their lives. After they tasted the bitterness of so many deaths, and then witnessed him raising the dead, he became more than a man, more than just another arrogant Aradaner prince-he became the Life Giver, a being who deserves absolute fealty, even worship.”

Although such machinations did not follow his normal manner of thinking, Kian understood and accepted her point, yet he still had questions. “You said before that Varis feared me because I may have some measure of the power he does,” he said cautiously, not wanting to admit openly that he now agreed with her, not when he had no idea how to employ those powers. “Even if true, I cannot see why he would be bent on finding me, when everything in my nature would suggest that I would ride north and leave him to rule as he will. After all, I am a mercenary.”

“After securing an unbreakable allegiance with the people of Krevar,” Ellonlef said, “Varis was able to fold his lies into certain truths, thereby creating a new truth altogether. Ultimately, his intention is to become a king, if not an emperor. To do that, he must overthrow House Kilvar, and that means he has need of an army. While there is enough discontent in Aradan for a gifted man to harness and use to his own ends, there is still you with which to contend. You can be likened to a bastard son of a king who may one day rise up with a claim to a throne. Only, in this instance, yours is not a claim of ancestry, but an opposing power to possibly match his own. In short, with you alive and possibly as powerful as Varis, he would never rest easy knowing you lived and could one day oppose him. I believe the solution in Varis’s mind is to build you into an enemy, a foe as much to his followers as you are a foe to him.”

Kian had to admit, her words made sense. “Do you truly believe he is this shrewd?”

“Whatever else he is, Varis is a man of the king’s court,” Ellonlef said. “Such scheming is as natural to any highborn as breathing is to you or me. And, yes, he is quite skillful,” Ellonlef added uneasily. “With little prodding on his part, his followers all but begged for the opportunity to march on Ammathor. In less than the passing of one night, he raised not only the dead, but he also birthed an army.”

“After the lands first began to shake,” Kian said, trying to gather all the pieces of the puzzle into one orderly stack, “how long was it until Varis came to Krevar?”

“The third night.”

Kian’s mouth fell open. “There is no way a man on foot could have traveled so far so fast.”

“As I said, he is more than a man.”

“You keep saying that, but if he is not a man, then what is he?”

Ellonlef swallowed audibly. “Without a better explanation, all I can say is that he must be something like a god poured into the flesh of a man.”

Kian finished his date, but the sweetness had become bitter. “If so, then do you really believe I can stop him with this remnant of the power of creation inside me, if indeed it is in me?”

“I do not know,” Ellonlef said quietly, “but I have great hope in … in you.”

Kian flushed, but when he opened his mouth to respond, he found no words.

As if trying to spare him further embarrassment, Ellonlef asked, “Do you intend to tell this story to the king?”

“Yes,” Kian said, relieved she had changed the topic. “I admit that I may be able to resist Varis’s power, but otherwise I am the same man I have ever been. I have no doubt that if a sword pierced my heart, I would fall. Perhaps it is the same with Varis. If he must die, I would rather his death come at the hands of his own blood. To do otherwise would surely result in Aradan tearing itself apart which, in the end, might be near as bad as letting Varis take the Ivory Throne. All Izutar needs is hordes of hungry, angry Aradaner refugees pouring over her border.”

“You could still do as you first planned,” Ellonlef said then, “and flee Aradan.”

“No,” Kian said, a part of him wishing it could be that easy. “My course is set. I may not hold any allegiance to House Kilvar or Aradan, but as you warned, Varis does not intend to rest after taking the Ivory Throne.”

Ellonlef shook her head. “I worry that King Simiis will not believe that his own blood is seeking to usurp the throne.”

“I have had the same thought,” Kian said. “But in this, our fate is in the hands of whichever gods remain. Besides, King Simiis will have no choice but to believe me, especially once Varis sets his army against Ammathor. Of course, I may be in chains by the time he comes to realize I did not lie about the treachery of his own blood.”

“And what if Varis succeeds in his goals? What if he takes the Ivory Throne for his own?”

“I’ll not waste a moment thinking that far ahead. Besides, if Varis wins out, I’ll likely not be alive-none of us will. Again, I will leave it in the hands of Pa’amadin, or whatever gods remain.” He abruptly stood. “I should get back to my watch, and you should get back to your blankets. Thank you for the fruit.” Before she could respond, he moved down the trail.

Chapter 26

Despite Kian’s advice, Ellonlef stayed where she was, nibbling a date, watching his shadowed figure merge with the rest of the canyon’s darkness until he was lost from sight. She

had never met any man quite like him, and she found him oddly compelling. There was no bluster to him, at least once she had realized that his commanding presence was simply an innate and necessary quality-he was a warrior, a wielder of steel and death. The coldness she had thought was in his heart after the incident with the dying Asra a’Shah, she concluded, was more a result of his role as a leader of a mercenary company. And now, having been in his presence for many days, she sensed in him a deep and often burdensome understanding of life and death that most people would never have or want.

Ellonlef bit into another date and winced at a bit of sand grinding between her teeth. She spat it out and stood, searching the night for a last glimpse of Kian. On my life, I will protect you. The words came to her, not for the first time, as if on a breeze. Could she truly trust his vow, and more, should she burden him with a vow obviously spoken in distress?

A scratching sound, followed by a fall of pebbles, froze her. In the direction of the ruins a man shouted, then another screamed. Ellonlef bared her dagger without thought, the collected dates held in her robes once again thumping to the sandy soil. Something rustled across the dry streambed, but she turned too late. A shape loomed out of the night, quickly closing the distance.

“Attackers!” she cried.

The figure halted before her and fear twisted her insides. The shape was that of a man, but its eyes glimmered with the hue of faded silver. The figure advanced, pressing her back, seemingly taking delight in her fear. It had been Azuri and Hazad who had spoken of the mahk’lar at the beck and call of Lord Marshal Bresado, those with silver eyes.

I face a demon clad in the skin of a man, she thought, mind racing. Kian’s companions had said their weapons were nearly useless against such creatures. At the same instant, she understood that Varis had not raised the dead of Krevar at all, but rather infused once human flesh with the spirits of demons. Does he know that is what he has done? She was certain he did not.

Without warning the mahk’lar darted at her, a blur of motion against the black backdrop of night. Ellonlef staggered, dagger raised. The ring of a sword slamming into her small blade was loud, and the blow rippled through her every muscle, but she kept hold of the weapon. She twisted to one side as the demon’s blade shrieked down the length of hers, and she narrowly missed having her arm hacked off. Wheeling, staying close to her assailant’s sword arm, she forced the creature to turn with her.

“The Life Giver wants you,” the figure said in a voice that rattled.

“Tell your master,” Ellonlef snarled, denying the fear in her breast, “that Sisters of Najihar do not answer to the spawn of the Thousand Hells, nor do we easily give our lives.”

Choked, mocking laughter gurgled in the night. Faster than thought, the creature surged at her with a sidearm stroke, forcing her to leap back. Its steel flashed, missing her throat by a hair’s breadth. Before the demon could strike again she slashed wildly at the creature’s neck, and thought she saw a spark of bluish light where cold steel touched demonic flesh. In the heat of the moment, she instantly discounted it.

Despite the shallow cut, the demon tottered and fell to its knees, clutching at the wound, head bowed. Ellonlef’s arm rose and fell, driving the dagger deep into the base of what had been a man’s skull. When she wrenched the blade free, a freakish howl burst from the creature, and before her eyes the man-shape folded in on itself, oozing a substance darker than any shadow. It quickly dissipated, as if dragged away by a strong wind.

Then Ellonlef was running back to camp. She sought to grasp how her blade had so easily dispatched a mahk’lar, but her thoughts were too frantic to concentrate on anything more than staying alive.

She had not gone far when she detected the sound of thudding feet coming up behind her. She spun into a crouch, preparing to disembowel her next enemy, be it demon or man. The footfalls stopped an instant later.

“Ellonlef!” Kian called.

“Here,” she cried, relief flooding her veins.

Kian ran to her side. He did not speak, but grabbed her elbow and all but dragged her along until they came to a dilapidated building. He cast about, looking for a safer place, but there were none. He pulled her into its roofless interior, hiding them behind a collapsed wall. “Stay here,” he whispered. “Out of sight.”

“Your company is too diminished to lay aside even one sword.”

“You do not wield a sword,” he said, glancing at her dagger.

“Then I will take up the blade of the demon I just killed,” she retorted, trying to get past him. He shoved her back hard enough that she fell on her backside. “You great-”

Kian’s hand clapping over her lips cut off the flow of curses before they began. He stared straight into her eyes. “What demon?” he demanded, then carefully drew back his hand.

“It was a man, but with the glowing eyes Azuri and Hazad described at El’hadar.”

His stare glittered darkly. After a moment, during which he seemed to be struggling over something, he again ordered her to stay put. Closer now, men were shouting, and the sounds of clashing steel echoed off the narrow canyon walls.

Ellonlef tried to stand, but he pressed her down. “I do not have time for this,” he said, exasperated. “Stay here and remain out of sight. I cannot divide my attention between your safety and fighting.”

She had to force herself to relax in a false show of acquiescence. He stared at her a moment more, as if trying to read her intent. Seemingly satisfied that he had cowed her, he stood and sprinted away.

Muttering oaths under her breath, Ellonlef waited and listened, torn in her heart whether to obey, or join the fight. No matter what Kian said, she did not need looking after, whereas she knew he needed an extra sword in this fight. The Life Giver wants you, she heard the demon say in her mind. Imagining more of those creatures lurking around decided her. She would not wait like a lamb tied for the butcher’s knife. She jumped up and hastened back to the thing sprawled in the sand. It looked like the discarded skin of a man gone to some foul and thick liquid. Of bones and flesh, there was no sign.

Looking away from the gruesome mess, she hunted until she found its sword. Her fingers closed over a clammy hilt, and she almost flung the weapon aside, her insides revolting at the nasty feel of the weapon. She could not afford to be squeamish, so she lifted the blade and whirled.

As she closed on the battle at a soft-footed trot the shouts and yells, and clangor of steel smashing against steel, grew into a chaotic din. Drawing nearer, she faced the immediate dilemma of choosing a target. In the pervasive darkness, enemy and companion all looked the same. As she searched, she sensed a presence. She twisted, bringing the sword to bear. A few paces off, a pair of silvery eyes regarded her. Not only did those eyes serve as a target, they separated friend from foe. With dagger held low in one hand, and sword held high in the other, she advanced, studying her enemy.

The shadowed figure had no apparent weapon, save its flesh. Ellonlef attacked without warning. With a practiced lunge, her dagger sank into its middle, and an instant later her sword whirled, striking off the demon’s upraised hand. Again, where her steel met flesh, there were brief, almost unseen burst of azure fire.

Where a man would have retreated, this creature laughed in her face. Unlike the other mahk’lar, this one attacked before its shadowed spirit could fully disperse. With unnatural quickness, it caught her sword arm in its remaining hand. As Ellonlef struggled to push it away, the stench of corruption filled her nose. The demon swarmed over her, flesh and spirit intent on subduing her. As she fought, cold thick blood splashed across her face, gagging her. The stump of its wrist battered against the side of her head, making her hair fly. The next blow scattered a cascade of twinkling lights across her vision.

Desperate, Ellonlef lashed out with her dagger, stabbing and stabbing again. The demon broke off with a strangled hiss, backed away, its breathing labored. Seeing her chance, she aimed her sword at the creature’s neck in a brutal attack.

The blow never fell. Something heavy slammed into her, knocking her to the ground. She landed on her belly with a muffled cry, her dagger and sword spinning from her grasp. Deathly fingers curled around her neck and squeezed. Her eyes bulged as the pressure mounted. Ellonlef fought to cry a warning, but only a high, wheezing sound escaped her throat. As she wallowed about in the sand with the demon’s weight pressing her down, the already dark world began to fade before her eyes. She sunk her fingers into the mahk’lar’s arm and tried to heave it off. In response, the demon wrenched her head back until her neck popped, then slammed her face into the sandy ground, once and again. Somewhere Kian bellowed, oblivious to her plight. Her face struck the ground again, and all went utterly black.

Chapter 27

Through a veil of cold fury, Kian saw the silvery eyes and knew them for the same kind that he had seen under the Black Keep, those of the mahk’lar. These eyes, however, were set in the face of a man.

He parried a thrust and lunged, slamming his blade through the demon’s skull, creating a wild flaring of blue radiance where his steel hacked into unholy flesh. Shrieking, the mahk’lar fell away. Puffs of inky vapor far darker than the night’s shadows flooded from its wounds, and the figure slowly collapsed in a shapeless mess. Spinning around in a tight, guarded circle, Kian sought more foes, but there were none to be had. As fast as it had begun, the battle ended. One moment the demons were fighting, the next they had disengaged and vanished.

Kian shouted, “Light anything that will burn!”

Following his own command, he moved to the nearest banked cookfire and tossed a handful of tinder on the ruddy coals. A few puffs of breath set the dry wood and grass alight. From all directions, the Asra a’Shah closed in, the whites of their eyes wide and stark in the dark skin of their faces. Without question, there were fewer now than had rode into the valley.

“We need torches,” Ba’Sel said, his accent thicker than normal for the pain he must be feeling from a deep slash to his cheek.

Azuri strode out of the dark, filthy and spattered with blood, as if he had been dragged across the floor of a butcher’s shop. The blood, black and thick, was not his own. “This will work well enough.” He tossed a shredded white tabard into the dust at Kian’s feet. As Kian spread it out, revealing a silver fist floating on a field of black, Azuri added with disgust, “Men of House Racote attacked us.”

“They were not men,” Hazad said, hollow-eyed.

“Mahk’lar,” Kian hissed as if it were a curse. Then he remembered Ellonlef.

Without a word, he sprinted down the sandy path. Someone shouted after him, but he ignored them. When he got to the place where he had left Ellonlef, he found only an empty hut. He searched, thinking his eyes must have betrayed him, thought that she was probably balled up in a corner somewhere.

But that made no sense, not for a woman like her.

And then he knew what she had done.

He cursed under his breath to hide his growing alarm. Despite having a good idea of her actions after he had left her, he called out her name. Echoes of that cry were his only answer.

Hazad and Azuri trotted to the hut’s ragged doorway, each bearing a hastily made torch. Kian snatched Hazad’s away. “I’ll search to the north. You two head back toward the camp.”

“What are we looking for?” Hazad asked.

“Ellonlef,” Kian answered, even as he rushed away down the trail.

He ran with the torch held high, his heart pounding. He kept telling himself to slow down, get a better look at the disturbed ground, but he could not help but push forward at a near sprint. After a few hundred paces, he concluded that the only tracks in the sand were his own, and those left by creatures of the desert.

More desperate than ever, he turned and forced himself to walk back the way he had come. He halted when he reached the spot where she must have killed the first demon. All that remained was chainmail and a tabard resting amid a jellied pool of some reddish-black substance that roughly defined the shape of a man. One thing he noticed was that there was no sword-the same, presumably, that Ellonlef had spoken of retrieving.

Hazad’s frantic shout from the direction of camp sent Kian into a dead sprint. As he ran, he saw Ellonlef in his mind, saw her smile and her eyes. On my life, I will protect you, he had promised, and he had failed. He ran all the faster.

When he reached camp, he halted beside Azuri and Hazad, who were staring down at two objects on the ground. With torches held aloft, the flickering glow rippled along the edges of a sword and Ellonlef’s dagger. Black, congealing blood covered both. There was another pile of clothing and armor soaking in a grisly stew. The ground was much disturbed, and more splashes of the black blood were sprinkled everywhere. Kian swallowed. In one spot, the blood he saw was red, human, and surely Ellonlef’s.

Feeling trapped by the swift passage of time, Kian began giving orders. “Spread out. Search each side of the canyon. She must be wounded and insensible.”

For an hour or more, each moment of which hammered at Kian’s soul, the company scoured every tumbledown hut, delved into splits and hollows in the canyon walls, and wandered far in each direction. When all had gathered again, each man, bloodied and dusty and despondent, reported that they had found no trace of Sister Ellonlef.

“They must have taken her,” Kian said, voicing his greatest fear. He wrapped another swatch of cloth torn from the enemy’s tabard around the head of his torch. “Did anyone see tracks leading out of the valley?”

“They came from the east, and returned the same way,” Ba’Sel said, coming into the flickering torchlight at a trot, his untended wound making his face a gruesome mess.

“Are you sure?” Kian demanded. “We cannot afford to waste a moment more following a cold trail.”

“Between our own tracks-those we left when scouting the valley for Bashye, and those made during the battle-it is hard to say,” Ba’Sel admitted. “But the tracks coming from the west are ours alone, where those in the east are from both parties. If she was taken, her captors escaped that way.”

“To horse!” Kian ordered, dropping his torch and moving toward his horse.

Azuri and Hazad stirred, but the Asra a’Shah did not move an inch. Kian halted abruptly and searched their faces. All looked back impassively.

“We do not blame you,” Ba’Sel said slowly, “but my brothers and I have paid too much blood for this quest. If Prince Varis were still under our watch, honor would obligate us to stay. As it is, Prince Varis destroyed our pact to guard him when he tried to kill us in the Qaharadin Marshes. We continued on with you as long as we have only out of respect.” He bowed his head then, as if in shame, but his words were firm. “That respect remains, and should we find our way home, we will tell of your exploits and courage, and the name Kian Valara will be praised by our elders down through an age of men. But respect cannot compel us to continue this journey.”

Kian’s anger subsided under a wave of regret. He needed these men, now more than ever, if he was to find Ellonlef. “If it is gold you seek, I assure you that you will be compensated for helping me find Sister Ellonlef.”

Ba’Sel shook his head. “Gold will not breathe life back into our brothers. Even if it could, we would turn away. If what has happened in Aradan has happened in our homelands, the few of us left will need to help our people. Our numbers will not be enough, but we few are better than none at all.”

Desperation overcame Kian’s pride. “Can you, at the least, help us find the trail of those who took Sister Ellonlef?”

Ba’Sel thought about it for a moment, and nodded. “We will do that and no more.”

“Then let us begin.”

Chapter 28

Thrice over since Ellonlef had been taken, night had given way to day, only to fall again. Tied into the saddle of a galloping horse, she swayed and bounced, barely in control of herself. Her cheeks and brow hurt from being slammed against the ground; her throat was raw from the fingers that had throttled her, and from too little water since then. None of those who had taken her, nor their mounts, seemed to need rest, food, or water. On and on, at a full gallop, she and her captors surged eastward, league after league.

By dawn of the first day after her capture, the land had risen to reveal a high, scrubby desert. All visible brush off either side of the road was dead and gray and brittle, a sight just odd enough to gain her notice, but she was too weary to contemplate it. Just before the last sunset, despite the heavy smoke, she had seen a jagged line of mountains rising on the eastern horizon, a sight that left her stunned. When riding across the Kaliayth, only the Ulkion Mountains lay in the east. And amongst them, high in the Pass of Trebuldar, sat Ammathor. Even in her debilitated state, she calculated the trip had taken a fraction as long as it should have. Whatever hope she’d had of Kian being able to find and liberate her from Varis’s followers, died in her heart. It would be many days before Kian and his men could travel so far.

Looking through bleary eyes at her captors, it was hard for her to accept them as demons, not when she knew them by name, rank, and allegiance to House Racote. There were three: Spear Leader Huruga, and Swordsmen Caulir and Naa’il. To the last, she had helped them or their families during her time in Krevar. Huruga, soon after she had arrived at the fortress, returned from a border skirmish with a Tureecian arrow buried in his back, and a sword slash to his scalp. Each wound had grown septic, leaving him with a killing fever. Despite Magus Uzzret’s conclusion that the man would die within a day, Ellonlef had brought him back from the brink. And, if not for her, Swordsman Naa’il would have died from a snakebite taken while patrolling the Qaharadin Marshes; Swordsman Caulir’s young wife had needed help delivering her first child, a boy.

Those men were dead now, though their bodies survived, given abominable life by the demonic spirits within each of them. And demons they were, of this she had no doubt. She had seen the dull, silvery glint of their eyes shining in the night.

When Varis had first raised the dead, and Otaker had gone to his lady wife, Ellonlef recalled thinking that Lady Danara, and all the rest who had been raised, seemed to be lacking their normal traits. She had named them soulless. In that she had been wrong, for they had souls-not their own, but rather those of the Fallen, the first vile children of the Three. Now those monstrous spirits were loosed upon the world. But how many? Hundreds, thousands, and more….

She let her head loll back, hoping for a glimpse of the stars, but the pervasive smoke obliterated sight of anything. The worst had come to visit the world, she considered, and the age of men had fallen. The Madi’yin, with all their swatarin-induced visions of apocalypse and marauding demons, had finally been proven right.

As the night fled by, Ellonlef slumped into a tortured sleep. At some point, a growing sense of panic jolted her awake. She knew without having been told where and to whom she was going. Prince Varis Kilvar, the Life Giver. What Varis wanted of her, however, she could not imagine, and that unknown caused her the greatest fear. With her trepidation growing, she remained awake.

In time, the eastern horizon took on a bloody cast, heralding the coming dawn. Ellonlef sat straighter in the saddle, and set bloodshot eyes on the road ahead. It was then that she noticed the dust in the air. Not the thick plumes churned up by the riders around her, but of that raised hours before and yet to dissipate in the still air.

As the day brightened, Ellonlef scanned the roadway for any indication of the size of the army her captors followed. Outside of Ammathor, she knew, Fortress Krevar maintained the largest force in the kingdom, a full seven spears of cavalry, fourteen hundred horsemen, and near three times that number in archers and foot soldiers. These latter she dismissed out of hand, for armed and armored men on foot could not hope to keep up with horses. More than that, without a slow-moving caravan of supply wagons, such numbers simply could not be supported by the desolate lands of the Kaliayth.

Soon after, with the smoke-obscured sun doing little to abate the previous night’s chill, Spear Leader Huruga made a series of hand gestures to his cohorts, then kicked his mount into a faster pace, quickly leaving them behind. Ellonlef’s eyes followed him, stunned that the warhorse could find such a burst of speed after galloping for several days and nights without end.

As her mount crested a hill and rode onto a wide plateau, a sight came to her that exceeded her worst fears. Her eyes, weary from lack of sleep and full of grit, crawled over the host before her. While she could not say how many warriors waited ahead, she knew it was more than seven spears. Many times more. Thousands, she thought, sick with alarm. Only a very few were mounted. How could they have run so far so fast-

With a sinking feeling in her bowels, she understood. Varis’s powers were greater and broader than she had imagined. Somehow, he had infused multitudes with impossible endurance, which explained how his raiders had brought her across half of the Kaliayth in but three days.

As her captors swerved out into the desert to come abreast of Varis’s army, the full, terrible scope of his power came into view. Many of the arrayed forces were indeed soldiers, but most were made up of common men, women, and even children. They had not camped, but simply halted and stood fast, faces coated in thick layers of dirt, their glazed eyes fixed on some point in front of their noses. They did not look around, they did not talk, nor eat or drink, they just stood still, fixated on some collective vision. To the last, the leagues of running had worn the shoes and boots and sandals off their feet. But, other than dirt, their feet showed no sign of injury from racing over roadways of sand and sharp stone.

Ellonlef’s horse abruptly slowed behind Swordsman Naa’il’s mount. He led her away from the army and toward a gathering of men some distance away. As they came closer, she noted Magus Uzzret’s skinny frame, but he ceased to exist in her mind when she caught sight of the pale, white-eyed man sitting astride a tall dark horse. Though the mounted man looked different, what with his full mane of pale hair pulled into a top-lock and his slightly fuller cheeks, she recognized him all the same. Prince Varis Kilvar, the Life Giver.

Her heart began pounding. When she had first seen Varis as he was now, Krevar had been in ruins and people were seemingly dying from a mysterious plague. His appearance had been more shocking then, but now she saw him through a veil of ruddy smoke and thin daylight, and she could not help but think he looked like a malevolent specter. His pale eyes seemed to glow as they took her in, ablaze with an inner light made all the brighter by the sickly red and brown hues of the smoky air hanging over a landscape of jutting stone spires. His mount seemed possessed of that same inner light, as its eyes glowed as well. Though it was an illusion born of dread and weariness, for a brief moment she had been sure smoke curled from the beast’s flaring nostrils. More astonishing, Varis held a sphere of flame in one hand. It flickered and danced over his palm. He paid it no more mind than he would have an apple, and showed no sign that the flames scorched his flesh.

Naa’il and Caulir reined in and dismounted. They were none too gentle unlashing Ellonlef and hauling her out of the saddle, then dragging her to Varis, where they threw her before his mount. Using her bound hands, she pushed herself up into a kneeling position.

The prince did not look at her, but rather gazed at the ball of fire in his palm. Then, abruptly, the flames winked out, and he looked to Uzzret.

“If you please, Magus Uzzret,” Varis said, his tone just short of mocking, “make sure the sister does not attempt to flee. I do not wish to waste more time chasing her, yet again, across the desert.” With that, he dismounted and gestured for her three captors to follow him a few paces away.

Ellonlef scanned the men around her. They were doubtless alive, but they looked like exquisitely formed waxen figures, unmoving, unblinking, as if waiting for someone to give them leave to think and act. Magus Uzzret, on the other hand, was fully in control of himself. He stomped up to her, glaring.

“You should not have sought to betray the Life Giver,” he spat at her, his vehement zeal making her lean away; his black eyes fairly shone with mad devotion. She had never cared overmuch for the man, but whatever scant decency had been in him was fled.

“You will suffer mightily for your crimes,” he snarled, and struck her with a bony hand.

Cheek flaming more in shame than from the force of the blow, she shifted out of reach, tasting blood on her tongue. No man, especially such a wretched excuse for one such as Uzzret, had ever raised a hand against her. If one had, she would have made him suffer for such presumption. Presently, however, she could do nothing to resist.

The magus was not done. He kicked her in the belly. When she doubled over, he struck her back and shoulders with his thin wooden staff. While each strike pained her, they also stoked the fires of her humiliation, and in turn those rising flames burned away her weariness and fear.

A ringing blow cracked against the side of her head. Before the staff could fall again, her bound hands flashed out, catching the wood against her palms with a loud, stinging smack. Magus Uzzret tugged at the staff, his leathery brown features twisted into a picture of shock and outrage. Still kneeling, Ellonlef wrenched the staff free of his grasp and hurled it aside.

“You filthy whore,” he snarled, downturned lips trembling in fury.

Ellonlef answered with a bitter laugh. “I’ve always pitied you, Uzzret … much as I pity all men who lay with boys and sheep to satisfy their lusts.” Resorting to such crude insults was not her way, but it did her heart good to see the outcome. Her grim pleasure was short-lived.

A string of curses and spittle flew from Uzzret’s tongue as he set upon her. He was old, but anger made him strong. Ellonlef warded off the attack as best she could, but when the crazed flurry proved too much, she ducked her head and leaned into him. Reaching out, she caught hold of his testicles through his robes and squeezed, hard. The magus howled in pain and fell atop her. Ellonlef did not release him. Instead, she wrenched at his genitals, as he battered her with flying fists and shrieked curses.

Abruptly, though no order was given, the watching demon-men stepped forward and forced her to let go. They dragged her off a little way and dropped her, as if she held no more interest for them than a bag of beans. A sobbing Uzzret crawled away, jittering in every limb like a crippled beetle.

Ellonlef felt the weight of a stare upon her, and turned to find Varis intently studying her with his corpse eyes.

“You must forgive Uzzret,” he said. “At times he is … overzealous.”

Ellonlef raised her bound hands and wiped the blood from her split lips. “I cannot forgive a man who would have killed me, bound or not. As to his zeal, I say his devotion has become madness.”

Varis shrugged. “Fanaticism is, at times, useful. There will be others who share it, many more, and I will harness that power for myself to make the changes I desire. And, after I take the Ivory Throne, zealots such as Uzzret will ensure I rule a harmonious empire.”

Ellonlef shook her head in disgust. “You speak of men as though they are mindless devices.”

Varis stared at her, his empty gaze unreadable. “Men are tools to be used. Before I became more than a man, I myself was a tool of men and gods. I did not reject this notion, nor feel lessened by it. Rather, I embraced such service as a blessing. Admittedly, now I stand in the place of gods, I cannot say that I am displeased by the prospect of being the craftsman, instead of the utensil in the craftsman’s hands.”

“You are as mad as Uzzret,” Ellonlef snarled.

One moment Varis was placidly gazing down on her, the next he had squatted next to her and thrust his face against hers, forcing her to look away. She could not meet that horrid stare.

“I am the picture of sanity,” he grated. “It is you who are blinded by your narrow interpretation of existence. We must all serve a purpose to justify the drawing of each breath. If a man can offer no justification for living, then he should submit himself to death, in order that those with true usefulness might serve some benefit to all of existence.”

“And who decides that usefulness, or lack thereof?”

Varis smiled and sat back on his heels. “In this new age, I will. Be not troubled, Sister, for I have deemed that you have a very special and specific use.”

“I will never serve you,” Ellonlef said.

Varis abruptly stood up and moved away. “If you will not serve me of your own volition, then you will serve of mine.”

A strange sensation washed over Ellonlef as she watched Varis’s back. Here and now, he did not use a charlatan’s trick of raising his hands and closing his eyes, as he had in Krevar. He merely stood still, looking out into the smoke-hazed desert. Yet he was doing something, she could feel it, like a fast moving sickness surging through her limbs. Breathing became difficult, and a deepening weakness made her slump. When her heart began to flutter erratically, she folded in on herself. She felt herself growing weaker, dying, and her thoughts began to lose clarity. She felt as if she were drifting in fog, and in that moment, she saw Kian in her mind’s eye. Though she scarcely knew the man, she admitted to herself that she wanted to know him better. To do so, she had to survive. Using the last of her strength, she focused on him, seemingly drawing strength from his image, and using that strength to resist the oppressive weight of Varis’s power.

Suddenly, a clawlike hand clutched her shoulder, while another turned her face. Varis stared at her, rage and confusion warring on his monstrous face. “What are you doing?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.

“Kill me if you will,” she gasped, “but you will not fill me with the corrupted life of the Fallen.”

“What are you talking about?” Varis demanded.

Ellonlef gazed at him through drooping eyelids.

“Answer me!”

Ellonlef motioned weakly toward the blank-eyed soldiers ringing them about. “They are all of them demons … cloaked in the flesh of men.”

Varis swung his head. His followers did not flinch or look away, only stared at him with sickening, mindless devotion. “They are men,” he hissed, “not demons. The Fallen are freed, yes, but these are men. They follow me because I have freed them from the horrors of Geh’shinnom’atar!”

“Have you never looked into their gazes after nightfall?” she asked. “Have you not seen how their eyes shine, like dull silver?”

“I do not see as-” he cut off abruptly, as if he had nearly revealed something he would rather not. He shook his head in denial. “You are a liar.”

“I killed one of those you sent after me, and it was no man,” Ellonlef insisted.

“Still your tongue.”

A suspicion, something she had previously considered, filled her fogged mind. “You do not know, do you? Kill one of them and see for yourself what you have given life to.”

“Do not listen to her, Master,” Uzzret urged, limping close to Varis. “She is naught but a deceiver, unworthy to look upon you, let alone bandy words with you.”

“I have use of her,” Varis said slowly. “As you will gain support for me from your brothers, so too will she garner favor for me among her sisters.”

“But there are others of her ilk, Master. Those, I’m sure, will be more pliable.”

“I have her, here and now. I will not waste the opportunity.”

“Master, please-”

“Stand away from me,” Varis snarled. He looked like a cornered beast.

When Uzzret did not move quickly enough, Varis shoved him away and moved to stand before one of the soldiers. Without a word, or any other indication of what he was about to do, Varis jerked the man’s sword from the scabbard and rammed the steel into his guts.

Ellonlef thought she might vomit at the sight of the impaled man’s wan smile, as he slowly sank to his knees. Varis stared, waiting expectantly for him to die. When he did, a sooty plume oozed from the wound and quickly dissipated. Then, as if the corruption of dead flesh had been held back since Varis had resurrected the man, skin sloughed off the rank meat beneath, and the corpse listed to one side and hit the sandy ground, bursting apart like an overripe melon. In moments, the remains had deteriorated into a pooling mess.

Varis staggered back, mouth hanging open. Ellonlef saw emotions crawl over his face, from fear to revulsion to bewilderment. He believed his own lies, she thought distractedly. He thought he could raise the dead, and that their devotion was a sign of thankfulness.

Varis suddenly spun and caught hold of another soldier’s chin. “Who commands you?” he rasped.

The soldier’s eyes rolled slowly toward Varis. “You, Life Giver.”

Varis let go and nodded to himself, seemingly satisfied, then an unreadable look crept over his face. He glanced back at the soldier. “Is there any higher than me?”

“Yes.”

Varis’s jaw clenched, as if to keep back the question he had no choice but to ask. “Who?”

“Peropis,” the soldier answered without hesitation, “the true and first daughter of the Three. At her command we have followed you, for she set you above us, in order for you to guide us to our destiny.”

“What does that mean?” Varis shouted, his voice shrill.

The soldier smiled broadly, showing true, if disturbing, emotion. “What once died has been reawakened. It is the place of men to serve or die, as the old order becomes new again in these ancient lands. Peropis, our queen, will reign again, as once she did. Soon, we all will serve her anew, as in the beginning.”

“She lied to me,” Varis muttered, features working with shock. “All of it … lies.” Ellonlef had never seen a man learn, all at once, that everything he believed was a deception.

“She lied,” he said again, as if unaware of those around him. “All of her promises, from the beginning … lies!”

Ellonlef watched, stunned, as Varis shivered with an immeasurable rage, then he began to swell. Veins, like thick black worms, bulged under his pale skin. His eyes grew wider, rolling from side to side in their sockets. His fingers clenched and unclenched, even as he spread his feet in a wide stance.

Ellonlef cowered back, unsure what might happen, fervently wishing she were anywhere else. From the corner of her eye, she detected movement. Turning, she willed herself not to cry out. In the distance, Varis’s entire army was looking on him with unnerving, glassy stares. Below their empty expressions, she sensed a guarded contempt buried deep within each of them.

Varis sensed it as well.

Without warning, he threw his arms wide. As one, the army cried out and surged toward him. Unbelieving, Ellonlef saw something being drawn from the army into Varis. She closed her eyes, thinking she was suffering a delusion. Yet, when she opened them, she saw the same faint, ethereal luminescence flowing from the thousands to the one. Flesh seemed to melt away from the many, even as they ran at Varis, their voices raised in demonic howls. Ellonlef cried out as the flesh of men was shredded by the demonic figures hidden beneath.

Varis’s bulging shape was glowing, and through rents in his skin, silver light streaked out. Varis opened his mouth as if to scream, but instead of words, fire shot forth to engulf his newfound enemies. Demonic flesh caught fire and burned bright. As the inferno raged, thousands of monstrous voices rose over the desert.

The mahk’lar closest to Varis were out of the deadly path of his fires, and they took the opportunity to leap at Varis. Before they could truly begin their attack, long dusty roots sprang from the sand, swarming over the bellowing demons, burrowing into their flesh. In the space of three heartbeats, what had looked like men became twisted knots of squeezing roots. From those tight weaves, black blood leaked and dribbled, and wisps of sooty vapor rose up. Varis scorched the bundles of roots, leaving only ash behind. Untouched, the essences of the demons coalesced into a seething black mass some distance away, then streaked from sight.

Instead of abating, Varis’s fury grew, and he unleashed it upon the world. The force of his inferno created great whirlwinds of sand and flame that rose up and up, coiling about each other until the sand became molten globs that rained back down upon the earth. Horses trumpeted in terror, and Varis blasted them as well. To the last, the demonic souls within the horses puffed out and vanished, fleeing into an unsuspecting world. Uzzret was running in the distance-and in the distance he died, a flaming candle in place of a man. He alone of Varis’s followers, was merely a man.

Ellonlef could not look upon Varis, so great was the light and heat pouring from him. And more, she feared that simply looking on him would destroy her. As he raged, Ellonlef got to her feet and ran. Keeping her balance over the uneven ground was difficult with her hands still bound, but desperation kept her upright. The tremendous luminosity and force of Varis’s being seemed to propel her along after her shadow.

