

### Iron Skins

### and

### Stone Hearts

—————————————

### A Novel

### by

### Nathaniel Firmath

Copyright 2019 Nathaniel Firmath

Smashwords Edition

### Petals Upon the Slain

My lungs burned with each ragged breath, and in my panic, I could not weep any longer. Anger had no place, but then, neither did calm reserve or careful assessment—I was totally empty; utterly defeated. She had her revenge, and I knew that pursuit would do little to prevent it. Even if we outpaced them, casting all armor aside and racing onward with only a handful in escort—ignorant of the long odds against us—the damage would already be done.

Soon, she would know, and my defiance of a bleak future would be at an end. Survival would leave me only with the grim responsibility of leadership—an eternity of solitude to follow a lifetime of regret.

As I watched them disappear among the mountain passes, I knew that I would die alone. My father had been remembered as a coward, and as I watched all hope of gladness fade into the distance, I could not help but envy him. For me, there would be no rest, and in the end I would lack even the memory of those few short years he had lived in peace.

For a time, I had known love, and finally, I knew it for what it truly was—nothing more than the great height preceding a ruinous fall. Nothing remained, and as I felt the point drive home, my heart, pierced deeply, hardened instantly around the wound. I would die, of that I was certain, but I would not die alone. For their treachery, millions would join me in death, and, for those few that remained, the stench of rot and ruin would endure for generations.

In my dreams, I had seen them many times; it was only in the waking world that their actions could finally trouble my sleep. Dark visions are fleeting, and easily forgotten. They hint at a time of darkness and pain, though never do they harm the dreamer. Memories are the true nightmares, and they haunt me still, even to this day.

Regret can age a man far beyond battle, and fear is nothing when held against shame. Never did I fail to do as needed, but often did I act before thinking. Had I been more inclined to consider my good fortune, I would not have grasped beyond my reach, and all my worries would now be for speed and surprise, rather than endurance and vengeance.

Hope is the call of a friendly horn in the midst of a ruinous battle.

Despair is the realization that the horn has been taken as trophy.

### Appearances

Across untamed fields and virgin forests we made our way at the walk. We were forced to dismount frequently, for there were no roads, and we found passable tracks only rarely. Lior, Brenna, Sigmund and Boers had made their way south by river, trusting in the sleek vessels of the Hjarrleth to carry their wagon, oxen, and tall gray horses nearly two years earlier. The Trathnona are not a far-ranging people, and though they breed some of the finest horses, they have few ships; canal barges were not an option, for we had much baggage in tow, and those flat-bottomed boats were ill-equipped to weather the rough currents of the Tekasi and Hoswyk.

Denied the speed of water-bound travel, we were forced to cut our way north.

The journey between Venibrek and Sangholm was fraught with danger, the land unclaimed by either Banner and governed only by bandit and warlord. Overgrown underbrush and the threat of violence made for slow travel, and I was forced to dismount many times to toil with Sigmund and the others as we freed the narrow wheels of Boers's cart from soft mud or a tangle of long grass. The Ashad scouts kept well out of sight, but I breathed easier knowing they were there.

I wore plain clothes on the march, and against Lior's protests I went about unarmored—Sequiduris and the Coiling Sheath remained upon my saddle bow. I shrugged off further excoriations with easy laughter, joking that, in absence of his bronze armor, my horse would have more need of the Kenalkan Device than I.

Throughout the journey, I toiled alongside my escort, exchanging banter and the kind of low humor known well to common laborers. From mile to tedious mile, I stood with a straight back and assumed a light-hearted expression—and with every breath I fought the urge to weep.

### Chapter One

### At Fault
I agonized over my offering from the moment I learned of the custom, and as we journeyed to Venibrek to announce our victory and honor the slain, I considered my options carefully.

In Meadrow, the Farmers are buried in their own fields, though the next of kin often leaves the cadaver in a hayloft or cellar until the end of the current crop cycle. A Farmer's grave is always cut deep, that he might rest beneath the ruinous influence of the many irrigation channels; this is not a sentimental act, for the Farmers have long believed slow decomposition to be a benison to future crops.

The majority of Guardsmen are buried in the small family plots found near gardens and behind barns. There is only one true graveyard in all of Meadrow, reserved for Guardsmen that have been slain in battle, and only they are granted a marked headstone. The military budget of a farming Banner is tight, but as a final honor, the spears of slain Guardsmen are retired, planted headfirst behind the gravestones, so that the ancient cemetery resembles a dead forest in various stages of decay.

Of course, my own need to honor the slain was greatly amplified by feelings of guilt. If I had been just a bit faster—if I had thrown my knife or hurled my sword, if I had found my tongue and called out to Sigmund, Boers might still be alive. If I had ordered them to stay out of a conflict that did not concern them—no, they would have been shamed by the very suggestion. Boers had died protecting his master, and I knew he would have felt no shame in the manner of his death. The lockbow dart, a shot to the warrior's heart, had pierced the small pectoral plate of his hauberk cleanly, so I knew he would have felt little pain.

Still, I felt the weight of his corpse upon my shoulders, and, paired with the tremendous strain of the horrors I had witnessed in battle, I fought against despair and cowardice with every breath. As I write this now, I recall those sights with trepidation, for how could any man—father, brother, son, or husband, bear witness to the slaughter of fair women, and feel no pain thereafter? And yet it was more than that, for I had danced with those women, labored beside them, traveled among them, and treated many of them as friends.

In battle, my twenty Trathnona sought Brenna and her women in the treeline, leaving Sigmund to mourn his servant, and in that place we found ample cause for grief. The thunderers and lockbowmen had been set in ambush against the Men of Brek, but it was the enemy warriors, brought near—concealed by unknown means to defeat the cunning eyes of those women—that brought the battle too close for their bows to aid them.

The women at the rear fought well enough, and even used their clever mobile platforms to aim downward upon the aggressors and aid their sisters in an unequal fight; they had been brought for use as watchtowers, two dozen only, where fully two thousand enemy warriors fell upon them.

Outnumbered, the women did not hesitate to respond with the mechanical discipline brought about by their many years of training—the further half fell back, leaving around five hundred women to face the attack. Even with the support of their far-ranging sisters, the Initiates fighting close had time only to loose a single arrow before casting their bows aside.

When I found the site of battle, I bore witness to an impressive spectacle, even as I charged into the fray. With broad knives and curved swords, the Women of Ashad gave their male counterparts cause for envy. I had first seen their strange weapon in training, more scythe-blade than sword in appearance, the edges curving forward of the grip, and elongated, so that its curve was not so pronounced as that of the farming implement it resembled. It was light, made for slashing, and Brenna's Initiates employed them as talons.

The style of combat favored by Lior and his men had impressed me, but there, inside that stand of beeches, I saw the practical use of an Ashad dance I had seen but once before. Every movement was graceful, and I watched as they feinted against the attacks of the enemy warriors, side-stepping and bringing around their long iron talons to fall upon throat and inner thigh, armpit and temple. They were fast, and by the time of my arrival, the other five hundred were aiding them well, with the front line felling men already in combat, and the others launching volley after volley into the enemy center and rearguard, thinning the onrush, so that the ladies in melee would not so easily fall to overwhelming numbers.

Brenna did not hesitate to join her women in close combat, though she had been at the left flank, far from the conflict when the warriors fell upon the right. And yet she won forward with even strides, loosing arrows along the way before ever she drew her iron talon. When she closed near to the fighting she cut her bowstring, employing her silver-clad bow of ribbed iron as hook and cudgel.

With sword in one hand, unstrung bow in the other, Brenna had her own tools of offense and defense, though truly, they appeared more like extensions of her body. The talon slashed through neck and thigh as cleanly as through open air, while the bow battered, falling heavily upon head and collarbone, and with the curves of that iron stave she redirected the thrusts of pikemen, often turning their attacks into the bellies of their own comrades.

The thrill of that woman in combat was little enough to hold my gaze for long, for the ground was littered with corpses, and far too many were small and fair of face. The foreigners showed no mercy, and killed indiscriminately. The sight of those still, graceful forms inspired the renewal of a battle-rage even more frantic than I had known before, and tinged with bitter hate. Then later, after all was quiet, I saw those who had been wounded.

Though many bore their pain stoically, others wept as inconsolable children, and I was unmanned in an instant. For their part, Brenna's Initiates were no less redoubtable than the men, and many men will weep at the battle's end, and many more bawl at the sight and pain of their wounds—few men are unreachable.

Lior's battle was brief. Most of the weapons brought to bear against them were common lockbows; they stayed behind their shields. Protected by two layers of bronze, and three of boiled leather, Lior prepared for a lengthy wait, and a short battle thereafter. Few fell to the common lockbows, and fewer still to the thunderers, for Lior ordered hurling by lines between the volleys of the enemy, that the report of thunder was silenced in the first few pulses of the conflict.

It was when the High Priest heard the battle ahead that he found cause for haste, and finally understanding the absence of enemy warriors, he ordered full volleys of his remaining javelins; the charge that followed sent their cowardly foes into immediate flight.

The Men of Brek fight defensively, and rarely have they fought at all without the aid of their women. Yet there, hearing the battle ahead, and knowing their own wives and lovers were in danger, they leapt forward at a panicked pace. The enemy had relied too much on the power of range against melee, and Lior's men were the faster, that few of them escaped to tell of their defeat.

I fought beside Brenna, using Sequiduris for thrust alone, and together with the seven men remaining in my escort we formed a wide front of defense, allowing the fatigued women to rest behind us. The ten women of my retinue picked their targets carefully, defending the men with each shaft and doubling their effectiveness.

When I heard Lior and his men charging through the trees, I knew that the day had been won, though I felt no joy in the victory.

Brenna had warned me of the price of glory at the time of the Orinsos. Had I understood her meaning, I would have lingered in Meadrow, with shame as my only burden. That was my first true battle—my first lesson in the value of life, the pain of loss, and the weight of responsibility. The sight of those corpses lingers still at the edge of my troubled dreams, though I learned my lesson well, that never again would the lives of fair women be needlessly lost.

* * *

Within hours of the man's death, Boers's cart had been transformed into a mobile tomb. Overlapping planks of oak and a mixture of tarry pitch and clay sealed his remains from the open air, and runes had been carved to protect the spirit of the great warrior from the demons feared by his people.

The cart was heavy, for many gifts had been offered to comfort Boers in the afterlife. The sword cuts of his common Hjarrleth blade were easily identified upon the bodies of his slain foes, and their weapons and armor were included in the cart—proof of his valor, and the price of admission to the halls of his ancient gods.

The offerings of the Initiates expressed well their affection—a shield, unmarked, of bronze and white hide, and a bow and quiver yet unused—the gifting of equipment crafted within the Trathnonan Wall violated one of their most ancient laws, though none saw fit to voice complaint. Such generosity spoke well of their tribe, the most reclusive by far of any upon Foundation. Lior and Brenna matched their subordinates with soft furs and bolts of the lightest silk, that in death he might know the comfort that hard-packed earth and unforgiving stone had so often denied him in life.

L'mah's gift was perhaps the most touching, for it was her only real possession. Her flute, carved from the petrified pulp of an ancient reed, had brought joy to her family for many generations. Boers had once complimented the beauteous depth of the instrument's song, and without a moment's hesitation she tucked it beneath Boers's left arm.

The Piebald Council, diplomatic opportunists that they were, had thought to appeal to the Hjarrleth love of poetry. Nine thick tomes of Trathnonan song and fable were piled at Boers's feet, a gesture that seemed to please Sigmund greatly, for such a wealth of art would grant his servant great prestige in the afterlife.

Comfort and protection, music and rhyme, the gifts already piled in the cart appealed to nearly every aspect of Boers's personality. What then, could I, a simple tavern boy, offer to compare with such cleverly chosen gifts? I was a tavern boy no longer, and yet I had known Boers two days before the time of the Orinsos—even if he hadn't been aware of it.

It was then that I saw my way clear to offer what Boers loved most, at least from Ralph of Meadrow, though from the Onidai, and from the tavern boy, he was owed gifts of gratitude as well. It was to his genius in dealing with clever machinery, after all, that the Onidai owed the recent victory, and it was to his inquisitive nature that the filthy tavern boy, a fugitive from the cruel justice of his people, owed the clues that had led him to claim Rorik's ancient title.

Lior had informed me that we would linger in Venibrek no more than five days. I sought out a goldsmith on the male side of Brek, and with a bag of heavy coins and a pile of heavy parchment bound with flaxen twine, I put the man to work immediately. The moment I found the item I required among the curiosities of a Trathnonan vendor, I called upon the goldsmith's competitor, a far kinder and much older man, and he understood my designs almost immediately. Finally, from the pile of valuables liberated from the cave at Eagle's Clearing, I chose the gift of the Onidai—the most valuable and least meaningful of my offerings.

Lior and Brenna knew well of the Hjarrleth—all Phulakoi were required to know the customs of the other Banners, with the possible exception of Edam. And so, on the day of our departure, a ceremony was held outside the wall. It was neither Sun Day nor Moon Day, and many wished to pay their respects. We stood far afield, fully half a mile from the protection of the wall, though still within its shadow, and before the ceremony began, I offered my gifts, explaining first that I was, in fact, three people.

"Though Proved by the Orinsos, I was but a tavern boy when first we fought side-by-side. He was a mighty warrior, fighting with the sword and shield of his people, and I was a filthy stripling, fumbling with the spear of a fallen Guardsman. When I was wounded, he cared for me, and if not for his knowledge of northern herblore, I would be dead. From the tavern boy, I offer this gift of gratitude."

The barrel of kvejka mead vapor that I had purchased on impulse months before had already been laid in the cart beside Boers's body. Atop the barrel, I placed an ox horn, richly overlaid with gold and lined with a blend of gold and silver, before turning again to the gathering crowd.

Though his eyes were red and quickly welling with tears, Sigmund's mouth was smiling.

"The Onidai cannot lay claim to our recent victory, for to my mind it was far too costly to be viewed as aught but disaster. Far too many died, from both sides of the Dividing Wall, but many more might have fallen if Boers had not charged with my escort in an effort to silence the powerful weapons of the enemy. He slew many, and then gave his own life, that his master might live on to lead his clan in battle. Boers was not of Sigmund's clan, and so his sacrifice is a testament to the unity of his people—and to the great heart of the man himself.

"His clan is not wealthy, though many are the songs of the Hjarrleth that praise the deeds of his forefathers. From the Onidai, I offer this gift of recognition, that he might be known by his ancient gods as a great warrior; a man renowned among nations, and a hero loved by his people."

From beneath a silken cloth I unveiled my second gift, a wrist band of thick gold, a handsbreadth wide and studded with amethyst, pearl, and amber, the three stones most highly prized by the Hjarrleth. It was deeply engraved with illustrations of serpents and eagles, so that I knew it to be the ornament of some ancient Hjarrleth warrior; a victim of Eagle's Clearing, or perhaps slain long before.

Thousands of years earlier, the Hjarrleth were few and wealthy. Boers had been from a common family, but that heavy band of stones and solid gold would have been the envy of some of Sangholm's loftiest noblemen.

Though his lip trembled and his cheeks were streaked with tears, Sigmund's countenance had brightened. His smile began to grow teeth.

"Boers was my friend. If I could say nothing else about him, I could say that. All who knew the man instinctively loved him. And yet, I fear I knew less of him than I might have wished, for I learned of his greatest love only days before his death.

"When the scouts of Ashad captured one of the enemy steam carts, Boers was the first to master the strange machine. So eager was he to learn of the vehicle, he could scarcely contain his excitement. He loved machinery, and his was a mind suited to gear and steam—we will miss his genius in the coming years. From his friend, Ralph of Meadrow, I offer this gift of friendship. May the gods marvel at the wonders made possible by lesser minds than his."

I then held high my final gift, a perfect working miniature of the enemy vehicle, formed completely of precious metals. The body was of gilded bronze and chased with ornaments of silver, while the spokes of the wheels shone in pure gold.

In the other hand, I held Boers's drawings, the schematics he had drafted detailing the construction and function of every moving part of the new conveyance. In less than two days, Boers had reverse engineered a highly complex and totally alien piece of machinery, and the costly model I held in my hand was proof of his genius. I had spent the five days prior to the ceremony copying his notes exactly, and I entrusted the duplicates to Sigmund, for it was his servant's accomplishment, and it was the right of his people to profit from it. I placed the original schematics at his feet atop the books of Trathnonan poetry, then adjusted his right arm, tucking the model steam cart safely beneath it.

As I exited the wagon, I took note of Sigmund. His tears had dried, and though his expression had sobered, the pain of sorrow had been replaced by something else. My gifts had achieved all that I wished and more, for though I did not believe in the gods of the Hjarrleth, I had given Sigmund the same peace of mind that he had given me the moment he had unwrapped my father's helmet. Boers was at peace, and so too was his master.

Together, Sigmund and I sealed the wagon and carved the runes, and when Lior's ceremony had finished, we mounted and made our way north in silence. He could not communicate with words, and I could not understand his silent language of gesture, and yet I felt for the first time since his servant's death that we had reached an understanding.

* * *

Maekara, the Ashad scout who had halted a steam cart with a single arrow, had been ordered by Brenna to remain always by my side. The High Priestess herself had been required to remain behind, and though the nights had been far colder and lonelier without her, I understood the necessity of her absence.

With the Trathnona preparing for war, one of the High Priests would be required at home. Brenna, far less diplomatic than her loquacious cousin, would see that general recruitment and the crafting of new equipment would take place in a timely manner, and as the High Priestess of Ashad could only address the elderly Council by night, she would catch them off balance, and find them far more pliable.

With the need for haste, even in that tangle of unclaimed wilderness, my escort had to remain small—at least by the standards of Venibrek. One hundred and twenty Men of Brek and sixty Ashad scouts traveled with us, and only thirty of the men were mounted, the balance riding in bench-lined wagons behind Boers's sealed cart. Behind the troop transports and between outriders, the commissary wagons—with L'mah perched somewhere among them—brought up the rear, and the heaviest of these was guarded by no less than two dozen mounted Initiates. Within that wagon were the items I would use as evidence to confirm my formal boasts—the trophies I retained from my adventures following the Orinsos.

Though I still knew little of what to expect in Sangholm, it was clear that I would be expected to prove myself in some substantial way. The formal boast was tradition among the Hjarrleth, and before the Matriarch would even consider granting entry to the Gifting Pool of Sangholm, I would be expected to impress her with the story of my deeds. Luckily, Lior had informed me that I could appoint a herald to sing of my exploits, and, as the High Priest was no stranger to the spoken word, I had chosen him to act in that capacity.

Eight carts and more than one hundred horses can make a great deal of noise. From day to day, I could not help but marvel at the Trathnonan talent for over-complication. As I saw it, we needed only the cart containing Boers's body. With fewer than twenty we might have moved with greater celerity, making up in speed what we lacked in the security of numbers, and we might have passed then without peaking the interest of opportunistic locals. Still, we had only a few minor disturbances, mostly poorly armed bandits brandishing clubs. In each case, a show of force and discipline prevented bloodshed on either side.

We had been cutting our way north for nearly a month when spring found our party at last. The weather had been warming, in spite of our northerly travel, but there had been no indication of the changing of seasons. And then, one morning as I exited my tent I discovered that the barren fields surrounding our encampment had yawned to life, the new buds stretching their fragrant limbs to bask in the warmth and light of a virgin spring. As we rode from field to field, I noted a range of vibrant colors I had never seen in the forest glades of the Meadrun valley.

Maekara, ever my faithful watchdog (in behavior alone) rode beside me, and when she took notice of my wonder, she saw fit to educate me. For days on end we rode through fields of white and yellow aster, bright red poppies, and flax blooms so startlingly blue that my eyes ached at the sight of them. Many more of the names were new to me, and the distraction was sufficient that the remaining miles between the wilderness and the southeastern border of Sangholm melted into insignificance.

I was completely unaware of the passing of time, but when the source of vibrant colors shifted from fields of newborn flowers to alien lichen covering boulders and the trunks of ancient trees, I knew that I had passed well beyond the lands of the Trathnona. I knew then that I was in the land of the warlike Hjarrleth.

### Chapter Two

### Broken Silence

Sigmund led us along a well-trod path for three days. The going was easy and the weather fair, and by midmorning of the fourth day we were riding at a steady trot upon a stone road between green hills and forests of birch and elm. Here and there, I saw tiny bogs nestled within clusters of willows, and later we passed one of fair size at the bottom of a stone cliff—I could just make out the outline of a cave entrance at its base. On each occasion, Sigmund would goad his horse to a full gallop, and always he hugged the edge of the road, riding as far from the marshland as possible.

Truly, I had thought the bogs of Sangholm long drained in search of iron-bearing peat. Why Sigmund should fear the places so prized by his ancestors I could not guess, but at length we passed beyond sight of all marshland and the giant youth calmed; his mood lightened with every heartbeat as we approached the inhabited borders of his homeland.

He had followed my example and gone about unarmored for much of our long journey, but on the morning of our sixth day of travel within Hjarrleth holdings he emerged from his tent in full array, leaving only his helmet to hang by the chinstrap from the hilt of his sheathed sword. His hair had been carefully washed the night before, and it shone as pale gold in the light of a clear spring day.

The following morning I dressed in full armor, following Lior's suggestion. I must admit that even with Rorik's legendary sword slapping against my thigh from within the flawless white housing of the Coiling Sheath, my armor of gilded bronze, though regal by most standards, gave me the appearance of a gaudy child when viewed beside the warlike splendor of Sigmund's ancient gear.

Though only three or four years older than I, he was a giant, towering head and shoulders above all but L'mah, and the Ya'abkach Phulako did not bedeck herself so heavily as did Sigmund. Though his armor was peerless in make and function, it was also beautiful, and in a far more subtle way than my own harness. White iron, treated through some ancient process made the metal nearly impenetrable, and gave it the glossy finish that I can only compare with the appearance of water in a deep stone well. His sword Starkdrepa did not slap against his thigh, for its housing had been fitted to form, and it hung from his waist diagonally, ensuring a fast, even draw.

When the boundary markers proclaimed that we were less than ten miles from the nearest settlement, Lior ordered the caravan to a halt, and the Men of Brek were finally called upon to march.

I rode at the head of our party, centered between Lior and Sigmund, and behind us, sixty mounted Initiates followed in two formations of three abreast. We moved forward at the walk, that the orderly block of ninety men behind us might keep pace. They marched in full armor, resplendent with their javelins gripped through heavy round shields of bronze and white hide. At the rear, thirty mounted Ashad scouts rode behind the line of wagons, protecting them even on friendly terrain.

The Initiates displayed such unyielding discipline on the march that I felt compelled to follow their example—I spoke little and rode with perfect posture, and for once, Lior did not break the silence.

We had been traveling along a path carved directly between two mountains of gray stone, formed by generations of toil or the weathering of a long-dry riverbed, and I had grown accustomed to the confinement, and to the gradual incline, though it must have been torture for those ninety armored men. In any case, I was unprepared for the scene that met my eyes as we reached the apex of our climb.

The road ahead passed through the center of a fertile valley, perhaps a mile wide, and every square pace of the terrain had been cultivated, the recently planted fields stretching in even lines, the divides between crops barely discernible, and the herds of sheep and cattle ranged far off to the eastern and western borders. But that six hundred acre farm, a hobby farm by Meadrow standards, was not the source of my fascination. Sigmund signaled us to a halt.

At the edge of the valley, beyond a sizable log-walled village, I could see clearly a line of tall, spindle-thin watch towers bordering a wall of gray stone blocks. Either the towers were shorter than my estimation, or the forest beyond was truly massive, for the lowest boughs at the edge of the treeline rose no less than twice their height. So strange were the dimensions and proportions of those sights that I felt myself in a dream, though I tried to convince myself that it was only a trick of the distance.

I looked to Sigmund, and, far from the smiling anticipation I had expected, I saw that his face had grown pale, his features grim. Did he fear the reaction of Boers's family? Perhaps he feared the reception that awaited me. His people had not yet been informed of my success at the Reaping Festival, though news had been relayed to his sister, Reya. Aside from the new Hjarrleth Phulako, and my beautiful Rowan, only the enemy knew of the Orinsos, and as their warriors, assassins, and saboteurs had not lived to relay any news, my Proving between Brek and Ashad would have remained a secret, as well.

I saw the Hjarrleth giant's shoulders slump, and long tufts of pale gold obscured his face as he tilted his head to the ground. He was either staring intently into his saddlehorn, or he was deep in thought. Finally, he raised his head to look again upon the distant village. He took a deep, labored breath, and without turning to look on either Lior or myself he signaled for the column to resume the march. He rode with a straight back and a set jaw, and the High Priest and I endeavored to follow his example.

* * *

We were not long into the valley before the alarum was sounded. In Sangholm, warning gongs are seldom used. Instead, our ears were assailed by the deep, brazen booming that I later learned was wrung from the efforts of three men, for their giant horn of thick copper and iron, known in Sangholm as a gjalhorn, is shaped with three mouth-pieces.

From the distance of a mile the call was heard, and farmer, shepherd, and cattleman alike abandoned field, flock, and herd immediately, leaving only their lupine hounds to restore order and return the livestock to the relative safety of the pens nearest the village wall. I had thought the actions of the farm-folk cowardly and foolish, for not only had they abandoned their charges to the possibility of death, they had taken shelter in a large farmhouse: the only construction between the village and mountain pass.

They might easily have won to their village and hidden behind its walls, but they had all, without a moment's hesitation, gathered at the nearest building. I tried to convince myself that farmers could not be expected to act as warriors, beneath any Banner.

I was mistaken.

Within moments of the arrival of the last of the workmen, the first of them began to file out at the run, and immediately they made to block our passage. I was most astounded by their savage discipline, for though they did not march to the defense in lockstep, they each knew the position they would fill, not according to predesignated assignments, but to the position that would most strengthen their battle line. This was not a carefully rehearsed dance, but the result of the collaboration of many minds well-suited to combat.

It was clear that each of these men had hurried to the defense the moment he had donned the minimal gear that time allotted to circumstance, and they filed out at the run in twos and threes. There were nearly forty of them, and each wore an iron cap and bore a shield of wood and hide, bossed and rimmed in iron. All were equipped with a spear, but wore also a belt and baldric weighted with dagger, short sword, hatchet, and short-hafted axe. And these were only the farmers.

Before we had closed half the distance between the mountain pass and the waiting warrior-farmers, the tall gates of the village opened without a sound. Thirty mounted men made for us at a full gallop, and I could tell by their gear that they were warriors by occupation, for they were covered from knee to neck in mail, with pauldrons, greaves, bracers, and helmets shining brightly against the late morning sun. A swarm of footmen hurried on behind, and as we grew closer I saw that many were equipped as the farmers, while some fifty or more were mailed and armed with swords and axes of incredible size.

We did not increase our pace.

By the time we had closed within earshot, Sigmund signaled the column to a halt—he made no attempt to hail his countrymen. And so, we waited. At length, three of the horsemen made their way to our position at the trot. Sigmund pointed to myself and Lior, indicating that we should ride forward, then motioned to the others and lowered his palm: 'We will ride to meet them alone'.

The leader of their party, a man with a long, well-formed face and stubbly white beard was better equipped than most, and his broad belt of thick hide, common equipment for all Hjarrleth, was studded with plates of silver. His shield was wide and heavy, all iron, just as Sigmund's had been before he had claimed his armor, and I knew this to be the shield of a Hjarrleth chieftain, a sign of his rank; with the Ironskin of his house upon the back of his eldest son, it was also necessary for his protection.

The chieftain spoke for a time in the tongue of the Hjarrleth, but when he had laid eyes on Sigmund, and scanned the scene behind, he tried the common tongue. Apparently, he was unaware of Lior's fluid command of their language, or perhaps they had never met. In any case, they continued in Vulgar Kenalkan.

"Honored am I by the presence of the Olinbrand Chieftain, and by his companions—but from whence have they ridden, and whither do they ride?"

Lior turned to Sigmund, who nodded his assent.

"Honored are we, as well, my lord jarl. I am Lior, High Priest of Brek, and I must beg pardon in advance for my presumption, but I fear that I must speak in the Olinbrand Chieftain's stead. We have ridden from distant Venibrek to speed the news of the Onidai's return. We ride for the great stone seat at Harkona, and will resume our march in peace—when the Claimant has passed into the shadow of the trees."

The chieftain looked to me. He made his appraisal from head to toe, and when he had finished, he continued, without any indication of surprise. His voice betrayed no trace of irony or disappointment.

"Joyous news, indeed. But why must it be received through foreign speech?"

This time, Lior did not wait for Sigmund's consent.

"The Chieftain has lost his Voice, brave jarl. Boers fell in battle, defending his master. His blade took many lives, but his own was lost before the battle's end. We bear his body, and so we must make haste, for I fear that it has been absent the pyre far too long already."

"That is too easily remedied, Your Eminence. We will bear his body home ourselves—if you will permit it."

Again, Lior looked to Sigmund. This time, the response appeared to be prearranged.

"That is well, but the Olinbrand Chieftain will wish to light the pyre himself, and he must linger with the Claimant, to prepare him for the dangers ahead. He asks that your servants bear Boers's body, and also that they bid his people wait for the Chieftain's arrival."

"Agreed. And if the Claimant is to be prepared by the Olinbrand Chieftain—a great honor, even to the Onidai—he will need a new Voice. With his permission, I will send a rider to summon a worthy kinsman."

Sigmund nodded, slowly and deliberately.

"Very well, then. I invite the three of you to dine at my table, though I fear that our larders will be hard-pressed by your escort."

"Fear not, wise jarl, for we have with us all that we require. I would ask only a likely spot for our tents and horses."

Throughout their long exchange, I could not but wonder about Lior's mention of the trees. Was I to travel alone?

* * *

At the chieftain's table we were treated with the same deference as the man himself. In the outer provinces of Sangholm, common courtesy is the only form of courtesy, and so we were treated no differently than any of their warriors—a practice I found comforting. No questions were asked concerning my Proving, the Orinsos, or our sudden appearance, though much was asked of the manner of Boers's death. As I had been there, I was asked often if he had died 'with heavy hands'. This is the Hjarrleth way of asking if a warrior fought bravely at the time of his death, and they treated the question with the same reverence that some cultures treat the names of their gods.

I told the story many times, and noted that even those who had been within earshot on some previous occasion were wont to ask me to repeat the story. I later learned that this was their way of proving that my words were true, for repetition is to the Hjarrleth the surest test against falsehood. My story never changed, and by the tenth or twelfth recitation they stopped asking.

Sigmund communicated with Halga, the chieftain of the Laufgandr clan, with chalk and slate, and as the chieftain responded in the native tongue, I could not discern the nature of their conversation, though I suspected that Sigmund was starved for news of his family, and particularly for word of his nephew, who would by then be nearly a half-year into infancy.

The food of Halga's house was common fare in Sangholm, and though it was not the well-spiced, carefully prepared repast to which I had grown accustomed in the company of Lior and Brenna, it was nourishing, suited to the muscular frames of the Hjarrleth. While bread was made available, most of the warriors ate only meat and cheese, of which there was ample variety. Fish is prepared by the Hjarrleth almost always in the form of a stew, usually with small pickled onions and root vegetables, and I surprised myself by enjoying it, for it did not look in the least appetizing. Pork, venison, mutton, beef, and poultry were all present on a side table, and again I was surprised—the table manners of the Hjarrleth were impeccable.

Each dish was carried around the board from place to place by a male servant, whereupon the diner would either nod his assent or cover the plate with his hand, indicating that he would wait for the arrival of the next course. If he approved of the dish, a serving girl would cut the desired portion and move on to the next diner. In this way, order was maintained, and the diners could request a second helping only if any remained. Bread, cheese, and jugs of mead and ale were left to public domain, and no leave was required to partake in them.

The women dined with the men, and did not ask for the leave of the men to take their places—they simply chose their seats, and sat. It was in this way that I became acquainted with many of Halga's daughters and nieces, a few of whom were my age, and as I learned later, my age—just shy of seventeen at the time—was considered ideal for the purpose of marriage. The ladies of Sangholm are not at all uncomfortable with flirtatious banter, and even in the presence of their chieftain (to mention nothing of father and uncle), they made many lewd and suggestive comments.

I can still remember fearing for my life when Halga, on hearing a particularly clever and thoroughly filthy remark uttered by Ulla, his favorite daughter, ceased his conversation with Sigmund immediately. Somehow, the entire hall took notice, and all present were instantly silent. I was sure that I was about to be beheaded, but before I could string the words together to apologize for I-know-not-what, the aging graybeard broke into a loud, appreciative laughter. The entire room shared his appreciation. Ulla was proud. I was relieved.

She was a beautiful young girl with red-gold hair, pale blue-green eyes, and rosy cheeks, but she was trolling for a husband, and though the Nalbans have been known to practice polygamy, the tribes of Tahlrene and Sangholm do not. I slept alone that night—and all the nights that followed.

A week after Halga's rider left, he returned with a dun-headed youth, and the man broke instantly into a bright smile the moment he laid eyes on Sigmund. His name was Hod, and he was Sigmund's favorite cousin. They fell to work immediately, and I could tell that Sigmund's hands were not moving fast enough to suit his racing thoughts. Much to my relief, Hod spoke as his chieftain signed, so that Lior and I gained the sense of Sigmund's urgency.

