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Into a Dark Realm
Raymond E. Feist
The whole of the magnificent Riftwar Cycle by bestselling author Raymond E. Feist, master of magic and adventure, now available in ebookChaos threatens to overwhelm two worlds as evil forces prepare to invade Midkemia, while the most treacherous magician in history – the madman Leso Varen – wreaks havoc on the world of Kelewan.Varen has usurped the body of one of the most powerful men on Kelewan, and Pug must uncover his true identity amid an entire city of Black Robes before Midkemia’s only ally is completely disabled by Varen’s political poison.As Pug begins his search, his son, Magnus, will lead a desperate expedition into the vast and malevolent empire that threatens his home-world, with the hope of finding the key to defeating an enemy capable of overwhelming the combined might of two worlds. But even if Magnus succeeds in uncovering the vital information, he must also survive the perilous journey home.Into a Dark Realm is book two in the Darkwar Trilogy. The third and final book in the trilogy is Wrath of a Mad God.



RAYMOND E. FEIST
Into A Dark Realm
Book Two of The Darkwar



Copyright (#ulink_12e36e78-51de-52ce-942a-c0b62ea6dbca)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are a work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely conincidental.
HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)
First published HarperVoyager 2006
Copyright © Raymond E. Feist 2006
Cover Illustration © Nik Keevil
Raymond E. Feist asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780007133796
Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2012 ISBN: 9780007381418
Version: 2018-11-14
This one is for Janny, Bill, Joel, and SteveFor sharing their talents

Table of Contents
Cover (#u00fc9232-dad1-56e6-a258-7ccbfe26e389)
Title Page (#u64ecf2be-6488-51e8-a957-c25d53fd7a42)
Copyright (#ub7ddc153-4b7e-5a7d-8573-ceb8b3205c75)
Dedication (#u28ee4068-e223-5e3b-a717-2223528ce320)
Map (#u9ade3dd2-8e84-54ad-86b6-d215c20b8dd1)
Chapter One: Chase (#u40dd4e50-7868-598a-b617-0f2ea5784b33)
Chapter Two: Oracle (#u304ac23b-f919-59d0-9ac2-bf22a209784b)
Chapter Three: Aftermath (#u6fa9ae91-bcd7-5225-b34a-8a383a5818d7)
Chapter Four: Nighthawks (#u065e6ec0-a563-54b9-9a76-2e6852044b6b)
Chapter Five: Preparation (#u55de2346-871d-5cc2-ba2b-337ee712ada6)
Chapter Six: Honest John’s (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven: Deathknight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight: New Directions (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine: Roldem (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten: Purging (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven: Delecordia (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve: Enemies (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen: Change (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen: Celebration (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen: The White (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen: Lord (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen: Warriors (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen: Feast (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen: Kosridi (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty: Crucible (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One: Betrayal (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two: Revelations (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
Continue the Adventure … (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Map (#u34d7184e-e6ae-502c-be2a-cd1b82774ae9)



• CHAPTER ONE • (#ulink_1325de70-6693-55af-87d9-f41cea054a5b)
Chase (#ulink_1325de70-6693-55af-87d9-f41cea054a5b)
A WOMAN SCREAMED IN OUTRAGE.
Three young men overturned carts and pushed aside shoppers as they crashed through the evening market. Their leader – a tall, rawboned youth with red hair – pointed to the retreating back of their prey and shouted, ‘There he goes!’
Night approached the port city of Durbin as desperate men raced through the streets. Merchants pulled prized wares from tables as three young warriors shoved anyone and anything blocking their pursuit. In their wake they left consternation, curses and threats; all of which they ignored.
The summer heat of the Jal-Pur desert still clung to the walls and cobbles of the city, despite the slight breeze off the sea. Even the harbour gulls were content to stand idly by and watch for any morsel that might fall from a passing vendor’s cart. The more ambitious among them would launch themselves into the air and soar for a moment or two, hanging languidly on the heat rising from the dock stones, then quickly return to stand quietly near their brethren.
The evening markets were crowded, for most of the inhabitants of Durbin had spent the blistering afternoon resting in the shade. The city’s pace was leisurely, for these were the hottest days of summer, and men who lived on the desert’s edge knew better than to struggle needlessly against the elements. Things were as the gods willed.
So the sight of three armed and apparently dangerous young men pursuing another, while hardly a remarkable experience in Durbin, was unexpected given the season and the time of day. It was just too hot to be running.
The man attempting to flee was, from his look, a desertman: swarthy and dressed in a baggy shirt and loose-fitting pantaloons, a midnight blue headdress and open robe, his feet clad in low-topped boots. Those who followed were led by a northerner, probably from the Free Cities or the Kingdom of the Isles. His ginger hair was uncommon in the Empire of Great Kesh.
His companions were also young men, one broad-shouldered and dark of hair, the other blond and of slighter build. They were all sunburned and dirty and had hard expressions that added years to their appearance. Their attentions were fixed on their quarry and their weapons were easily at hand. They were dressed in garb that marked them as men from the Vale of Dreams – breeches, linen shirts, riding boots and leather vests instead of robes and sandals. They were most likely mercenaries, a likelihood accentuated by their grim determination.
They reached a boulevard that led to the docks, and the man fleeing dodged between merchants, shoppers and dockmen heading home for the night. The leader of those in pursuit paused for an instant then said, ‘He’s heading for the grain-shippers’ dock.’ With a hand gesture he sent his blond-haired companion up a side street, then motioned for the darker youth to come with him.
‘I hope you’re right,’ said the shorter man. ‘I’m getting tired of all this running.’
With a quick glance that showed a grin, the leader said, ‘Too much time sitting in alehouses, Zane. We need to get you back to the Island and Tillingbrook’s tender mercies.’
Too out of breath to comment, the shorter youth just made a sound that clearly indicated he found that remark utterly lacking in humour, as he quickly wiped perspiration from his brow. He had to hurry just to keep up with his taller companion.
The inhabitants of Durbin were practised when it came to dealing with duels, brawling, gang wars, riots, and all other manner of civil disorder. By the time Jommy and Zane reached the corner around which they had seen their quarry vanish, the alarm had outstripped them, and the street leading to the docks was almost deserted. Passers-by, merchants, and seamen bound for nearby inns and taverns had sensed coming trouble and vanished into whatever scant cover they could manage. Doors closed, shutters slammed, and those that couldn’t get inside did their best to find shelter.
As Jommy Killaroo kept his eyes on the tiny figure of their fleeing target, Zane con Doin glanced into every passed doorway, alley entrance or other cover for potential ambush. All he saw were citizens of Durbin hunkering down, waiting for the trouble to pass.
Jommy saw their man duck around a corner at the end of the boulevard, and said, ‘Right towards Tad if he’s as fast as he usually is!’
Zane grinned. ‘He is. Suri won’t escape.’
For a month Jommy, Tad and Zane had been on the trail of this man, an erstwhile trader named Aziz Suri, a desertman from the Jal-Pur who was reputedly an importer of spices and oils from the Free Cities. He was also reputed to be a freelance spy, broker in information, trader in secrets, and a close contact of the Nighthawks, the Guild of Death. One month earlier, at the Emperor of Kesh’s Midsummer’s Festival, a plot to destabilize the Empire and plunge it into civil war had been prevented by agents of the Conclave of Shadows, and now they were seeking out the remaining pockets of assassins, to put an end finally to their centuries’ long reign of terror.
Zane struggled to keep up with Jommy. While he was able to run as far as the taller youth, he was not able to do so at his longer-legged friend’s furious pace, and maybe Jommy was right: maybe he had spent too many nights in the alehouse. His trousers had been getting tighter of late.
As they reached the end of the street, they came upon the grain-shippers’ docks: a long series of stoneworks punctuated by three large derricks, fronting onto two massive warehouses. From the far end of the dock Tad ran towards them, shouting, ‘In there!’ and motioning that their quarry had slipped into the narrow passage between the two warehouses.
Jommy and the two younger boys took no pains to hide their approach, for after a month in Durbin they knew this area of the city fairly well: well enough to know that their prey had dashed into a dead-end alley. When they reached the narrow opening, the man bolted from it, heading straight towards the harbour. The setting sun glinted red off the sea, and he squinted and turned his head, raising his hands to shield his eyes.
Jommy reached out and got just enough of a grip on the man’s arm for a second to turn him completely around. The man flailed his arms, tipping off-balance, as he vainly sought to keep his feet under him. Jommy reached out again, trying to grab the man’s tunic, but only succeeded in causing him to stumble farther. Before anyone could get hold of any part of the slender trader, he slammed into the centremost derrick.
Stunned for an instant, the desertman turned, teetered, and then as he regained his wits, stepped off the edge of the pier.
A cry akin to a dog whose paw had just been stepped on filled the air as he vanished over the edge. The three young men hurried to the edge and looked over. Dangling from the derrick rope just above a loose cargo net was the little trader, hurling invective upward as he glanced down at the rocks below the jetty. The tide was out, so only a few inches of water protected the dangling man from serious injury below. All the shallow-draught barges used to ferry grain to the ships in the harbour were anchored out in deeper water. ‘Pull me up!’ he shouted.
Jommy said, ‘Why should we, Aziz? You led us a nasty chase through the entire city of Durbin in this bleedin’ heat—’ he wiped perspiration off his forehead and flipped it with his hand at the man to demonstrate just how out of sorts he was, ‘—and all we wished for was a short, quiet chat.’
‘I know you murderous cut-throats,’ said the trader. ‘Your chats get men killed.’
Tad said, ‘Murderous cut-throats? I think he has us confused with someone else.’
Zane drew his belt knife. ‘You’re confusing us with a different bunch of murderous cut-throats is my brother’s opinion. I’m not so sure.’ Looking at his companions, he asked, ‘If I cut this rope what do you think of his chances?’
Tad leaned over, as if studying the matter, then declared, ‘It’s no more than twenty feet to the rocks. I say it’s better than even money he only breaks a leg or an arm or two.’
Jommy said, ‘Depends on how he falls. Now, I’ve seen a bloke pitch backwards off a ladder once, only the bottom rung, mind you, and he smacked his head against the ground and broke his skull. Took him a bit of time to die, then, but he was dead, in the end, and dead is dead.’
‘I could cut it and we could see,’ suggested Zane.
‘No!’ shouted the trader.
‘Well, the evening tide’s coming in,’ said Tad to Aziz. ‘If you hang there for another couple of hours, you should be able to just let go and swim over to those steps over there.’ He pointed across the harbour.
‘If the sharks don’t get him,’ said Jommy to Zane.
‘I can’t swim!’ shouted the trader.
‘Not a lot of opportunities to learn in the desert, I expect,’ observed Zane.
‘Then you’re into it up to your neck, aren’t you, mate?’ asked Jommy. ‘What say you we trade a bit? You answer a question, and if I like the answer, we pull you up.’
‘If you don’t like the answer?’
‘He cuts the rope,’ said Jommy, pointing to Zane. ‘And we’ll see if the fall kills you, or just ruins your life – whatever’s left of it before the tide comes in and drowns you, of course.’
‘Barbarian!’
Jommy grinned. ‘Been called that more than a few times since I got to Kesh.’
‘What do you wish to know?’ asked the desertman.
‘One thing only,’ said Jommy, losing his grin. ‘Where’s Jomo Ketlami?’
‘I don’t know!’ shouted the man as he tried to gain purchase for his feet in the dangling cargo net.
‘We know he’s somewhere in the city!’ shouted Jommy. ‘We know he hasn’t got out of the city. And we know that you have been doing business with him for years. Here’s the deal: you tell us where he is, we pull you up. Then we go find him, get what we want to know from him, and kill him. You’ve got no worries.
‘Or you don’t tell us and we leave you hanging. You might climb up to the top of this derrick, and get down from there somehow, but even if you do, we’ll just start spreading the word you sold out Ketlami. So we’ll just keep an eye on you, wait until he kills you, and we’ll have him, anyway.’ Jommy’s grin returned. ‘Your choice, mate.’
‘I can’t!’ cried the terrified trader.
‘Five imperial silvers he doesn’t die when he hits the rocks,’ said Tad.
‘I don’t know,’ Zane replied. ‘Seems like that’s a bit better than even money.’
‘What say you to my five against your four?’
Zane nodded enthusiastically. ‘Done!’
‘Wait!’
Jommy said, ‘Yes?’
‘Don’t cut the rope, please. I have children to care for!’
‘Liar,’ said Zane. ‘It’s well known you tell the girls at the bordellos you’re without a wife.’
‘I didn’t say I had a wife,’ admitted the little man. ‘But I do care for the handful of bastards I’ve sired.’
‘You are the soul of generosity, mate,’ observed Jommy.
‘There are men who do far less for their get,’ replied the dangling trader. ‘I have even taken the eldest into my house to learn a craft!’
‘Which?’ asked Zane. ‘Trading, spying, lying, or cheating at cards?’
‘You know,’ asked Tad, ‘that as we stand here jibber-jabbing, the tide’s coming in?’
‘So?’ Jommy looked at his friend with a narrowing gaze.
‘Well, if we don’t cut the rope soon, then the chances are he’ll just drown, and that means the bet’s off.’
‘Can’t have that,’ said Zane. He flourished the large hunting knife he was holding, twirled it like an expert, and began sawing at the heavy rope that ran up through the block and tackle below the topmost pulley of the derrick.
‘No!’ shouted the panic-stricken little man. ‘I’ll talk!’
‘So, talk,’ returned Jommy.
‘Not until you pull me up!’
Zane glanced at his companions. ‘A reasonable request?’
‘Well, I don’t think he’s going to be able to best all three of us,’ said Tad. ‘After all, he’s an unarmed, skinny little fellow and we’re, what did he call us?’
‘Murderous cut-throats,’ supplied Zane.
‘Pull him up, then,’ said Jommy.
Tad and Zed both gripped the heavy crank used to raise the netting, and turned it. Being well oiled, it moved freely and the little man quickly rose the dozen feet necessary to bring his head above the edge of the dock.
Jommy had his sword out and pointed to a spot on the dock. ‘Put him there, lads.’
Tad and Zane ceased cranking, set the lock to keep the net from falling back, and then grabbed the long wooden arm used to swing cargo around. When they had the trader safely above the docks he let go of the net, dropping a few feet to the stones.
Before Aziz could think to flee again, Jommy had his sword’s point at the man’s throat. ‘Now, you were going to tell us the whereabouts of Jomo Ketlami.’
With eyes downcast Aziz said, ‘You must find him and kill him quickly, and those who serve him, for if any of those … murderers linger, my life is over.’
‘That’s our plan,’ said Jommy. ‘Now, where is he?’
‘You were mistaken about him still being in the city. He has more ways through the walls than a sewer rat. There are caves in the hills above the beach a half-day’s ride to the southwest, and there he has gone to ground.’
‘And you know this how?’ asked Tad.
‘He sent word, before he fled. He has need of me. Without me, he has no way to send messages to his confederates in other cities on the Bitter Sea. I am to find my way to those caves in two nights, for he has messages he must send to his murderous brothers.’