A keening wind rushed in from the desert, culminating on Varis. Ellonlef bowed her head against the gale, trying to maintain her pace, but she was slowing. She passed small stones rolling and bouncing along back the way she had come, and she knew it was only a matter of time before whatever Varis was doing would drag her back, into the burgeoning vortex of his … transformation.

She had to find shelter.

In the ever brightening light, Ellonlef cast about, eyes squinted against flying grit. A hundred paces off, the plateau’s sharp edge showed itself, and she headed that way. Every step became a struggle, but Ellonlef pushed on, fighting now to keep the very breath in her chest. What had looked like a single edge along the plateau became more like a giant’s staircase. Without hesitation, she leapt from the first and dropped a full ten feet before hitting a slope of smooth sandstone. In her terror she felt no pain, but the jarring landing rattled her bones, and sent her into a forward tumble off the next precipice.

Gasping for each breath, trying to hold back tears of absolute panic, Ellonlef knew she could go no farther. As the world around her grew brighter than ever, and the keening winds became a sound like a great waterfall, she found an overhang littered with sandstone slabs, and made for them, staggering along. Her last step ended in a headlong dive, and like a bug trying to get under a rock, she wriggled and squirmed and kicked until she had lodged herself deep within a crevice. All the world became blinding white, and she buried her face in the crook of her arm to find comforting darkness.

Ellonlef did not know how long she stayed that way, but guessed she must have fainted in fear or exhaustion, for when she opened her eyes and turned over, the world looked the same as it had before she made her escape. Yet, it was not the same. An unnerving still hung in the air, as if all that lived had been swept from the face of the world. She did not have long to think on this before she detected the sound of feet stealthily scraping over sandstone. It was Varis, Ellonlef knew, and he was coming.

Weary as she was from desperation and the aftermath of terror, she forced herself to sit up in the cramped niche. She found a sharp-edged stone and used it to saw through the bindings on her wrists. She had just cut through them, when Varis moved before her pathetic sanctuary and crouched down.

Ellonlef gasped at the changes that had fallen over him. No longer did he look like a walking corpse. Rather, his flesh shone as polished bronze, and his eyes shimmered like pearls. Ellonlef tried to scrabble backward, but there was nowhere to flee. While he appeared to be a living idol, his palpable menace oozed over her like a thick and poisonous oil.

He peered at her for what felt like an eternity before speaking. “I must thank you, Sister, for revealing to me Peropis’s treachery.” His was the resonant voice of a god, and Ellonlef fought against the awe in her breast. “Of course, I knew she had deceived me already, but I was ignorant of the extent of her lies. It took you to show me the truth. In return for your gift of knowledge, I intend to let you and Kian go your way. Of course, if I ever see either of you again, I will make your suffering so great that women will sing your names as a lament for a thousand ages of men.”

“Is it graciousness that compels you,” Ellonlef grated, striving against the inherent need to fall on her face before him, “or is it your fear that Kian will destroy you?”

Varis laughed. “He is but a man, Sister, flawed in the way of all mortal flesh. I am no longer a man, but a god-truly a god, now. Whatever infinitesimal power he holds matters not anymore. I grant you, left to his own devices, he will try to kill me, if for no other reason than vengeance for annihilating his pathetic band of mercenaries. If you have any desire to see him live-and I sense that you do-you will convince him to abandon such foolishness. Make him heed my warning, Sister, and send him off to Izutar, or wherever else he may wish to flee.”

Despite his unreadable gaze, there was a shine of maliciousness when he added what could be no less than a challenge posed as a threat. “Tell Kian when he comes that if he obeys me, I will spare his wretched homelands until he has been long in the grave. That same vow holds for you and your Isle of Rida. Take my offer and, whether separate or together, you can live out the whole of your lives in peace. Refuse, and I will force you to watch the unspeakable ruination of all that you hold dear.” Speaking no more, he tossed a plump waterskin at her feet, and then departed.

An hour passed before Ellonlef dared to scoot to the edge of her shelter and look out. Varis was gone, but his words repeated in her mind. She tried to deny her complete loss of hope, but as she knew she must tell Kian of Varis’s vow, she also knew Kian would not let the prince’s obvious threat stand untested. In facing the challenge, he would surely perish.

Chapter 29

A hitch in his horse’s stride made Kian cringe. He hoped it was a stumble, but over several miles, the animal’s gait grew steadily worse, forcing him to halt on the low side of a broad plateau. The road, more a pair of ancient ruts than a true road, stretched far to the Ulkion Mountains, both under a blood-red sky that spit fine ash over the blasted landscape.

The scene looked as if it should be hot, like a Madi’yin’s vision of the Thousand Hells, but instead the air had grown ever colder for several days now. At dawn, a thin frost and new layer of ash had mingled together into a dirty blanket to cover sand, stone, and bush.

Kian dismissed the weather, and all else that had befallen the world. Instead, he focused on finding Ellonlef. Her fate gave him purpose, drove him farther and longer than his endurance had ever been tested.

Hazad and Azuri reined in, each man looking as weary as Kian felt. The extent of that weariness was illustrated by Azuri’s indifference to the grime coating every inch of him. Their spare horses, taken from the Bashye that had attacked Ellonlef, were filthy and flecked with ash and dirt, as well, but the sturdy desert mounts were holding up.

“I know what my eyes tell me,” Hazad said slowly, glancing at the wide swath of trampled ground on either side of the road, “but such an army, marching on foot, could not have traveled so far so quickly. Ba’Sel must have been mistaken about these tracks.”

“He made no mistake,” Kian muttered, eyeing something dark lying on the ground some distance from the road. “In all the world, there are no better trackers than the Asra a’Shah. If Ba’Sel said this is evidence of Varis’s army, then I believe him.”

Though futile, he wished Ba’Sel and the other Geldainians had remained with them. He did not know what he would find in Ammathor, but in uncertain times, having such deadly warriors as the Asra a’Shah about was desirable. In a way, he envied the Geldainian mercenaries for they, at the least, were making the attempt to get home.

Kian dismounted and struck off in the direction of the darkish lump. A part of him wanting nothing to do with what waited ahead, but he pressed on. Hazad and Azuri joined him. As he came closer, the reek of corruption seemed to reach out and clutch his throat. With the smell came the drone of flies. Unconsciously, the trio slowed their pace, but kept on until they stood over a tabard and chainmail covered with a gruesome mess. Azuri took up a stick and unfolded a darkly stained bit of cloth. Despite the boil of maggots and putrid wetness, the embroidered silver fist of House Racote was plain. “Do you still have doubts that we follow Varis?”

Hazad gulped a breath. “No … but this is days old,” he muttered.

Azuri made to toss the stick toward the road, but it never left his hand. “What is that?”

Kian followed the man’s stare and found that a wide swath of the desert had a charred look to it. Perplexed, he led his friends in that direction. The closer they came to the blackened area, the more their feet crunched over irregular beads of glass. They had seen similar glass around craters left behind by Ellonlef’s Tears of Pa’amadin.

They halted while still far from the edge of the scorched area.

“He slaughtered them all,” a woman’s voice said.

As one, the trio spun, each brandishing their swords. Ellonlef, sheltering in the scant shade of a leafless bush, disheveled and tattered, gazed at them with eyes that looked as though they had not known sleep for days. Despite her ragged appearance, there was no denying the relief written across her ash-smudged face.

Kian sheathed his sword and rushed to her side, a relief like he had never known coming into his heart. In truth, what he felt upon seeing her safe was indescribable.

“Are you well?” he asked, helping her to her feet.

Ellonlef offered a weary nod in answer.

He hesitated a moment, then reached out and gently took her shoulders in his hands, turning her this way and that to get a better look. She was tired and filthy, but appeared to carry no wounds other than a fading bruise on her cheek. He wanted to ask her a thousand questions, but when she looked up into his eyes and gave him a tentative smile, her dark gaze glimmering with unshed tears, he kissed her instead. There was no thought on his part, he just did it, and she did not resist.

When Hazad cleared his throat, Kian reluctantly pulled away from her, wondering if he had lost his mind. By her expression of breathless startlement, Ellonlef might have been considering the same thing. Azuri looked between them with an arched eyebrow, but said nothing. Hazad, on the other hand, burst out laughing.

After a trio of scowls quieted the big man, he said, “Now that the reunion is out of the way, do you mind telling us what happened, Sister Ellonlef?”

Kian did his best to behave as nothing had happened between them. Ellonlef shot him a glance that promised they would speak of what had undeniably happened, but later. Then she took a precise step away from him, smoothed a shaky hand over her mussed hair, and began speaking about the demons that had brought her to Varis.

Kian tried to listen, but could only apply half of his wits to what Ellonlef was saying. The other half focused on how she had felt in his arms, the softness of her lips. Neither could he discount the elation he felt in knowing that she was safe at his side. Normally he was in firm control of himself, but what he felt for Ellonlef had caught him completely off his guard.

Silence drew his attention. “What is it?”

“You were not listening?” Ellonlef said in exasperation, but the gleam in her eyes told Kian she was pleased about something. His stern look only seemed to make her happier.

Shaking his head, he growled, “If I missed something, tell it again.”

“What it amounts to,” Hazad said with jovial sarcasm, “is that Varis has offered you a vow of peace.”

Kian arched a doubtful eyebrow. “His conditions?”

“If you flee to Izutar, he promises not to conquer our homeland until you have lived a long life and died. If you do not go, then he will destroy you, but only after he forces you to watch him annihilate Izutar. The same vow holds for Ellonlef.”

Kian snorted dismissively, though in the back of his mind rage was building, especially after hearing Varis intended harm for Ellonlef. “Sounds like the cowardly bluster of someone who knows he is already defeated. The only peace I intend to give him will be that of the tomb.”

“I do not think it is bluster,” Azuri said. “According to Ellonlef, Varis has grown more powerful by far than when we last saw him. I believe he intended that message to be a challenge, a slap in the face, as it were. My guess is that he cannot wait for you to come for him, so that he can kill you, proving he is the more powerful of the two of you.”

Kian squinted at the Ulkions, his visage outwardly calm. Inside, the smoldering rage had become an inferno. He recalled a similar feeling when he had first seen Varis step out of the temple. Then, however, that wrath had been tempered by a humiliating fear. Despite that the prince had slaughtered his men and had sent mahk’lar after him, he had forced himself not to consider exacting revenge. His answer had been to run. If not for coming upon Ellonlef fighting the Bashye, he would be in Izutar already, hiding amid the safety of far-off mountains covered in snow and ice and silent forests. He would be there, seemingly safe … though bereft of honor. It was a mistake he had almost made. He had seen once proud men who had turned their backs on what they knew in their hearts was the just course. Bitterness always masked the sorrow of their broken spirits, and he had no intention of becoming such a man.

Kian looked to Ellonlef, who was gazing at the waiting mountains in the east, and his anger receded. He could not hold fury in his heart with her so near. She was a beautiful woman, made all the more so because she seemed not to know it. He imagined her framed by snow-laden pine boughs of a winter wood….

He abruptly shook the vision from his mind, but could not so easily erase the feelings for her from his heart. “We are a few days from Ammathor,” he said. “There is no point keeping the prince waiting.”

“Do not seek him out,” Ellonlef pleaded.

“As I recall,” he said, more fiercely then he intended, “it was you who set me after Varis in the first place. What happened to saving Aradan in order to save Izutar? You said yourself that Varis will not stop at taking the Ivory Throne.”

Ellonlef would not look him in the eye. “I have not changed my mind on any of those points, but he has given you a choice. You have a chance to live out your life in peace … as do I.”

Kian wanted to draw her near, offer the reassurance she seemed to need, but for now he could not. By the gods good and wise, he hoped to one day have that chance.

“It is too late for turning aside,” Kian said, matching her quiet tone.

“But Varis gave-”

“His word?” Kian interrupted gently. “You cannot trust the word of a highborn at the best of times, let alone one who believes he is a god.”

“He will kill you!” Ellonlef blurted, her dark eyes now brimming with tears. “You did not see what he did to his army, how he destroyed ten thousand in moments. God or no, he holds the power of one!”

Kian clenched his teeth to avoid saying anything he would regret. As calmly as possible, he said, “The matter is settled. Varis has started a war that I will finish.”

“He will kill you,” Ellonlef said again, her voice flat.

Kian grinned wolfishly. “Thank you for your confidence, Sister, but if he could have, he would have done so already.”

Ellonlef cursed bitterly, then spun on her heel and stalked away.

“I do believe she is smitten,” Hazad knowingly.

“The question is,” Azuri said to Kian, “are you?”

Kian frowned at the question. “I barely know the woman.”

Azuri raised an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be a denial?”

Kian exhaled loudly. “Enough with this nonsense. I have a fight ahead of me, but I do not command either of you to join me.”

“I will stand with you,” Hazad promised.

“As will I,” Azuri added, if with somewhat less enthusiasm. He had always been the wisest of them.

Chapter 30

As he had after coming out of the Qaharadin, Varis scrutinized his features reflected back to him from the still surface of the water. Instead of a befouled puddle, now he looked into a sleeping crofter’s water trough. When he had first seen the effects of the Thousand Hells upon him, he had been horrified. In truth, that horror had never left … until now. What he saw looking back was the face of a god made flesh. That he had molded that flesh by his own will, only made his appearance all the more striking to his eye.

A pig grunted nearby, and he glanced around in the early morning light. Beyond the swine’s pen, goats peered at him with their strange eyes, chewing cud. A rooster crowed, as if urging the sun to rise faster, but the small house remained quiet and dark. The crofter would crawl out of bed shortly, so it was about time for Varis to depart for Ammathor. Instead of taking his leave, however, Varis looked back into the trough, captivated by his own beauty.

The blanched eyes were gone, replaced now by his formerly dark eyes, which once again saw the world in all its natural splendor. As well, his flesh had filled out and darkened to his natural coloring, if with something more, a faint and enticing glow. That is but a fraction of what the Sister of Najihar saw, he thought, recalling her awe. While it might have served him to remain a being of golden radiance, he had decided he would rather look merely human, at least for now. The shadow of the youth he had been was yet visible, but now his strong features were those of a man ten years older. His top-lock was now a blue-black cable of hair, thick as his wrist, and hung to his belt. He smiled at himself, realizing that he could have passed for his father’s brother, rather than the man’s youngest son.

Eager to begin his life as a supreme ruler, Varis easily hopped the split rail fence and strode toward the road leading into Ammathor, still some five leagues distant. He drew up the hood of his cloak to ward against the abnormally chill air. One day, he meant to ensure that he felt neither cold nor heat. For now, with that knowledge beyond him, he had no choice but to rely on clothing for protection from the elements. Like his image, he had made his present garb: a thick, buttery-soft tunic and leggings worn under dark brown woolen robes; a fine cloak; and sturdy leather boots that conformed to his feet as if they were a second skin. The one extravagance he had allowed himself was a belt of woven gold. All these elements, he had brought forth from nothing, knitting them by will and with the innate power of life. Such creative power staggered him, filled his mind with images and ideas. He was rapidly growing from a man into godhood, and yet he sensed he had far to go. What wonders will I create in after another year?

The feat of making clothing and recreating himself, he admitted, would not have been possible if Ellonlef had not revealed Peropis’s betrayal-he now doubted that she had ever intended to hunt Kian as she had promised, though he did not understand why she had added that deception to the others. Still, learning just how deep Peropis’s treachery went, had built a consuming fury in him so bright and hot that he had forgotten all her warnings of drawing too much of life’s power inside himself. In an instant, he had absorbed the lives-rather the half-lives-of ten thousand souls.

That those souls had proven to be demonic, rather than human, made no difference, as far as he could tell. With so much life in him, something had changed, allowing him to hold the force of their lives inside him, rather than cast it all away. The whirlwind of flame and death had come from his mind, created from nothing more substantial than thought. In time, he would explore the full range of possibilities available to him. When he knew enough, he would bring war on Peropis and, he felt sure, Geh’shinnom’atar would quake at his coming. As for Kian, Varis could feel the man somewhere behind him, driven by a pride that would be the man’s death.

He had not quite reached the dirt road when he heard the rattle of a door’s bolt being thrown, then the squeak of old hinges.

“You there!” the crofter shouted gruffly.

Varis thought about ignoring the man, but instead halted and turned. The bandy-legged crofter stood in the doorway brandishing a long cudgel. Years of long hard work had creased the man’s face and bowed his spine, but he still appeared strong. Varis silently stared at the gawping fool, and as he did so, he let his inner radiance shine forth, just a little. Even with the distance, that golden glow spread back along the way he had come, washing over the crofter’s stunned features. The man, cringing back, abruptly wailed in terror and threw himself prostrate in the dust.

Varis left him groveling, and made his way to the road that would take him up through the Pass of Trebuldar and to Edaer’s Wall, then into Ammathor. By nightfall, he would be King of Aradan.

As he made his plans for the coming day and the rest of his life, he closed on Edaer’s Wall. Though consideration of his coming glory was a pleasant distraction from his walk along the dusty road stretching out under a smoky sky, a league from the wall, his stride faltered. Thinking his eyes were playing tricks on him, Varis stared, grappling with the immensity of the destruction ahead.

The legendary wall had been built in the decades after the First King, Edaer Kilvar, stormed off the Kaliayth to wrest the throne from Emperor Suanahad’s eldest son. It spanned the entire Pass of Trebuldar, a full league between a pair of craggy peaks named the Two Brothers. Varis’s mind remembered the wall as an unbroken, manmade cliff of sandstone standing a hundred paces tall and half again as thick, sprouting a dozen massive barbican gates and hundreds of catapults. Those fortifications had broken and repelled many invading armies over a thousand years, with nary a scratch to show for the effort. Second only to the Ivory Throne, Edaer’s Wall had always been the ultimate symbol of Aradan’s power and glory.

Varis blinked away the memory and truly allowed himself to see what remained.

The greater part of the wall lay in a cluttered heap of shattered stone no more than a third its previous height. Only one barbican gate remained, and from its ramparts the banners of House Kilvar, the crossed golden sword and lance on a field of deep green, snapped in the brisk wind. From the open gate, which was a full twenty paces wide, a small trickle of people were leaving the city. Hundreds more waited to get in. Guards inspected carts, ox-drawn wagons, pannier-laden mules, and the people themselves. From his vantage, Varis guessed only one in ten were allowed to pass-those, apparently, with useable goods. Beyond the crumbled wall, smoke and dust hung heavy over the once shining city, obscuring any fine details of an otherwise bleak picture.

Varis turned his study on the folk who were departing the gate, and those turned away. None made their way down the road, but rather peeled off and crossed the boulder-studded slope of the pass, making for a chaotic tumble of rock at the wall’s southern edge. The rock-fall had not been there when he left Ammathor, and the scarred cliff face rising above it showed where a large portion of the mountain had collapsed. Thousands of people wandered aimlessly amid the massive stone slabs. Further scrutiny revealed countless gatherings of tents and canvas-covered wagons. Farther off, shepherds bearing spears and swords guarded livestock contained within large rope pens. With nowhere else to turn, Varis concluded, nearby villagers had come to Ammathor for protection. He could only imagine that a similar tableau waited on the eastern edge of the city. How many more would come from every corner of the kingdom?

Considering that, Varis looked back the way he had come. Normally, from the River Malistor onward, the road was packed year-round with wagons loaded with goods from all over the kingdom. As well, craftsmen by the thousand brought their wares to Ammathor, where they could fetch much higher prices than in villages and border fortresses. Now the road was empty, and the tracks he had seen in the powdery dust showed more sign of serpents and scorpions than of men. It appeared that the migration to the king’s city had dwindled off.

For the first time since leaving Ellonlef to deliver his message to Kian, Varis took stock of what he had unconsciously noticed on the road east, and quickly concluded that he had seen very little of men, even after crossing the River Malistor. The crofter and his small farm had been a rarity. There had been no Bashye, no merchant caravans, or any other travelers. Most commonly, villages and towns had been desolate, their sole inhabitants starving dogs and rolling tumbleweeds. At the time, he had paid little attention to the scenes of abandonment. in truth, he had allowed himself to become overly captivated with his growing power.

It took another hour to reach the wall, and from there Varis began searching for a suitable place to climb over. He did not want to make himself known until he sat the Ivory Throne, so he avoided all people, and stayed well clear of the gate. His efforts were not difficult, for people were obviously too concerned with themselves to worry about one lone man among the hundreds wandering about.

By the time Varis found a route that appeared relatively safe, the day had passed and yet another smoky, crimson dusk was approaching. Night had fallen by the time he had carefully picked his way over the treacherous remains of Edaer’s Wall and moved into the edge of the city, which had once been dominated by bustling warehouses, bazaars, and artisan shops.

Though he expected the worst, the scene that greeted him was far worse than anything he could have imagined. Not one building in sight remained unscathed, and many had fallen in on themselves. The plastered walls of those still standing were blackened and cracked from fires that had swept through the entire district. Mounted patrols roamed the debris-littered streets, but the soldiers paid scant attention to the few looters and scavengers hunting amid the carnage for anything of worth. What Varis noted above all else were the hollow eyes and sunken cheeks of everyone he saw, even the soldiers. These people, he thought, are ripe for the plucking. It would take little to turn them to his side.

As he pushed deeper into the city in an effort to reach the king’s palace, the extent of the destruction grew, as did the suffering. The sick and dying wandered aimlessly in search of food and anything they could use to build a fire to ward against the unnatural cold. The rotting dead were carelessly heaped in every alley. More than once he saw men, alone or in groups, catch solitary women and drag them amid the dead and shadows, indifferent to the reek of rotten flesh as they satisfied bestial lusts normally held in check by the king’s law. Children, quicker on their feet and more keenly alert to all the new dangers, ran in packs, like feral animals. One filthy group of urchins fell on a starving dog, bludgeoning it with sticks, and then ripping it apart with their bare hands to enjoy a hot, bloody meal.

At one time, Varis might have been repulsed by the detestable goings-on, but no longer. The city was literally starving to death, tearing itself apart in desperation. In all the faces he saw people pushed to the point that they would accept any authority over them, as long as that authority offered a reliable supply of bread, a warm place to sleep, and a modicum of safety. He could not have asked for a finer gift.

After much longer than it should have taken, what with the usual route often blocked by one obstacle or another, Varis spotted the looming walls ringing the king’s palace. Built originally for defense with granite hauled down from quarries carved into the Two Brothers, the towering curtain wall and blocky barbican gate looked forbidding rather than inviting, no matter that white plaster cloaked gray stone. Arrow slits cut vertical slashes in the thick walls, while covered wooden galleries stretched along the tops, hiding the presence of all but a few watching guards. Cracks showed here and there, but for the most part, the curtain wall seemed to have escaped the damage the rest of the city had suffered. Varis concluded that the rest of Ammathor might have suffered more at the hands of the citizenry, than from quakes and the burning stars that had fallen from the heavens. If so, then it proved to him that no army could ever wreak the level of havoc on a city as could a desperate citizenry. He tucked that thought away, saving it.

As he closed on the palace, the racket of thundering hooves drew Varis’s attention. A large man, followed by twenty lancers, charged out of the barbican gate. At the last instant, the leader reined in, shock evident on his face. As were all soldiers of the House Guard, the man Varis knew as Igindu was clad in a long, pleated green leather kilt, his chest protected by a breastplate of hammered bronze. From his shoulders hung a green and gold cloak. Igindu also wore the triple-knotted scarlet cord over one shoulder that denoted his rank as a master of spears. While the man was yet plump, hunger had whittled him down to half his former girth.

“Prince Sharaal?” the man blurted uncertainly. “How have you come to be here, alone?”

“Your eyes deceive you, Igindu,” Varis said to the man who had taught him the sword. Behind the soldier, the lancers were all staring like fools. “It is not the father who stands before you, but the youngest son.”

Igindu’s sagging features jiggled with uncertainty. “Prince … Varis? Gods good and wise, you have grown into a man since you-” he cut off abruptly. “By the gods, where have you been? Your family has been mad with worry and grief. King Simiis sent out four legions to search for you across the desert, north toward Izutar, south to the border of Tureece, and east across the Golden Plain. Before this occurred-” he waved an arm around the city’s ruined state to express what he could not voice “-King Simiis was preparing to march on Tureece, thinking you had been captured.”

“The letter explaining my intended journey must have been misplaced,” Varis said with bland indifference. Before Igindu could respond to that blatant lie, Varis added, “You thought I was my father, so I must ask, if Prince Sharaal is not in the palace, where is he?”

Igindu’s eyes went hard with mistrust, just for a moment, then softened. “Soon after the Three were destroyed,” he said, all but choking on the words before rushing on, “King Simiis received word from Lord Marshal Otaker of Krevar that a formidable army was soon to march on Ammathor.”

“That is all?” Varis asked, keeping a keen watch on Igindu’s reactions. “Otaker gave no other description?”

Igindu spread his hands above the pommel of his saddle. “The king, all of us, could have hoped for more, but that was the extent of Otaker’s warning. We have heard nothing since, so it was feared that the army he warned of overran Krevar. That is reason King Simiis sent your father and mother into hiding, along with nine of Ammathor’s twelve legions, including the Crimson Scorpion Legion. Your grandfather feared that with Edaer’s Wall fallen, as well as Dawn’s Wall to the east, an army that could decimate Krevar could also pose a dire threat to Ammathor. He wanted to ensure that if such happened, your father would be able to assemble a counterstrike.”

Varis found no deception in the explanation. “What of my brothers?”

Igindu swallowed and looked away. “You Highness, your brothers perished while hunting in the mountains. I found them myself, amid a landslide. They….” his voiced dwindled to a sigh, and in the end he shook his head in despair.

Varis hid his smile. Ever had he despised his brothers. To the last, they had fancied themselves future warrior kings. At best, they had been but warriors of silken sheets and fat pillows, given to making sport of bedding adventurous highborn ladies and their insipid daughters. And when not so engaged, they had idled away their miserable lives hunting the crags of the Two Brothers. He was only partly glad that their distractions had saved him the need to slay them himself.

“Rouse my grandfather and his councilors,” Varis abruptly commanded. “I have word of the advancing army.”

Igindu blinked, as if trying to understand why Varis had not said as much straight away. “You mean there is such an army? Where is it … who leads?”

Varis’s teeth ground together, glaring at the blubbering fool.”As you can see, I come alone, and without horse. My journey, of late, has been exhausting and fraught with peril. I will reveal all, once those who need to hear are assembled. I will await that assemblage in the Golden Hall.”

Without another word, he brushed by a blustering Igindu and entered the palace grounds.

Though the scale was less than the king’s city, the grandeur of the palace was nearly overwhelming, even to Varis, who had grown up in its shadow. Marble and alabaster had been used in all the stonework, from the simplest fountain to the highest domed spire. The pathways, wide as streets, were lighted by firemoss lamps and paved in pebbled quartz of rose, white, and amber. Flowers and shrubs of every hue and scent, brought from the far-flung corners of the world, grew in proliferation. Even now, with the city in a shambles beyond the curtain wall, the usual highborn took their ease, clad in bright clothing. As always, Varis thought they looked like a strange breed of peacocks set to wander as they would. Most were taking their ease around fountains, or lounging on benches. The difference now, he saw, was the concern etched on every face. Even on highborn, the cataclysms and subsequent uncertainties had taken a toll. Slaves, wearing only white tunics despite the cool air, scurried under the burden of golden platters filled with food, their copper slave anklets tinkling. Not a few played harp or flute, making delicate music for the cultured ears of their indifferent masters.

Varis’s hood shadowed his grin. By dawn, these highborn wastrels would bow and scrape for him. His inner pleasure had nothing to do with a sense of mercy for the slaves, or granting retribution for them. Rather, his harsh joy came at the idea of seeing Aradan’s nobility made impotent and brought to a place lower than any had ever conceived for themselves. He would show them the vanity of their plotting and maneuvering. He would laugh as they choked on tears of outrage and shock. And when his laughter died, so too would the most useless of them.

He made his way through the palace, his now dusty robes and concealing hood earned only looks of curiosity mingled with disgust. Most people did not seem to recognize him, and those who did obviously disbelieved their eyes. At any other time, in his current condition, Varis would have been halted and questioned, but the world had changed, and uncertainty had a way of freezing the hearts of men.

He made his way to a pair of guards outside a set of doors as wide and tall as any found on a stable. These doors, however, carried more wealth in jewels, gold, and ivory than a small kingdom had in its coffers. Beyond the entrance to the Golden Hall waited the Ivory Throne, the seat of Kilvar kings for a thousand years.

“You Highness,” one of the guards said with a low bow. “We received a runner telling of your safe return.”

Varis gave the barest nod of greeting, and waited while the other guard hastened to push open the golden doors. Heavy as they were, the doors swung easily on silent hinges. Scores of nobles and the realm’s highest ranking officers waited within. While it was somewhat surprising that so many had been summoned so quickly, it pleased him that they had. The more eyes that witnessed what was about to happen in this vaunted chamber, the beating heart of Aradan, the faster word would be spread of his accession.

He allowed himself a moment to study his prize. At the farthest point from the doors, a stepped pyramidal dais rose from a broad base to a narrow pinnacle, upon which sat the Ivory Throne. The great chair, presently vacant, waited massive and ornate. It was built of immense and intricately joined curving ivory tusks, every inch of their length swirled with silver and gold inlay, and studded with sapphires, opals, and diamonds. Legend claimed that a score of men had struggled to set the throne in place. Varis did not know if such was true, but he did know that if the doors to the golden hall could buy a small kingdom, the worth of the Ivory Throne could buy ten.

At the base of the dais, a double row of white-kilted advisors and ministers sat on cushioned stools, speaking excitedly amongst each other. Varis knew these appointed men were not traitorous to Aradan, but they were self-serving nearly to a traitorous degree. Thus far, no one within the Golden Hall had noticed the opening doors and the figure waiting to enter. The herald’s booming voice changed that.

“Prince Varis Kilvar, heir to the Ivory Throne of Aradan, Keeper of the Kaliayth in the West, and Holder of the Golden Plain in the East!”

All heads turned toward him, and a collective gasp went through the assemblage followed by low, uneasy muttering. Only the officers in the galleries above the floor of the hall responded with proper decorum, each drawing his sword, pressing hilt to heart, the tip pointed toward a vaulted ceiling covered with colorful mosaics.

At that moment, King Simiis strode into the Golden Hall through a doorway reserved for the king alone. The mutters cut off at once, and all knees bent and heads were bowed in reverence. Simiis, always a hard man, glanced toward his grandson with unreadable eyes black as onyx. Varis, unbowed, waited in silence as the king slowly stalked toward him over alternating tiles of blue and white marble.

Simiis, past sixty years, was still as straight and strong as a man thirty years his junior. Varis was of a height with the king, but Simiis was broader across the shoulders and deeper of chest. His top-lock hung thick and white as snow. Clad in a long crimson kilt slashed with white, he was the figure of unbending will and potency that had guided Aradan over two score years. His reign would end this night.

“Master of Spears Igindu informed me that you had word of an advancing army,” Simiis said without a word of greeting, his voice deep and rough. If not for Simiis’ unconditional love for his children, an adoration that had spoiled the get of his loins, Varis had no doubt that Aradan would still be the kingdom it had become soon after King Edaer Kilvar took up the scepter. Instead, the kingdom was debauched and perverse, a land overrun by human leeches, and treacherous highborn all too willing to present their flesh to the bloodsuckers in order to ensure they retained power and wealth.

When Simiis halted before Varis, the prince nodded. “The advancing army is me.”

The king scowled. “What-”

He never finished the question, for Varis slapped his palm against the king’s naked breast. From beneath the ends of his suddenly glowing fingers, filaments of black invaded the king’s dark skin and spread in an ever-widening web. Simiis’s eyes bulged in horror, and his teeth clamped down on his bottom lip. His jaw worked furiously, teeth gnawing a ragged gash into the tender flesh. Scarlet began to course over his square chin. Gathering all that remained of his strength, Simiis flung himself back with a strangled, disgusted cry, eyes swimming with fear. “W-what are you?”

Varis did not answer.

He raised his hands and slowly pushed back his hood, revealing eyes of burning pearl and a face the hue of burnished bronze. His inner light swelled until that radiance filled the Golden Hall. Highborn, lords marshal, and advisors all howled in fright at the sight of his visage. Some recognized that death had come into their midst, and as fright became unrestrained panic, they bolted for the doors, dragging and pummeling at their fellows in order to be the first to escape.

Before any could flee the throne room, Varis raised his arms, releasing gouts of liquid ice to splash over the doors and windows. In a blink, that unnatural ice crystallized into a foot-thick skin stronger than any iron ever forged. One councilor reached the king’s door, his hands sticking fast when they touched that frozen barrier. In moments, delicate feathers of hoarfrost had spread up his forearms to the elbows. Others slammed into him, burying him under a seething mass of fearful men and women. All screamed and howled their terror.

Varis looked to his grandfather and grinned in satisfaction. Simiis had backed a little way off, but now stood immobile, his dark features a sickly yellow pallor. Varis’s palm had seared a black print, from which rose tendrils of smoke. Pink wetness flowed down from that dread wound, leaving a string of inflamed welts.

“What are you!” Simiis shouted again.

Varis’s voice boomed through the Golden Hall. “I am the Destroyer of the Well of Creation and Geh’shinnom’atar. I am the coming king, emperor of the coming dawn. I am the god of men!”

He stepped forward and caught his grandfather’s face in his blazing hands. Infinitesimal black threads branched out under the king’s skin, burrowing like worms into his flesh and organs. Simiis’s screams became a single piercing note of agony. No matter how he struggled, he could not break free. The king’s cheeks sank inward, his once proud features contorted by a grotesque sneer.

Varis shoved the wilted figure away. Simiis staggered, weakly brushing his hands over his skin, as if to dislodge a stinging host of ants. By now, his howl had closed off to a rattling gurgle. He abandoned wiping at his skin and set his nails to work, clawing, digging, leaving furrows that steamed. Of a sudden, Simiis went still. His fingers rose to his throat, and his mouth yawned wide, loosing boiling clots of blood that gushed past his teeth and spattered on the marble tiles with a hiss.

His eyes, full of fear and uncertainty, rolled toward Varis. One of those orbs burst, then the other, leaving behind steaming sockets. Where corrupted blood had burst from his mouth before, now flames sprang forth. In three heartbeats, fire exploded from a dozen tears in his skin. In the span of time it took for him to pitch over and strike the marble tiles, King Simiis had been reduced to a husk of spent ash.

Varis gradually subdued the fires within himself and his radiance dimmed, until he again resembled a mortal man. The assemblage’s stark panic of moments before had been replaced by a soul-freezing distress so deep and terrible that a handful of the feeblest lay sprawled in death. Those who remained could not look at him, and shivered like stricken hounds. As if by some unspoken command, they pressed their foreheads to the floor, weeping vows of fealty.

Pleased, Varis made his way to the dais and climbed to its apex. He looked over the throne for a long, silent moment. By king’s law, no one save the king and the kingdom’s greatest craftsman could come this close to the Ivory Throne. Its beauty, even at arm’s length, was greater than he had expected, for many a wondrous thing lost its allure up close. With a reverence he felt through every inch of his body, he carefully turned and sat upon the sculpted seat. The Ivory Throne was his, and so too was Aradan.

Chapter 31

Kian rode ahead of Hazad and Ellonlef, alert for any sign of Azuri. The mercenary had ridden away from them a half turn of the glass earlier in order to scout the road ahead. The desert was bereft of activity, but Kian refused to let his guard down.

Food, more than anything else, ranked highest on their priorities. All kept an eye out for anything edible, be it desert quail, adders and lizards, or plants, of which there were few enough upon the Kaliayth. Kian had been hungry many times in his life, but this was the first time he could recall that his belly had begun to sink in and his ribs, normally covered with lean flesh, had begun to show prominently. All of them, even their horses, had taken on a slightly gaunt look. Despite persistent hunger, Kian took comfort that Ammathor was not so far distant that he and his companions would starve to death in the desert.

They had ridden from their last camp before sunrise, and now dawn was painting the desert a dirty, bloody red. Indifferent to the unending smoke, a few waking birds called from thornbush and shrub, sage and juniper. The lightly dewed vegetation added a heady aroma to the pungent reek of the burning Qaharadin, now far to the west. Kian did not want to admit that he was getting used to the way the smoke filtered the light of day into an ugly red-brown, but that was a lie. The idea of a blue sky and a golden sun had become a fading, dreamlike memory.