My first trial would be to find the high hall of _Hroaht_ , within Harkona, the seat of the Hjarrleth Matriarch, and I would be required to make the journey without guide or escort. My route would be through the Vithrauth, or 'Red Forest', and the path I would seek was known as the Hlifgat, or 'Shroud Path'. The names alone were enough to convince me that this would be no mean feat, but Sigmund had not finished. By way of explanation, he told me of the Vithrauth, and of the cruel justice of the Hjarrleth in bygone days.

When Malmheith, the last king of the Hjarrleth ruled over Sangholm, he did so without mercy. Any infraction of the law was met with swift punishment, though death was by no means a certainty. There is no death penalty among the Hjarrleth, nor has there been at any time in their history. Murder or rape can be answered with challenges of single combat to the death, and the winning of one duel did little to ensure the safety of the victorious criminal, for further challenges were almost always posed until vengeance was granted to the slain or violated.

Little enough was done to answer lesser crimes, but when Malmheith saw the need to remove lawbreakers from society, he banished them to the Vithrauth, a forest of ancient age, and almost completely surrounded by a ring of impassable mountains.

With only two entrances—one of which fell under the charge of the Laufgandr chieftain—the king had found the perfect place of banishment: a natural prison. This was the coldest edict in the history of the Hjarrleth people, though the cruelty was not in the sentences themselves, but in the indiscriminate coldness with which they were passed. Any crime, from the smallest infraction to the most foul and heinous atrocity, was met with the same sentence. Trespassers were outlawed alongside murderers and rapists, and in cases of delinquent taxes or theft, entire families were banished together. Thus, the Shroud Path earned its name.

Though the practice of banishment for minor crimes had long ended, the worst of Sangholm's criminals were still sentenced to walk the Hlifgat. Hjarrleth legends warn that the path is haunted by foul serpents, the spirits of the wrongfully accused, and of course, the maddest and most dangerous killers of a tribe of dangerous killers. The only exit was ninety miles from the entrance, and that only if I could fly above the trees.

Ulla's proposition grew more inviting by the moment.

I planned and trained for weeks, and under the wise counsel of Halga and Sigmund, and the tutelage of Ashad archers, my confidence rose with each dawn. By day, and even before dawn, those Trathnonan ladies fought hard to teach me the basic principles of archery.

Ashad archers employ three types of arrows, placed in their quivers in three neat rows of eight. The first, shorter than the rest, with a shaft of white ash and narrow fletchings, has a wide, barbed head, sharpened until its edge can shave the hair from a man's arm. This is the arrow for quick-shooting, intended for use when the target is within middling range, so that it may fly fast and strike hard upon unarmored portions of the body, and the barbed head inflicts far more damage than any other.

The middle row contains arrows of similar construction, though the ash shaft is a handsbreadth longer, the flights slightly wider. The arrowheads are perfectly rounded points, the shape intended to pierce mail and even plate, provided the shots do not arc in flight, though even a highly angled strike rarely fails to pierce leather or common ring mail.

The final row of an Ashad quiver contains eight even longer arrows, and these vary greatly from the other two varieties. The flights are wide, the shaft formed from a very thin rod of tempered iron. The rod is wrapped in leather, then coated with white enamel and sanded smooth. The head, though similar to that of the second row, is a handspan in length, tapering evenly to a hardened, needle-sharp point. These the women employ for targets at very long range, the shots always angled high. The long shaft flexes gently in its arc through the air, the wide flights ensuring a fast, stable spin during the descent. Even at very great distances, these arrows never fail to penetrate mail, and often pierce even thin plate—this I have seen with my own eyes.

The discipline of the archers, their reflexive selection of arrows and unusual technique are not suited to hasty instruction, and when I failed to hit stationary marks that their children could pierce blindfolded, those long-suffering ladies turned to a much simpler weapon.

The Hjarrleth hunting bow, only occasionally used in combat, is formed from a wide flat stave of birch heartwood, a laminate of two equal lengths joined in reverse, so that the wood grain will flex in opposition. It tapers from the grip to the 'horns' upon which the string is mounted, and when unstrung it stands almost perfectly straight. When drawn, it can be anchored, allowing the archer to sight along the arrow, that he may release his shaft only when ready.

By contrast, the Ashad bow is crafted from white hide, dark wood, and sinew. It recurves gently, and the release is not smooth or even, requiring the archer to employ a reflexive draw and release. Though it takes many years to master the bow of Ashad, the Hjarrleth hunting bow can be mastered by a stout child in half the time.

And yet, my ancestors were never archers, for the bow has never been prized by any but a hunting people—few wild herds have ever braved the Nowhere. From day to day, the frustration of the Women of Ashad and Hjarrleth huntsmen grew to exasperation. They tried to remain patient, and often repeated what I had known from the beginning: 'Archery takes years to master.'

Within two weeks, I was ready to give up and take my chances in the woods armed only with Sequiduris, when inspiration led me to the wagon that Lior had filled with the spoils I would present to the Matriarch. The weapons of the Banners took years to master, while the weapons from beyond the Central Sea seemed to be made specifically for the purpose of arming and training large numbers as quickly as possible.

The Thunderer was too loud, and required a lit length of rope to function. Furthermore, it was inaccurate and required lengthy preparation. Their lockbows, however, were fairly accurate within middling distances, and in the forest, where there was little possibility of an unobstructed target at long range, the lockbow presented an ideal alternative to a weapon I could never hope to master in the time allotted.

There were nine lockbows in the wagon, and one of the heavier iron variety that had slain Boers. It was a powerful weapon, but slow, and it required a strange pulley with a hand crank to draw the string. The smaller variety had a bow of horn, sinew, and hide; one of those had been fitted with silver trappings, and the plain wooden body had been replaced with a deeply glossed hardwood—probably an attempt to impress the Matriarch, for none of their soldiers armed with lockbow or thunderer had been of noble blood.

I chose a plain lockbow of sturdy construction, and three short, rectangular quivers, of which there were twelve. With a shorter quiver, and shorter projectiles within, I could now carry additional darts in my pack.

I set myself immediately to the task of mastering the weapon, and though I found it awkward at first, my shots were more carefully aimed. By the end of my first week, I was able to strike moving targets at fifty paces three out of five times. The Ashad scouts were unimpressed, but they failed to remember that with a bow I had missed stationary targets four out of five times at half the distance. Progress with the weapon bolstered my confidence, and I became so absorbed in training that all apprehension over the likelihood of my death faded into insignificance.

By night, Sigmund and Halga regaled me with tales of Sangholm's most notorious criminals. They went back no more than thirty years, and yet their recital continued for nearly a month. I began to worry that my supply of lockbow darts might run short, and when I voiced that genuine concern, Halga laughed and clapped me on the shoulder, saying that such courage would be sorely needed within the Vithrauth.

I was confident that I would make the journey, for I had traveled too far to turn back, but I had no illusions about the possibility of survival. I had even tried surrendering Sheathed Sequiduris to Lior, along with the Key, and asked him to keep them safe until my arrival at Harkona. At least, I thought, if I failed to win to the other side of the forest, Lior might appoint a hardier man to the cause; but he would have none of it. The High Priest simply slapped the Sheathed Sword back into my hands and smiled the smile I knew all too well.

"You and I have traveled beyond the point of fraud, young Ralph. This weapon is yours now, as much as it was Rorik's. If you fall, we will have no Onidai—but only because the Onidai will be dead. Besides, you have your new lockbow, and with Sequiduris sheathed you need not fear the same death you will be capable of dealing. Move quickly, and you may even reach Harkona before we do. After all, your route will be far more direct."

In truth, it was not. The road through the Vithrauth was not laid in a straight line. Before Malmheith's heartless innovation, the forest was the source of all lumber used by the Hjarrleth for the construction of weapon hafts, bow staves, and arrow shafts, but also for the building of houses, and especially ships, for the Hjarrleth galley was constructed from the wood of no less than nine trees. And so the road wound from thicket to thicket, though Halga swore that it ran more or less straight for the first thirty miles.

When I suggested that I might simply travel in a straight line, avoiding the road entirely, Halga grew pale, and made me swear that I would not allow the path to pass beyond my sight.

"Many are the dangers of the Vithrauth, and madmen are not the most deadly, for you at least have knowledge of them. Fix one eye upon the path, and keep the other peeled always for signs of danger. You need not stray from the path if you wish to find death. It will seek you out in time. I will pray that you are the bolder, for only the true Onidai could survive such a trial."

I slept with less ease on the nights that followed.

Lior would hear nothing more of my traveling without the implements of the Onidai, and so I considered the matter settled. But the following day, he proved me wrong rather suddenly.

I had offered him a jest, in reference to the Key, hinting at my knowledge of its origin. It was a thoroughly forgettable remark, something about the dangers posed to the investment, that in the event of my death he might not be able to recover it, and that such an expensive counterfeit need not go to waste on my account—the High Priest did not accept my words in the spirit intended.

"What makes you so certain that it is anything but original?"

"Nothing really, only an assumption. The true Key must have been lost—Sequiduris would have been claimed long ere now, had the Key been left in the custody of a single Banner."

His response was a blend of exasperation and humor.

"And what of the Arch? Could we—Brenna and I—have so easily constructed that little item? Singing stones that meld as one—are such sights common in Venibrek?"

"No, I suppose they aren't, but as you never saw to fit explain its origin, I was forced to make an assumption—just as I have done many times in recent months."

For a time he was silent. I had been on my way to another day of training with my new lockbow, and though he pointed to the weapon, his eyes were far away.

"Think you have the mastery of that thing—that you might adjourn until midday?"

I nodded, and though he was still staring beyond me, he seemed to take notice.

"Good. Find Sigmund, will you? Leave the lockbow, and meet me in my tent. He will probably have need of his cousin."

The Olinbrand Chieftain was reading, and Hod was doing the same nearby, though it seemed that Sigmund was more engrossed, for while he had been reading long-neglected correspondences, his cousin was reading from a thin, leather-bound volume, and apparently not for the first time. Sigmund was a bit reluctant, but required no goading to follow me, while Hod fairly leapt at the suggestion of some new diversion.

In Lior's tent of white and gold, I saw that he had cleared the wide round table that always seemed to be covered with various dispatches. There were three large mugs and two pitchers at the center of the table, as well as a few fresh loaves and a platter of cold sausage and cheese at the sideboard. Lior was already seated, and was almost as attentive to his guests as he was to the contents of his mug.

"When we were in Meadrow I bought a few small casks of the local barley brew. It's been months, so we'd better finish it soon. Please, sit."

He drained his vessel, then filled ours. With his own refilled, he continued, and would brook no interruptions. Nor did I care to interject, as the brew in my mug was the very same as that which had made Meadrow famous. But remembering his past habit of softening difficult discussions with the effects of the finest beverages upon Foundation, I drank sparingly, and Lior did not disappoint.

"Your mention of the Key's assumed origin brought to light a secret I have been harboring for quite some time. With Sigmund's responsibilities at home pulling us all further apart, I fear this may be my last chance to bring you both up to speed. First, you should know that the Key is not counterfeit.

"It was your own father, Sigmund, who chose to entrust the Key to me, as well as the Arch—which is, in point of fact, nothing more than an educational tool the Kenalka employed to explain the rudiments of architecture to their young children. The altar was only an engine, a power source for one of their smaller conveyances, while the coiling serpent that surrounded it was a curiosity I once purchased in Algrae.

"Sigred sent the Key and implements to me, as well as a lengthy explanation of how best I might use them, and though his courier died of fever in transit, the items themselves made it into my hands without incident. Shortly thereafter, Sigred was killed, under—unusual circumstances.

"I had never received communications of any sort from the man, nor had we met, though his name was known to me; his expeditions into far Tulakal have been the stuff of legend. His tidings were bleak, and though he made no explanation of his suspicions, I came to learn through inquiries of my own that the coming invasion is a very real threat.

"That was nearly eight years ago, and Sigred's discovery of the Key and subsequent death occurred within months of the first sightings of the enemy at the northernmost reaches of Hjarrleth holdings—their 'iron serpents', or Jarnwurm, as they have been called in the Hjarrleth tongue.

"So, with little time to waste, I informed Brenna of your father's findings, hollowed out the 'keystone', so the stress of the arch and weight of the Key would lead to the needful event, and sent emissaries into Tulakal and Sangholm, trusting, at least, that the First Chosen, as well as Sigred's own people, would rally to my cause."

He stopped, and after a long pull from his mug sought to refill it. Sigmund's hands were a blur, and Hod was hard-pressed to keep up.

"Why would he send it to you, a stranger, rather than his own people? I take no issue with past events—we have the Onidai, that much is clear, for who but he could follow his dream-visions to the Key's exact location? Please understand, Friend Lior, that I feel no anger or slight, but though your words ring just, I think you have yet to tell the balance of your tale. Speak, and I will listen."

The High Priest put down his mug at once, and I saw that the numbing of ale had done little to temper his expressiveness. Clearly, he had expected a more difficult task, and yet Sigmund appeared to take no offense in the knowledge of his father's secrecy. Relief did not dull lingering trepidation, or tempt him to speak without caution, and so he spoke with open palms.

"It wasn't any lack of faith in his family, Sigmund, you should know that, of all things. Why else would he leave his Ironskin in your keeping, and you still a boy at the time? He knew you would be ready when the time came. You were nearly the height of your average fully grown kinsman at ten years, were you not?

"No, it wasn't a lack of faith in you, or any of your people. He feared the spies of the enemy, and in his missive—which I will have sent to your hall from Brek as soon as possible—he claimed he had reason to believe that of all the Banners, only Tulakal and Venibrek might be free of enemy agents, and I can well understand his reasoning. It would be near to impossible to blend in among the Ya'abkach, giants being in rather short supply, and as for Venibrek—well, you know how secretive we are! We're still trying to figure out how Ralph's assassins found their way in!

"In the end, he had to err on the side of caution—but even then, he was not without thoughts of his son. You were his true hope, his guarantee that the Phulako of at least one other Banner might be willing to chance such a daring experiment—and you proved him right. Your mother, Wise Rigga, was against it, and yet you traveled far to aid us. Wherever he is, he's proud—of that I have no doubt.

"Ah, but I nearly forgot—that isn't the whole of the story, now is it? Surely you haven't forgotten your uncle Sigurd?"

Again, Sigmund's hands leapt to life.

"What of him? He was lost in the ruins—those were the words of my father, spoken to my own kinsmen."

"Not exactly. He told them he 'last saw him in the ruins', and when they searched, he was nowhere to be found. Your father was a clever man, but never did a lie pass his lips. It was Sigurd who bore your father's tidings, and he made much of the journey overland. A heavy burden, with nothing but a single ox to bear it, and a great risk, for as you know, the wilds of Tulakal are not without danger.

"Sadly, it was stagnant water, and the ensuing fever, that brought about your uncle's end, but not before he'd made his way to the very gates of Brek. Hold a moment."

He ran to his day chest, and after rummaging through piles of papers he retrieved a rough leather volume, half a thumb thick.

"This is not his travel journal, though it does contain the contents of his diary, which my own men transcribed in full. The first portion is his spoken account, from the time of Sigred's discovery of the Key, to the revelation that the northern armies were preparing to descend upon Foundation—that chapter is rather vague, I'm afraid, though it seems to imply that they have a military or expeditionary presence in Tulakal. Finally, your uncle told us of his own trials—worthy of song, in my opinion, and perhaps now they will be heralded as such."

Sigmund's father was a hero, that much I knew—as was his uncle Sigurd. Without their efforts, my story would be much different. By now, there are many songs of Sigred and Sigurd Emdallsson, but few enough when measured against what they deserve. I have written of their adventures in a separate volume, as befits men of their stature, and the tale is long enough that more than a few tomes were filled in the telling of it.

The balance, then, is that Sigred was racing against hundreds of explorers from the land of the enemy in search of the Key. Sigred followed many clues—references, in ancient Kenalkan tomes hinting at the Key's resting place, and when he found it—not without loss or incident—he formulated a plan en route to his campsite.

In the months prior to his race for the Key, his party had stumbled upon a school—an ancient school, filled with tomes on what the Kenalka considered rudimentary disciplines, but all perfectly complex, and many far beyond the understanding of our wisest men, even now. Many of those 'Singing Arches' were found among the artifacts there, and that, as well as the devising of my own Orinsos, came from Sigred's brilliant mind, alone. Lior may have pulled it off, but it was Sigred's scheme.

And so it was that I learned the true nature of the Key, not a counterfeit, but the very artifact, devised by the Kenalka themselves to ensure that unity alone would grant the Onidai their implements.

Sigmund left rather suddenly, clutching his uncle's account beneath his arm, but not before offering Lior the iron embrace I had felt at our every meeting. His father loved him, and finally he knew it. Lior had done for him what Sigmund and his fallen voice had done for me. Knowing that feeling, the wholeness he must have felt, I could not bring myself to focus at all on training. And so, for the rest of the day, Lior, Hod, and I did our very best to see that the drink of my homeland didn't go to waste.

### Chapter Three

### Crimson Trees and Shrouded Steps
For the first time since my Proving in Venibrek, my dreams were uneasy, and for once, I had little difficulty discerning the meaning.

I was as an ant, climbing up the moss-covered trunk of a tall tree. It seemed that I mislaid every step, for no matter how I wound upward, my path was always blocked by some unforeseen predator. Beetles, centipedes, wasps, and other insignificant creatures viewed me with great interest, and made a point of attempting to dine on my tiny form. I fought well, for an ant, and my strength was always greater than that of any foe.

One by one, they toppled to the earth below, until at last I reached the lowest bough, that limb prized most by ancient ship-builders. The fruit above had been my goal, and finally, I thought myself safe, when a spider crossed my path. The trap was ingenious, webbing placed upon the mossy footing, so that leg-bound prey would not easily escape. The creature was on me before I had the opportunity to react—I will not relay further details of the encounter. Suffice it to say that I awoke in terror, covered in a cold sweat and deeply grateful that it had only been a dream.

The sun was yet hours from rising, and I found in this the opportunity to prepare. I was determined not to linger at the gates, but rather to leap in wholeheartedly—not in an attempt to bolster my own confidence, but because I wished to make the most of the daylight hours. I had no way of knowing what to expect, but I knew that there would be little light beneath the high canopy of those enormous trees.

One thing was certain: I would not light a torch upon the road. I would carry three, covered in layers of canvas and leather for ease of storage, but I was determined not to use them. A stray light in a dark world would attract a lot of attention, and I wished only to pass in silence with as little excitement as possible.

I bathed, reveling in what I knew to be the last hot bath I would take in at least a week—and possibly the remainder of my life. I ate heartily.

Though I had received a great deal of advice on what gear I should carry with me, I was determined to travel light. I had chosen Sequiduris, a short-hafted Hjarrleth axe, a broad-bladed knife, and the lockbow with three quivers as my weapons, and though I knew these would be necessary against every eventuality, they felt cumbersome and unwieldy at my waist.

To improve mobility and alleviate my fear of tangling underbrush, I sheathed Sequiduris across my back. Though drawing the Sword would be more difficult, I felt that any enemy that could not be dealt with by lockbow dart would have little trouble killing me even with the Sword at my hip. I kept the hatchet strapped to my pack, as it was more an item of utility than defense, and wore only the knife and lockbow quiver at opposite sides of my belt. This was a marked improvement, and I was able to move with far less obstruction, my gait more natural. After a few minor adjustments, I felt I could focus more on the path ahead, rather than the cumbersome weapons at my belt, and walk without fear of the tangling underbrush that might otherwise confound my every step.

Those many adjustments had taken place the day before, and not one of my companions was without some manner of comment or misgiving. Lior had been unsure of the Coiling Sheath's ability to function from my back, and so he resolved to test it. He placed his own shield in my hands, then ordered the Ashad archers to loose their arrows upon me. I am told that they aimed directly at Lior's ward of bronze and white hide, though I heard not a sound, even as I cowered behind it—the arrows simply missed or dropped to the ground. After some fumbling, I decided to wear Sheath and baldric over the outside of my pack, that I might remove it and unsheathe quickly, should the need arise.

Originally, Lior had planned to send me off on horseback, but I knew that the overgrown trail might be impassable, and a horse could not climb a tree to sleep in safety. On foot, I would present less of a target, and besides, I hated to think what might befall my splendid bay at the hands of a Hjarrleth madman. Edam and I had grown very close, that he was more pet than beast of burden, and I had taken to feeding him his treats and brushing him with my own hands. To me, he was a trusted companion; to a Hjarrleth madman, he would be nothing more than a sizable meal.

Without a horse, my most needed attributes became speed and stealth, and for that reason I refused to wear armor. My bronze-covered iron plating would make too much noise, and it was too heavy for a long march. With Sequiduris in close-fighting, no weapon had ever survived long enough to fall upon my flesh, and so long as it remained sheathed, I had little to fear from rock or arrow. With my Ashad shoes I could move quietly, and with trousers and shirt of linen, and a light woolen tunic I might pass without a sound. I wore only leathern greaves, bracers, and gauntlets against the tangle of underbrush and the bite of my lockbow string, contented at least with the thought that, in almost all cases, banished madmen were compelled to pass unarmored and unarmed into the shadow of the forest.

My pack contained only dried meats and bread, a thin blanket, some twine, two extra quivers of lockbow darts, a few medicinal unguents, a tinderbox, and other small odds and ends. Cookware was out of the question—too much noise, too much weight. I had two water skins, one lashed to either side of the pack for balance, and Sigmund assured me that there was a mountain stream, really a small river, that passed through the road midway. Finally, I kept a long rope lashed tightly to the back of my pack. I intended to sleep well above any threat of danger, and as I had learned from my years in the forest of the Meadrun Valley, a cedar tree can make a fine roost.

I exited my tent with full pack an hour before dawn, and already my Trathnonan escort had broken camp. My tent was the only one still standing, and all who had horses were mounted, save Lior, Sigmund, Maekara, and Lambek. The ninety footmen were formed up in orderly lines.

The Hjarrleth warriors were less formal, and they had turned themselves out in barbaric splendor. Only those of the warrior class were present, covered again in mail from neck to knee. Most carried the huge axes that were the basis of Sigmund's martial art of Azslaethi, a discipline I had employed with Sequiduris against Boers's killer. In my outrage, I had unwittingly performed the most difficult strike of Azslaethi: I had split the foeman in half from scalp to scrotum.

There were swords also among the warrior class, many of them large beyond belief, with wide, flat blades extending from foot to midriff, and no sheath fit to house them. They were not of white iron, but still I was impressed by the sight, for the forging of any large lump of iron took skill, and the metal of those blades appeared as light in color as any other of their common weapons.

It should be noted that those blades were not so large as the Tahlrenic monster I had offered to Rowan's father—though such blades were half as wide, they were easily the full height of an average man, where the largest Hjarrleth blade I had seen was no more than a handspan longer than the legs of its owner. The great swords of both cultures are made for two hands, as even the arm of a Ya'abkach giant would not have been strong enough to heft the burden, single-handed. The grips were long, three handsbreadths and more, and the counterweights were heavy iron, an oval or scallop shell the most popular shape, followed closely by the form of an engraved hammerhead.

Even the Laufgandr Chieftain had chosen to present himself at his best. He wore his mail, a beautiful web of alternating silver and gold links, though they must have been plated, for the weight of a solid gold hauberk would have been most unmanageable. He wore also his hjarrviht—the sword of white iron that had grown so rare that only Hjarrleth chieftains and officers of the Matriarch's guard still possessed them.

Halga's oldest son Errol stood by him in the Ironskin of his clan—white iron armor of the same make as Sigmund's, though not as regal in appearance. Generally, the Ironskin was worn by the strongest male descendant of a chieftain, preferably the oldest son, but Sigmund had no living heirs. It was then his right to wear the armor himself until the coming of age of his first son, a precaution intended to prevent a chieftain's death, until such time as his progeny is fit to lead.

Lior and Sigmund strode forward, as did Hod, though he maintained a respectable distance. The High Priest of Brek carried a folded bundle of dark cloth in his right hand, which he offered to me without ceremony.

"The women thought you might find a use for this. Their own cloaks were too small, so they had to fit it to form. Don't wear it in front of the men."

I accepted the gift and removed my pack to place it inside, before nodding my thanks to the women. Their cloaks are midnight blue, a color ideal for my purpose, and the lining is black as sackcloth. Whether Lior worried over jealousy among the men, that the Onidai should prefer to wear the colors of Ashad, or that the practice would be thought effeminate among their ranks, I did not know, but Lior's slight grin seemed to imply the latter.

Sigmund signaled to Hod, who stepped forward.

"The Olinbrand Chieftain wishes to offer the use of his ancestor's guide rune. Do not tell the other Hjarrleth, for the rune is viewed as sorcery among them. Halvknarr, the founder of the Olinbrand house used the rune when he discovered Foundation, and that even before the First Crossing, more than six thousand years ago. The men of our house have never feared its use, and many have profited from its power while exploring the ancient lands of the Wise Kenalka."

Sigmund held out his hand, offering a round wooden case with a hinged lid, and when I opened it, I saw that it contained a short round cup with a flat bottom, and lodged therein a rune, set in dark iron and shaped like an arrowhead with a long flat socket. Hod continued.

"That is the rune of our god-king Vodn, greatest of all our ancestral gods, and it is imbued with his wisdom. Fill the case with water, and float the rune cup. Never will it fail to face north. Knowing north, you may then find any direction. Such is the wisdom of Vodn.

"My lord Sigmund wishes also to tell you that Halga is a good man, brave and wise, but set in his ancient ways. The path will be watched by those best avoided, and if you follow it, you will be seen. The Vithrauth exit is northwest of the entrance—with Vodn's rune, you cannot fail to find it. Walk the Hlifgat on the first day, for the Laufgandr Chieftain's men will be watching from the towers. Thereafter, take any route you wish. Good luck, and may the gods of the Hjarrleth travel with you."

Sigmund clapped me on the shoulder, then lifted me bodily in his mighty arms without shame—I did not pull away.

I had enough bread and dried meat to last for weeks, properly rationed, and if the rune worked and I survived long enough to use it, I felt confident that I would not have need of more. Lior broke the silence.

"The Initiates and Halga's warriors wish to hear from you before you ride to the gates. You will want to make it a boast, for these northerners only respect a forthright champion. In this land, modesty is weakness. Just ask Sigmund!"

The Hjarrleth giant was not offended, and he laughed his muted laugh. At a gesture of Lior's hand my bay rushed to meet me, and I hung my pack and lockbow from the saddle bow before mounting. My first words were for the Trathnona.

"My brothers of Brek! My sisters of Ashad!"

They shouted their greeting as one, and I turned to the Hjarrleth, feeling invincible.

"I offer my thanks to my host and future ally. My compliments to his people, for surely their hospitality is the pride of Sangholm!"

They cheered as well, but I spoke loudly, cutting them off mid-shout.

"And yet, I worry at your lack of enthusiasm for my coming adventure. You fear, perhaps, that I will not survive. You may ask Lambek, pride of the Trathnonan warriors, what fear I have of enemies in the forest. He bore witness as I faced seven of the vilest madmen ever to walk upon Foundation. They were the Eaters of Men, and they decorated the trees with the bones of the slain. Those grisly chimes rattled in the wind, conducting the tune of their instruments. They were fine musicians—but they will play no more!"

Laughter, mixed with cheering from the Trathnona, and I continued.

"It was the musicians that had taken the Key. They had slain the original thieves, and dined upon their flesh. When I reclaimed it, I journeyed to Rorik's Clearing, and sought the Sword of Rorik with Lady Brenna, the High Priestess of Ashad. Rorik's Clearing was guarded by many, but their numbers were as nothing to me. Look on my Sword and ask yourselves what my hands may yet accomplish!"

I drew Sequiduris and the warriors gasped at the sight. Rorik's father was of the Hjarrleth. To them, the weapon was a holy relic, proof that Rorik had actually lived. I continued.

"On the day of Boers's death, we charged together against five times our number. They had terrible weapons, and hurled fire and thunder at us. They did not halt our charge. When I saw Boers, beloved of his people, fall to the darts of the enemy—Boers, a man who only sought to protect his master—I rushed headlong at the coward responsible. That man will live on in the stories of his people as the first of his kind to lay in two places at once! Your forest holds no terror!"

They cheered together, Trathnona and Hjarrleth, and I let them. When their voices diminished, my words were for the Hjarrleth alone.

"War is coming. It marches for your lands, even now. For all who love battle, and love their people there is a service that the Onidai would ask. My brothers and sisters ride for Harkona and will await my arrival. They will spread the word of my deeds as they travel, but your country is vast. Tell all you meet, Children of Rorik, that the Onidai has returned. Sharpen axes. Harden shields. Don mail. Turn spears. Prepare for the war of your songs, the glory of your dreams, and follow me to the promise of a death long remembered!"

I rode as they cheered, and they followed on foot, cheering all the louder. Lior and Sigmund hastened to catch up. They had expected a rallying call, and I could tell by their excited expressions that I had not disappointed them.

Out of respect, and to avoid attracting attention to the edge of the forest, the Hjarrleth returned to their village, leaving only a mounted honor guard to see me to the gates. The Trathnona began their march to Harkona at Lior's behest. He and Sigmund would ride to overtake them, once the gates had closed behind me.

To his credit, the chieftain knew that I did not need a long goodbye, and my friends shared his wisdom. For a parting shot, Lior said only that the last one in Hroaht would have to buy the vapor. I surprised myself by laughing, even as I threw the Ashad cloak across my shoulders.

The gates were formed of gray birch, taller even than the wall of stone. The towers rose even higher, and on each there were four men, armed with bows. A pair of white oxen pulled from the ends of ropes fastened to iron loops, and the gate creaked open. I loaded my lockbow, threw on the hood of my cloak, and made my way inside with measured steps.

* * *

As the gates slammed behind me, I froze in my tracks. It was not as dark as I had expected, for the canopy was high. Indeed, those massive trees formed a ceiling higher even than the Piebald Council Chamber between Brek and Ashad. There was little underbrush, but then, with the mountain rim to either side, the trees above, and the wall and gates at my back, there would not have been much sunlight to feed low-lying plants.

I kept my head down, focusing all my concentration on the noises behind me, and when I heard the hoof beats of my escort retreating in the distance, I breathed deeply and set my jaw. There was no turning back.

The road had been built in layers, and, through Hod, Sigmund had told me of its construction. From the very beginning, the Hjarrleth set out to build a thoroughfare that would endure for many lifetimes, even in the harsh conditions of an untamed wilderness. After they had carved a deep depression, clear to the solid bedrock, uprooting all plantlife, they lined their cut, bottom and sides with a thick base of salted clay; they lit fires all along that trench, that they might build upon a surface of stern ceramic. When their base had baked to a lasting hardness, they stripped the beds of many rivers in search of smooth stones, and laid them end to end, before covering them with the dust of ground limestone and granite. The concrete of the third layer was made with an aggregate of coarse sand from the northwestern beaches, as well as gravel taken from the many mountains the Hjarrleth had hollowed entirely in their search for iron and copper. Octagonal slabs of white limestone formed the walking surface, and aside from a few cracks, the road appeared in near perfect condition, with barely a visible seam between the pavestones. Not surprising, as little wind or rain would find its way to the ground beneath such massive trees. Further, there had been no traffic upon that ancient road since before the time of Malmheith.

The ground beneath and at either side had been sown with salt to discourage undergrowth, and though there was a tangling of ivy here and there, I could see that no stubborn plant had yet grown between the flagstones.

As I surveyed the road ahead, I understood the meaning of Hlifgat—the path was shrouded, for there were more than the giant variety of trees within the Vithrauth. I had but broached the edge of the forest, and yet further in, I could already see a second treeline. Trees of normal proportions grew within the forest, between and beneath their immense cousins. Apparently, I was to travel a forest within a forest, and the double canopy offered little hope of adequate illumination.

The creaking of the towers behind reminded me that I was being watched, so I straightened my back, threw off my hood, leveled my lockbow, and stepped boldly forward without a word. Within twenty paces, I was plunged into total darkness.

I had no way to gauge time without the aid of the sun, but I felt I had been walking for nearly an hour when my eyes finally began to adjust. The going had been slow, and only the feel of stone beneath my feet granted assurance that I was still traveling in the right direction. In truth, I was not yet terrified; I knew that darkness was only the beginning of the trials ahead. Each man has within himself only a limited reserve of fear, and fear is much too useful to squander in darkness.

As the veil of shadow finally lifted, I could see that there was a dim diffusion of light from above—my eyes had been dazzled by the light of dawn. The trees seemed to twist together, forming walls at either side of the path, so that I could do nothing but move forward. At least, I thought, no danger could approach me yet but head on, for the towers were still behind, and nothing could have entered that tunnel of living wood without first venturing within bowshot of the vigilant Hjarrleth guards.

The trees seemed to be growing closer, looming lower with every step. Already the Hlifgat was cramped, with but an arm's length above my head, and perhaps twice that distance at either side of the road.

It was then that I heard breathing ahead. Not panting or gasping, but a slow, deliberate snorting, as that of an angry bull. I froze in place, and listened, straining over the hammering of my heart to find its source. And then I heard a cracking of branches directly to my right, and a low, guttural grunt, deafeningly loud as the rooting grew more frantic. Something was trying to fight its way through!