‘I think we should just kill him,’ said Zane. ‘He’s in a lot deeper than we thought.’
‘No,’ said Jommy, putting up his sword as Tad gripped Aziz by the shoulder. ‘I think we’re going to take him back to the inn and have him sit down with your dad, and we’ll let him decide this.’ To the trader, Jommy said, ‘It’s all the same to me if you live or die, so if I were in your place, I’d put some effort into convincing us it’s better for everyone involved if you stay alive.’
The man nodded.
‘Come along,’ said Jommy. ‘If you’re lying to us, your bastards will have to learn to fend for themselves.’
‘On their heads, I will tell you only the truth.’
‘No,’ said Jommy. ‘It’s on your head, Aziz.’
As the sun vanished below the western horizon, the four men moved away from the docks into the pest hole of a city that was Durbin.
Armed men moved silently through the night. Before them lay a small cave, large enough to admit one man at a time, half-hidden under an overhanging cliff, where a knoll rearing up over the beach had been worn away by years of erosion. Above the cave two archers crouched, ready to fire down on anyone attempting to exit the cave without permission.
Mist rolled in off the Bitter Sea, and no moon was visible though the overcast. The night was coal-mine dark and the men surrounding the cave could barely make out one another in the murk.
Caleb, son of Pug, motioned for his three boys to wait. Behind him his brother Magnus stood ready to answer any magical onslaught that might be forthcoming. A dozen other men were also moving to form a semi-circle around another exit to the cave a hundred yards down the cliff.
The two brothers bore a strong resemblance to one another. They were tall and slender yet strong, with hair to the shoulders, an almost regal bearing which they had inherited from their mother, and eyes that seemed to look through you. The one startling difference was in their colouring. Caleb had dark brown hair and eyes, while Magnus’s hair was the palest blond, looking white in the sun, and his eyes were the palest blue. Caleb wore hunting garb, tunic and trousers, knee-high boots, and a floppy-brimmed hat, while Magnus wore simple black robes with the hood thrown back.
Caleb had spent most of the night before interrogating the trader Aziz with the help of his brother. Magnus lacked the special art to determine if the trader was telling the truth or lying, but the trader didn’t know that, and after a simple demonstration of Magnus’s magical ability Aziz was convinced the magician could parse falsehood from sincerity. Magnus came back with Caleb before dawn and the two brothers had employed their respective skills – tracking and magic – to ensure their quarry was, indeed, inside those caves. Just before dawn, two assassins had exited the cave and made a quick sweep of the surrounding terrain. Magnus had employed a spell of levitation to lift his brother and himself a hundred feet above the knoll, so there was no sign of them when the patrolling sentries reached the top of the knoll. In the dark even if they had looked straight upward there was little chance they would have been seen.
A single lookout had been stationed a short distance down the coast to ensure that no one had fled while Magnus had returned to the City of Kesh to get Chezarul, an erstwhile trader from the City of Kesh, who was one of the most trusted agents of the Conclave, and his most reliable warriors, returning within hours by magic. At dusk they had approached these caves and taken up position after nightfall.
Their best estimate was that Jomo Ketlami was holed up in a warren of caves with at least half a dozen assassins, waiting for Aziz to arrive so the fugitives could arrange safe passage out of Kesh. And given the events of the past month, these would be the toughest, wiliest, most fanatical survivors of the Nighthawks.
Since the attempt on the Emperor by the sorcerer Leso Varen, and his role in leading the Nighthawks, soldiers of the Empire, under direction from Keshian spies and agents of the Conclave of Shadows, had been rooting out every last hiding place in Kesh. By imperial decree, these men were under an order of summary execution.
Similar campaigns had been underway in the Kingdom of the Isles, as well as Roldem, Olasko, and several of the other larger cities in the Eastern Kingdoms. The Conclave was certain they had identified every last headquarters but one: the ultimate source of this murderous brotherhood, where their Grand Master sat like a giant spider in the centre of a web that stretched over an entire continent. And the man in the caves just a few dozen yards away knew where the headquarters for the Guild of Death was hidden.
Caleb signalled. A sentry standing behind the archers above uncovered a lantern and the men down the beach slowly entered the second cave mouth. Magnus had used every art he possessed to determine there were no magical snares waiting for them. He was less confident about more mundane traps. The dozen men entering the cave were among the most skilled agents of the Conclave in Kesh, and perhaps the most experienced hand-to-hand fighters in the Empire. They expected to give their lives if necessary, for they were committed to the undertaking of ridding the world of Midkemia of the Nighthawks for well and good.
Another half-dozen men took up positions before the second cave mouth, with another pair of archers poised above on the cliffs as well. The orders were clear: to defend their own lives, but Jomo Ketlami must be taken alive.
Caleb motioned for his men to move towards the mouth of the smaller cave, ready to receive anyone fleeing. With hand gestures, barely seen in the faint lantern light, he instructed them to stand ready, taking up their positions on either side of the cave. He motioned to the man carrying the lantern, who shuttered it again, plunging the beach into blackness once more.
Minutes dragged by slowly, the only sound being the rolling of the surf and the occasional distant sound of a nightbird. Jommy nodded to Caleb, who waited on the other side of the cave mouth, then turned to see how his two younger companions were doing. In the dark he could make out Tad and Zane huddled against the cliff face behind him, ready. In the months he had lived with them, he had come to feel a kinship, and he found himself adopting the role of eldest brother more often than not. Their family had welcomed him and made him feel at home – even though home was far from ordinary; but he had come to accept the extraordinary as a matter of course since meeting Caleb and his adopted sons. He knew he would die defending them, and knew in turn each would be willing to lay down his life for him.
Abruptly a shout echoed from within and the sounds of combat followed instantly.
The first assassin to bolt the cave was met with the flat of Caleb’s blade across his face. Blood fountained from a broken nose as Jommy clubbed him on the side of his head with the hilt of his sword. Zane grabbed the stunned assassin by the collar and hauled him out of the way by main force.
A second assassin saw his companion fall, even if he couldn’t see exactly what occurred in the dark, and hesitated before leaping forward, sword at the ready. Caleb barely avoided a thrust to his side, his parry ringing like an alarm. Jommy stepped forward to club the man on the head. He felt something tug hard at his tunic and realized he had almost been skewered by another assassin’s blade as he crossed before the threshold of the cave. There was a burning sensation across his lower back as the swordsman pulled back his blade.
Ignoring the pain, Jommy slammed his hilt into the back of the head of the man facing Caleb, and in turn felt another burning cut as the swordsman behind him attempted to disengage his sword from Jommy’s tunic.
Caleb reached out with his left hand, grabbed Jommy by the shirt front and yanked hard, pulling him away from danger. Zane hit the man trying to kill Jommy as another man leapt past him, attempting to run down the beach.
‘Stop him!’ shouted Caleb.
A sizzling sound, like a nearby discharge of lightning, filled the night and a bolt of energy sprang from Magnus’s hand. Blinding blue light illuminated the cave mouth and beach for an instant as a sphere of energy sped after the fleeing man, overtaking him in an instant. The man screamed and fell, his torso contorting in pain as tiny bolts of energy danced over his torso, a sizzling sound punctuated by crackling adding a sinister note to the display.
Caleb and Magnus hurried to the fallen man, while the boys and the other agents of the Conclave subdued the remaining assassins.
‘Coming out!’ shouted a familiar voice, and a moment later Chezarul came out of the cave. ‘How did we do?’ he asked.
Jommy motioned towards the fallen man as Caleb reached him, shouting, ‘Light!’
A pair of lanterns, one above them and another a short way down the beach, were uncovered, and they could see the form of a man writhing on the sand as the energy display faded from sight. Magnus said, ‘Bind him before I release the spell. He is unable to use any poison secreted upon him. Search him well.’
Caleb looked down on the man for whom he’d been searching for weeks. Jomo Ketlami lay in agony, his face contorted. His fists flailed uselessly in the air, his elbows hard against his sides. His back was bowed and his legs kicked feebly against the sand. He went through the man’s clothing quickly and found two poison pills and an amulet, the iron Nighthawk emblem they had come to know so well. He pulled a cord out of his belt pouch, turned the quivering man over as easily as he would a felled deer and trussed him up in the same manner.
‘Check his mouth,’ suggested Magnus.
‘Get me a light.’
A lantern was fetched and held above Ketlami’s face. Gripping his captive’s jaw with his right hand, Caleb forced his mouth open and motioned for the lantern to be moved closer. ‘Ah, what is this?’ he said.
He held out his left hand, and a pair of iron tongs were placed in them. Caleb deftly reached into Ketlami’s mouth with them and yanked out a tooth. The captive’s whimpering increased but otherwise he was unable to react to the extraction. ‘Hollow tooth,’ said Caleb. He stood up and told Magnus, ‘You can let him go, I think.’
Magnus released the spell and the captive fell limp for a moment, panting like an exhausted dog.
As they approached Ketlami, Chezarul said to Caleb, ‘Two of them are dead, one will not live through the night, but three are unconscious and bound.’
Caleb nodded. ‘Check them for poison, as well.’ He glanced at Jommy, ‘You’re injured.’
‘I’ve had worse,’ said the young man with a grin. ‘Last time I crossed swords with Talwin Hawkins he cut me three times, and he wasn’t even trying.’
Caleb looked at the spreading bloodstains on Jommy’s tunic. ‘Get them bound, boy, or Marie will have my ears.’
Jommy winked at Tad and Zane as they joined the others in standing over their quarry. ‘Your mum does look after me, doesn’t she?’
Tad made a wry face. ‘I think she likes you best.’
Zane nodded. ‘I swear that’s true.’
Jommy’s grin widened. ‘That’s because you’ve been causing her grief your entire lives. I’ve only been annoying her for a few months. She’ll get tired of me quick enough.’
Magnus said, ‘No doubt,’ as he cast a sidelong glance at the tall, redheaded youth. Jommy had quickly become well liked at Sorcerer’s Island and had easily fitted in with Caleb’s adopted family. In a few difficult spots, he had revealed himself to be tough, loyal and willing to risk himself for others, yet he never seemed to lose his sense of humour.
Tad moved to look at Ketlami who now lay motionless, moaning and cursing softly. ‘What now?’
Caleb said, ‘We need to take this one to Father.’ To Chezarul he said, ‘Take the three captives back to the city and get what you can out of them. These should be the last of the Nighthawks in Durbin, but against the possibility there are stragglers still at large, wring every drop of truth from them you can. Then see they plague the world no longer.’
Chezarul nodded once, then began issuing orders to his men.
Magnus pulled out an orb and said, ‘Boys, stand close.’ He stood directly over Ketlami, while Caleb reached down and gripped a handful of the man’s tunic with one hand, and the hem of Magnus’s black robe with the other. Jommy put a hand on Magnus’s shoulder, while Tad and Zane each stood close behind Caleb.
Magnus depressed a switch on the orb and suddenly they vanished, leaving Chezarul and his men on the empty beach to clean up the last vestige of the Nighthawks in Durbin, and perhaps Great Kesh, if they were lucky.

• CHAPTER TWO • (#ulink_d7e72ac2-64f0-517f-9055-dec773c84781)
Oracle (#ulink_d7e72ac2-64f0-517f-9055-dec773c84781)
THE PRISONER GLARED DEFIANTLY.
Jomo Ketlami hung by shackles from the stone wall. His clothing had been cut away, leaving him no dignity, but Pug had judged it necessary as his dark body was tattooed with arcane symbols, black, white, red, and yellow, and some of these were wards.
He was a powerfully built man. To the three boys at the back of the room, he looked strong enough to rip the iron rings out of the wall. His head was completely shaved and glistened with perspiration. He had a wrestler’s neck and shoulders, and his bare torso rippled with muscle. His black eyes showed no hint of fear. He snarled as he confronted his captors.
Half a dozen guards had been stationed outside the door and Magnus stood watch inside against any magical incursion, either to rescue Ketlami or to silence him. Caleb and the boys stood against the opposite wall, out of the way. Two men entered the room.
It was Pug, followed by Nakor.
Magnus asked, ‘Where’s Bek?’
‘Outside, if I need him,’ said Nakor. ‘He doesn’t need to see this.’
Magnus’s glance at his brother communicated a silent question: but these boys do? Caleb nodded once. Magnus studied his brother’s face then returned a single nod. The boys had proven themselves so far, showing iron will when needed and a fearlessness that was the hallmark of youth, but which was being rapidly replaced by a more sober appreciation of the real dangers they faced, youthful bravado becoming genuine bravery before Magnus and Caleb’s eyes. But combat was one thing, and torture another.
No one spoke for a moment longer, then Ketlami shouted at Pug, ‘You may as well kill me now, magician! I’m oath bound to take the secrets of the Guild to Lims-Kragma’s Hall!’
Pug said nothing, but turned towards the door as two more men entered the small chamber. The boys moved to the left side of the rear wall, giving the newcomers room to make their way to where the prisoner waited.
One of the two men wore a black leather hood and a faded tunic covered in old stains. Tad glanced at his two companions and knew instantly they all concluded the nature of those stains. The torturer took up a position before the prisoner, while the second man came to stand beside Pug.
He was a nondescript man of middle height, with no distinguishing features and brown hair, and he wore the shirt and trousers of a trader or farmer. His feet were clad in modest leather boots. He stared at the prisoner, who suddenly turned and locked eyes with him. Ketlami’s eyes widened. After a moment, he closed his eyes and an expression of pain crossed his face. More perspiration beaded on his forehead and he let out an animal growl, half pain, half aggravation. ‘Get out of my head!’ he shouted, then with an expression of triumph, he laughed and said to the newcomer, ‘You’ll have to do better than that!’
Pug glanced at the other man with an unspoken question. The other man looked at Pug, nodded once, then looked once more at Ketlami.
Pug said, ‘Begin,’ and the torturer took a quick step forward and drove his fist straight into Ketlami’s stomach. He stepped back while the prisoner gasped, his eyes watering. After a moment, Ketlami sucked in a deep breath and said, ‘A beating? What next? Hot irons and pincers?’
The torturer struck Ketlami in the stomach again, but this time it was two quick blows, and suddenly the contents of the victim’s stomach emptied onto the floor.
Jommy’s expression was grim as he looked at his companions. All three boys had been trained in hand-to-hand combat and an early lesson had been about double strikes to the stomach. A strong man could take a single blow and not miss a stride, but two quick strikes, the second coming before his stomach muscles could recover fully from the first, and he was doubled over, losing his last meal.
Magnus, Caleb, Pug and Nakor stood implacably, watching as Ketlami spat. The first indignity was but a start in slowly breaking the man down and learning what they needed to know, the location of the Grand Master of the Nighthawks.
Everyone remained silent as the torturer struck Ketlami across the face with the back of his hand. It was an insulting blow as much as a damaging one, and did nothing more than bring tears to the prisoner’s eyes again and make him even more defiant. Caleb turned and whispered to the boys, ‘It will be some time before he truly begins to feel hopelessness. He is a strong man: moreover, he’s a fanatic.’