His movements weary, Kian looked back over his small company. Hazad was already sneaking sips from his dwindling supply of jagdah, while Ellonlef rode in stoic silence, just as she had the day before, and the day before that. His was a pitiful band, all the more because their hope of soon reaching Ammathor was a double-edged blade. Food and shelter might well await them, but there was also Varis and, quite possibly, their demise.

Facing forward at the sound of pounding hooves, Kian focused on a rider galloping toward them. He automatically reached for his sword, but the rider proved to be Azuri, who reined in, his tense expression suggesting that he had found danger.

“Did you find anything besides sand and goat droppings?” Hazad asked, easing his mount closer. Ellonlef did the same, her eyes over-bright with hunger.

Azuri nodded. “Men, just over the next rise.”

Kian’s eyes narrowed. “Bashye?”

“No. Pilgrims, following after a begging brother. They are camped right in the middle of the road.”

“Fools all, but harmless,” Kian said, relaxing.

Azuri did not look so sure. “These pilgrims are armed, and I judge that they are not new to the swords and bows they carry. They have the look of warriors.”

Kian again noted Azuri’s edginess, but this time he also noticed the man’s growing disinterest in keeping his skin and clothing clean and tidy. All of them were struggling under the strain of hard traveling across the desert, and their concern for what they would face in Ammathor only made matters worse. anything between was like salt in a wound.

“Even this close to Ammathor,” Kian reasoned, “Bashye pose a threat. I dare say it would be foolhardy for anyone, pilgrims included, to go about unarmed.”

“Perhaps,” Azuri answered doubtfully. “However, I suggest we string our bows and loosen our swords.”

“I agree,” Kian said, glancing at Ellonlef and wondering what to do with her, should trouble come.

“Do not worry about me,” she said, as if reading his mind, her eyes flinty.

Kian considered how she had faced the Bashye before, braving death with the abandon of a seasoned warrior, and nodded. Whether she would approve or no, he intended to remain close to her.

“Let us see what this Madi’yin and his followers are about,” Kian invited, and heeled his mount into a slow walk-there was no point rushing toward potential difficulties. Although the others did, for himself, he did not string his bow. For now, he reasoned that sword and dagger were enough. And if he had need of his bow, which he had skillfully repaired after a Bashye’s sword had cleaved it in two, then it was ready.

A mile farther on, they crested the hill Azuri had spoken of, but no pilgrims waited. On either side of the road, ruddy stone pillars, heaped boulders, and pale sand dunes marched off into the desert until they merged with the hazed north and south horizons. Of men, there was no sign. Nevertheless, Kian’s nerves tingled. For the first time in many days, he forgot about his growling belly, and found himself reassessing Azuri’s uncharacteristic disquiet. Unconsciously, he loosened his sword in its scabbard.

“A fair morning, brothers,” a man abruptly called, appearing from around a boulder resting at the edge of road. Squat and plump, his smallish head was bald, and he wore a forked, dusty black beard, the scraggly tips of which reached to the hempen belt of his grimy robes. A begging brother of the Madi’yin priesthood, no doubt.

Hazad answered, his gruff voice at once mocking and dangerous. “You call us brothers, yet I do not recall suckling at my mother’s teats with you by my side. That makes you either a liar … or a priest. Which is it?”

“All men are brothers-all the more when days darken and the world begins to pass away.” The man’s smile was broad, toothy, and utterly humorless.

“What errand finds you here, alone?” Kian asked, cautiously searching for the man’s companions.

“Once, I was a high priest serving Attandaeus, the Watcher Who Judges. With the death of that false god, I found truth in the shadowed mountain halls of the Madi’yin. Brother Jabolk is my name, and my travels since the Awakening have taken me to every corner of Aradan. Now, I return to Ammathor from the Izutarian border. I bring revelations from the gods for the wretched souls yet sheltering in the king’s city.”

Listening with half an ear, Kian leaned over and spoke quietly to Azuri. “You are sure you saw pilgrims?”

Azuri nodded, his hard gaze never straying from the begging brother.

“Ambush?” Kian suggested. “Or are they hiding from us?”

“Let’s find out,” Azuri said, then spoke to the priest. “Where are your followers, brother?”

The Madi’yin cocked his head to the side as if perplexed. He held his arms apart, looking pointedly in either direction. “I’m sure I do not know what you mean. I’m quite alone.”

Azuri’s lips formed a retort, but Kian dropped a hand on his wrist, stilling him. There was the very real chance that this man’s followers had gone to ground in fear. If so, he did not want to pointlessly goad them into taking up arms.

“I hope for you many blessings,” Kian said amicably. “I regret that we must leave you to your pilgrimage.”

“Look about you,” the begging brother urged, his laughing tone brittle as rotten flagstone.

“The great cities are as decaying corpses. Even villages-those few that remain inhabited-brim with lusts of every kind, unmentionable perversions and murder. The highborn rail against the Ivory Throne, constant skirmishes between Aradan and Tureece spill innocent blood into the sands of the Kaliayth. Kelrens raid from the eastern seas, as never before. The kingless Bashye rage and slaughter, and so too stir the ice-born savages of the Whitehold, taking spoil where they will. Two of the Three false gods are dead and gone, and only the ghost of Hiphkos remains. The world has been afire long months, and continually shakes as will a dying beast. All are omens of doom, promises of worse yet to come, and you do not have time? For the sake of your souls, turn from your wicked endeavors, and join me before it is too late.”

“Stand aside,” Hazad growled.

“Do you deny my divine message?” Jabolk asked flatly.

“You are a thrice-cursed fool,” Hazad snapped.

The silence of Kian and the others proclaimed where they stood.

“Your willful arrogance and mockery condemns you,” the priest said, diving behind the boulder at his side.

Kian flinched at the telltale hiss of an arrow slicing through air. Azuri grunted at a sharp thud, and stared down at the quivering shaft protruding from the center of his pommel. Without command Kian, Azuri, and Hazad bared their swords, while Ellonlef brought her bow to bear. Arrows began to fall from all directions, but the archers remained mostly hidden. Kian twitched away from the fiery pain of an arrowhead scoring his cheek, and all at once, his mind seemed to catch fire, burning away the lethargy born of his fatigue and hunger. He raised his blade with a murderous snarl, then slapped the flat of the sword against the rump of Ellonlef’s mount. The horse squealed in alarm and bolted back the way they had come, with Ellonlef holding on for dear life.

Satisfied that she would not be able to halt the horse until she was well away from danger, Kian kicked his mount into plunging leap. As always when the battle rage fell on him, his sword hilt felt hot and alive against his palm, wrapped leather melding with the creases of his fingers and palm until flesh and weapon became one.

In a spray of sand and pebbles, he reined the horse around the boulder hiding Jabolk. The bald priest popped his head up, eyes bulging with stark surprise. There was no question that he had believed Kian was dead already. The begging brother jumped up and ran into the open, robes flapping like the wings of vulture. Gone was his self-righteousness, the confidence in his cause; now he was but a man seeking to survive. Kian rode him down, keen sword parting Jabolk’s head from his neck with a ringing clang. The fool’s skull slapped into the dust and rolled under a thornbush. Kian took no further notice.

Dragging the reins, he wheeled toward the road. Ahead, a howling Hazad and grimly silent Azuri assailed attackers emerging from behind bush and stone. At the frightful slaughter the pair made, many of Jabolk’s new converts threw aside their weapons and ran.

The fire in Kian’s mind froze hard, and all became preternaturally clear. His horse trampled one man as if he were no more than a shrub. Another loosed an arrow that missed skewering him by a hair’s breadth. Kian furrowed his assailant’s skull with a single, crushing blow. More foes rose up. All fell. Steel rived life from flesh, and before one corpse found its resting place in the dirt, he was off after another enemy.

Another arrow narrowly missed Kian’s throat. He ducked low, putting heels to the horse’s flanks. His mount took him in a wide arc just out of range of the archers. Still riding hard, Kian slammed his sword into the scabbard. With his knees, he guided the horse back the way he had come, all the while drawing his bow from the wooden case hanging from the pommel. With the skill acquired over a lifetime of earning his way in treacherous lands and against ruthless enemies, Kian deftly strung the bow, drew a steel-headed arrow from the quiver, nocked it to the bowstring, and fired. The shaft whistled as it sped away, and his target turned at the last instant, the arrow ripping through an eye and bursting out the back of his skull.

Before the man fell, Kian had already shifted his aim, searching out other targets, riding and firing. He skewered enemies without hesitation. The wider battle rapidly became a slaughter, then a bloody rout. He had not asked for this fight, but he would finish it.

With the enemy facing decimation at the hands of but three men, confused panic set in.

Kian reined in, breathing easy. Far afield, a lone man fired a last arrow in his direction, then ran in a half-crouch, trying to use brush and boulders for shelter. Kian nocked another arrow, drew fletching to cheek, raised the bow high … and thought of Ellonlef. The assailant would have killed her, given the chance, just as he would have killed any of them. The days of easy mercy had become a memory.

“You should have stayed in your blankets this morning, friend,” Kian whispered.

The string slipped off his fingertips, the arrow sped upward, then began its long descent. Eyes narrowed, Kian watched the running man, not the falling shaft. The arrow buried itself into the base of the fleeing man’s neck. His arms flew wide, his feet tangled, and he fell dead, falling to vanish amid a scatter of stones.

Kian turned at the sound of hooves and found Ellonlef cantering toward him, her features taut with indignation. Other than her irritation, she appeared unharmed. Despite himself, Kian felt a rush of relief, and he began laughing. Ellonlef reined in some distance off, her ire replaced by a mystified look. When he continued to laugh, giddy as a boy, her lips twitched toward a grin, then she shook her head and rode off toward Hazad and Azuri, who were searching the dead.

After a time, Hazad raised a large leather pack. “We have food!” he called in triumph.

Kian laughed again. It felt good to laugh, despite the grave danger they had been in just moments before. Mirth of any sort, he reasoned, with what was coming between him and Varis, would soon be in short supply. He tried not to think about that, as he again took up the lead toward Ammathor.

Of the begging brother and his followers, he thought no more.

Chapter 32

The bridge crossed the Malistor, running wide, deep, and a sickly reddish brown that matched the sky for ugliness. All the world seemed the hue of dried blood. The constant veil of smoke, the dire aspect of the landscape, and the unnatural solitude of their surroundings left Kian deeply troubled.

The Kaliayth was always absent plentiful life, but this near Ammathor there should have been merchant trains moving to and from the king’s city, along with peddlers and crofters bringing their wares to the city’s bazaars. Neither did barges nor fat-bellied trade ships ply the river’s waters. Even with such hard times, there should have been some activity. Instead, it was as if the entire living world had perished.

Pushing aside his foreboding, Kian eyed the wide expanse of land known as the Pass of Trebuldar. The pass rose and narrowed toward the Two Brothers, twin mountains now seen only faintly through a hazy shroud. In all that gloomy redness, the few trees and scrub scattered amongst wind-worn boulders looked a startling, sickly green. He imagined Varis somewhere ahead, looking back at him with his goggling white eyes.

“Varis will expect us to come this way,” Kian said.

“Doubtless he will have sentries posted on every road leading into the city,” Azuri agreed.

Kian glanced at his companions for any suggestions.

Hazad shrugged, then took a sip from his depleted skin of jagdah.

Ellonlef offered, “There is the trade road that passes through the fishing village of Teeko to the south, and leads into the Chalice.”

Kian shook his head. “Varis will have that road watched, like all the others.”

“Perhaps,” Ellonlef said, “but he cannot hope to put guards on all the smuggler trails that branch off the main road. Even if he has, their numbers will certainly be thin enough for us to sneak by-there are simply too many paths to watch with any effectiveness.”

Kian appraised her. “What would you, a Sister of Najihar, know of smuggler trails?”

“To know a kingdom’s strengths, you must also know that kingdom’s weaknesses,” Ellonlef countered. “If we chose to enter the Chalice in order to reach Ammathor, I also know someone who can help.”

“You sisters really are spies,” Hazad said in appreciation.

Ellonlef offered a tight smile.

“Very well,” Kian said, bowing in the saddle. “We put our care into your hands.”

Ellonlef nodded graciously, and led the party south along a rutted wagon track following sweeping river bends.

As the day lengthened, gusty winds out of the north and west picked up. Instead of warming, the day grew colder. The sun climbed, giving off a thin ruddy light, but offering no hope of warmth. Miles passed and the wind increased, sending streamers of grit rushing low over the ground with a steady hissing sound. In a bid to stave off the choking dust, everyone wrapped swatches of cloth torn from a tunic around their faces, leaving only their eyes visible.

Sometime around midday, a loud and erratic banging drew their attention to a sturdy mud brick home set far off the track. Kian surveyed the abandoned crofter’s home through squinted eyes, noting a shutter had come unbolted and was slapping against the wall. Much longer and the shutter would splinter, or the wind would rip it off its hinges. He thought nothing of it until they passed a second crofter’s house.

Here, the front door creaked open, then slammed shut, creaked, slammed. Kian reined in with a frown. It took a moment for him to realize the problem was not in what he saw, but rather what he did not. Like the last croft, this one had been abandoned some time gone. Summer-yellowed weeds grew in place of crops; the doors to low-roofed barns that normally sheltered goats and sheep, pigs and chickens, oxen and burros, stood empty. In distress, he imagined that people had sought each other out, congregating for safety and solace. Teeko, he considered, might well be a bustling town.

The trio rode on, fighting to remain on the wagon track in the face of a building sandstorm. The scant daylight weakened as the sun sank in the west, and every croft they passed was in worse condition than the first two.

When they came to another ancient stone bridge, they carefully crossed over. The shaking of the world had damaged the structure, though someone had spanned the gaps with timbers. On the eastern shore, Kian and the others trotted their mounts up and over a steep embankment cut by millennia of spring floods. Expecting a village lighted by lamps and candles, he instead found a scene of destruction that defied comprehension.

Teeko had originally been a smallish keep with four large towers at the cardinal points and high, crenulated walls of sandstone. Over the centuries, Teeko had become more of a village than an outpost, surrounded by a haphazard collection of shops, taverns, and brothels that catered to passing caravans and the crews of trade ships. Teeko’s keep had become an inn. As the village lay not far from Ammathor, the services they provided were not much needed, so even in the best of times, Teeko oozed an air of dilapidation.

No one would ever again worry over that.

Where the outpost had once stood now a gaping, water-filled hole remained, from which deep fissures radiated outward. What had survived being dragged down into the earth had been reduced to low piles of rubble, flattened as if an errant giant had stomped through the village. Unlike the abandoned crofts they had passed earlier, here there were people, but time, the arid climate, and carrion eaters had rendered the corpses into skeletons covered in patches of leathery hide and wind-tugged hair.

The increasing winds, colder than ever, dissuaded talking, so they continued, now following Aradan’s southern trade road, each lost in their own thoughts. For Kian, there were no words to express what he felt after seeing what had become of Teeko. To be sure, remorse for so many lost innocents distressed him, but more, he found himself wondering how many other towns and villages and cities had suffered the same fate. His heart told him that in the coming months those who were still alive would suffer far more than those who had died quickly. Winter, seemingly already crouching in wait, despite that it should be months off, would destroy crops waiting in vain for harvesters to collect them. With hunger would come sickness, perhaps even plagues. To be sure, there would be violence. If things were as bad as they seemed on the surface, it could well be that the following spring would see Aradan torn asunder by desperation-and by those who exploited such desperation.

The road climbed steadily, winding through weathered stone and pillars of red rock made all the darker by the setting sun. Of sentries or other watchers, they saw no sign. With the southern reaches of the Chalice still some ten leagues away, the absence of observers did not surprise Kian.

In the lee of a rock, he halted long enough to suggest that they ride until they could find a suitable place to shelter from the wind, and then camp for the night. No one refuted him, and they rode on, bowed in their saddles, tired and hungry.

As they crested a rise of land that overlooked the River Malistor and the Kaliayth beyond, Kian jerked his reins with a shocked curse. When the others glanced at him, he merely pointed west. Far off, a great curve of dark smoke was piling up, the winds pressing it east against the Ulkions. Before that roiling bulwark, all was as hazed and grim as ever, but behind that arc the sky was a startling indigo sprinkled with the evening’s first stars.

“Look!” Hazad breathed.

All eyes gazed at the distant opening in the sky, uncertain what should concern the big man. After many long moments, Kian felt an inexplicable unease stealing over him.

“What madness is this?” Azuri said in a hollow voice.

Kian looked between his companions, missing something. “What do you see?”

“There is the Archer … and there the Turtle,” Hazad answered, pointing out the various constellations.

“By the gods good and wise,” Kian muttered, recognizing what was amiss.

Hazad twined his fingers through his braided beard and tugged hard, as if he meant to rip the hair out by the roots. “There, also, is the Bull … there the Maiden … the Four Sisters.”

Kian swallowed. After his short-lived excitement at seeing a sky free of the pestilent smoke, he felt like he choking down shattered pottery. “Those are winter stars,” he rasped.

Azuri cast about, eyes abnormally wild. “Have we somehow lost two seasons?”

Kina looked for the last hint of the setting sun’s fading glow, and saw that it lay far south, just as in winter. Still, even with two pieces of strong evidence to support Azuri’s outlandish query, he could not accept that he had lost half a year of his life. With little enough effort, he could account for nearly every day since leaving Ammathor at the beginning of spring. At worst, he might have lost track of a few days while struggling to escape the Qaharadin Marshes.

It was Ellonlef who dared answer the inexplicable question.

“Whatever forces destroyed Attandaeus and Memokk,” she said slowly, “perhaps also caused the world to shift its place in the heavens.”

It sounded like madness, something conjured from the mind of a swatarin-addled Madi’yin, but neither of the three men countered her statement.

A skirling wind tore through the halted riders, bringing with it a deeper chill than any they had felt all day. If not for the fleeting appearance of steam puffing from the nostrils of the horses, Kian might have thought his mind was playing tricks on him. But no, it was getting much colder … by the moment.

“We need to set camp,” Kian said. “One with a proper fire.”

“A fire will give us away,” Azuri advised.

“Perhaps,” Kian said, “perhaps not. But if we do not find warmth, we will not survive the night.”

Hazad studied their surroundings. “If memory serves, the road takes an easterly turn around a cliff that runs a good league or more.”

“And that cliff is pocked with shallow caves,” Kian said, fighting to keep his teeth from chattering.

“We’ll need a cave,” Hazad said, “I smell snow on this wind.”

Kian and Azuri nodded in agreement, but Ellonlef contradicted them.

“You cannot be serious. It might snow on the highest peaks in Aradan, but that is all.”

The three northern-born men looked at her, and Kian said with a disarming grin, “We may not know much, we Izutarians, but we know when winter is coming, whether it should or not.”

Despite the inherent danger of riding with speed in darkness, Kian led them at a fast canter until the road turned. By the time they found suitable cave to accommodate them and their horses, a full hour had passed. Hunting for firewood proved to be a desperate, almost wild endeavor, but they soon had enough to last the night. To push back the dangerous cold, they built the fire large enough to heat the cave’s sandy floor.

Once the feeling came back to fingers and toes, the foursome tended to their weary horses, then spread their blankets on the ground. Hazad produced a parcel of smoked meat from the pack he had taken off one of the begging brother’s followers. Knowing the Chalice was near, all agreed that he should dole it all out, saving just enough to break their fast in the morning. They ate in silence as the wind grew more fearsome outside, filling the cave with mournful wails.

“I hope your friend has better fare than this,” Hazad grumbled to Ellonlef.

“As do I. Normally, I’m sure she would … but there is no telling what we will find in the Chalice.”

“Let alone in Ammathor,” Kian added quietly.

He envisioned Varis as he had come out of the temple, a living corpse that had thrown about fire and death as easily as another man threw stones. He had faced Varis and survived before, as well as battling the mahk’lar, but he could not shake the feeling that things would be different this time. He did not fear what was coming, but neither was he eager to face it. As for the others, he silently vowed to do everything in his power to ensure that they did not follow him where they need not go. They would protest, without doubt, which meant he would need to deceive them in order to protect them. He had nothing specific in mind, so he had to keep his wits about him, his eyes sharp for the opportunity he needed.

For now, he took solace that he was warm, fed, and among good company. When he rolled gratefully into his blankets, he fell asleep thinking about the softness of Ellonlef’s lips, and the impossible depth of her eyes. His dreams, however, were of Varis, a creature whose impossible light cast all the world into shadow, and from his hands flowed death.

Chapter 33

Dawn found the trio riding for Ammathor and, for the first time in what seemed an age, the sun shone from an azure sky. Bright and pleasing as it was, the sun provided no warmth. Sparkling frost covered everything. For himself, Kian was just glad the winds had died. They had not traveled an hour before Ellonlef halted beside a barely discernable trail leading up through a scatter of prickly brush and junipers, before vanishing over a ridge.

Kian eyed the path skeptically. “Smuggler trail?”

“One of many,” Ellonlef answered, pointing out a rock off to one side with a faint mark across its face. “These inscriptions point out secret paths into the Chalice.”

To Kian’s mind, the scratch could have been left behind by another rock striking it, or from a sharp hoof. Either way, even if he squinted his eyes just so, it looked like a natural defect, and not at all something put in place by a human hand.

He looked again at the steepness of the path, and said, “The horses will never make that climb.”

“Then we’ll go on foot,” she said.

Kian shook his head. “We will stay the road.” He had made the decision that he would not skulk into the Chalice, but go boldly.

“You behave as if you want to be caught!” Ellonlef shouted unexpectedly, startling everyone. She quickly composed herself, but still looked flustered.

Kian could not stifle a grin, but his tone was serious. “I appreciate your concern, but I will not sneak into Varis’s lair. The rest of you may go or stay, but in this, I will not command you to do anything against your best interests.”

“It is your life to waste,” Ellonlef replied stiffly, her eyes a little too bright, then heeled her mount into a fast walk up the trade road.

“She has a point,” Hazad said. “I don’t know that you wish to be caught, but you seem inclined to taunt the prince.”

“He is surely a king by now,” Kian said absently. “As to taunting Varis, well, I’m not above needling him by riding openly into the Chalice. He is a proud one, and my goading will lead to him making poor choices in anger.”

“A fool’s errand,” Azuri said.

Kian shook his head. “Varis knows I am coming. Hiding my arrival will delay nothing, nor will it protect me from his ire. If I do not miss my guess, even if we cross any soldiers, they will let us pass unmolested. Varis, I am sure, will not act until I come before the palace walls.”

“How can you be so sure?” Hazad asked.

“Again pride, open or hidden, rules the hearts of many men, especially highborn, whether they call themselves gods, or not. As Ellonlef said, Varis fears me-a nasty thorn to any man’s pride. He will wait for me to come to him because he wants to destroy me, the only man who has survived his power. Doubtless, he wants to crush me in a way that removes all doubt of his supremacy, in his mind and mine.”

“And what of Ellonlef?” Azuri said.

“What of her?”

Azuri’s gray eyes were hard as ancient ice. “You cast aside all caution, without a care for her feelings … or your own.”

“I am doing what I am doing because I am burdened to be the only man who can,” Kian answered darkly. “What’s more, I go for her sake, as well as yours, Hazad’s, and everyone else who Varis would conquer. I must abandon her feelings. To carry them would be a distraction I cannot afford to have when I face Varis.” Such, Kian admitted only to himself, was easier said than done. It pained him greatly to anger or worry Ellonlef.

Hazad dribbled the last of his jagdah in his upturned mouth, swiped his lips with the back of his hand. “If Varis cuts your heart out, or burns you alive, can I have your sword?”

Kian scowled in consternation, then burst out laughing. Hazad joined in, his braying guffaws echoing in the rocky, mountainous terrain rising all around them. Even Azuri laughed aloud. Ellonlef, a hundred paces on, wheeled in her saddle at the outburst, staring as if the three Izutarian mercenaries had lost their minds.

Perhaps we have, Kian thought when the hilarity passed, for even among Izutarians, laughing at death was ill-advised.

“Come,” Kian said, “the Chalice, at the least, awaits.”

As they rode by Ellonlef, Kian nodded to her as if nothing untoward had happened. Her lips thinned into a tight line, but she held her tongue-just, by the look of it.

Over the rest of the day talk was scant, and the air grew colder. The horses seemed restive, as if they sensed the end of their long journey, and the riders did not hold them back. Although he took no satisfaction in it, Kian’s estimation of Varis’s plan to let them come unmolested proved accurate. Not once over the last leg of the trek did they see a soldier of Aradan, nor anyone else, until the Chalice’s southern wall came into view, just as night was falling.

Only as they passed through the guarded gate did Kian notice anything that gave him pause. A beggar among the sea of desperate-looking people suddenly sat up straight, eyeing them with more than passing curiosity. A moment later, he lost the man amid the milling throngs. Unless he was wholly wrong, Varis would learn of his arrival within the hour. What would happen after that, Kian could not be sure. However, he was still certain Varis would wait for him. And after that … well, such was in the hands of the gods. For the time being, he concerned himself with the changes to the Chalice since last he had been there.

The Chalice was a place of warehouses and bawdyhouses, trulls and whoremongers. All great cities had their sordid districts, places where depravity was embraced, even encouraged. Nevertheless, a quick inspection of those huddled near the gate told Kian these people were not of the Chalice, but new arrivals. The weakest of these the Chalice would devour, and the strongest would forsake common decency and live, perhaps even thrive.

“Gods good and wise,” Azuri said, holding the back of his hand up to his nose. “This cesspit smells worse than I remember.”

Unperturbed by the reek, Hazad said, “I have never seen this many folk in the Chalice.”

“Doubtless people have come to hide behind whatever walls the king can offer,” Ellonlef said. “Better if they had stayed away.”

Kian agreed, offering strategic glares to any who came too close. He did not see covetousness in the many hollow stares focused on him and his companions, but rather a desperate hunger. He pitied them, but knew as well that such a hunger could prove deadly to him and his companions.

Before they had moved far into the Chalice, his hard looks began to lose their effectiveness. Eyes turned, mouths murmured, and hands stiff with cold reached, eager for anything to help them, freely given or not.

With no other choice, Kian used his boot to shove people back. As well, he loosened his sword, a visual incentive to warn off the starving horde around them. It worked for but a short time. More and more people were taking notice of the riders. Despite that Kian and the others looked as ragtag as anyone, they carried with them the unfortunate perception of wealth, for they rode horses laden with panniers.

Like a slow spreading fire, word passed from mouth to ear, telling that newcomers were amongst them, people who might be able to help. Farther back, the mutterings grew in volume, and the crowd started pushing forward. Demands quickly buried the pleas for aid. All at once the throngs surged, like an incoming tide, forcing those nearest Kian and the others even closer.

Feeling like a crumb of bread before a swarm of converging rats, Kian looked to Ellonlef. “We must go to your friend, now,” he said in a tight voice.

Ellonlef scanned the mob with a nervous eye and nodded.

Kian could have wished for more men to guard her, but he had what he had. “Hazad, Azuri, fall in behind Ellonlef. Watch her flanks and your own backsides. I will lead.” He did not have to explain that they should draw their swords, nor what they should do with them, if the crowds became dangerous.

“And what should I do,” Ellonlef demanded, “cower and snivel?”

“Draw your dagger,” Kian said gruffly. In the face of possible danger, a familiar grimness was falling over Kian, the blood in his veins cooling. There would be no mercy shown, no quarter given, should they fall under attack. He could forgive these wretches for thinking he had something to give when he did not, but he would not be their living sacrifice. “If one of them gets past Azuri or Hazad, kill them,” Kian said flatly. “Now ride!”

With that shout Kian wrenched his sword free and brandished it overhead, kicking his mount into a plunging trot. The others closed in behind him. With the sudden movement of the horses, and facing bared steel, the crowd had no choice but to throw themselves out of the way. Most were too slow to react, and the horses battered them aside. Angry shouts went up, and in moments people were teeming about like a swarm of angry wasps.

Kian paid those behind no regard, but focused keenly on those ahead. The people who had moved away from the gates and deeper into the Chalice, he understood, had begun to think about survival over safety. Although given no real choice, these folk had made the decision to turn their faces from light to darkness, no matter the cost. He did not fault them, for he, Hazad, and Azuri had done the same long ago, when they were but outland urchins fighting and stealing to survive the unforgiving streets of Marso. While he did not begrudge them, he was unwilling to bow to them. By their choice or not, they had come into a den of wolves, and so must learn the way of wolves.

Trailing shouts rapidly overtook the riders and passed them by. Heads turned at the cries and the sound of hooves pounding over the dirt street. As if of one mind, men and women in ragged garb closed ranks. Some stood unarmed, others bore cudgels or the odd spear or sword. Kian did not balk. With a roar, he kicked his horse into a full gallop. Hazad and Azuri voiced their fury, and he knew they were with him. A quick look told him Ellonlef was still safe, her features resolute.

As he looked back around a spear thrust at Kian’s face, and he viciously hacked off the rusted tip. Another man tried to snatch his stirrup, and he slammed the flat of his blade against the attacker’s skull, dropping him like a stone. If he could avoid dealing death, he would.

As the horses picked up speed, those blocking the way began to reconsider; those who thought too long, Kian rode down. Erstwhile assailants flew in screaming tangles of arms and legs.

And then they were through, the shouting crowds falling behind. They continued at a gallop, making hard turns and wild charges down streets and alleys, until the Chalice and its people began to look like Kian remembered it.

He slowed at the crossing of two streets, gauged which way had the least amount of people, then turned in that direction. Here, the longtime denizens of the Chalice only gazed at them with mild interest. The foursome was marked, to be sure, but any danger would come from the shadows, not head-on.

Kian reined in before a tavern with a hanging shingle on the stoop displaying a large, frowning green eye. Around them, the Chalice looked much the same as it had the last time he had been here, when meeting Varis to discuss his journey. Better had he wandered into a winehouse and guzzled jagdah until he was blind, than to have sold the skill of his sword for highborn gold. Regardless, Varis would have found his way to the Qaharadin. And, too, Kian would never have met Ellonlef, now sitting astride her horse gasping, her eyes wide. Thankfully, she appeared uninjured. He looked away before she noticed his scrutiny.

From a dozen different doorways, the music of zither and cymbals played a dozen different tunes, all drifting out into the street, and birthing another song altogether. Disharmonious as it was, that song blended easily with drunken laughter and the banter of trulls and their prospective clients. It did not seem to Kian at all odd that life in the Chalice should be going along as it always had. In the Chalice, there was no time to care about the end of the world, for here, every day was the end of the world for someone.

“Gods!” Ellonlef blurted when she caught her breath. “I would never have believed good folk could turn brutish so quickly.”

Azuri, looking over his shoulder to ensure they had not been followed, said, “Do not judge them too harshly. They are hungry, terrified, uncertain. Some few of them learned hard lessons this night.”

“Such as?” Ellonlef asked, obviously more shaken by an attack from commonfolk than she had been after the Bashye had run her to ground. Kian envied her innocence in this aspect of the manner of men. He himself had seen too much butchery in his life to believe that a dark beast did not lurk in the hearts of every man, woman, and child. Most often that beast remained hidden, restrained by morality, but in times of great peril it crawled from its lair to do unspeakable atrocities.

“They found out that cunning and audacity often bests sheer strength,” Kian answered for Azuri.

Ellonlef gave him a quizzical look, as if trying to see into his mind. Kian returned her scrutiny with a bland expression. While he did not know exactly how he would use the tools of cunning and audacity against Varis, he wanted neither Ellonlef nor Hazad and Azuri to suspect he was planning anything that did not include them. Ellonlef’s lips parted, and he feared she was about to speak aloud the question he wished to remain hidden, but a clamor drew their attention.

“Touch me not, you reeking pile of dung!” Harsh laughter followed the insult, mingling easily with the rowdy music and general clamor of the Chalice.

A group of three lordlings gathered in a semicircle around a legless beggar propped against a wall. Vibrant linen robes hugged the men’s torsos and flared out below broad belts woven of gold or silver. In the fashion of the eastern kingdom, the lordlings disdained common Aradaner top-locks for side-locks, and wore waxed chin beards shaped into ebon daggers. After spewing oaths and spittle, the lordlings set upon the beggar, kicking and stomping until he was a bloodied mound. To the cheers of onlookers, they all urinated on the huddled man, brazenly stole his few copper saarqs from an overturned clay cup, then sauntered up the street, trading lewd jests with a pair of trulls leaning out of an upper window.

“Do something,” Ellonlef snapped, glaring between Kian and the others.

“No,” Kian said, pointing at the beggar. “Watch and learn how the Chalice takes care of its own.”

A double handful of leprous-looking men emerged like roaches from an nearby alley and gathered around their fallen compatriot. Only, he was not fallen-bloody and battered, yes, but not nearly as injured as he had behaved. Nor was he legless, as evidenced when he tossed aside his soiled blanket and got to his feet. Staring after his attackers, face puffed and bloodied, the man looked nothing like the cowering cripple they had set upon. His eyes burned with malevolence, as he motioned his fellows forward with a dagger half as long as his forearm. The music of the street seemed to grow louder, and nearby trulls squealed with an almost sinister glee that was missed by the strutting lordlings. Like brown, grimy shadows, the beggars closed on their prey. No one raised a warning cry, no one so much as blinked in alarm.

Such is life in the wolves’ den, Kian thought, as the beggars pounced. In less than three heartbeats, the lordlings were dispatched, their blood spilling into a rank gutter. Moments later, the beggars had dragged the corpses into a dark alley to loot their victims, before casting them into the sewers.

Ellonlef stared in shock. “Does no one care?”

Kian shook his head, sorry for her distress. “Here, justice is done, if wearing a different, crueler face than what you might see in the court of a king.” Hazad and Azuri shot him an accusing look, but he ignored them. “In the Chalice,” Kian said, “men die each day with the sound of laughter in their ears. Such is it everywhere.”

“Where is your friend?” Azuri asked, attempting to distract Ellonlef.

She looked away from the scene of wanton murder, her eyes dry and hard. “We go to the Street of Witches.”

Chapter 34

“You take us to a witch?” Hazad gasped, drawing a few looks from passersby.

Not a season gone, Kian would have chided his friend for his irrational fear, but no longer, not since Varis’s actions had given truth to what most folk believed to be superstition and myth. Most witches were but charlatans, using gibberish words, herbs to cloud the mind, and potions to make breathtaking smokes in an effort to dupe desperate folk into handing over coin for some secret knowledge. While he believed that held mostly true, now he had to admit some witches might well have secret wisdom and ability.

“Hya is no witch,” Ellonlef said, “but she lives among them posing as a pyromancer. Though it is said she is quite skilled, she is in truth a Sister of Najihar.”

“Still, it is not safe,” Hazad countered. “Only fools have dealings with witches.”

For the first time since coming to the Chalice, Ellonlef grinned. “You need not fear women who grind herbs and gaze at leaves to scry the future. As for Hya, she is a gentle old woman who has secretly served the Ivory Throne for three score years. Come, I will guide you.”

Hazad did not look convinced, but he followed. Kian wondered if Ellonlef was as sure as she seemed, or was simply hoping for the best. Azuri, was always, seemed outwardly indifferent, although it was evident that he was keeping a sharp eye for troubles. Kian was glad of his friend’s diligence, for he sensed danger all around, felt it closing in, as if hunting.

Ellonlef led them on a zigzagging course through the Chalice. At every turn drunken laughter, music, and revelry filled the air. Nearly naked women danced or made love for coin, merchants of illicit goods sold to both poor and rich, and assassins laid plans over watered wine. Where shadows abounded music and laughter died, drunkards slumbered on middens and down alleys, and motherless urchins sought food of any sort, be it kitchen scraps or rats.

When at last they came to the dim street Ellonlef sought, they wandered up and down it twice, before she halted them with a raised hand. “It appears she has moved … or passed. She was old a decade gone.”

A flicker amid a pocket of deep shadows caught Kian’s eye. A robed woman sat on a stool a few paces away, looking directly at them with recognition in her stare. Without glancing away, she struck steel to flint. Sparks caught in the tinder below a mound of dried dung, setting it alight. A small, soot-streaked pot hung on a shaft above the rising flames. In the growing luminescence, Kian noted a collection of clay pots and small, dried animals laid out on a dirty swatch of pale cloth.

“Witch!” Hazad warned, his eyes bulging.

Kian guessed she must be an inept hedge witch, to be sitting out on the frosty street instead of within one of the nearby hovels. If not quite beautiful, she was handsome. Her only flaw was a pink scar running diagonally over her neck to the spot where her ear should have been. Her eyes bored into him, poking and prying, and he realized the recognition he had seen was for him alone.