I could see hints of the silhouette through the cracks, but I could hardly believe the size of it. Running would accomplish nothing—I was only passing through, but that creature, whatever it was, knew its own home as well as I knew the twists and gentle turns of the Meadrun Valley Forest. If it decided to seek me out, it would want only for time and the pleasure of the chase.

I aimed my lockbow at one of the gaps, and without a moment's hesitation pressed my finger to the release lever. The dart went through cleanly, and I heard another squeal. The creature kicked and thudded in the grass, snarling in complaint, until finally it thundered off, galloping parallel to the road, moving in the same direction as I.

I removed Sequiduris from its place over my pack, and then removed the pack, as well. Noisy or not, I felt better with the Sword's solid weight at my side, though I tried to convince myself that I had readjusted it to compensate for the low ceiling. I reloaded my lockbow, hefted my pack, and continued forward slowly.

At midday, or as close to midday as it might have been, I halted briefly to take a drink and a bite of bread, and as I did, I decided to experiment with Sigmund's rune. Pouring a bit of my precious water into the case, I floated the cup. As the tiny, flat-bottomed vessel rose with the level of the water, the arrowhead rune began to turn, stopping only when the point indicated a direction slightly to my right. I had been traveling northwest. The rune knew the way!

I had not doubted Sigmund's honesty, but some things can hardly be believed until a man has seen them for himself. So it was with the rune, and the confirmation of its power gave me great hope for the future. If I could but move stealthily, light no fire, and make my bed in the trees, I might make it out alive. I could avoid the road with the following dawn, and trusting in the rune I would not lose my way.

Further along the path, the light began to return. I had been descending gradually, though the tangle of trees had not slackened from side to side, and there was only little more than double an arm's length of clearance in either case, but the ceiling was not nearly so dense. It was an indirect light, filtered green, but it was a welcome sight, nonetheless. Though the visibility had improved, much of the road ahead, and everything to either side was shrouded in shadow, with only the dim, green-filtered light above to shine upon the stone at center.

For a further hour, I trudged in the near darkness, picking my way carefully. It seemed for a moment that my feet, while covered in the soft hide of Ashad shoes, had been landing much too loudly upon the stone, but as the sound grew even louder, I realized that my feet had only been falling in cadence. For a time, I stood stock-still, and there, in the darkness of the double-canopy, I heard a familiar thundering—not the weapons of the enemy, but a heavy, metered gallop. The ground trembled at its approach, and feeling every impact in the soles of my feet, I realized that traffic had found the Hlifgat, at last.

It had not yet surged into view, but I felt the vibrations of its charge upon the road; no horse upon Foundation could have made such an impact. What could a lockbow do against something so enormous? Could even a hard-shot dart penetrate such a hide? The road had not been perfectly straight, and now, far in the distance, I could see the outline of the creature as it rounded a slight curve. Its width filled the Hlifgat entirely, a thoroughfare wider than the length of a spear. The strike of my lockbow would sting the creature with no more force than that of a hornet. As it rounded the curve, it loosed that same deafening roar, a low sound, booming and guttural. This was no bear. Truly, I did not know what it might be—I knew only that I could not kill it.

It was closing the distance with frightening celerity, its back splintering and snapping the intertwining branches of the lower canopy, only in passing. I had no time to think, no time to plan; I felt only that I must avoid its horrible charge. With unsteady hands, I leveled my weapon at its head, loosed, and leapt away. My dart struck true, and the pain of it likely saved my life, though it could not have been a killing wound. The creature's head jerked to the side as the dart struck, leaving just enough room that it passed me completely.

Perhaps it could not turn at all in mid-charge, or maybe it was too large to turn in that enclosed space. It had covered a fair distance when I rose, thinking to flee. I hoped that it would not be able to turn at all, that the narrow enclosure would force it to charge all the way back to the entrance before it could resume the chase. But I had hoped without considering the power of the beast.

As I have written, the trees were intertwined, appearing almost as a wickerwork pattern. The force exerted by the creature must have been great indeed, for I heard a cracking and a snapping that rivaled the report of the enemy thunderers, and the trees shook even from where I stood. Above my head, a thousand birds chirped in complaint and flew to safety.

Again, I heard its thunderous approach, then cursed myself for a fool; I had failed in all those long moments to reload my weapon. I could not escape, nor could I attempt another shot, and so, lacking any other options, I threw my lockbow to the edge of the enclosure, shrugged off my pack and drew Sequiduris.

As the Sheath came to life and coiled about my waist, I looked to the blade of my weapon, admiring the damask of its three metals and the play of the dim light at its very edge, where the metal had been hammered so thin that it appeared translucent, almost crystalline, and I knew that edge to be impossibly sharp. I felt the perfect balance formed by the pommel, a solid sphere of metal that might have been gold, if not for its adamant durability, and I admired the colorful gloss of the seven emeralds and seven pearls alternating evenly across its belly. The hilt a perfect four-sided pyramid of golden scrollwork, the handgrip covered with an ageless and weatherproof layer of rough, scaly, bronze-colored hide, its length broken only by seven evenly spaced rings of solid gold.

As I gripped the magnificent weapon in both hands, I remembered who I was, and who I was expected to be. Only Rorik had shared my title. Only Rorik had wielded my Sword. How many dangers had the Onidai faced with that same blade? One more, I told myself. One more, at least. For was I not the Onidai?

The creature thundered nearer.

I looked again on my weapon, for I had seen it only rarely, in fear of accidental mishap upon its peerless edge, and of course, the Sheath protected me from missiles only with the blade housed. With a grim smile, I spoke to the Sword in the tone of an old friend. 'At least it doesn't breathe fire!' I laughed then, even knowing that I would die, and took a firm stance in the middle of the road.

A thrust would be useless, for I had no way of aiming. How might one aim at the heart of an unknown beast? I had decided instead to aim for the head—a full-strength cleaving strike with the edge of a weapon of legend. Giant or not, it would not live long with a cloven brow. I waited, assuming a right-handed grip with the flat of the blade resting at my left shoulder.

The silhouette grew. Still, I waited.

Its head was ten times that of any horse, and it ducked low with every stride. I would have to time my attack. Making an estimate of the distance, I began to count off its footfalls. Three...two... I knew, only a moment before impact, that the ducking of its head would not be in time with my stroke, and so I leapt forward, cutting away with all my might. I felt nothing but air against the blade's edge, but my swing had turned my attacker's charge a hair's breadth. As I followed through with the motion of the attack, the shoulder of the giant beast brushed against me, throwing me bodily to the right.

Fearing that I might fall on the edge of my blade, I released the grip from my right hand, and threw out my left arm as I began to fall. My head struck the road, and that world of shadows grew suddenly darker.

* * *

I awoke upon my back to see that the canopy above had not been perfectly woven. Though it vanished with every gasp of wind—a wind I could not feel—I could see the light of day in stillness; my battle began not long after midday, and yet that light was fading.

I was disoriented, and my head ached. With difficulty, I found my pack and drank sparingly from one of the rigid water skins. I had no time to linger about the way, so I filled the little case and floated the rune, which pointed slightly to the right of my true goal. Not wishing to waste provisions, I drank the rune case dry and returned it to the pouch at my belt.

Sequiduris was near to the place I had fallen, and I sheathed it before turning to my lockbow. I loaded it, marveling as I did at the simple hinged lid of the quiver. A traditional archer might have lost many arrows in such a fall as I had taken, and on a lengthy march only one of those massy quivers could be easily carried. I had two additional sheafs, at twenty-four darts each, and though I had already spent two of the missiles beyond retrieval, seventy remained. While training with the weapon, I had admired its simplicity of design, and even its adaptability. I was sure that, if pressed, my lockbow might hurl round stones with power and accuracy.

After a quick mental inventory, during which I fondled the pouch containing the Key, I determined that I had lost nothing. I tightened the lower thong of my Sheath, raising it to a nearly horizontal position; it would be more difficult to draw, but it would not slap against my thigh, or hinder me as much at the run. I did not wish to be on the ground after dusk, and the tangle of trees could not be scaled from within. I took no time to marvel at my survival, nor did I ponder the fate of the beast. If it wished to cease hostilities, who was I to complain?

After much clumsy running, caused mainly by the heavy weapon at my left hip, I assumed a sort of loping jog, and was able to cover ground with longer strides. I might have mounted the weapon on my back, but I had no way of knowing how much further that arboreal tunnel stretched. In any case, I did not want to fall upon that great beast again without Sequiduris near at hand. I must admit that I have never been fleet of foot, even when in flight, and I know now that my running motion was flawed. My Ashad shoes were light and thin-soled, not made for running over hard surfaces, and my clumsy gait was no help. My every stride slapped heavily against the stone, bruising my feet and announcing my presence with echoing drumbeats that matched the creak and rattle of my baldric beautifully.

After hours of running, the scene lightened. I was out of the enclosure at last, and not a moment too soon, for within the tangle of that double canopy the light had all but vanished. Puffing loudly and covered in a cold sweat I made my way down the path, eyes darting in search of a suitable perch even as I fought to control my breathing.

The scene had grown eerily quiet. The birds, frogs, and insects that I had heard throughout my march had silenced themselves entirely. Then, in the perfect, unbroken stillness a deep, throaty howl filled the air. It might have been directly behind me.

Many more followed in answer.

Thirty or forty paces east of the path, I spotted an ancient beech tree. The ideal spot, with branches just low enough that I could scramble up the first of them without the aid of rope. The howling grew nearer, and I heard rustling in the underbrush. I stumbled many times, but managed to sling my lockbow at the run.

I could hear the thump of their swift paws as they crossed the stone path behind me.

Sequiduris rattled at my hip, and I gripped the Sheath to keep it steady and quicken my pace. Snarling and snapping issued very close behind. I leapt for the lowest branch, fearing at every moment the pain of the sharp, crushing bite that would pull me back to the earth. My grip tightened on the rough bough, and I did not release my hold even as I kicked at the trunk with thinly shod feet. The bark scratched at my fingers and palms, even through gauntlets of thick leather, but I did not let go.

My Sheath caught briefly as I stood on the first bough, but I righted it quickly and continued my ascent, though I was nearly brought to grief many more times as my pack caught on every branch.

I heard ripping and tearing, snarling and snapping off to my left. The noise was terrible. There might have been dozens of them, and from the noises they made, they were wolves of impressive size. Midway up the beech I found my perch. I lashed my pack just above my head, then removed the rope and tied myself securely to a strong bough. I laid facing the trunk of the tree, my Ashad cloak folded beneath my head as a pallet.

That night, I slept cradling the weapon of my enemies, even as the sounds of unspeakable carnage continued far below.

* * *

Mornings within the Vithrauth are not much brighter than the evenings, but the chirping of diurnal birds warned me of the dawn an hour before its time. I hadn't slept at all for much of the night; only when the grisly ripping beneath subsided was I able to close my eyes. However, the sudden lightening and the clear outline of the branches above informed me that I had slept deeply, if only for a short time. I suspended the lockbow from a nearby branch, unfurled my cloak, and breathed deeply into chilled hands.

After a breakfast of dried sausage and bread I lowered my pack to the ground, then dropped the rope behind it. With Sequiduris and lockbow lashed across my back, I descended to the lowest bough and surveyed the scene below. No sign of wolves. I dropped to the ground and leveled a dart, scanning the terrain in every direction for any sign of movement.

All was quiet.

I retrieved my things, wore the Sword mounted at my hip, and with the light growing by the moment I set off in the direction of the road. Perhaps it was foolish, but I thought at least to keep the stone surface in sight. I could not stop at every twist in the tangle to stoop over Sigmund's rune, and I must admit I found any sight of civilization comforting in that horrifying place.

About ten paces from the edge of the stone thoroughfare, I stepped on something I did not expect. My foot stuck. I looked down, and saw a dark stain among the brown and green, and looking ahead, I saw that the intermittent streak stretched to the roadway, and continued along the path as far as the eye could see.

Curiosity is foremost among my flaws. It was blood, plainly enough, but such a trail! There was far more blood upon the ground than one might find in the human body, and I am ashamed to admit that I knew this from personal experience.

I followed the trail away from the path, my eyes darting in every direction for any sign of movement. Thirty paces from my beech tree, I found the beast that had hunted me so relentlessly, and never before had I seen a creature of such dimensions. What remained of it, the bones and much of the head, were of a tremendous boar. It had fallen to its side, and the deep pool of blood that stretched from foreleg to hind was proof that a slash from Sequiduris had brought about its end.

I had not felt the impact, and there had been no blood upon my blade. And yet, the beast was dead. Falling, I had thrown out my left arm to avoid feeling the bite of Sequiduris upon my own flesh. Without knowing it, I had slain a beast far larger than any I could have imagined—even now, I cannot adequately compare that creature to any living animal.

The tusks were a bit longer than my legs, and there was a deep gouge at the base of one of them, where my initial swing had bitten deep and driven the boar from the course of his charge. I drew Sequiduris, and angled low the second strike. If boasting would gain favor with the Hjarrleth, I would need proof. I had no witnesses, but with the tusks in hand, none could doubt my story. They were heavy, but I was determined, and I lashed them to my pack. In my youth, they became a trophy worthy of legend.

I was preparing to make for the road, when I stumbled upon yet another heartening omen. One of my darts had been wrenched free during the wolves' grisly feast. It was smeared completely with blood, and the point was clotted with bits of stubborn meat. I took it without hesitation, and though I cleaned the flights and point of clinging meat, I made no attempt to scour away the blood. In times of fear, I wanted to remember that boar, to remember the keen edge of my blade and the power of my lockbow.

Onidai or not, I was a man. The boy had died with Boers.

* * *

I tried to keep the road in sight as I traveled directly northwest—but I had no wish to travel upon it. Now that I knew the nature of the animals within the forest, and the resulting desperation of any men that might survive there, I had to split my fear between them. It was true that I could be seen upon the road, but I was equally apprehensive about what I could not see traveling thereon. On white limestone I could read no spoor, see no leavings, and though the road itself might be thought a sort of game trail—myself the quarry of any waiting huntsmen—I wished to avoid equally those made by animal game. My goal was to seek the middle ground. I would avoid game trails, roads, clearings, and all other easy ways, but I would avoid equally the underbrush that might bar my path or betray my presence with the noise of my passing.

Sequiduris was again upon my back, for I needed to crouch low at the walk and pick every step with care. I had covered the glittering hilt and pommel with bits of cloth from my blanket, fastened with twine, and with the hood of my Ashad cloak pulled low to cover the frightened pallor of my skin, I was but a shadow moving among shadows, as restless as those of my kind that danced and quaked with the rhythm of the wind-tossed canopy.

There was far more light in the open forest, though it was not at all direct, and still filtered green with patches of deep shadow. I learned much of the flora, and in the full light of day I discovered almost immediately the ancient meaning of 'Vithrauth'. The red of the forest did not pertain to the blood of the innocent, for it had been so named long before the time of Malmheith's mad justice.

Everywhere I looked, the forest was colored green or red, and beneath the boughs and branches of the trees, both gigantic and common, there was little sign of any bark. The topsoil, an iron-rich red clay covered the black loam of the region for nearly the depth of a handspan, while a moss of bright crimson covered nearly everything else; the bark of the trees, the rocks, bare patches of earth, fallen boughs—indeed, it appeared to cover anything that had not the will to escape.

I might have stopped to admire the alien beauty, had I not been in constant fear of death, though I will freely admit that the terror of my situation did not prevent me from at least taking notice, for truly, there was nothing of the like in Meadrow. The soil, unchanging within the fertile land of the Meadrun river valley, is a healthy dark brown, and the moss on the trees shifts from pale yellow to green and dark gray. My home is a comforting bore, and such is the case with all places of safety.

Though the blend of such bold reds and verdant greens was a sight worth recounting, I showed more interest in the marks left upon them. I saw there the leavings of bear and wolf, and paw prints in profusion. There were tracks of deer and larger moose that Sigmund had pointed out on our travels, and torn and uprooted undergrowth where boars of the smaller variety had made paths of their own.

Throughout the morning I moved as quietly as possible, rarely upsetting what animals I passed. Though my fear had diminished, I kept my lockbow leveled, my broad Hjarrleth knife loose in its sheath.

Midday was near, the sun's journey easily followed, for it formed the brightest point in the canopy above. Eight hours had passed without incident, and to my surprise I turned often to the left, to see the winding road grow ever closer.

Sigmund had drawn for me the shape of the road, though I had been allowed no map to ease the success of my first trial. There were three acute bends from the center, evenly spaced, so that the timber cutters might find the farthest trees of any species and haul them quickly by cart upon the road.

I had been traveling directly northwest, having abandoned the road just after dawn, and with the road intersecting my path, I knew how far I had come. Twenty miles in less than two days? It seemed impossible to cover such a distance through untamed ground, but the half-day of travel on a fairly straight road of stone, followed by the few hours of frantic running must have covered a greater distance than I had realized. Further, my crouched walk was hardly a crawl; I daresay I was moving nearly as fast as one might while standing erect, so great was my desire to flee.

The road would run parallel with my path for a stretch of nearly five miles before turning directly west. I could walk an extra mile and travel alongside the road, or walk the even stone surface and cover the distance in far less time. Plainly visible, I could stand erect and walk quickly, easily gaining ground in the same direction that I had been traveling. A gain in speed and distance, but the threat of further danger. Greater danger than a giant, man-eating boar? I can remember thinking that increased speed might actually decrease the threat of death, for was I not in a land of danger? The sooner I won to the opposing gate, the safer I would be. I had grown proud, and lacked the patience of an older man.

I took to the road without trepidation. Perhaps I had been lulled by the calm of an uneventful day, or dulled by a lack of sleep, but with four or five miles ahead in nearly a straight line, I sought to make the most of the even surface and cover the distance quickly.

And then, it began to rain.

It was only a trickle at first, and not nearly as bad as it might have been outside the forest, but as the force of the deluge increased, I saw that the canopy became a mixed blessing. The water ran along the highest branches, and though most of the forest was affected only by a trickle, here and there the torrents struck with the force of waterfalls.

I was not one to let such an advantage pass unnoticed, so I drank deeply from one of my water skins and filled it to the brim beneath one of the heaviest spouts to fall upon the road.

As I continued forward, I made every effort to treat the situation pragmatically, but after more than an hour spent slipping and stumbling on the slick surface of wet limestone, I cursed my luck and continued at the crawl—but I did not leave the path. A slippery surface was infinitely superior to the slow, determined trudge of a man half-sunk in fresh mud, a lesson I had learned throughout my childhood, and I had no wish to repeat the error, for fresh clothes were yet miles away, and my Ashad shoes had not been made for foul weather.

As I looked ahead, not long after midday, I saw in the distance the possibility of refuge. A mountain, if mountain it could be called, blocked the road ahead, though I knew the way northwest continued for at least another mile. I had been told of such a mountain, one of the few within the huge stone ring that surrounded the forest. In truth, it did not look like a mountain at all, and Halga himself had described it as, 'a boulder of mountainous proportions'. And boulder it was, with a rounded base and an appearance more or less like that of a flat-topped stone, and enormous, that the branches of the overgrown trees were pushed aside, leaving the pile clear of the canopy that surrounded it.

But Halga had said nothing of that boulder obstructing the road. Four thousand years and more had passed since any Hjarrleth had returned from that place to tell of the sights within. It was called the Munbeorg, the 'mountain of precious stones,' so named for a deposit of amethyst and other gemstones found at its base. The road might have made transport of such heavy cargo easier, but why should they block the path, when an intersection or side road might have accomplished the same thing?

As I grew closer, I saw through the curtain of rainfall that there was a crack in the mountain, just where the road met its end. A tunnel? I no longer cared about danger, only the possibility of passing the night in sodden clothing, and the inability to climb up slippery branches with my legs half-sunk in the mud. Would a four-legged carnivore sink so easily? I did not wish to find out, and so I made for the entrance without any further thought of danger, only belatedly realizing the potential threat when I stood but a dozen paces from the entrance.

If I had thought to seek shelter within, what other creatures—or men—might have arrived at a similar conclusion? With less than half the day remaining I had little choice, and I knew that another week might pass before the ground had dried to the point of easy travel.

I have always been gifted with the equal use of either hand, and at that moment, I found myself in dire need of it. Wolves do not sleep alone, and bears may fight beyond the strike of a single dart. And if villainous men lurked therein, they would not be waiting with a nocked arrow on the suspicion that one such as I might come calling. Any dangers waiting in that tunnel would bite, scratch, cut, or thrust, but in close quarters I had no reason to fear the flight of rock or arrow. I unsheathed Sequiduris, an impressive and heartening sight even with the hilt wrapped in cloth.

The Sword was too heavy for complex maneuvering with one hand, but I did not feel that a protracted battle would be likely. It was then that I first considered the differences in swordplay brought on by such a unique and powerful weapon. Parrying incoming attacks had never been of any great concern, for the bite of Sequiduris is such that lesser weapons are almost always severed on impact—complex maneuvering had never been necessary. Such had been the genius of the Kenalka, and perhaps the power of the Sword and Devices were the reason for the strange manner of their Orinsos—as well as that prepared by Sigmund's father.

With Sequiduris and the Devices, any man could be a hero, nearly invincible regardless of his prowess in battle. Their tests had not been designed to gauge strength, but to assess the mind and personality of the claimant. Cunning, wisdom, and courage were what they sought, a mind responsible enough to wield their wonders, that they themselves need not fear the calamities that might be visited upon the innocent at the hands of an invincible fool. The fact that Rorik had been beloved of his two Banners—his father's land of Sangholm and his mother's land of Tahlrene—and the respect that he had received from the Nalbans, his former foes, had far more to do with his worthiness than his stature or physical strength.

When I reached the mouth of the tunnel, I knew that I had been wool-gathering, for I had taken no notice of the size of the opening. It was ovular, low and narrow, and I had to crouch to peer inside. There was not enough room to enter head-on, and so I stood to the side, shrugged off my pack, replaced the baldric at my shoulder, retrieved my weapons and turned to the entrance once again. I had to tilt my lockbow sideways to prevent its arch from catching at the edges of the narrow entrance. Why would the Hjarrleth hinder the transport of their timber with such a tiny portal? I held Sequiduris behind me in reserve, and I could hardly do otherwise.

A light, far brighter than that within the forest, radiated from some narrow opening above, but I did not look up to examine further, thinking only of potential dangers. It was a long, narrow chamber, perhaps four long paces wide and nine in length, and there were three portals, two of these narrow and ovular, and leading along the path. The portal opposing that by which I had entered—my intended exit—had been blocked by a thick pile of heavy stones. The third had been crudely cut in the side of the chamber, and I looked out to see a little path of flat river rocks winding off into a dense grove of tall pine trees to the west.

No one had made a home of the place, and that surprised me, for man or animal would have considered it the perfect shelter. Yet there were no skins on the floor, and there was no fire pit, no loose fur or animal droppings to indicate a prolonged dwelling. Only a rusted shovel with a broken haft and an equally corroded bucket remained as evidence of the chamber's former purpose. The sheen beneath the rust proved that the chamber had been long abandoned, for it was clear that both tool and container had been forged by the Hjarrleth at the height of their skill. How else could implements of iron have survived so many lifetimes in that dank cavern?

The narrow flue rose far above my head, and whether it was a natural occurrence or a Hjarrleth contrivance, I could not tell, but I learned quickly the reason for the unusual brightness of the light beyond. Neither giant nor common trees of any description grew to cover the Munbeorg, the stony surface of which was far larger than the confines of the small chamber might suggest. Imagine a full-sized mountain of dark gray granite, formed in the shape of a boulder—that is the Munbeorg.

I had little doubt that the blocked chamber would have opened into a passageway leading directly through to the other side, and I was sickened by the thought of trudging through the mud around the mountain's circumference. I wondered then how far it might be blocked, and considered trying to clear it, but knew such an attempt to be a fool's errand. A cave-in had likely been the cause of the blockage, which might have extended the entire length of the passage. With those stones piled before me, I would have to go around. It was then that I was struck by the kind of mad genius known only to the desperate and the foolish. I would sleep without fear of wolves, and saw also the means through which I might elude even the prying eyes of men. I had little more than six hours, and so I hurried about my task.

First, I dragged in fallen limbs from all points nearest the path—there were plenty to choose from in that massive forest, and in less than half an hour I had gathered a pile of wet wood that rose nearly to my own height. I then employed the bucket and shovel, for I had need of the Vithrauth's red clay. I laid the rocks three layers deep, and covered each layer with mud of the relative dryness found beneath trees further from the road; the water-logged soup found elsewhere made poor mortar. Heavier rocks at the base, hauled to the open passages one at a time were followed by the middling variety, with fist-sized stones at the top.

I was nearly defeated by the quantity of mud needed to fully block out all light, and after the crude, secondary portal had been blocked, I worried over my ability to gather more, when I would have to climb over my own work to do so. Finally, I solved the problem by stacking stones in a ring, forming a reservoir that would hold the contents of several buckets.

Remembering the huge, flat waterskin Lior had insisted on rolling into one of the outer pouches of my pack, I filled it beneath one of the less torrential deluges. When I considered the wealth of drinking water I would have, my mind was filled with thoughts of a clean, restful sleep, and I chanced further delay without hesitation.

While I gathered the needed pieces to wall off the final passage, the ceaseless downpour saw to the cleansing of that ancient bucket. The inside scraped clean to the iron beneath—the work of less than a quarter-hour—I left it in the middle of the Hlifgat to rinse beneath a strong, branch-fed spout while I piled the heaviest stones to the entrance. When I returned, the bucket was entirely free of mud, inside and out. Filling the vessel a final time, I hefted it to the interior, and with the stones already piled in the necessary order—a lesson in building Brenna had taught me through the recital of her Banner's history—I set about my task in earnest.

The work was completed just after nightfall—at least, I hoped it was complete, for I could not see my work from the outside to assess its quality. After much fumbling with muddy hands I found one of my Trathnonan torches, light-staves of the finest quality, still in their case of canvas and leather. They were made after the same fashion as the catalyst for the haze hearths: a bundle of layered materials, all flammable, light oil soaked into strong fibres and interwoven with flaxen ropes, and each layer was coated in thick beeswax. With wax coating the cloth fully, the torches burned like massive candles, and the weave was such that the molten wax would be absorbed by adjacent fibres again and again, ensuring a prolonged and bright illumination. I had known such torches capable of burning from dusk to dawn, even on the longest winter nights, and I found myself glad of Lior's insistence that I carry them.

With a single strike of iron upon flint, the chamber was immediately aglow, the bright and roaring flame driving all shadows to attend their dance in far corners.

I examined my makeshift walls, searching carefully for cracks at the edges and especially at the top. The stones had been piled to fill the portals, and also to overlap them by a full handspan all around. The masonry appeared solid, and I convinced myself that if any further patchwork was needed I had a reservoir still half-filled with mud near the entrance.

My task done, I was beyond exhaustion, and my tired limbs urged me to collapse—but I had also been chilled to the bone. I had found a hole that might once have been a cresset, and with the torch mounted I drew the small iron knife from the top of my pack and began whittling away at the branches. Beneath the bark and foremost pulp the wood was bone dry, and within two hours I had a large enough pile to light a respectable and lasting fire.

The smoke wafted directly up, a climb far too high for the accompanying glow to manage, and as the remaining shadows vanished entirely, I smothered the torch; it had not yet lived beyond even a fraction of its usefulness.

The newly clean bucket contained fresh water, and I placed it near the fire. Peeling off my sodden clothing, I considered how I might dry them quickly enough that I might possibly sleep clothed. As I had plenty of long, sturdy branches, I decided to build a simple upright frame from which I might hang my clothing. After wringing my tunic, shirt, trousers, and stockings in a far corner, I cut the necessary staves, then went to my pack in search of twine to bind the frame. There, at the center of my pack, padded by a few spare garments and covered by lesser paraphernalia, I found that Sigmund had not been alone in his generosity.

Apparently, Lior's 'parting shot' had been a private joke, for he had secretly stashed a long round flask in the depths of my pack, the bottom fitted to a wooden cup. There was a bit of white Trathnonan paper peeking out between the two vessels, and when I retrieved it, my suspicions were confirmed.

-Ralph

This is the good stuff. It is also rather strong—twice as strong as the vapor we enjoyed in Iurna, in fact, so you may want to dilute it. Perhaps I have grown accustomed to down mattresses, clean sheets, feather pillows, soft Tahlrenic wool, and smooth Viharthian silk, but your plan to sleep in the trees has left me in fear of your survival. Tie yourself to your perch, drink as you will, then enjoy the long sleep born of over-indulgence—it won't help your back, but at least you will sleep peacefully.

These Hjarrleth are bold warriors, but they make too much of things they haven't seen. They trump up the dangers of the unknown in song and tale, so that by the time you read this, I am certain Sigmund expects you've slain ten giants and a half-dozen dragons. Think of an appreciable story on the road, and I'm certain they'll believe it. Bottoms up!

-Lior

One whiff over the neck of that flask confirmed Lior's estimation: it was easily twice the strength of the vapor I had tasted in the past, though the aromas were very similar, and I knew that the High Priest had sacrificed one of his greatest pleasures—he might well have been saving that vapor to celebrate his retirement.

After carefully placing the flask and cup on the ground and retrieving my twine, I lashed together the upright frame and hung my clothing near the fire, then turned to see that the water in the bucket had already begun to steam. I did not wish to pollute my wash water with the accumulation of forest mud, and so I tipped the bucket gently, directly onto a bit of cloth cut from my thin blanket. Again and again, I repeated the process, cutting from the blanket, and chafing myself with the steaming water, until nearly a third of the light fabric lay in sodden muddy pieces on the floor. I was clean at last, or relatively so, and dry. Safe and sound in a solid house of stone.

Dinner was dried sausage, heated over the fire and enveloped in crusts of bread, and I washed it down with vapor, diluted with equal measures of water. The aroma of the Viharthian liquor rose to my nostrils, clearing them instantly, and calming the tightness that had been growing in my chest. Diluted appropriately, it was as smooth as the normal variety, and I enjoyed thoroughly the attempt to identify the spices that had been added to flavor it.

That strong drink worked its magic almost immediately, so that I relaxed by degrees. Even as the aches and pains of recent adventures faded, I felt a growing warmth in every vein, and I listened to the heavy downpour in perfect silence, the drumming grown so intense that its report permeated through solid stone.

Dinner at an end, and numbed by vapor, I looked to my clothing on the upright frame, where all articles continued to steam steadily—save the cloak of far Ashad. It had been crafted of light waxed wool, and unlike its mundane cousins, that cloth is not at all absorbent. Feeling the warmth of the midnight blue fabric, I smiled a dull, drunken smile, and sat directly on the stone floor, exulting in the heat of the fire, naked but for the drape of beautiful cloth that had been given to me by those lovely women of Ashad.

My head was filled immediately with a vision of Brenna, the woman who had saved my life so many times, who had shown her affection and made me feel truly wanted. I did not love her, nor she me, in the sense of husband and wife, though we had enjoyed a passion known rarely in marriage. We were friends, brought close through danger, and it was as a friend that I loved her. How I missed her then!

Never before had I been asked to face such dangers alone. Eastwall, the encounter with Eagle and the Musicians, Rorik's Clearing, the assassination attempt at my house in Brek—Brenna had been there to protect me at every bend in the road. Even in that costly battle I had sought her out, though whether to protect or avenge her, I did not know. And when I found her, we fought together, side-by-side, even as so many of her lovely women fell.

I knew that such beautiful women would have had lovers or husbands, and I ached in sympathy, for the loss of such beauty, a beauty of flesh and spirit, is a pain that I did not care to imagine. Try as I might, I could not help but weep for them. And for myself. And for gentle, beautiful Rowan. She would be free, Eagle's silver would see to that, but she had sworn that among her people she would never find love.

If I died, I would never learn the full extent of her affection. I had been a fool, flirting and offering gifts, when all that mattered was her reaction to the three words I had fairly ached to say. And now, stranded in a giant, tree-covered bog (I was sure that would soon be the case), among monsters, human and animal alike, I felt that I might never know if she loved me as I loved her.

Gathering the piles of green twigs and leaves that had already dried by the fire, I wrapped them in the remains of my blanket as a crude form of mattress. After moving the upright frame further from the fire and turning my steaming clothes to dry on the other side, I fell to my crude bedding, totally naked, but for that cloak of midnight blue.

My lockbow remained well within reach, and I clutched the Sheathed Sword in my hands. As I closed by eyes, I could hear nothing but the sound of rainfall and the merry crackling of a well-fed fire. All through the night I slept soundly and dreamlessly—warm, dry, and safe in a cold, wet, and dangerous land.

* * *

As I awoke, I was immediately aware of two things: the rain had ended, and it was midday, for the sun shone fully through the narrow flue high above my head. I smiled in smug self-satisfaction as I looked to my handmade barriers, solid and without flaw or crack, even beneath the full force of the sun's illumination.

Rising, I remembered my clothes upon the upright frame, and yet I lingered at the center of the chamber, exulting in the warming light of the sun upon my naked flesh, even in the cool dankness of the Munbeorg.

After a modest breakfast, I thought on my situation, and as I scrubbed the mud from my clothes with another piece of that diminishing blanket, I decided that little would be lost in waiting.