The three boys stood quietly, their grim expressions reflecting the proceedings they observed. The torturer was methodical and appeared to be in no hurry. He would strike the prisoner repeatedly, then pause, as if letting Ketlami catch his breath. He struck him in the face, the torso, the legs.
After nearly half an hour of this slow beating, Jomo Ketlami hung from his chains, unable to stand. He appeared to be on the verge of unconsciousness.
‘Revive him,’ said Pug.
The torturer nodded and moved to the far corner of the room where a table stood, upon which rested a variety of bags and instruments of his trade. He opened one of the bags and removed an item, a small vial. Stepping up to the limp form of Ketlami, he unstoppered the vial, holding it under the man’s face. Ketlami’s head jerked back and everyone heard his sharp intake of breath, followed by a faint groan.
‘Where hides your master?’ Pug demanded.
Ketlami raised his face to face Pug. Both his eyes were swollen nearly shut and his lip was split. He could barely speak for the swelling of his mouth, but he still retained a look of defiance. ‘You’ll never break me, magician. Kill me and get it over with.’
Pug glanced at the man standing next to him who shook his head slightly. ‘Continue,’ Pug said.
The torturer returned the vial to his bag and then came to stand before the prisoner. Ketlami glared at him. The man suddenly brought his knee up, brutally striking the Nighthawk in the groin. Ketlami collapsed completely, and hung for a moment from his chains, gasping for air.
And the beating continued.
Well into the second hour, Tad appeared to be on the verge of collapsing himself. With each repeated blow he would wince visibly. Caleb observed his adopted son’s behaviour, then motioned him to leave the room with him. With a wave of his hand, he instructed Jommy and Zane to stay.
Outside the door, in a long corridor with guards on either hand, Ralan Bek was hunkered down with his back against the wall. The strange and dangerous youth had been given over to Nakor’s supervision and seemed content with the situation.
‘Are you all right?’ Caleb asked Tad.
Tad took a long breath and let it out slowly. ‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘I’ve seen a few fights, as you know, but this …’
‘It’s different,’ finished his step-father.
Tad took a deep breath. ‘I know what he is, but …’
Caleb looked Tad in the eyes. ‘It’s brutal. It’s evil, and it’s necessary. You know what he is: he would kill you without a thought; kill me, your mother, anyone, and then sleep the night like a baby after doing so. He is not worthy of your conscience.’
‘I know, it’s just that I feel as if …’
Caleb, in an uncharacteristic act, suddenly put his arms around Tad and hugged him close. ‘I know; believe me, I know.’ He released his step-son. ‘Something is lost by this, and it is something I doubt any of us can earn back.
‘But those who oppose us mean naught but ill for those we love and they must be stopped. Now, this is going to take a while longer. If we didn’t have the resources we do, it might take days. But this man will give up what we wish to know in another hour or two. If you wish, you may remain out here.’
Tad thought it over for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No. Some day I may have to do this myself.’
Caleb nodded, knowing that both Jommy and Zane would have missed this aspect of the lesson. ‘Yes, more’s the pity.’
They returned to the room and found the torturer reviving Ketlami again. Caleb and Tad resumed their place alongside the others, and Zane whispered, ‘Surely he can’t last much longer?’
Caleb whispered in return, ‘You will discover that men are a great deal more resilient than you think if they believe strongly in their cause. This man is a depraved animal, but he thinks he serves a higher cause, and that makes him very difficult to break. Talk to Talwin Hawkins—’ as he remembered his own father’s stories of his years in a Tsurani labour camp, ‘—or your grandfather about what men can endure. You’ll be surprised, I wager.’
For almost another hour the punishment was meted out, then suddenly the torturer halted. He glanced at Pug, without a word, and the magician nodded. Pug then turned to the man next to him who made a noncommittal gesture.
Pug said, ‘Give him water,’ and the torturer complied, giving the prisoner a long drink from a copper cup. The drink seemed to restore Ketlami a little and he spat in the torturer’s face. The implacable man in the black hood merely wiped away the spittle and looked at Pug for instructions.
Pug asked again, ‘Where is your Grand Master?’
‘I’ll never tell you,’ said Ketlami.
The man next to Pug reached over and gripped his forearm. ‘I have it,’ he said in a low voice.
‘You’re certain?’ asked Nakor.
‘I am certain,’ replied the man.
Pug took a deep breath, then looked at Ketlami, whose distorted features couldn’t hide the malevolence of his expression. Pug said quietly, ‘Finish.’
With a quick, unhesitating motion, the torturer drew a sharp blade from his belt and made a single downward cut, sliced through an artery which fountained blood into the air. Ketlami’s eyes widened in shock for a brief instant. ‘What—’
Then his mouth filled with blood and his head fell forward.
Nakor turned to the three boys. ‘Sever the blood-flow to the head and he loses consciousness before he even understands he’s been cut. It looks like butchery, but it’s kinder than any other cut I know of.’
Jommy whispered, ‘Kind or not, dead is dead.’
Pug motioned for everyone to depart as the torturer began to take Ketlami’s body down.
Seeing everyone leaving the room, Bek stood up and said to Nakor, ‘Can we go now? I’m bored.’
Nakor nodded. ‘We will have some bloody work to do soon enough.’ He turned to Pug. ‘We will meet you upstairs,’ he said, leading Bek away.
The room where the torture had taken place was in the cellar of one of Chezarul’s warehouses on the edge of the City of Kesh. The now dead Nighthawk had been transported there by Magnus against the threat of any agents lingering in Durbin. They were nearly certain the Conclave had destroyed the Nighthawks in Great Kesh, but nearly certain wasn’t absolutely certain.
Pug turned to the man who had stood next to him and said, ‘Where?’
‘Cavell Keep.’
Pug’s expression turned thoughtful, as if he was trying to recall something. ‘I remember,’ he said, finally. ‘Thank you,’ he told the man, and motioned for him, and the guards, to depart. After a moment only Magnus, Caleb and the boys remained in the hallway.
‘Who was that man, Father?’ asked Caleb.
‘Joval Delan. Though he is not one of our community, he is someone who owes the Conclave a favour or two. He’s the best human mind-reader I’ve ever encountered, but rather than use his ability for a cause, he hides it except when he exploits it for profit.’ He glanced at the back of the retreating man. ‘A shame. He could teach us much. He knew Ketlami would have strong wards to prevent his mind being read, but that eventually he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about what he wished to hide.’ Glancing at the three boys, he added, ‘That was the reason for the beating. Remember the child’s game where you say, “Don’t think of the dragon in the corner?”
‘You can force yourself not to think of something for a great deal of time if you have the training, and the physical and mental resources, but if you’re beaten down enough, what you are trying to hide does eventually come to the surface of the mind.’ To his son he said, ‘Which is why we now know the Grand Master of the Nighthawks hides at Cavell Keep.’
‘Cavell Keep?’ asked Caleb. ‘I know Cavell Town, north of Lyton, but a keep?’
‘Abandoned,’ said Pug. ‘High in the hills above the highway. From the distance it blends into the rocks; you’ll only notice it from the road or river if you’re looking for it. It’s up a draw from the town. You have to want to find it.
‘The last Baron Corvallis refused to live in it … it’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it some other time, but what I know is that the ancient keep used to guard a fair portion of the trade route between Lyton and Sloop. Baron Corvallis’s daughter married a man from Lyton, a commoner I believe, and the King let that title fall vacant. The Earl of Sloop was given that area to rule, despite it being closer to Lyton.
‘In any event, the old keep was linked to Nighthawk activity nearly a century ago, and it was one of my students, Owyn Belfote, and Prince Arutha’s man James who ended that particular threat to the region.’
Pug tapped his chin with his forefinger and considered for a moment. ‘They must have decided enough time has passed for them to utilize the place again, and it’s a smart choice: no one goes there, even the villagers, because of superstition, and it’s an inconvenient place to visit by any measure. As long as people think it’s deserted, why bother?’
Caleb said, ‘Shall we go to Lyton?’
‘No,’ said Pug. ‘I’m going to give this to Nakor. He’s close to Duke Eric and the Kingdom should handle this final confrontation.’ He looked at Magnus. ‘I’m sending you along with Nakor, though, just to make sure Eric has enough protection against any magic the Nighthawks might still muster, and you know I’m only moments away if you have need of me. I’ll ask your mother to visit the Assembly and see what progress is being made with the Talnoy.’
Magnus nodded, smiling wryly. ‘We know how much the Great Ones of the Empire enjoy that.’
Pug smiled, the first time he hadn’t looked grim in days. There was some amusement in his tone as he said, ‘They still have trouble with women magicians in general, but your mother … I’ll tell her to mind her manners.’
Magnus’s smile broadened. ‘And Mother began doing what you tell her to … when?’ Pug’s wince showed that his son’s barb had hit home. ‘Shall I tell Nakor to make ready?’
‘Nakor is always ready to travel; it’s a legacy of his gambling days. Meet me upstairs in a few minutes. I want a word with Caleb and the lads.’
Magnus departed and Pug turned to the boys. ‘That was bloody work,’ he said.
Jommy glanced at Tad and Zane. ‘It was, but he deserved it.’
Pug put his hand on Jommy’s shoulder. While not properly an adopted grandson like Tad and Zane, Pug had grown fond of the brash red-head and treated him as he did the others. ‘No man deserves such treatment, Jommy.’ He glanced at Zane then Tad then returned his gaze to Jommy. ‘Some men deserve death for what they’ve done, but causing suffering, that harms you rather than the man you make suffer.’ He looked from face to face. ‘What makes us better than those we oppose is that we know when we are doing evil. And it should sicken us. Even if we justify it by saying we serve a larger good, or that it’s necessary.’ Glancing at the door where the torturer was getting Ketlami’s body ready for disposal, he added, ‘It’s the price we pay and while it’s necessary, it does diminish us.’ He looked at each boy in turn. ‘Your only solace is knowing that if you were not part of this, those you love would be at that much more risk.’
He turned to Caleb. ‘I’m thinking you and Marie have not had much time alone since you’ve been wed.’
Caleb smiled ruefully. ‘A fact she has reminded me of from time to time, although she hardly complains, Father.’
‘Things are under control for a while. I’ve got Kaspar down in Novindus with Rosenvar and Jacob, and Nakor and Magnus are going to the Kingdom to deal with the Nighthawks. Right now, we don’t need you.’
Caleb fixed his father with a questioning expression and said, ‘And …?’
‘Why don’t you return home and have your mother give you the orb we use when we travel to our own little retreat? It’s not much – an island in the Sunsets – but there’s a small hut, well provisioned, and you can be alone for a few days.’
‘Sounds lovely. What about these three?’
Pug smiled. ‘Send them along to Talwin. They can guest at the River House, earn their keep for a week or two, and improve their swordsmanship.’
Zane grinned. ‘The River House!’
Jommy patted his friend hard on the stomach. ‘I thought you were going to lose that?’ The River House was the finest restaurant and inn in Opardum, and arguably the finest dining establishment in the world. Zane had developed an appetite for fine food since his mother had married Caleb and he had had the opportunity to sample better fare than he had known as a child.
‘I’ll work extra hard, trust me,’ answered the stocky young man.
‘Well, I’m sure Talwin and his wife will find ample work for you.’
‘What of you, Father?’ asked Caleb.
‘I have a journey I must make, a short one, but one long overdue. Tell your mother I’ll be home in another day or so, but not to wait for me; she should go to Kelewan and see what the Assembly is doing with the Talnoy.’
They embraced, and Pug waved goodbye to the four of them, and vanished.
Jommy shook his head and sucked in his breath. ‘Crikey, I’ll never get used to seeing people just vanish like that!’
Caleb laughed. ‘You’ll get used to a lot of things before you’re done, my lad.’ He pulled an orb out of his tunic and said, ‘We’re off home: then you three are going to Olasko!’
Glancing at the door into the torture room, Tad said, ‘I’m glad we’re done with this part of it, that’s for certain.’
Without another word, each put a hand on the next man’s shoulder, while Caleb activated the orb, and they vanished as well.
A vast presence was veiled in darkness, its form barely recognizable in the faint light emanating from a single lantern set within a sconce on the opposite wall.
A voice spoke without sound: Welcome, Pug of Crydee.
Pug smiled as he said aloud. ‘I haven’t been called that in years, m’lady.’ He knew the presence required no honorific, and that the one he chose was barely appropriate, yet he felt the need to convey respect.
‘As you wish, magician,’ said the deep voice. ‘Do you wish more light?’
‘That would be agreeable,’ Pug replied.
Suddenly the room was ablaze in light, as if the sun shone through glass walls. Pug glanced around, for he had not visited this chamber in years. It was a cavern, deep beneath the city of Sethanon, where Tomas had bested a conjuration of the Dragon Lord Drakin-Korin, and Pug and others had battled to seal a rift that threatened to destroy all of the Kingdom, if not the world of Midkemia.
The being before him was the body of the great dragon, Ryath, but the mind housed in it was that of an ancient being: the Oracle of Aal. In that epic struggle, the dragon had given everything in defeating a Lord of the Dread, and it had taken magic of unmatched power and skill to keep a spark of life in the body after the mind and spirit had fled, so that the Oracle could find a living host. The dragon’s natural scales had been obliterated and a makeshift solution had turned the creature into a being of unsurpassed magnificence. The great Dragon Lords’ treasure secreted below the city ages before had provided gems used to repair the damaged scales, forming a creature unmatched in majesty and power in this world, a great jewelled dragon. Light danced off the facets of thousands of stones and the creature seemed to glitter as if moving, even when she rested, motionlessly.
‘The cycle of renewal has ended well?’ asked Pug.
‘Yes,’ answered the Oracle. ‘The cycle of years has passed and again I possess all my knowledge.’ She sent out a mental call, and a dozen white-robed men entered the room. ‘These are my companions.’
Pug nodded. These men had come to understand the nature of the great dragon of Sethanon, and had volunteered to give up their freedom in exchange for a lifespan many times normal, and the honour of serving a greater good.
For the Oracle was more than a simple seer. She possessed the ability to see many possible outcomes that might result from a given choice, as well as alert those she trusted to the approach of grave danger. And she trusted no one in this world as much as she did Pug. Without his intervention, the last of the race of Aal – perhaps the eldest race in the universe – would have perished a century before. Pug inclined his head in greeting to the Oracle’s companions and they returned the honour.
‘Do you know why I’m here?’ asked Pug.
‘A grave threat approaches, faster than you think, but …’
‘What?’ asked Pug.
‘It is not what you think it to be.’
‘The Dasati?’
‘They are involved, and are the primary cause at this point, but there is a much larger danger behind them.’
‘The Nameless?’
‘More.’
Pug was stunned. From his perspective, there could be nothing ‘more’ in the universe than the Greater Gods. He gathered his wits. ‘How can there be a greater threat than the Nameless?’
‘I can only tell you this, Pug of Crydee: across the expanse of time and space the battle between good and evil transcends all else.