When it became obvious she would not speak first, Kian said, “We seek Hya. If you would, please direct us to her shop.”

She answered in a straining hiss. “And long years have I have sought the man who put the blade to my throat, yet still I have not found him. Why should your search be easier?”

“Hya is a pyromancer,” Kian persisted irritably. After this night, his patience was exhausted. “She keeps her shop on this street. If you know the woman and the way, point it out.”

The witch smiled with small white teeth, and her eyes glinted with knowing amusement. “I have seen you in my sleep, Izutarian, every night over this past season. You come to destroy the Life Giver, but that way is a road of pain and failure. A new age has been born … an age of unending night.”

Kian struggled to keep his face placid. “Who are you?”

The witch’s smile vanished as if it had never been. Without answering, she leaned over her now bubbling pot, and began muttering in some guttural tongue. Her hands crawled over the implements of her craft. She broke off a cluster of withered flowers and tossed it into the pot. Smoke billowed, spreading quickly. In moments, as if in testament to her unnatural power, a reeking fog shrouded the entire street.

Kian and the others leaned forward with a collective gasp.

Sweat now dotted the witch’s reddened cheeks and brow. Strands of silvery hair hung in listless ribbons from her skull. Her chants became a peculiar, one-sided conversation, as she rocked forward and back … back and forward. Something dark leaked from her flaring nostrils. Tears fell from eyes alive with the fire’s weak flames, eyes gone black through and through. Suddenly her utterings climbed to a wordless wail, and she arched her back and faced the heavens. Something writhed under her skin, then a vaporous darkness began oozing from her pores.

“Mahk’lar!” Kian warned, drawing his sword.

Before anyone could react, the inky substance pouring from the witch’s skin coalesced into a vaguely human shape and flew at Kian. The specter knocked him from the saddle, left him wallowing in the street. By the time he clambered to his feet, the demonic apparition was gone.

As the demon’s for began to lift, Hazad and Azuri spun their horses in tight circles, searching the shadows. Ellonlef vaulted out of the saddle and ran to Kian, who was scrubbing his palms over his arms in disgust. It felt as though someone had sloshed a bucket of living eels over him. Ellonlef grasped his hands in hers, stilling his frantic motions. Her touch, no matter how ridiculous the notion, seemed to cleanse him. She pushed up his sleeves, but found nothing amiss. Then she looked into his eyes.

“I was wrong to urge you to come here,” she said quietly, urgently. “I beg you, leave. We must all of us leave. Ammathor, I now know, was lost even before Varis took into himself the power of the gods. And should you perish to preserve this wretched place, the world will grow darker all the sooner.”

Despite her forbidding words, Kian’s heart swelled. Azuri had suggested he might be smitten with Ellonlef, and he had avoided answering. In truth, no matter how unlikely it was, he loved this woman before him … but Varis was all he could afford to focus on. Not even a mahk’lar could shift him from his purpose.

“I cannot turn aside,” he said for her ears alone. “Whether you urged me to come or not, whether Aradan is more depraved than all other kingdoms or not, I must face Varis.”

Ellonlef dropped her gaze. “You are right … but I wish it were not so.”

“Let us find Hya,” Kian said, yearning in his heart that he could flee with Ellonlef and his friends, but knowing he could not.

Chapter 35

The foursome again searched down the silent street and back up the other side, before Ellonlef finally spotted a familiar sign that she had previously missed. A little way down a dead-end alley, hanging from loops of frayed rope, was a sign of rough wood, upon which was painted a licking flame held in an open palm. While she had seen the sign before, its location was different.

Ellonlef bade Kian and the others to wait as she dismounted. She looked up down the street, seeking but finding no immediate danger. A cold if gentle breeze brought to her ears the sound of distant music and bursts of laughter. The Street of Witches might be asleep at this hour, but the rest of the Chalice never rested and, moreover, seemed indifferent to the devastation that had befallen the world. She could almost imagine that all she had seen was a terrible dream. Her steaming breath gave proof of that lie, as well as the queer stars overhead.

She cast a furtive glance at Kian, remembering his lips on hers, a warming recollection that seemed distant and dreamlike, and yet clear as if that kiss had just passed. Her face flushed at the memory, as it always did. She had not known how much she wanted to kiss him until he had acted first. And then she had not wanted him to stop, no matter that Hazad and Azuri had been watching intently. In truth, the future husband Mother Eulari had chosen for her, the comely fisherman Sadrin Corron, could have been present, and Ellonlef would have been untroubled. At that moment, the entire world could have ringed them about, and she would have been overjoyed that all knew the truth of her heart … a truth she had hidden from herself since the moment she saw him come out of the darkness to fend off the bloodthirsty Bashye.

And now, here you stand, at the stoop of the woman with knowledge that will surely lead the man you love to certain death. Ellonlef had advocated that Kian face Varis, shamed him to it, in truth, which meant that if she lost him, then the blame fell to her. Yet, had he refused, then they never would have kissed in the first place, and the memory of him would have been only a fancy she seldom, if ever, considered. Had she let him go his way, she would have done her best to pass on the word of Varis’s intentions to any who would heed her, and then been away to Rida, where she would have lived out her life, for good or ill, with Sadrin Corron….

Ellonlef abruptly pushed the thoughts away. She could go round and round the rest of her life, and never find a perfect balance between what could have been and what was. All that mattered was that Kian would face Varis, and she must do all she could to ensure that Kian survived that battle. If she failed in that-

Ellonlef swallowed, but could not dislodge the sudden knot in her chest. Forcing herself to focus on the task at hand, lest misery overwhelm her, she moved to the rickety door under the swaying sign.

Hya’s new shop had been built onto the back end of a charred mud-brick building that tickled her memory. After a moment she recalled that the burned-out building had served the old woman the first time Ellonlef had met her. Thinking on that past meeting, she hesitated before knocking.

Nearly ten years had passed since she came to Hya, a meeting ordered by Mother Eulari. The old woman had not welcomed Ellonlef as a Sister of Najihar, but rather as an irritation that needed to be addressed, if only to be rid of her all the sooner. Ellonlef and Hya had both known why Mother Eulari sent her: Sisters of Najihar did not remain in any one place longer than the customary ten years, yet Hya’s stay far exceeded that, and by her own admission she had no intention of ever leaving. Mother Eulari wanted to know the why of Hya’s resistance.

After cups of tea and inane pleasantries, Ellonlef had put the question to her. Hya’s answer was to smile darkly and declare, “I’m not leaving the Chalice. I am needed here far more than I am needed in either Rida or the rest of Aradan. I made that choice when your mother was yet on the teat, and Mother Eulari herself was no older than you are now. If Eulari does not like it, then she can command me to forsake our order, and I will-but here I will remain.”

In the end, Mother Eulari had granted Hya her wish, and as far as Ellonlef knew, the old woman was still serving the Najihar Order, if by her own rules.

After finding an area reasonably free of splinters, Ellonlef knocked on the door. When that drew no response, she pounded until she heard a steady grumbling from within. A bolt rattled and the door creaked open, revealing a milky eye shining in the pale yellow light of a firemoss lamp. That squinting orb glared for a moment above a wizened gray face, then flared wider.

“You,” Hya said, her voice raspy with age. She opened the door farther, allowing the pungent scent of sulfur to assail Ellonlef’s nostrils. “Well, child, what do you want? Come to drag me off to some backwater kingdom, have you?”

“No,” Ellonlef answered. The last few years had bent Hya greatly, and whatever womanly shape she might retain was lost under layers of bulky brown robes.

“Well,” Hya grumped, “if you have come to beg scraps, I’ve none to give. Taken to eating rats, myself. Tasty, they are, with the right spices-though, of late, even salt is hard to come by.”

Ellonlef was not sure how to ask what needed asking, so she kept it simple. “Hya, my companions and I need your help.”

“Companions, you say … Sisters escaped from Rida, perhaps?”

Ellonlef shook her head. “Three Izutarians.” Then, registering what the old woman had said, added, “What do you mean, escaped?”

Instead of answering, Hya pushed Ellonlef aside and leaned out the doorway. “Best hide those horses,” she advised, “lest some starving wretch hereabouts sees them. Braised horsemeat, is tastier than rats toasted on sticks, I assure you.”

“Hya,” Ellonlef urged, trying to ignore the cold fist clenched in her belly, “what happened that our sisters should flee Rida?”

Once more, Hya behaved as she had not heard the question, and shambled outside to motion to Kian and the others with her lamp. The trio dismounted and led their horses down the alley, curiosity and a measure of mistrust written plain on their northern faces. Hya shuffled deeper into the alley, her lamp swinging from its hemp handle. “It’s not a barn, but there’s room enough for your horses, and enough oats to feed them, a day or two.”

As Kian passed Ellonlef, he whispered, “Can we trust her?”

She wanted to reassure him, but in truth she simply did not know. Time and circumstances changed everyone. “I think, yes, but we should take no chances.”

Kian accepted this as he seemed to accept all threats, with a grim expression and searching eyes.

Hya stopped and held up her lamp before a slanting wooden door set in the wall. Eyes filmed or no, she knew what she wanted when she saw it. After passing over Azuri, pausing on Kian, her gaze lit on Hazad. “You there, open this door. Mind, the hinges are near rusted through, so don’t jerk it about.”

Hazad grinned at her, but Hya’s intense stare ended that. Hazad grasped the door’s large wooden handle and lifted until the lower edge came out of the dirt. Straining, he carefully backed up, pulling the door open as he went, the hinges screeching loud enough to make everyone cringe.

“That’s a good lad,” Hya said. She showed a handful of slanted yellow teeth a twisted grin. “Big and dumb and quick to obey-best qualities for any man,” she cackled.

Azuri burst out laughing, and only quieted when Hazad turned an ugly glare on him. At Hya’s gesture, Kian led two horses into the enclosure, followed by a still sniggering Azuri leading the other horses. While Hya held the lamp, the three Izutarians made quick work of unsaddling the mounts. Kian fetched the oats from a near-empty sack.

“Are you sure you would rather not keep this for yourself?” Kian asked.

Hya’s face knotted into a frightful collection of folds and wrinkles. “Never liked oats. Consistency’s too much like throw up. Now, come along,” she urged, turning and leading them into her shop.

Ellonlef followed close on the old woman’s heels through a doorway and into narrow aisle that ran from the back of the shop to the street beyond. On either wall, hundreds of small nooks and cubbyholes reached to the ceiling, filled with all manner of books, scrolls, vials, and substances folded into oiled parchment.

“You spoke of help,” Hya said, turning through yet another doorway that led into a larger, drafty room with boarded windows. The scent of soot and sulfur was strong. Ellonlef realized they were standing in what used to be the main shop. A brazier sat in one corner, but the room was barely warmer than it was outside. “My guess is that you are not interested in elements used to create fire?”

“Not yet, at least,” Kian said contemplatively.

Hya bobbed her head and hung the lamp from a peg on the wall, then moved about the room lighting candles, though not in any way Ellonlef had ever seen. First she sprinkled something from a small vial around the wicks, then spat on the substance. With a hissing crackle, dark purple flames shot up from each candle. After a moment, cheery yellow flames replaced the purple.

Hya noticed the curious looks, and held up a clear glass vial filled with dark red grains. Each crystalline speck caught the light, taking that light within itself, making it glow softly. “The Blood of Attandaeus, the Nectar of Judgment.”

Hazad’s eyes widened. “You are mad.”

Hya chortled and pinched his belly, causing him stumble backwards. “Mad, am I? Perhaps. But that changes not the name nor the potency of what is in this vial. When I could yet see clearly, and still had steady fingers, only I, a mere Sister of Najihar, among scores of pyromancers throughout Aradan and Tureece, dared labor on such a creation. And only I have succeeded in giving life to a substance that defies the properties of common fire. By blood or by water, by oil or by wine, all liquids set it alight. In quantity, it burns through flesh or iron, and nothing will smother the flames before the grains are spent.”

“Such as that could bring you great wealth,” Azuri observed.

“Indeed,” Hya said. “Yet, imagine if you will, an ambitious and cruel man gaining this knowledge and using it for war. There would be no stopping him. ‘Tis better the secret of its making dies with me, than to sell it and swim in gold tainted by the blood of innocents-or ashes, as it were.”

“What if there was a brutally ruthless man with even greater strengths at his disposal?” Ellonlef asked quietly. “A man with abilities born not of potions and powders … but of the powers of gods.”

Hya showed her few teeth in a slanting smile, and her misty eyes sharpened. “Then, Sister, I would seek out one such as myself.”

“And what advice would you offer?” Kian asked, seemingly concerned that the woman had guessed more than she was letting on. Ellonlef knew that Hya saw much, because they had both been trained to observe and deduce. Such was the reason she had brought them to Hya in the first place.

“I would suggest, Izutarian, that a man such as the one of which you speak should not be allowed to walk the face of the world. I would find those who could destroy such a man, and point them in the direction of those who could get the assassins close enough to make their attempt.”

“Would you aid these assassins, even if that meant murdering a highborn?”

“Highborn,” Hya whispered, clucking her tongue. “I would … even if that highborn were a king, I would.”

“Why?” Kian asked, his eyes narrowed. He was not the only one looking askance at Hya. Ellonlef could not believe Hya’s words were coincidence, which proved she had been right to seek her out. Also, she wondered what Varis had done that the woman had come to her conclusions so quickly.

“Evil is evil, and cannot be overlooked,” Hya said promptly. “Those who allow wickedness to exist are no less monstrous than those whom they choose not to face, whether their turning away is from cowardice or acceptance.”

Kian stared. Hya returned the stare, unblinking. Moving slowly, Hazad peeked through a cracked board to the street beyond. Azuri shifted to one side of the doorway letting into the room, and pressed his back against the wall. Ellonlef could not help but marvel at these seemingly casual movements of preparation. Hya saw them, too.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” she said, still gazing at Kian. “But there is one who should terrify you … perhaps he is one such highborn that needs to perish?”

“Varis,” Ellonlef said, wanting to get to the heart of the matter.

Hya nodded. “Our new king has only just begun to set up his rule, though rumors have reached even here-unbelievable tales that have spread like wildfire. And yet, some are already beginning to side with him.” She smiled darkly. “If half of what has been said about King Varis is true, then he is both evil and powerful. As well, he is cunning-a combination that cannot be allowed to exist.”

Kian seemed to relax. “What has he done?”

Instead of answering right away, Hya sat down with a gusty sigh in the room’s only padded chair. She waved for the others to sit where they would, which meant one listing stool, or on the dusty floor. Ellonlef was given the stool, but Kian and his companions remained standing.

“Please,” Ellonlef invited, “tell us all you can,”

Hya leaned back in her chair, making it groan. “Big man,” she said to Hazad, “fetch me a blanket from that pile in the corner.”

Hazad was moving before he thought to balk, and then it was too late. Scowling, he brought the blanket. Hya flashed her grin again, but this time kept her hands to herself. After she had swaddled herself, she shook her head in apparent disgust. “Never has a winter come so early to Ammathor, and never one so bitter. If such weather holds, or grows worse, by springtime the flanks of the Two Brothers will be covered with graves and snow-that is if anyone is left alive to dig graves.” She let those dire words sink in, then answered the question Ellonlef had forgotten she had asked.

“My sister, you should know that you and I, and those not on the Isle of Rida, are the last of our order.”

Ellonlef stared at her, too shocked to utter a word.

“A great burning rock,” Hya went on, indifferent to the sudden tears sliding from her eyes, “as large as a mountain, some say, struck just off the coast of Aradan. No one who actually witnessed its fall are left alive. Those who saw the burning mountain from afar, out to sea and inland, went to the spot, then spread the word. They say Rida is simply no more. The sea churns over shattered rock, and the waves are the color of blood.”

“No,” Ellonlef breathed, her own eyes welling. The order had never been large, but she had trained with dozens of girls, befriended most of them. They had spoken of future husbands, or coming adventures, of all they would see and do. She had spent nearly ten years apart from those girls and grown into a woman, the same as them, and had looked forward to returning to her island home to share tales of what they had done. The magnitude of what Hya told was too massive for her to fully grasp.

“Too many people have carried the tale for it to be false,” Hya said, her now tender voice at odds with her careworn features. “Merchants and refugees all say the same. What’s more, they say that from forty leagues south of Kingsport to the Sunset Cliffs of Tureece, the lands are shattered and burned, much like a clay pot dropped into a hearth fire. Where once there were few islands and coves off the mainland, now there are hundreds, mayhap thousands, and not a one fit to tread upon. They say great founts of fire light the night, and by day molten rock spreads across those broken lands. The very air, it is said, is deadly to breathe.”

Ellonlef felt a presence behind her, then strong fingers fell gently on her shoulder. She took Kian’s calloused hand in both of her own, wishing she could drag some of his strength into her, wishing she could fall into his powerful arms and hide her face against his chest. But that could not be, not yet, if ever.

Hya noted the touch, but gave no indication of what she thought.

“Tell us of Varis,” Ellonlef said, struggling to keep her voice steady. She wanted to hear anything, even if horrible, to mask the howling emptiness in her heart.

“To understand the boy-king’s success,” Hya said after drying her eyes, “you must appreciate the circumstances he has used to ensure his victory.”

“Very well,” Ellonlef said, though she could already imagine what those circumstances might be, after seeing how the rest of the kingdom had suffered.

“Since the reign of King Edaer, Ammathor has never been able to fully sustain herself. After the faces of the Three were destroyed, it was but days before merchants and crofters ceased bringing supplies and food to the city. Even before true hunger came, lawlessness and disorder sprang up. It was and is worse in Ammathor than in the Chalice, for the people of this district have always had to survive each new day, even during the best of times. Sleeping under moldy blankets and eating rats in the Chalice, after all, has never been all that unusual. Ammathor is another matter. When the food ran out, those of noble birth became desperate, and began calling for unspeakable acts of tyranny. King Simiis, though he has been a good sovereign, bowed to that wickedness, albeit reluctantly.”

“What did the highborn do?” Kian asked.

“Wealth has always represented a bastardized power,” Hya said, “but not true power, that which is wielded by those who carve law into stone, and enforce edicts with iron and fire. The prosperous seek authority, mistakenly thinking it is a thing to be bought. The highborn make a farce of selling dribs and drabs of influence, and fill their coffers in the process. Then, in a moment and with but a word, they take back all they sold, and name the theft a levy. So they have done in Ammathor, using the opportunity of disaster to demonstrate that real power is more of birth and steel, than of gold. In less than a fortnight, the highborn set their soldiers to raiding and looting. First they went after the wealthiest merchants and guilds, then set upon everyone else. There was resistance, though it proved futile. After all, what does a merchant or a baker or a seamstress know of swords and blood?”

“And at the height of the trouble, Varis arrived,” Ellonlef said, thinking of the ploy he had used in Krevar. “Did he present himself as a redeemer?”

“A redeemer and a destroyer,” Hya said, with an expression that spoke of a curiosity to listen to the tale that had brought Ellonlef to the king’s city.

“What of King Simiis, his advisors, those soldiers who are loyal to him?” Ellonlef asked. She would tell all that had happened to bring her to Ammathor, but that was for later.

“As I hear it,” Hya said, “Varis arrived in the night, and ordered a gathering in the Golden Hall. There, he became a creature of light and power. He somehow froze the doors shut to the throne room, then declared that he was the destroyer of Geh’shinnom’atar and something he named the Well of Creation. He proclaimed himself king, and emperor of the coming dawn. As well, he named himself the god of men. Then, at a mere touch, he murdered his grandfather. King Simiis died with his blood boiling and his skin black.”

“And no one resisted him?” Hazad blurted.

Hya shrugged. “Would you have, big man?” Before he could answer, she snorted. “I suppose you would have, and died for the effort. That aside, Varis now commands obedience through terror … but also with bread.”

“Bread?” Azuri said in puzzlement.

Hya chuckled wryly. “Can you imagine a highborn lady nibbling rats cooked over a dung fire? Given the choice between rats or bread, cold or warmth, danger or protection, what do you suppose most people will choose?”

“Bread,” Azuri said, this time in understanding.

Hya bobbed her head. “For the promise of bread to fill their empty bellies, they gave up all freedoms. For a mere loaf a day, they willingly turned against those who would resist Varis’s tyranny, those whose actions and words might threaten their small comforts-even if those people were friends and family.”

“Has that truly happened?” Ellonlef asked, wrath slowly overcoming the sadness of her own losses.

“Too often to count, Sister,” Hya said grimly. “Our young king gives no quarter to troublemakers or to those he deems useless rabble. Each dawn finds the city quieter than the day before. I have it from those I trust that the complainers and the infirm, be they lowborn or high, are taken into the mountains and slaughtered, and their corpses dumped into ravines that feed the River Malistor. Some might argue that kings have always treated their rivals so, but in Varis I sense an insatiable hunger for power that can be nothing but evil.”

“He will not stop with Aradan,” Ellonlef said. “He has named himself a god, and a god rules the world, not a mere kingdom.”

Hya nodded slowly, then turned narrowed eyes on Kian. “Tell me something?”

“Ask,” Kian said.

“What secret do you hide?” She peered at him closely. “Perhaps I should say, what secrets, for you have more than one. I can fairly smell them inside you.”

Kian looked momentarily troubled, but recovered quickly. “Varis stole the powers of creation, and in so doing, he loosed the mahk’lar upon the world, creatures of spirit that take and change the flesh of men for their own ends. As well, some of those abilities came into me. He has learned this, and intends to destroy me before I can kill him. If there is a secret, it is only that I alone can stand against him,” he finished, without a hint of bravado.

Ellonlef expected some amount of distress or disbelief, but Hya merely considered Kian’s words with a studied calm. After a time, she said, “The world is changed. There can be no denying it, and only time will tell what awaits us. That the mahk’lar are loosed from the Thousand Hells … well, that is troubling. I don’t expect you know how to put those demons back in Geh’shinnom’atar, do you?”

Kian shook his head. “Varis is trouble enough, for now.”

“Can you help?” Ellonlef asked.

“Yes, but only if you can abide carrying inside yourself the cold heart of an assassin.”

“I can,” Kian said grimly.

Chapter 36

Deception was not Kian’s gift, especially against his friends. They might understand that his nature would not allow him to wantonly kill a man from the shadows, but all would try to dissuade him from an open confrontation with Varis. Hya sensed something of his intentions, but as wise as she was, she had not yet put a finger on his secret-at least, she had not voiced any conclusions. So as they talked, he played the part of the conspirator as best he could, listened to Hya’s advice, and offered his own suggestions, as they planned the various elements of Varis’s assassination. But he knew it would never come to that. He would meet Varis as a man and an Izutarian, face to face, power of the gods against powers of the gods, and by the coming dawn the outcome of that meeting would be decided.

At some point Hya suggested they eat, and surprised all with loaves of bread and a wheel of cheese. “I’d treat you to roasted rats,” she said in all seriousness, “but a debt to me was recently paid in food. The bread will mold before I can eat it all, and I’ve never cared much for cheese.”

All were in agreement that the meal was fine, and the cold water they drank was sweeter than any wine. Kian told himself it was not his last meal, but could not be certain. He felt no apprehension for himself. He knew what he faced. Yet it was hard to watch a guffawing Hazad and listen to Azuri’s predictably sarcastic wit without feeling sorrow. They had stood at his side, and he theirs, for so many years that they had become more than brothers, they had become extensions of each other’s character. If he did not return, the loss would be devastating to them, much as if one of them fell and he was left alive.

Ellonlef was another matter entirely. She remained solemn throughout the meal, but he understood that hearing of the loss of her people weighed upon her soul. Still, he marveled at her strength. He was not certain he would have been able to hide his feelings half so well.

Kian waited until all were sleeping soundly, then arose, taking his blanket with him. The room’s firemoss lamp was covered with a threadbare bit of cloth, allowing a little of the lamp’s glow to light his way. He made the mistake of looking at Ellonlef, sleeping on a pallet of ratty blankets, with more pulled up under her chin, her dark hair spilling over her brow and cheek. He wanted to brush his fingers over her skin, feel her warmth, but could not. Neither could he tell her his intentions.

He turned and froze. Hya was looking straight at him. He did not know what to do, so he whispered the simple truth. “This fight is mine alone. If I fail, do not allow Hazad and Azuri to avenge me. Tell them it was my wish that they flee from Varis. It matters not where they go, as long as it is far away.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Should I fail, tell Ellonlef that … that it pleased my heart to know her.” The words sounded ridiculous to his ears, and in no way expressed what he truly felt, but at the moment it was the best he could do.

“May the love of Pa’amadin light your path and bless your sword, Izutarian,” Hya said. “And may the Most High bring you swiftly back to us.” With that, she closed her eyes.

Kian crept from Hya’s shop. Outside, under dark skies filling with clouds, he quickly cut a hole in the center of the blanket and dropped it over his head, then girded the improvised cloak with a length of rope tied about his waist. Warm as he was likely to get, he began walking northeast, toward Ammathor and the king’s palace. He would have preferred to ride, but did not want to risk his companions coming awake from hearing him banging about in Hya’s makeshift stable.

A cold wind harried him from the Street of Witches and into the heart of the Chalice, which had grown unusually still, though it was far from empty or quiet. The night air carried the scent of snow, an aroma he had not forgotten, even after a lifetime spent away from his northern homelands. It was a scent he had never expected to find in these arid southlands.

Once treading upon a main thoroughfare, he turned due north. There were no firemoss streetlamps in the Chalice, as there were in Ammathor, but light poured from winehouses and brothels. Drunkards staggered by in unruly packs, singing bawdy songs to disinterested trulls. Filthy urchins scurried amongst the shadows, looking for something to steal or to eat. Like all such children, they had learned to avoid cutthroats and worse. Kian made no attempt at concealment. He was just another Izutarian mercenary among the thousands who earned coin in Aradan.

After an hour, the liveliest sections of the Chalice lay behind him, and Kian made his way into the outskirts of Ammathor. For the first time in the history of the city, it looked less appealing than the Chalice. The king’s city could have been a graveyard, what with its empty streets and blocked windows, its denizens either fled, perished, or gathered around seldom-used hearths to ward off the cold. He had expected to see soldiers by now, but every narrow lane, street, and alley lay empty, save for starving dogs nosing about gruesome stacks of the dead.

Moving toward the palace, which sat atop the highest point in the city, he still did not bother with caution. There was no point staying out of sight, not when his aim was to be found. Still, no matter how close he came, he saw not one soldier scouring the city for him. The only conclusion he could imagine was that Varis held absolutely no fear of him. That meant the youth was either a proud fool, or Varis truly had no reason to fear any adversary. Either option suited Kian’s plan, but the latter troubled his heart.

As Kian continued his march, the voices of his friends filled his mind, beginning as unintelligible whispers and rising to a grating chorus. Varis has grown more powerful by far … He intended the message to be a challenge, a slap in the face … He wants you to come for him, so he can prove that he is the more powerful of the two of you. Ellonlef’s voice rose above the rest. He will kill you … You did not see what he did to his army, how he destroyed ten thousand in moments. God or not, he holds the power of one!

Kian halted in the shadows cast by a small palace, staring at his destination across a broad and cobbled road that encircled the king’s palace. In his mind’s eye, he saw Ellonlef’s gaze, so dark and warm … and slowly fading.

A chill wind gusted around him, pulling him out of his reverie. Castoff rubbish danced low over the ground, carrying with it the mingled odors of snow and despair. You could turn aside, a small voice suggested, deep within his mind. Run. Run now, far away.

Despite himself, Kian listened.

Hazad and Azuri are your men, they are your brothers. They will stand with you, no matter your decision. Did they not say as much? Ellonlef, too, all but begged you to turn aside. Run, now! Get Hazad and Azuri and Ellonlef, and make a new life for yourself!

The words sowed seeds of doubt and promise in equal measure. Varis’s journey abroad was to have been Kian’s last task as a hired sword. He had longed for a hasty end to the mission, so that he might retire to Izutar and live out the rest of his days in peace and contentment. However, Varis’s secret ambitions had changed that. Already the new king had slaughtered many, and his actions doubtless would condemn tens of thousands more.

“I do not want to die,” Kian said under his breath, feeling like a boy again, lost and alone. “I want everything to be as it was.”

Another gust slammed into him, and fingers of ice seemed to claw over every inch of exposed skin. Such winds and worse were common in Izutar, the realm of his birth, lands he had not seen in over a score of years. Those winds, along with scratching out a life amid stone and ice, instilled strength and resilience into every Izutarian. As well, it gave them pride, for what other people could boast of surviving not just enemies, but also the unforgiving world itself? Such confidence had led his parents to send him away as a child, rather than see him in chains, knowing that if the ruthless life every Izutarian faced had not killed him in the crib, then he stood a fair chance of enduring anything the world put before him, even if alone and hungry.

“Even if I run,” Kian whispered, “I will never be free. Varis will send his hounds, be they men or demons from Geh’shinnom’atar. He will hunt me and those I love, until we can run no more.”

The truth did not make him feel any better about his likely fate, but he knew, if for no other reason, he could not dishonor the memory of his family or his people by fleeing this duty set before him now. And if that duty earned him death, then so be it. Death, after all, was the ultimate fate of every man. Better to chose the path and face all upon it with a strong heart, rather than to cower and run and be taken unawares.

Resolved to his purpose, he flexed his sword hand while he studied the scene before him. Guardsmen at the main gate stood over a blazing firepot, stomping their feet against the cold, their fingers splayed above the flames. He would have expected to see archers walking atop the wall, their eyes scanning the darkened sprawl of Ammathor, but the wall stood empty. Likely, the cold had driven most of them into the corner turrets. Only if an alarm were sounded, would they bother coming out.

Like a wraith clad in beggar’s rags, Kian left the shadows and strolled across the road. The wind’s icy bite gnawed past his inadequate garb, sank past flesh to assail his bones. The flames of the guards’ firepot leaned far over in the rising wind, the tops sheared off in wisps of orange amid swirls of sparks. The guardsmen, more concerned with keeping warm than guarding the palace, had propped their spears against the wall at their backs. They had swords, but Kian suspected that even if they drew them, they would not use them unless he forced them to it. They did not see him coming, staring as they were into the flames and grumbling loud enough to mask any sound of Kian’s approach.

One of the guards finally glanced up when Kian halted and loudly cleared his throat.

“Halt!” the man called needlessly, drawing his companion’s attention. The guardsman was tall for an Aradaner, his face gaunt from recent hunger. His eyes were shot through with red, as if he had found additional warmth from a skin of wine.

“I am expected,” Kian said calmly, the blustery night air whisking away his steaming breath.

The other guardsman, silent and unmoving, peered at him. Unlike his companion, his dark eyes were clear, though he looked every bit as hungry. “You should not have come here, Izutarian,” he said, in no way hostile. They might have been two fellow travelers pausing to discuss the condition of the road. The calmness of the meeting proved that Varis had told them to expect Kian.

“I had little choice,” Kian answered.

The sober guard considered that. “I suppose not. What choice all of us had was taken away with the arrival of the new king.”

“Are you loyal to Varis?” Kian asked bluntly.

The guardsman showed his teeth in a bitter smile. “Much the same as I am loyal to all vipers that can kill a man with a single bite. As I said, our choices on many matters have grown slim.”

“Quiet, Vicr,” his companion hissed. “The king’s eyes and ears are everywhere!”

Vicr nodded toward his companion. “Na’eem, here, he fancies even the shadows are after him.” Though his tone was mocking, his darting gaze suggested he believed it as well.

Kian could have told them of the freed mahk’lar into the world of men, but he did not have time to spin that tale. Instead he said, “Dark days have fallen. Best to trust the likes of Na’eem’s fancies, just in case.”

Vicr shrugged. “Perhaps you are right, but there are not likely to be any watchers this night. Too damned cold. If there are, they are looking for you,” he finished, eyeing Kian.

“I saw few enough of the living in the city,” Kian said.

“Most have fled to the Chalice. And if not there, they have left Ammathor entirely.”

“As should you,” Kian responded.

“The king gives us bread and a warm bed,” Na’eem said. “And wine. The road, as we hear it, is beset by armies of brigands and Bashye.”

“When’s the last time you got bread or a bed?” Vicr snapped. “My belly has wanted for anything to eat for so long that I’m starting to think you might make a fine meal.”

Na’eem looked suspiciously at his companion, and took a subtle, careful step away.

Kian shook his head. “From here to the Qaharadin Marshes, the road is near as empty as the city, unless you count a few Madi’yin wandering about, and no more Bashye than normal.”

Vicr considered that, anger growing in his dark eyes. “So the kingslayer,” he snarled derisively, “lied about that as well. No surprise, really.”

“You may perish,” Kian advised, “but were I you, I would leave Ammathor after you let me through the gates. Better to die fighting to live, than to be slaughtered when your usefulness ends.”

“You may have the right of it, Izutarian,” Vicr said with a considering expression.

Knowing that the conversation had more to do with avoiding his duty than offering advice, Kian said, “Whatever you decide is your decision to make, but I need to deal with your king.”

“You will die,” Vicr said, not unkindly.

Kian’s smile was broad but humorless. “So I have been told.”

“Better that you turn aside now, and make what peace you may in the world. Go away … and no one will hear it from us that you were ever here.”

“I can no more run than you can cease drawing breath.”

Vicr contemplated that. “So be it, Izutarian. Just do not forget we gave you this chance-not that it will matter, in the end.”

Chapter 37

After the two outer guardsmen handed Kian off to a pair of their fellows within the palace gates, they led him without speaking along a path pebbled in quartz. Other guards were in attendance, but none spared him more than disinterested looks. By their gaunt features, hunger was the pressing concern.

Kian knew he had taken a grave risk openly coming to Varis, but one thing above all else convinced him that the new king would not bind or otherwise hinder him. Ellonlef had said more than once that Varis wanted to show that he was the more powerful of them. So far, Kian’s gamble had proven accurate.

While he had never stepped foot on the palace grounds, he had heard much of them-mostly that, at any time of day or night, highborn strutted about like perfumed peacocks, or took their ease around bubbling fountains, all the while waited on by slaves bearing delicacies and entertained by those playing soft music. Only the fountains remained, their light spray freezing in deep crystalline layers over the statuary, turning them from beautiful works into frosted grotesqueries. Of highborn, there was no sign. During normal times, he would have assumed they had taken shelter from the cold. Now he suspected that Varis had disposed of those who might think to usurp him, and the others had likely been sent back or fled to the their holdings.

Indoors, the palace was dismal and wintry. Under the glow of but a few firemoss lamps, Kian noted splendor on display in all directions, but it was not as magnificent as he had expected. Heavy dust coated items of gold and silver, onyx and ivory. Without question, a pall had settled over all the world since Varis stepped out of the doorway of that far-off temple.

A sudden turn took them out of the palace and onto a wide path paved in sandstone, which led to a pair of black obelisks covered with glyphs representing ancient gods, the faces of which were all upturned toward reliefs of the Three soaring above. Ahead, Kian knew from stories, waited the Path of Kings. The guards led him between the obelisks and the sandstone paving gave way to bone-white alabaster cobbles. High, black granite walls rose on either side, forcing the chill gusts into a steady wind that froze the sweat on his brow-sweat he had not known was there.

Elaborate sculptures of past Aradaner kings flanked the path, and though he was no Aradaner, he knew each: King Edaer, the First King, his marble face worn by centuries, rode a ferocious steed; King Thirod, who had delivered several crushing defeats to Tureecians throughout his short reign, held high a curved scimitar; King Uddhan had been a grossly fat sovereign, and was accurately depicted lounging on his side eating grapes, but also he had been a great builder of monuments to Aradan’s greatness. Though not all these rulers had been great men, or even competent, these three and a handful of others had proven worthy enough to be known in every kingdom that bordered Aradan.

After passing the last stone king, they came to another pair of obelisks, and the guards halted. “The king awaits you in the Garden of Dawn,” one guardsman said.

The other guardsman glanced at Kian’s sword. “Our orders are to let you keep your weapons, but trust that should you draw steel before the king, a score of arrows will pierce you in less than a heartbeat.”

So Varis does fear me, at least some, Kian thought, taking what little satisfaction he could that Varis had posted unseen archers. He strode forward, leaving the two guardsmen.