The sun would tend to the earth in time, and the water, much-needed by the many trees of the forest, would be absorbed from below, even as it was baked to vapor from above. I had more than enough food, having packed dry rations, far more than I needed, in fact, having spared myself the weight of cookware. And I did not worry about my supply of water; I had refilled the skins after drinking my fill the day before, and the mountain stream of which Sigmund and Halga had spoken would stretch across the path little more than twenty miles ahead.

I spent much of the early afternoon scrubbing my clothes clean of accumulated clay, and had taken care to do the same with the treated cloth and leather of my light Ashad shoes. Perhaps it was folly to worry over cleanliness at the beginning of a trek through the wilderness, but I had little else to do.

After raking the tiny, stubborn bits of plant life from my hair, I splashed it from the bucket with cupped hands and smoothed it back. My hair had grown in my time away from Meadrow, the untamed mop nothing more than a memory. My raven mane had grown to hang just above my shoulders, and seeing it recently in a bronze mirror I had decided not to cut it; Rorik's hair had been black, and in Sangholm an untamed mane was the style for younger warriors.

Finally clean from head to toe, I dressed in dry clothes, and for the first time I took the opportunity to look closely upon my surroundings in the full light of day. The walls were covered in a thin film of gray dust, and beneath were markings I had not expected to see. Chisels were commonly used for the excavation of jewels such as amethyst, and the brittle nature of the stone was such that the work would have been done with exceeding care. And yet, the markings upon the wall were wide and deep, as those of the forced blows of a mattock.

I did not know much of mining at the time, but I knew that mattocks, aside from their use in freeing coal and unwanted limestone, were employed in the cleaving of hanging lumps of copper, gold, and silver, before the serious work began with pick and hammer to excavate the embedded vein. What, then, had the Hjarrleth been doing with mattocks, within a mountain that bore only precious stones?

With some of the used bits of sodden, dirty cloth, I wiped away as much of the dust as I could, and found there, among the marks of pick and mattock, chisel markings carved deeply into the chamber wall. I knew the alphabet of the Hjarrleth, just as most literate people upon Foundation—an exceedingly simple series of twenty-four runes. Each had a value for writing, but also four or five symbolic meanings, assigned by their scribes according to the subject at hand. Many Hjarrleth riddles require knowledge of the runes, and all of their more lurid tales contain references to those of fertility, virility, stamina, male and female endowment, flexibility, insatiability, and other virtues of a private nature; I have always been impressed that their poets could find twenty-four virtues that, in such stories, applied solely to the practice of love-making.

The runes carved among the tool-marks were clustered in the form of alphabetical meaning, and as I knew little of the Hjarrleth tongue, I could not find the sense of it, but as I mouthed the unintelligible sounds, one stood out as strikingly familiar: 'Stjarsla'.

In fact, it was not a word at all. Stjarsla was the name given to a line of smiths, a name so important to the Hjarrleth that it was treated with the reverence usually reserved for divinity. It was to his genius that his people owed their legendary armor, and to the honesty of the last of the smiths of his line that the Hjarrleth have come to view forthrightness as the foremost of all virtues. He had been offered untold wealth by the Wise Kenalka in exchange for the secret of his forebears: the formula that enabled him to transform white iron, an alloy of great strength, into the even stronger metal of the Hjarrleth ironskin. Stjarsla had refused the offer of the Wise Ones, with the explanation that he could no longer acquire the needful additive.

Lacking the ability to profit further from a craft he no longer considered viable, he could have traded his secret and retired a wealthy man—but he refused to profit from the sale of useless knowledge. Only a few generations later, the Hjarrleth adopted the master smith's honesty as their foremost virtue, and ever since, when a man is known to speak the truth, even when it may bring him to grief, it is said that his words 'ring upon Stjarsla's own anvil'.

In spite of the positive effects on Hjarrleth culture, the secret of Stjarsla the Honest and his forbears died with him, and less than ten generations later, no smith among the Hjarrleth lived that remembered even the process through which white iron was made.

The other words in the inscription were meaningless to me, and yet the name of Stjarsla alone spoke of their importance. And so, with my iron knife as a wedge, I cut a board from among the heavier boughs of my firewood, using the back of my hatchet as a hammer—planed evenly, it was about as wide as the length of my middle finger, and slightly shorter than my arm, and on its surface I carved the runes verbatim. I spent the remainder of the day wiping dust from the surface of the chamber walls, from which I uncovered five more blocks of writing.

Three thin boards, covered front and back with runes were added to the spoils of my brief journey, to mention nothing of the added weight. Six blocks in all, and yet perhaps there had been a seventh. The crude side portal had been cut in the midst of a tall inscription, and little remained for me to record.

With dusk approaching, I cut the now-dry firewood into manageable lengths, and stacked them to pass the time. I was not at all tired, and against boredom I was driven to frivolity, the impulse fueled by more than a little of Lior's double-strength Viharthian wine vapor. At the end of a lengthy branch, I mated twigs with twine to form a broom, and spent hours sweeping the floor. When not a trace of curled bark, dust, or errant ash remained, I proclaimed my cave the cleanest in all of Sangholm, and laughed the laugh of idle, drunken folly.

I ate, washed a third time, fussed once again over the state of my clothing, sorted my supplies so that they hung more evenly within my pack, honed the edges of my knife, dagger, and hatchet, rearranged my bedding of blanket, leaf, and twig, and inspected my makeshift barricade for signs of cracking in the drying mortar. When nothing remained to occupy my time, I piled the kindling so that it would burn slowly throughout the night, took a burning, undiluted pull from Lior's tall flask, and fell to my low bed for the second time, bored to tears in a realm of violent death.

* * *

Over the course of a long and tedious day, I notched the wood of the upright frame I'd employed in drying clothing, formed legs from one of the thickest remaining boughs, then mated frame to leg joins with much twine. Threading my rope along the notches at length and breadth, I formed an even network, leaving just enough slack that the rope cradled my body as a rough hammock. Though my diminishing blanket had never been thick or comfortable, it was of impressive dimensions, for I had intended to use it as both cover and liner.

Thin though the cloth was, it served me well as a mattress, really nothing more than a makeshift sack filled with dried bark and twigs. And yet, flattened to an even surface, that rough stuffing was far more forgiving than the stony floor. By the end of my second day in the Munbeorg, and in the middle of an impassable and savage wilderness, I had an honest bed. Suspended half an arm's length above the ground on a network of strong rope, I slept in warmth and safety—the safety of stone walls, and the warmth of a cloak of Ashad—that also of a bottle, gifted by the High Priest of Brek.

I had no way of knowing how long I would have to wait for the depth of sodden earth to diminish to a manageable level, but I felt that madness would follow even one more day in that ancient—and surprisingly clean—chamber. I had hatched plans all day, and devised a clever means of exit, but waited a further two days to ensure that the mud had dried sufficiently for travel around the Munbeorg—though defying the madness that threatened to creep into my idle mind through those two long, endless days was no mean feat.

Obviously, the people that had carved the crude side exit were not of Stjarsla's ilk. Their work had been crude, and though I feared any man that might survive in such a place, they had built the only means by which my journey might continue. The little stone path was not so clean and even a thoroughfare as the Hlifgat, but I knew beyond any doubt that its builder would be long-dead.

I had it in my head that the favorite quarry of some bygone madman had grazed exclusively in that forest. Protected in his stone fort, boredom would have compelled him to do anything to pass the time, and after only three days spent in a similar position, I felt that I could relate. With rocks from the mountain stream, the only nearby source of water, he might have busied himself with the construction of that path: a thoroughfare that would speed his transport of freshly dressed kills.

What I had not considered—what my youthful inexperience would not allow me to consider—was the factor of time. The cave had been long-since abandoned as a dwelling, but the stone path of low rocks remained clean and easily visible, even among grass cropped only by grazing, and in spite of the appearance of ancient construction, nothing grew between them.

I was young, and did not see.

By dawn of the sixth day, I had already been awake for nearly an hour. My huge water skin was empty, and that was for the best, as I had no intention of throwing myself off-balance with yet another awkward encumbrance. I made use of the remaining water though, and I was able to drink my fill and bathe from water heated in the bucket.

The previous day, bored beyond tears, I had passed the time by fashioning a comb from the straight grain of a birch chip, and attempted a crude imitation of Trathnonan soap with heated pine sap and wood ash. The cleanser was exceedingly thin, but easily rinsed, that I was even able to wash my hair with heavily-watered soap, before dumping the remainder of the bucket to rinse.

As I write this, it occurs to me that many will wonder over my strange preoccupation with hygiene, particularly after most of my childhood passed in an indifferent haze of filth and the complementary odors of stale sweat and human neglect. In truth, I have no simple answer, but from the moment I was introduced to the practice of bathing, I felt I had been gifted with much more than a new variety of tedium to fill my days. Among the Trathnona, I felt I had worth. When a man takes the time to tend to himself, to groom himself and clean himself, to dress in clean clothing, he is reminding himself that he has value.

All introspection aside, I had nothing else to do, and anything that would lead to an improvement of my overall situation was worth pursuing, particularly when it gave me an opportunity to while away the many empty hours.

When the moment arrived, a lightening in the sky made visible by the narrow mountain flue, I was clean, fed, packed, and prepared to escape my voluntary prison—escape, but not abandon. Those walls had served me well, and I had spent the previous day pondering the feasibility of simply moving one of the barricades. The base stones provided twice the width of the piled rocks on top, and though it was not truly a wall, the mud mortar had dried to produce a fairly solid mass. With all the weight at the bottom, I had only to apply pressure there, though I feared that too much strain on one side might topple the entire pile.

It was then that I considered the Orinsos. Before dawn, I collapsed my bed, taking care to retrieve both rope and blanket, then set about the edges of the barricade at the side entrance with the sturdiest stave of the frame. Prying with all my might, I managed to work that mass of stone and dried mud just far enough from the chamber wall that I could feed a length of rope between them. I looped five coils around the structure, fitting them side by side at its base, and left a slip knot on the outside, so that I could retrieve my rope with ease.

Taking care to crouch low, I wrapped the rope around my chest and shoulders as a harness, then just as a young ox laboring at the plow I trudged forward. After much grunting and straining, I was finally rewarded by the scraping of stone upon stone. I pulled the barricade just wide enough that I might sidle through, and had to move my pack and kit to the outside first. Though I was nervous about stepping away from my weapons, I had little choice.

Finally, the rope untied and tightly coiled, I hung a length of dirty rags bound with twine from the opening, draping it to obscure the brighter light within the chamber. Curious eyes would see the blocked portal as the result of a cave-in, not an unusual occurrence, considering the age of the mine, and only a closer inspection would prove them wrong.

I kept my eyes on the terrain as I buckled belt and baldric, though it was only with difficulty that I kept my mind on the many possible dangers. Finally harnessed, lockbow in hand, I gave in to the temptation of the moment, and stared in unblinking stupefaction at the enormous trees that ranged sporadically between the Munbeorg and the distant forest of pine. There was a slight mist, but the weather was pleasantly warm, the dew upon the grass illuminated by the rarity of unfiltered sunlight as it shone through the empty air surrounding the mountain. I was facing west, and the gentle flashing of dawn upon dew stretched as far as the eye could see—I felt myself surrounded by a sea of precious stones, and was loath to continue, for beauty of any kind was rare in that place.

I was armed and magnificently harnessed, my leathern greaves and gauntlets bearing the slight sheen earned through days of obsessive care, and I was dressed in unstained clothing, my body clean, even in an untamed land that had so recently been covered in a muddy soup. I wore Sequiduris again at my side, in spite of my certainty that the forest was uninhabited, and from the soft lightness of my mane, I knew that it was clean as well—black and shining in the light of a clear dawn.

The going was easy, and the stones had been washed clean in the rain, so that even as I passed between the first of the pines my clothing remained unsoiled. The bend of the path had led me to believe that it might wind back around to the Hlifgat, and as the trail of stones began to loop to the right, I grew rather pleased with myself. I remember feeling amused at my own paranoia, a foolish skittishness that had almost led me to walk the circumference of a mountain through muddy terrain.

There was no underbrush, so I felt no fear of attack from the shadows. In fact, there were no shadows, and the lack of widespread branches in the grove allowed a nearly unobstructed view of the sky. Dawn had only recently broken, but the firmament had not lightened to the sunny hue I had expected. The clouds were gray, but not sullen or dark, and I hoped this would work to my advantage, dimming the ambient light to aid in stealthy movement.

Even as I stalked forward, balancing each footfall to land as quietly as possible, I offered a silent prayer to the Sky Warden, ageless father of Meadrow's Lady of the Harvest, and hoped against hope that it would not rain. The air did not taste of rain; its dryness, and the slight chill of the wind bolstered my confidence in moving forward even as the scent of pine lulled me into a feeling of light-hearted security. Everything seemed to be going my way—until the wind shifted. It was only a slight gust, just enough to carry the scent of something new. Or old.

Few people realize the length of time a victorious army must spend on a battlefield. The wounded require immediate care, and this is usually followed by a search for additional survivors. A head count is taken, followed by further searching to ascertain the fate of those not found among the dead. Prisoners must be dealt with, or paroled. Enemies that flee must be pursued, and until the return of the pursuers, there are other concerns to occupy those who remain.

Such a length of time spent upon the site of recent battle acquaints the victors with a stench the likes of which no man could ever forget. The sickly sweet, pungent odor of decay blends with the coppery bitterness of congealing blood, and of course, the carrion birds arrive on the scene with an aroma all their own.

Such was the smell borne by that sudden breeze.

And I had further problems, for when I stopped to consider the wind's report, my follower did not halt in cadence. His error in rhythm betrayed him, and I had heard his footsteps clearly. In Venibrek, I proved my suspicions by stopping periodically and listening for unchecked footfalls, but in the Vithrauth there were no high walls to dismiss such sounds as the echo of my own feet upon stone.

I kept my breathing steady, then shrugged passively with a great show of indifference, and continued without hesitation. The weight and sway of the long tusks lashed to my pack reminded me of past adventures, and left me in little fear of men—and I was convinced that it was a man, for what other predator would risk stalking its prey upon stone?

I walked as casually as before, and controlled my breathing with difficulty, inhaling deeply and deliberately to slow and quiet the beating of my heart. The steps did not increase in speed, and the sound was faint, so I felt certain that he had not attempted to lengthen his strides.

Half a mile into the pine, I saw lengths of white among the brown of fallen needles. Looking up, I nearly laughed, for it felt the poor reproduction of a previous performance. Bones. In the trees, lengths of crude rope had been lashed to lengths of bone and rotting cloth, and here and there upon the ground I could see shorter bones from hands, feet, fingers, toes, and occasionally the bones of the lower legs and forearms.

Further in, the crows began to gather, and they were joined by many large ravens. Black and yellow beaks fluttered close together, complaining loudly as they lighted from one tree to another. They were following me, and I did not have to guess why.

As difficult as it may be to believe, I was not afraid. The macabre hangings, the forest—I had been there before. With Eagle and his six companions I had been a boy, wielding one of the High Stabler's favorite spears, and terrified that I would die. Two battles, an assassination attempt, a giant boar, and the confrontation with Eagle himself divided the frightened boy from the man, and the boy had not been armed with Sequiduris.

Ahead, I could see a fork in the road, and a careful search of the surrounding trees revealed the perches of three men—if there had been more, it would have made little difference. It was to be a fight of at least four against one, and if I had walked into their trap, they might have had the better of me.

With the fork at least thirty paces ahead, I shrugged out of my pack and threw it by the wayside. Two more paces and I halted, leaving a fair sprint between my follower and his companions. As I threw off my hood, I turned and saw there a tall man dressed in skins. His blond hair was dirty but neatly braided, and his long moustaches hung down over a smooth jawline. His eyes were a dark brown, close-set, and he cocked his head to the side with a slight smile. He was surprised, but not afraid. In his hand, he held a heavy pine club, and he kept a flint knife tucked behind a crude belt of hide. I returned his smile.

He said something unintelligible in the Hjarrleth tongue, and, still smiling, I shook my head gently, voicing my lack of understanding in the common tongue. He shrugged and rested the club at his shoulder.

"If you wish to meet the gods spewing the language of the slaves, that is your right. How you speak is not important to the birds. They want to know how you taste!"

"They will find the flavor lacking, I think. Are you going to kill me with that stick of yours, or do your men in the trees have something more suited to the task?"

I thought I would have to kill him then and there, but he did not signal to his companions. Instead, he laughed silently, then held up his crude weapon as if appraising its value.

"This? No, no. We don't kill you here. The birds will want you fresh. This is only to silence you. Your death will be faster. No arm of man can measure against the rending of the trees. Your clothes are strange—it will be a shame to kill you without learning something of the world beyond. What is your name, and when did you start on the path?"

"I go where I please, when I please, and when you are dead I will continue on my way. My name is Anticipated. An old name, and fitting, as you seemed to be expecting me."

"We did not expect you, but saw you approach from the trees. Another offering will please the gods; the birds will feast well, and sing our praises when next they ascend to wake the High Ones. But for you-", he whistled, and I heard the solid thump of bodies falling to the ground, "-the sleep will end in rending!"

He roared, raised his club, and leapt for me. He could not have known the purpose of my lockbow. Nonetheless, he fell, still three paces distant, with jets of dark blood spurting from a telltale wound at center chest. My dart had passed cleanly through. I dropped the lockbow and turned to meet the rushing footfalls behind. One of them held a bow, while the others were armed as their dead companion, and they were still twenty paces away when the archer loosed his arrow.

My Sword was still in its Sheath, and so I stood motionless as a statue. The missile dropped from the air and skidded to my feet. He might have tried again, but he had been foolish. Anticipating the strike of his arrow, he had instinctively dropped his bow to retrieve his club, and had not waited to witness the result of his shot. He was already at the run before he noticed that I had not fallen.

With the first of them at five paces, and his fellows close behind, I drew Sequiduris from its housing and lunged forward, flicking its point across the man's chest. I felt no resistance, and so I spun with the arc of the swing and brought my blade cleanly through the neck of the second man—his head struck upon the ground long before his body.

I passed them even as they fell, and leapt upon the path to meet the third man. To his credit, he did not even consider fleeing. I suppose that, at heart, people never change—and after all, he was of the Hjarrleth. The last of my attackers toppled to the earth to meet his fellows, and he too fell in absence of his head. I looked to my blade, and saw that it was clean, though the path behind was stained with adjoining pools of gore.

The birds saw to their worshipers, but did not long mourn their passing.

I retrieved my things and continued on my way, but stopped at the fork in the road. The most talkative corpse had spoken of me as 'another offering'. If I made for the path to the right, I would find the Hlifgat only a few miles beyond. But if there was another, an offering that had been prepared in advance of my arrival, I did not wish to leave without at least learning of his fate. It was clear that offerings were tied hand and foot between bent pines, and torn to pieces while still alive—the bird-lover had said as much. But carrion birds do not require a man to be dead. To ravens and crows, food is anything that does not contest its consumption, and I knew that a bound man would not last long in such a place.

I took to the left fork with little trepidation, even knowing that their sacrifice might not be alone; any hangers-on left to watch a helpless victim would be of little concern to me. As I scanned the trees, I felt that my search might end only with the discovery of a gnawed or desiccated corpse, for where, in a forest of pine might one begin their search for a prostrate man tied between two such trees?

It was not yet midmorning when I rounded a curve in the gently winding path to see movement in a clearing ahead. Two pines had been bent to touch the ground from opposite sides of the glade, and they were fettered by a host of stakes and lesser cords. There, I saw the form of their intended victim; not a man, but a young girl, ashen with terror.

On the ten-day journey from Iurna to Algrae, Rowan and I had spoken much of her home. Though I thought I had come to know her well, I could not then understand the rage she had shown when we discussed the 'delayed fate' of young Tahlrenic women. That young girls were often married off to older, successful men I knew full well, but so long as I knew that she would not be married off before I could make my case to her father, I chose not to dwell on the topic.

Girls get married off, and they are not often asked their opinion on the match; such is the way of many cultures. It is amazing how fast an opinion can change, for that young girl, who could not have lived past her ninth year, was not alone, and, in the matter of her abductor and his intended actions, her opinion would have held little weight. To this day, I can see no difference between the arranged marriage of a barely nubile child and blatant rape.

As fortune would have it, the man had only just settled on his designs. He was on his feet, his back to my approach nearly forty paces distant, still at work with his clothing of crudely tanned hides. Though the girl struggled against her bonds, her muffled screams did not elicit sympathy from her attempted rapist.

The man was alone, of that I was sure, for there can be no middle ground on the subject of rape; there are the vermin that would take part and the men who would slay them for the mere suggestion, and, as no one had yet rushed to the girl's aid or sidled close to join in, I knew that I had but a solitary foe. He was still standing, but had just worked himself free of his clothing.

I whistled as I took aim, and he turned. His wound was low, and only possibly lethal, an injury of the type that would make most men wince in sympathy.

As I looked on his agony, I felt nothing.

I approached slowly, watching the man as he kicked and squealed, pulling in vain at the wound that had so painfully taken him by surprise. The girl had stopped her shrieking instantly, and she did not appear frightened by my approach.

I took a moment to look on my work. An Ashad archer would have scoffed, seeing my pride in the shot, though I felt it might have been my best, and in my defense not a Trathnonan woman has ever lived that would have failed to applaud the motive. I had thought only to strike him in the nethers, and yet I had pierced both testes cleanly, pinning them to the long bone of the man's left leg. Could even an Ashad archer have done better? I winced a little then—given time, Brenna and her ilk might have done far worse.

The girl had not yet been bound between the trees. Rather, she had been tied at wrist and ankle, gagged and left upon the ground until the other men returned—with me as their second offering. She had long locks of pale blond hair, tinged with a suggestion of red, midway between the ash-blond of Sigmund and Ulla's red-gold tresses. The girl's eyes were stone gray, and they betrayed little of fear, or even revulsion at the form of the wounded rapist at her feet. I removed the gag and spoke, employing the common tongue.

"You need not fear me. I am a friend."

"Yes. I can see that."

Her eyes had slipped to the writhing man behind me, and I saw then that she still possessed the unyielding sarcasm of early youth. I could only hope that she shared the resilience. I smiled, glad of her apparent strength, for I had already resolved to deal with her tormentor in a manner unfit for the eyes of gentler folk. I cut her bonds and she rose, shaking her shift of simple, homespun linen. I was surprised to see cloth of any sort in the Vithrauth, though it was a far greater shock to see a young girl.

She was about to speak again, when I stalled her with an outstretched palm. I moved to the wounded man—still crying, cradling his mutilated flesh—and struck him full in the head with the pommel of my broad knife. I had grown tired of his blubbering. There was little time for explanation, so I dragged the man between the pines without a word, and set about tying him between his sacred trees before the girl could offer protest. She did nothing of the sort, though she did stop me as I began tying his wrists.

"You'll want to tie his hands together. Tie them separately and the tree will only tear off his arms."

She showed me the complex nature of their preparations, and in moments the man was ready to feed the messengers of his own gods. There was only one rope directly under tension. I had only to sever it, and the trees would do the rest. I considered building a small fire to burn slowly beneath the rope to delay the grisly execution, but the heaps of dry needles defeated the notion—any fire in that place would end in tragedy.

I frayed the line with my knife and took the girl's hand, and as I led her to the road, I felt strongly that my talents had been wasted as an only child.

### Chapter Four

### Kindness

As we walked slowly from the clearing, I learned that her name was Grid.

I introduced myself as Ralph. No titles, no origin story. I did not even tell her that I was from Meadrow, though she could not have failed to know me for a foreigner. Strange weapons, dark hair, clean clothes of a make totally alien to her eyes, and the absence of the neglectful odor that so marks a man traveling through the wilderness—these were all clues that none could fail to notice.

And yet, she spoke with a calm, nerveless reserve. In truth, she was still in shock. She had only just escaped a grisly death, to be preceded by a fate far worse. She was quiet for a while, until at last we heard the loud cracking and the sharp, short-lived scream that followed.

Justice had been done.

She stopped, and the tug at my arm compelled me to follow suit.

"We must leave this place. You do not know what you have done. There are four others!"

"I know. I killed them first. Their leader hinted that you might lie deeper in the forest—that's how I found you."

Her eyes narrowed for a moment, as if she was appraising my honesty. I liked her immediately.

"Truly? You killed all four? Hakon, as well?"

I shrugged in mock disinterest.

"They didn't introduce themselves. Which was Hakon?"

She stopped, clearly thinking it over.

"Show me."

I tried to argue, explaining that the birds had already begun to feast on the bodies, but it was all to no avail. I led her down the path, pausing only once to reload my lockbow. Only sixty-eight darts remained, not counting the one loaded, and I resolved to take pains to retrieve them thereafter. Grid did not speak, but appeared lighter of mood when she saw the birds lining the path beyond the fork. We frightened them away, and she examined the corpses each in turn, taking care to find the heads of the two I had decapitated. Finally, she found the first of them, with his pinhole chest wound. The ravens had already taken his eyes, a sight that might have inspired vomiting at any other time, but a cold disdain for the nature of those men—and their dealings with little children—kept me steady.

Without ceremony, she lifted a crude pendant from about his neck. It was carved from lightly colored wood, engraved with images of serpents and howling wolves, and centered by an opaque stone of pale blue. She stood on her tiptoes, beckoning me to stoop with the gentle pressure of her hand at my shoulder, and, with a smile, she lowered the loop of plaited hide over my neck. She hardly seemed to notice the horror of the scene around her.

The crows cawed loudly at the interruption, and as if to encourage their meal we made our way back to the fork. Clear of the noise, she spoke up immediately.

"Hakon is dead. You are Harlta now."

"And what is that?"

"He chooses the ones that will be torn by the pines, and commands those who seek out the best offerings."

"Brave men—to seek out a child."

She stopped in her tracks, her face a portrait of confusion and mild offense.

"No, no! They are workers of Vodn's will! They choose, and the offerings die—so it has always been."

"And yet times change. If their offerings are so important, why do they not choose to sacrifice themselves?"

She laughed gaily in the way that children are wont to do, though I had not attempted to amuse her.

"One of them has done just as you say. He did not sound pleased with his passing."

"But you said that they are the workers of Vodn's will—why then are you happy?"

She said nothing, but stopped suddenly, grasping my elbow with both hands to stop me. I had only just turned to the right, for I had thought to take her to Harkona—it seemed the only possibility for her survival.

"Where are you going? That is the wrong way!"

She appeared to know my designs in advance, that I had not walked that far-flung path with the intention of killing Hakon and his four subalterns. And yet she was a child, unaccustomed to structured argument. I decided to be direct, for she seemed in awe of me, and I had no wish to play the fool.

"My destination lies to the northwest. I found you by chance, Grid, and now I must continue on my way. You may travel with me if you wish, but we will have to move quickly."

Her eyes welled with tears instantly, and never had any sight filled my mind with such fear, confusion, and panic. That day, I learned that my greatest weakness is not curiosity, but the sight of a young girl in tears. I put my lockbow down gently, and held her in my arms in the manner I thought worthy of an older brother. She did not pull away, but in time her sobs lessened. I leaned back to look into her eyes.

"You had no tears in the clearing, yet you are crying now? Is the northwest so frightening?"

She gave me a look that led me to believe that I had been playing the fool involuntarily, then laughed when she understood the jest in my words.

"I thought you were the Vaentan. Tears come only to the foolish and the weak—and I have been foolish. If you are leaving, you cannot be him."

"What is the Vaentan, and why are you a fool for expecting him? Is he then so late in arriving?"

She smiled, but seemed very far away.

"I forget that you do not speak the tongue of the High Ones. The Vaentan; the Expected One, will walk the path when the people of the outside have need of him. He is a great warrior, and brave. All evils that cross his path will fall, and the forbidden gates will crumble at his passing. On that day, the Forsaken will follow him to freedom."

Expected? Anticipated. Onidai. I was the Vaentan! But how could Grid know of the Onidai? If this girl was the descendant of the innocent families condemned by Malmheith, as I suspected she must be, how could she know of a title that had not been in existence at the time of Malmheith's death? And how did she know the common tongue, the trade language learned from the dealings of the Banners with the Wise Kenalka? Malmheith died half a millennium before the Banners were formed.

As I looked into her earnest eyes, I decided that it mattered little how she knew. My heart fairly broke at the thought that so many little girls had lived and died, hoping in vain that the Vaentan would end the suffering of their people.

Grid had only narrowly evaded an awful fate. At that moment, I too believed. She had evaded that fate, because the Vaentan had arrived.

I smiled then, and asked her the needful question.

"And what will this man do for the people of the Vithrauth? Did you not say that he was needed on the outside?"

"He is needed where there is suffering. He will not turn away."

She was right.

"And how will you know him?"

"Not all who walk the Hlifgat are evil. Some have done evil, but had cause. Those men taught us the language that marks my people as slaves—to the tribes that would do us harm—but they also brought word of the Vaentan—and of his sword. A golden sword with a bright blade. It can cut through ten men in one stroke, and the arrows of the cowardly fear him. They flee from his body, and he is untouched. Such a man can end the feeding of the birds. Such a man—would free my mother."

Her tears rolled again at mention of her mother, and at last I understood. If I told her I was the Vaentan, she would not believe me, and so I resolved to prove it without words. My Sword might have proved my claim, but I feared to reveal myself, for I had no time to cure every ill in the forest. This girl I could help, and I swore to myself that if she cried again, it would not be for lack of any effort of mine.

"Where is your mother now? How many men guard them? Can you lead me there?"

Her tears ended, and I would not see them again.

* * *

The village of Hrafnrodd, only two or three miles up the leftmost path, had been constructed within a large deciduous clearing. As we left the stand of pine, I became suddenly grateful for the underbrush and shrubbery that I had previously cursed.

Grid devised a clever method of hiding my pack, and after we ate and drank heartily of my provisions (my first real meal in the Vithrauth) I climbed a tall beech, and tied the bulky encumbrance to the trunk. Grid was right, from the ground I could not even see it. She had woven the ends of living beech branches, still green and covered with leaves and spring buds, to the outside of my pack, and from the ground it blended well with the thick spring foliage.

I had removed one of my two spare quivers, and now I hung it at the back of my belt—if the task could not be accomplished with forty-five darts, it could not be accomplished, at all. Grid had agreed to take her leave the moment she had shown me the way, and as soon as I saw the outline of the crude picket they used to ward off wild animals, she ran off to the beech tree to 'protect my supplies'. Of course, she saw through the thin veil of pretense, but did not hesitate to do as I asked. When she was well away, I climbed an ancient oak tree—with marked but muffled difficulty—and surveyed the scene ahead.

Ever since I was a child, I have been able to recall anything I have seen, exactly as I have seen it, and I have a similar talent with words and sounds. For much of the day, from midmorning to late afternoon, I watched these 'workers-of-Vodn's-will', memorized each face to ensure that I would make an accurate count, and as the buildings were small I knew that few of them would have lain in place throughout the day. I counted nineteen, placing their original number at two dozen—more or less the estimate given by Grid. I had also seen the treatment of their slaves, which confirmed her tale in full.

They were raiders, slave-catchers of a type, though the slaves did not live long under the care of such masters. Offerings to Vodn were made to quell disobedience and prevent escape. There were fifty slaves, and perhaps more, for the largest building seemed to be a communal dwelling; it was bound by strong bark rope and heavily guarded. With nineteen foes, I would have to wait, though I had a feeling that their numbers would be diminished solely through force of curiosity, and I was not mistaken.

Two hours after noon, they sent two men in search of Hakon and the others. Three hours later, they sent three more. As soon as I saw them with spears instead of clubs I knew what they would be about, and so I made my way down as quickly as I could.

I had to lead them for nearly a mile, on both occasions, for I could not chance some hastily appointed patrol stumbling upon the blood pools before my return. And on both occasions, the fights were brief. Sequiduris lends itself well to attacking from stealth, in spite of its size and weight. One slash, and both fell. So it was the second time, and the third man had no time to react to the death of his companions. I hid their bodies far from the path, then went to check on Grid, and also to tell her of my progress.

But she was not in the tree. I had only just climbed down when I heard the screaming of a young voice.

* * *

Two of the four they had sent in my absence stumbled onto one of the bodies, but they did not live long to tell of their discovery. Only a dozen remained, and though they fought only with clubs and stone-tipped spears I felt my plan, if plan it could be called, foolish in the extreme.

From my oak, I could see that many of the slaves had gathered to witness a spectacle of some import. When the leader (and so he was, since I had slain his master), had finished speaking, a beautiful woman, a few years younger than my own mother, fought against her bonds.

Grid was bound, laying at the new leader's feet. I knew then what was to befall that unfortunate girl. She had escaped, and none of their people had returned, aside from those who had recaptured her. These were primitive men, but not fools, so there could be little doubt that they suspected her part in the disappearance of their fellows.

From a blind spot behind a rude building, Sequiduris made short work of a section of their stockade. I sheathed, leveled my lockbow, and padded through with my hood low. I was grateful that they had not the nails to build a watch tower.