‘What you perceive is but the smallest part of this struggle. It is ageless, begun before the first of the Aal rose from the mud of our homeworld, and it will endure until the last star is extinguished. It is part of the very fabric of reality, and all creatures struggle within that conflict, even if they are unaware of it.
‘Some beings live their entire lives in peace and security, while others struggle without let. Some worlds are virtual paradises while others are ceaseless wretchedness. Each in its own fashion is part of a much larger balance, and as such, each a vital battle ground in this struggle. Many worlds are in balance.’ The Oracle paused for a moment, then said, ‘Some worlds are teetering on the brink.’
‘Midkemia?’
The great dragon head nodded. ‘Your lifetime is long compared to other mortals, but in this struggle, what will come to this world occurs within the blink of a god’s eye.
‘Midkemia has been too long without the influence of the Goddess of Good. What you and your Conclave have begun has blunted the Nameless One’s efforts for a century and more.
‘But he lies sleeping, and his minions are but dreams and memories, powerful by your measure, but nothing compared to what would be faced should he awaken.’
‘Is he waking?’
‘No, but his dreams are more fevered, and his cause is embraced by another, a being even more powerful and deadly.’
Pug was stunned. He could not imagine any being more powerful and deadly than the God of Evil. ‘What sort of being could possibly …’ He could not finish the question.
‘The Dark God of the Dasati,’ said the Oracle.
Pug materialized in his study. He took one quick glance around the room to see if he was alone, for his wife often curled up in the corner to read in peace when he was absent. He was shaken by what the Oracle had told him. He had thought himself a man of experience, one who had faced calamitous events and survived, one who had seen countless horrors and endured, one who had confronted Death in her very hall and returned to the realm of life. But this was beyond any ability he had to comprehend, and he felt overwhelmed. More than anything at this moment he wished to go somewhere quiet and sleep for a week. Yet he knew such feelings were only the result of the shock he experienced, and would soon pass once he began grappling with the problems at hand. Ah, but there was the rub, as the old expression ran: where to begin? With a problem as immense as the one now confronting the Conclave, he felt like a baby asked to move a vast mountain with his tiny hands.
He went to a cabinet in the corner and opened it. Inside were several bottles, one containing a strong drink Caleb had brought to him the year before. Kennoch whisky: Pug had developed a fondness for it. He also had a set of crystal cups given to him by the Emperor of Kesh recently, and he poured a small dram of the drink.
Sipping the pungent, yet flavourful and satisfying drink, he felt its warmth spread through his mouth and down his throat. He closed the cabinet and moved across to a large wooden box sitting upon a bookcase. It was simple in design, yet beautifully carved, acacia wood, dove-tail and glue, without a single nail of brass or iron. He set aside his drink and lifted the top, putting it aside, and looked into the box, wherein rested a single piece of parchment.
He sighed: he had expected to find it there.
The box had appeared one morning, years before, on his desk in his study in Stardock. It had been warded, but what had surprised him wasn’t that it had been warded, but that it had been warded in a fashion he quickly recognized. It was as if he, himself, had warded the box. Expecting a trap, he had transported himself and the box a great distance away from the Island of Stardock and had erected protective spells around himself; then he had opened the box, easily. Three notes had been contained within.
The first had said, ‘That was a lot of work for nothing, wasn’t it?’
The second had said, ‘When James departs, instruct him to say this to a man he should meet: “there is no magic”.’
The last had said, ‘Above all else, never lose this box.’
The handwriting had been his own.
For years Pug had kept the secret of this box, a device that allowed him to send notes to himself from the future. Occasionally he pondered the device, studying it at leisure, for he knew eventually he must unravel its secret. There could be no other explanation than that he was sending himself messages.
Eight times in the intervening years he had opened the box to discover a new message inside. He didn’t know how he knew, but when a message arrived he sensed it was time to open the box once more.
One message had said, ‘Trust Miranda.’ It had arrived before he had met his wife, and when he first encountered her, he realized why he had sent the message. She was dangerous, powerful and wilful, and at the time, an unknown.
Yet even now he still didn’t completely trust her. He trusted her love for him and their sons; and her commitment to their cause, as well. But she often had her own agenda, ignoring his leadership and taking matters into her own hands. For years she had agents working for her in addition to those working for the Conclave. She and Pug had endured several heated arguments over the years, and several times she had agreed to keep her efforts confined within the agreed upon goals and stratagems of the Conclave, yet she always managed to do as she pleased.
He hesitated. Whatever was in that parchment was something he needed to know, yet something he dreaded knowing. Nakor had been the first person he had told of the messages – just in the last year – though the box was still known only to Pug. Miranda thought it merely a decorative item.
As he began to unroll the parchment Pug wondered, and not for the first time, if these messages were to ensure that a certain thing happened, or to keep something terrible from happening. Perhaps there was no distinction between the two.
He looked at the parchment. Two lines of script in his own handwriting greeted him. The first said, ‘Take Nakor, Magnus, and Bek, no others’. The second said, ‘Go to Kosridi, then Omadrabar’.
Pug closed the box and sat down behind his desk. He read the note several times, as if somehow he might discern a deeper meaning behind those two simple lines. Then he leaned back, sipping at his drink. Kosridi he recognized as the name of the world shown in a vision to Kaspar of Olasko by the god, Ban-ath; it was one of the worlds upon which resided the Dasati. Where lay Omadrabar, he had not even an inkling. But he knew one thing: somehow he had to find a way into the second realm of existence – to the plane of reality to which no one from this reality, to the best of his knowledge, had ever ventured. From there, somehow, he and his companions must make their way to the Dasati world of Kosridi, and from there to this Omadrabar. And if he was certain of nothing else, he was certain that this Omadrabar would be the most dangerous place he had ever visited.

• CHAPTER THREE • (#ulink_ed7c0113-2e19-531a-b9be-aa0b75c149f7)
Aftermath (#ulink_ed7c0113-2e19-531a-b9be-aa0b75c149f7)
KASPAR REINED IN HIS HORSE.
He fought back worry. This was a hard land and he felt a stab of apprehension as to what might be waiting for him. He had considered the little farm something close to a home for months after beginning his exile in this land, and Jojanna and her son Jorgen had been as close to family as any people he had known.
It had taken no more than a glance for him to know the farm had not been inhabited for some time, at least a year from the look of things. The pasture was overgrown and the fence was knocked down in several places. Before Jojanna’s husband, Bandamin, had disappeared they had raised a few steers for the local innkeeper. The corn patch and small wheat field were both choked with weeds and the crops had gone to seed.
Kaspar dismounted and tied off his horse to a dead sapling. The tree had been planted after he had left, but had since died from neglect. He glanced around out of habit: whenever he considered the possibility of trouble, he always made a survey of the surroundings, noting possible places of ambush and escape. He realized there probably wasn’t another living human being within a day’s walk in any direction.
Entering the hut, he was relieved to see no sign of struggle or violence. All of Jojanna’s and Jorgen’s personal belongings, scant though they may have been, were gone. The departure had been orderly. He had feared bandits or wandering nomads might have done harm to his … what? Friends?
Kaspar’s life had been one of privilege and power, and many people had sought him out, currying favours, begging protection, or seeking some advantage, but until he had been deposited in this distant land by Magnus, the former Duke of Olasko had few he could name ‘friend,’ even as a child.
He had terrorized Jojanna and Jorgen for two days before he could make them understand he had not come to this little farm to harm them; he was merely a stranger in need of food and shelter and he worked hard to pay for his keep. He had negotiated a more favourable trade with a local merchant on their behalf and had left them in a better situation than he had found them. When he departed to begin his long journey home, he thought of them as friends; possibly even more than friends …
Now, three years later, Kaspar was back in Novindus. He had been watching the secret cache of Talnoy, providing a sword against more mundane threats to the ten thousand apparently sleeping killing machines, if indeed a machine slept. Two magicians – an older man named Rosenvar and a youth named Jacob – were investigating some aspect or another of their nature, following instructions left by Pug and Nakor.
Nakor had briefly returned with his companion, Bek, to inform the magicians he would be absent longer from his pet undertaking, finding a safe means of controlling the army of Talnoy. Kaspar found the magical aspect of these discussions mind-numbing, but he had greeted the news of the imminent obliteration of the Nighthawks with anticipation.
When Nakor made ready to depart, Kaspar asked him to request someone come to guard the two scholars as he had some personal business he wished to take care of in Novindus before returning to Sorcerer’s Isle. Nakor had agreed and as soon as another had been dispatched to guard the magicians, Kaspar had begun his journey southward.
Lacking the magical devices employed by other members of the Conclave, Kaspar had to endure two weeks’ travel. The closest town to the caves where the Talnoy were hidden was Malabra, and from there the road south became more well travelled. He rode his horses to near exhaustion, trading mounts twice in the towns along the way. Twice more he had outrun bandits and three times he had endured the scrutiny of local soldiers, two of the encounters ending in bribery.
Now he felt a sense of futility. He had hoped to find Jojanna and Jorgen, though he was unsure of what he wished once he found them. He had been exiled to Novindus as punishment for his part in the destruction of the Orosini people and his plots against his neighbouring nations. He had somewhat redeemed himself in the eyes of his former enemies by bringing word of the Talnoy to the Conclave, and had been fully forgiven after his role in foiling the Nighthawks’ plot against the throne of the Empire of Great Kesh. But he had a lingering sense of obligation toward Jojanna and Jorgen, and to Kaspar an unpaid debt was a canker that became more inflamed as time passed. He wanted to see that the pair of them were safe, and leave them with enough wealth to ensure they’d live well for the rest of their lives.
The small purse of coins he carried made him a wealthy man in this land. He had travelled the roads of the Eastlands before, on foot and by wagon, and had seen the conditions lingering after the great war of the Emerald Queen, a land still struggling to recover even thirty years after the war. Coins of copper were rare, silver almost never seen, and even a single gold coin was worth a man’s life. Kaspar had enough gold on him to hire a tiny army and set himself up as a local noble.
He left the hut and considered what to do next. He had ridden straight through the village of Heslagnam as he made his way to the farm, and it was on his way back to the Talnoy cave. He would reach it after sundown – it had taken them two days and half a morning to walk there the last first time he had journeyed there from the farm – and while the inn was nothing worth noting, it was serviceable, and he had slept in far worse over the last three years.
He pushed his horse and arrived at the village of Heslagnam shortly after darkness had fallen. The ramshackle wooden inn was as he remembered it, though it looked as if it might have had a new coat of whitewash; in the dark it was difficult to tell.
When no one appeared as he rode into the stabling yard, he un-tacked his horse and rubbed it down. By the time he was finished, he was tired, irritated and in sore need of what passed for a drink in this part of the world.
Kaspar walked around to the front door of the inn, and pushed it open. The inn was unoccupied save for two villagers who sat at a table opposite the fireplace and the owner of the inn, a thick-necked man by the name of Sagrin, who stood behind the bar. Kaspar walked up to the bull-necked man who regarded him closely.
Sagrin said, ‘I don’t forget faces, even if I can’t recall a name, and I’ve seen you before.’
‘Kaspar,’ answered the former duke, removing his gloves. ‘I’ve got a horse out the back. Where’s your lackey?’
‘Don’t have one,’ answered Sagrin. ‘No boys in town. All dragged off to serve in the war.’
‘What war?’
‘Who knows? There’s always a war, isn’t there?’ He hiked his thumb over his shoulder, in the general direction of the stabling yard. ‘You can shelter your horse for free, seeing as I’ve got no one to care for it, but you’ll have to buy your own feed at Kelpita’s store across the way in the morning.’
‘I’ve oats in my pack. I’ll care for the horse before I turn in. What have you to drink?’
‘Ale and some wine. If you know wine, take the ale,’ said the innkeeper.
‘Ale, then.’
The ale was produced and Sagrin squinted a bit as he eyed Kaspar. ‘You were here, what? Two years back?’
‘Closer to three.’
‘Can’t quite place it …’
‘If you sit on the floor and look up at me, you might remember,’ said Kaspar. He took a drink. The ale was as he remembered it, thin and without much to recommend it, but it was cool and wet.
‘Ah,’ said Sagrin. ‘You’re the bloke who came in with Jojanna and her kid. Dressed a fair bit better these days.’
‘Right,’ said Kaspar. ‘Are they around?’
Sagrin shrugged. ‘Haven’t seen Jojanna for over a year.’ He leaned forward. ‘The boy run off and she was nearly frantic and went looking for him, I guess. Sold off her cattle and mule to Kelpita, then found a trader heading south – said he’d take her on for a fee.’ Sagrin shrugged, but his tone was regretful. ‘She’s probably buried under some rocks a day or two south of here.’
‘Jorgen ran off?’ asked Kaspar. He knew Jojanna and her son well enough to know that the boy was devoted to his mother, and he couldn’t imagine any reason why Jorgen would run away from home.
‘Some crew came through and word got back to the farm that the boy’s dad was serving with a company of soldiers out of Higara – seems Bandamin got himself impressed by a company of … well, they’d be slavers no matter what they called themselves, but as they were selling those who were captured into the army of Muboya, they called themselves “recruiters”.’
Kaspar remembered a relatively pleasant supper with a general of a brigade who was cousin to the Raj of Muboya. If Kaspar could find him he could … what? Arrange to have him discharged?
‘How goes that war?’ asked Kaspar.
‘Last I heard Muboya had forced Sasbataba to surrender, and was now battling some bandit lord named Okanala for control of the next bit of land he wants.
‘I’ll give the boy Raj credit though: after his army leaves, the lands left behind are almost as quiet as they were before the Emerald Queen’s war. Wish he’d send some of his lads up this way to calm things down between here and the Hotlands.’ Seeing Kaspar’s mug was empty, Sagrin said, ‘Another?’
Kaspar pushed himself away from the bar. ‘In a while. First let me feed my horse and make sure there’s adequate water.’
‘Staying?’
Kaspar nodded. ‘I’ll want a room.’
‘Pick any one you like,’ said Sagrin. ‘I’ve got lamb on the spit and the bread was baked yesterday.’
‘That’ll be fine,’ said Kaspar. He left the common room.
Outside the night air was cool; it was winter in this land, but he was far enough north and close enough to the Hotlands that it never got truly cold. He went to the stable and got a bucket, filled it at the well, and made sure the trough was full. He put a nose-bag on his horse and took some time to inspect the animal. He had ridden it hard and he wanted to make sure the gelding was sound. He saw an old currying brush sitting on the shelf next to some worthless old tack, and he picked it up and started brushing the horse’s coat.
As he hurried, Kaspar became lost in thought. Part of him had wanted to return here, to build a new personal empire; but these days the stirrings of ambitions were muted in his heart. But they were never gone entirely. Whatever effect the influences of the mad sorcerer Leso Varen had been on Kaspar, the former ruler of Olasko’s basic nature was still ambitious.
The men who were bringing order out of chaos on this continent were men of vision as well as desire. Power for its own sake was the height of greed; power for the benefit of others had a nobler quality he had only just begun to appreciate as he observed men like Pug, Magnus and Nakor, men who could do amazing things, yet only sought to make the world a safer place for everyone.