Beyond the Path of Kings, the Garden of Dawn was alight with dozens of blazing firepots, whose brightness showed a sprawl of pebbled paths winding through fruit trees brought from as far away as Izutar and Jinan, sculpted shrubbery from Kelren, and overgrown arbors laden with grapevines brought a thousand years before from Kula-Tak, on the northern shores of Geldain. The unprecedented cold, however, was taking a toll on the greenery, leaving it wilted and darkening toward black. Pillowed sandstone benches sat around as-yet unfrozen ponds filled with brightly colored fish. Kian could only imagine what the place must look like during a bright summer day, when full of lounging highborn.

“I did not expect to see you so soon,” Varis said, coming around a bower laden with withered grapes. He halted near a firepot. Only his smirk was as Kian remembered. Neither the middling boy-prince he had watched stride into the temple in the Qaharadin, nor the abomination that had come out, remained. Varis could easily be taken for a man ten years older than he was. His black top-lock was long and oiled, and held in place with a ruby-crusted gold band. His ankle-length kilt was of the purest white trimmed in blue, the hem brushing the finest sandals a king could desire. On each upper arm he wore golden armlets fashioned after cobras with ruby eyes. If he noticed the chill air, he did not show it.

“You would not have seen me at all,” Kian answered tauntingly, “had you not fled before delivering the remainder of the gold owed me for my services, and that of my men.”

Varis’s smirk vanished. “I fled nothing, and certainly not you, Izutarian.”

“Be that as is it may,” Kian said, the familiar ruthless chill settling into his heart, “I’ve come to collect my due.”

“Your due?” Varis chuckled, striking without warning.

A wall of flame washed over Kian, knocking him flat. As he curled into a defensive ball, Ellonlef’s voice filled his mind anew. Varis has grown more powerful by far! And yet, the flames did not touch Kian. Through squinted eyes, he saw and heard the roaring of unnatural fires, a swirling mass of gold and azure, raging all around him. No heat touched his skin, his clothing, nor even the alabaster cobbles he lay upon. If only I knew how to wield the power inside me! But he had no control. Something in him resisted Varis’s attack, but did so of its own accord, not of his will. Which left but one option, a means with which he was far more familiar.

Kian rolled to his feet and drew his sword. No arrows fell, but then he was all but invisible within a cocoon of flame. Varis was just a wavery blur before him, a creature of pearlescent eyes and skin glowing like burnished bronze. Indistinct or no, it was enough.

Kian pushed forward, as if driving against a strong wind. One step, then another. The closer he came to Varis, the stronger the force of the roaring flames pushed back against him. Around his feet, white stone began to blister and blacken, then melt like wax.

When he stood within an arm’s length of his foe, Kian was able to see the uncertainty on Varis’s godlike face. Kian bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. He could almost taste the fear coming off Varis. With a shout, Kian lashed out with his sword. At the last possible instant, Varis lurched backward, lost his footing, and fell to his backside. The fires died with a blustery, swirling gust, leaving Kian standing unhindered over the king. And still no arrows fell, no guardsmen showed themselves, suggesting that Varis’s followers might not be so loyal after all.

“You’ve goaded the wrong man,” Kian said coldly, the tip of his sword pricking the hollow of Varis’s neck, producing a tiny droplet of ebon blood. This was what Kian had hoped for, that although Varis could wield the power of gods, his flesh was as weak as any man’s. And because of that weakness-the same that rested within Kian’s own flesh-he would be able to destroy Varis.

Kian tensed to thrust the sword through the new king’s neck … but hesitated. In that moment, Varis again had the aspect of a youth, a boy afraid for his life, wretched in his weakness. In the icy vault of Kian’s mind, he remembered Varis slaughtering the Asra a’Shah outside the temple, and all the dead in Krevar, those Varis had destroyed and turned into demons, and all the piled corpses in Aradan-men and women and children that a good king would have aided.

“This night, you die,” Kian growled, burying any sense of pity he held in his heart.

Varis’s fear dissolved into a merciless grin. “Truly?”

Varis bellowed something, even as Kian fell into a crouch. A soldier was coming at him with a spear held low. As Kian twisted to meet this new enemy, he heard a whooshing sound. He barely registered the attack before the butt of a spear, wielded by an unseen attacker, slammed into the base of his neck. A flash of lightning seemed to crawl across his vision before a wall of solid darkness fell over him. His cheek met the scorched cobbles, but he felt no heat. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and shoved his hands under his chest, fighting to regain his feet. All the world was dark and ringing. Muted voices seemed to come from afar. Kian instinctively knew the situation was dire, but he focused only on standing. That was all he could think about. He had to stand and defend himself. He would not die like a whimpering puppy. He had to-

The spear fell again, crashing into the side of his head, and he knew no more.

Chapter 38

When Kian came awake, he groaned at the splitting ache deep inside his skull. It took a moment to understand that his arms were stretched high overhead, and that he dangled some distance off the ground. It took a moment more to realize that he was no longer outdoors. He glanced up, slowly, the movement sending thudding waves through his head, making his stomach clench in revolt. Without question, he had been beaten while unconscious. The numerous pains all along his stretched body, and the taste of blood on his tongue, told him that much. One of his eyes did not seem to be working, and for a moment he feared Varis had gouged it out … but no, he could see, just. He forced his swollen eyes as wide as possible.

In a circle around him, backlit by guttering rush torches, five men clad in hooded crimson robes muttered and tossed herbs on top of smoldering braziers. Sweetly fragrant smoke hung heavy in the dark hall. The priests, Kian saw at once, were of the Order of Attandaeus, the Watcher Who Judges. He surmised that he was in the infamous Gray Hall, where the kings of Aradan harshly judged the worst enemies and criminals of the realm.

The high priest, marked out by the golden threadwork trimming the hem and cuffs of his robe, approached Kian, his face hidden in the shadow of his hood. Where his features were cloaked, his smoldering eyes reflected the hall’s thin light. In a deep voice, he asked, “Do you wish to beg atonement for your sins against King Varis Kilvar, the realm, and the gods?”

“Aradan is lost and the Three dead,” Kian countered, voice thick with blood. “And your precious king is a murdering usurper.”

The priest’s stare went white around the edges. “Your pain will be exquisite, dog, and your blood will sanctify this, the most blessed of places in Aradan, and will mark the dawning of a new age of righteousness.”

Kian began to laugh, though he found nothing humorous in the priest’s words. Quite the contrary. “Varis destroys life wherever he finds it. Do you think you and your fellows will fare any better, should you misstep?”

The priest backed away, features twisted with rage, but absent of any doubts Kian had hoped to instill. “Let the Watcher Who Judges reveal this man’s sins, and let the Life Giver’s judgment be fulfilled!”

“Life Giver?” A hundred agonies rippled through Kian, as bitter laughter bubbled from his chest. The priests just stared. Apparently, he alone found humor in the bleak irony of the priest’s last words.

“In a moment,” Varis said, moving before Kian, clad now in crimson robes.

Kian’s laughter dried up as he took in the face hovering a little below him. “You have donned the mantle of king and priest? It seems you cannot make up your mind about what role you play.”

“This is no game, Izutarian,” Varis said tightly. “Rather, as a god among men, I am everything to all people.”

“You are nothing to me,” Kian said.

“Oh, but I am. I will be you tormentor, your judge, your executioner … after a fashion.”

Kian closed his eyes, striving for calm. He would die, just as Ellonlef and the others had said, and all for nothing. “You are a charlatan,” he said flatly, hoping that Azuri and Hazad had sense enough to take Ellonlef far from Aradan. It was a feeble hope, but all that he had.

“We shall see.”

Varis motioned to his servant priests, and four of them moved into a pool of deeper shadows. After a moment, the clank of iron and the rattle of chains filled the small hall, followed by the ponderous racket of heavy wheels slowly grinding dust and grit into the floor tiles. He watched with growing alarm as a brutal device lumbered out of the gloom under the straining muscles of the four priests. At first he was not sure what he was looking at, but in time he recognized the machine as a kind of chair. Stubby spikes jutted from every inch of the bracing that made up the headrest, back, and seat. Wheels, pulleys, levers, and coarse leather straps with studded buckles were affixed to each piece of framework. Holes had been bored into each arm, and steel spikes rested in a few of the holes, the heads rounded from pounding.

“Do you like it?” Varis asked lightly from behind Kian, as if he wanted to see the appalling implement emerge from the darkness from Kian’s point of view. “It was last used over five hundred years gone. One of my forefathers deemed it too cruel, and his progeny agreed with him. In time, it was forgotten. Until now. This night, it will taste blood again.”

“Are you too weak to face me with your own strength?” Kian taunted.

Varis glided in front of Kian, his stare smoldering. He leaned in close, voice pitched so only Kian could hear. “You flatter yourself, Izutarian, if you think I would lower myself to the position of battling you, as would common men. You are an insect before me, albeit one that has proven it can unwittingly resist my power. Despite this undeserved blessing, the blood seeping from your wounds proves that your flesh is as weak as any man’s.”

“Even your own?” Kian growled, wishing he could get his hands free, if only for a moment. That was all he would need to end this, here and now. It was a moment, he understood all too well, that he would never be granted … and one, in his mercy, that he had already squandered.

“I am a man no longer,” Varis announced.

“I’d forgotten, you are a god,” Kian muttered sardonically. “Well, if you want me dead, then why not the headsman?”

Varis’s eyes blazed. “I will bring you pain because I hate you,” he hissed. “I have hated you since I came out from the temple. You are an aberration. More, the world must know that I alone am indomitable among all men. Your inability to resist the suffering that I bring upon you will serve as the testament to that truth.”

“A handful of godless priests represent the world?” Kian asked in mock astonishment, looking around the near empty hall. “I believe you need to convince yourself, more than world, that you are the stronger of us. I name you weak and petty, unworthy of a crown, or even a croft.”

Varis abruptly stood away. “I’ve suffered this fool’s insolence too long! Lash him into the chair.” In a harsh whisper he added, “Know that the memory of your agonies will fuel my sweetest dreams for the whole of my existence.”

Finished with taunting, Kian said, “Better to admit that you do not know if you are the stronger of us. That doubt, boy, will never leave you. No matter how far you rise, or how long you live, you will always wonder if I could have destroyed you, given but half a chance. That uncertainty will hound you all of your days, it will decide your vile actions against those you see as enemies. You will die bitter and spent. And on the day of your death, your downtrodden and enslaved subjects will tear down all your glorious monuments, sing thanks to whatever gods remain, and wipe your memory from the minds of men.”

“I am immortal!” Varis screamed.

Kian smiled darkly. “The fate of all men is to wither and die. You may run from the grave but, in time, death will find you.” He hoped for the world’s sake that this was true.

As Varis backed away, looking uncertain, four priests came forward and cut Kian down. Next they stripped off his garb with sharp knives, none too careful of slicing his bruised skin. The high priest raised his arms. “The condemned will speak no further, unless to scream for mercy, which shall not come unless granted by the Life Giver.”

“I will never scream or beg,” Kian growled.

“Silence!” the high priest shrieked, as the others threw him into the chair. Blunt spikes gouged his bare flesh, and he ground his teeth together. I will not cry out, he vowed to himself, distantly wondering if he could remain steadfast.

The priests fastened straps tight about his ankles and wrists. Kian remained still, for every movement, even a fraction, caused the chair’s steel teeth to bite all the deeper. I am an Izutarian, he thought, desperately trying to strengthen his resolve. I am a son of the frozen north! his mind raged, even as a pair of his tormentors drew short-handled scourges from the folds of their robes.

He glowered at his captors, giving them a moment’s pause. Then the first scourge fell with an insignificant crack, parting his skin with ease. A hissing gust of breath rushed past Kian’s teeth as a sensation of ice and fire washed over his nakedness. Leather and steel-barbed tongues tasted him again, and this time he made no sound.

Angered by his silence, one after the other, the priests set-to with malevolent vigor. The scourges snapped and tore in a frenzy, flaying skin to expose muscle, then lurid glimpses of bone. Kian bucked against the restraints at each blow. He clenched his teeth together to the point of shattering them, yet he did not make a sound.

The flogging went on, marking moments that seemed to have no end. In short order, blood spattered at each blow, dripped in gruesome arcs when the many-tongued whips reared back, surged forward, and slashed down yet again.

The flames of Kian’s agony rose higher and higher, until he thought he would go mad. His jaws ached to howl in protest, and part of him wanted to beg for mercy, but he refused himself that release. Soon, freshets of blood ran freely over his torso, and every muscle quivered with strain and anguish. When hooked barbs caught in his flesh, the priests dragged their implements free, ripping away bits of skin and meat. On and on, the scourges hissed and cracked, as the priests panted, sweated, and struck again. Kian’s blood began to patter under the chair with a sound like slow rain. Only when the steel barbs sank into his ribs and held, forcing the priests to stop in order to dig them free with blunted daggers, did Kian’s will break. His wordless scream filled the hall, a howl that savaged his throat.

The scourging abruptly ceased. For the barest moment, Kian thought it was over.

“Turn him,” Varis commanded softly.

Shaking like a leaf, Kian could only stare in confusion. The priests gaped, their inaction voicing doubt.

“Do as I bid,” Varis demanded, “or by turn, each of you will suffer his fate!”

The priests struggled to unbind Kian, for his blood made every surface slick. He did not resist-could not have, even if he tried-as two priests pulled him from the chair, and held him suspended between them. Another cranked a wheel at the back of the chair, and the contraption soon became a flat rack. Unlike before, they did not throw him down, but eased him onto the torture device with a gentleness that seemed to infuriate Varis. Kian groaned when his torn body settled over and around the stubby spike embedded in the heavy frame. In the flickering torchlight, Kian saw his blood had pooled on the gray stone floor tiles, and he wondered in a blessed daze how much more he could lose before he simply expired.

“Begin,” Varis said.

The priests again faltered, looking among their number, as if these abuses were far beyond what even they considered reasonable. Under Varis’s unrelenting stare, they commenced. Kian screamed until all comprehension fled him. In the black that followed, he searched for and found an infinitesimal source of light. He embraced it, took into himself some measure of strength.

When next he grew aware, he heard a gasping priest say, “He is near death. Surely his failings have met with enough … of this. Shall we bind his wounds?”

Kian floated in delirium. The blood that had flowed so freely before had slowed to sluggish trickles, as if little remained in his veins.

“Spike him,” Varis ordered, his breath harsh with diabolical need. “Hammer the steel deep. Ruin him.”

At those words, Kian’s mind again moved into the void within his soul, where that comforting light waited. He seemed detached from his flesh, released from the bindings of pain, and he drifted up, now observing the proceedings with a mild indifference. The priests, muttering quietly and passing looks hidden from Varis, reluctantly turned Kian once more. He felt nothing, his body mercifully numb. Only the hitching rise and fall of his chest suggested he still lived.

A priest pulled one of the steel spikes from its seat with a tremulous hand, and pressed it against the middle of Kian’s forearm. He turned toward Varis again, and Kian absently noted bright tears glinting in the well of darkness under the man’s hood. Varis jerked his head violently at the delay. Kian thought he saw anger bloom in the priest’s deep-set eyes and, as he raised the large hammer clutched in his fist, his gaze never left Varis’s.

Varis did not seem to notice. His attention was on the length of steel held in the priest’s grasp, its tip creating a dimple in Kian’s bloodied arm. As the hammer fell, a rushing sound filled Kian’s head, an unnatural wind that carried the ethereal substance of his soul into absolute blackness.

Chapter 39

Ellonlef came awake with a start. For a moment she did not know where she was or why. Above her, a cracked and soot-smudged ceiling of mud brick and rough wooden timbers hung seemingly a mile away. Her breath steamed in quickly fading puffs. Then, in a stroke, it all came back to her. She sat up, expecting to see Kian, Azuri, and Hazad, but only found Hya. The old woman was still sitting in her chair, as if she had not moved from the night before.

“Where are the others?”

Hya snugged her blankets tighter under her chin. Her rheumy eyes fixed on Ellonlef. “Kian left soon after midnight. The other two went after him at dawn.”

“Left … where?” Ellonlef asked, fearing she already knew the answer.

“To the palace, to face Varis. He bid me tell you and the others not to come after him. Those two Izutarians dismissed me out of hand. I expect more respect from you.”

Ellonlef threw off her blankets and scrambled to her feet. “I cannot-I will not-abandon him!”

Hya proved more nimble that she appeared, and in a blink was at the younger woman’s side, her grip strong on Ellonlef’s arm. “You will heed me … at least until we know if he succeeded or not. Sit, break your fast, and wait until Azuri and Hazad bring word.”

Ellonlef reluctantly sat down on the rickety stool she had sat on the night before. Hya jammed a crust of bread into her chilled hands. She nibbled at the bread, but it tasted like dust on her tongue. The wait was long in coming.

An hour after the day had given up its light, and the sun had gone back down, Hazad entered the shop, followed by Azuri. The sun-browned faces of both men held a pinkish cast from the bitter wind. It was not their colored cheeks that drew Ellonlef’s gaze, rather the haunted look in their eyes. She wanted to question them, but the words would not come. In that instant, a hundred possibilities flashed through her mind, each new one worse than the previous.

“Varis tortured Kian near to death,” Hazad said hollowly.

“We have little time,” Azuri added grimly.

“Where is he?” Ellonlef heard herself ask, afraid to know. The answer was beyond her worst fears.

“The Pit,” Azuri said, after Hazad made the attempt and choked on the words. “We have it from men we know and can believe that priests of Attandaeus loaded him into a cart just before dawn, and delivered him to the Pit soon after.”

“Gods good and wise,” Hya rasped.

Ellonlef’s blood went to ice. “We must free him before-”

She cut off, unable to voice the atrocities that he would surely be facing already. The Pit was a place for lawbreakers condemned to death, though not a clean and swift death promised by the headsman’s blade. Those sent to the Pit were unrepentant beasts at the least, and insane, often as not. In that underground warren, in the absence of light, the darkness of their souls compelled them to acts vile beyond words. Most did not survive long-and Kian, doubtless insensible from his wounds, had been there for hours.

“We have a means to get in,” Azuri said hesitantly. “A man who has owed Kian a favor for some years, serves as a guard.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

“You could die … we all could,” Hazad cautioned. “Varis has soldiers scouring the city for all of us. The standing order is to see us to the Pit as soon as we are found.”

Ellonlef did not falter or balk. “Tell me your plan on the way.”

Hya’s face was grim. “Whether he lives or not, you must return here. Like these Izutarians, I know those who walk the shadows, those who can get you out of the city and to safety.”

Ellonlef impulsively hugged the old woman, then followed Hazad and Azuri out into the black alley. The air was colder than any she had ever felt, and low clouds shoved east by strong winds obscured the stars.

“Snow will fall before first light,” Hazad predicted, as they hastened toward the heart of the Chalice, carefully keeping to the deepest shadows. As promised, patrols were out in full force.

“A good snowfall may serve us,” Azuri said. “Folk hereabout have blood thin as wine, and the colder it gets, the less they will want to be away from a warm fire.”

“Then I hope for a storm, even the White Death,” Hazad said.

“What is that?” Ellonlef asked, the mere name chilling her heart. She did not really want to know, but neither did she want a prolonged silence to fill her mind, allowing considerations of what Kian faced.

“The White Death is a fierce storm that blows out of the Whitehold,” Hazad said, creeping along. “Like the godless savages who live in those icy wastes, the storms that come out of their lands are deadly. Winds come first, cold enough to shroud a man in hoarfrost and turn his flesh black. Snow follows, stabbing at you like small daggers, and building to the height of a man. If you are caught outside without shelter, death falls swiftly.”

Ellonlef shivered, trying to reason out how cold could blacken flesh. Distractedly, she noted that the normal crowds of the Chalice had vanished. The only people about besides them and the sporadic mounted patrols, were a few enterprising sorts who had brought wagonloads of wood down from the mountains. Doubtless, they would fetch considerable profits for their effort.

Looking skyward, Ellonlef said, “I’ve heard that the Whitehold is naught but endless plains of ice and snow, even in summer, when the sun never sets.”

“That is true for the far north of Izutar, as well,” Azuri said. “Too, the night of winter lasts months.”

Ellonlef kept any further questions to herself. She simply did not want to hear anymore. And besides, trying not to think about Kian was a useless endeavor.

It took longer to reach Ammathor proper than it should have, for the nearer they came, the more often they had to duck into alleys to avoid soldiers. Ellonlef counted it a blessing that to the last, the soldiers seemed more interested in staying warm than finding their prey, and were generally busy complaining loudly about the cold, and adjusting their thin garb in a vain bid to cover bare skin.

In due course, Azuri turned them into a lightless alley down the road from their destination, and began rooting through a pile of litter. After a moment of searching, he drew out a sackcloth bundle and unrolled it at his feet. In the gloom, Ellonlef could just make out a pair of saffron-trimmed green cloaks of the City Watch and two round, bronze helms, one adorned with a plume of white horse hair, the other bare. A smaller bundle held two thin, wooden dowels, a ball of tacky resin, and a set of wrist shackles linked by a crude chain.

Azuri glanced at Ellonlef regretfully. “To get in, we need a prisoner-one of extreme value.”

Ellonlef held out her hands, pleased they did not shake. “I wish Kian had listened to us, instead of his damnable honor,” she muttered, even as she found her admiration for him growing.

“And if wishes were sheep flop,” Hazad growled not unkindly, “we’d be up to our necks in it.”

Azuri slipped the shackles over her wrists, careful not to scrape her skin. Instead of bolts, he secured the shackles with the small wooden pegs, which in turn were held in place with daubs of resin made pliable by the warmth of his palms. “Do not jiggle these too much, we cannot have them fall off before we need them to.” He looked in her eyes, then spoke with deadly assurance. “And I should warn you, we will give no mercy to those who resist us.”

Ellonlef could only imagine what would come, but had little pity in her heart when she said, “I am ready.”

Azuri donned the garb of a Captain of the City Watch, while Hazad was left with that of a common legionnaire. Lastly, he wrapped his discarded cloak around Ellonlef’s shoulders, the great bulk and length of it ensuring that her sheathed dagger was covered.

“Your costumes are adequate,” Ellonlef said, “but it is quite apparent you are both Izutarians.”

“During your time in Krevar,” Hazad said, “it has become more and more common for Izutarians to serve in the ranks of Aradan’s legions, especially Ammathor’s City Watch. These days, Aradaners simply refuse to take on the mantle of soldiers-especially when our brethren will do it for half wages.”

“Forgive me for any pain you might soon feel,” Azuri said to her, but offered no further explanation.

With her nod of acceptance, he took hold of the back of her neck, drew his sword, and propelled her onto the main road. From there, they moved toward the high stone wall surrounding the grounds guarding the entrance of the Pit. As they walked along, Ellonlef wondered if they would ever get out after they gained entrance. She told herself they would succeed, that all would be well, but she could not quite make herself believe it.

Chapter 40

When they reached the wooden gate that led into the most feared place in Aradan, a grizzled solider opened the peephole and stared out. His fierce countenance fell on Ellonlef, then took in the others.

“What do you want?” he demanded, his sudden wide smile ruining the ferocity of his voice.

“Good evening, Durrin,” Hazad said quietly. “Is all in order?”

“As much as can be,” Durrin whispered. “But us standing here jabbering will not help matters. Get on with it.”

Azuri showed smiling teeth in the cold air, but called in an angry shout, “You know why I am here, you poxy wretch! I’ve come with a prize sought by King Varis. Open the gate and let me through, or find yourself spitted and roasting for his pleasure!”

Durrin hurriedly swung the gate inward, whispering, “Take care. The head gaoler, Ixron, is a vile snake at the best of times-which these are not. The rest of these dogs are little better, but they are friends after a fashion, made all the friendlier with your promised gold. Try not to hurt them too much.”

Azuri produced a clinking leather purse the size of his fist. “If you cannot fully turn the hearts of your friends with this, then they will die,” he warned, tone heavy with dark promise.

Durrin weighed the purse in his hand, eyes going wide. “More than promised … this will do. However, Ixron will never yield. Oh, he’d take the gold, but just as soon as you turn your back, he’d stick a knife in it.”

“We’ll deal with him when the time comes,” Azuri said, guiding Ellonlef through the open gate, even as the head gaoler emerged from a small mud brick building built into the wall and strode toward them. He halted them while Durrin was busy closing and barring the gate. A few guards striding along the wall walks glanced down, but showed no more than a cursory interest. Durrin had bought their apathy with the promise of precious metal.

“So, the City Watch has found one of the traitors already?” Ixron said, his steaming breath thick with the stench of sour wine. His dark eyes fell on Ellonlef’s face with a lecherous gleam.

“Yes,” Azuri answered, giving no indication he would say more.

Ixron tugged Ellonlef’s hood from her head to get a better look. His grin was vile and greedy. “Might be we need to interrogate this wench, before we dump her in the Pit.”

“Indeed,” Azuri drawled. “Perhaps, as well, you would like to see your stones hewn off and presented to the king for disobeying his commands?”

“You bloody damned Izutarians have no humor,” Ixron said with a scowl, and waved an angry hand for Azuri and the others to follow.

Staggering a little, he led them to a squat mud brick building in the center of the yard, unlocked the heavy wood door, and pulled it open. Sooty smoke puffed out on a gust of stuffy air. Once the smoke cleared, Ellonlef could make out a narrow, descending stairway lighted by a long procession of guttering torches.

“Well, take the slut down,” Ixron growled. “I have better things to do than stand here freezing my backside.”

“Be ready for my return,” Azuri said. Ixron snorted disdainfully. Then, after a closer look at Azuri’s flat gray stare, nodded in agreement.

Making a show of it, Azuri then prodded Ellonlef through the doorway, and followed after. Hazad came last. The door slammed shut as they made their way down into the hazy confines. The constricted passage, combined with an overpowering stench, made Ellonlef’s chest tighten. No man who had ever entered this place as a prisoner had come out again, not even his bones.

After a hundred steps, the stair let out in a wide chamber hacked into the granite many centuries before. Here the air was warmer, and damp besides. The very rock smelled of horror and death, ages thick. Ellonlef felt as if she could feel the ghosts of thousands of damned souls closing in around her, greedily seeking the heat of her life, wanting to steal it away.

“Are you well?” Hazad asked, scrutinizing Ellonlef.

“Fine,” she said curtly. “I just want to find Kian and escape.” She refused to heed the voice in her head telling her that he was already dead.

Azuri’s nose wrinkled. “This place smells of the grave.”

His statement did not help Ellonlef’s resolve to ward against the living memories buried in the surrounding rock, that of doom and creeping insanity. Those sent here, if they did not die straight away, first wasted away in body, then in mind.

Azuri moved across the chamber to a door of rusted iron. “Open, in the name of the king!”

There came a jangling of keys, then the door squealed ajar to show an emaciated guard who looked to not have properly eaten, or bathed, in years. “Gods cursed fool!” the man snarled at Azuri. “No call to yell. I can hear fine.”

“Shut that rotten hole in your face,” Azuri said, “and lead me to the man brought in at dawn.”

“What?” the guard asked, bemused. “Why would you want to see that scum?”

Azuri narrowed his eyes. “I said lead me to him.”

The guard growled a curse and reached for the battered hilt of his sword. Hazad pushed by Ellonlef and Azuri, closed a great fist around the guard’s throat, and slammed his head against the wall. “When you are commanded by a captain of the City Watch, worm, you obey without question,” Hazad rumbled, and threw the groaning man to the ground.

Blinking dazedly, the guard rubbed his bleeding head. “One day you Izutarian bastards are going to pay for treating trueborn Aradaners this way!”

“Are you as witless as you look, and deaf besides?” Hazad demanded, relieving the guard of his ill-kept sword. “Perhaps I should clean your ears with steel? No? Then shut your mouth and take us to the prisoner. We have something special for him … from the king”

The fool started to mumbled another curse, but Hazad dragged him to his feet and shoved him down the passage. Having no choice, the guard led them along a low corridor, bemoaning his split scalp the entire way.

The first passage, lined with doors of rotting wood, ended at another iron door. The guard unlocked it, then faced the trio. “Beyond here, prisoners are free to do as they will. Mayhap they’ll cut out your stinking tongues and eat them! While they’re at it,” he sniveled, glancing at Ellonlef, “mayhap I’ll take that pretty piece there for myself.”

Hazad’s open-handed slap ruined his lips and knocked loose a tooth.

Azuri pointed into the waiting darkness. “Lead,” he commanded

The man looked ready to balk once more, then thought better of it. He locked the door at their backs, then did as bid with hatred in his stare. He would prove dangerous, if the opportunity arose.

The way was lit by a few flickering torches set in holes in the walls, their smoke adding to the black cones of soot that ran to the ceiling. After a sharp turn took them beyond sight of the last door and the handful of torches, all was darkness. Prisoners of the Pit did not need light.

Azuri strode back the way they had come, took a torch from its place, and held it as high as the low ceiling would allow. The wavering glow did little more than remind Ellonlef of the passage’s narrowness. As they moved deeper into the now winding passage, the fickle torchlight showed more things she did not want to see. Bones of all sizes shared ground with dried excrement. Frequent alcoves ended at blank walls, into which were set rusted manacles and chains. All of the bindings were free of living prisoners, but a few held old skeletons.

The guard did not pause, or even seem to notice the bones. As he led them deeper, the air grew closer, more oppressive. Ellonlef observed signs left from the days when the Pit had been a mine. Occasional beams and rafters, now dry-rotted, shored up the walls, but more often than not the walls had crumbled into drifts of loose rubble.

“Do you know where you are going?” Hazad demanded, after what seemed hours of shambling on.

“Indeed,” the guard responded harshly, peering into the dancing shadows. “I can smell him ahead … fresh blood.”

“If he dies before we reach him,” Azuri said, “your life also ends.”

The man hunched his shoulders and scowled. “You sound like you want him to live.” Then, as if just piecing together what was afoot, the man spun, his face a mask of fury. “You bastards mean to free him!”

Before anyone could react, he sprinted ahead, vanishing quickly into the darkness.

Chapter 41

“Damn!” Azuri swore, and wrenched Ellonlef’s shackles off her wrists. The game was up, and there was no use keeping her bound. “We must catch him, or we will never find Kian.”

The trio ran after the fleeing guard, and moments later they halted in another circular chamber, their eyes wide with confused revulsion. Ellonlef recoiled as wasted men scrabbled, like misshapen spiders, away from the torchlight, throwing hands over sunken eyes, crying out against the glare. Most were naked, their bones pushing grotesquely against thin skin covered in running sores. Their bony feet waded through swarms of rats. Amid the living dead, the guard hid in plain sight, only the glint of a long dagger giving him away.

“You cannot have him!” the guard shouted, cowering behind two gaunt men with eyes afire with madness. “I’ll see you dead before-”

Hazad bowled aside the two prisoners and struck the guard, knocking him senseless with a huge, knotted fist. Those around Hazad and the fallen guard scattered, their overlarge eyes bulging, as Hazad took the man’s keys. The fearful prisoners muttered among themselves, creating an unpleasant droning noise.

“Quiet!” Azuri roared. Silence fell immediately, and he stood with his head cocked.

Ellonlef imitated him, even as she kept a sharp eye on the prisoners. From far away, the echoing sounds of an argument came to her. Hearing it too, Hazad plunged down another passage, with Ellonlef and Azuri hard on his heels. The passage soon led to a open chamber. Two prisoners, more robust than the others they had yet seen, were hunched over an unmoving figure. One held what looked like an blood-crusted arm in his boney hands, the posture of someone about to eat a goose leg.

“Gods good and wise!” Azuri breathed.

The second prisoner lurched to his feet, wielding a crude weapon. It took only a moment for Ellonlef to see that the weapon was a sharpened leg bone.

Hazad lunged forward, roaring like a lion. His sword swept up and down in a blurring arc, shattering the leg bone and splitting the fellow’s head like a withered gourd. With a screech of bone on metal, Hazad wrenched his sword free. The other prisoner scuttled out of range, making strange mewling noises low in his throat.

Kian lay on the floor, the few visible patches of his pale skin surrounded by layers of dried blood and caked dirt. He looked dead, but Ellonlef would not let herself believe it. Nearly overwhelmed with grief, she went to him. Gingerly, she placed a palm against his chest. His flesh was still warm, his heartbeat weak, erratic.

Joy, tempered as it was by his appearance, filled her heart. “We must leave here now,” she urged.

Kian groaned at the sound of her voice and rolled his head toward her. A flicker of recognition lit his slitted gaze and his mouth moved, but Ellonlef hushed him with a gentle finger to his lips. Tears she had not know were there fell from her eyes, dripping over the ruin of his body.

A sharp curse drew her attention, and she twisted to see a gathering of prisoners crouched at the edge of the torchlight. The prisoner who had been about to taste Kian’s arm squinted, his cracked lips twisted into a feral curve. He murmured hungrily, his eyes black slits above a crooked nose. Slaver dribbled over his chin. As if of the same mind, other prisoners crept forward. It was impossible to discern how many there were, for they seemed to be twined about one another, all arms and legs and distended bellies. Glints from their bulging eyes reflected a madness of hunger and incomprehensible suffering. These few men were the strong, Ellonlef realized, while those in the last chamber were the weak … the prey.

“We will take our friend,” Azuri said firmly. “Should any of you follow, you will find that you have plenty to eat.”

The prisoners stared blankly, as if Azuri had spoken in a foreign tongue. Then, with no warning, the hunters of the Pit surged forward.

Azuri swung the torch and struck the first man to reach him full in the face, a shower of sparks engulfing his head. The reek of seared flesh and burning hair suddenly filled the chamber. Another prisoner saw only a chance to fill his gut. He fell on Kian’s leg with his mouth agape, and began worrying it like a starved jackal. Kian sat up wheezing in pain. Ellonlef threw herself protectively over him, trying to drive the ravenous prisoner away, but he resisted, growling and snapping at her.

Hazad’s sword slammed into the prisoner’s spine, withdrew, and fell again, higher up. The crown of the man’s hairless skull soared away like a crude bowl and hit the ground with a rattling thud.

Azuri, torch in one hand and dagger in the other, waded into those blinded by thoughts of fresh meat. Bellowing an unbroken stream of oaths, he beat one man to the ground, wheeled, and slashed another across the face. Even as he sought another foe, a fist-sized stone struck his cheek with a sickening thud. Azuri staggered, but did not fall. With a brutal calm, he attacked, dagger and torch finding all likely targets, burning or cutting, by turn.

Hazad focused his rage on those now scampering away. Despite his great size, he moved with the precision of a master painter, no stroke wasted or hedged. Blood flew in delicate drops from the slashing edge of his sword, splashing the dusty walls. A skeletal man reeled backward, screeching, attempting to hold his cleaved groin in one piece, even as his guts boiled out from another gash across his middle. Another deranged fool laughed aloud, thinking he had jumped free of Hazad’s blade, but the laugh became a bubbling hiss when the back of his head tottered back on a slashed neck and kissed his spine. His quivering corpse pitched over and hit the ground.

As suddenly as it had begun, the assault ended. All that remained were the silent dead and the dying, their clutching fingernails digging grooves in the dust. Most of the prisoners had simply fled. Ellonlef could still hear their aggrieved voices fading away into the bowels of the Pit. Azuri coaxed the smoldering torch back into life and looked upon Kian, his despair mirroring that of both Ellonlef and Hazad.

“Gods good and wise,” Hazad whispered. Where a moment before his eyes blazed with fury, now they were wide and filled with sorrow.

With the grisly tableau spread out around him, Kian looked like a fallen king brought low by lesser men, despite his valiant effort to win through. Ellonlef’s heart broke anew at the sight of him, knowing he would not long survive Varis’s tortures … and without Kian, Varis would rise to heights of power never dreamed of by a mortal man.

“What did they do to him?” Hazad muttered.

“Not they,” Azuri corrected, his voice filled with an anguish that did not seem possible for such a warrior. “Others might have participated, but it was Varis who commanded this. And for this, he will die.”

Ellonlef dried her eyes, set her mouth. There might still be a chance, but it would not be had here. “We need to get him to Hya. She will have the means to help, and more skill than mine.”

With the gentleness of a father cradling a sickly child to his chest, Hazad lifted Kian. Ellonlef led the way, while Azuri took the rear, watching their trail for any prisoners who had missed the lesson learned by their peers. When they reached the second door, Ellonlef took the keys Hazad had taken off the now vanished guard. Ellonlef unlocked the door and stepped through. Hazad bustled through next, followed by Azuri, who closed the door at his back. Ellonlef relocked and the trio hurried along.