When I peeked around the edge of a low building of thatch and dried mud, I counted fourteen priests in the open center of the village—two of them had not been present during my long vigil. They were young, not much more than four or five years my senior, and it mattered little how they had come to that place. I satisfied myself that they were new recruits, returned perhaps from their first capture of fresh slaves, and they appeared no different than the other priests. In any case, they would fight or flee, and I would not long trouble myself over either decision. This was a general assembly, of slave and priest alike, to witness their answer to any thought of escape, and the execution of their justice was grisly, even for a cult of murderers.

In a shallow depression in the center of the village, a bed of live coals had been stoked, and even as I heard the leader shouting, I knew that the ending of his speech would signal the moment of Grid's death. He cut her bonds as he spoke, but held her tight with his other arm. He was of a sort that would wish to see her writhe and kick without obstruction.

I took careful aim.

At his last word, he fell. At fifty paces, I hazarded only a shot at upper chest, a bold attempt for my level of skill, but I had to aim high to avoid hitting Grid. As he sank to his knees with wide eyes, the girl ran to her mother, and I was glad. Before they could detect the source of the danger, I loaded and loosed a second shot. And a third. Truly, those primitive Hjarrleth were poor archers, and they must have thought that none could do any better, for they searched high and low, but never so far away as my hiding place.

I was finally spotted loading my fourth dart, and the two bowmen of their remaining number took aim. I found then that they were poor archers; the Sheath was not even needed, and I slew them both before their warriors could compose themselves. One of the spearmen fell before I thought the odds in my favor. And besides, they had grown innovative, hiding behind their own slaves as human shields.

I strode out to meet them, clearing the buildings and half the distance before they had any thought to test me. When the first of them charged, spear and club in hand, I dropped my lockbow and the others finally joined in.

When the first of their spear points had closed within a pace, I drew quickly, severing the crude weapon, then slashed diagonally to take his head. The second swung his club in both hands, and I took both arms at the elbow, leaving him to bleed as I dealt with his fellows. I ducked beneath the spear of the third and with a spinning chop I halved him at center spine. And always I ran forward, never halting between kills to look on my own work.

My Sword was finally wet.

I moved with impressive speed, and when the honest fighting had ended, the remaining three shied and leapt back. We were fully in the center of the village now, and the three warriors had retreated to the very edge of the glowing pit.

But I did not advance further. I wanted them to know who would kill them, and cared no longer that the slaves would learn my identity—my Sword had already betrayed me. They spoke in the Hjarrleth tongue. I did not.

"Let us try the language of the slaves, as you call it. Your northern tongue is rather clumsy—as is your fighting."

The oldest of the three, nearly fifty, spoke up immediately.

"Who are you?"

I grinned an evil grin.

"You may call me Harlta, for I bear Hakon's jewel. No, on second thought, you may not."

With that, I pulled the pendant from about my neck and tossed it onto the burning coals. Their gasping might have been comical, but I paid little attention, for I had slipped into my role.

"Harlta is a title, the last to bear it long-dead—carrion for his own gods. But I have many names. The young girl you thought to murder knows me as Ralph. Grid is indeed a clever girl, for she knew one of my names even before I did. I am Anticipated. Expected. Onidai. Vaentan. And I am here to end your lives. Fight well. Tonight, the ravens will feast!"

They lunged forward at my final words, forming a straight line, and all of them carried short, heavy clubs and knives of flint. Close, evenly spaced, and their weapons carried no advantage in reach. Deadly mistakes, and Sequiduris exploited them shamelessly.

I took them each in turn—with a single sweep of my Sword.

The sun had only just set, and the play of the coals on my blade in the darkness of the forest was, even to me, an effect that bordered on the magical. The former slaves were terrified, even seeing that I had slain their masters.

If the freedmen had their doubts, Grid dispelled them all, for she ran sidelong and threw her arms around me.

"You are the Vaentan! I knew it was you!"

I grounded Sequiduris and returned her embrace. The others relaxed by degrees as Grid told them my story. When she recounted the particulars of our introduction, her mother embraced me so forcefully that I nearly fell onto the coals.

Most of the freedmen left, in spite of the darkness, and I could not blame them for their haste. Grid, her mother, and a few others from her village remained, and after much argument, I agreed to travel to their village, though my eventual compliance had more to do with the sad numbers of their party than anything else. They were mostly women, children, and old men, with only a few strong youths to protect them, and few of those were as old as I. Having by far the most experience, in spite of my youth, of anyone remaining in the village, I felt it was my duty to at least see Grid and the others to the safety of their own home.

One of the freedmen retrieved my pack, and I spent that night in Hakon's hut, though I slept on the floor, for his pile of skins smelled almost as foul as the man himself. In one day, I had nearly killed again the sum of my foes.

And yet, I slept soundly.

* * *

In the company of a redoubtable old huntsman by the name of Agil, I led our group east, in the direction of Grid's village. We crossed the Hlifgat at noon of the first day, and though I hesitated at first, staring longingly at the sturdy flagstones, I knew that I could not leave Grid and her mother with the meager protection of the three women, five men, and nine children that comprised our party.

We made our camp on the ground, and though I feared greatly the animals and madmen that might lurk in that part of the forest, the others appeared to have no fear of the night. Had I known that they made no effort to protect themselves because of my presence alone, as was the case, I would have insisted on sleeping in the trees. Yet fortune smiled on us, and though we slept in shifts, we did so without incident.

At night, I asked Agil many questions of the Vithrauth, and he answered in a forthright manner that left me in no doubt of his ancestry. In the matter of Hakon and his bird-lovers, I learned much. They raised no families in Hrafnrodd, but the children sired by themselves and the female slaves were often taken into the fold.

Theirs was a society of men; new priests were not only the product of rape, but also of abduction, and very young boys were immediately isolated from their families and taught the cruel ways of the Harlta and his priests. Now that they were dead, said Agil, many of the smaller villages would be able to live in relative peace, fearing only the beasts and lone madmen that wandered that part of the forest—and those only in search of easy prey.

On the morning of the third day, but a half-day's travel from Grid's village, we stumbled headlong into a band of savage-looking men—they caught us completely by surprise. When five strongly-built young men lowered their spears on sight, Agil stood stock-still, his spear grounded in front of him. I leveled my lockbow, confident that I could drop it and draw before they closed quarters.

It was then that I heard a shrill, youthful squeal, and a cacophony of surprised voices behind me. I turned (a foolish maneuver), and saw there nearly a dozen newcomers readily mingling with our party; their faces bore lively, jovial grins. Thankfully, these were not our enemies.

At the time of his family's disappearance, Grid's father, a man I would come to know as Sturla, had been hunting far from home, as the men were wont to do in early spring. The morning of his return, he found many dead, and the survivors told him the tale. The raiding party had slaves in tow already, and so Sturla knew that the nearby villages would still be reeling from losses of their own.

He ran for days, stopping at every dwelling in his path, and though the count of his war-party was little more than half that of his enemies, they had been hurrying along the war-road at the time of our meeting. This was unheard of, for many had learned simply to accept the horrors of lost loved-ones, and from generation to generation, the Harltas had seen to that themselves, freeing a single slave to return to each village with stories of horror, and of the power of the so-called Hrafnkin.

But as I would learn, Sturla was not a man to be gulled into meekness. He had the bearing of a leader—a commanding presence that steeled the courage of men who might otherwise have accepted the fate of their women. And so, three became fourteen, with men from five villages in tow.

Instantly, those men of the other villages left us in search of their people, and we continued to Sturla's home under the protection of the man himself. En route, the survivors of Hrafnrodd remained vague at my behest, revealing only that Hakon and his priests were dead to a man.

To distract Sturla from his suspicions, and perhaps to reassure him that she and the women were none the worse for wear, Anka, Grid's mother, told her husband of their captivity. The usual order of business would have been rape, but clever Anka devised a way through which none of the women would be touched.

When the attempt was made, they found that the women were not...in season. Few men, even raiders, would openly choose to lay with a woman in menses. To prove their story, Anka and the others scraped their nethers with sharp stones, a painful but necessary act to deter the advances of Hakon and his subalterns. Grid had been perfectly safe, for she was not yet nubile, and none of the Hjarrleth would have considered her of appropriate age, until the moment I found her. Apparently, the man left to watch her had been at his wit's end, and for lack of a better option, had decided to sink to new depths.

At the ending of her story, Sturla appeared greatly relieved, and thanked me formally for my service to his only daughter. I accepted his gratitude, but offered no further information; for many miles the men of the other villages had traveled parallel to our own path, and, as I have written, I did not wish for the news to spread so quickly. The others were more or less willing to keep their peace, and we traveled without further inquiry from any of the newcomers thereafter.

Sturla's village was of a similar construction to Hrafnrodd, save that it was larger, contained fewer men, and possessed a clever means of defense. The perimeter of their double stockade of upright staves and forward facing stakes was fronted by a deep, narrow trench lined with fiercely pointed spikes. In addition, there were three birch trees within the clearing, all cultivated to serve as an ingenious form of watchtower.

As the trees grew, Sturla's forefathers tied the boughs tightly with strong bark rope, encouraging the branches to climb upward, rather than outward. Pruned carefully, and fitted with platforms, Sturla's watchmen (in fact, they were young boys) had a nearly unobstructed view, and were capable of detecting the far-flung movement of anything larger than an errant field mouse. When I voiced my curiosity about the need for such measures among so small a number, he said only that we must not speak of such things in the open air.

On arrival, Sturla discovered that the other hunting parties had only just returned that day, and when the other men learned that their wives and children had not been lost, we celebrated and ate well, for the hunting had been a great success.

That evening I found myself in Sturla's hut, a small building riding high atop a framework of stilts. It was a low interior, and I had to sit with crossed legs within. In the center of the communal area, a small fire burned brightly within a large ceramic bowl, and I could see pinpoints in Sturla's unblinking eyes as he observed me with a cunning expression. Present were Anka, Grid, and the son, Lars, who was three years my senior, a man of unsurpassed beauty—a beauty strengthened greatly by the rude appearance of his fellows. We sat in utter stillness, until at last the father spoke.

"Do not doubt that you have my thanks, or that I will remain always in your debt, though in truth, I have yet to appraise its full measure. You may now speak freely, for I fear that my son and I are the only ones in attendance that know nothing of your story. It is possible that you fear to speak, and I will allow that such things are your affair alone. So, if it is agreeable, I will ask only of recent days. Does this agreement ring just with you?"

I smiled at his diplomacy. Not even the Councilmen of Brek had been so gentle in their inquiries.

"It does, though I must ask first—what shall I call you? You are some form of leader, clearly, but I do not know the ways of this place."

He returned my smile, which did not fade, even as he spoke.

"Hetman I am, but among my friends, I am only Sturla. Surely, Friend, you cannot doubt your status here. Call me by my name, and permit me, if you will, to call you by yours. Does this ring just?"

"It does. Ask then, and I will answer as I may."

"What truly happened to the Harlta and Hrafnkin? Was it a wandering beast, or a band of raiders that slew them? I have asked this of my people, and they have said only that I should look to you. What hold is it you have over them?"

"I hold only their respect, Friend Sturla, and perhaps also some measure of their gratitude, for it was I that slew the Harlta and his people."

"And how can one man—one so young, slay so many? Twenty men do not so easily fall to the whims of youthful vigor."

Never had the subject of my youth, and the impediments thereof, been brought to my attention in so gentle a manner. I nodded slowly before responding, and thought briefly of boasting, but decided instead to return the calm politeness of my host.

"A fair question, though in fact, there were twenty-six, and I did not slay them all at once."

I then told him the story of my adventure in Hrafnrodd, omitting my title, and he listened with great appreciation. When I finished, he looked to the others, and especially to Grid, who responded with a slow, deliberate nod.

"Your words are just, and the ring of truth sounds within them. And yet, there is something more. You are from the outside, plainly enough, and many are the monsters that have walked the Path in bygone days, clothed in the skin of man. You are not as they. On what errand do you trod our far-road? Why does a hero wander here?"

His last words were hushed, as if he had guessed my purpose already. Slowly, I stood, shrugging off my cloak, then looked to my Sword, and unbound the twine that held the cloth in place. As it fell, revealing the gold and emeralds beneath, the light of recognition came to Sturla's eyes, to be joined quickly by the welling of tears. Sequiduris slid slowly from its housing, and I held the point up, allowing the flickering light and shadows to play upon the three metals of that legendary blade. The Sheath coiled about my waist, and I spoke slowly, for I wished him to understand.

"Vaentan you call me, but I am Onidai also. War has come to threaten the Kenalkan Banners—greatest of all nations upon Foundation—and I have been called to unite them against the threat of annihilation. One Banner has already rallied, and now I seek the strong arm of Sangholm, that the Ironskins might join us in battle once more. I was journeying to the northwest gate when the Hrafnkin fell upon me. They died only by chance."

I sheathed the weapon with great care, touching the tip of incomparable blade to the throat of peerless housing, and the Sheath went limp, uncoiling from about my waist to again grow rigid at my side. With the edge safe, I sat again upon the floor opposite my host. It took him only moments to recover.

"A week's celebration! Your choice of our women for wife! Any house of your choosing! Stay, and be welcome here all your days."

"I regret that I cannot. My trial lies ahead of me, and the dangers of yesterday are only the beginning. The Matriarch, wise ruler of Sangholm, will have further trials, and I must hurry. Even now war approaches, and my friends—and family, will die if I do not prepare them for the fighting of it. At dawn, I will go. But you will not be left to danger.

"You are unknown in Sangholm, and the people there have long passed from their senseless ways. Truly, they think that all within the Vithrauth are murderers and madmen. Do not despise them for their ignorance, for who might have guessed that gentle folk—men banished with their families by a mad king for minor crimes—could have survived here? I will tell the Matriarch of your existence, and beg refuge on your behalf. The trophies gained thus far are evidence enough that this is not a place suited to the habitation of families."

His face had fallen to despair when I refused his hospitality, but lightened again to sunny brightness the moment I spoke of refuge. We talked then of my journey, and I told him much of my story, of my Banner and the horrors I had weathered before my arrival in Sangholm.

When I spoke of Meadrow's turfed earthwork, and of Venibrek's high stone wall, I remembered my earlier question. Sturla seemed to dismiss the inquiry, and appeared a bit annoyed by the interruption. Clearly, he saw nothing strange in the layout of their defenses, but I knew that their trench, double-wall, and watchtowers would have been most uncommon—at least, among societies unaccustomed to true warfare.

"They were the work of my grandfather, much-needed to shield against the Darratonn, a beast of great size with a taste for the flesh of man. Many tribes have delved into the earth to avoid him, and many more have taken to the trees. We only have remained upon the ground, and from the trees we watch for signs of his thundering approach. The wards of pit and spike have kept him at bay for nearly a century, but never has he failed to test us with the coming of spring. Even you, great Vaentan, must travel with watchful eyes, for even your sword does not match the length of his mighty tusks."

"Tusks? This Darratonn is—a boar?"

"A great boar, far larger even than the largest bear. None can slay him, be forewarned. Have my words caused you to fear? If so, I am glad, for I would not see you dead ere you reach your goal."

I had gone to my pack, and he must have thought that I was preparing to flee. I unwrapped the trophies with Sturla's family behind, and now I spoke with a casual air.

"These tusks are of prodigious length, you say?"

"Longer than our spears, and harder than any contrivance stone-work can manage. Truly, he is a blight sent by Vodn as punishment for the crimes of our ancestors."

"Then your spears must be short indeed, Friend Sturla, for these trophies of mine are not much longer than my legs."

I turned with a tusk in each hand, and Sturla was on his feet at once. He leapt over his own fire pit, but stumbled at the lip of the bowl, so that I had to drop the tusks to prevent his fall. I righted him, retrieved my trophies, and offered one. They were heavy, and my back had been glad of the evening's rest. Long did he stare into the yellowing tooth, rubbing his fingers along the smooth surface, his eyes wide with wonder. The curve was not so pronounced as I would have expected in a boar of such ancient age—three generations of man at least, by Sturla's own accounting—and yet, as I had seen, they were of the perfect bend for the creature to charge with lowered head.

Finally, he looked up, his mouth agape, though it had curved into the suggestion of a smile.

"Truly, you are the Vaentan, for you have ended two of our greatest woes in the first third of your journey! I will prepare my people for travel. We will see you to the gate."

"No! ...No, my thanks, and my apologies, but I must travel alone. The first trial is in the journey, and I must walk north unaided by any means but those at my own disposal."

Again, he recovered quickly, and reassured me by clapping my shoulder with his right hand.

"So be it. I will spread the word, and when your emissary arrives, all villages will travel together in strength. And perhaps it is well that you will travel alone, for all attempts made to petition the tower guard have ended in death or retreat—though in truth, few have been foolish enough to try."

I returned my tusks to the confines of my blanket, where I had kept them, bound with twine in the company of the Munbeorg runes. For a moment, I considered offering one of the tusks to Sturla as proof of my words, but I soon thought better of it, remembering the fifty witnesses in Hrafnrodd, and the need of a suitable trophy to present to the Matriarch.

I slept that night on soft furs in Sturla's own hut, and slept well, for I had done more good in those few days than all the deeds of the past months. If not for Grid, I might have continued to live on as a symbol—a boy, trying at the role of champion-general. Of the two, I preferred the title of Vaentan far more than Onidai, for while the latter would have wasted his days convincing stubborn men to shed blood in a needless conflict, the former would risk his life to end the tears of a downtrodden child.

One thing was certain—the Vaentan slept far more soundly than the Onidai.
Chapter Five

### Harkona
The morning of my departure, Sturla was not there to bid me farewell. After receiving the blessings and warm wishes of Anka and the other former captives, and the sweet embrace of gentle Grid, I set out from the gates of their village alone, confident that, in time, they would have ample cause for celebration.

Sturla and I had devised a method through which no emissary could ever fail to find his way to the waiting villages. Staves, stained red with a local dye, would be hammered into place from the road to the village, and runners would be kept nearby to speed word of any stranger's approach.

My pack had been replenished with dried fruits and meats, and I felt for once that I might actually reach my goal. Resting often, I took easy ways and traveled primarily upon long-neglected game trails, though never did I spot a single living thing in transit. I made my roost in the trees each night, and thought myself finally free of danger—until the morning of the third day, when I dropped from my perch and saw that there were footprints everywhere.

After that, I kept an eye out, but never did I catch sight of any follower. It was on the last day, when I fell from my tree, that I learned the nature of those ghostly travelers.

I had found the canyon that marked the journey's end, placing me, by Sturla's own accounting, only a few miles from the gate. I crossed the expanse over a fallen log, and found the Hlifgat less than a half-mile to the west. The sun had nearly set, and though I had little time to seek out a suitable tree, I refused to travel by night.

I had journeyed nine days from Sturla's village, avoiding the road entirely, and that morning, only a stone's throw from the gate, I fell from my roost to find not the slightest trace of human movement. They had seen me safely to the gate, and never once did they move to aid me in any way. When they were certain I would reach my goal, they returned to their homes, respectfully withdrawing, that I might travel the last leg without fear of their discovery. Sturla had kept his promise, and yet he had not. Still, he left me with little cause for anger, and in keeping his promise, his honor had not been compromised.

I walked more boldly, knowing that the journey had ended, then stopped a mile from the gate. There, in the shadow of the trees, I cleansed my body with the remainder of my water, and scrubbed my gear with a patch cut from my now pathetic-looking blanket. The worst of the filth on my clothing dealt with, I dressed, strapped on my harness, and made for my goal with a straight back and an easy swagger. In truth, I was far more conscious of my stench than any of the Hjarrleth might have been—they are a clean people, to be sure, but completely indifferent to the pungent odors of others.

At the edge of the treeline, I saw many bones scattered here and there in piles, long bleached, in spite of the meager light that might have found them. Many were of man, but also of wolf, bear, and other scavengers that would have been attracted by the smell of recent kills. There were arrows everywhere, most broken and with rusted points, but many still bore the remnants of the wide, leathern fletchings that mark the shafts of the Hjarrleth hunting bow.

Sturla had been right, and though I was angered by the sight, and the confirmation that all forest-dwellers were dealt with as murderers and rapists, I was also astounded by the huge piles of those bones. How long had it taken, and how many animals had been slain, before the cycle of kill and rot had ceased to attract further wildlife?

Finally, I stood before the gates, and waited—and waited. I did not stir throughout my vigil, and though I felt I deserved a better reception, I held my tongue—I was no subordinate, and refused to be the first to speak. Still, I heard not a sound from anyone above. Finally, just before I was about to announce myself, the gates creaked open without warning, and I passed through with a straight back, prepared for a hero's welcome.

I was greeted by emptiness and silence.

The guards were in their towers, and I could see them clearly, but they refused to take notice of me. It was then that I remembered the words of my challenge—the Vithrauth was just the longest leg of the journey: I would have to walk into Harkona myself, and seek audience with the Matriarch, alone.

The northern gate was treated with less importance than its southern counterpart, though the structure itself was clearly more advanced, for I saw not one of the white oxen that had been used to open the southern gate. There was no farm there, no log-walled village, no vigilant band of warriors. There was only the open road, and I took to it instantly.

For the first half-mile, I traveled on an incline—nothing new, as my journey had been a steady climb for the past two days. But when I crested the hill, something swept heavily by my skull. I raised my lockbow to answer the sudden threat, but to my relief, it was only a hawk, and he made his graceful way in the same direction, though with far greater celerity.

Two hours later, as I rounded a bend in the road, my eyes fell upon a welcome sight. Edam, my beautiful Trathnonan bay was cropping delicately at the sod on the opposite side of the road. He was fully armored, and therefore clearly mine—among the Hjarrleth, as among the Trathnona, horses are used only for transportation, and not to be weighed down by anything but rider and saddlery. I whistled loudly, and he came running. He nuzzled my arm lovingly, but at the first great breath shied mockingly, shaking his head in disapproval. I laughed in spite of myself. Edam was as indifferent to my odor as any Hjarrleth would have been—in my absence, Lior had lain idle, and must have passed the time in the stables.

Hanging from Edam's saddle bow, I found a sack with a note pinned to it:

When you reach the cedars to your left, turn into them. No one will be watching. Eat in the saddle. You will know when you see it.

-L & S; Co-conspirators.

-Postscript,

Congratulations!

I had long given up trying to question Lior's schemes, so I mounted, and Edam immediately moved forward. Clearly, he already knew where he was going. I patted his mane and looked to the sack, where I found a skin of ale, a pastry, and a hollowed half-loaf filled with thinly sliced meat and cheese. I could not remember my last real meal, and so I ate heartily, leaving not a crumb, and drank the skin dry. The ale was from Meadrow. Apparently, my day of drinking with Hod and the High Priest had not been as thorough as I'd thought.

The finest barley brew rounded out the meal perfectly, and after so long without strong drink of any kind—I had shared Lior's vapor with Sturla, who enjoyed it even more than I—I was filled with cheer long before Edam turned away from the road. In less than half an hour, I saw my own campaign tent in a small cutting, and a trough and manger outside. The white and pale blue fabric fluttered in the slight breeze, and, still thousands of miles from Meadrow, I felt myself finally home.

Inside, there were contraptions I had never seen before. Rather, I had seen them, but never had I seen them outside the basement of my home in Brek. They were heating tanks, intended to raise bath water to the appropriate temperature before use, and in front of them, I recognized the same type of tub and torrent spout that I had used so many times before. Both bathtub and torrent spout had been mounted on wooden platforms, the heating tanks standing tall on legs of cast iron. Pipes of galvanized copper stretched along the ground beneath the platforms, exiting the opposite end of the tent. The flames beneath the tanks were set to burn low, but already there were thin, sinuous streaks of steam rising from the water within.

The trunk housing my armor tree was closed in the far corner, and I found pinned to it yet another piece of paper:

Harkona is but a few hours northwest along the road. Mid-afternoon is ideal for your arrival, so do not worry about haste. Bathe, groom, dress, and armor yourself. Leave the lockbow.

Try not to fall asleep, and before you go, look to the table. The crystal phial is Hjarrleth medicine. Drink up before you leave, and remember to wear your pack. After all, you've only just arrived!

-L & S; Relieved Friends

The pipes saw to the disposal of the water, but where it went, I will never know. I scrubbed, shaved, washed my hair, softened the tangles with the unguent of the white bottle, and stood beneath the torrent spout until the last drops fell from above. I then tamed my unruly mane in a mirror with a scented comb, scrubbed my teeth with a bristle-brush and foul-tasting cave salts, chewed a handful of mint leaves, trimmed and picked my nails clean, and felt finally that things had returned to normal—Brek normal.

In the past months, my face had begun to sprout a wispy growth of hair, and Lior had taught me how I might deal with that embarrassment. I had planed off my soft whiskers in the bath, and after a stinging splash of scented vapor I rubbed cheeks and jaw with a silky, creamy substance that Lior had introduced; he had sworn me to secrecy, for such unguents were intended for the softening of Ashad skin.

My ablutions complete, I turned to the clothing. A silk shirt and light linen trousers were followed by my arming jack, and the fabric of the device was completely new, inexplicably airy and light, though still jet black, and it fit perfectly. Finally, I laced my boots of highly polished brown leather, having chosen not to wear the Ashad shoes, which were, sadly, rather the worse for wear.

Finally, I set about donning my armor of gilded bronze over iron. Greaves, cuirass, pauldrons, and vambraces locked into place as perfectly as ever, and I threw on my cape of white and light blue, adjusting the rosettes of my cuirass so that the cloth would hang evenly from either side. I strapped the Sheathed Sword to my harness, placed the Key in its pouch, and was on the verge of taking up my father's helmet and ancient Meadrow shield, when I remembered Lior's words about the crystal phial.

When I lifted the stopper, I noted the bitter smell. I trusted my co-conspirators implicitly, and so holding my nose, I downed the concoction in one draught. It tasted unspeakably foul, but the taste faded in an instant, and I continued my preparations without pondering its eventual effects.

Helmet mounted and shield slung over my pack I climbed into the saddle with the aid of a strategically placed stool—Lior's preparations had been extremely thorough.

Though I still wore the ragged pack of a vagabond, I felt I had the appearance of a regal guest, and hoped I would earn the attention, if not the respect, of those I sought to petition. As if to drive the point home, Edam lurched forward the moment he felt my weight upon his shoulders. This had been rehearsed, and the clever horse knew his role better than I knew mine. He trotted forward with purpose, and when we reached the road, he slowed to a measured walk.

The sun had only just reached its apex, and half an hour into my ride, I felt—different. I was no longer tired, and though my back still ached, the feeling was not so pronounced as before. Even at noon, with the sun beating down directly upon me, I did not sweat so profusely as I might have expected.

I felt comfortable, calm, alert, and confident, and though I had on occasion enjoyed those sensations, never had I experienced them simultaneously. The worry I had felt over my introduction to the Matriarch faded, and my thoughts turned to anticipation of every eventuality. Truly, I felt no fear, and I knew at once that I had the Hjarrleth elixir to thank for it.

I took note of every building in passing—its architecture and intended purpose. All public buildings were large, built mostly of stone, and the incline of the roofs betrayed the arch as their primary means of support. By contrast, all workshops and common homes were small, wooden framed, and roofed with clay tiles, though they were of cunning design and expertly built.

The residences of the wealthy varied greatly, from lofty wooden lodges crowned with forests of antler and horn, to neatly constructed villas with many buildings behind walls of clay or concrete. Those built of stone were the most ominous, with towers and lift gates, moats and patrolling guards; they were built too close together to be fortifications, and their outbuildings were not kept within the protection of the walls. Still, the sight of those piles filled me with gloom—if the Matriarch had chosen to dwell in such a gray and dreary place as those fortresses, my reception might be chilly, indeed.

Three hours into my ride, I crested a hill and saw what I thought to be a simple lodge of stone, but when I looked down and noted how the road disappeared into a narrow line in the distance, I realized that there was much more to the Hjarrleth than I had expected.

That tiny lodge completely covered a wide plateau nearly a mile away, and as I made my way downhill, I began to see buildings lining either side of the road. When I stood in my saddle, surveying the scene all around, I noted the arcing perimeter of the buildings and thoroughfares; Harkona was more than the seat of the Matriarch, but also a sprawling city.

And yet, as I rode on, I saw not one person—or rather I saw none ahead. Though all ahead remained in their buildings, those behind went about their daily tasks as if such behavior was the normal order of business, and none took note of my presence.

Undaunted, I fixed my eyes on that great stone lodge, if lodge it could be called, for with each passing hoofbeat of trotting Edam it grew to heights unimagined, even within high Venibrek. Though it was true that the temple spire rose higher, no enclosed expanse in Brek or Ashad compared to the lofty gables of that immense stone structure. A Trathnonan might have thought it wasteful, with so much stone allocated to a single building, and all for the benefit of one woman—the very thought would have scandalized the Men of Brek.

I then thought of Lior, and the subordinate role he would have to play in the name of diplomacy, and smiled at the thought, until I considered the disadvantage it might present. While it was true that Brenna would be needed at home, she might be needed even more in Sangholm, for who could find the sense in the word and action of a formidable woman, if not her match of another nation? Still, Lior was an able speaker, and little could be done in any case to alter my Proving in Sangholm. The outcome of a rigorous trial cannot be altered by any means of deliberation—success or failure would depend on my actions, alone.

As I climbed the road of switchbacks at the center of mighty Harkona, I noted the lack of warriors in attendance; I had seen none, even upon the road. Lior had implied that Sangholm fairly crawled with mailed axemen, yet I had seen not one weapon beyond the towers at the Vithrauth's northwestern gate. They had wide holdings, to be sure, and I had not expected such a martial presence as I had seen within the walled confines of Venibrek, but some influence must have remained to hint at their bloodthirsty past.

As I crested the final rise, and Edam turned onto an even path of deep granite flagstones, I looked up, and saw what no manner of description could have prepared my eyes to witness. At its highest point, the building rose more than twenty times the height of man, and the eaves sloped only gradually, that the lowest point was not much lower. Two groupings of four columns each spanned the space at either side of tremendous doors, while a ninth jutted far out in the exact center, well in front of the entry. Nine tall steps rose to the portico, and when Edam halted, I dismounted. With not even a whinny of farewell he went barreling around the perimeter. I sighed, looked to the walkway, and ascended with a straight back.

The columns, and even the stone of the walls had been covered with carvings of serpents, wolves, and interwoven trees—I recognized many well-known Hjarrleth symbols, and there were many more that I had never seen. The door was formed from the tallest beams imaginable, butted together and polished smooth; there was not a finger's breadth of that high surface that did not gleam with the patina of long care, and the many bosses of bronze and thin sheets of silver added further to its splendor.

Finally, I spotted warriors in the Hjarrleth capital. Four men stood at attention before the door, and a fifth awaited my arrival to the right of the center column. They were all armored in Ironskins, though again, they were not so fine or thick as the plates of Sigmund's mighty suit.

They each carried a strange weapon with a long shaft, each blade formed in the shape of a right triangle; it appeared to serve the function of both spear and axe, though I could see that it would not perform in either capacity as well as its counterparts, having not the weight of an axe or the even point of a spear. The swords at their hips were of the common variety, but serviceable in make and ornate in appearance.

Wide shields hung from their backs, and their helms were mounted with the owl crest, an innovation of the early Hjarrleth that covered their eyes and cheekbones. Their bearing was the same as I had seen when Halga's men had ridden out to meet me. These were savage warriors, and their discipline was but a suggestion—rules to aid men already born to battle. The man by the center column hailed me, and I halted.

"What manner of man is this—riding to Hroaht as to war?"

I had been instructed in this mode of introduction, and through practice, I had learned to voice authority in answer. In fact, I knew almost nothing else of the Hjarrleth tongue.

"I am Ralph Hughsson, firstborn of the woman Nuda; Warrior of Meadrow and Champion of Venibrek. I ride to war, and take no pains to hide it, for I have claimed the title won by Mighty Rorik. The Matriarch has been given word of my arrival and expects me, even now."

His appraisal was long and exaggerated, though I knew his opinion held little weight. He did nothing to sway my confidence.

"Come, and make yourself known."

With that he turned, and I followed with bold steps. The elixir I had taken had done wonders for my tongue, and I felt that I might easily present myself with skill. The doors opened, the tops rising fully sixty paces above my head. The panels were thick, perfectly square in section, and large enough that their ancient craftsmen might have planed the whole of common tree trunks. But they had been cut from heartwood alone, and I knew that such timbers could only be found among the giants of the Vithrauth—those beams might have been cut at the behest of Malmheith's own grandfather.

Following the example of the guard ahead, I took off my helmet and tucked it beneath my left arm.

Within, pairs of columns divided the expanse into even thirds every forty or fifty paces, and there were nine pairs of columns. Between those pillars—stony trees unto themselves, at twenty times the height of man—and connecting them to the adjacent walls, the high ceiling was supported by arches of stone, and I counted twenty-seven in all.

The scene was not dark, for torches burned brightly at every wall from iron cressets, with only a single pace between each, while four wide braziers surrounded each column, roaring with steady flames and fed by perfumed oils, that they issued an even glow. The remaining darkness upon the floor was banished from above, this the work of three circular rows of fat beeswax candles, diminishing in size from low to high and suspended from the heavy chains of black iron that hung from the keystone of every arch. Only the arches of the high ceiling remained in perpetual darkness—the shadows danced against those twenty-seven wide curves like the billowing of an angry sea.