He shook his head at the thought, realizing that he had no legal or ethical foundation for building an empire here; he would just be another self-aggrandizing bandit lord carving out his own kingdom.
He sighed as he put away the currying brush. Better to find General Alenburga and enlist in the Raj’s service. Kaspar had no doubt he would quickly win promotion and have his own army to command. But could he ever take service in another man’s army?
He stopped, and started to laugh. What was he doing now? He was serving the Conclave, despite the fact he had never taken a formal oath of service with any of them. Since bringing Pug and his companions word of the Talnoy and the threat Kalkin had shown him of the Dasati homeworld, Kaspar had been running errands and carrying out missions for the Conclave.
Still chuckling as he reached the door to the inn, Kaspar decided that he was serving this land, as well as the rest of the world, and his days as a ruling lord were over. As he pushed open the door he thought: at least life was interesting.
Ten days later, Kaspar walked his horse through the crowded streets of Higara. The town had changed in the last three years; everywhere he saw the signs of prosperity. New construction was turning this town into a small city. When he had last passed though Higara, it had been a staging area for the Raj of Muboya’s army as they readied an offensive southward. Now the only men in uniform to be seen were the town’s constables. Kaspar noted they wore colours that resembled the regular army’s, a clear indication that Higara was now firmly part of Muboya, no matter its previous allegiances.
Kaspar found the very inn where he had spoken to General Alenburga three years previously, and saw it had been restored to its former tranquillity. Instead of soldiers everywhere, a boy ran out of the stable to take charge of Kaspar’s horse. The boy was roughly the same age as Jorgen had been when Kaspar had last seen him, reminding him of why he was making this trek. Putting aside a growing sense of futility in finding one boy and his mother in this vast land, Kaspar handed the boy a copper coin. ‘Wash the road dirt off and curry him,’ he instructed. The boy grinned as he pocketed the coin and said he would.
Kaspar entered the inn and glanced around. It was crowded with merchants taking their mid-day meal and others dressed for travel. Kaspar made his way to the bar and the barkeep nodded. ‘Sir?’
‘Ale,’ said Kaspar.
When the mug sat before him, Kaspar produced another copper coin and the barman picked it up. He hefted it, quickly produced a touchstone, struck the colour of the coin, then said, ‘This will do for two.’
‘Have one for yourself,’ said the former duke.
The barman smiled. ‘Little early for me. Maybe later. Thanks.’
Kaspar nodded. ‘Where’s the local garrison these days?’
‘Don’t have one,’ said the barman. He pointed in the general direction of the south road. ‘There’s a garrison down in Dondia, a good day’s ride. They pulled all the soldiers out of here when Sasbataba surrendered. We get a regular patrol up here once a week, and there’s a company of town militia to help the constables if needed, but frankly, stranger, things around here are quiet to the point of being downright peaceful.’
‘Must be a welcome change,’ said Kaspar.
‘Can’t argue about that,’ said the barman.
‘Got a room?’
The barman nodded and produced a key. ‘Top of the stairs, last door on the left. Got a window.’
Kaspar took the key. ‘Where’s the local constable’s office?’
The barman gave Kaspar directions and after finishing his ale and an indifferent lunch of cold beef and barely warm vegetables, Kaspar headed to the constable’s office. Walking the short distance, he was assailed by the sounds and sights of a bustling trading centre. Whatever the previous status of Higara, it was now clearly a regional hub for the expanding territory. For a brief moment Kaspar felt a twinge of regret; Flynn and the other traders from the Kingdom would have found the riches they sought in such a place as this. The four traders from the Kingdom of the Isles had been responsible for Kaspar coming into possession of the Talnoy, each of them dying ignorant of the part he had played.
Thinking of that infernal device, Kaspar wondered if he should set himself a limit on how long he’d look for Jojanna and Jorgen.
He found the constable’s office easily, and pushed open the door.
A young man wearing a tunic with a badge looked up from a table that served as a desk. With the air of self-importance that only a boy recently given responsibility could manage, he said, ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m looking for someone. A soldier named Bandamin.’
The lad, good-looking with light brown hair and a scattering of freckles, tried to look as if he was thinking. After a moment, he said, ‘I don’t know that name. Which company is he with?’
Kaspar doubted the boy would have any idea where Bandamin was even if Kaspar knew that. ‘Don’t know. He was living outside a village up north and got pressed into service.’
‘Pressed man, huh?’ said the youngster. ‘Most likely he’s with the infantry south of here.’
‘What about a boy? About eleven years of age.’ Kaspar tried to judge how much Jorgen would have grown since he had last seen him, and held up his hand. ‘Probably about this high. Blond hair.’
The young constable shrugged. ‘There are lots of boys coming through the city all the time, caravan cooks’ monkeys, luggage rats, homeless boys, runaways. We try to keep them off the streets as much as we can – some of them run in gangs.’
‘Where would I find such a gang?’
The young man fixed Kaspar with what the former duke assumed was a suspicious expression, but all it did was make the lad look ridiculous. ‘Why do you seek this boy?’
‘His father was pressed into the army; the lad came looking for him. And his mother is looking for both of them.’
‘And you’re looking for the mother, too?’
‘All of them,’ said Kaspar. ‘They’re friends.’
The youth shrugged. ‘Sorry, but we only notice those that are causing trouble.’
‘What about the gang of boys?’
‘You’ll usually find them down near the caravanserai or in the market. If too many of them gather, we chase them away, but they just gather somewhere else.’
Kaspar thanked the young constable and left the office. He looked up and down the busy street, as if seeking inspiration, feeling like a man crawling across a battle field seeking one specific arrow among the tens of thousands that had fallen. He glanced skyward and fixed the hour at approximately half-way between noon and sundown. He knew that the markets here were busy throughout the day, with no cease in the afternoon for rest as it was in the hotter parts of Great Kesh. Here the markets were thronged with buyers and hawkers until shortly before sundown, then there was a frantic bustle of activity as the merchants finished for the day. He had approximately two and a half hours before sundown.
He reached the market and glanced around. The market was haphazardly organized across a sprawling plaza created more by happenstance than design. Kaspar assumed that originally there had been one major road through town – the north-to-south highway that dominated this region. Somewhere in years past circumstances had shifted the route a hundred yards or so to the east, and at that point buildings had been thrown up all around. As a result, a half-dozen lesser streets and a handful of alleyways led off from this area; the empty space in the middle served as the market.
Kaspar saw a fair number of children, most helping their families in booths or tents. There was little order to the market in Higara, save by common agreement it appeared no one was permitted to erect a tent, booth, or table in the centre of the square. There a single lamppost reared up, equidistant from the intersections of side streets forming the square. Kaspar wandered over to it and saw that it had a usable lantern hanging from the top, so he assumed it was lit by some townsman each night, perhaps one of the constables. This was the only lamppost he had seen in Higara, so he assumed the office of lamplighter was hardly likely. He noticed faint writing carved into the post: somewhere back in antiquity a ruler had decided a direction marker had been necessary at this point. Kaspar ran his hand over the ancient wood, wondering what secrets of ages past it had overheard whispered below its single lantern.
Leaning against the post, he surveyed his surroundings. Like the practised hunter he was, he noticed little things that would have escaped the attention of most others. Two boys hung around by the entrance to an alley, apparently discussing something, but clearly watching. Lookouts, Kaspar decided. But lookouts for what?
After nearly half an hour of watching, Kaspar had some sense of it. Every so often one boy, or more often a pair, would exit from or enter the alley. If anyone else approached too closely, a signal was made – Kaspar assumed a whistle or a single word, though he was too far away to hear. When the potential threat moved past, another signal was given.
Curiosity as much as a desire to chase down information about Jorgen and his mother impelled Kaspar through the market to the distant alley. He approached, but halted just shy of where he had seen the lookouts.
He waited, observed, and waited some more. He could sense as much as see that something was about to happen, and then it did.
Like rats erupting from a flooding sewer during a sudden downpour, the boys came roiling out of the alley. The two lookouts just ran, in seemingly random directions, but the dozen or so after them were all carrying loaves of bread – someone must have found a way into the back of a bakery and handed out as much fresh bread as he could before the baker cried alarm. A moment later shouts echoed across the square as merchants became aware that a crime was in progress.
One boy of no more than ten hurried right past Kaspar, who reached out and snagged him by the collar of his filthy tunic. The boy instantly released his bread and threw his arms straight up, and Kaspar realized he was about to slip right out of the rag he wore as a shirt.
Kaspar grabbed him instead by his dirty long black hair. The youngster yelled, ‘Let me go!’
Kaspar hauled him away down another alley. When he was out of sight of those in the market, he hiked the lad around and inspected him. The boy was kicking, trying to bite and strike him with surprising strength, but Kaspar had grappled with an assortment of wild animals all his life, including one unforgettable and nearly disastrous encounter with an angry wolverine. Hanging on to that creature’s neck with an iron grip and holding its tail had been the only thing between Kaspar and being eviscerated, until his father’s master of the hunt could come and dispatch the animal. He still carried an assortment of scars from that encounter.
‘Stop struggling, and I’ll put you down, but you have to agree to answer a few questions.’
‘Let me go!’ shouted the dirty boy. ‘Help!’
‘You want the constable to come and talk to you?’ asked Kaspar as he held his struggling prey high enough that the boy had to dance on his toes.
The boy ceased struggling. ‘Not really.’
‘Now, answer some questions and I’ll let you go.’
‘Your word?’
‘My word,’ answered Kaspar.
‘Swear by Kalkin,’ said the boy.
‘I swear by the God of Thieves, Liars and Tricksters I’ll let you go when you’ve answered my questions.’
The boy ceased his struggles, but Kaspar hung on. ‘I’m looking for a boy, about your age I’m thinking.’
The young thief fixed his eye on Kaspar and said with a wary tone, ‘Just what sort of boy did you have in mind?’
‘Not a sort, but a particular boy, named Jorgen. If he came through here, it would have been a year or so ago.’
The boy relaxed. ‘I know him. I mean, I knew him. Blond, sunburned, farm lad; came from the north, looking for his pa, he said. Nearly starved to death, but we taught him a thing or two. He stayed with us for a while. Not much good with thievery, but a stand-up boy in a fight. He could hold his own.’
‘“Us”?’ asked Kaspar.
‘The boys and me, my mates. We all hang together.’
A pair of townsmen turned into the alley, so Kaspar put the boy down, but held tight to his arm. ‘Where did he go?’
‘South, down to Kadera. The Raj is fighting down there and that’s where Jorgen’s pa went.’
‘Did Jorgen’s mother come after him?’ Kaspar described Jojanna, then released the boy’s arm.
‘No. Never saw her,’ said the boy; then before Kaspar could react he darted off.
Kaspar took a deep breath, then turned back towards the market. He’d look to a good night’s rest, for tomorrow he would be moving south again.
Another week saw Kaspar leaving the relative prosperity of what, he had learned, was now being called the Kingdom of Muboya. And the young Raj had taken the title Maharajah, or ‘great king’. Again he was riding through a war zone, and several times he had been stopped and questioned. This time, he found little hindrance because at each stop he simply stated he was seeking out General Alenburga. His obvious wealth, fine clothing and fit horse, marked him as ‘someone important’, and he was motioned on without further question.
The village, he was told, was called Timbe, and it had been overrun three times, twice by the forces of Muboya. It was a half-day’s ride south of Kadera, the Maharajah’s southern base of command. After riding in at dawn, Kaspar had been told that the General had come to this village to inspect the carnage the last offensive had unleashed.
The only thing that convinced Kaspar the Muboya army hadn’t been defeated was the lack of retreating soldiers. But from the disposition of those forces still in the field and the destruction visible everywhere, Kaspar knew the Maharajah’s offensive had been halted. At the very best, the Maharajah had achieved a stalemate. At worse, there was a counter-offensive coming this way in a day or two.
Kaspar had little trouble locating the commander’s pavilion, situated as it was on top of a hill overlooking what was likely to be the battlefield. As he rode up the incline, he could see positions to the south being fortified and by the time he was approached by a pair of guards, he had no doubt as to the tactical situation of this conflict.
An officer and a guardsman waved to Kaspar and the officer asked, ‘Your business?’
‘A moment with General Alenburga.’ Kaspar dismounted.
‘Who are you?’ said the officer, a dirty and tired-looking young man. His white turban was almost beige with road dust and there was blood splattered on his leggings and boots. The dark blue tunics of both men did a poor job of hiding the deep red stains of other men’s blood.
‘By name, Kaspar of Olasko. If the General’s memory is overwhelmed by the conflict below, remind him of the stranger who suggested he leave the archers at his rear outside Higara.’
The officer had appeared inclined to send Kaspar on his way, but he said, ‘I was part of the cavalry that rode north and flanked those archers. I remember it being said an outlander gave the suggestion to the General.’
‘I’m pleased to be remembered,’ said Kaspar.
To the guard, the officer said, ‘See if the General has a moment for … an old acquaintance.’
After a moment, Kaspar was bade to enter the pavilion’s main tent. He gave the reins of his mount to the guard and followed the officer inside.
The General looked ten years older instead of three, but he smiled as he looked up. His dark hair was now mostly grey, and combed back behind his ears. His head was uncovered. ‘Come back for another game of chess, Kaspar?’ He rose and extended his hand.
Kaspar shook it. ‘I wouldn’t have expected to be remembered.’
‘Not many men give me a brilliant tactical plan and beat me at chess in the same day.’ He motioned for Kaspar to take a canvas seat near a table covered with a map.
Then the General signalled for his batsman to fetch something to drink. ‘Could have used you a few times along the way, Kaspar. You have a better eye for the field than most of my subcommanders.’
Kaspar inclined his head at the compliment, and accepted a chilled cup of ale. ‘Where do you find ice around here?’ he said as he sipped.
‘The retreating forces of our enemy, the King of Okanala as he calls himself, had an ice-house in the village we liberated a few days ago. They managed to haul off all the stores and destroy anything else that might have been helpful to us, but somehow I guess they couldn’t work out a quick way to melt all the ice.’ He smiled as he took his drink. ‘For which I’m thankful.’ He put his cup down. ‘Last time I saw you, you were trying to take a dead friend home to be buried. What brings you this way this time?’
Kaspar glossed over what had happened after the last time they had met and said, ‘The occupant of the coffin got to where he was intended to be, and other duties have overtaken me since then. I’m here looking for friends.’
The General said, ‘Really? I thought you said when last we met you were merchants. Now you have friends this far south?’
Kaspar understood the suspicious mind of a general who just lost a major battle. ‘They are from the north, actually. A man by the name of Bandamin was pressed into service quite far up north – I believe he was taken by slavers, actually, who were most likely illegally doing business outside of Muboya with your press gang.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ said the General. ‘During a war, it’s harder than usual to observe the niceties.’
‘He had a wife and son, and the son got word that his father was with your army and came south looking for him. The mother followed the boy.’
‘And you’ve followed the mother,’ said Alenburga.