To Ellonlef, it felt like they were on a leisurely stroll, but by Hazad’s sweaty brow and gulping breaths, they were moving as fast as possible. In short order, Kian’s wounds had reopened, slicking his skin with fresh blood. Despite this, Hazad’s grip never failed, and soon they came to the bottom of the stair and climbed up, urgency driving them.

At the top of the stair, Hazad slumped against the wall, still bearing Kian, while Azuri took the keys and moved to the door. Knowing Hazad could not do anything more than he already was, Azuri looked at Ellonlef. “Make ready. If Durrin and our gold did their work, only Ixron will stand against us. If not, then we fight until either they are all dead … or we are.”

She nodded, even as Azuri began pounding on the locked door.

After a few moments the lock clicked, and Ixron swung the door open a few cautious inches. His eyes widened at the sight of those before him. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

Understanding belatedly dawned, and Ixron tried to slam the door in Azuri’s face, who in turn jammed his shoulder against the heavy wooden door. Although he was slender for an Izutarian, Azuri was no wisp of a man, and his strength proved too much for the Aradaner. Azuri leaned into the door, easing it open, inch by inch. Outside, Ixron’s feet scrabbled in the loose, sandy soil. He knew he was losing ground, and called over his shoulder for help.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Azuri’s hand flashed through the opening, caught hold of the gaoler’s neck, and violently jerked his face against the doorframe. There came a crunching thump, and Ixron fell away. Sword coming to hand, Azuri burst through the door, ready for anything, but there was no one to fight. Hazad carried Kian into the open, with Ellonlef coming last.

Durrin moved into view, sparing a regretful glance for Kian. “I have horses and a wagon ready, but you must hurry. The change of guard is due any moment.”

“What of the others?” Ellonlef asked.

“Have no fear of them.”

As proof of his assurance, a pleased looking pair of guards approached with two saddled mounts, while a third led a horse-drawn wagon. All the rest of the guards made a show of studying the frigid, night-shrouded street beyond the wall.

Azuri and Hazad hastily placed Kian into the back of the wagon, and Ellonlef drew Azuri’s cloak off her shoulders and covered him. Without hesitation, she crawled into the wagonbed next to him, trying to force her warmth into his cool skin. She felt a queer tingling in her fingers, which spread outward through the rest of her body. Strange as that was, it seemed somehow familiar, but she concentrated on keeping Kian warm.

After the pair hurled a groggy Ixron down into the stairwell and locked the door, Azuri leapt into the cart’s seat and took the reins, while Hazad and Durrin mounted the horses.

“Are you joining us, then?” Hazad asked.

Durrin drew himself up, his lined face hard. “I am leaving. With the rise of this new king, my soldiering days have come to an end. After we pass through the gate, I will go my way, and you will go yours.”

“And these others?”

“Thanks to your gold, they will take their leave, as well. If not, they are fools that deserve the punishment King Varis will deliver onto their heads for allowing Kian’s escape.”

Azuri nodded in acceptance, and clucked the horse into a rattling trot that would take them quickly back to the Chalice and Hya’s shop.

Chapter 42

After dismissing his incompetent counselors, Varis continued to study a huge and detailed map stretched taut across the banquet table. Its bright inks seemed to glow within the well-lit Golden Hall. The map was made from a hundred pieces of the finest vellum, each square of soft lambskin stitched together so precisely that the seams were nearly invisible. West of the island kingdom of Kelren, north of Izutar, east of Aradan, and south of Geldain, artfully painted clouds filled the map’s edges. Beyond those clouds lay mystery. Some thought nothing waited beyond, save danger and death leftover from the creation of the world. Varis silently vowed to discover the truth.

First, however, he had many familiar kingdoms to conquer. The Suanahad Empire, under the rule of Emperor u’Hadn, had subjugated all the known world after defeating and uniting the multitude of sand kings of northern Geldain. In ships barely suitable for the crossing, he had struck north for mysterious lands of plenty, sailing his fleet across the Sea of Drakarra and landing on the shores of what became the kingdom of Tureece. Of lush lands, the emperor found few enough, but of gold, silver, and precious stones, there had been an abundance.

In time, Emperor u’Hadn led his armies farther north, vanquishing the Grendahl clans, driving them into the inhospitable and icy holds of Falseth and Izutar. For the briefest time, u’Hadn held the known world in his palm, and ruled from the great city Kula-Tak, on the northernmost point of Geldain.

Then Varis’s greatest ancestor Edaer Kilvar, the First King, grew tired of bowing to an uncle who demanded the blood of his subjects and the wealth of the new world, all for the promise of nothing, and wrested the lands that would become Aradan away from the emperor. In time, Edaer’s rebellion left the empire and its vast armies shattered, and the long-subjugated tribes of southern Geldain finished what he had begun, sweeping aside the last remnants of the retreating cohort of sand kings, to the point that even the memory of what u’Hadn had built became more myth than accepted truth.

For centuries, Aradan ascended, growing in power and influence until becoming so bloated, rich, and apathetic, that she had to resort to filling the ranks of her armies with the very peoples the fallen empire had conquered long before, the offspring of the Grendahl clans, the barbarians of Izutar, more ignorant animals than men. Straight away, Varis meant to wash clean his kingdom with the very blood of those lesser peoples.

And I have already begun, he mused, sipping sweet summer wine from a golden goblet studded with amethysts. By now, Kian was surely dead, and more, the food of men and vermin. The thought pleased him.

Thinking of Kian, who had been a thorn in his side for a short but lingering season, led Varis’s eye across Izutar on the map. His councilors argued that Izutar had grown stronger since their war with Falseth, some two decades prior, and were now more united against their enemies. Be that as it may, Varis considered them little more than witless brutes who preferred rutting with hounds rather than women. They spoke of honor and duty, but in truth they readily sold both for gold. They were easily manipulated fools, and as such, they would fall to ruin in short order. Moreover, a good many of the Izutarian population lived not in Izutar, but in Aradan. Already, he had commanded that all Izutarians be secretly identified, located, and marked for slaughter. And if, by chance, Izutar proved more formidable than he allowed … well, then, he would gladly destroy them with fire and shadow drawn from the very heart of Geh’shinnom’atar. By sword or by the power of gods, all that mattered in the end was that Izutar cease to be.

He took another sip of wine, already savoring the sound of the lament Izutarian women and children would one day sing. Such would be a paean to him, to be sure, but it would not still his hand against them. To the last, he would utterly destroy all remnants of the late Grendahl clans. They were not even fit to serve as slaves, to his mind. The utter annihilation of Izutar would serve as a lesson to the world that they dare not stand against him-

One of the throne room’s doors banged open, and a guardsman entered, nearly bent double in humility. Or is it fear? Varis wondered, trying to dismiss a sudden sense of unease.

“What is it?” he demanded.

The guardsman stammered something inarticulate, swallowed, then began again, his words halting but understandable. “Sire, the head gaoler of the Pit, Ixron, has come. He has word of Ki-” the guardsman cut off in a choked garble. Varis had forbidden the use of Kian’s name, not only in Ammathor, but in all of Aradan. To do so earned the penalty of death. The guard gulped a breath then stammered, “Ixron brings word of the … ah … the prisoner … ah … the Izutarian.”

The Izutarian, Varis considered darkly. Such had the ring of an honorific, and might well become a rallying cry for future martyrs. He saw straight away that he could not allow its usage, but now was not the moment to rename Kian. He would have to think on it, come up with a turn of phrase or title so vile that only a blind fool would think to use it to engender hope.

“Send him in,” Varis commanded.

The guardsman bowed low, then backed hastily through the doorway. A moment later, a filthy man covered with bruises and scrapes all but crawled into the Golden Hall. Even with his head bowed, Varis noticed a crust of partly congealed blood on one side of the gaoler’s bruised face. Something like a small terrified animal came alert inside him.

“What news do you bring?” Varis demanded.

Ixron began blubbering, perhaps thinking that if he blurted it out all at once, he would be spared. As he carried on, flakes of sticky blood fell from the wound on his face to the polished marble tiles at his booted feet. The smell of him, that of urine and stables and sour wine, curdled Varis’s stomach.

Ixron fell abruptly silent, breathing heavily.

Varis ground his teeth. “Begin again, and speak clearly this time. Fail in this, and I will have out your useless tongue.”

Ixron flung himself to the tiles, wailing in terror. “Kian! He is escaped!”

“You are mistaken,” Varis grated.

Ixron shook his head in answer, weeping uncontrollably.

Varis wanted to scream in rage, and the power of the gods surged in him. The light of his inner fires spread out over the map of the world, curling the edges. Yet Varis resisted, just managing to push it back down before he destroyed the throne room. He needed to know what was stirring, and turning Ixron to a heap of smoking ash would not serve … not yet.

“What do you mean, escaped?” Varis asked, subduing his wrath with a gulp of wine.

“Sire?” Ixron asked uncertainly, as if Varis had spoken in a foreign tongue.

“How could a man so near death escape the inescapable, you babbling idiot?” Varis snapped.

Ixron eyes fell. “As I said, he was aided by three-two Izutarians and a woman, a Sister of Najihar. More, my guards, they betrayed me to the last. I was set upon, battered insensible. When I came awake, they had thrown me into the Pit. I had a spare key, a secret key, but when I came out, all were gone.”

“He will be in the Chalice,” Varis knew instantly, recalling that one of the Sisters of Najihar resided there, in service to King Simiis longer than Varis had been alive. He silently cursed himself for that oversight. But that was no matter. They would not be able to move Kian far, his injuries serving to trap them.

Varis sent for the Captain of the House Guard. When he arrived, eyes bleary with sleep, Varis explained what had happened and where Kian and his companions would be found.

“Take as many men as you need and hunt them down,” he ordered, “Do not spare them. I want them dead.” He had toyed with them enough, and now was the time for blood to spill. “I want their heads.”

Chapter 43

Before coming to Hya’s shop, the wind became a bitter gale, driving litter down empty streets. For perhaps the first time in a lifetime, the reek of the Chalice was freshened. The biting cold was unlike anything Ellonlef had ever experienced, and she found herself constantly blinking on the chance that the surface of her eyes might freeze over.

Azuri was silent as he climbed down from the wagon’s seat. Hazad clenched his jaw, as if to keep his teeth from chattering. Ellonlef had no such strength in her. Icy fingers clawed at her flesh, leaving every inch of her shuddering. She knew she had experienced nearly unbearable heat before, and in her mind’s eye, she could see that remembered heat rising off the sandy wastes of the Kaliayth, but she could not recall how it had felt.

As she jumped from the wagonbed, her limbs stiff and uncooperative, the side door to Hya’s shop cracked open, and the old woman peeked out. Behind her, a lamp’s comforting glow beckoned. Ellonlef wanted to dash for the promise of any warmth, no matter how scant, but she turned instead to help with Kian.

Hya took in the scene at a glance, then shot a baleful eye toward the starless sky. “This cold will bring much death to an already troubled land,” she said in an ominous tone.

Ellonlef did what she could to aid Hazad and Azuri in pulling a seemingly lifeless Kian from the wagon, but in the end could do little more than fret and keep the door from slamming shut. Her real work, along with Hya’s, would begin once Kian was inside.

Hya led them along at a hurried shuffle to a prepared room. A brazier glowed with heaped coals in one corner, but the gale’s frosty breath easily penetrated every nook and cranny. Still, compared to outside, the room was only cool.

Hazad and Azuri gently deposited Kian onto a raised pallet loaded with ratty blankets. As they worked, exposing the extent of Kian’s innumerable wounds, concerned hisses passed Hya’s teeth.

“You are the better healer,” Ellonlef said gravely. “Tell me what you need.”

Hya looked from Kian to her fellow sister, her eyes misty. “I can do nothing for him,” she said flatly, “save comfort him. By all rights, he should have perished before he reached the Pit. How he lasted this long is beyond me.” She took Ellonlef’s hand in her own. “I am truly sorry.”

Ellonlef’s heart broke anew at Hya’s words, and her sorrow was made all the worse by the tears streaming down Hazad’s bearded cheeks. Azuri, his face hard as stone, sighed heavily and turned away.

Stifling a moan, Ellonlef fell to her knees at Kian’s side. She clasped one of his blood-crusted hands in both of hers, a hand cold as death, and bowed her head over his hitching chest. A single, gulping sob wracked her, then searing tears fell on the dusty, moth-eaten blankets mercifully hiding the worst of his wounds. All was silent, save for Ellonlef’s soft, wrenching sounds of grief. She did not know how long she knelt there, praying to whatever god might yet hear her pleas.

At some point her prayers ended, and her mind wandered aimlessly. She saw Kian in memory, coming to her aid during the Bashye attack, a hulking shadow on that frantic night, full of menace for his enemies and strength for her … her, just an unknown woman alone in a world gone mad. Unknown as she was, still he had come, risked his life without pause, willing to die for a stranger in need. Her cheeks flamed at the thought. She had not looked at it that way before, had not accurately seen the selflessness of his actions. He was a man of honor … and he was a man dying before her. She had pressed him to help Aradan, so she had thought. Now she was not sure. In truth, she felt he would have come to Ammathor to spare a throne and a people to which he held no allegiance, no matter who had asked him. In memory, she admitted his hesitation had crumbled far too quickly, too easily had he abandoned his plan of returning to his home of Izutar. Few were such men.

And he is dying, she thought again, a wasted sacrifice, a wasted life.

“Ellonlef?” a voice rasped.

Ellonlef’s dark eyes flew open to gaze into his blue. Despite the unbearable pain he must be suffering, he offered her a half-smile. “Are you real?”

“Yes,” she said, vigorously rubbing his hand. He winced, so she stopped.

“Good. I thought … I thought you a dream … something sweet to ease the nightmare of Varis.”

“He is no nightmare,” Azuri hissed, as he and the others closed in tight, as if forming a protective wall.

“A shame,” Kian breathed, closing his eyes against a wave of misery that left his tattered flesh trembling. After a moment, he added weakly, “A shame I did not kill that wretched bastard at the palace. The chance was there, but mercy clouded my judgment.”

Ellonlef’s wan grin froze on her face. Suddenly she was not there anymore, not in Hya’s shop, not in Ammathor, but many leagues distant, back at the cleft under the rocks as the Tears of Pa’amadin were raining down. The recollection spun and twisted, becoming a memory of flashing lightning made brighter by the absolute darkness under a hill of weathered stone. Her flesh was afire like it had been then, as if touched by that lightning, tingling and alive!

At Kian’s touch, images and memories clashed inside her skull, things she should have taken note of at the time, but had not. Or had she pushed them away, fearful of what they might reveal? She had taken injuries during the Bashye attack, many bruises and scrapes, her ribs had been scored by an arrow, her knee had been the size of a melon. Yet after Kian had taken her from the cleft, those pains had troubled her no longer.

How often have I wondered at the tiny, pale scar on my side, she thought, alwayswithout considering the how of it? It was as if some part of her had refused to see or regard what had been right before her eyes. As well, there had been the blood coating her after Hazad had taken her from the cleft. She thought it had been Kian’s, from the abrasion on his brow….

More memories filtered through the murk of her mind, clarifying, solidifying….

There had been an explosion of light, the sound of the very earth rupturing-and pain, sharp and bright as a sword slamming into her head … and then, for a time, nothing. The images began to fade from her mind, replaced by dreadful understanding. I died.Something smashed into me, a stone, and I died … and Kian brought me back. Somehow, using the powers of creation, he made me whole.

The queer tingling she had felt when she lay down with Kian in the wagonbed surged over her skin once more, strong enough to steal her breath. She had the urge to clutch Kian to her breast, to hold him tight, to give back what he had given to her. Ellonlef had no idea if what she was feeling and thinking was an illusion of hope, or was truth. Nor did she understand how to do what her very soul seemed to be telling her to do.

Kian had fallen back into unconsciousness, and she knew she did not have time to reason or plan. She let instinct, insubstantial as a morning mist, guide her hands to his chest, just over his heart. All thought faded, leaving behind a serene emptiness-

The jolt of energy that coursed through her fingers and sank into her bones at the sensation of his cold, bloody skin was like a hammer crashing through her spirit. She managed to bite back a startled gasp, but only because awed wonder closed her throat. In that moment, she and Kian were one flesh, and she felt that whatever happened to Kian at the temple in the swamp, it had made him more than merely a man, more than flesh, blood, and bone.

Some unknown part of herself opened, releasing a power or force that she had not known was inside her. Through eyes slitted in rapturous ecstasy, she looked on the savaged man before, a man she knew she could not live without, who she loved with all her heart.

At that thought, her eyes flew wide, and then wider still as a faint, blue shimmer spread from her hands over Kian’s chest. Startled gasps erupted from herself and those hovering over her shoulder. She paid them no heed. The gleaming luminescence spread until it covered the whole of Kian’s body like a translucent, azure cocoon. By heartbeats, that soothing glow grew brighter and brighter, forcing her to squint.

Her breath failed her when Kian’s torn skin began closing … healing. Kian’s back arched violently, and his coverings were thrown aside, fully exposing the extent of his injuries. The raw, weeping wounds in his arms swiftly mended from the inside out, becoming whole in the span of two deep breaths. Where ribs had shown through deep slashes, the muscles knitted together, followed by whole skin.

Kian seemed to be struggling for breath. He looked this way and that, panicked, almost as much as Ellonlef was herself. Without warning, the blue shimmer dimmed, then winked out, the last of it soaking into Kian. Ellonlef reeled backward and would have toppled, save for Hazad’s strong hand on her shoulder.

Kian still had not drawn a breath, and Azuri slid in front of Ellonlef, stunned, but showing not a little hint of mirth. His gray eyes searched Kian’s face a moment, then he laughed. “As I told you once before, you great oaf, you must breathe if you do not wish to suffocate.”

Kian’s struggles ceased at once and he sucked in a great, gasping breath, followed by an explosive coughing fit. All stared as his breathing rapidly took on a regular rhythm. His hand floundered about until finding Ellonlef’s. His pulse thudded in his now warm grip, but that was a distant thing. As her gaze locked with his, it was as if the world had been swept away, leaving only the two of them looking into each other’s eyes. In that moment, it dawned on her that she knew him as she never had before. In truth, she had never known anyone, save herself, with such intimacy. It was both wonderful and frightening.

Pain and loss were at the center of him, something from his youth-no doubt from the loss of his homelands and his family during the war between Falseth and Izutar. As well, she felt a sense of nobility and dedication so vast in him that it startled her. The carefully guarded kindness in his heart, something she had once believed to be all but nonexistent, was rivaled by an iron core that demanded fairness and justice. Over all of this, she also sensed a secret, something she felt sure even he was unaware of, something of light and life, a living, indefinable thing … a presence.

The powers of creation, she understood with profound astonishment.

He released her hand and relaxed his head against a pile of dusty sacks serving as a pillow. “I must sleep … just a moment,” he whispered, the last word trailing off to a peaceful sigh.

Ellonlef glanced at Hazad and Azuri, and they shared a moment of warmth and joy, savoring that Kian was alive.

Hya cleared her throat, questions in her milky eyes. Whatever she was thinking, she kept to herself in the face of burning urgency. “He cannot sleep long,” she advised. “Hya, Sister of Najihar, is not unknown to the Ivory Throne, nor to any who sit upon it. No doubt word will reach Varis of Kian’s escape, and more importantly,” she added with a pointed look at Ellonlef, “word of those who aided him.”

Ellonlef nodded slowly, the full truth of what had just happened beginning to settle over her. That she had held within her the powers of creation, without ever knowing, was astounding to be sure, but more so was that Kian lay whole before her, and that he would live … but only so long as they escaped Ammathor and, more importantly, Varis.

“What do you suggest?” Ellonlef asked.

“There is one man I trust who will give aid, if the price is right. Come, we must prepare while Kian gets what rest he can.”

“Hazad and I will stand watch outside,” Azuri advised. “If we return with haste, then we must leave with haste.”

After the two men left, Ellonlef busied herself with getting together supplies for a journey, which was little enough, given that they would soon be running for their very lives.

Chapter 44

Ruin him, a disembodied voice rasped. Bulging white eyes that should have been blind, yet were not, observed and approved of his pain.

Kian’s eyes flew open, the memory of his riven flesh a searing brand in his consciousness. He remained perfectly still, the dream-pain fading. Those dead white eyes, though, the hatred they expressed, remained etched in his mind. No matter that Varis had changed, to Kian he was still and would always be the skeletal abomination that had come forth from the temple in the Qaharadin. And Varis, he had no doubt, would be coming for him.

Kian frowned, some part of himself urgently revisiting memories better left forgotten. In a sudden rush everything came spilling forth, a black tide of pain and suffering. And yet through that abysmal flood, there shone a spark of light, pure and warm. Ellonlef. She and his friends had come for him, taken him from the darkness, somehow returned him to safety.

He flexed his hands, expecting weakness and pain, but finding strength. His fingers slowly, almost fearfully, investigated his torso, knowing they should encounter absolute physical destruction. Instead, they found taut skin and warm flesh. How…?

The question evaporated and he blinked several times. Aside from the image of Ellonlef gazing down on him with a strange mingling of joy and fear and something else, the last thing he recalled was darkness and rough-hewn stone, and the babble of hungry voices. The longer he considered, the more he remembered.

Hazad, Azuri, and Ellonlef had brought him to this somehow familiar place. It took some moments before he realized he was staring at a ceiling of once white plaster gone to brown with smoke and ages. Kian rolled his head to one side, waiting for the red pain he recalled to fall on him again. Nothing met his movement, save a little stiffness. A glowing brazier stood beside an old table below a shuttered window. On the table sat a low-burning oil lamp and a green vase filled with a long-dead cutting of flowers.

He turned his head in the opposite direction and found an old woman clad in a dense swaddling of gray robes sitting on a stool just beyond the doorway. I know her … Hya, a Sister of Najihar. She did not notice his movements.

He glanced back to the ceiling and saw a lizard, sluggish with cold, peering down at him. A fly lumbered near, then the fly was in the lizard’s mouth. Kian would have sworn the creature smiled in triumph, and he smiled in return. He had never felt so alive.

Stop this! a warning voice raved. Danger is drawing near!

His happiness, doubtless a distraction concocted by his weary mind, began to crack and fall away. How he had come to be healed, he had no answer, but of scourges savaging his flesh, of iron spikes ripping through his arms, the memory of those things was alive in him. He surveyed a faint, puckered scar on his forearm where a wrought iron spike had been driven through by a robed priest, his cowled eyes burning with anger and disgust-not for Kian, but for Varis. He turned his wrist and saw the same scar on the other side. Such a wound should have left him crippled, yet had not. There were other scars, faded and pale, crisscrossing over his skin, as if long healed.

How long would that have taken? He had heard more than one tale of men grievously wounded in battle who had remained senseless and abed for years before coming awake. Years … could it have been so long?

“You are awake then,” Hya said with a dry cackle. “Good. It saves me the effort of rousing your lazy bones.”

“How long have I been here?” Kian asked?

Hya stood with much effort, curiosity lighting her wizened features. “Less than an hour.”

Kian gasped. If he had been given the choice, he would have suggested weeks, if not months, had passed since he was thrown into the Pit, yet less than a full day had passed since Varis had done all he could to destroy him.

“How …” the unasked questioned disintegrated. He had been about to ask how he could have possibly been healed from what should have killed him, but like knowing where he was, he suddenly knew how it had happened. The powers of creation had been used to knit his flesh whole … and those powers had been wielded by Ellonlef.

Hazad burst into the shop with the slam of a door and a soft but urgent cry of warning. A moment later he pushed into the room, looking frantic. Melting snow wetted his wild hair. When his eyes fell on Kian, his features split in a wide grin. Tears shone in the big man’s eyes, and he rushed to Kian’s side. Then, without warning, overcome with joy, he leaned over and kissed his captain on the brow. Smothering under the man’s drenched beard braids, Kian jabbed him in the ribs with a half-hearted curse. Despite the threat of danger, Kian could not shake the sensation of exultation he felt at being alive.

Azuri came next. He drew back the hood of his cloak, careful not to let the wet touch his skin. He surveyed the scene in an instant, stepped forward with a wry smirk, clasped hands with Kian, then stood back, composed.

“While I’m sure this bumbling lout would slobber on you the rest of the night,” he said, “we have no time. The House Guard, twenty or more mounted, is fast approaching. There is no doubt they know the general area they are looking for, but thank the gods, it seems they are not sure exactly where they are going. Despite that small mercy, we have but moments before they find us. We must depart.” This last he spoke to Hya.

Kian did not waste time wondering if he would be able to stand on his own. Taking a deep breath, he sat up. He felt a little weak, but there was a sense of strength deep in his bones that wanted to be unleashed. Unassisted, he got to his feet just as Ellonlef came into the room, confused by all the commotion. For the barest moment Kian’s eyes found hers. In that instant, a silent promise was made to speak later. For his part, Kian was not sure how he felt about what needed to be spoken between them, but he was exhilarated by the prospect. But he sensed that there were many dangers to face before that conversation took place-dangers that might not allow them to ever speak of those matters.

He pushed that aside. “I need clothes,” he said, “unless you expect me to run about naked, fighting like a Whitehold savage.”

Ellonlef blinked, then turned and rushed to another part of the shop, but not before Kian had seen the blush coloring her cheeks.

“There will be no fighting, Izutarian,” Hya said grimly. “You must flee Aradan.”

Kian’s face grew stern, and he shook his head. “What was begun, must be finished. Varis cannot be allowed to rule either as a man … or a god.”

“He nearly killed you the first time,” Hya admonished.

“I will not stop fighting him until either he is dead, or I am. He may have been born human, but he is no longer. He has become a demon. I would rather perish than accept his rule.”

Ellonlef returned with a armful of Kian’s clothes and a pair of spare boots. The clothing still bore the dust and sweat from the journey across the Kaliayth. Kian took the garb from her and began to dress, his movements further renewing his strength. He spoke without looking at Hya.

“Will you-can you-help us find a way into the palace, a secret way?”

Hya ground her few teeth together in frustration, but Kian sensed that she would help as she could, that she understood all too well the cost of failure.

“As I said before, I know a man who can get you free of Ammathor. That same man, I am sure, can get you into the palace. Whether he will help or not, only time will tell. The man of whom I speak is inclined to enjoy the advantages of troubles in distressed lands. Should you destroy Varis … well, that may prove a devastating blow to the commerce of all smugglers and lawbreakers.”

“Take us to him,” Kian said. “One way or another, he will aid us.” He was not keen on torturing, especially given his recent ordeal, but neither was he willing to risk Varis rising to the levels of power he sought.

Kian sat upon the edge of the bed to drag on his boots. As he pulled on the second, a flurry of shouts went up outdoors, sounding near. Hazad and Azuri spun as one, going out to see what was amiss.

“Are we in readiness?” Hya asked, urgently drawing on another robe, giving her the look of a gray tick fat on its latest feed.

Ellonlef nodded. “There was not much to pack, as we are wearing most of our clothing. As for provisions … I suppose there is no need of them now, not if we are to make for the palace.”

Kian shot her a fleeting glance. She did not speak as if afraid, or even resigned, and neither did she sound put off that he wished to confront Varis again. She might not be excited about the prospect, but she appeared fully aware of what was at stake, and resolved that there really was no choice.

Hazad and Azuri’s return focused Kian’s thoughts. Both men wore expressions of confused shock. Only then did the sounds outside penetrate Kian’s awareness. The clangor of steel crashing against steel rang in counterpoint to the screams of the dying and the enraged cries of the killers.

“Madness!” Hazad blurted, before Kian could utter a questioning word. “The House Guard is under attack from what looks to be soldiers of the Crimson Scorpion Legion-brothers of the sword fighting each other!”

Kian digested the news and guessed the implications. “Prince Sharaal’s men, come to reclaim his rightful seat on the Ivory Throne.”

“What’s more,” Azuri added dispassionately, “the denizens of the Chalice seem to have been swept up by the same bloody tide. They are attacking soldiers from the shadows-but only when they are not at each others’ throats, or burning and looting at will.” Only the animated light in Azuri’s eyes suggested he was moved by what he had seen.

It had been many years since Kian had seen that burning glow in his friend’s usually placid gaze. Marso it had been, when they were but children. They had inadvertently ventured into an area of the city controlled by a particularly ruthless band of cutthroats and thieves. The three of them had survived the encounter by using their wits and, for the first time in their lives, by using edged steel. If Azuri wore the same expression now, it gave proof to Hazad’s appraisal of what was going on.

Madness, the big man had said. For the denizens of the Chalice, no doubt such madness was brought on by hunger, desperation, and no small measure of greed … and for the soldiers of the Ivory Throne, perhaps something more motivated them. Though Varis’s cruel oppression was a new-birthed thing in Aradan, it must have engendered a greater sense of rebellious wrath in an already restive land. Even should he succeed, Kian understood that a grave change was coming on the hearts of all Aradaners-maybe all the world-a shift in men’s dealings with each other that could well alter the face of the nations.

“If Sharaal gave the order to attack his own city and men,” Kian said, “then he must also have no intention of extending mercy to his heir. With such strife, blood will fill the gutters.”

What the ultimate outcome would be, Kian could not guess, nor could he worry over it. For himself, he wanted to reach Varis before Sharaal, for only he could end Varis’s short rule.

“Lead us to your man,” Kian said to Hya, his tone soft but dangerous.

Chapter 45

“You will need weapons,” Azuri advised.

Kian’s hand fell to his side, and he felt more naked than he had moments before.

Hya nodded toward the bed. “Under the mattress, you’ll find what you need-though it might not be what you want.”

Kian dragged the mattress off a layer of splintery gray slats. Shoving these aside, he saw the gleam of steel. More, he saw rust, in great amounts. He did not bother asking her why she would have such a collection. He took only as much time as he dared in choosing out a dagger and sword. Both had good weight and decent balance, as well as scabbards. Of their rust-pitted blades and cracked leather hilts, there was nothing for it. And besides, he was not sure just how much use they would get anyway. Against Varis, the powers that had created mankind, and perhaps the very universe, would be the weapon of choice. Kian offered up a wordless plea to the silent god, Pa’amadin, to grant him the wisdom and skill to wield such godly powers this time, where he had failed before.

At Kian’s nod, Azuri led them into the dim hallway, where they halted at the crash of a door kicked inward, then watched two grubby men edge into the shop. Lost in the shadows, Kian and the others remained hidden, preparing to ambush the shadowed figures. But before the intruders fully crossed the threshold, a shout turned them. Curses went up. A flash of steel-glowing orange from some unseen fire-streaked and slashed, and one of the men in the doorway let out a garbled squawk, reeling backward with blood gushing from his throat. His companion roared, made an ineffectual stabbing motion. His unseen foe parried the strike and countered smoothly, leaving the man shrieking, even as his sword and severed hand hit the floor with a clatter. An instant later, the screams were cut off by wet gagging noises, as the man choked on a foot of steel buried in his neck.

With quiet urgency, Kian turned the opposite direction and ordered the others after him. He did not retreat out of fear, but rather need. His battle was with Varis, not the rabble of the Chalice, the House Guard, nor Prince Sharaal’s forces.

Kian led his incongruous band into the makeshift stable. Without question, the air was colder than it had been when they arrived, colder than Kian could ever remember, even in Izutar. Their mounts’ rolling eyes reflected the orange light of nearby blazes whipped into infernos by howling winds.

Azuri squeezed past the others to peer out through a crack in the wall’s planks. “The fools are burning everything.”

“Madness!” Hazad said again, as that seemed accurate enough.

“Anyone in the alley?” Kian asked.

“No,” Azuri answered.

Kian did not hesitate. In one swift motion, he kicked the rickety door. Although just short moments before his strength had been in question, he now felt fully recovered, as if he had never been near death at all. The force of his blow ripped the hinges loose, and the snow-laden gale sent it flipping down the alley like a leaf.

“Do we ride or go afoot?” Kian asked sharply.

Hya, gaping at the chaos wrought by the storm and the hands of men, turned slowly. “By foot,” she said, pointing down the alley at a crumbling mud brick wall.

Kian dragged the borrowed dagger free of its scabbard, slashed the horses’ lead ropes, then swatted their rumps to send them out into the storm. He hoped that their pounding hooves would hide his company’s escape down the dead-end alley. He also prayed Hya had not lost her wits, and instead of escape was leading them into a trap.

Hya shook her head, and then moved with unexpected sprightliness into the biting storm, the others hard on her heels. Snow had already drifted against stacks of rubbish along the length of the alley, the pristine white speckled in brownish red grit and dark ashes. The bone-cracking chill shocked Kian’s mind to a preternatural clarity. He glanced about in anticipation of an attack. None came, but harried screams and shouts of command soared to them on the gale’s breath. Men and women ran hither and yon before the mouth of the alley, and their freed horses bowled over several people. No one stopped to help their fellows, and none looked down the alley.

Ellonlef moved to his side and drew her dagger. In the erratic light, a glimmer of ferocity shone in her eyes that he would have expected only in a hardened warrior. He could almost pity any enemy that might happen across her path. Unable to resist, he flashed her a smile, which she returned.

From behind, sounds of a brief, violent scuffle drifted out of the shop. A moment later, Azuri stepped free of the shadows, the end of his sword bloody. Shaking his head, he said, “We must be cautious. It seems the people of the Chalice have lost their minds to a sickness cured only by fighting.”

Hya motioned for the others to follow her. Hazad trailed her like a huge mastiff. At the end of the alley, she instructed him to heave aside a haphazard stack of rotting hides. Hazad slammed his sword into its scabbard, caught hold of a bundle, and hurled it aside. As Hazad labored, he revealed a small half-door set low in the brick wall. Its iron banding was rusted, the wood coated in ancient mold and fungus, but it looked strong and thick.

Once the way was clear, Hya produced a crude key and inserted it into a keyhole crusty with frozen slime. She tried to turn the key, but it would not budge. Hazad immediately squatted down, took the key in his fist, and cursed as he tried to turn the stubborn mechanism. After a vigorous rattle, it turned.

Behind them, a furious shout went up. Kian spun, as did Ellonlef. Azuri moved beside them, casual in his stance, his gaze merciless. A dozen howling men rushed forward like a pack of rabid wolves. Rabble they were, bearing knives and cudgels, their wrath fired by the mindless rioting. Kian had seen such crazed behavior before, and knew bloodlust had stolen their reason. Taking a wider stance, Kian made ready.

“Come!” Hya said sharply. She had to repeat the command twice more before Kian turned away from the fast-approaching mob. Hazad, his great bulk straining, heaved open the small iron door that lay just behind the outer wooden door. Rusted hinges shrieked in a voice higher and angrier than either the storm or the surging tide of murderers charging down the alley. Without pause for breath, Hazad turned, caught hold of Hya, and tossed her through the opening. He went after, straight into the face of her outraged curses.

Kian did not bother a second glance at the attackers, but rather spun Ellonlef around and propelled her toward the small dark opening. She vanished quicker than either Hazad or Hya, followed by Azuri.

The pounding of many feet rumbled the ground, maddened shouts filled the air. Kian dove headlong through the tiny doorway. He tumbled down a short flight of stone stairs, rolled a short way, and then shot to his feet. He rushed back the way he had come, lending his strength to Hazad’s in closing the iron door. A hand bearing a dagger poked through the shrinking gap, and bones broke with the sound of snapping twigs between mud brick and metal. The wielder screamed, the dagger clattered down the steps, and the mangled hand jerked out of sight.

After the door boomed shut, Hya’s voice rang out. “There is a bar to the right.”

From outside, heavy pounding shuddered the door. Hazad’s frantic curses told that he was searching for but not finding the bar. Then, as the door began to creak open under the press of the rioters, his oaths cut off in a shout of triumph. Kian was knocked sprawling when the man slammed his girth against the door and fumbled the bar into place. The pounding lasted for a time, but there was easier prey elsewhere, and the marauders gave up and went after it.

“Everyone stay where you are,” Hya ordered. “My warehouse is unkind to those who do not know how to navigate it without light.”

Kian waited in cold, lightless silence, as Hya shuffled through the gloom. After few moments, the gentle sounds of running water filled the chamber. Slowly, a faint amber luminescence grew brighter and brighter, showing a wide, low-ceilinged storage area. The water he had heard emptied from a crude spout into a long and winding trough that fed numerous firemoss lamps situated throughout the underground warehouse. While that was rather ingenious to his mind, what amazed him was the untold amount of loot stored in crates, barrels, or simply heaped up in wobbly piles. While a quick study told him none of the goods were worth much individually, taken as a whole, Hya was in truth quite wealthy.