Never had I been in so high and open an interior space, and truly, I felt the hands of the ancient northern gods at work there, for it was hard to believe that this could be the work of mortal minds or human sinew. Even the interior walls were carved deeply with many designs, and at heights so great that the human eye could not discern their nature.

At the perimeter, the skins of wolf and bear covered the stone floor, while the center aisle between columns was swathed in a thick carpet of crimson, as was the high dais, nine narrow steps above the main floor, that took up a full ninth of the interior space. The walls behind and to either side of the dais bore long tapestries in the design of the Hjarrleth banner: a red wolf's head within a crimson triangle, and both upon a field of flawless white.

As I rose to the increased height at the rear of that cavernous hall, I saw the welcome that awaited me. Lior was there, and though he was clothed as Phulako, in robes of dusky blue, trimmed in the golden red of dawn, he wore the gleaming diadem and fiery gem that marked him in full regalia as the High Priest of Brek. Sigmund was not there, and I knew it instantly, as none of the others in attendance would have been tall enough to hide him.

Many of the Hjarrleth—the highest noblemen of their Banner, had gathered to greet me. The men stood at either side, little more than one hundred in number, while ninety women were seated to surround yet another platform. Nine steps as always, and they rose from nine angles, backed by the wall to form a semicircular approach. Atop the platform, and seated in a mountainous chair of carved stone, the Matriarch of the Hjarrleth awaited my arrival. With his eyes, Lior motioned that I should stop beside him, and I did, while my lone escort climbed the first three steps. He spoke facing the Matriarch, his open palm pointing vaguely in my direction.

"Wise Mother, I beg welcome for Ralph Hughsson, firstborn of the woman Nuda; Warrior of Meadrow and Champion of Venibrek. He claims the title of Mirya's fabled son, and would ask the right to Prove his worth."

The woman above inclined her head, and her face at once emerged from the shadows. She was only a year or two older than my mother, and her hair, the same color as Sigmund's, was bound in tight braids and piled beneath a winged helmet of gold. Her clothing was simple, a white linen gown worn by many on Foundation, but pristine and bright, and trimmed in light gray silk. In her right hand she clutched a strange scepter of wood and bone, and about her waist she wore a wide belt of scaly hide. At her feet, I saw the trophies of battle scattered about in disarray; apparently the small matter of lengthy boasting had already been attended. Her voice was distant; indifferent but not dismissive.

"Let his words proclaim his worthiness, that We might choose a trial befitting the man who stands before Us."

Irony dripped from that single word, and a few of the women chuckled behind their hands, while the men at either side whispered amongst themselves, in tones too low to attract attention. All fell silent when Lior began to sing, and his voice was loud, reverberating upon the high ceiling. He leaned upon his ceremonial spear, as if in need of its support.

"To Farmer's Banner born,

Name marred by Warden's ire,

Shame-scarred and birthright shorn,

Sire barred from ending pyre.

No Guard as yet forsworn,

Though jarred by bloody mire,

With shard of iron adorned,

Discarded—now admired.

"In ancient Eagle's nest,

The beacon of the stray,

The foe-bane journeyed west,

To seek the omen's way.

War inside the bone-glade,

The Meadrow spear flew high,

In din of death and blade,

With speed did seven die.

"At Rorik's storied tomb,

Did foes of justice wait,

To war and certain doom,

We rose to meet our fate.

Fought well against our plan,

The Claimant went with one,

He felled a single man,

The day and quest he won.

"Within high granite walls,

Knife-cowards sought to slay,

And in those marble halls,

The foemen stalked his way.

They crept within the streets,

And sought him in his hall,

He leapt from silken sheets,

Then fought and slew them all.

At spear-din he is tested,

His fear-fire he has shown,

The far-foes he has bested,

And yet he stands alone.

Wait not for battle's end,

Stay not for hope of peace,

The rot of tear and rend,

Will not for hoping cease."

His song ended, and from fading echoes, the gathering fell to silence. I marveled that he had chosen Vulgar Kenalkan for the ritual boast, for the Hjarrleth tongue is not at all complex, making verse a simpler matter.

The Matriarch looked to me, and to my great relief, she followed the example of Lior, and spoke in the common tongue.

"You seek to be Proved by the Hjarrleth?"

"I do, Wise Mother."

"You will perform as We ask, unquestioning, the three deeds required of you?"

"I will, Wise Mother."

"Then leave this place at once. Take not a single moment's rest, and seek again the shelter of the Red Forest. There you will find a creature known well by the tower guard. For nearly a century, reports have passed of a creature of mighty thew. Bear, wolf, deer, and even men are said to have fallen to its strength. Its appetite is legend, and none of our people have yet faced it upon the ground. Its tusks are as spears, its hide thicker than any shield. The death of the Kromjan Boar is your task—do not return while it draws breath."

The attendants fell to pallor as one, and the dead air breathed again in the gasps and hushed whispers of the women. The looks of the men were the most memorable—a mixture of pity and jealousy; they pitied me and my fate, but envied the song-worthy manner of my passing.

With only the briefest of smiles, I shrugged off the weight at my shoulders, cleared my throat loudly to quiet the chatter, and lifted the cloth bundle, taking care to place the Munbeorg runes in the confines of my pack. I did this without uncovering my prize, and kept my tone as sweet as honey, with not a trace of trepidation.

"Wise Mother, I fear that what you ask cannot be done."

Even from that distance, I could see that her face betrayed more of relief than pleasure at my apparent failure.

"You wish to recant your claim?"

"Not at all, but I cannot do that which I have already done."

Lior had inspired me, and so I chanted as I unwrapped the tusks and laid them at the foot of the Matriarch's platform.

"Beneath the crimson trees,

I walked the shrouded road,

The wreath of bark and leaves,

I stalked 'neath heavy load.

As Glutton charged in strength,

I peeled my storied blade,

Then cut upon his length—

A meal of boar I made."

The chamber was in an uproar, but I heard brief laughter, loud and appreciative in the midst of the din. When I turned, I saw that Lior had clapped his hand over his mouth, though his face was still alive with mirth. And perhaps relief.

The Matriarch was on her feet almost instantly. She stared upon the tusks in unmasked consternation, then, all at once, appeared very far away. Her eyes were in the distance far beyond me, staring vaguely into that vast interior expanse. At her behest, the door-warden retrieved the tusks and laid them at her feet. She inspected them closely, and for far longer, I felt, than she needed to identify them.

Finally, she returned them to their place at her feet, and looked on me with renewed interest. For the space of more than one hundred heartbeats, she said nothing—perhaps she had not expected me to return from the first trial.

"The words of your voice bear the ring of truth, and these trophies appear to support your claim beyond question. And yet, We have never seen the boar alive. Huntsmen must be called to examine these teeth, and witnesses who have seen the beast must look upon them. For nine days We will await their verdict, and consider the nature of your next trial."

She took three steps down, standing six above the ladies at the base of the platform. Her words were for them, and they rose as one at the sound of her voice.

"We had not anticipated the housing of a hero, and so We have made no preparations on his behalf. We must keep him among us, that his words will not be influenced by any mind but his own. As Our brave son has taken up with the Claimant and his people, We would ask that he be lodged elsewhere."

Whether she was about to ask or command the place of my lodgings, I will never know, for a tall woman of dusky hue and buxom form took a step forward at the moment of the Matriarch's first natural pause.

"Wise Mother, it will honor my house to lodge him, and never could his presence be felt as burden, for as all know my house has long been absent the sound of male voices. I ask permission to see to the Claimant's every need."

I could see that the Matriarch had been stumped yet again, and was at a loss to respond. Clearly, the woman was not in the Matriarch's favor, and yet it seemed that she could not refuse without causing offense. She nodded slowly, and though her mouth was curled into the suggestion of a gentle smile, her eyes were narrowed in contradiction.

"Very well, Hertha. We must offer Our thanks, for We now know that the Claimant will want for nothing."

She turned to me, and spoke as if nothing had transpired between the women.

"For nine days, you will dwell in Hjarrgoth Manor. You may travel there with the High Priest, but you will not be permitted any communication thereafter."

She then looked to Lior.

"We will have your word that you will not speak with the Claimant from the moment he enters the house of Hjarrgoth until the hour he is released."

"You have my word on it, Wise Mother."

"That is well. Go now, and leave Us to Our deliberations."

We bowed and turned as one to exit the hall, and from the moment our feet reached the lowest step of the dais, the gathering erupted into chaos. I understood not a word, but was glad at least that the Vithrauth was finally behind me.

* * *

The moment we exited the hall, Lior dropped his spear and lifted me bodily, armor and all in his mailed embrace. He was a man known for his sunny demeanor, and yet at that moment I feared his face would burst.

"You survived! You had me worried for a time! And what was all that improvisation? '...I cannot do that which I have already done.' And that poem, was it spontaneous? Tell it truly!"

He finally stopped when he took notice of the heavily armored guards. He had dropped his spear so that it fell over the top of his boot, and with a twitch of his ankle it flew again into his hand. Leaning on it as if he were truly an old man, he led me down the steps and whistled loudly. Edam came bounding around the side of the building, behind Lior's own magnificent white stallion and a mounted Initiate. He handed off his spear, called for a piece of charcoal and white Trathnonan paper, and after scribbling a few lines sent his Initiate galloping for the switchbacks.

Lior must have seen the worried way my eyes followed the young man's progress.

"Don't worry about him: he's a hawker. Probably call for his bird halfway down. It's much faster to send the word that way. Now then, I believe you have a story to tell. Leave nothing out!"

I told him of the boar first, but did not feel that the accidental nature of my victory was a necessary addition to the tale. He praised my skill and told me that Sigmund would enjoy hearing of it. His mention of the man begged the obvious question.

"I've no idea, and Sigmund can't fathom it, either. He's Rigga's favorite, but she won't even allow him in Harkona, let alone Hroaht!"

"And what of Reya? Sibling or not, I remember Boers mentioning her as Sigmund's closest friend."

"Reya stays in Harkona, though I've never seen her. Rather out of the ordinary, to hold court without the Sangholm Phulako present. Poor Sigmund's at his wit's end. He hasn't even met that nephew of his."

"What on Foundation could prevent Reya from introducing her son to her favorite brother? I don't know much about motherhood, but I know that women love to show off their creations."

"Confound it if I know, but as it stands, Sigmund can't even marry. He's betrothed to Kari, a lovely young woman from one of the best families in Sangholm. Lucky boy, that Sigmund, to be both suitor and chieftain—you should see the way he fawns over her. Giant Sigmund, reduced to a silent pup! And I can hardly blame him—Kari's a beautiful girl, polite, and with a good sense of humor, but without the public approval of the Matriarch, Hjarrleth chieftains may not wed. Ah well, no use complaining about the customs of a foreign land. It's not as if I could change anything, but Sigmund has been to loyalty and courage what his father was to brilliance and boldness, and I hate to see him in such a state. Please continue, and again, omit nothing."

He nodded deeply when I told him of my hideout, and the rain, and he was full of witty observations at each mention of my efforts at building—and particularly at my confession of meticulous hygiene, 'Filthy in Meadrow, clean everywhere else'.

Shrugging off his raillery, I thanked him for the vapor, and though he would hear none of it, I decided at that moment to repay his kindness, for as I have written, it was a vapor of inestimable value, though if he had remembered my past as a tavern boy, and the knowledge such a life had endowed, he gave no sign.

When I finished my tale of the Munbeorg, I paused for a moment to offer him the inscribed boards. I felt that Sigmund might be interested in reading them, and knew that such forgotten knowledge, particularly where Stjarsla was concerned, would serve as a much-needed distraction—and besides, who else did I know in Sangholm? Lior accepted the Munbeorg runes with his usual easy grace, and smiled in recognition of my insight.

When I finished the tale of Hakon and Hrafnrodd, he stopped me before I could tell him of Sturla. He took count on his fingers, then nodded in agreement at my tally of twenty-six, though his praise had fallen short—at that point, he appeared more awestruck than entertained.

When I told him of Sturla and his people, he stopped me again.

"Primitive Hjarrleth living in the forest? Well, I suppose the young girl had to come from somewhere, to say nothing of the slaves. Still, it's hard to credit—innocents living, and thriving by your own account, in a forest so choked with danger; you know they banish the worst of their two-legged monsters! Of course, I have a feeling that might change when the Matriarch hears of it, and she will, at the appointed moment. Until then, I'll ask you to keep silent about the whole horrible mess. Grid and her people have survived this long, and with the boar and two dozen raiders dead by the work of your own hand, they'll survive a little easier."

"But why can't we send word of them now? I told Sturla to expect an envoy, and his people are working with the other villages to prepare for travel, even as we speak. It seems that now is better than-"

"You'll have to trust me! There are many concerns here, but this much should be obvious: you were to travel the road alone, remember? Any doubt on the part of the Matriarch will give her an excuse to deny further trials. And without her Approval, all our work will have been for naught.

"Venibrek has a fine army, and it is my home. We have lit streets, good food, beautiful buildings, the protection of high walls, an educated population—and our people actually bathe on occasion. Still, Venibrek is but a symbol, a fine start to encourage the others.

"Our ten thousand—not counting the new recruits—will be nothing more than a nuisance when the true might of the enemy is brought to bear. We need the armored fist of Sangholm, the horses of Nalbanilek, the bows of Tahlrene, the clever contrivances of Viharth, the grain of Meadrow, and even the giants of Tulakal if we are to gain victory in the coming days.

"The Hjarrleth are powerful, but they too have symbolic value. Rorik united the Hjarrleth and Tahlrenic Tribes and led them in battle during the Great Hedge War—long before he was called to lead the Banners together. If we are to continue, we will need the Matriarch's Approval. And the Matriarch's Approval—apparently more elusive than Sigmund has led us to believe—hinges on your passing each and every trial as required. Do you understand?"

I nodded in agreement. As usual, His Eminence had been most convincing.

"Any questions?"

"Only one. What was in that crystal phial? It was the foulest, most bitter substance I have ever tasted."

Lior chuckled in spite of himself.

"Effective though, isn't it? It's a concoction that one of Sigmund's forbears brought back from Tulakal, called 'Ukotunak' in the Builder's tongue, and though the name and recipe was written in one of their earliest texts, some fanciful Olinbrand scholar hazarded 'Dance of the Fire-Drum Song' as its meaning—the Kenalka did have poets, once.

"The discoverer of the formula, a man named Ulftosk, gave the elixir the name Hilyrtrotha, or 'March of the Burning Brow'. And Ulftosk was a clever man, for when he stumbled onto the recipe, he sought out the tomes he needed to identify the ingredients, and the schematics required to construct all the little contraptions the Kenalka used to fabricate the mixture. Though in truth, Hilyrtrotha is the blending of two elixirs: Ukotunak, for concentration, and another to encourage calm and quiet anxiety—I have forgotten the name of the latter formula, though in my defense, I wasn't really listening when Sigmund's apothecary explained the process. You are lucky indeed, to have sampled the effects. Some of the ingredients are quite rare, I'm told—Sigmund himself has not even tried it."

I absorbed his words and the underlying implications instantly, a testament to the strength of the brew, and just as quickly I accepted that it would do me no harm—I trusted Sigmund even more than the High Priest. Only one concern remained.

"How long does it last? I've been looking through the end of a tunnel since I drank it, and in spite of the heat beneath my arms and inside my thighs, I haven't perspired in hours."

"Interesting—any other effects, apart from the focus and calm? Sigmund wanted me to ask. The original notes were lost in a fire three generations ago, and the last to try the elixir at length was Sigmund's father—in the ruins of Tulakal's lower valleys, I'm sure he needed it. Seriously Ralph, speak up—he wanted to save the stuff until it was needed, and it was damned nice of him to offer its use. I don't mean to pressure you, but I think it is the least you can do, by way of thanks. The effects?"

"Well, apart from a lack of peripheral vision, I seem to process information without internal discussion. Oh, I go through the process, sure enough, but it seems like it all happens in the blink of an eye. On the way up here, I was able to determine the construction methods of every building I passed, as well as the apparent purpose of the structures, just by glancing at the exteriors."

"And how are your senses? Any change in sensitivity?"

"As I said, my sight is not impaired—focused, really, but lacking an ability to take in a setting...generally. Rather, I take in the details, and combine them. My hearing is a bit more sensitive, but again, it is my ability to focus that has improved. Tone of voice, cadence, inflection—I take it all in at once, and immediately pair it with the words of the speaker to determine true meaning. As for smell—well, that has been a bit of a nuisance. I feel like I'm turning into a bloodhound, or a burrowing mole—that perfumed oil in Rigga's firepans—my head still aches from the stench."

He chuckled under his breath, even as he recorded my observations with a stylus and a bit of paper tacked to a wooden board.

"Very good! Focus, tunnel vision, calm, lack of perspiration paired with warming sensation at inner thigh and beneath upper arm, elevated sensitivity of nose and ear—anything else?"

"Just that pain and discomfort are no longer felt with any great intensity. I know I should be tired, and yet I am not, and though I am aware of aches and pains in my feet and lower back, and minor discomforts everywhere—after weeks of sleeping in trees—the pain is not felt, so much as understood. That's all for now, but if I think of anything else later, I'll be sure to write it down. Now then, I've answered your questions, but what about mine? How long until I can blink again?"

He offered the same preoccupied chuckle, but spoke with his eyes to the paper.

"Shouldn't last more than a day, and that much we know for certain. As I said, Sigmund's father used the Hilyrtrotha during his expeditions into Tulakal, and though his mentions were few, his travel journal—not the torn, tattered scribbling he sent me, of course—contained a few mentions of its effects. Claimed it kept him calm when he had to solve riddles, which in Tulakal means that a false answer would have been followed by a steep drop or a blast of poisonous haze. Enjoy the effects, my boy—they will come in handy at Hertha's table."

"Another unexpected friend, or is she someone I should watch?"

"Not sure, at this point. She's Rigga's top rival, and until now I would've thought her an enemy. Feel the situation out. She might prove more of a friend than the Matriarch."

For a further two hours we rode slowly in the direction of Hertha's villa, a place well-known to Lior, for it had been pointed out by Sigmund less than a week earlier. I took a moment to tell him of that last long, uneventful leg of my journey through the Vithrauth, then inquired of any news. Out of his element or not, Lior was still Lior, and for the remainder of our ride, he offered far more than I would have asked. For the sake of brevity, I've had to sum it all up.

Brenna's work with the Council had fared well, and weapons and armor were in full production. Already more than two thousand volunteers had been selected, the fittest of more than twenty thousand eager youths, and that news was more than a week old. I learned then that our escort had been forced to return, under the orders of the Matriarch, leaving only twenty men and one dozen women as the personal escort of His Eminence. This was not at all unexpected: one hundred eighty warriors might have been seen as an imposing force, even to a warrior people. Though Lior sent the bulk of his escort home under the command of Loswol, one of his best officers, he'd kept the cream of the crop for himself, as I was shortly to learn.

When we rounded the corner of the Hjarrgoth villa wall, I saw a plainly-dressed man and woman waiting in a small cart before the entrance. Lior spoke from the corner of his mouth.

"Ah, your grooms have arrived. Sigmund is a quick thinker, for that hawk gave him little notice. Either they raced here at the full gallop, or he was more mindful of his mother's recent prejudices than I. Act natural, and remember, they were assigned to you from a number of worthy applicants. If asked about their apparent level of fitness, say only that you believe they are veterans, of one sort or another, and that you never thought to ask them. Tell your tales and try to impress them, but do not betray any great level of intelligence or cunning until you know that Hertha and her women can be trusted. For now, play dumb. I will see you in nine days. Good luck, and again, well done!"

Lior beckoned his horse to the gallop with a low whistle, and flew past the wagon. When I made my way closer, I recognized the two that Lior had selected as grooms, or perhaps Sigmund had chosen them. Maekara and Lambek—I could not have chosen better myself. I offered a shallow nod, the recognition a master might offer to his servants, and they stood to bow low in response. I did not speak, for I did not wish to betray their identities, though I must admit that I was greatly relieved to see them.

When I turned in to the path and halted before the gate, a footman opened it at once. In fact, it was a woman, and she made a great show of meekness.

"Great thane, I am told to bid you welcome. My mistress awaits even now at the rear portico."

She indicated a bend in the wide stone path, and I nudged Edam to a trot. It was a beautiful building, and enormous; fully the biggest dwelling I had seen, unless of course the Matriarch chose to dwell in cavernous Hroaht. The gables changed in height from wing to wing, the tallest a full nine stories, while the shortest rose a mere four.

On either side of the main house I saw dwellings and workshops; all had been constructed within the wall, and they were neatly organized, with narrow paths of embedded rubble between them. I would later learn that the estate was divided into four quadrants beyond the main house, and each contained homes, workshops, and store houses fit to employ an entire village. Indeed, I would not have been surprised to find that Hertha's people coined their own currency.

The mansion itself was carved of stone below the main floor, and thick beams of plastered oak above. The roof was of copper, green with age, and the windows were fitted with flawlessly transparent glass, though many had been stained in bright and vivid hues.

Surrounding the perimeter of the house entirely, I saw many of the flowers that had disappeared when we crossed into Hjarrleth lands, and I later learned that Hertha had imported bulb and seed of many bright blooms from all over Foundation. There were mountain blossoms of Viharth, rare orchids from far Tulakal, fragrant heather from the hills of Tahlrene, and many others. I even spotted a variety of blue field daisy that grew in clearings throughout the wilderness of the Meadrun river valley.

We rounded the curve of that wide, spacious path to find that more than a dozen women had gathered to greet us upon the open portico. Hertha stood at center, beautiful as ever, dressed in a narrow silk gown of black and gold brocade. She appeared only four or five years older than Brenna, which would have placed her two or three years shy of her fortieth, but I was soon to learn that my guess had flown wide of the mark.

Truly, her beauty was ageless, with her proud, ample bosom, slim waist, wide hips, and a face that betrayed nothing of advanced years. Even her voice was full and lyrical, clearly indicating an age beyond the folly of youth, but lacking the nasal shrillness or phlegmy depth of an older woman. She had dark eyes, and her hair, a very dark brown hung in clean tresses nearly to her waspish waist. Her skin was of a darker shade than her countrymen, and, with hair and eyes to match she did not look Hjarrleth, at all.

By contrast, her retinue was plainly of Sangholm, and most were serving women, dressed in livery with white aprons over simple linen dresses in light blue. The other three were clearly relatives, as indicated by their gowns, which, even by the high standards of Ashad were beautifully extravagant: yellow, burgundy, and glowing white, all cut from the finest Viharthian silk.

Only Hertha wore jewelry, a signet of plain gold on her right hand, while on her left hand, and about her neck, I saw large, dark red rubies set in a ring and round medallion. I thought at first that the metal of their setting was silver, though on closer inspection I saw that it was priceless white gold, a substance of great value even in the lands of the enemy, and almost completely unknown in all other lands.

White gold fairly glowed, and possessed the brightest luster of any metal. I had once held a coin of white gold next to one of comparable size of yellow gold, and another of silver. After that, there could be no mistaking the sight of such a peerless metal. That medallion and ring, and the rubies set therein, were worth fortunes unto themselves.

Of course, I had not even entertained the notion that Hertha was in league with the enemy, but knew that she would have to be wealthy beyond measure, for white gold was valued at one hundred twenty times its weight in yellow gold, of which the foreign metal is not even a distant cousin. By then, I had learned that the two metals have little in common, and, in fact, the native name for the substance has nothing to do with gold at all.

Hertha smiled brightly as I brought Edam's armored bulk to a halt and dismounted, and she lifted the hem of her dress to descend and greet me, while the others curtsied politely and held their places. Her tone was pure honey, warm and welcoming, as that of an old friend.

"You arrive in style, Master Onidai. May I call you that, or do you prefer some other title? I feel I must ask, for Wise Rigga was vague in speaking of you."

"I am plain Ralph to my friends, and your actions thus far have proved both friendly and hospitable. Please, call me Ralph. Is that agreeable, Lady?"

"Agreeable? I am honored by such a show of friendship! And you must call me simply Hertha; no 'ladies' or other honorifics, if we are to be friends. However, before we may relax and turn to lighter topics, there is one matter that I must attend. I must ask that you enter my home unarmored and unarmed. It is an old custom, born of a drunken house and hot-blooded forefathers. I hope it does not offend."

"I am not offended, Friend Hertha, but relieved. My pack has taken a heavy toll on my back in the past weeks, to say nothing of my armor."

"I will say nothing, Friend Ralph, if you do not wish it, for I too, know the value of appearances. I must say, you appeared very clean and well turned-out this afternoon, for a man who has only just completed a journey of weeks through a land of mud and underbrush."

She winked wryly, and this time I was truly relieved—I even laughed. Here was an ally if ever I'd met one. I unbuckled my harness, then slowly wound the belt of white hide around the first tool of the Wise Kenalka. When I turned, Maekara was already by my side. She accepted the priceless heirloom with a great show of reverence, not even meeting my gaze, but Hertha forestalled Lambek with an upraised hand and a gracious expression.

"If your grooms set about their daily tasks with the same care you attend to your own, they will certainly be tired. Hot food and drink have already been prepared, and, knowing a bit about the Trathnona, I have sent word that copper tubs and hot water should be placed at their disposal. They will find both in their adjoining suite, though it may take a few moments for the needful articles to find their place: I gave the instructions only a moment ago. Your attendants may relax this evening, Friend Ralph, for I have an able staff, and they have been instructed to attend to your every need—in fact, if you will permit them?"

She motioned to the plates of bronze-lapped iron that covered my body, and, not quite understanding her meaning, I nodded my consent. She clapped her hands once and took a step back, and her women moved forward mechanically to follow prearranged instructions. They brought with them a large wooden crate and a high stool, and before I knew what they were about they had me seated and were carefully working at the straps, hooks, and rosettes of my armored regalia.

I would have expected such a pretty abundance of servile hands to impede one another, and yet they each took a prearranged position, so that in moments they had my armor, helmet, and cape neatly arranged in the crate. While their companions were busied with me, others moved immediately for Edam, and freed my shield from its place above his leftmost saddlebag. The armor-patched tunic and leggings of my arming jack seemed to fly off without effort or awkward posturing, and when I turned to look on Edam, I saw that he had been uncovered in similar fashion.

My gentle gelding remained calm, but clearly he was surprised, for his eyes were saucers, fixed on me for a clue to an appropriate response. When I laughed heartily at his discomfiture, the creature calmed instantly. Though most horses rank no higher than gentle dullards, Trathnonan horses are smarter even than hounds, and never had Edam failed to turn to me when he found himself at a loss. When he saw that I had no fear, his inherent trust compelled him to quietude.

Though the Onidai had little need of fear, the tavern boy might have at least been nervous, for even the serving women were comely. In the way of most northern women, those that had covered me with their hands had been either buxom and rosy-cheeked or slender and flaxen, and I smiled as I wondered whether Edam had enjoyed the operation as much as I.

The undressing complete, four plainly dressed men materialized out of nowhere, fitted the now heavy crate with lifting poles, and hoisted it away in the direction of one of the outbuildings. Hertha had a smile of her own, and though there was more to it than that of an amused friend, she spoke without betraying the nature of her scrutiny.

"I can understand the need to keep such royalty as Rorik's own sword and sheath in trusted hands, but I can assure you that your armor will remain in worthy keeping until you require it. They will clean, polish, and mend as needed, and your tired grooms will find it once more in their possession tomorrow. I must say, however, that if your wood-crafty stealth and meticulous nature match your skill in battle, Sangholm has little to fear, for after two weeks in the forest, you appear to have avoided battle as easily as your armor has avoided dirt. No small feat within such a noisy bronze encumbrance."

Again she winked, and her grin put me at ease. She was clever, and felt no need to hide her observations. I shrugged with a toothy grin of my own.

"Aye, it is a fine, scenic place, your Vithrauth. It was a shame to leave, and I'll tell you, if your Matriarch is of a mind, I may even make a return visit—if she can find any larger pets."

Her grin grew teeth as well, and her posture immediately lost all formality. It was like exchanging quips in a tavern with an old friend.

"In any case, you will have little to worry about tonight. I've spoken with the cook, and she assures me that this evening's meal will be served without pork of any kind."

I laughed in spite of myself as she continued.

"Your grooms may see to your things at their leisure before they retire, but for now, your sword and clothing should suffice. For the latter, my women are happy to serve."

Maekara and Lambek indicated all of the luggage that contained clothing—three full trunks. Lior had informed me of the need to update my wardrobe with clothing to suit any eventuality, and so I had been measured, my every dimension carefully recorded, though never did I know the outcome of his tailor's efforts.

A veritable army of serving maids took my luggage in teams, so that in no time the cart was empty. Only two cases remained, and my grooms refused to allow any but themselves to carry them. Their own luggage, they explained, and they were accustomed to fending for themselves. They followed the servants through the entry, and one of the former had taken Lambek's place in the wagon, so that the empty vehicle rumbled off in the direction of a spacious and regally appointed stable. Hertha pointed to Edam.

"Your mount will be tired, from the weight of his armor and yours. Is he Trathnonan?"

"He is."

"I traded for a few of those myself. A strange people, and that they love their horses I have no doubt, for they refused to part with them for less than a king's ransom. If Trathnonan he is, you'll need no stable boy to send him in the right direction."

I shrugged, stroked the bay's muzzle, clicked my tongue and pointed to the far-off stable. He flew off without looking back. Hertha chuckled in confirmation of her suspicions, and I turned to see that we were alone. She led me inside, and after a brief tour I was ushered to my quarters, as regal to a Meadrow tavern boy as those stables were to Edam.

### Chapter Six

### At Home in Hertha's Hall

Remembering her knowledge of foreign horses, I felt comfortable choosing Trathnonan clothing. Lior had seen that many fine examples of Hjarrleth garb were included in the spacious trunks, but the cut of Brek clothing had suited me from the first night I had worn it, and there was something comforting in the familiarity. But even my wardrobe in Brek did not compare with what Lior had organized.

I finally settled on a shirt of startlingly white silk, with trousers of jet black linen and suede. My waistcoat was burgundy silk brocade with buttons of silver, and I wore belt and shoes of glossy black leather, with buckle and fittings of the same metal. A jacket of black suede lined with matching silk rounded out the costume, and, fully dressed, I stood in front of a flawless wall mirror of silver and glass, scrutinizing every hang and hem. I must admit that Sigmund's strange concoction had left me in a most fastidious frame of mind, but the whole operation took less time than one might expect, for Lior's man had fitted the garments perfectly.

For the second time that day I combed my hair with a scented comb, and decided against tying it back. Instead, I tucked the mane behind my ears, and felt myself ready to mix with rarefied company.

From beyond my reflection, I saw Lambek, wrapped in a towel with sodden hair, his face contorted in the kind of mischievous smirk I had come to recognize well.

"If I may say, Lord Onidai, you seem oddly at ease, assuming the habits of women. First the shoes, then the cloak, and now there you stand, fussing with your hair in front of a mirror. If you'd rather dress in character, I'm sure Maekara has a gown you can borrow."

I had grown accustomed to his insubordinate manner, and, like Lior, I encouraged it.

"Harsh words from a man so at ease standing half-naked in front of another man. Perhaps you should borrow the gown yourself. She'd have to let it out, of course."

He laughed through his nose, and was on the verge of some witty rejoinder when he retreated at the sound of a knock at the door. Groom, indeed! I answered the door myself, to find a young Hjarrleth girl of about fifteen. She was of the slender, flaxen-haired type, clothed in household livery, and the self-possessed expression common to all young girls vanished completely the moment she met my eyes. She was not much more than a year younger than I, and the sight of her sudden shyness gave me great pleasure. Apparently, I had chosen my clothing well. She cleared her throat before speaking, but cast her eyes to the floor.

Finally, I understood the pleasure that beautiful women seem to take in the timid misery of young men. It is a shallow pleasure, and though it inspired much loathing in the time preceding my sixteenth year, I did not hesitate to enjoy the reversal.

"The Lady of the House awaits your pleasure, Lord Onidai."

Suddenly bold, I raised her head with the gentle suggestion of my finger beneath her chin. When her eyes met mine, I smiled warmly.

"Much better. Hjarrleth eyes do not lend themselves to bashfulness. You need not fear me. Your name?"

"Una, my lord."

"Very well, Una, I am ready now. You may lead me anywhere you like."

Her entire body seemed to blush all at once, and her mouth curled into an involuntary grin. I followed her with deep satisfaction.

The dining room—though perhaps dining hall would be a more fitting description—took up the height of two floors, and was illuminated by hanging chandelier, brazen sconce, and silver stand through the light of hundreds of white beeswax candles. In the land of kvejka mead vapor, I suppose beeswax was in no small supply. The floor was covered by an intricate Viharthian carpet, the pattern a triumph of black, white, and gold.

The table was of middling size and round, carved from some exotic wood, almost completely black, and the five settings had been evenly spaced. From the corridor beyond the open hall, I caught the tantalizing scents of spices and roasting meats.

The kindling in the hearth was set to burn low, and on the mantle nearly two dozen billowing censers added the alluring haze of aromatic smoke to an already warm and comfortable scene. No light shone through the tall, narrow windows, but I saw at once that they had been stained, the panes alternating dark blue, burgundy, and red-gold.

Una introduced me and took her leave, but not before looking back, and the sight of her blushing was not lost on the beautiful Hertha.