‘I’d like to get her and the boy back home to safety.’
‘And the husband?’ asked the General.
Kaspar said, ‘Him, too, if possible. Is there a buy-price?’
The General laughed. ‘If we let men buy their way out of service, we’d have a very poor army, for the brightest among them would always find a means. No, his service is for five years, no matter how he was enlisted.’
Kaspar nodded. ‘I’m not particularly surprised.’
‘Feel free to look for the boy and his mother. The boys in the luggage-train are down the hill to the west of here, over by a stream. Most of the women, wives as well as camp-followers are nearby.’
Kaspar drank his ale, then stood. ‘I’ll take no more of your time, General. You’ve been generous.’
As he turned to leave, the General asked: ‘What do you think?’
Kaspar hesitated, then turned to face the man. ‘The war is over. It’s time to sue for peace.’
Alenburga sat back and ran forefinger and thumb along the side of his jaw, tugging slightly at his beard for a moment. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘You’re recruited every able-bodied man for three hundred miles in any direction, General. I’ve ridden through two cities, a half-dozen towns and a score of villages on my way here. There are only men over forty years of age and boys under fifteen left. Every potential fighting man is already in your service.
‘I can see you are digging in to the south; you expect a counterattack from there; but if Okanala has anything left to speak of, he’ll punch through on your left, roll you up, and put your back to the stream. Your best bet is to fall back to the town and dig in there.
‘General, this is your frontier for the next five years, at least, ten more likely. Time to end this war.’
The General nodded. ‘But our Maharajah has a vision, and he wishes to push south until we are close enough to the City of the Serpent River that we can claim all the Eastlands are pacified.’
‘I think your ambitious young lord even imagines some day he might take the city and add it to Muboya,’ Kaspar suggested.
‘Perhaps,’ said Alenburga. ‘But you’re right on all other counts. My scouts tell me Okanala is digging in, as well. We’re both played out.’
Kaspar said, ‘I know nothing of the politics here, but there are times when an armistice is a face-saving gesture and times when it is a necessity, the only alternative to utter ruin. Victory has fled, and defeat awaits on every hand. Have your Maharajah marry one of his relatives off to one of the King’s and call it a day.’
The General stood up and offered his hand. ‘If you find your friends and get them home, Kaspar of Olasko, you’re welcome in my tent any time. If you come back, I’ll make a general out of you and when the time comes we’ll push down to the sea together.’
‘Make me a general?’ said Kaspar with a grin.
‘Ah, yes, I was the commander of a brigade when last we met,’ said the General, returning Kaspar’s grin. ‘Now I command the army. My cousin appreciates success.’
‘Ah,’ said Kasper shaking his hand. ‘If ambition grips me, I know where to find you.’
‘Good fortune, Kaspar of Olasko.’
‘Good fortune, General.’
Kaspar left the pavilion and mounted his horse. He walked the gelding down the side of the hill towards a distant dell through which wandered a good-sized stream.
He felt a rising disquiet as he approached the luggage wagons, for he could see signs of battle all around. The traditions of war forbade attacking the luggage-boys or the women who followed the army, but there were times when such niceties were ignored or the ebb and flow of the conflict simply washed over the non-combatants.
Several of the boys he saw bore wounds, some minor, some serious, and many were bandaged. A few lay on pallets beneath the wagons and slept, their injuries rendering them unfit for any work. Kaspar rode to where a stout man in a blood-covered tunic sat on a wagon, weeping. A recently-removed metal cuirass lay on the seat next to him, as did a helm with a plume, and he stared off into the distance. ‘Are you the Master of the Luggage?’ asked Kaspar.
The man merely nodded, tears slowly coursing down his cheeks.
‘I’m looking for a boy, by the name of Jorgen.’
The man’s jaw tightened and he dismounted slowly. When he was standing before Kaspar he said, ‘Come with me.’
He led Kaspar over a small rise to where a company of soldiers were digging a massive trench, while boys were carrying wood and buckets of what Kaspar assume was oil. There would be no individual pyres for the dead; this would be a mass immolation.
The dead were lined up on the other side of the trench, ready to be carried and placed atop the wood before the oil was thrown over it and the torches tossed in. A third of the way down the line the man stopped. Kaspar looked down and saw three bodies lying close together.
‘He was such a good boy,’ the Master of Luggage said, his voice hoarse from shouting orders, from the battle dust, the day’s heat, and strangled emotions. Jorgen lay next to Jojanna, and next to her lay a man in soldier’s garb. It could only be Bandamin, for his features were similar to the boy’s.
‘He came looking for his father almost a year ago, and … his mother soon after. He worked hard, without complaint, and his mother looked after all the boys as if they were her own. When their father could, he would join them and they were a joy to know. In the midst of all this—’ he waved his hand in an encompassing gesture, ‘—they found happiness in just being together. When …’ He stopped and his eyes welled up with tears. ‘I asked for the … father to be detailed with the luggage. I thought I was doing them all a favour. I never thought the battle would spill over to the luggage-train. It’s against the compact of war! They killed the boys and the women! It’s against every rule of war!’
Kaspar took a moment to look down at the three of them, reunited by fate and fated to die together, a long way from home. Bandamin had been struck a crushing blow in the chest, from a mace perhaps, but his face was unmarked. He wore a tabard in the blue and yellow of Muboya. It was faded and dirty and slightly torn. Kaspar saw the man Jorgen would have become in his father’s face. He had an honest man’s face, a hard-working face. Kaspar thought Bandamin had been a man who had once laughed a lot. He lay with eyes closed, sleeping. Jojanna appeared unmarked, so Kaspar suspected that an arrow or spear point had taken her in the back, perhaps as she ran to protect the boys. Jorgen’s hair was matted with blood and his head rested at an odd angle. Kaspar felt a tiny sense of relief that it must have been a sudden death, perhaps with no pain. He felt an odd, unexpected ache; the boy was still so young.
He stared at the three of them, looking like nothing so much as a family sleeping side-by-side. He knew the world spun on, and no one but he, and perhaps one or two people in the distant north, would note the passing of Bandamin and his family. Jorgen, the last scion of some obscure family tree was dead, and with him that line had ended forever.
The luggage-master looked at Kaspar as if he expected him to say something. Kaspar looked down on the three bodies for another moment, then put heels to his horse’s sides, turned the gelding and began his long ride northward.
As he cantered from the battlefield, Kaspar felt something inside him turn cold and hard. It would be easy enough to hate Okanala for violating the strictures of ‘civilized’ warfare. It would be easy to hate Muboya for taking a man from his family. It would be easy to hate anyone and everyone. But Kaspar knew that over the years he had issued certain orders, and because of those orders hundreds of Bandamins had been taken from their homes, and hundreds of Jojannas and Jorgens had endured hardships, even death.
With a sigh that felt as if came from deep within his soul, Kaspar wondered if there was any happy purpose to existence, anything beyond suffering and, at the end, death. For if there was, at this moment in his life he was sorely pressed to say what it might be.

• CHAPTER FOUR • (#ulink_33950c9c-8ea5-5f7d-8223-67a3561e10d2)
Nighthawks (#ulink_33950c9c-8ea5-5f7d-8223-67a3561e10d2)
THE SOLDIERS MOVED QUICKLY.
Eric von Darkmoor, Duke of Krondor, Knight-Marshall of the King’s Army in the West, and Warden of the Western Marches stood behind a large outcropping of rocks, observing his men moving slowly into position. Silent silhouettes against rocks bathed in deep shadows cast by the setting sun, they were a special unit of the Prince’s Household Guards. Erik personally had designed their training as he ascended through the ranks of the army, first as a captain in the Prince’s army, then as Commander of the Garrison at Krondor, then Knight-Marshall.
The men were once part of the Royal Krondorian Pathfinders, a company of trackers and scouts, descendants of the legendary Imperial Keshian Guides, but now this smaller elite company was called simply the ‘Prince’s Own’, soldiers whom Erik called upon in special circumstances, such as the one that confronted them this night. Their uniforms were distinctive: dark grey short tabards bearing the blazon of Krondor – an eagle soaring over a peak, rendered in muted colours – and black trousers with a red stripe down the side tucked into heavy boots, suitable for marching, riding, or as they were employed now, climbing rocky faces. Each man wore a simple, dark, open-faced helm, and carried short weapons – a sword barely long enough to deserve the name, and an estoc, a long dagger. Each man was trained in a specific set of skills, and right now Erik’s two best rock-climbers were leading the assault.
Erik let his gaze move up to the top of the cliffs opposite his position.
High above them sat the ancient Cavell Keep, looking down upon a path that diverged from the main draw, a path known as Cavell Run. A small waterfall graced the rockface near the keep, landing in a pool in an outcrop halfway up the cliff, then falling again to the stream that had originally formed the run. As such things are wont to do, the course of the stream had changed over the years, and some event, geological or manmade, had forced the stream bed down the other side of the draw, leaving the original creek bed dry and dusty. That pool was their destination, for if the intelligence Erik possessed from nearly a hundred years ago was valid, behind that pool existed a secret entrance, the keep’s original bolt-hole.
Erik had brought his soldiers into Cavell Town before dawn, quickly hiding them as best he could, a difficult task in a town so small, but by noon the townspeople were about their business as best they could be with armed men hiding in every other building. Erik was unconcerned about Nighthawk spies in the town, for no one was allowed to leave Cavell that day; his only concern was for someone observing from up high, in the hills above the town, and he was convinced he had taken every precaution possible.
Magnus had aided the effort with an illusion spell, and unless any observer was a highly trained magic-user, the few minutes it took to get a hundred men into the town would have passed uneventfully. At sundown, Magnus had again cast his enchantment and the men quickly broke up into two companies, one heading to the main entrance up Cavell Run, and the other under Erik’s personal supervision heading to the rear of the keep.
The old soldier stood motionless, his attention focused on the deployment of his men. He was nearly eighty-five years of age, yet thanks to a potion given him by Nakor, he resembled a man thirty years younger. Satisfied that things were as they should be, he turned to his companions, Nakor and Magnus, who stood nearby, while the Knight-Marshall’s personal bodyguard stood uneasily to one side; they were not entirely comfortable with their commander ordering them to stand away, as it was their personal mission to protect him at all costs.
‘Now?’ asked Nakor.
‘We wait,’ said Eric. ‘If they have any concerns about this approach to their citadel, they should have seen us coming, and if so, they’ll either do something inhospitable or they’ll attempt to flee through the other escape route.’
‘Your best guess?’ asked Magnus.
Erik sighed. ‘I’d hunker down and pretend there was no one at home. If that didn’t work, I’d have a very nasty reception in mind for anyone attempting to enter the keep.’ He waved absently with his hand as he said, ‘We have old records, which even then were not entirely accurate, but what we do know is that Cavell Keep is a warren, and there are many places to lie in ambush or leave behind some nasty traps. It’s going to be no walk through the meadow going in there.’
Nakor shrugged. ‘You have good men.’
‘The best,’ said Erik. ‘Hand-picked and trained for this sort of business, but I still hate to put them at risk needlessly.’
Nakor said softly, ‘There is need, Erik.’
‘I’m convinced of that, Nakor,’ said the old soldier. ‘Or I would not be here.’
‘How does that sit with the Duke of Salador?’ asked Nakor.
‘He doesn’t know I’m here.’ Erik looked at Nakor. ‘You picked a hell of a time to give me this to worry about, old friend.’
Nakor shrugged. ‘We never get to pick our moments, do we?’
‘There have been times when I think that I might have been better off if Bobby de Longville and Calis had hanged me that cold, bitter morning, so long ago.’ His eyes looked off into the distance, as the sun disappeared behind the rocks there. He turned to Nakor. ‘Then there are times that I don’t. When this is over, I’ll know better what sort of time this is.’ The old man smiled. ‘Let’s go back and wait a while.’
He led Magnus and Nakor down a narrow path between high rockfaces, passing lines of soldiers quietly waiting to assault the keep on the rocks above. At the rear lackeys stood ready with the horses, and behind them waited wagons with supplies. Erik waved to his personal squire, who had stayed behind with the boys in the luggage.
The squire produced a pair of cups and filled them with wine from a skin. Nakor took one, eyebrow raised. ‘Serving wine before a battle?’
‘Why not?’ said the Duke, drinking deeply. He wiped his mouth with the back of his gauntlet. ‘As if I didn’t have enough to worry about, you send me off halfway across the Kingdom to dig out murderers.’
Nakor shrugged. ‘Someone has to do it, Erik.’
The old warrior shook his head. ‘I’ve lived a long life, Nakor, and one more interesting than most. I’d be a liar if I told you I would welcome death, but I would certainly be glad to be free of my burdens.’ He fixed Nakor with a narrow gaze. ‘I thought I was until you appeared that night.’
‘We need you,’ said the Isalani.
‘My King needs me,’ said Erik.
‘The world needs you,’ said Nakor, lowering his voice so that those nearby would not overhear. ‘You are the only man of rank in the Kingdom Pug still trusts.’
Erik nodded. ‘I understand why he chose to separate himself from the Crown.’ He took another drink of wine, and handed the empty cup to his squire. When the lad made to fill it again, Erik waved him away. ‘But did he have to embarrass the royal personage of the Prince of Krondor in doing so? Publicly? In front of the army of Great Kesh?’
‘Old business, Erik.’
‘I wish it were so,’ said Erik. He lowered his voice further. ‘You will know this if you don’t already. Prince Robert has been recalled.’
‘This is bad,’ said Nakor, nodding.
‘We’ve had three princes in Krondor since I gained rank, and I am only Duke because King Ryan took Lord James with him to Rillanon. My temporary position has lasted nine years, and if I live long enough, will probably last another nine.’
‘Why was Robert recalled?’
‘You have a better chance of uncovering the truth than me,’ said Erik. After a long moment of silence during which he watched the evening sky darken, the Duke said, ‘Politics. Robert was never a popular man with the Congress of Lords. Lord James is a western noble, which rankles with many of those who wished to be first among the King’s advisors; James is a shrewd man, almost as shrewd as his grandfather.’ He glanced at Nakor. ‘There was a name to conjure with, Lord James of Krondor.’
Nakor grinned. ‘Jimmy was a handful before he became a duke. I know.’ He glanced up at the soldiers who were now ready, waiting for his signal to begin the climb. ‘Still, we tend to remember the greatness and forget the flaws; and Jimmy made his share of mistakes. If Robert will not serve, then who?’
‘There are other cousins to the King more able …’ He looked at Nakor and his expression was sad. ‘It may come to civil war if the King’s not careful. He’s directly descended from King Borric, but he has no sons of his own, and there are many cousins, most of them with a valid claim to the throne if he does not produce an heir.’
Nakor shrugged. ‘I’ve lived a long time, Erik. I’ve seen kings come and go in different lands. The nation will survive.’
‘But at what price, old friend?’
‘Who is to be the new Prince of Krondor?’
‘That is the question, isn’t it?’ said the Duke, standing up and signalling to his men to make ready. The sky was sufficiently dark: it was time to begin the assault on the keep. ‘Prince Edward is well-liked, intelligent, a good soldier, and someone who could forge consensus in the Congress.’