Hya noted everyone gazing at the loot, then snorted quiet laughter.

“All this,” she said, motioning with a wave of her arm, “has been collected in payment over the many long years of my time here. The Chalice offers little in the way of enticement for an old woman, so I use what I need, and put the rest here.”

She got a faraway look in her eye then. “I had intended to sell it all and send the gold to Rida … now, I suppose that is a task I will never accomplish.”

Kian felt her sorrow, yet at the same time he felt a growing sense of urgency. Moment by moment, he was sure the tide was turning in favor of Varis.

Speaking gently, he said, “We must reach the palace, otherwise none of us, perhaps no one in the world, will ever finish put-off tasks, or any tasks, save those laid out by Varis.”

Hya scrubbed the sheen of tears from her eyes, and that distant expression was replaced by fierce determination. “You speak the truth, Izutarian. Come, follow me.”

Chapter 46

Hya led them through the maze of stacked goods to the far side of the warehouse, and then climbed up a set of wooden stairs. She rattled a bolt and eased open a thick door, allowing the glow of leaping flames to filter past her. After a moment’s hesitation, she passed out of sight beyond the doorway, and Kian and the others hurried after.

The room beyond proved to be a hovel so dilapidated as to be unappealing to looters. Sometime past, a fire had gutted the small building, and the previous owner, perhaps Hya herself, had boarded up the windows. Rot had created wide gaps in the boards, allowing the light of the Chalice’s present burning to cast a lurid radiance over the dusty floors and walls of the tumbledown building.

Kian moved to a window and peered out. Men and women rushed by like animals fleeing crazed butchers at their heels. He had hoped the chaos had not spread so far. For all he knew, the Chalice and Ammathor both were beset by the desperate madness of the night.

“Hya,” he asked, “which way do we go?”

“Left out of the front door and down Wine Street,” she said, shaking her head in disgust at the sight of so much wanton carnage.

“Against the flow,” Kian said, shaking his head. “We need horses, but without those …” He glanced around to Hazad.

Hazad rolled his eyes. “I will lead. The rest of you just make sure no one pokes my backside.”

All moved to the door facing Wine street and gathered behind the big man, Kian and Azuri placing Hya and Ellonlef between them and Hazad. Hazad looked back, received Kian’s nod and, with a bearish roar, kicked the boarded door, sending it and its splintered frame soaring into the street. In the general panic, few runners so much as glanced their way.

Then they were out, running into a maelstrom of wind and snow, screams, blood, fear, and raging fire. Hazad was a ram before them, battering aside anyone who came too close. The rest followed in a narrow cone bristling with sharp blades. Hazad halted them as a handful of howling riders charged past on lathered horses, their swords and cudgels falling at will. Their victims, old and young, rolled through the deepening snow, leaving trails of blood.

A battle cry turned the murderers, and a dozen mounted House Guard charged them. Outnumbered, they wheeled their mounts and galloped away. The guardsmen surged after, so intent on their prey that they did not see their true targets standing not twenty paces distant.

Hazad set off again, going this way or that under Hya’s guidance. Every turn revealed sprawled, bloody corpses and innumerable wounded littering streets and alleys. A screeching trull was assaulted by a pair of crazed brutes, while not three paces away one of her companions indifferently rifled through the pockets of a dead man. Farther off, a gathering of urchins was busy trying to break into a closed shop, even as another group was using torches to set afire whatever they could, apparently just to watch it burn. Mostly, however, people who could ran. Everywhere was madness, chaos, fury and terror.

“These people deserve Varis,” Kian growled, even as he broke from the group to strike off the arm of a bloated wretch of a man dragging a squalling naked girl of no more than ten years into an alley.

His pain muted by shock and wine, the man reeled, his stump pouring scarlet. His mouth yawned wide as if to protest, but Kian gave him neither a hearing nor mercy, and rammed his steel into the man’s filthy guts. As the brute sank to his knees, his one hand failing to hold back the roping spill of his innards, Kian searched for the girl. She was already gone, fled into the night. He gave a brief and silent prayer for her safety. Of the man who had been intent on raping her, he left him moaning in the snow. For him, Kian prayed that the bastard would suffer through the whole night before death stole him away.

Kian rejoined his companions, fury boiling in his chest. “Go!” he ordered, torn anew by the idea that he might well soon give his blood for people who deserved a life of chains and servitude. And if not for the little girl who had escaped, he might have changed his mind on the instant, and departed Ammathor and made for Izutar. But the girl, while he could not foresee her future, she at least deserved a chance at a better life, deserved to make the choices that would ruin her or bring her out of the sewers of the Chalice. Like her, and as he and Azuri and Hazad had been as children, there were countless others who were merely trying to survive in a merciless world. Varis would offer no choices, save to worship him or to perish.

The snow was falling faster and now lay ankle-deep. Above the dilapidated rooftops, wind-driven blazes tinted low, scudding clouds a baleful orange. Roiling smoke stung eyes and tightened throats. As they crossed one street, Kian saw the first soldiers under Prince Sharaal ride forth in a precise rank and file formation, their scarlet uniforms and flapping Crimson Scorpion banners making it seem as if they were on parade. Some bore lances, others swords, and still others rode with bows at the ready. They paid no heed to the swirling insanity, only rode north, pushing their adversaries under Varis’s command hard toward their ultimate objective-their master’s usurped throne. Before they reached their destination, Kian knew, they would fully meet Varis’s men and do battle. And such a battle, that of brothers-in-arms fighting each other under the command of a warring father and son, would leave a bitter regret in their ranks that would last a generation, no matter who triumphed.

Kian pushed that aside. His intent was to reach and destroy Varis, for the greater good of all men. Despite himself, he nearly laughed at that. He was a survivor, a man of battle and steel, a man of honor and duty even, but he was no hero as told of in a stories. He went because he must … for he was the only man on the face of the world who could.

After running from shadow to shadow for what felt like hours, Hya ordered them into the lightless throat of an alley that ran at a right angle to the storm’s ferocity, giving them a measure of relief from the stinging white gale. The others peered at her with concern, as she collapsed against a wall.

“Are you well?” Hazad asked. “Should I carry you?”

“I am well enough,” Hya gasped. “Just old and tired. As to toting me about like a sack of potatoes, there is no need. We are nearly there.”

“Down!” Ellonlef cried.

Kian threw himself flat just as a hail of arrows clattered against the wall where Hya had been standing a moment before. If not for the screen of swirling snow, the archers would have pinned them all. Gleefully calling out, as if murder was but a pleasurable game, the attackers galloped off into the night.

“By Memokk’s stones!” Hazad hissed, as he jerked his head out of a deep snowdrift. Frozen stiff, his beard braids poked out at all angles, like crusty white adders.

Kian scrambled to his feet with an enraged grunt, squinted into the storm as more riders charged past the mouth of the alley. The riders loosed flaming arrows at windowed shops along the street. Where flame kissed wood, infernos followed, eating quickly and hungrily. Soon, the whole of the Chalice would become a pyre.

“If we do not reach these friends of your soon,” Azuri said flatly, “they will be roasted alive before we can use their services.”

With a look of weary sadness in her eyes at the spreading pandemonium, Hya nodded. “Cross the street before us. Keep on as straight as possible, until I say otherwise.”

They continued, now matching their pace to the old woman’s. After many more twists and turns through the warren of streets and alleys, the worst of the fires and bloodletting fell behind, and they came to the northern edge of the district. Around them, massive mud-brick storehouses sprouted like fortresses. It was the only place where the lives of people from Ammathor and the Chalice overlapped. Here, bands of criminals propped themselves up as merchants, and kept their strongholds amid the common wares of the realm.

Hya continued to direct their course but she was flagging, growing confused, and more often than not led them down alleys that ended at brick walls. After taking a long, deliberate moment to get her bearings, Hya eventually led them to the mouth of yet another alley, this one cluttered with all manner of crates, pallets, and wine casks. To Kian, it looked like any of the other places she had led them, and his heart began to sink.

Unperturbed by the skeptical faces surrounding her, Hya nodded in satisfaction as she peered at the broad doors end of the alley. After a moment of contemplation, she advised, “If things go wrong, do not hesitate to kill every last one of these wretched fools.”

“I thought they were your trusted friends?” Hazad blurted.

“This night, I have seen the true manner of friends in the Chalice. We can trust no one. Besides, I never said that I trusted them, least of all the man I seek.”

Chapter 47

The sound of approaching riders grew loud too quickly. Kian and the others sprinted down the alley as far as they dared, then threw themselves behind any available cover. Kian ended up sheltering at the back a wobbly pyramid of casks. Through a gap he saw a passing rider-one of the House Guard, by his green and gold cloak, and presumably a lead scout-glance down the alley, then abruptly jerk on the reins, his horse skidding to a halt. Leaning over, the warrior stared at the ground. The storm had provided cover before, but now marked out Kian and the others by the fresh tracks left in their wake.

For a heartbeat it seemed that the guardsman would ride on, but then those trailing behind him, along with their leader, came into view and drew rein. There was a long moment of conversation, then all eyes turned to study the alley. All wore the green and gold cloaks of the House Guard, marking them as Varis’s men.

The leader, a master of spears by the triple-knotted scarlet cord of rank on his shoulder, kicked his mount past the scout. Sword already in hand, he raised it up. “Show yourselves!”

Kian gritted his teeth in frustration. There was simply no time for this nonsense. He tensed, then stood in one smooth motion, his own sword bared and ready. Borrowed though it was, and dull besides, it felt good in his hand. “I am the one you seek, though it would be best if you moved on, and told the demon-spawned fool you call king that you could not find me.”

“Such is not my desire,” the master of spears said. By the glint in his eyes, he had given himself over to Varis’s rule heart, body, and soul. Without question, Varis had promised much to those who remained loyal.

With a shrug, Kian thumbed the edge of his sword; it was sharper than it looked. “Come for me then, and learn the bitterness of your own death sooner than you might have otherwise.” The man’s glare shone with hatred. “Take him alive for the sport of King Varis!”

At once, a handful of guardsmen surged forward, not one with a look in his eye that suggested they had any intention of following their leader’s command to keep Kian alive. As Kian settled into a guarded stance, ready to cleave spirit from flesh of the first fool to attack, a clamor went up behind him. Ellonlef screamed, and before Kian could look about, rough hands caught his shoulders and hauled him backward. Both Hazad and Azuri spewed curses. Hya said nothing. Kian struggled in vain, heels dragging through the snow. He only ceased when the pair of heavy doors slammed shut on the night, barring the storm and Varis’s henchmen from sight.

Just as Kian was recovering his footing, the hands supporting him withdrew, and he tumbled to the dusty floor. At the same instant, a dozen or more steel arrowheads thudded against the closed doors. A few punched through, sending splinters flying. As his captors backed away, two other men, one stocky and the other merely fat, hacked the intruding arrowheads away with short swords, then hastily dropped a thick wooden beam into a set of iron brackets to bar the doors. Even as the hooves of the warhorses began pounding the doors, the men placed two more beams into brackets set lower and higher than the first.

Kian jumped to his feet, sword slashing in a tight, deadly pattern to ensure no one came too near. Besides the shouts and thuds from without, the warehouse was silent. Two score rough men and women holding torches aloft stared at Kian and his fellows with a mingling of curiosity and contempt. Overhead, a dozen or more skinny children sat upon sagging rafters, eyes overly wide in their hungry faces. Stacked everywhere in the storehouse were towering mountains of everything from bolts of silk and wool, to casks of ale and wine and jagdah, to bound bushels of dried firemoss and swatarin. This last filled the air with a heady fragrance.

A tall thin man draped in ratty, pale green robes stepped forward. He peered at the newcomers over a nose that was long and sharply hooked. After a quick study that ended on Hya, he offered a humorless and wholly unwelcoming smile full of small, pegged teeth.

“O’naal,” Hya said, “it appears that you are my rescuer this night. Such is a change from the many times I have had to tease life back into your veins.”

O’naal’s narrow-set black eyes were twin points of night that showed much cunning and little mercy. In a light, mocking voice, he said, “Sister Hya, as I have promised before, I am forever in your debt. However, these others … well, they are strangers to me, and so must be deemed trespassers. While the Chalice is a den of unlawfulness, it does have its rules and consequences-as you well know.”

Hya harrumphed. “They are with me, you scrawny wretch. The big one is Hazad, the pretty one is Azuri.” She nodded at Ellonlef then, “She is a fellow Sister of Najihar. The last is Kian. They … we … I need your help to gain access to the palace.”

At the mention of Kian’s name, O’naal’s long face grew thoughtful. “I had heard that our new and great king had given over an ice-born barbarian of that name to the Priests of Attandaeus for torturing. After they had their way with him and sent him to the Pit, a pack of rabble-rousers somehow managed to set him free. While the story of getting free of the Pit is hard enough to imagine, what I find even more unbelievable is that you could be that same man, who was said to have been tortured near unto death. Unless, of course, the priests of the Watcher Who Judges have gotten soft with their ministrations.”

“It is enough to say that I was tortured, and that my companions ensured my escape,” Kian growled. “Now, it is in your best interest to help us, and the sooner the better.”

O’naal turned his head. “Help you? I’m afraid that may be difficult.”

Kian’s sword was still firmly in hand, but unless he intended to kill O’naal, and then die with his friends, it was useless. “Then why did you spare us?”

O’naal frowned at the thuds against the door. “As I said, I am indebted to Hya, and it so happens that I despise being a debtor. That, now, has been seen to by my estimation … yet this other task, well….”

“You expect payment,” Kian said in disgust, but closed his lips on anything else. Recompense, even if coerced, was acceptable if it meant he could get to Varis.

“I’m glad we see things the same,” O’naal said. “And if I am not promised the proper degree of compensation, I expect King Varis will reward me with both gold and a vision of your head on a pike.” A few hard chuckles met this.

Before Kian could utter a word, Hya asked, “What is your price?”

“One hundred aridols,” O’naal answered promptly. “And mind that they are minted in the image of our befallen Simiis-his grandson, it seems to me, might well be the sort of sovereign to mingle gold with brass, and take the head of any honest man who voices a concern.”

“Thrones have been bought for less,” Hya said evenly, “but you will have it. You have seen but a tenth part of my wealth, which I have earned over the years, so you know I can pay. Now, lead us to the palace by your secret ways.”

“I suggest you and your followers join us,” Kian said, thinking he would rather have the scoundrel at his side than at his back, where the temptation to betray him might become overwhelming. “If you do not come along, you will surely die.”

O’naal burst out laughing, a queer, high-pitched giggle. “And how, exactly, would that come to pass?”

“By the very hands of those you pulled us from. What’s more, this shelter is doomed. If it has failed to catch your eye, the whole of the Chalice is burning-”

“It’s true!” a young boy high in the rafters shouted down. “I just seen the Boar’s Belly catch!”

Kian let that sink in and then went on, more grateful for that child’s shout than the boy would ever know. “By dawn, those who have not fled will be dead … or in chains, marching to some slave mine. Every step of the way, your backs will taste the lash. Better that you stay close to me and out of sight, until I kill Varis.”

Behind Kian, the booms continued at the doors, and the first cracks were showing in the timbers. O’naal glanced at the doors with growing concern on his gaunt features. A loud cracking noise decided him.

“Very well,” he said, almost choking on the words in his haste.

“I suggest we all depart,” Kian said.

“All?” O’naal repeated. He turned and waved his hand. “These are Chalice folk. They can make their own way, and be happier for it.”

Voices rose in protest, and O’naal blanched. “All, then,” he consented.

Not wasting time, he then called several men to his side, and they bowed their heads together. After a moment, his underlings ran into the shadows farther back in the warehouse. O’naal glanced at Kian and the others with something close to hatred pinching his lean features. Kian slammed his sword into its worn scabbard and smiled pleasantly. The rogue turned away with a snort.

From the darkness came the strident squeal of rusted hinges opening. O’naal spoke with unconcealed disgust. “Come, my people, we are about to taste the lavish splendor of the palace.”

He motioned Kian and the others to follow, gliding along like a ghost, as the gloom gradually swallowed them into a well of murk. A moment later, O’naal vanished from sight, seeming to sink into the ground. Before Kian could say anything, a fat man covered in layers of grime stood at his side bearing a torch. The flickering light showed a small black square in the floor. Around the hole sat several stacks of crates. The hidden door itself had several rolled rugs roped to it, the tattered ends far overreaching the edges of the door. From the underside of the door, a chain descended into the gloom.

O’naal’s voice floated up from far below. “Get down here, you sister-loving fool! I do not fancy having rats gnaw at my ankles, while you stand there gawking.”

The torchbearer hunched his shoulders at the insult, but tossed the torch down with something more shrewd turning his lips than an idiot’s grin. O’naal squawked, then cursed in anger. Quietly snickering, the filthy rotund man clambered down the ladder, indifferent to the verbal abuse hurled his way.

Ellonlef gave Kian a look that seemed to ask if he was sure this was the road he truly wanted to take, and he nodded in answer. Dropping her eyes in acceptance, she followed Azuri and Hazad. Kian came after, carefully descending the shaky ladder into the underground passage.

It took some time for all of the Chalice folk to make their way down, but those last moved much faster than had those before, compelled by the crashing racket above.

“They are almost through the doors,” the last man warned from his perch on a rung just below the opening in the floor, even as he hastily lowered several bundles of unlit torches. After, he closed the trapdoor with a boom. Amid a cloud of sifting dust the man scrabbled down, coughing as he came. Kian guessed the carpets strapped to the door would hide the passage, at least for a while, and then only if the guardsmen were lax in their search.

“Until a moment ago, only those I trusted the most knew of this passage,” O’naal said to Kian and Hya, grinding his teeth.

“Given that you will live out this night with your head still attached to your neck,” Kian said, “the death of your secret is worth it, wouldn’t you agree?”

With a doubting scowl, O’naal turned and snatched a torch away from the soiled fat man, and moved deeper into the tunnel. Kian and his companions joined him, with the rest of the rabble coming after. Soon, all the shuffling feet kicked up a gritty fog, giving the torches yellowed auras, and forcing all to wrap whatever scraps of cloth were available around their mouths and noses.

Kian strode along in silence. Varis waited ahead. One or the other of them, perhaps both, would die this night. No matter what happened, he was ready. He did not see Ellonlef’s frequent, troubled glances in his direction. He had a purpose, a destiny some fool of a poet might say, and on that he rested his thoughts and his will.

Chapter 48

The underground passages wandered about like a nest of serpents, randomly wending this way and that in no obvious pattern or purpose. Near on a thousand years gone, they had been gouged from the bedrock beneath Ammathor by slaves seeking any precious stone, silver, and gold. Kian was grateful that he could recall little of the Pit, for while the warrens were separate, they were of the same nature.

After perhaps an hour, O’naal led them into a large vault and moved to a ladder that climbed twenty feet or more before vanishing into the heavy blackness beyond the torchlight. He motioned to Kian.

“There is a trapdoor above. Open it, and you’ll find yourself in a secret corridor within the palace walls-it’s as much of a warren as these tunnels, but they offer access to the whole of the palace. Few know of those ways anymore, so you have little fear of being found out … but, of course, caution is always in order.”

“You are not coming?” Kian asked.

“No, he is not,” Hya said in answer, “and neither am I. This is your task, and that of your companions. Should you fail, there is nothing anyone can do.” O’naal arched a speculative eyebrow at that, but did not ask what the old woman might mean.

Hya took Ellonlef’s hand. “I will not try to turn you away from this task, but I beg, please be careful. There are too few of us left to risk even one.”

Ellonlef offered the woman a reassuring smile.

“Throughout the passage are peepholes that you can use to find your way,” O’naal said. “As well, there are firemoss lamps near the top of the ladder, along with a cistern of water to set them alight.”

Kian looked about for a brief moment, seeing the many faces peering back. He then glanced at his companions. “Wait here until I signal you.”

“Just as long as you do signal us,” Azuri said. “Do not get it into your mind to again go alone after Varis.”

Kian nodded gravely, though he silently cursed his friend’s insight. In truth, however, he knew he would need them. He felt confident that the powers of creation he had gained back when Ellonlef healed him were enough to fully protect him from Varis, but he could not know if they were enough to best the youth. The most he could hope was that his small company would be able to confound Varis enough to lay deadly snares for him, perhaps draw him into a battle of flesh and steel.

Knowing further delay would only breed doubts, he turned and climbed the ladder. At the top he came to a trapdoor, eased it open, and scrambled up into surprisingly cold darkness that smelled of old dust and rat droppings. He paused there, sword drawn, idly wondering at the chill. It seemed that Varis cared not if the palace wanted for heat. Pushing that aside, he concentrated on the unlighted surroundings. No enemies showed themselves, all was quiet-too quiet, given that Varis’s father was marching on the city. To Kian’s mind, servants and soldiers should have been making ready, their actions loud even behind the walls. Instead, he heard nothing save his own heartbeat.

Kian searched the darkness until his hands found the cistern O’naal had described. A moment more, and he had the hemp handle of a small firemoss lamp in hand. He pulled the cork from the lamp’s top, used a dipper to pour water into the opening. Within heartbeats, the lamp began glowing with a bright amber radiance. He waved it over the opening. Azuri popped into view after several moments, followed by Ellonlef and Hazad.

“Where do you expect Varis to be?” Ellonlef asked, a touch breathlessly. Fear did not shine in her dark eyes, but rather expectation.

Kian could see Varis in his mind’s eye. “He will be resting his scrawny backside on the Ivory Throne.”

“How do we get there from here?” Hazad muttered.

Kian looked this way and that, trying to imagine what waited in the gloom beyond the radiance of firemoss, wondering if he should call on O’naal for direction. Just as he was about to call down into the vault, he became fully aware of a strange sensation that drew his attention in a particular direction. Or, rather, he considered, repelling him was a better description. After a moment’s consideration, he knew Varis waited that way. Following that feeling, Kian nodded to the left, his insides queasy at the mere thought of going that direction. “There,” he said through gritted teeth.

Chapter 49

Letting his feet, heart, and churning insides guide him, Kian and his band moved through dark corridors different from the underground warrens in that the dusty walls were smooth, straight, and made of granite and mud brick, rather than haphazardly hewn from bedrock.

Every step he took the more his guts roiled, as if sensing some foulness, a black poison. He was not sure if it was his mind playing tricks, or if it was some acquired instinct grown strong from his dealings with Varis, but he had little choice but to trust in those sensations. After some time spent creeping through the dark, Kian abruptly halted and raised the lamp.

There before his face, set into the wall, was a small panel of wood with a delicate knob attached to its center. They had passed several of these peepholes along the way, but unlike all the others, this one had small hidden door that let into the room on the other side, the room, Kian’s instincts told him, was the heart of Aradan, the Golden Hall.

He handed off the lamp with a quiet word to hood the light. Azuri used his cloak to do as bidden. Once darkness fell, Kian grasped the tiny wooden knob. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he gently eased the panel to one side along an age-worn track, revealing a pinprick of light that shone in the dark like a star hung in the heavens. Leaning close, Kian peered through and looked upon the Golden Hall, the throne room and seat of power of Aradan since the fall of the Suanahad Empire. Because of the hall’s renown, Kian had little trouble indentifying what he saw.

Shadows dominated the hall for the most part, the only light coming from a few firemoss globes nested in golden tripod lamp stands. The Ivory Throne itself sat atop a high dais. Its sapphires and fire opals, set in the tusks and eye sockets of the strange beasts that made up the great chair, seemed to glint with menace. A massive table was centered in the hall, with what appeared to be a huge map covering its surface. Of Varis, he was surprised to see no immediate sign, but he sensed that the youth was near, perhaps just out of sight. In absolute silence, Kian waited, if only because he felt he should.

But that was a lie. The real reason, which was hard to admit, was that he feared the disturbing sensations gripping his heart, and the very real threat and remembered pains of what Varis had recently ordered done to him. Looking back over the last season, he realized something had always been just out of sight, waiting, marking the perfect time to attack. Strangely, he did not feel that Varis was the source of that particular threat.

Even as this thought passed through his consciousness, a door opened and closed, and a muffled greeting filled the hall. Then the newly arrived messenger began speaking. Kian pushed all other considerations aside and listened.

“Lord Marshal Yagaal,” came Varis’s voice, “what word of my father’s attack?” There was more than a hint of annoyed boredom in the young king’s tone, as if the idea that his own father would seek to launch a strike against Ammathor, and by extension his own son, was but a trifling thing, a buzzing fly that needed shooing.

Yagaal moved into view at the head of the great table. He swept back his flowing cloak of green and gold, knelt, and bowed his head. Varis seemed to materialize from nowhere, clad in scarlet robes, as he had been in the Gray Hall. “Enough groveling, Yagaal,” Varis snapped. “What word do you bring?”

Yagaal stood, the planes of his face made stern by shadow. When he spoke, his tone was clipped, as if delivering a message that left a foul taste on his tongue. “The Chalice is burning, from one end to the other. The rabble have gone mad, razing and looting at will. Sometimes they attack our forces, other times Prince Sharaal’s, and more often than not, each other. So far, this chaos has stalled Sharaal’s advance. But, Sire, the Crimson Scorpions under his command are the finest legion ever fielded. It is only a matter of time before they put down the Chalice hordes and your forces, and begin driving against Ammathor and the palace. Those you command cannot hope to do more than delay your father’s march by perishing slowly.” This last seemed more a question than a statement, as if Yagaal wondered what, if anything, Varis had in mind for defense or counterattack. The king’s answer appeared not to please Yagaal.

“So be it,” Varis said dismissively. “Let my rebellious father and his traitorous army come. What else have you?”

Yagaal’s nostrils flared in anger, his whole body rigid. What he said next suggested a discontented anger had been building in him for some time. “Pardon, Sire, what else would you have of me? My men, who have been starving for weeks, despite your promise of bread, are being slaughtered by their brothers-in-arms as we speak-men I have trained, men I have fought beside against the kingdom’s enemies, men who believed and feared you … and here you sit, safe in the palace, commanding the hunt for a particular Izutarian, even as Ammathor falls down around your feet. I, and my men, were fools to trust your lies … kingslayer.”

The last word hung in the air. Whispered though it had been, it served as a final, defiant cry to the rest. While Kian had never served Aradan or any other kingdom in the capacity of a sworn soldier, he understood all too well that men of such rank as lord marshal did not rise so far without a strong sense of discretion. The absence of such prudence in Yagaal surely meant that those under the lord marshal’s command had reached a point that they would no longer fight for their usurping king.

Silence held, even as wrath twisted Varis’s features into a mask of contemptuous hatred so deep as to be felt. His eyes changed from dark to glowing white, and too his skin grew luminescent. Yagaal shifted his weight, made to back away, then went still. He looked determined, if trembling in fear, and his hand fell to his sword hilt. His was the face of a man who knew he was about to die, but who knew as well that his would be a righteous death.

A sensation of power unleashed filled Kian, mingled with the icy calm that always overcame him in the face of coming battle. He could not know if he would survive the following moments, but that was insignificant in a mind bent on destroying his foe, the enemy of all the world.

Without conscious thought, with no plan of action, he drew his sword, moved to the narrow door, and threw it open with a crash. He strode into the Golden Hall with Hazad, Azuri, and Ellonlef at his back-an ineffectual army to stand against a god made flesh.

Chapter 50

When Varis turned his fiery gaze toward Kian, the golden radiance of his face contorted with astonishment. “You!” he barked, his resonant voice thundering through the hall. In the same instant, a blast of indigo fire blossomed from thin air and streaked across the distance.

Kian had no time to react. The growing mass struck him square, forcing him back a faltering step … then burst apart and dissipated into crackling streamers. Even as he recognized Varis’s failure, the sensation of power grew in Kian, seeking escape. By instinct alone, he held back that flood, letting it grow, become more vital, more potent. He would release it soon, but not yet.

Yagaal had drawn his sword and spun at Kian’s unexpected entrance into the Golden Hall. Gaping now in confusion at what he had just seen, his sword clattered against the marble tiles. For a moment, he stood frozen. Then, without warning, he fell face down before Kian.

“I give myself and my sword into your hand!” he cried. He inched forward on his belly, fingers grasping for Kian’s feet.

Varis stared on the scene with his unnatural eyes. He made no move to punish his treacherous servant, or to attack Kian and his band. Neither did he seem to fear the approaching conflict. If anything, Kian sensed that he was restraining his power as well.

With the tip of his sword, Azuri stopped the lord marshal short of touching Kian. “If you wish to live,” he said, “take word to those who will stand with the rightful king, Sharaal, and rid the palace of any who think to curry favor with this deceiver-” he shot a hard glance toward Varis “-this false god.”

Dismissing Azuri and Yagaal, Kian locked gazes with Varis, his heart beating fast. The desire for justice rose up in him. Varis had had a direct hand in killing thousands, and his freeing of the mahk’lar had surely condemned many times more. That last, Kian knew, would trouble the world of men for generations, if not for eternity.

Kian started forward, a stalking beast. He would not make the mistake of sparing Varis again. It nearly sickened him to imagine what he wanted to do to Varis, and at the same time, those lethal desires filled his heart with a sinister joy-

Then Ellonlef was before him, her beauty and concern cracking his shell of mounting hatred. She said nothing, but mutely urged him to be vigilant. Despite the storm of vehemence rising from the hollows of his mind, another part of Kian wanted to caress her face, kiss her, to flee this vile place and seek a life of peace far, far away.

A sudden clatter broke the spell between them, as Yagaal abruptly leapt to his feet. Before Azuri or Hazad could restrain the lord marshal, he charged Varis, sword raised high. Varis, who had been observing Kian and Ellonlef, turned his godly countenance upon Yagaal, teeth bared in a hideous grin.

“He must die!” Yagaal cried, his sword descending toward Varis’s unshielded neck.

The moment stretched out before Kian. He seemed frozen to the spot, a forced observer, yet all else was in motion.

Yagaal’s sword flashed as it fell. At the same moment, a skein of ebon filaments, snapping with unimaginable energy, flew from Varis’s skin, waving threads finer than a spider’s weaving. Those deadly strings carved through the air and fell first on Yagaal, then Ellonlef, then Azuri and Hazad. Some few sought Kian, but the powers of creation raging within his own veins held them at bay. And still, Kian could not move.

Ellonlef’s eyes widened as those filaments fell upon her and sank in, wasting her, devouring her from the inside out, despoiling once smooth skin, aging her beauty as with a terrible disease. Hazad, Azuri, and Yagaal fared no better.

Kian began to move, but now all else was shifting and changing faster than thought. He seemed caught in a nightmare in which he was struggling through jelled air.

As Ellonlef’s gaze flared wider, the whites of her eyes filled with black webs. She began to scream, a hoarse wail, as did Kian’s friends and Yagaal. Kian cried with them, his voice lost to his ears. He willed his limbs to move toward some action, no matter how futile. Ellonlef’s shrieks destroyed him where Varis’s atrocious powers could not, filled his soul with a mind-bending guilt that scoured away all thoughts of vengeance. The torture of his companions became his own, ravaging him.

They fell, one by one. Yagaal reeled, gagging on a stream of boiling blood. When his hip struck the edge of the map-bearing table, he simply burst apart in a shower of disarticulated limbs and steaming liquid that splashed with a hiss over the floor. Hazad dropped to his knees, his huge size made small and insignificant by his terrible wasting. His hair and beard fell out in smoldering clumps, his thick bones shoved through yellowed parchment skin, covered all over in splitting lesions. His once great strength failed him and he toppled, a desiccated husk barely recognizable as a man. Azuri and Ellonlef both burst into flame, the chaotic fires of their burning the hue of a madman’s vision of a rainbow. Both fell dead and stiff as stone, thumping against the marble tiles like so much charred wood.

Only then did Varis rein in his power, drawing back his appalling destruction into himself. He laughed, a deafening rumble that battered Kian to his knees. Seeing only what remained of Ellonlef, tears streaming from his eyes, Kian knelt there, hands reaching. A high keening noise filled his ears, resonating to the depths of his marrow. The sound came from him, the despairing cry of a small animal caught in a strangling snare, unable to escape the approaching hunter. He would perish. He saw no reason to resist, had no desire to stand against his enemy, not when he was dead in sprit already.

Chapter 51

From every door, soldiers burst into the Golden Hall, weapons poised for battle. Whatever they had expected, it was not what they saw. As one, they halted, mouths open, confusion written on their faces. Kian sensed their presence and dismissed them. Dismay and loss were at the center of his being, burrowing deeper into him as he knelt before the smirking hunter, the gleeful destroyer.

But Kian paid no more heed to Varis than he did to the staring soldiers. In his mind’s eye he saw only an image of Ellonlef, as she had been. What she was now, a charred heap, did not exist. A voice raved in his head, telling him her death was a lie, a delusion. She was not dead, and neither were Hazad and Azuri. Kian’s mind rebelled, conjuring separate visions from his memories, creating something new and wonderful, a fiction he clung to and built up. Amid that created reality there came a peace.

But that peace was born of a lie, a wishful illusion, and he knew it, deep down he knew it as he knew his own name. Varis had not just destroyed all that he loved, but had defiled it. As I draw breath, so I will remember them as they were, Kian thought, rousing himself. Self-deception had never been a refuge for him, and he could not afford to let it be now.

His eyes rose and he found the stares of the gathered soldiers upon him. He gazed back, unflinching, searing tears coursing over his stubbled cheeks. A rising fury swarmed over his sorrow. Swiftly, all that was left of compassion in him froze solid, became like a lump of fire-blackened iron.

“Kill him!” Varis ordered, glowing eyes narrowed with what could only be apprehension.

Kian now focused on Varis, wondering at this change. Just moments before, Varis had seemed intent on crushing Kian himself, confident that he could destroy him, but now something was different. He senses the same powers in me that I sense in him, Kian understood, the building rage sweeping remorse from his mind, allowing a deadly clarity. Unlike Varis, Kian no longer feared for his life, because his existence was now without meaning. To perish was a blessing, to live without his companions, without Ellonlef, was a curse.

“Kill me yourself, god king,” Kian said, his voice taunting. He stood up, his fist gripped the hilt of his sword, tightened until the knuckles turned white. He offered Varis a ruthless smile and strode toward him at a determined, deadly pace.”Destroy me with your own steel, usurper, kingslayer,” he invited.

“Stop him!” Varis shrieked, inching away, his former confidence having fled.

“Men of Aradan, you know this impostor is not your rightful king,” Kian said to the motionless soldiers. “Your sovereign is King Sharaal, who even now stands at the city gates, drawing those loyal to him … and destroying all traitors. Choose well where you place your loyalties. Choose fittingly and live, or side with this accursed, hell-spawned demon, and perish.”

The soldiers looked uncertainly among themselves, weighing Kian’s words. In short order, one man moved to leave, then the others quickly followed. One by one, they backed away from defending Varis, moved beyond the Golden Hall.

“Where are you going?” Varis howled, even as the doors boomed shut.

Kian looked on Varis with open contempt. “You cannot best me with the powers of creation, so fill your hand with steel, that I might at least gain some honor in executing an armed man. Or not,” he added with a dismissive shrug. “But know that I intend to cut you down. Fighting or cowering, I will carve out whatever abominable life exists in you.”

Varis, yet a godly figure shining as though the sun were alight within his flesh, considered this only a moment, then hastily took up Yagaal’s sword. With deadly steel in his hands, he seemed more confident.

“You cannot win this, Izutarian,” Varis grated, even as he lunged.

Kian caught Varis’s blade against his own, the steel ringing loudly. With an almost casual air, he slid his dagger into Varis’s ribs, twisted, and kicked him loose.

Varis staggered back, looking with momentary shock at the black blood seeping from the wound. A heartbeat later, the wound began to knit itself together, and his astonishment gave way to an arrogant smirk. “And you thought this would be easy?” Varis laughed.

The sight of such a dark miracle slid across Kian’s consciousness, but left him unruffled. If need be, he would hack Varis apart, piece by piece, and then take off his head. In the face of this consideration, Kian felt a strange stirring over his skin, as if invisible feathers made from frost were brushing over him. Beyond the Golden Hall, men began to cry out. Those wails grew weaker and more pained by the heartbeat, while others quickly receded, as if the crier had taken flight. While he knew not the how of it, Kian reasoned that Varis’s strength lay in the stealing of another’s life. There was something of great importance to that, but all at once Varis attacked, stronger and more skilled than Kian would have believed.