"You have an impressive effect on my servants. I have known her to keep us waiting far longer."

"In a house of all female servants I am not surprised. I'm not complaining, you understand. After today's disappointing events, my pride can use all the bolstering a blushing girl can manage."

She introduced me to her household, and to my surprise I discovered that all three women were her daughters. The oldest, a brunette in a gown of burgundy, was approaching her twenty-seventh year, and had chosen to spend the evening away from her husband. Her name was Helga, and she was by far the most entertaining of the three. She made no effort to flirt, and so our conversations were as lively and comfortable as they had been with her mother.

Hilde, not yet in her mid-twenties, was dressed in pale yellow. She had deep hazel eyes, a long, wavy head of bright red hair, and an even, creamy complexion. She was very pleasant to look at, but lewd in the extreme in word and mannerism. Her dialogue became increasingly suggestive with every sip of wine, and her need for attention smacked of desperation, for in spite of her comeliness and apparent breeding, she was yet unmarried. Considering the lack of guile apparent in the words of her brazen tongue, I could well understand the trepidation of her potential suitors—it is possible that even the mighty Hjarrleth are afraid of something.

The youngest, Tyra, wore a gown of dazzling white. She was perhaps a year older than I, but it was impossible to discern her exact age through sight alone, for like her mother she had been blessed with the gift of apparent agelessness; of their similarities, that was first and last. She was tall, even for a woman of Sangholm, fully capable of meeting me eye to eye as we spoke—and such eyes! They were a blue so pale that they were almost silver, and her hair was the perfect blend of yellow gold and pale flax, that it shimmered, but not without color. The healthy glow of her skin hinted at an active lifestyle, though it was not so dark as to suggest that she had ever labored beneath the sun.

She had muscle, and that I could see plainly, but it was well hidden beneath the gentle curves of womanhood that she possessed in perfect proportion. Her ample bosom stood proudly erect without any apparent aid, and the weight was such that far more than silk would have been needed to attempt such an illusion.

Tyra's lips were colored naturally in that shade of pink suited perfectly to fair-haired women, and when she laughed, she revealed the flawless pearls behind them. But in spite of her height, hidden strength, and bold character, her face was so perfectly dainty that no man could doubt that he stood in the presence of an ideally molded female form. When boldness took her, her stature suited her well, though her youthful appearance and astounding beauty granted her the ability to succeed in a more submissive role, as well.

In the first few moments of introduction, I knew that both Hilde and Tyra were vying for my attention, though Tyra won the contest with little effort, perhaps hinting at the source of the older sister's fate. If a young man could afford to wait, who wouldn't prefer to vie for Tyra's hand?

I knew that Hjarrleth women took no pains to hide their sexuality—though neither do they behave as strumpets. When a man catches the eye, they do not hesitate to make their interest clear. None are judged for the exercise of what is considered a healthy and natural instinct, and most unmarried women copulate openly with unmarried men without shame, so long as steps are taken to prevent pregnancy.

And so, it was with a shallow regret that I ignored the advances of both young women—gentle flirtation from the younger, and blatant sexual imagery from the older—for while I knew that Brenna would feel no jealousy, should she learn of my exploits, I had no doubt that Rowan would be scandalized by the very thought. Tahlrenic women are the polar opposites of their Hjarrleth counterparts, being both virtuous before marriage and faithful when wed.

In truth, I had only yielded to Brenna's advances as the continuation of a drunken error in judgment. Had I been sober, my thoughts of Rowan would have kept Brenna from my bed. Of course, if the High Priestess had not accepted my answer, I have no doubt that she would have taken advantage of my natural male response, for how could I, then an untested boy, have held off an athletic and insatiable warrior, had she no ear for my refusal?

In any case, Brenna had been my closest friend, and I trusted in her discretion. Ours had been a complex relationship, born of shared dangers and the common ground of entrapment and loneliness; sex was nothing more than a release, and, oddly enough, our friendship had grown as a result.

My decision made, I ignored their advances, and adopted the practice championed by Lior: I played the fool, and it worked perfectly. I saw their wheels turning as I botched advance after advance, often asking them to explain the meaning of a thinly veiled innuendo, or the punch line of a lewd jest. I found that night that the effects of the Hilyrtrotha had saved me from mishap, permitting me to hear their words without betraying my understanding of their meaning, while the anti-anxiety additive kept me from blushing and perspiration.

Perhaps they thought that my youth had been totally dominated by other pursuits, or that I had been unmanned in some bloody conflict, but their advances lessened as time went on—Hilde's continued only as the result of drunken forgetfulness, and lessened with each embarrassing reminder of my sad inability to understand.

In spite of the conversational difficulties, I thoroughly enjoyed the meal, which was sumptuous even by the standards I had known in Brek. Each course was small, less than a dozen mouthfuls, and I had to follow the example of my hostess in order to know how thoroughly to indulge. In some cases, I could not help myself, as I found each course more delicious than the last.

We began with a soup of center-cut beef, diced thin in a base of red wine and spiced broth, and followed with a small salad made entirely from flower petals and thinly cut carrots and watercress. There were ten courses in all, alternating from meaty to totally vegetarian, and the length of preparation and ritualized service permitted plenty of time for conversation—a clever provision for the development of table manners, and an excellent way to prolong the most social of household activities.

The beverages had changed with each new course, red or white wine with meat dishes, and different varieties of beer with each vegetarian course. The fourth course—a hot concoction of cream and butter blended with mashed root vegetables and spices—was paired with the finest Meadrow barley brew. We finished with a dessert made from an iced blend of unsweetened preserves and the purest kvejka honey; it must have been laboriously mixed and thoroughly chilled, for it was nearly solid, and though it looked rather like stirred permafrost, it was delicious; the perfect note to end a perfect meal. When Hertha saw my appreciation of the dessert, she offered casually that the honey was harvested only by the light of the summer's second full moon, as were the berries, and both were gathered from the wide, empty fields west of her villa, where wildflowers and berry bushes grew in land long untouched by plow or seed-corn.

After dessert, the steward—or stewardess, for I had been informed that the household contained only female servants—brought five narrow, fluted glasses of Viharthian wine vapor, the most expensive trade item upon Foundation. The purpose, of course, was the prolonging of conversation, though Hertha swore it was simply an attempt to settle the stomach after a long meal. She admitted to a distaste for kvejka mead vapor, the prevailing digestif in Sangholm, though it seemed to me that she was taking careful advantage of every opportunity to display her apparently limitless wealth.

My dose of Hilyrtrotha had granted me an enhanced ability to separate what I heard from what the speaker had shown, in act and expression alike, and I had noticed Hertha's tendency to belittle her own obvious wealth, even as she made every attempt to make her status known. I had spoken earlier in the evening to Lior, of the tendency of mothers to 'show-off their creations', and to a mother there could be no wealth greater than a gaggle of beautiful daughters.

Throughout the meal, I felt that she was trying to communicate something, though she attempted it only with display and behavior. She was not asserting dominance, as any woman, regardless of means is capable of that simple maneuver; though few can manage it without dramatic outburst. The most skilled manipulators among women can totally dominate their marks without a single derisive word—they ingratiate themselves and flatter, bring them in close, even showing a bit of vulnerability to encourage trust. Hertha had done none of those things.

In fact, I had dominated most of the conversation, in response to Hertha's continued persistence. They wished to know of my adventures, and to the Hjarrleth the only credible accounts come from witnesses or key players—second-hand information is given no more credibility than that of an overly inflated tale. I remained vague in places, for I did not know what Lior had volunteered at Harkona prior to my arrival, though his poetic boast had certainly hinted at some very impressive lies.

They asked nothing of my early life, so I knew immediately that they were aware of my humble beginnings—in Sangholm, the greatest heroes are born into poor circumstances. Rorik himself had been the youngest son of mixed parents, and though they were both of noble blood, the birth had been illegitimate. He had earned his position as a war-leader of note long before the Hjarrleth accounting of adulthood, and when his father and half-brothers were slain during a tribal feud, he was granted the position of chieftain by merit.

Such were the circumstances of many tales, and even the fictional heroes of Hjarrleth song were almost always born to shame and hardship, perhaps to accentuate their rise to glory. In such tales, a noble hero is the product of breeding and training, where a 'natural hero' must rise above the lack of both. These facts, paired with Hertha's seeming encouragement of the advances of her unwed daughters, were ample evidence that they felt no shame in my company. What, then, was she trying to tell me?

Shortly after I had finished recounting the adventure of Eagle's Clearing, a tale greatly appreciated by my audience, Una approached to inform us that the evening's entertainment had arrived. I followed the ladies to the corridor, and was led to a large, domed, circular room, covered wall and ceiling with gray enameled tile. Whether stone or ceramic, I could not tell, but the light of numerous sconces and a single, central hanging reflected upon the glazing, so that it appeared as if we were standing in the center of a million-faceted jewel.

The burgundy carpet was thin, a provision to improve the acoustics, and the far quarter of that circular room was lined with three rows of thick and comfortable seating, each rising two full handspans above that in front—this was a private amphitheater, and, regardless of their wealth, I decided the Hjarrgoths must have been great lovers of art, to have made such alterations to their home for nothing more than the opportunity to sit in quiet appreciation of a skilled voice or well-written story.

At the other end, a raised dais five paces in width was centered by an even higher platform, covered by a thick crimson cloth. At either side of the platform, tall braziers burned steadily, fed by a mixture of costly oil and mead vapor. The concoction burned without smoke of any kind, and I was told that this was crucial for the illumination of any performance. Smoke is not the friend of any bard.

Una ushered me to the center of the second row, even as the ladies took their seats in the center of the first. When I offered a quizzical look to Hertha, she responded with an easy grace.

"To sit isolated is the privilege of honored guests—an attempt to free them from distracting conversation. In this house it is both fitting and necessary, if I am any judge of my daughters."

Una disappeared briefly, and returned with tall steaming glass vessels filled with a tea of aromatic herbs, grasses, and tart berries, all bundled in such a way that they never rose to the surface, and it was evident after the first sip that the water had been liberally augmented with strong vapor. Una explained that the herbs would serve to sharpen my mind and ward off drowsiness after a large meal. I thanked her with a husky tone and a smile, and the wink that followed sent her away with that bodily blush I had come to enjoy.

A gaily dressed and clean-shaven Hjarrleth man took the stage, to be followed by eight musicians. A half-dozen servants rushed to snuff out most of the candles, and all at once the man began to sing. It was a lively song of welcome in the Hjarrleth tongue; Boers had once regaled Lior, Sigmund, and myself with that very piece.

Next was the telling of riddles, which I enjoyed thoroughly, and each was original, composed by that particular troupe of artists so that none would know the answers in advance. We were to shout the answers from our seats—a sort of one-sided contest. The wine, good meal, Hilyrtrotha, and Una's steaming concoction had left me relaxed, brilliant, and of flexible mind and tongue; the ladies up front never stood a chance.

"Dark as light,

Cool at noon,

Black as bright,

Shunned by moon."

"The Shade!"

I shouted the answer the moment his rhyme had finished.

"Found by sight,

Marked by feather,

Stopped by flight,

Saved by weather."

"A Beast in the Hunt!"

The third time, he had not yet truly finished before an answer was offered.

"Asleep by night,

By dawn awake,

Beloved sight,

Of ancient rake."

Hilde answered that one on her own.

Incorrectly. Autumnal Gardener was the correct answer, and though she tried to appear embarrassed, she was immune to blushing—her own immunity inborn. A dozen or so further riddles followed, and I answered most of them myself. I couldn't tell if the ladies were letting me win, though I was having so much fun I didn't care at all.

The real entertainment of the evening took the form of song. It was the third act of an epic, much-loved by the Hjarrleth, and in time it had been translated to the languages of all the Banners.

Hroaldssaga was a tale of great adventure and greater love. The story's namesake was an adventurer born of a humble house, much-hated, for his great-grandmother had been suspected of witchcraft. His beloved, Trinhe, a woman of high station, was beyond him, and so he built a ship. He recruited twelve of his cousins to venture into ancient Tulakal, and with a sail of crudely stitched hides they made their way south.

From misadventure to misadventure the cousins fought against huge beasts, ancient monsters, and giant savages (a long-held belief of a more ignorant time), and nine died, leaving the four poorer in number, but far stronger and more experienced. They found riches aplenty in Tulakal, in gemstones, ancient tomes and devices, and even gold, silver, and that great rarity of Kenalkan weaponry. For years they plundered the ruins, and learned many ancient secrets, and when they grew to fear the weight of their accumulated wealth even more than the dangers of the wilderness, they agreed to make their way home.

When they came upon another party in the midst of their return journey, they inquired of recent happenings at home, and learned that Trinhe had been bitten by a viper of ancient repute (mythological, of course). Its bite left the victim ill for more than a year, but none had ever survived much longer.

Naturally, Hroald had acquired the recipe to an ancient Kenalkan remedy, but with little more than a month remaining before the certainty of Trinhe's death, he turned to desperation. That night, while the others slept, he used the ancient sorcery of his bloodline to conjure the spirits of the dead. He consulted the shades of the Wise Kenalka themselves, who told him that the fastest way home was 'as the path of the eagle'.

By the second hour of entertainment, as Hroald was working to enchant the sails of a Kenalkan flying ship, I felt a sudden warmth in the area of my nethers. It was a pleasant gripping, at obvious purpose, and when I turned, I saw that Hilde had seated herself beside me. The half-empty mug in my right hand, I could not easily remove her own, and I was fearful of attempting the maneuver with my left hand, for when I looked down I saw that none of the women had taken notice: a circumstance I had no wish to alter. Hilde's eyes were on the performance, and with her arm obscured by Helga, who sat staggered between us in the front row, the performers had not seemed to notice, either.

For a moment I simply sat there, fighting for mastery of my racing thoughts against the skilled and gentle ministrations of Hilde's agile hand. I had to stop her, that was certain, but I could not—not without making it known that my dull wit had not been the reason for my presumed lack of interest. The elixir had sharpened my mind too much, leaving me indecisive, hesitant in the knowledge of so many minute implications. Finally, aware that I would have to stop her before the crucial moment, I was preparing to politely remove her hand (with some whispered and hurried explanation), when she stopped of her own volition. Perhaps she possessed impressive skill indeed, for she had stopped not a moment too soon.

She rose very quietly, moved to the end of the row, and slipped into her original seat. Her family did not even flinch. All eyes were on Hroald. At the end of the third act, his voice reverberating upon the smooth facets of that high dome, he professed his love to Trinhe in perfect meter as his ancient flying ship plummeted to the ground, just south of the border of Sangholm. The music stopped, and the ladies rose to applaud. I did the same without fear—Hroald's imminent demise had served as just the distraction I needed. The singer and musicians bowed, took their leave, and Hertha turned to me. Luckily, she mentioned nothing of either performance.

"Well then, what say you ladies: to the baths?"

They nodded as one in agreement.

"It is the custom, even among commoners, to adjourn to the sauna, sweating off the day's encrusted dirt over hot stones and lively gossip. We find the practice even more charming in a proper facility. Would you care to join us? Perhaps our masseuse can rid your back of all those weeks of burdened travel."

That 'proper facility', was a fully equipped Viharthian bathhouse, though I came to learn in later years that few Viharthians tended their socialized ablutions in such an opulent setting. In spite of the elixir's great power, I had ridden beneath the sun in heavy bronze—alone, and in a foreign land—not an ordeal entirely free of perspiration, even in springtime. In addition, I was half-drunk, and energized by two separate Hjarrleth concoctions; curiosity reigned in absence of caution or foresight, and I accepted without hesitation.

On entry, I found that it was far more luxurious than I had expected, and almost instantly I found cause for relief—apparently, it is the custom for mingling genders to cover themselves. Men wear a simple loin-wrap, and women cover themselves upward with a simple horizontal garment, in appearance nothing more than a length of linen, tied in the back.

The ladies leapt into the center pool immediately, a long, narrow depression cut into the stone of the floor, with smooth stone walls and a flat bottom. The entire surface of the center pool was wreathed in gently rising banks of warm steam, and it looked very inviting. They beckoned for me to follow, but I declined, pleading a sore back (it was true), and I made my way to the masseuse's station in an enclosed alcove at the rear of the chamber.

The celestial creature at work on my back was named Irma, a handsome woman in her mid-thirties, and though she lacked L'mah's stature, she was nearly her match in strength. She worked my back and shoulders without restraint, and though the pressure was painful at first, it grew more pleasurable with each measured squeeze. My neck, shoulders, back, thighs, calves, and even feet were carefully and thoroughly worked to complete relaxation. The operation took over an hour, and when I returned to the main chamber, after thanking the masseuse profusely, I found it entirely vacant. Even Irma had chosen to retire; I had seen her leave through one of the service doors, so with a sigh of relief I turned to the so-called sauna, a room indicated by Hertha on entry.

In truth, it was more steam room than sauna, for though it was comfortably warm, the hot clouds did not rise through the pouring of water on heated rocks, but issued instead through tiny holes cut between the tiles. A galvanized bronze lever at the entry adjusted the flow of the steam, and I turned it up full, filling the room almost instantly with a cloud so thick that I could barely see the door. At halfway, the room maintained its cloud without further heat, and I lingered there until I had soaked my wrap in sweat and condensation.

To my surprise, turning the lever down fully not only stopped the issue of steam, but opened vents in the ceiling, that the cloud escaped in an instant. The shock of the comparatively cool air outside inspired a quick dip in the center pool, but not before ridding my skin of the toll of recent adventures.

Hertha had accumulated nearly every soap and unguent used on Foundation on a stone shelf at the far end of the chamber, and I recognized the three flasks of Trathnonan hygiene almost instantly. Still wet from condensation, I applied the unguents of the blue and red flasks on the spot. Freed from prying eyes, I discarded my loin wrap, and when my hair and body were covered in rich lather, I carried the white flask to the edge of the steaming water.

I leapt in, and found that it was deep, for I fell nowhere near the bottom. The water was at just the right temperature, pleasantly hot, but not at all unbearable, and I swam backwards and forwards, using the motion of my body to work off the foam.

When I emerged, I took the white flask, massaged the creamy substance into my hair and scalp, and resolved by way of rinsing to test the bottom of that pool. Diving with a deep breath, I discovered that the pool was more than half again the length of my body, and when I touched the smooth surface, crafted almost seamlessly of dark green marble, I heard a dull splash far above my head. The balance of my breath nearly spent, I made for the surface to investigate the source of the sound, shaking my head as I did to clear it of Trathnonan cream.

Breaking the surface, I gasped, turning in all directions, but saw no one. The white bottle had not fallen from its place at the edge of the pool, and the chamber was still empty. It was then that I saw something at the opposite end—two tiny piles of sodden cloth.

Hearing a sudden splash behind me I leapt in shock, but before I could react I felt smooth, water-slick arms span my waist beneath the surface of the water. A warm body pressed against my back, and the heat of the pool was evidence that two points of firm contact were not the result of a sudden chill. A husky voice sounded directly in my ear, hissing reassurance even as she flicked at my lobe with her tongue and nibbled playfully.

"Do not worry, they are abed. I would join you in yours, if not for those pesky grooms."

She twined one arm about my neck and grasped at the opposite shoulder, resuming previously interrupted efforts with her free hand. The sensation was warmly familiar. In one smooth motion she spun herself around me, locking her legs around my midriff, and, secure in the knowledge that we would not be interrupted, I was fully prepared to submit to her advances.

It was the sudden sight of her darkened, waterlogged hair that put an end to that encounter, for it reminded me of another shade of deep red, and the innocent, perfect girl that belonged to it. I shook my head in a resolute negative, and grasped her hips in my hands to prevent her descent. Memory had acted in my favor not a moment too soon, for she had been raising herself against me, and if I had hesitated for the space of a single heartbeat, I would have been too late.

"I am sorry, Hilde, but I cannot. You are very beautiful, but I am tired from weeks of travel. I stripped off my clothing only to bathe—I'm afraid you have misjudged my intentions."

She shook her head in protest with a knowing smile. Perhaps it is the way of Hjarrleth men to play hard-to-get. She gripped my sodden hair in her hand, and tried to kiss me with an open mouth. My hands employed in preventing a more ruinous activity, I could only turn my head, so that she ended by licking my cheek. Finally, I leaned forward, kicking my feet, and unhooked her legs. She laughed at first, but as I made for the stairway at the shallow end, she followed.

"Where were your protests tonight? My hand was equally bold then, and in far greater company."

"What was I to do, Hilde, stand up, shout some Hjarrleth obscenity, and ruin the evening with a vulgar display? Or did you want your family to hear my rejection? I could do nothing without someone taking notice. Do not be offended, but I cannot be of service to you—not in that capacity. I apologize for leading you on, but you have my answer."

For her part, she took it well, though I doubt she had ever faced a similar rejection. If not for the sight of her sodden hair, which had assumed the darker shade of Rowan's auburn tresses, I might have been an easier target. If Tyra had surprised me...or even her mother—I was grateful that that had not been the case. Dark and blond hair would not have offered the same reminder.

Dry and clothed, I retraced my steps, but soon fell to the mishap suffered by all low-born people in such surroundings; I was lost in a tangle of corridors more confusing than the Vithrauth. How had Hertha intended for me to return to my own quarters? I knew that my suite of rooms was on the third floor, and that the staircase was carpeted in a fabric of very dark green, but to my dismay, most of the lights had been extinguished, leaving only the hearths and hanging candles to light my way. Without proper illumination, I had no way of discerning the difference between a dark green and a black or a dark blue.

That army of comely servants was nowhere to be found.

Eventually, I found a staircase that I thought familiar, and climbed four flights without a sound. Those ancient timbers had been well-dried and sealed against warping, for not a creak announced my ascent. I knew almost immediately that I was not in the right corner of the house, for the walls were plain plaster, totally unadorned, and the corridor was narrow, the floor rough and unpolished.

As I made to retreat to the main floor, I heard crying just down the hall, and saw there a dim light under a door only a few paces ahead. Still bound by curiosity in absence of reason, I crept to the source of the sound. Through the wide keyhole I saw a girl in the livery of a house servant, and she was weeping convulsively into her pillow. Her lean flaxen form reminded me instantly of sweet Grid, and as I have written, I cannot abide the sound of a young girl crying.

Yet I could not be seen in that part of the house, and so I beat a hasty but silent retreat. Cowardice did not halter curiosity, and as I wandered the ground floor in search of familiar territory, I pondered the reason any young girl would have for weeping while under the employ of such kind and interesting people.

Hertha and her daughters had been more than amiable, and not only to myself, but to all of their women as well. Truly, they had shown far more consideration for their servants than I had seen even with kindly Halga of the Laufgandr Clan. Finally, I resolved that it was not my business, and remembered that girls of that one's apparent age were given often to displays of emotion. I put it out of my mind.

At last my wanderings ceased when I came upon a servant in her late sixties. She was surprised beyond all measure to see me up and about, and perhaps her surprise might even be considered disproportionate. She guided me without pause to the foot of my rightful stairwell, and I kissed her hand in thanks. The old maid dimpled and blushed, which surprised me. It is strange to think now that I had not considered the elderly capable of blushing, and yet perhaps it is only a lack of surprises, among those who have seen much, that prevents it.

Maekara was awake when I arrived. My travel clothes had been washed, then hung out to dry, and Sequiduris and Sheath had been buckled to a rear post of my bed frame. As I made preparations to retire, my Ashad groom informed me that they had been given explicit orders.

"We are to be Priest and Priestess, and these chambers our high wall. By day the chisel, by night the bow. You and Sequiduris the people, and your bed chamber divided Brek and Ashad. Sleep well, and drink."

I almost laughed at her, but then thought better of it. Her words were clearly rehearsed, but it appeared that she thought the duty of protecting my person a high honor. Lambek had not been so moved. Master like unto man, he had been mercurial and irreverent. And so, mistress like unto maiden, Maekara was formal, direct and disciplined. The 'drink' was hidden within another phial, this of blackened glass. I accepted it and sniffed at the contents. Bitter. I winced, and was about to excuse myself from the nuisance of tunnel-vision and over-analysis, when Maekara halted my protests with an upraised hand.

"It is not the same as the other. This is a sleeping draught. It is a common enough recipe, used by many Banners, including my own. His Eminence was concerned that you had taken the other drink too late in the day. He wishes that you rest well, though I cannot think that you would fail to do so—I have seen the bed. After weeks of resting in the trees, a fine thick mattress is a sleeping draught unto itself."

I drank it, even as she spoke, and retired at once. It was late, nearly midnight, though I did not imagine that I would sleep, even on a thick down mattress, with bedclothes of soft Tahlrenic wool and Viharthian silk, for the effects of that first phial were still hot in my veins.

I was wrong.

* * *

The effects of the sleeping draught did not diminish the influence of the Hilyrtrotha. The two substances mingled as I slept, and the resulting dreams were of a type I had never experienced. In the time of my youth, I did not believe in prophecy, portent, or omen—most of those early years had been spent with the worries of wild animals; I had feared predation and a lack of food and shelter, and had neither the mind nor the comfortable life needed for the comprehension of such intangibles. And for that, I have ever been thankful.

I was dressed as Hroald, and flew through the air in a smaller version of his storied ship—mine was not much larger than a rowboat, and yet it moved with great speed. Sequiduris did not rattle at my hip, and in its place I held a long-hafted war axe; it was apparently of Kenalkan make, for its head was of the same three-metal construction as Rorik's Sword, and the configuration of the blade was foreign to my eyes. When I looked down, I saw that my armor was crystalline in appearance, that I could see the clothes beneath—my garb matched that of the Hjarrleth performer perfectly.

My ship flew without rudder or helmsman, and though the sheet above was pushed fully forward, there could not have been any wind, for the black, acrid, billowing plumes ahead rose directly skyward as evidence of the day's calm. Below, in the midst of a green, hilly countryside, I saw the destruction of an entire population. There were no bodies, but every home smoldered in ruins.

My ship sailed ever forward, until at last it landed gently upon a low hill. My goal was just ahead, and that I was on a mission of great import, there could be no doubt. At my belt, I felt the solid weight of crystalline vessels in a narrow pouch, and from my pack I could smell the mingling aromas of a vast array of pungent sprigs and berries.

My destination, the only undamaged home I had yet seen, was hidden within the valley below, no more than one hundred paces from my resting vessel. I ran for it, my Kenalkan armor light as a feather, and I held my axe in one hand, barely aware of its powerful bulk.

The interior was well-lit, and I searched high and low, but to no avail. Finally, I found her among the rafters of the attic. There, upon a sick bed, little more than a soiled sheet upon the rough floor, lay Rowan, my far-flung love of Tahlrene.

She was dead. I knew it the moment I pressed my hand against her pallid cheek, and I roared in the voice of a man far hardier than I, and wept and bellowed over the still form of the woman I had failed. She had saved me, with only the speed of her own sturdy horses and Lior as a guide, but I had been too absorbed in self and glory to fly to her rescue in time. Even with the aid of Kenalkan magic, I had failed.

Her neck had been pierced by pinpoints, and the discoloration of the wound confirmed my greatest fear. It had been the serpent—but such fangs! They were spaced apart vertically, from a point behind her shoulder, to a place just beneath the lobe of her left ear. And yet the wound had not been instantly fatal, for the news had reported her only abed—dying but not dead.

It was then that I heard a hissing from outside—an even, mechanical release amidst a deep, earth-trembling rumble. Something terrible was approaching.

From a narrow window at the second story, I looked down—and then up. Serpent it was, but immense, formed from joints of dull gray iron, and every hiss released plumes of steam. Heavy, and yet it was fast, for it slithered along at terrific speed, stooping down to peer within charred ruins, then hurrying along to the next, leaving deep furrows in the ground at its passing.

Its eyes glowed a fiery orange-white, and when it opened its mouth, I saw the dripping of venom from arm-long fangs, tapered to the point as needles. It found my ship and inspected it, flicking a tongue of metallic cable and splintering the planks of the hull, ripping to shreds the magical sail that had carried me through the air. It rose, its inspection complete, and with a single breath it wreathed the wondrous craft in flame.

It flicked its tongue again, filling the air with sparks as it returned to that horrific maw. And then it found the house. It stared for long moments, then appeared to turn away. I fumed, so that steam almost billowed from my own nostrils—it had been in Rowan's home already, and felt no need to search.

I shattered the window with the haft of my axe, stepped boldly onto the frame and roared, the sound more that of a great bear than any man. The creature turned, hissed sharply, flicked its tongue twice and made directly for me. I turned into the house, walking the full width of the room, then spun about and charged for the open air. Kicking off from the sill I flew as my ruined vessel, and felt my axe fly forward, even as the snake lunged to take me for its meal.

I did not leap from the sheets, as one might expect, and perhaps I have the sleeping draught to thank for that. Indeed, my body was slow to respond to any command. My legs were weak, and my mouth dry, while my eyes were crusted almost completely shut. With effort, I was able to rise, and I opened the door to the day room to find Lambek lounging about in soft linens, chomping at an apple and reading from a narrow volume bound with thick leather—in fact, it may have been the same as that which Hod had been reading half-heartedly, but I didn't think to ask. When he saw me, he made no effort to rise.

"Awake at last. I was just about to place a silver spoon beneath your nose. Even so, I doubt you could fog a thimble."

"Yes, I can see that you were horribly concerned. Working hard, are we? I am glad at least to be protected by so vigilant a sentry."

My voice was hoarse, but he understood the balance of the wording. Without a syllable of his own, he raised a large towel from the floor at his side, to reveal the bare blades of a Trathnonan long sword and matching dagger. I cleared my throat roughly.

"So, accustomed to carrying your own luggage, are you? Or did you fear to burden these lovely women with such a surprising weight? Is Maekara so armed?"

"She is, though I doubt either of us will find the need of them. I hope not anyway. Such sweet young girls here. Too young for loving, but not for liking. And on that note, what did you say to sweet Una that so drained the girl of life? When she brought my lunch, she had the face of a woman ten years her senior."

"Nothing, Lambek. I said nothing. We exchanged not a single word of a personal nature last night. She is a sweet girl, and I treated her as such. Perhaps her mother is sick. Is there any more of that?"

He had been sipping something from a glazed ceramic cup, and I gripped my ravaged throat as I spoke. He chuckled under his breath and rose, walking to a table beneath the window. He filled another cup, and moved to the hearth while I drank. It was cool beer, flavored with honey and lemon, and I tipped the vessel, swallowing its contents in a narrow stream, letting it trickle down my throat to clear the soreness. Lambek walked by me with a large kettle of black iron, his hand protected by a cloth. He poured gently steaming water into a wide porcelain bowl behind me, and spoke while returning to the hearth.

"Wash that gunk from your eyes. I just ate!"

I did as he asked, even wetting my head and slicking back my hair. He had a clean towel ready when I finished, and I chafed myself dry.

"Just ate? Did you say something about lunch earlier? Wait, what time is it?"

He offered a shallow nod with closed lids, as if I had finally said the needful thing.

"Two hours after noon. Hertha sent word that I shouldn't wake you. She was right, too. Probably needed it. Your first real sleep in weeks, I'd wager, at least without bark for a mattress."

"I think it had more to do with that foul stuff Maekara force-fed me last night. Did Hertha send any other word?"

"Only that your lunch will be ready the moment you are fit to receive it. Poor Una looked like she could use a break, so I arranged to keep her near, so she could bring your food. Truth is, she needed some time to herself."

"Nice bit of thinking, comparatively speaking, of course. You aren't such a bad groom, after all. Have you dressing in livery in no time."

He stuck his tongue out and blew a wet fricative, and I laughed in spite of myself.

"While I have you here, you'd better read this. Brought by raven, not hawk. Quieter that way, and it can be done at night. The messengers of Sigmund's people. Works rather well, or so Maekara says."

He held out a thin parchment, pinned to a wooden board, and a large concave lens of crystal, rimmed in brass. I had seen the magnifier in use by Lior, and the device was a necessity, for the hawkers had to write their messages small.

-To Ralph

Well met! Lior has spoken of your grand entrance, and told an even grander tale of your exploits in the Vithrauth. My thanks for the tidings of Stjarsla. You were in the Munbeorg? I will want to hear it all from your own voice when next we meet, though I do not yet know when I shall be permitted to cast my gaze upon Hroaht—or my sister.

You have found our borders in the midst of strange days, and I fear that no attempt of mine will glean any knowledge that might aid your cause. Look to Hertha, and even to her daughters and serving women, for I fear that even the commoners are better informed than my people. Send word to me as you can, and I will do as I may to aid you.

I sent three ravens to deliver this message, two with the parchment, and a third with a gift to aid in your cause. Hukinn is our largest, and the pride of our rookery. Only he could be trusted with such a valuable weight. If he arrived safely, he bore with him two further doses of my forefather's Hjarrleth medicine. Use it wisely, for little remains, and the next batch will not be viable for many years.

When next you meet Lior, he will carry with him that which you sought to return to my hand. You will have need of it again, and this at least I know—if my mother received you with a cold heart, and sought the death of the Kromjan for her first trial, she is out to end your life. I know not why, but be warned—she will find reason to send you again into the forest, and on a trial more hazardous even than the first.

Rorik to your arm; Vodn to your mind.

-Sigmund

-Postscript

Worry not for Lior's vow. He was sworn to silence. I was not.