‘So the King will name someone else,’ said Nakor with a chuckle as Erik started forward along the draw.
Erik said nothing, but gestured once and two men hurried out from behind rocks below the keep, both with loops of cord around their shoulders. They started to climb the rockface, using only their hands and feet.
Nakor watched closely as the two men disappeared into the gloom above. They moved silently like spiders crawling up a wall. Nakor knew how dangerous it was to make that ascent, but he also knew that it was the only way to get a rope down for the soldiers below.
Turning to Nakor, Erik said, ‘I’m thinking Prince Henry will get the nod, for he can be easily enough replaced if Queen Anne bears a boy. If Edward sits in Krondor for any length of time, the King may not be able to replace him with a son in … a … few years …’ His voice trailed off as he watched the men reach the lip of the pool.
Nakor said, ‘Odd place for a bolt-hole, over a hundred feet above ground, isn’t it?’
‘I imagine the Nighthawks did some work around here some years back. My men report tool marks on the rockface. There was probably a path down to the floor of the run that was demolished.’ He sighed. ‘It’s time. Where’s your man?’
Nakor nodded behind them. ‘Sleeping, under the wagon.’
‘Get him, then,’ said Erik von Darkmoor.
Nakor hurried back to the luggage wagon, where the two boys responsible for looking after the stores from the town waited. They spoke in hushed tones, understanding how dangerous this mission was; even so, they were only boys and the waiting was making them restless. Underneath the wagon lay a solitary figure, who roused quickly when Nakor kicked lightly at his boots.
Ralan Bek wiggled out from under the wagon, then unfolded himself to tower over Nakor. The youth was six inches over six feet in height, and he loomed over the diminutive gambler. Nakor knew he was possessed by some aspect of the God of Evil, a tiny ‘sliver’ as Nakor thought of it; an infinitesimal portion of the god himself, and that made Bek extraordinarily dangerous. The only advantage Nakor possessed was years of experience and what he thought of as his ‘tricks’.
‘Time?’
Nakor nodded. ‘They’ll be up there in a moment. You know what to do.’
Bek nodded. He reached down and picked up his hat, a hat he had claimed as a prize from a man he had killed before Nakor’s eyes, and he wore it like a badge of honour. The broad-brimmed black felt hat, with its single long eagle’s feather hanging down from the hatband, gave the youth an almost rakish air, but Nakor knew that beneath the young man’s convivial exterior seethed a potential for harm, as well as preternatural strength and speed.
Bek trotted over to the face of the cliff, and waited. A coil of line was dropped quietly from above, followed a moment later by another. Soldiers quickly tied heavier rope to the lines, and this was pulled up. When the first rope was made secure, Ralan Bek unbuckled his scabbard belt and tied it over one shoulder, so that his sword now rested on his back. With powerful ease he pulled himself up the rope, feet firmly on the rockface, as if he had been climbing this way all his life. Other soldiers followed, but Bek’s speed up the rope was unmatchable.
Erik watched him ascend into the darkness. ‘Why are you so insistent he goes first, Nakor?’
‘He may not be invulnerable, Erik, but he’s a lot harder to kill than any of your men. Magnus will look out for those guarding the main entrance to the keep, but if there’s magic on this back door, Bek has the best chance of survival.’
‘Time was I would be the first one up the rope.’
Nakor gripped his friend’s arm. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve got smarter over the years, Erik.’
‘I notice you’re not volunteering to be up there, either.’
Nakor just grinned.
Bek waited, running his fingers over the door’s outline. It was a rock, like the others, and in the darkness he couldn’t see the crack his fingertips told him marked the edge of the entrance to the bolt-hole. He let his senses drift, for he had discovered early in life that sometimes he could anticipate things – an attack, an unexpected turn of the trail, the mood of a horse, or the fall of the dice. He thought of it as his ‘lucky feeling’.
Yes, he thought. There was something just beyond this door, something very interesting. Ralan Bek did not know what fear was. As Nakor had suggested to him, there was something very different, even alien, about the young man from Novindus. Glancing down to where the little man waited with the old soldier, he found he could barely make them out in the dark. ‘Lantern,’ he whispered, and a soldier behind him handed him a specially constructed, small, shuttered lantern. He pointed it at Nakor and Erik and opened it and shut it again quickly. That was the agreed-upon signal to proceed cautiously.
Not that Ralan truly understand caution. It was as alien to his thoughts as fear. He tried to understand a lot of things Nakor talked to him about, but sometimes he just nodded and pretended to understand the strange little man in order to keep him from repeating himself endlessly.
Ralan continued to run his fingers along the seam until he determined that the door was designed to be opened only from the inside. He shrugged. ‘Bar,’ he demanded, and a soldier stepped past him and inserted the crowbar where he pointed. The soldier struggled for a moment, until Bek said, ‘Let me.’
With preternatural power, he forced open a crack, and the door swung suddenly wide with a protesting sound of twisting metal as an iron bar was ripped from its restraining mechanism. With a loud clank it hit the stones and instantly Bek had his sword out and was through the opening. Unconcerned about the noise, Bek turned towards the soldiers and held up a restraining hand. ‘Wait!’ he said in low tones, and then he entered.
The soldiers knew their orders. Bek would enter first and they would only follow when he gave the order or ten minutes after, whichever came first. One soldier turned over an hourglass bearing markings, red lines drawn to indicate demarcations of ten minutes. Erik’s hand-picked men hunkered down before the entrance, along the edge of the pool, listening to the sound of the waterfall in the darkness.
Bek moved cautiously, ignoring his lack of sight. He stepped lightly as he progressed, not putting his full weight down until he knew he wasn’t stepping into a pit, or triggering some sort of trap. He knew he could take a lot of damage – he’d been wounded several times in his short life – but he had no more appetite for injury than the next man. Besides, if what Nakor said was true, there should be some fun ahead.
Thinking of the little man caused Bek to pause a moment. Bek didn’t like him; but then again Bek didn’t like anyone; he didn’t dislike anyone either. His feelings towards other people were fairly predictable: they were either allies or opponents – or they were inconsequential, like a horse or some other animal, sometimes useful, but mostly not worth the attention. But the little man stirred some strange feelings in Bek, feelings he couldn’t put a name to. He didn’t know if it was familiarity, or enjoyment or what. His pleasures tended to the intense: watching men bleed and scream, or rough coupling with women. He knew he liked fighting. The crashing of steel, the clamour of voices, blood and … death. He liked watching things die, he had decided some time before. It fascinated him to see that one moment an animal or a man might be alive, aware, moving, and the next it was lying there, just so much meat. Not even useful meat if it was a man.
Bek expected to kill some very dangerous men, and looked forward to it.
A faint sound from ahead caused him to forget Nakor and his confusion over things the odd gambler said all the time. Someone was moving at the far end of a tunnel and Bek’s entire body quivered with anticipation.
He was supposed to go back, but he had lost track of time – how long was ten minutes, anyway? The other soldiers would come in after him, and besides, Bek was anxious to be about some slaughter. It had been a very long time since he’d enjoyed a good fight. Nakor had done something to him, and often his head hurt when he tried to think about things. But Nakor had said it was all right for him to kill anyone who was hiding up in this old keep, except for more of the old soldier’s fighters who might be coming in from the other side.
Ralan Bek found his head swimming, so with a grunt he shoved aside all thoughts except finding the author of the noise he had heard in the darkness. He picked up his pace, and almost fell face forward into an open pit. Only his ‘lucky feeling’ caused him to pull back at the last instant.
He took out a small cylinder Nakor had given him, and pulled off the top. Inside was a bundle of sticks, one of which he pulled out. He recapped the cylinder and put it back in his tunic, then waved the stick rapidly in the air, and after a few seconds a tiny flame erupted from the end. As Nakor had promised him, after the total darkness of the tunnels, he’d be surprised at the amount of light the small burning stick could provide.
Bek looked down at a pit that yawned at his feet, and couldn’t see the bottom. He was glad he hadn’t fallen, not because he feared injury, but because he would have had to wait at the bottom until the old soldier’s fighters caught up with him. He didn’t know if they’d even notice until one of them fell in and he didn’t relish the notion of one of them landing on top of him; and he didn’t know if they’d bring enough rope to haul him out.
He took two steps back then with a powerful stride launched himself above the pit and landed easily on the other side, a dozen feet away from his take-off. He dropped the flaming stick to the floor, grinding it under his boot heel.
He paused to see if anyone might have heard his landing, and when he was certain he had gone unnoticed, he continued down the hall. For an instant he wondered if he should have left something to warn the soldiers behind him of the pit. Then he wondered where that thought had come from; why should he worry if one of the old soldier’s men fell into the pit? This was too difficult to consider now: it was something Nakor would understand. He had no time to dwell on it.
Ahead he could hear faint voices, and he knew mayhem awaited.

Magnus studied the sky and judged that it was time to move, so he signalled to two guards to accompany him up the long entryway to the ancient keep. The road appeared to have not been in use for years, but Magnus had secretly inspected it at dawn and saw by tiny signs that the ‘disuse’ had been artfully forged. Someone had been using this road recently, but endeavouring to keep that fact a secret. That as much as anything convinced him that his father’s faith in Joval Delan, the hired mind-reader, had not been misplaced. Some local bandit, smuggler, or gang of errant youths would not have the means or inclination to do so thorough a job.
The soldiers had been creeping up the draw known as Cavell Run, which was the only obvious approach to the ancient keep. Magnus was not the student of things military his father and brother were, but even he could imagine what a lethal prospect attempting to storm this keep would present. Only the rumours of demonic possession and a curse, followed by nearly a century of peace in the region would have kept such an obvious military asset unused.
Still, he had other concerns, the first of which was to ensure that the men with him went undiscovered for as long as possible. Magnus was still young compared to most powerful practitioners’ of magic, and he had inherited certain abilities from his parents. His mother had always possessed a finer instinct for detecting the presence of magic than his father, though Pug was better able to determine the nature of a spell or device once it was uncovered. Magnus had the happy fortune to have inherited both abilities. And so he sensed and understood at least four magical traps located between the floor of the Run and the ancient gate at the top of the ramp.
With the deft moves of a master of his craft, Magnus countered each spell quickly, allowing the soldiers from Erik’s command to approach on silent feet. If there was a lookout above he would have been hard pressed to notice the darting grey figures hunched over, moving along the edges of the roadway in the night’s gloom. Small moon didn’t rise for another hour and its light was faint even on clear nights. Tonight was overcast.
With hand signals, the officer in charge motioned for his men to make ready. An ancient drawbridge had once covered a gap between the top of the roadway-ramp and the keep’s gate. Now it hung by a single chain, dangling uselessly on the other side of the gap, an open space too wide for any man to leap. Signals were passed and from the rear two pairs of men ran forward, carrying scaling ladders that would serve as bridges across the chasm. Magnus used his skills to elevate himself and float above the breach.
He watched the men calmly walking on the ladder rungs, heedless of the yawning space below their feet. A misstep would send a man tumbling to his death. Magnus admired their discipline.
Now Magnus cast his senses forward, attempting to seek out more magic entanglements or lures, and found none. The warder of this keep had been content to trust to the snares left along the roadway to alert the residents of the keep to any unwelcome company. He strode forward, unmindful of any physical danger, for he sensed something in the distance that caused the hair on his arms and neck to stand up.
He held up his hand and a faint light shone from the palm, illuminating the killing ground between the now-fallen outer gate, where once a drawbridge and a portcullis had provided the first barrier, and the inner doors, which were shut and, Magnus supposed, barred from within. The soldiers behind him assembled silently. In the eerie mystical illumination Magnus’s pale hair and height gave him an almost supernatural appearance, but whatever discomfort the soldiers might have felt being given over to the command of a wizard was not in evidence as they waited for his instructions.
Magnus closed his eyes to better aid his concentration and envision the large wooden doors. He reached out with his senses and ran mental fingers over the surface of the wood, then pressed slowly through until he could feel the other side. As he did so a picture as clear as if he were using his eyes appeared in his mind, and he saw the large wooden bar set in two wooden brackets. He inspected every inch with his mental touch, then opened his eyes and stepped back. ‘There’s a trap,’ he said softly to the officer who stood to his right.
‘What do you suggest?’ the young knight-lieutenant asked.
Magnus said, ‘Find a way through that door without lifting the bar.’
He extended his hand and a faint humming could be heard by those standing closest to him. Suddenly, there was a hole in the bottom of the gate, large enough for a man to pass through on hands and knees. ‘One at a time,’ said Magnus, ‘and have no man touch the gate or the walls on either side.’
The officer passed the word and quickly each man in turn made his way through. Magnus got ready to control the magic that would be unleashed should any man falter, but the preparation proved needless. Each man did exactly as he was instructed.
Then it was Magnus’s turn and he crawled through awkwardly, finding his robe an unexpected impediment. Halfway through the hole he was forced to lift first one knee, then the other, pulling the fabric ahead of him, so he could get through without falling on his face.
Chuckling as he stood, he said, ‘There are times, and this is one of them, when I feel the need to question my father as to why magicians are expected to wear robes.’
The lieutenant revealed himself to be a man of little humour as he asked, ‘Milord?’
Magnus sighed. ‘Never mind.’ He faced the soldiers. ‘Stay behind me unless I tell you to move forward, for there are forces here that are more than the bravest man can face without my arts.
‘Any man you see who is not Ralan Bek or one of your own, kill on sight.’
Then he turned and walked forward into the darkness, the light from his hand bobbing like a swinging lantern’s.
Bek walked as if strolling down a street, mindless of the darkness. There was light coming from several distant rooms at the ends of tunnels which crossed the one he had chosen, but he ignored them, and kept going straight ahead. He didn’t know how he knew, but he sensed that he needed to move straight from the secret entrance at the rear of the keep to the innermost chamber, which was probably some ancient great hall or throne room.
He felt positively buoyant in anticipation of the coming fight. He liked some of the things Nakor made him do, but he hadn’t been in any sort of combat for far too long. He’d bashed a few skulls in a tavern or two, but there had been no serious bloodletting since he’d killed that emperor for Nakor the year before. That had been fun. He almost laughed aloud thinking of the stunned expressions on the faces of everyone looking up at where he stood, his sword thrust straight though the old man’s back.
A man wearing black armour but no helm walked around a corner and before he stopped moving, Ralan Bek had run his sword point into the man’s throat, which was exposed above the cuirass. The man dropped with a fairly loud noise, but Bek didn’t care. Less than a hundred feet ahead light beckoned and he was anxious to bring havoc.
He strode down the last length of shadowy hall into a high-ceilinged chamber. It was an old-style keep hall, where in the dead of winter the family and close retainers of the original ruler of Cavell Keep would sleep during winter’s coldest nights. Once magnificent, the great hall had fallen into drab disrepair.