In three heartbeats, the battle degenerated into a wild flurry of slashing blades and ringing steel. The youth was not unskilled, but more than that, in his limbs he carried the unflagging strength of other men. Every advantage of size and skill and ruthlessness Kian possessed was easily matched by Varis, and more.

As Kian’s potency began to wane, Varis seemed to grow even stronger. Then, after a blinding flurry of attacks and counterstrikes, Varis’s sword smashed into Kian’s, and the aged steel Hya had gifted to him proved no match against metal forged by the king’s smiths. Kian’s blade shattered like so much rotten ice, flying shards ringing dully against marble tiles. Kian hurled the useless hilt at Varis’s face. Varis contemptuously batted the projectile away and pressed ahead, unrelenting.

Wielding only a dagger, Kian fell back, gasping, sensing the sands that measured his life were coming to a swift end. As he fought on, wrath continued to fill him, replacing his sense of weakness. He cared not for his own life, but only the desire to exact revenge and deliver justice on Varis for all the evil he had done.

Kian’s fury proved impotent against Varis’s unrelenting onslaught. Moment by moment, Varis grew stronger, while Kian was left gasping, barely able to deflect Varis’s attacks.

Then Kian missed a step and staggered, exposing himself to any number of killing blows. Varis hesitated just long enough to flash a triumphant smile. It was then that Kian struck, taking advantage of the his enemy’s arrogance. Without hesitation, Kian rammed the dagger into Varis’s groin, pulled back, then plunged the steel into his chest. His third attack came from a hooking fist delivered, with all his considerable weight and desperate strength, to Varis’s cheekbone.

Momentarily stunned beyond the reach of his godlike powers, Varis fumbled his sword and reeled, black blood pouring from three separate wounds. Kian snatched up the fallen weapon and pressed his attack, but slipped in his haste to get at Varis, and slid across the polished floor on his knees.

Dazed but not yet out of the fight, Varis’s dagger flashed into view. He came at a run, blade whirling. Kian just managed to knock the dagger aside, driving it upward, and the tip raked his cheek and climbed into his scalp, clipping off a piece of his ear as it went. Blood poured in a hot scarlet wave over his face, but he felt nothing of pain. Still on his knees, Kian swung his new sword awkwardly but brutally. The edge of that keen blade parted flesh, and he instantly twisted his grip and reversed the attack, slamming the rounded pommel against Varis’s lips.

With a bubbling squeal, Varis fell back, bloody tongue pinched grotesquely through shattered teeth. With his free hand he clutched at his throat, a look of utter incredulity blooming on his features. Foul blood squeezed out through his clenched fingers-then began to pour.

Kian struggled to his feet, intending to finish Varis, but the grumble of breaking stone alerted him to some new danger. Before he could look a rough, snaky band wrapped about his neck. The smell of green wood assailed his nostrils even as he was lifted and tossed through the air like a child’s toy. He soared, flailing for some kind of balance, desperately holding onto Varis’s sword. He crashed down atop the great table centered in the Golden Hall, his bloody face leaving a wide crimson smear across the vellum map. In a floundering scrabble, he toppled off the table’s far edge. The breath exploded from his lungs when he smashed through a chair, leaving him to thrash about amid a tangle of broken wood and rich padding.

A gurgling wet hiss and the crash of chairs being violently thrown aside warned Kian that Varis was coming. Even as he fought to regain his feet, gulping each breath, he searched for a better place from which to defend himself. To his dismay, his wide stare locked on what had assailed him. A dark and malignant creation, skinned in a hide of tree bark, had burst from the floor and was writhing from side to side in his direction. Horrified, Kian recognized the thing for what it was-another root-serpent, covered all over with emerald eyes and hoary bark. This creature was not of the soil of the Qaharadin, but was just as deadly.

Kian threw himself clear as the dread serpent attacked. A splinter of fire gouged through his leg, a cutting blow that sent him flipping him through the air. He bounced and spun across the floor, gasping for breath that would not come. Kian rolled, swinging the sword in a desperate warding gesture. The blade chopped into the striking root-serpent, and a section as long as he was tall thumped to the floor. Varis’s creation recoiled, whipping back and forth, splattering greenish, stinking sap over Kian. As the root-serpent retreated, it wilted and blackened, afflicted by a swift rot. In moments, the nightmarish creature had become no more than an oozing mass sprawled across the floor.

Kian had gotten to one knee when Varis strode into view. Ebon blood covered his chest from the wound in his neck-but the wound was no longer there. He looked ready to say something, and Kian instantly drove the tip of his blade stabbing into Varis’s exposed knee, sinking deep into the joint. He gave the sword a violent twist, as if prying a stone from unyielding ground.

Varis screamed and fell atop his ruined leg, and his dagger flew from spasming fingers. Kian leapt to his feet and sent his sword into one of Varis’s glowing eyes. Rage and desperation gave him inhuman strength, and that wild thrust slammed through Varis’s skull and gouged into the marble tiles under his head. Varis went rigid, then began to thrash.

Kian wrenched the blade free and raised the sword high with the intention of hewing off Varis’s head, but in the next instant all was shaking and groaning, knocking him off balance. In a burst of consuming flame, the great map table folded in on itself, burning like oil-soaked parchment. Within a heartbeat, it had been reduced to a heap of ash. In its place a line of blinding light, like a seam cut into the fabric of reality, rose from the floor to the height of a tall man. As Kian watched in stunned silence, that seam flared wide, creating a portal that looked upon a realm of crimson flame and shattered black stone. From that unholy place strode a woman of such stunning beauty and immeasurable power that he collapsed to his knees in wonder.

Chapter 52

Kian shook his head against the vision and tried to stand, but he was made weak by the sheer enormity of the woman’s presence. She gazed impassively about the Golden Hall. To Kian’s stunned eyes she was a woman, but seemed so much more than mere human flesh. Long silver-white hair cascaded over her shoulders and managed to cloak her obvious and flawless nudity. She faced him at last, offering a smile that melted all resistance in his heart.

“You are stronger than most,” she said, her voice a seductive whisper. “For a season I have felt and watched you, tasted your strength of will upon my lips, savored it like the sweetest of nectars. You were not my first choice, yet now I see that you should have been. I will reward your strength, Kian Valara, if you will but let me.”

He had no idea of what she was speaking, but something in the way she said his name, with a mocking familiarity, sparked a deep memory. Someone else had spoken his name in that way. The longer he thought on who had spoken of him so, the less it mattered, until finally all concern faded … faded….

He returned her smile, unable to resist the swelling joy in his heart. All that had happened in the last few moments dwindled to nothing, save the coming of the woman before him. “Tell me of this reward,” he invited eagerly, feeling as if he were lost in some blissful dream from which he never wanted to escape.

“I can give you primacy,” she said, her tone harsher than before, and full of a desperate eagerness. “I would make you an overlord, ruler of child-kings, the high judge of subjects from a thousand realms. Do you take what I propose, or do you deny my gift?”

“Tell me what I must do,” Kian mumbled, finding it hard to concentrate for all the visions suddenly flashing behind his eyes. He saw a vast empire filled with impossible wealth, pleasures beyond count and imagination. And, too, worshippers singing paeans of honor and glory and praise to him alone. In these visions, there were no gods, no other kings, nothing at all but himself….

Yet there was something else. If he agreed to her will, there would be a hand over his life, turning him this way and that, as a child at play moved a doll. I will be but a plaything, and her my master. All that he could and would rule would only be at her behest….

Cracks began to grow in the shell of his bliss, and more quickly still, fear wriggled in through those rents, sinking into him. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus not on her promise and the visions, but on her being. He saw beauty, to be sure, but also something menacing, unholy.

Her eyes, black through and through, narrowed, as if she had read the thoughts written on his soul and found them wanting. A part of him perished when her lips parted, revealing a mesh of perfectly mated black fangs. When she spoke again, her voice was uncompromising.

“Take what I offer, and live a long and full life of ease and power … or deny me and suffer the blackest ways of death, again and again, forever.”

Kian swallowed, his previous bliss fled as new visions, all of horror and pain, shrieked through his being. He had never known such pure terror. Against his will, his thoughts slipped again toward accepting everything she had put forward, if only to spare him the torments she threatened.

“My patience has limits. Do you accept what I give?”

She glided toward him, floating above the marble tiles, until she was near enough that he felt a terrible cold pouring off her marvelous flesh. She seemed less substantial than before, somehow transparent. Despite this, the frigid touch of her presence wafted off her, draining from Kian all hope.

She leaned close enough that he could see the tips of her obsidian teeth digging into befouled black gums. “Answer me,” she grated.

“Who are you?” he stammered, hoping for time enough to clear his mind.

“Humans,” she said with loathing, “ever inquisitive about that which you can only have the most rudimentary understanding.”

She abruptly swept a hand over him and, by means beyond his ken, lifted and moved him across the floor without touching him. She halted him and forced his eyes to look directly upon three wizened figures, materialized from nothing save the very air he breathed. The figures had nearly transparent gray skin, withered into hanging folds, and sunken pits where eyes had once been. Even in their deteriorated states, Kian gleaned that these creatures were no more human that the woman controlling him.

“To know and accept who I am, you must first know who they were,” she said, pointing to the woman. “There is Hiphkos the Contemplator, the Leviathan.”

Kian’s lips moved, trying for words that would not come. None of this could be real, but if not then he had gone irrevocably insane.

She inclined her head toward the man next in line. He was striking, even in death, a stern grandfather. “Attandaeus the Blood Hawk, the Watcher Who Judges.”

Next she swept a hand toward a huge, bluff-featured man. “Memokk the Bull, the Vanquisher. They were my creators-my parents, as it were, the Three, dead long ages of men.”

The woman rounded on Kian, beautiful despite the terrible jet fangs lurking behind her lips. Suddenly she shone bright from within, like the sun seen rising behind a wall of morning fog. But for all her radiance, he saw that she was a creature of absolute darkness.

“You are a goddess?” Kian asked, his brow slicked with icy sweat.

“Some have named me so,” she said with a mischievous smile that stilled his heart.

“Then,” he rasped, trying to understand, to voice aloud what his heart knew but was afraid to bring into the light. For a season I have felt and watched you. The memory of her words roared within his mind like a storm-tossed sea. He squinted against her dazzling glare. “Are you-”

Her laughter, cruel and mirthless, cut him off.

For a season he had known he was hunted. Whatever and whoever she was, this creature had hounded him since he had fled Varis’s impossible power at the temple in the Qaharadin Marshes. She had come to him in the flesh of Fenahk, later as Bresado, and too, wearing the skin of a hedge witch.

As his understanding grew, he saw a fleeting shadow under her luminous, shimmering beauty change into a monstrosity. From within, tentacles pushed against her translucent skin, distending and distorting once perfect flesh. Before he could cry out, her hand streaked to his chest, her touch was hate and agony.

“You would know who I am, Kian Valara?”

An ugly purple tongue, incredibly long and slick, flicked out between her fangs and slid between his lips, probing at his teeth as if for an intimate kiss, then slithered back with a horrid squelching sound. He gagged on the reek of corpses.

“I am Peropis, Eater of the Damned, Queen of Demons and Ruler of Geh’shinnom’atar!” Like thunder, her voice rolled through the palace, quivering its foundations, before gradually fading. In the ensuing hush, she leaned close and whispered, “Will you accept what I would give, or will you deny me and suffer for a thousand and a thousand lifetimes?”

All that Kian was quailed in fear … but his fear served as a keen blade, deftly cutting away the fog of confusion born of her presence. His gaze rolled toward his fallen friends, Hazad and Azuri, his brothers … and the corpse of the woman he had barely known, yet loved with all his heart. He would not despoil their deaths by accepting the accursed gift of this creature, which had given rise to the living weapon that was Varis, who in turn had brought about their deaths. If his destiny was to suffer, then he would gladly do so, even if it meant only that he remained undefiled by human weakness and treachery against the memory of his companions.

“Keep your gifts, demon whore!” Kian roared.

Peropis instantly dropped him to the floor, regarding him with a menace unlike any he had ever known. He almost wished he could take back his defiance, but knew that everlasting pain was better than bowing to such a damned creature as this.

The last of her beauty broke apart, while that which lived under her skin ripped completely free. Splits showed in spectral skin, lashing tentacles sprang from her torso, legs, and arms. As she continued to change, his bowels boiled to water, his tongue withered like a worm dropped on a blistering rock. Every muscle in his body began to shiver, and his skin seemingly tried to crawl off that dancing meat.

With a cry, Peropis lurched forward on her own legs, and also upon a writhing tangle of thrashing black appendages. The motion was sickeningly inhuman, a rolling, bouncing gait. Her fingertips ruptured, exposing talons as black as her fangs, and she reached for him, her arms thinning as they lengthened.

“As you have chosen to deny me, now you will taste my wrath!” she cried, spraying the air with spittle that carried the putrefying stench of bodies dragged from swampy graves.

The force of her words smashed into Kian, sending him sliding over cold stone toward the blazing portal to what could be no less than Peropis’s domain, Geh’shinnom’atar, the Thousand Hells. His fingernails clawed frantically at the smooth tiles, dragging him to a halt bare inches from falling into that nightmare realm.

At a deranged shout of protest, Peropis abruptly ceased her attack and wheeled, her twisted and tentacled figure swaying.

Varis, snarling like a rabid wolf, jabbed his dagger in her direction. “You gave me your gift! It is mine, not another’s. With it, I will destroy you-though not just yet.” He spoke as if he held the power to do so and, as impossible as it was to conceive, Peropis recoiled as if she, too, believed.

Chapter 53

Varis turned toward Kian, eyes burning like molten gold, his godlike flesh swollen, leaking rivulets of dark blood. Kian’s gaze widened as he realized that he could see an ethereal, silver radiance flooding into Varis from all directions. Some hitherto unknown part of Kian reached out and touched that luminance, recognizing it for the very essence of life stolen from the world around him. In that flow, he sensed the deaths of hundreds of people, perhaps more.

Kian had half a heartbeat to consider Varis’s atrocities before the youth slammed into him. With impossible strength, Varis drove him toward the portal. Kian wrenched himself sideways at the last instant, and his back slammed against the searing edge of that terrible gateway. He screamed as an enormous heat melted a groove in the flesh around his spine. He strained with all his failing human strength against Varis, trying to hurl him to one side. Varis, surprised by Kian’s resilience, fought to keep hold, veins bulging in his neck and brow, muscles standing out like cables of unyielding steel from his unnatural skin. For a moment, they were equally matched … but only for a moment.

Varis suddenly drove Kian’s skull against the edge of the portal. The stench of his own seared hair and skin filled Kian’s nostrils, then blood, cool compared to the fiery heat roasting him alive, began to dribble down his neck. Seeing the advantage even as Kian blinked against the fog of a swoon, Varis heaved forward again and again, trying to batter the mercenary’s skull to a pulp.

Kian quickly neared the extent of his strength. He was close to failing, dying. Then another, sharper pain swelled in him. All that he had his companions had struggled to achieve had been a waste. I have failed them … I have failed all.

Without warning, Varis relaxed and stepped back, just enough to ram his dagger into Kian’s middle. Then Varis moved farther away, his features alight with triumph. Regret washed over Kian as he slumped to his knees.

Gazing numbly upon the hilt of the dagger protruding from his belly, Kian was startled to find a blue glow drifting from his wound and his hands, and then from every inch of his skin. Though he was not sure how, he surrendered the powers of creation that he had held back, letting them flow outward. Neither Varis nor Peropis seemed to notice the delicate aurora surrounding Kian, as they gazed upon him with otherworldly eyes.

As the powers of the gods spread outward from Kian, he grew weaker, becoming again as he was born, a creature of frail flesh. In his heart, though he had never embraced or understood the powers that he held, it felt good and right that he should cast them away.

With that justification alive in his mind Kian steeled himself, jerked the dagger free of his bowels then, with all his waning strength, forced the powers of creation from himself in a single, massive blast, wanting more than anything for it to rip away the same powers from Varis’s flesh. What had been visible to his sight alone burst forth, washing the Golden Hall in a brilliant glow. Blue fire licked around Peropis and Varis, stunning them both, but otherwise leaving them unharmed. Or so it seemed at first.

Varis looked mutely this way and that, as the sky-blue radiance began to fade. “No,” he muttered in disbelief, staring at his hands.

Kian clenched a fist to his belly and sagged to his side, eyes wide with wonder. I did this, my desire for it to be so, he thought, stunned. For the first time since seeing the youth enter the temple in the swamp, Varis looked as he had, a highborn man-child full of pride, ambition, and discontent. No longer was he a god made flesh, nor even a man in appearance, but only a boy again.

“Do something!” Varis wailed at Peropis, sounding like petulant child. “I demand that you give me your full blessing! No more lies, no trickery, give me the gift you promised!”

Peropis spoke in a voice full of menace. “I warned you once to never make demands of me. I give what I will when and of my choosing … and I take what I will when I desire.” Her black gaze rolled toward Kian. To him she said, “It would seem that I, indeed, chose wrong. I give you this final chance to decide your fate. Will you accept?”

“No,” Kian sighed, utterly spent.

Tentacles raised up in an incongruously human gesture of exasperation. “The world of men is filled with mere worms,” Peropis urged. “What worm can stand against a king … a god?”

Kian blinked slowly, floating between death and life. He was neither king nor god, and never would he wish to be. “I am a mercenary, an Izutarian,” he muttered in the tired voice of an old man.

Varis, howling in rage, bolted toward Peropis.

“Fool,” she said quietly, her voice full of mockery.

“The power of the gods is mine!” Varis screamed, even as one of Peropis’s many flailing limbs caught him about the neck and effortlessly hurled him into the portal. A roaring pillar of flame went up, and a gossamer filament of silvery light streaked from his body into the hellish place beyond Aradan’s throne room. Of Varis’s flesh, one instant he was whole, the next he was a smoldering husk.

Kian stared open-mouthed at the portal, with its terrible landscape of heat-blasted rock and roiling fires. His enemy, that he had by turns fled and pursued, even as the world ripped itself apart, was dead.

“Fool,” Peropis said again, bitterly. Her features, all tentacles and swollen bulges of dark slick flesh, writhed with a malice so pure Kian feared that looking upon her visage would kill him, yet he could not turn away.

“I give you this last chance, Kian Valara, do you accept what I offer-godhood?”

“Never!” Kian snarled with the last of his strength. “Never would I take anything from your hand. I would rather die a thousand deaths.”

“So be it,” she said. “So be it. A thousand deaths are only a taste of what I will inflict upon your wretched soul.”

“I do not fear you,” Kian answered, though he did.

Something large and unseen struck him, like a hand created of air, and knocked him rolling across the floor. “You are nothing,” Peropis croaked. “Your thoughts and hopes are as a words upon a page to me.” Each step she took on her writhing appendages seemed to fall heavier than the last.

Your thoughts and hopes…. Despite his wounds, Kian made it to his hands and knees, even as another unseen blow threw him over the palace floor. He slapped against the tiles with a pained grunt. Slowly, for bones beyond count felt cracked or broken, he stood again. Groaning, he began limping toward Peropis, dripping blood from more places than he could count, his middle burning where Varis’s dagger had parted his insides, every footfall sending bolts of blinding agony through his limbs. But he did not fear, not now. With a dreamlike perception, he knew that the power of the gods was still flowing within him, building, seeking escape from his mortal flesh. What he thought he had discarded, was in truth a part of him, and ever would be.

He kept moving, even as the sharpness of his pains lessened. He touched the spot low on his belly where Varis had stabbed him and found only a tear in his tunic and drying blood. There was no wound. The observation, the meaning of it, flooded his mind with possibilities, ideas, strength. In moments, all that had been wrong with him was healed. On the heels of that revelation came another niggling idea. It flashed through his mind, even as he saw a pulsing blue aura spread out from his flesh. That radiance seemed to have a will of its own, and he cautiously added his own deepest desires to it.

Though she had no aspect that could be called human, Kian saw a flicker of doubt, perhaps even fear, spread across Peropis’s vile features. Unable to resist, and not wanting to besides, Kian flung his arms wide and loosed the tumultuous flood of energy within him, directing it deadly work with his mind. In an instant, like a flash of lightning with a deep clap of thunder, the radiant aura roared outward from his skin, from his bones, and from deeper still, from his very soul.

Peropis’s terrorized shriek battered against Kian, and the floor suddenly tilted as if he were drunk. Despite this, he stood firm as the throne room began rolling like sea swells. Cracks swarmed across the marble floor, crept up the magnificent walls. Peropis, Eater of the Damned, Queen of Demons and Ruler of Geh’shinnom’atar, fell into a crouch.

“So it begins,” she hissed, her thrashing shape seeming to shrink in on itself, growing darker and smoother, more human. “We are not finished, you and I,” she warned. “A new age has dawned, an age of power, of darkness and light. You have not won, Kian Valara. You have but glimpsed the opening door that has released the mahk’lar, and tasted powers never meant for mortal flesh.”

Before he could respond, she threw herself into the portal. A low, resonant groan, just on the edge of hearing, rippled through the Golden Hall as the aberrant rip between worlds vanished. All went deathly still, the blue aura vanished, the world ceased shaking, and Kian felt himself falling.

Chapter 54

Kian opened his eyes to find Ellonlef looking at him with concern. Over her shoulders, Azuri and Hazad peered down, as well. “A dream,” he muttered, his tongue thick.

“It is no dream,” she said. Her grin, hesitant yet glorious, filled him with joy. “We are alive.”

“How?”

“You did it,” she answered, a touch of wonder in her voice. “You filled us with life. We were dead, gone from this world, and you pulled us back.”

“Gone,” Kian mumbled, remembering with renewed horror the manner of their deaths. Despite himself, he asked the only question he could. “Where were you?”

“Paradise,” his three companions answered in unison, their combined voices melodic with a reverence that he could not fathom.

“Or, at least someplace like it,” Ellonlef added. “A place of light and warmth and peace.”

“You’ll have to tell me that story, but later,” Kian said, for now wanting to revel in the certainty that his friends and Ellonlef were alive and well and with him. I will spend the rest of my days with her, he thought, knowing it for the absolute truth.

For a time they all basked in the glow of victory and friendship, trading smiles and saying nothing. No words were necessary. Finally, Kian urged them to help him up, but found that he did not need their aid. He felt as strong and as hale as ever he had.

When he stood among them, he took in his surroundings. The throne room was a shambles, barely recognizable as the near legendary Golden Hall, but he did not have long to consider this before the great doors leading into the great hall burst open. A dozen soldiers of the Crimson Scorpion legion surged through the doorway, weapons held at the ready. They halted abruptly in the face of meeting only Kian’s small company, who stood their ground with a calm, peaceful self-assurance. All the men dripped sweat and blood, their faces were flushed with the heat of battle.

After a moment of tense silence, an order went up from behind the soldiers and they parted ranks. Prince Sharaal Kilvar strode purposefully into the hall. Sharaal was a large man for an Aradaner, and Kian had no trouble seeing the likeness between him and his dead son. It troubled him no small measure to note that besides their physical similarities, they shared a common highborn arrogance in the set of their features. That aspect strongly suggested that had Varis thought to rise above himself under ordinary circumstances, Sharaal would have dealt with him just as harshly as he had intended to do now.

“If you are protecting the murdering usurper,” Sharaal said without preamble, his voice calm, deep, and full of menace, “the tale of your agonies will haunt the sleep of Ammathor’s children for an age.”

After facing Peropis, Kian almost laughed aloud at that pathetic threat. Instead, he studied the man before him. From Sharaal’s shoulders hung a thick, green woolen cloak edged in clothe-of-gold, and from head-to-foot he wore leathers trimmed in sable. He looked like a northern huntsman. His dark top-lock was shot through with the first streaks of iron gray, and was held in place by a leather thong.

“Your son is dead,” Kian said flatly, “and likely dancing to the tune of Peropis herself.” His companions shifted at this, but none betrayed that they knew Kian’s words to be as true as any ever spoken.

“My sons died on the mountain,” Sharaal corrected icily. “Varis, the shame of my loins, died to me when he slaughtered my father, thinking to raise himself to the Ivory Throne. Where is the traitor’s corpse?”

Kian nodded to the charred husk curled amid a rectangle of ashes where the table had stood, just at the place where Peropis’s portal to the Thousand Hells had been.

Sharaal gazed on the blackened shape and the heaped ash, his hard features quizzical. “How did this happen?”

“The Blood of Attandaeus,” Kian said promptly, “the Nectar of Judgment.”

The words were out of his mouth before he had time to consider them, having come from the memory of seeing Hya sprinkling dark red crystals around the wicks of her candles. He was not sure why he did not simply tell what had happened, the whole of it, beginning with the lost temple in the marshes, to Varis freeing of demons into the world, and lastly about the powers of creation his son had stolen for himself. All he knew was that the lie was out, and that he felt disinclined to reveal the truth to this man. Such instincts had saved his skin before, and he relied on them now.

“By blood or by water, by oil or by wine,” Kian explained further, “all liquids set the substance alight. In quantity, it burns through flesh or iron, and nothing will smother the flames before the substance is spent.”

Sharaal considered this. “Such must have been the way of my father’s murder,” he said quietly. Then, unexpectedly, he burst out laughing. “To hear it told, the usurper used some manner of otherworldly witchcraft. There was even rumor that he had raised an army in the west! Fools will believe anything,” he added, suggesting he had never believed anything of the sort. He turned a shrewd eye on Kian. “Tell me, Izutarian, how you came to be here, and why?”

Still untrusting of this new king, Kian doled out a measure of truth generously mingled with deceit. “It was I and my company whom Varis employed to take him west, across the Kaliayth. Apparently the youth had read something,” he said vaguely, “about a secret substance that could change the face of the world. As it happens, he found it on that journey. I only regret that his intentions were dishonorable.”

Sharaal nodded. “Ever was Varis studious,” he said, forgetting for the moment that he had disowned his treacherous son. “Where his brothers found pleasures in the hunt and pleasuring themselves with maidens, Varis spent his day deep in the Hall of Wisdom, reading … always reading. Little did any of us know he was plotting evil as well.” His eyes grew hard again. “Still, that does not tell me why you are here.”

“After the prince slaughtered most of my company,” Kian said simply, “I followed him here, hoping to give warning to the Ivory Throne of his intentions, which he boasted of after attacking my men. As you well know, I was too late in bringing my warning. In the end, I faced Varis here-and here, his weapon turned on him.”

Sharaal considered that for a time. “As a rule, I should order your execution for threatening a member of my House … yet, as I have said, my son died to me in his betrayal. That he perished by his own traitorous hand further absolves you of any guilt, and proves that the gods, though they hang scorched in the heavens, still mind the affairs of men.”

No one responded to this, and most studied their feet.

Of a sudden, Sharaal’s features took on a greedy aspect. “Of this substance, Izutarian, this Nectar of Judgment, I do not suppose there is any left or, perhaps, the means to make it?”

Kian’s mind swam backward, recalling Hya’s words, “… imagine if you will, an ambitious and cruel man gaining this knowledge and using it for war. There would be no stopping him. ‘Tis better the secret of its making dies with me, than to sell it and swim in gold tainted by the blood of innocents-or ashes, as it were.” While Kian had never doubted Hya’s wisdom, he had not expected so soon to come across another man as ambitious as Varis. As for Sharaal’s possible cruelty, he could only assume that the potential was there, until he knew otherwise. Either way, to reveal where the substance had really come from would destroy his story and jeopardize Hya. Besides that, his false tale needed to become accepted truth.

Still looking on Sharaal, he also considered Peropis’s words to him. “A new age has dawned, an age of power, of darkness and light,” she had warned. A small, quiet voice in the deepest reaches of his mind warned that a darkness unlike mankind had ever known was falling, and all that had happened since Varis stole the powers of deceased gods and released the inhabitants of the Thousand Hells was but the beginning of an age of trouble….

Kian held his hands apart and shrugged. “Alas, I have no idea where Varis gained that dreadful substance, nor the means to create it. I was but a humble servant in his employ, and not given to questioning His Highness.”

Sharaal gusted a weary breath. “It is of no matter,” he said in a regretful tone that suggested otherwise, and turned on his heel. With all the regality of one bred to rule, he climbed the dais and sat upon the Ivory Throne, not reverently, as might have been expected, but as one who has long since grown impatient for the day of his rule to begin.

The soldiers of the Crimson Scorpion legion bent their knees and bowed their heads. Kian and the others were slower to show honor, but a sense of self-preservation swept over them, and they knelt as well.

“Rise and receive your just rewards, Izutarian,” Sharaal intoned, sounding bored. That he had freed his city of his disloyal son’s rule, or that his father was dead, or that Ammathor was still besieged by despair and lawlessness, seemed to have no place in his heart.

Kian rose and stood straight and tall, unsure what the Aradan’s newest king might offer. Sharaal held his fingers near his face, idly studying the nails. “Rewards for loyalty to the crown often involve titles and holdings … but the world has changed, grown darker and, of course, you are a northern barbarian. However, gold is desirable to both highborn and to rabble, and so you will have it in good measure. Enough, I dare say, to buy a kingdom of your own in Izutar.”

Kian bowed his head in acceptance, noting that the suggestion of buying a kingdom sounded more like a command that he leave Aradan with all haste. That, he concluded, was fine by him. His opinion of the kingdom had not grown higher over the last grueling season.

Sharaal proved Kian’s assumption correct when he looked up from his fingernails. “You may enjoy the palace this night, and refit on the morrow. Your immediate needs will, of course, be seen too. After that, I expect you and your companions to depart.” With that, the king of Aradan waved the small company out of his presence.

All too happy to oblige, Kian gathered his companions and departed the Golden Hall. He fully intended to depart Ammathor sooner rather than later, with or without the king’s promises. His intentions proved futile.

Epilogue

The snowstorm that heralded King Sharaal’s abrupt rise to the Ivory Throne and the death of his son became known as the White Death-a term hitherto used only by northerners of Izutar and Falseth, and perhaps by the Whitehold savages, in their guttural tongue. The deadly blizzard raged for ten days. Snow piled high throughout Ammathor, burying an already suffering city. During that bleak time, soldiers scoured both Ammathor and the Chalice in hopes of finding food, warm clothing, and anything that might burn. People by the hundreds froze to death by day, and more during the dark watches of long brutal nights, never knowing the gradual and unexpected warmth in their limbs, the resting peacefulness that closed their eyes, was death stealing near.

During the first days of the new king’s rule, even as the storm raged, Sharaal gladly earned a title never before given a Kilvar king-the Cruel-after he gave a command of such brutality that men would whisper of it around Aradaner hearth fires for years to come. Those tales would survive far beyond the king’s death, after bitter winters became commonplace to Aradaners, whose fading memories of southern warmth eventually became legend. Yet, the grim stories of Sharaal the Cruel were not the darkest tales men would tell, far from it, only the most palatable….

“When do you think it will end?” Ellonlef asked, her dark eyes turned up to a sky so void of color that even the falling snowflakes looked like dark, swirling spots.

They had departed the palace two days before, but were only now just reaching the frozen banks of the River Malistor, what usually amounted to an afternoon ride. Thankfully, the snow was less deep down from the Pass of Trebuldar, but still deeper than any snow that had ever fallen at the edge of the Kaliayth Desert.

All around, a flat blanket of white covered the land. To the south and west, the depthless sky brooded, growing darker by the hour. Another storm was coming. Warily, Kian had watched it building throughout the day. They would need to seek shelter soon. The road north would be long and hazardous, but none of his company wanted to stay in Aradan, even had King Sharaal allowed it. As it was, the king ordered all peoples not of Aradaner birth to depart his realm before springtime, or choose between the headsman’s ax or a life in chains. In the face of catastrophe, he had given his subjects enemies upon which to focus and blame, and when those enemies were gone, he would find others.

“Winter, I mean,” Ellonlef added, a thick woolen scarf muffling her voice. Small cold flakes lighted on her brow and nose, and melted slowly.

When will it end? Kian tried to mull Ellonlef’s question, but found it difficult. Though he had been absent from his homelands many years, he was a child of the north, and he had readily adopted the garb of his homelands. Like the rest of his companions, he wore many layers of clothing: thick leather leggings lined with soft wool, a similar tunic with two more underneath, a thick fur-and-wool cloak with a deep fur-lined hood, and sturdy boots, stockings, and gloves-all gifts from Hya’s ample stockpile of once nearly useless items.

She had given away much to those in need in the Chalice, and from the rest she had earned a king’s ransom by selling her stockpile to, naturally, King Sharaal. After that, she left for the eastern border of Aradan, to the shores that people had already named the Lost Coast. Recalling the story of Rida’s fate, of the burning mountain that had fallen out of the sky to smash into those eastern shores, shattering the lands, and allowing the flow of molten rock to flow over shore and sea, Kian and the others had tried to talk her out of such a treacherous journey, but she would have none of it.

“There will be those in need” she had said, “perhaps even a few Sisters of Najihar. At the least, people will need a healer.” To Ellonlef, she had explained, “If Pa’amadin favors me, I will begin rebuilding our order. As well, you should embark on such an endeavor to the north. We have never had an Izutarian sister, and I should hope to see one before my spirit leaves this flesh.”

The old woman had departed them in the company of O’naal, of all people, and a few of his followers. After seeing the manner of King Sharaal’s rule, O’naal wisely decided he should earn his way in friendlier realms. Kian guessed that too few would follow O’naal’s path, to their grief.

Hya never mentioned the powers of creation she had seen Ellonlef use to heal Kian, but Kian had noticed a curious gleam in her rheumy eyes every time she looked at either of them. Of course, he knew what she suspected was in fact truth: he and Ellonlef held within them the powers of creation, as did Hazad and Azuri, though they did not know it, not yet. Peropis’s words rose to the surface of his mind. “A new age has dawned….” He suspected that the all the world had been washed in the powers of creation. He could not guess who or how many these powers had sank into, but in time those who had been touched by those powers would learn of them. As was the way of things, some would wield their newfound powers for good, others for evil, and in time a new order would be born from the ashes of the old world.

His thoughts turned as he gazed into the sluggish gray-brown waters of the river, choked with growing floes of squealing and scraping ice. Doubtless, the surface would soon freeze solid. Farther south, those thickening waters held the corpses of thousands of Aradaner soldiers and various highborn, men and women who had stood with Varis, against their will or not. Sharaal had ordered their limbs torn from their bodies, the wounds cauterized, then commanded them thrown screaming into the river-at least, that was one story Kian had heard. As it was the gentlest tale of them all, he chose to believe that one in particular, understanding full well that King Sharaal would embrace the more monstrous tales of his brutality, using them to further his own ends.

Kian feared there would be trouble with Sharaal and others like him, for in times of tragedy bent men always rose up to exploit the weak and fearful with false hope. A battle, he reasoned, had been won against Varis and Peropis, but without question an insidious war had come on the world in the form of destruction and loosed demonic spirits. At the moment, he could not guess who would ultimately prevail.

“Well?” Ellonlef insisted playfully, having no idea what Kian had been thinking about.

Shaking off gloomy thoughts, he gazed at her, enraptured, willfully falling into her dark, liquid eyes. At the moment, there was no need to dwell on Sharaal, or what the burgeoning age might hold, or what the powers of creation held inside him might mean-the same powers he had transferred into his friends when he returned their lives to them. All that mattered now was in front of him.

“Winter?” he muttered, playfully putting on the face of a doddering magus. “Dear one, winter it will end when it always does, with the arrival of spring.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed a girl’s delighted laugh. Azuri and Hazad, at the head of a string of pack horses, added their mirth to hers. Kian-who as child had avoided Kelren slavers and survived vicious cutthroats on the streets of Marso, who had grown into a man and a mercenary to fight innumerable battles, a man who had survived the shattering of the world and witnessed the loosing of the mahk’lar from the Thousand Hells, a man who had stood firm against a diabolical youth with the powers of gods-found himself laughing as well.

For the first time in many long days, he felt absolutely alive and whole. Laughter, shared as it was with lifelong friends and the woman he would wed, drove back the cold and threat of coming hardships, left him as warm as if he were tucked away in a cozy home before a roaring hearth fire. Such was his simple hope, and in that hope he rested.

Content

James A. West
The God King

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Epilogue