The vaulted roof was still supported by massive wooden beams so ancient they were as hard as steel, but the once whitewashed walls were now dark grey and high in the darkness above Bek could hear bats fluttering. No tapestries hung on the walls to shield the inhabitants against winter’s chill in the stones, nor were there rugs on the floor. But a fire burned in the massive fireplace to the left of the door through which he entered. Sword drawn and with a maniac’s grin in place, he surveyed the two dozen men resting before the fire.
In the centre of this group sat two men, both in large chairs made in an older style – a ‘u’ of wood set on top of another to make the legs, with a wooden back nailed across the upper half, stuffed with cushions or furs. The rest sat on camp stools or on black cloaks spread on the floor. All were dressed in black armour, the hallmark of the Nighthawks, except for the two men in the centre. One wore a tunic of finely woven linen and trousers and boots worthy of a high-born noble, though his clothes hung loosely on this frame, as if he had lost a great deal of weight lately; the other wore the black robes of a cleric or magician. The man in the tunic wore a heavy amulet of gold around his neck, identical to the black amulet Bek had been shown by Nakor. The robed man wore no jewellery whatsoever. He was thin and there wasn’t a hair on his face or head.
A moment after Bek appeared the eighteen seated men were scrambling, two blowing bone whistles that sent a shrieking alarm throughout the keep.
The man with the gold around his neck looked harried, and his eyes were wide as he pointed at Bek screaming, ‘Kill him!’
As the first swordsman raised his sword, Bek gripped his own weapon with two hands, his eyes narrow slits, focusing with keen anticipation on the coming slaughter. But the robed man shouted, ‘No! Halt!’ His eyes locked onto Bek’s in wonder.
Everyone, including Bek, froze as the man wove between the swordsmen. He passed the man closest to Ralan Bek, and came straight towards the young warrior. Bek sensed some strange power in this man, and his lucky feeling told him something unusual was about to happen. He hesitated, then began to swing at the man in the robe.
The man held up his hand, not in defence, but in supplication. ‘Wait,’ he said as Bek hesitated again. He reached out slowly, almost gently, and put his hand on Bek’s chest, and said again, ‘Wait.’
Then slowly the robed man went to his knees and in a voice that was little more than a whisper, he said, ‘What does our master bid us?’
The man with the amulet looked on in mute astonishment, then he too went to his knees, followed moments later by every other man in the room. Another half a dozen men ran into the hall from other parts of the keep, answering the alarm. Seeing their brethren on their knees, their eyes lowered, they followed suit.
Bek’s sword lowered a little. ‘What?’
‘What does our master bid us?’ asked the robed man again.
Bek tried to puzzle out what to say next, from what he had overheard Nakor, Pug and the others say at Sorcerer’s Isle. At last he said: ‘Varen’s gone. He’s fled to another world.’
‘Not Varen,’ said the robed man. ‘He was highest among our master’s servants.’ The man slowly reached out and touched Bek on the chest. ‘I can feel our master, there, inside you. He lives within you; he speaks through you.’ He raised his eyes to Bek’s again, and asked once more, ‘What does our master bid us?’
Bek had been ready for combat, and this was beyond his ability to comprehend. Slowly, he looked around the room, rising frustration in his voice as he said, ‘I don’t know …’ Then suddenly, he raised his sword and brought it down, shouting, ‘I don’t know!’
Minutes later Magnus rushed into the room with a company of Erik’s soldiers at his back, and more Kingdom soldiers entered through the same door as Bek. All of them stopped at the scene before them. Twenty-six corpses littered the floor, but there was no sign of a struggle. Twenty-six headless bodies lay in a wash of blood. Heads still rolled on the crimson stones and blood-soaked cloaks.
The fire crackled. Bek stood beside it, covered in blood. His arms were crimson to the elbows and gore was smeared across his face. He stood like a fiend possessed by madness. Magnus could see it in his eyes. He was trembling so much he looked like a man about to go into convulsions.
Finally, Ralan Bek threw back his head and gave out a howl which rang off the stones high above. It was a primal burst of rage and frustration, and when even the echoes had passed away, he looked around the room, then directly at Magnus. Like a petulant child he pointed to the corpses, and said, ‘This wasn’t fun!’
He wiped his sword on the tunic of a nearby corpse, and sheathed it. Then he picked up a bucket of water which had been set near the fireplace to heat and lifted it, letting it wash down over his head, without even bothering to remove his hat, and then picked up a relatively clean cloak to use as a towel. Cleaning himself off as best he could, Bek said in a more controlled tone, ‘It’s not fun if they don’t fight back, Magnus.’ He looked around the room and then said, ‘I’m hungry. Anyone got anything to eat?’

• CHAPTER FIVE • (#ulink_369a3c6a-f1e3-5adb-9d18-232fda6d8323)
Preparation (#ulink_369a3c6a-f1e3-5adb-9d18-232fda6d8323)
MIRANDA SHOUTED.
‘Are you mad?’ she cried far louder than was necessary in the small room.
Magnus watched his mother with guarded amusement as she strode away from her husband’s desk for as far as she could in the small study, then turned with a dramatic frown. She often would vent loudly over matters that eventually would end up exactly as his father wished them to be. But Pug had over the years come to understand that his wife’s often volatile nature required a physical expression of her frustrations.
‘Are you mad?’ Miranda shrieked for the second time.
‘No more than you were to spend almost a half-year shadowing the Emerald Queen’s army down in Novindus,’ said Pug, calmly, as he rose from behind his desk.
‘That was different!’ shouted Miranda, still not through venting. ‘There was no Pantathian snake priest who could find me, let alone challenge me, and I’m the one who can transport herself without a Tsurani sphere, remember?’
Magnus saw his father begin a comment – probably on how Nakor, Pug, and Magnus were all becoming adept at the skill – but think better of it and say nothing as Miranda continued.
‘You’re talking about going to an alien world! Not only an alien world, but one in a different plane of reality! Who knows what powers you may have there, if any?’ She pointed her finger at Pug. ‘You don’t even know how to get there in the first place, and don’t tell me you’re going to use the Talnoy on Kelewan to anchor a rift there. I know enough about rifts to know that you could find yourself swimming at the bottom of some poison sea, or standing in the middle of a battlefield or any other number of deadly places! You’d be going in blind!’
‘I won’t be going in blind,’ said Pug, holding up his hands in supplication. ‘Please, we must learn more about the Dasati.’
‘Why?’ demanded Miranda.
‘Because I’ve been to see the Oracle.’ He didn’t need to tell either his wife or son which oracle.
Miranda’s anger leeched away as curiosity took over. ‘What did she say?’
‘They’re coming. There are too many uncertainties for her to say more, now – I will return to her later as events draw closer. But for now we must learn more of these people.’
‘But the Talnoy down in Novindus are warded, as motionless and without magical presence as they were for the countless years they lay hidden,’ countered Mirada. ‘If they’re warded, how could the Dasati find us?’
Pug could only shake his head. ‘I don’t know. The Oracle is rarely wrong when she speaks of certainties.’
Magnus sensed an argument coming and deftly changed the subject. ‘And again I ask, as I have many times before,’ he said, like a patient schoolmaster, ‘who put them there?’
Pug knew the question was rhetorical, since they had several theories and no facts, but he thanked his son silently for diverting his wife’s ire. Their first thought had been that one of the Valheru, a Dragon Lord of fabled antiquity, had brought the Talnoy back, but there was no proof of that. Tomas, Pug’s boyhood friend, was imbued with the memories of one of the ancient Dragon Host, and had no recollection of any of his brethren returning from their ill-fated raid on the Dasati homeworld with a single Talnoy as a trophy. They had been too busy trying to keep those fiendish creations from destroying them; several dragon-riders had fallen during the incursion into the Dasati realm. In the end, there was only one inescapable conclusion.
‘Macros.’
Miranda nodded in agreement. Her father, Macros the Black, had been an agent of the lost God of Magic. ‘Every time we turn around we bump into one of Father’s schemes.’ She crossed her arms, getting a far-away look as she seemed to remember something. ‘I remember … once …’ She looked down at the cavern floor, her face revealing flickering emotions as if what she recalled was painful. ‘I spent so many years being angry with him for abandoning me …’
Pug nodded sympathetically. He had been with his wife when she had last been reunited with her father and remembered her poorly-hidden anger at seeing him after years of estrangement. He also remembered her grief when he had been swallowed up in the rift that closed around him as he held the Demon Lord Maarg, giving his life in a desperate act that saved this world.
Pushing aside her memories, Miranda said, ‘But we do end up with another of his bloody messes, don’t we?’ Her tone held a hint of affectionate humour, as well as some bitterness.
Before his mother could get back into another black mood because of his grandfather, Magnus spoke. ‘We know that Grandfather had a hand in warding off the Dasati rifts from the one Talnoy we found, and his wards are still in place around the others.’
Both parents regarded their eldest son and Miranda said, ‘This we all know, Magnus. What’s your point?’
‘Grandfather never did anything without a reason, and everything you have both told me about him leads me to conclude that he knew, somehow, that the day would come when one or both of you would discover the Talnoy, and that leads me to believe he also knew there would be a confrontation with the Dasati.’
Pug sighed aloud. ‘Your father,’ he said to his wife, ‘knew more about time travel than anyone. Gods, all of us combined probably know only a hundredth part of what he knew. What he did with Tomas and the ancient Valheru, Ashen-Shugar, his ability to understand the time trap sprung on us by the Pantathians at the City Forever, all the rest of it. I’ve struggled to learn as much as I could about what he did, but most of it remains a mystery. However, in this I agree with Magnus. He left things as he did in Novindus for a reason, and I believe that reason involves the Conclave.’
Miranda looked unconvinced, but said nothing.
Magnus said, ‘Mother, if Grandfather had not wanted the Talnoy found he had the magic to bury that cave under a mountain which it would have taken millennia to uncover. Something vast and dangerous is moving out there.’ He made a sweeping gesture. ‘And this thing is coming no matter what we do.’
‘What we can do is try to understand our enemy’s nature, to see his face,’ said Pug.
‘Well, I’m not ready to agree this is a good plan,’ said Miranda. ‘But obviously you two have your minds made up. So how do you propose to get to the Dasati world, stay alive, and bring back the information, or are those details too trivial to worry about?’
Pug was forced to laugh. ‘Hardly trivial, my love. I plan on looking for someone who has been to that realm and can, perhaps, guide us there.’
‘And where do you expect to find such a person?’ asked Miranda. ‘Is there anyone in this entire world who has visited the second circle of reality?’
Pug said, ‘Probably not. But I’m not going to be looking on this world. I plan on visiting Honest John’s.’
Miranda froze for an instant at the mention of the establishment at the heart of the Hall of Worlds. Then she gave a sharp nod. ‘If there’s anywhere to find such a one, that is where I’d start looking, too.’
Magnus said, ‘Who will go with you, Father?’
Pug threw a warning look at his son, knowing that this was certain to set off another round of complaints from Miranda, who even now was regarding her husband with an expression of curiosity. Pug took a breath, then said, ‘You, Nakor and Bek.’
Instead of the anticipated eruption from Miranda, she merely said, ‘Why?’
‘Magnus because he is ready and I need someone as powerful as myself with me – and you need to stay here and conduct the business of the Conclave, as well as visit the Assembly and see to their progress with the Talnoy.’ He waited, and when she said nothing, he continued, ‘Bek because … something tells me he is important; and Nakor because he is the only one who can control Bek. Besides, if anyone can get us out of an impossible situation it’s Nakor.’
Miranda said, ‘You’ve planned this all out, so I suppose there’s no point in continuing to argue about it. I’m not even sure you can find a safe means to visit the second plane.’
‘Still, we must try.’
‘When do you leave?’ asked Miranda.
‘For the Hall? Tomorrow. I still need to do a few things around here before I go.’ To Magnus he said, ‘Why don’t you see how the boys are doing in Roldem, then be back here in a day or so to let your brother’s wife know how her boys are?’
Magnus nodded. ‘What about the Talnoy down in Novindus?’
Pug paused at the door of the study. ‘Rosenvar and Jacob will keep an eye on things. If anything out of the ordinary occurs, Nakor or myself can be back here quickly enough. It’ll be some time before we leave for the Dasati world. I am going to make one more quick trip to Kelewan and see if there’s any hint of Varen’s presence there.’
‘You think he’ll be foolish enough to reveal himself?’ asked Magnus.
‘He’s a clever man,’ said Pug. ‘Brilliant in a twisted fashion, but he’s also driven. His madness has made him more impulsive over the years. The duration between his attacks lessens each time. He will either do something rash over there, or he will return to Midkemia. Either way, eventually we will find him out, and this time he has no easy way to seize a new body.’
‘What about a hard way?’ asked Miranda.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said he has no easy way to take over a new body. I understand that, since you destroyed his soul jar, but he still has the knowledge of how to inhabit another’s body, and might there not be other means, perhaps less convenient, but equally effective?’
Pug said, ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
Miranda could barely constrain her smug expression.
‘Then we must be both meticulous and stealthy,’ said Pug, ignoring his wife’s superior expression. ‘I shall make enquiries of some less than high-born sources in Kelewan, while you see what you can find out in the Assembly while I travel to the Hall. Trust only Alenca.’
‘How can I trust anyone?’ asked Miranda. ‘After taking possession of the Emperor of Kesh, I think it safe to argue that Varen can be anyone on Kelewan, including their Emperor.’
‘I think not,’ said Pug. ‘Consider how he placed his soul jar in the sewers near the Emperor’s palace. I suspect location has much to do with who he can reach. In any event, without the jar, I think he had to leap blind and inhabited the body of whoever was closest. As his “death rift” acted in many ways like normal rifts, I would expect it propelled him to a point near the Assembly, if not within its halls. As he would have been a disembodied spirit, the Assembly’s usual defences would have been useless – that’s the reason, by the way, I think it unlikely he would ever be able to occupy a high level cleric on either world; wards against spirits are common in temples.’
‘Very well,’ said Miranda. ‘I’ll speak with Alenca when I go. Now, one more question.’
‘Yes?’ said Pug, obviously impatient to be underway.
‘If you’re going to visit Kelewan without the Assembly being aware, just how do you propose to go through the rift without being noticed?’
Pug smiled, and years seemed to fall away from him. ‘A trick, as Nakor would call it.’
He left the room and Magnus started laughing at the consternation on his mother’s face.
Miranda glared at her older son. ‘That annoying little man is such a bad influence around here!’
Magnus laughed even harder.
Pug crept down a side street, his face hidden beneath a deep hood. Beards were rare in the Tsurani Empire among freemen, being worn for the most part by those of Midkemian birth and a few rebellious youths. Being out late at night and sporting facial hair was likely to mean being stopped by any patrolling city watch, and while his rank as a member of the Assembly of Magicians meant instant obedience from any soldier or constable, Pug wished to avoid drawing attention to his clandestine visit.
The domicile he sought was modest, off a side street in a section of the city of Jamar that was only a slight improvement over the slums and docks. The houses here were modest, the whitewash traditional to the Tsurani home kept somewhat clean, and the streets not too littered with refuse. There was even a street lamp some way behind him.

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