Never had I received any such communication from Sigmund, and yet from the boldness and forthright manner of the writing, I knew that it could not have been written by anyone else. Lambek spoke into my thoughts.

"We have the medicine hidden nearby, so whenever you're ready for it, just say the word. In the meantime, do you have any message to send in return?"

"Can you write so small, Lambek? Your hands do not appear so dainty as those that scribbled this."

I shook the thin board, and he smiled back, unperturbed.

"Started as a hawker at fifteen. Not a bad job, if you like birds. I prefer them declawed and slow-roasted, so I ended up as a soldier, instead."

He laughed by himself, for my thoughts were elsewhere.

"Write only that I am well, and inquire of Hertha and her daughters. They were kind, and more than attentive, but something was—off, last night. It's hard to explain, and maybe it's nothing, but I felt strongly that the Lady of the House was trying to tell me something—something that she couldn't say, outright."

"You want me to tell Sigmund that she talks without speaking? Might be a bit confusing, Ralphie. Especially for him."

"Just ask about Hertha and her daughters. Their character; should I be cautious during my stay, or should I treat them as friends? Got that?"

He nodded his head, and made to start writing, but I stopped him.

"You can do that later. First, call for Una. My stomach feels like an old leather sack, turned inside out and left in the rain. I think I could do with some lunch."

Una arrived moments after Lambek informed her of my hunger, and when he answered the door, she swept in with the brightest countenance I had ever seen in a girl of her age.

"Well, Una, those dainty feet must have been fitted with wings. To what do I owe such rapid service? And to whom do you owe that warm grin?"

She closed her mouth against the force of her smile, humming a negative under her breath as she moved to clear a table in the center of the room. I looked to Lambek, and mouthed the word 'unhappy'. He shrugged and returned to his book.

Una waited by the seat she had expected me to take, and when I sat, she draped a large napkin over my lap. Apparently, service in courses was a common practice in the Hjarrgoth estate. For lunch, there were five courses, all small to moderate in size, and, as always, they ranged from meaty to vegetarian, a practice I later learned grants the diner the option of eating light. I ate slowly, allowing conversation to prolong the meal.

"Are the ladies of the house well today, Una?"

"They are, Lord Onidai."

The terse answer should not be misconstrued as that of an unhappy person—she still appeared fit to burst.

"I ask only because I slept longer than I can ever remember. I did not wish them to worry."

"My Lady Hertha sent word to let you sleep, great thane, but that was some hours ago. She set out for Harkona at midmorning, and the ladies Hilde and Tyra went with her. I do not know when they will return—I was told only that you should take your dinner here, if they have not returned by early evening."

"So, I'm a prisoner then? I was afraid of that. Guest was the Matriarch's kindly way of keeping me chained until she requires my presence. Very well, I suppose there are less pleasant cages—"

"No, no! My apologies, Lord Onidai—you are not a prisoner, but a guest. The servants were gathered before the ladies left. You are to be treated as a member of the household. You may go where you please, so long as you stay within the walls of the estate. Is there somewhere you wish to go this afternoon?"

"Now that you mention it, I could use a bath—Una, are you alright?"

The girl had blushed in a way I thought unhealthy. Her body had assumed an almost purplish tint, and I leapt to my feet, in fear that she might faint. She did not, and pleaded a poor night's sleep.

Una led me to the baths, and, as I had been appointed an honorary member of the household, I felt it within my rights to give her special instructions for the day. She was to spend the next hour at her own devices, then return to give me a proper tour of the house. Sigmund had suggested that even the servants might possess valuable information, and besides, I liked Una, and it seemed to me that she might profit from a day free of her normal duties. When I told her of my designs she blushed in that same appealing way, all teeth and dimples—I feared that she might suddenly giggle, though truly, I had no intention of leading her on.

The bathhouse was empty, and over a milder course of Irma's previous labors, she informed me that there was another, larger bathhouse for servants. She also confirmed Una's word of her mistress's sudden need to travel. After a half-hour of conversation, during which I made my humble early life apparent—I even told her of my father, but swore her to secrecy—I felt she could trust me, a fellow commoner, enough to speak earnestly about Hertha and her daughters. And yet, I earned not a scrap of information. Loyal or fearful, Irma was not one to speak of her mistress lightly.

I steamed briefly, bathed in the hot pool, swam from end to end of the long, rectangular tepid pool, then stood briefly in the svellskok, a frigid chamber built into the bathhouse so that it was positioned directly beneath the manor's spacious meat locker. The walls were thick, plastered many times, as was the stone door, and the only light came from a narrow oculus above, the same that permeated the cavernous larder. When I asked Una of the eyelet, she said that it concentrated the sun's light through bronze reflectors, so that the locker might be dimly lit, but not heated by the light, as it could only pass through, a bit of the illumination diffusing upon the floor while the concentrated light fell through.

Dressed in light but exquisite linens, I followed Una throughout that great mansion, stopping her with the gentle pressure of my hand on her shoulder at every interesting sight. Her hair was scented, and slightly wet, and her skin had that rosy glow of the recently scrubbed—I had not been the only one in the baths that hour. I kept our time informal, and though she still had not grown comfortable enough to join in, she laughed at my jests with what appeared to be a genuine appreciation.

When I had seen all that I wished of the house, we explored the grounds together. I visited Edam in the stables, and Una giggled gaily when he threw his muzzle around my shoulder in an equine embrace. The gardens were fragrant, budding early through the labors of two dozen gardeners, who aerated the soil and applied a shredded moss found only in the wilderness of Tulakal, ensuring bright blooms, even in an early spring.

On our return to the stables, we found them empty; I had suspected that we might, for the stable hands had been men, and the labor of men was in dire need throughout the estate. They had been finishing their work of mucking out the stalls and tending to the mounts during our earlier visit, and so I knew they would be doing the same among the lesser kine.

I had gathered apples and chopped carrots from a bin in the far corner, and I showed Una how to feed Edam with a flat hand. A glance at her beaming countenance was all I needed to determine that time spent freely about the grounds was a rarity, and also that she had spent even less time in the company of horses than she had with boys her own age.

The stables were spacious, with a wide, open floor between the long rows of stalls, and when Una confessed that she had never ridden, I insisted that we remedy that at once. She tried to excuse herself, fearing the smell and stains upon her pristine uniform, but I answered that Edam had been washed, and his saddle thoroughly cleaned, though not with any kind of oil. For every protest I had an answer, until finally she threw up her hands and surrendered with a laugh.

His saddle cinched, I freed the stirrups and retied them to hang from one side. I had grown in strength since my journey from Meadrow, that I had little trouble spanning her waist and hoisting her to a seated position, and she blushed pleasurably throughout the operation. I taught her the verbal commands, as reins are only used on Trathnonan horses in moments of extreme urgency, and for nearly an hour she circled the room. She giggled without restraint every time he moved at her bidding, and took so much pleasure in his quick and obedient responses that I became dizzy in the attempt to turn and follow her circuit.

When I felt she had gotten all the enjoyment she could from the experience, I spanned her waist again. Even with her safely on the ground, I held my hands against the firm flesh beneath her apron just a moment too long. She appeared very far away—starry-eyed—and I knew that she wanted me to kiss her, but in the most dramatic performance since Hroald's crash to Foundation, I shook my head violently, as if ridding myself of some sudden impulse.

I turned away to tend to Edam's saddle, and from the corner of my eye, I saw that she was smiling, but also that the look was no longer gay or innocent. She was finally ready to answer my questions, or would be, when the time was right.

"Do you remember earlier today, when I mentioned the bathhouse. I thought for a moment that you were going to faint."

She said nothing, but her grin had faded. I continued, unperturbed.

"Also, you should know that I got lost on the way to my chambers, last night. I couldn't find my way from the baths, and I climbed the wrong staircase. It wasn't my intention to hear you. Why were you crying, Una?"

I heard her gasp gently, but still she said nothing.

"Lambek said you looked ten years older this morning, but when you arrived later with my lunch, you couldn't stop smiling. If I had to guess, I would say that one of Hilde's servants had seen her return much earlier than she had expected. And of course, even high-born women talk of things...less than noble. Perhaps one of them overheard a conversation between her and Tyra—or even Hertha."

Edam was back in his stall by that time, so I stroked his muzzle gently, and scratched at the sweet spot beneath his jaw. As I watched his eyes half-close with pleasure, I heard Una approach from behind.

"My Lord Onidai, I do know what happened. And I-"

She stopped at the sound of men approaching the entrance. They both halted when they saw the two of us.

"Lord Onidai! Begging your pardon, sir, but we weren't expecting you. Is there aught that we can do for you?"

I smiled my most diplomatic smile.

"Not at all. You have done all that I could have asked. My thanks for the attention you've offered Edam. Una was kind enough to lead me here a second time, that I might continue to spoil him like an entitled princeling. Isn't that right, boy?"

I turned to Edam, pointed to my open, smiling mouth, and he mimicked the expression on cue. Even Una laughed heartily.

"What a smart, handsome, strong boy I have. What a perfect Edam."

Hearing the words together, he stepped back and covered his lowered head with an upraised hoof.

"Don't be shy!"

They laughed again, and he whinnied and returned to the stall door. I offered him a carrot and half an apple as reward—he had earned them more than he would ever know.

* * *

The morning of the next day, I learned that Sigmund had not been the only innovator in the field of clandestine communication. For outgoing messages, one of Lior's best hawkers had camped near the villa with a pair of Ashad scouts. By day, Lambek's messages were launched by arrow over the wall from a blind spot. Luck had placed my room behind an ancient oak, and careful timing ensured that none would observe the flight from above. When the message landed, the Ashad scouts would creep to the wall, and dressed in common Hjarrleth clothing they would not be suspected of espionage, even if their movements were observed.

From the safety of their camp, outgoing messages were affixed to one of Lior's swiftest birds of prey, so that word arrived with far greater celerity than either horse or pigeon could accomplish. In this manner, messages sent by day never failed to receive a reply before dawn.

Lambek handed me the answer to my earlier inquiry the morning after my day with Una. The note was no shorter, but contained far more useful information than the first:

Ralph-

The houses of Olinbrand and Hjarrgoth have been rivals throughout the history of Sangholm. Even before our land had a name, our houses feuded brutally. We are of the oldest blood among our people—the Hjarrgoth are descended from the royal line that ended with Malmheith, while the Olinbrand house boasts Drotning, the daughter of Malmheith's queen, the last child of an earlier marriage—and first of the Hjarrleth Matriarchs. Both houses have had Matriarchs in the time since, and though I am bound to distrust them, perhaps it is better that they rule from time to time, for it has been our custom to feud violently when neither house is in power.

You may trust a Hjarrgoth to behave as a Hjarrgoth, and they will never fail to seek the fall of an Olinbrand Matriarch. You will come to no harm while you are under their care, but remain vigilant, for they are skilled word-weavers, and upon Foundation you will find no people more adept at manipulation. Hertha is the worst of them, though she was not born to their house. She was drawn to the oldest son of their chieftain by the promise of power, and her beauty ensured her place.

As Geirmund's wife, she became the true influence, and it was her skill at manipulation that led all the men of their house, as well as those of her father's, to journey south to far Tulakal, in search of the ancient knowledge that the Olinbrand have brought back in plenty. They set out when Hertha was quick with her third daughter, though Geirmund left with assurance that the third was surely a son.

After ten years, she did not doubt the failure of the expedition (nor did my father, for the Hjarrgoths did not have Vodn's rune to guide them), and it was a party of my house that confirmed it. My father died on that journey, and I know now that he gave his life in search of one such as you. Though they returned with great wealth, my house has not ceased to mourn the loss, even these seven years later.

My cousins returned with Starkdrepa, as with the hjarrviht and Ironskin of the Hjarrgoth, and the chieftains of both houses burned upon their vessels, side-by-side. Since that time, the Hjarrgoth have assumed a position of truce with my kin, nor could they do any different, for no sons have yet been born to fight against us.

Hertha will not marry again, for she enjoys her position of power. She is a shrewd trader, and even Sequiduris does not compare with the sharpness of her mind. She uses the emptiness of her house to her advantage, believing that the accumulation of vast wealth in absence of a chieftain is proof that she would be of greater service to Hroaht and Harkona than my own mother.

Be cautious.

-Sigmund

Finally, I understood the nature of my hostess, though I could not fathom Sigmund's trepidation. I was only a guest in that house—a foreign claimant with no influence at all in Hroaht. In fact, I had less than no influence, for I was bound to the whims of Sigmund's mother, a woman who, by the man's own accounting, wanted nothing more than to see me fail—a goal she could only accomplish through my death.

By contrast, Hertha had been kind and generous. She had treated me with great deference, and given me free rein in her own home. It was a dilemma I had never faced: a conflict of trust. Sigmund's mother was trying to kill me, and though he and I had fought side-by-side on more than one occasion, I began to question his motives.

The return of the Hjarrgoth hjarrviht and the body of their chieftain had ended hostilities, and in spite of Sigmund's suspicions, he had no proof that Hertha's motives were covertly hostile. Her wealth was evidence only that she had fought hard to keep her clan alive without a husband; the fact that she had succeeded beyond all expectations could only be considered proof of her competence as a leader—success at trading was not evidence of the intention to replace his mother as Matriarch.

In fact, Hertha had been gracious in her pledge to see to my needs, especially as she had nothing to gain from my presence. I began to feel that Sigmund's opinion of Hertha had been founded on nothing more than blind prejudice, and I sent no word back, for there had been nothing new to report.

The ladies were absent for a further two days, and I had yet to see Una. She had retreated, fearing perhaps the repercussions that might fall upon her, should Hertha know that one of her servants had succeeded in the aftermath of her daughter's own failure. Another girl, of the rosy-cheeked and buxom type had been called upon to see to my needs, but I made no attempt to charm her—I had succeeded with Una, and did not wish to jeopardize the progress I had made.

To pass the empty days and polish skills that I had not yet taken the time to master, I paid a visit to the estate smithy, and after a brief conversation, the man offered me the full use of the villa armory. I chose all throwing weapons, mainly knives and javelins, though I also borrowed four Hjarrleth hatchets, for I had carried one such weapon with my gear, and saw no harm in learning to use it properly.

In one of the vacant barns—winter storage for fodder, judging by the abandoned hay piled in one corner—I prepared three uprights in the form of wide stakes buried in the floor. I stuffed some old feed bags with straw, then bound them to the stakes with twine, and when the bags had been stuffed sufficiently, I felt confident that I could train in earnest. They were roughly the size of men, and made ideal targets; hard enough that the weapons would stick, but not so firm that they would rebound across the room with that discouraging warble.

I suppose I could have selected an outdoor location for practice, but I console myself even now with the memory of the pressures heaped upon me. Everyone expected a warrior of masterful skill, but I knew nothing of thrown weapons; I couldn't chance practicing with the locals for fear that they might hold back, or worse, best a 'warrior of legend'. Lambek was required in my chambers by day, so I had no way of practicing swordsmanship, and I had left my lockbow in my hidden tent, so that throwing became my only option.

On the morning of my fourth day on the Hjarrgoth estate, I felt that my aim had greatly improved. Though javelins were no longer of any great use to me, I made a point of hurling them at the rightmost target periodically, and left my best throws sticking in the upright as a form of personal encouragement—though only one in four casts ever earned such a distinction. In truth, it was not the ideal expanse for javelin hurling, with the low support beams and relatively short throwing lane, and so most of my time had been spent at knife and hatchet throwing. Though the uneven tumble of the hatchet defeated me, I did far better with knife throwing, and even now in my twilight years I devote at least one hour daily to the practice.

That day, I practiced with hatchets, and my progress had been deceptively encouraging, so that I was compelled on force of enthusiasm to continue.

In my time among the Laufgandr clan, during the preparations for my journey through the Vithrauth, they had shown me their stance for throwing, a simple enough posture, with the feet spaced at shoulder width, and the weak leg slightly behind the strong. The practice was straightforward, and the heads of their hatchets flared out, top and bottom, greatly increasing the likelihood of fatal impact.

Middling distances were the easiest, but up close I was at great hazard, for a poor impact often resulted in a rebounding blade. Finally, I decided that I would never have need of a short throw, and I settled on middling and long-distance attempts, which proved both difficult in practice and pleasurable in success.

It was at such a time of pleasurable success that I learned of Hertha's return.

I had made three successful throws in a row, each landing in the area of a fatal wound, and the moment I launched the fourth, I knew it would be my best. This was a novel experience, for previously I had considered the striking of two in a series of four a worthy accomplishment. The weapon lofted perfectly, arcing in its tumbling path, and the upper length of the blade stuck cleanly in the rounded top of the target.

With those four casts I had killed my stationary foe four times over, striking belly, chest, neck, and head, and I must admit to a foolish sort of pride. But my success was not the result of any progress in training—they had been lucky throws, and they had landed incrementally higher because of the half-step I had taken before each attempt. Further practice would prove that I could not repeat that grouping, and, in truth, I have not had such a streak at hatchet throwing since.

It was midmorning, and the barn was long and narrow with a west-facing door, which I kept always at my back to prevent any hazard from befalling unexpected visitors. I must have been deep in concentration, for I had not noticed the careful opening and closing behind me.

"You have been here only a short while, and yet already you seem to know Hjarrleth weapons better than the Hjarrleth, themselves."

I leapt, belatedly drawing the knife from my belt—not the act of an ever-vigilant warrior, but one that knew the identity of his audience from the first word, and to my credit, I was quick about the maneuver. Tyra clapped her hand over her mouth, and the sound she stifled was a blend of gasp and laugh.

"My apologies. I did not intend to startle you, but I heard that you were at practice here. Curiosity won the better of me. Please, forgive me."

Her voice was less contrite than one might be led to believe. It was pouty and playful in a way I had never heard, though I did not fail to pick up on the significance of the tone. The mock frown pushed her lower lip into prominence—Tyra had an astounding mouth. Those pale blue eyes dissected every inch of me as she moved forward, and though it did not seem to be a deliberate motion, she leaned back, thrusting her proud, full breasts into view even as she rolled her hips at the walk.

She was wearing a simpler gown than she had worn the night of our introduction, shorter, though it was no less startlingly white than the other, and it descended no lower than her knee. She accentuated the length of those evenly tanned legs with every step, and her feet were clearly visible, covered only by thin sandals and dainty straps of some gold, silken material. Even her feet were shapely, and much smaller than the proportion implied by her height.

Her hair was untrained, unbraided, and it fell in thick tresses of pale gold. Never before had I seen such a thick head of fair hair, and it fell almost to her waist. Without the thickness of leather soles, or the heightening effect of upturned hair, she was nearly a handsbreadth shorter than I. With the change in stature alone, she appeared far more attainable than the tall, proud, opinionated young woman I had known earlier. And there was something familiar in her stare, though I had spent far too much time with Brenna to puzzle over its predatory nature.

Then, all at once, the lustful gaze vanished, to be replaced by an expression of pure childlike curiosity.

"I have always wondered at the technique of javelin throwing. We have them, of course, because my mother is a collector of—well, everything, but our people rarely make use of them. Will you teach me?"

It was with great relief that I agreed to do so. I retrieved the stuck missiles, and showed her the motion required, though I made no cast of my own. She accepted the weapons, laid three of them at her feet, and assumed a throwing stance, switching from left to right, before finally settling on a left-handed throw. I moved just to the right of her throwing lane, wondering idly if she shared my ability to use either hand with equal skill—if not, she had still possessed the cunning to position the throw carefully.

We were near to the right edge of the barn, with a thick pile of fresh, loose hay directly behind me.

She stepped back, and had already begun the series of half-steps in preparation for a release, when I realized that the pile of javelins at her feet would put her at hazard. It was one of those moments that haste cannot prevent.

Though her right leg cleared the pile, her left fell full on the center of the staves, heel first. For a moment she teetered against the momentum of an inevitable fall, but then did something very clever—she planted her javelin in the ground for balance. Clever, but unsuccessful, and she turned in the maneuver, so that she stumbled forward and collided with me. We fell together on that pile of soft hay, and our combined weight was such that we collapsed to a nearly horizontal position.

She laid there panting on top of me, straddling my left leg, and with each shallow breath I felt the weight of her breasts pressing firmly against my chest. With her head resting at my left shoulder, I could smell the sweet, exotic scent of some costly perfume in her hair.

Tyra made to rise, then gave out, so that she succeeded only in falling lower on my body. Her panting slowed, to be replaced by gentle, shuddering sobs. I could feel the tip of her nose on my collarbone, and the warmth of her lips and breath upon my chest. I have written that I cannot abide the sight or sound of a girl crying—this was the exception. After all, Tyra was no mere girl, and at least a year older than I.

I enjoyed my position thoroughly, perhaps even more because of its unexpected and spontaneous nature. I would have waited all day for her to make a move to stand, but the position was growing awkward—the same would soon occur for much more than awkward positions.

"As first attempts go, that wasn't too bad by half. You know, the first time I tried-"

She had started nuzzling into the nape of my neck, and the squirming motion permeated throughout her entire body. I felt the warmth of her thigh, as its shapely, vaguely muscular weight rubbed against me. Nuzzling grew into gentle kissing, and with that astounding mouth the effect was nothing short of smoldering. Her words found my ear gently, and in contrast to the content, the tone was soft and submissive.

"I told the servants to leave you in peace. I can't wait anymore. I am in need, Onidai."

My hands flew to her shoulders, and with a firm but gentle movement, I found my footing. I offered her my hand, for in spite of everything I would not leave her on the ground.

"I cannot be of service to you, Lady Tyra. I am sorry."

She rose to her feet as nimbly as an acrobat, and her face offered not a hint of understanding. By then, I was certain that the women of Sangholm were not of a mind to countenance rejection. She tried to grasp me by the waist, but I withdrew, and held my arms out, palms open as a ward against further advances. She spoke her mind without rancor.

"Your body is of a different opinion. How can you forsake the needs of your flesh, when it has done so much to aid in your survival? You may die soon, upon the road or in the forest—why would you deny yourself the simplest of pleasures?"

"My body's opinion has no bearing on my decisions; its needs are food, drink, and rest—all else is naught but want. If I am to die, my last thoughts will be of the battles I've won, not the women I've tumbled. I am sorry, but you have my answer."

Tyra was no less socially mature than her sister. She adjusted her clothing, curtsied sweetly, and made for the door. She had been a far greater temptation than Hilde, and if not for her words, very similar to those of a girl that my fevered mind had been fighting hard to forget, I have no doubt that I would have bent to her charms.

'...I may yet have need of an Onidai, farm boy or not.'

* * *

That night, I dined with Hertha alone. She was in a pleasant mood, but in the absence of her daughters I felt ample cause for discomfort. When the final course had been cleared away, she dismissed the staff, leaving the two of us without hands to aid or ears to hear us. She cradled her glass of vapor, holding it against the light of a tabletop candle, and inhaled deeply over the vessel, using every sense to enjoy a commodity so elusive that many live their entire lives without a tasting a single drop. I tried to follow her example, but after the first sip, she caught me completely off-guard.

"It seems that my daughters have been unsuccessful, Friend Ralph. You are strong-willed indeed, to have denied their advances."

I nearly spat my vapor, but succeeded instead at swallowing it against the force of my own breath. I hacked and gasped, and though Hertha smiled, she did not laugh at my discomfort.

"Please understand that I mean not to offer rebuke, nor will I pretend that you are unaware of our customs. The Olinbrand Chieftain—and his voice, are clever and wise men—they will have taught you much. I will miss dear Boers. He was a fine singer and a good man."

I nodded in agreement at her mention of Boers, but said nothing. What could I have said?

"The Hjarrleth are a virtuous people, Ralph. We are honest, brave, and loyal in marriage. But we do not force our young people to deny the enjoyment that they are driven to pursue. If Sigmund has spoken of me, he has told you that I am clever. Is that not so?"

I had burned his note after reading it. This was conjecture. I nodded with a wide smile.

"He has said as much. He has said also that the hostilities between your clans are finally at an end. For my part, I believe that your willingness to house the friend of an Olinbrand chieftain has proved your desire for peace."

"You are correct, of course—but we were speaking of my daughters. I know them, as I know myself; I knew they would both seek you out in time—and that Hilde would be first. My servants are very loyal, and when I ask, they are honest in answer. I will admit that when I received word of her actions in the baths, I was surprised to hear of your refusal. Hilde is very beautiful, and with luck she will make some lesser chieftain a fine wife—after Tyra has been wed. And that is when surprise matured into shock.

"Tyra has yet to lay with any man. She is far more...selective than her sister, or any young woman I have met. Beauty of her sort provides many options, and if I may say, she chose well. When the war is over, you will be the most feared and respected hero since Rorik himself. You are a comely young boy, gentle in appearance, though with masculine features, and you have the makings of a beautiful man. So, when I heard of Hilde's failed attempt, I knew that any attraction Tyra felt would be amplified by the competition known to all sisters.

"You must understand also that neither girl was offended by your refusal. I asked them to dine elsewhere tonight, that we might speak freely. I intend to be frank, and I hope that you will honor me by doing the same. May we speak on those terms?"

I made no effort to hide my relief as I spoke.

"Yes, Friend Hertha, we may—and I hope that we may continue that practice in all future conversations. To my mind, such honesty is the mark of true friendship."

Even her eyes smiled, so I did not doubt her sincerity.

"So be it. I will continue in that spirit, if I may."

I nodded my approval, and she continued.

"At first, I worried that your refusal to yield to such irresistible advances could only be the result of certain...wounds, sustained in battle. It is common enough, and known well to all warlike people. But when I saw Tyra in a mood far different from her usual, I questioned her. She is an honest child, and after speaking with Hilde briefly, they both confirmed that you've sustained no such injury.

"Young and able, but apparently unwilling, and you knew full well that both were unmarried, for I implied as much when I introduced them. With no consequences to compliance, only one possibility remained. You are afflicted, Friend Ralph, with a far less common and more lasting malady than I could have imagined—it is rare indeed, in a man your age. What is her name?"

I stared, dumbfounded. And impressed. Hertha was indeed clever. Brilliant, in fact. For a moment, I hesitated. I had admitted my affliction to no one but Brenna, and it was only through her acceptance of my deep feelings for Rowan that I allowed our...complicated relationship to continue. Still, it seemed that Lior had hinted at an understanding, as had Garth, and Lambek had been there at our parting.

I suppose anyone that had seen us together might have known. And now, after refusing two of the most beautiful and willing women I had ever met, Hertha, so recently a stranger, knew my mind as well as I.

I could no longer deny it. I was in love.

I laughed warmly and smiled brightly. When I drank the vessel dry, Hertha rose, refilling it with her own hand before I could continue. I thanked her, and spoke with the honesty she had granted me.

"Truly, I have never met a woman of such brilliance. In the future, I hope I can call upon you to help me unravel the sensitive issues of diplomacy between Banners. Her name is Rowan, and she is Phulako of the Tahlrenic Tribes. I have yet to plead my case to her father, but she has sworn that she will die in her robes before she will be sold like a prize sow. I have a great store of treasure, won from my encounter with the monsters of Eagle's Clearing, and when my task is done and the war has ended, I will pay ten times the bridal price to win her hand. Her father is only a shepherd, her mother a weaver, but I will see him with the greatest flock upon Foundation if it will secure her hand."

"And if the worst happens? Forgive me, but I feel that I must ask, for the war will be long, and no man is invincible. Will Rowan die in her robes—if you die in your armor?"

"No, Friend Hertha, she will not. The High Priest has the bounty of Eagle's hoard hidden safely in his temple treasury, and he has given his subalterns explicit instructions: if I die, half of the wealth in my possession will find its way into the care of Rowan's father. The other half will be Rowan's, that she will want for nothing, and may then marry for love. A small price. If I die, I will fall secure in the knowledge that she will live in happiness. Whether I live or die, she will know freedom."

I had never seen emotion from Hertha other than that born of humor or clever wordplay. It always appeared that she was in fine spirits, and though she still bore an easy smile, I saw the light in her eyes, and watched as she caught tears from her cheek in the soft linen of a large napkin. She sniffed gently, and I heard the truth of emotion in her voice as she spoke.

"You should return to write operas when the war is over. Hroald is but a wayward fool compared to you. When did you last see her?"

"It was early winter, or very late autumn—it would depend on the calendar used in Sangholm, for I know it varies in the number of months. It was two or three days before the Trathnonan New Year. A three-day celebration, as I recall, and on years such as this it stretches to five, the Sun Day falling two days before its eve. The last I saw of her, she was riding back to Tahlrene under heavy Ashad escort."

Hertha calculated the difference silently, and her eyes narrowed. Her response bore the tone of gentle chiding.

"That was more than five months ago. Do you not think she will want to know that you are safe? Do you not want to know how she has fared without you?"

"More than anything! I worry every night that she may have given up hope of my return, or that I had only been fooling myself—seeing expressions of love in the place of casual flirtation. It has been a constant torture, that in my need to appear manly and reserved I did not tell her the one thing that mattered more than any shiny bauble or clever bit of wordplay."

"You mean...she does not know that you love her?"

"No. She does not. In the past four months, I have slain more than fifty men in combat. The first time I saw battle I had never even held a spear, and yet I fought on. I have killed warriors, mad cannibals, drunken rapists, assassins, and your legendary Kromjan Boar, but when the time came to part ways with Rowan, I hid behind a ward of words and a gift of gold and emeralds.

"Before we'd even met, she had already saved my life. I worry daily that she might have treated the necklace as a costly reward for her services, and the flirtation as nothing more than the changeable whim of an eager young boy. We spent ten days in exclusive company, alone in the countryside, but without those words—those needful words, it is possible that she sees me as nothing more than a friend."

Hertha placed her hand above her breast, and fell back in her seat as if wounded. She pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger with tightly closed eyes. I had seen the expression from Rowan and Lior. She was exasperated. Three ragged breaths, and she spoke finally with some measure of control.

"I refuse to believe that she does not love you, and it is heartening indeed to meet a young man who would refuse pleasure, even with the slightest doubt that his feelings are not returned. My own husband died far from home, where he could offer not a word of affection. The Olinbrands returned his sword and remains, and for that I have been ever in their debt. But it is not enough. I want to tell him how much I love him. I want to hear his voice as he abandons the manly posturing of a chieftain, and speaks to me as a husband—a man in love. But that will never be.

"I will help you if I can. I do not wish to watch another suffer as I have suffered, and I will not, if it is in my power to prevent it. Write your thoughts in any way you wish. If you wish to send a token—something to remind her that you wish to remain in her thoughts, a piece of yourself, or something of personal significance, my messenger will gladly bear the weight.

"Tahlrene is far, and yet you are in luck. I trade for their wools, far softer than our own. My trade route has never been raided or blocked by the weather, and it makes use of the rivers and hand-cut forest roads. Messages travel even faster, borne in the clutches of eagles through a circuit of fifteen checkpoints. Each bird carries the packages no less than three hundred miles in a straight line, their efforts continued by swift river barges, and sail boats across the lake lands of the Nalbans. Any word you send will arrive in Tahlrene in less than two weeks. The return note will take three, owing only to the current of the rivers. In five weeks, you can secure happiness for your Rowan, and save her from the pain that I have felt. If you love her, you will wish to spare her such pain."

I rose from the table, threw my arms around that lovely woman, and kissed her eyes. Those two dark, cunning orbs had divined my true feelings, and made possible that which I had feared beyond my reach. In return, she asked only that I remain discreet, for her trade routes had been a secret since before the time of her husband's passing. Her rivals had raided her merchants in the past, though she spoke well of the Olinbrands—never had they raided even their worst enemies.

I agreed to her terms, and promised to ready a reply before my trials continued.

That night, I slept well, and refused to send any communications to Sigmund thereafter. He was still my friend and staunchest ally, but I would not involve myself in his paranoid vendetta.

I remember little of my dreams that night, and though they puzzled me in the extreme, I came to the conclusion that Lior would have made mention if anything had befallen her. Still, in all my self-absorbed apprehension, I had thought nothing of her absence. The visions were of L'mah, my stalwart friend of far Tulakal. She was smiling, her expression honest and loving. Then, all at once, she faded into mist.

It was only on waking that I realized—I had not seen her since my arrival in Halga's lands.

### Chapter Seven

### The Conjurer
The remaining days passed in great comfort, and when I consented to explain my unique circumstances to Tyra and Hilde, they appeared more relieved than disappointed—their relief was for me, rather than themselves. I had expected catlike jealousy, a petty barb or feminine mockery, but their gladness and enthusiasm—a happiness born of kind hearts and genuine goodwill—left me feeling ashamed. They hugged me as friends, and my love of Rowan did not prevent me from enjoying the embrace.

Over lively conversations at dinner, I told them all about Rowan, and they grew to like her more with each passing tale. At one point, Hilde spoke of her as a sister, and, as such things progress, they took to calling me 'Goodbrother Ralph'.

That time was warm and reassuring, and with such allies I knew that I could weather any storm the Matriarch could conjure.

When I finally found Una, I told her the truth of my flirtations. Or half-truths, anyway. Her eyes reddened, and I felt like a wretch, but when her vision cleared and she had dried her cheeks, she kissed me on my own. Young and resilient. I thanked her foreign god Vodn for his wisdom in creating such a hardy people, and when I was sure that she felt no ire, I went about my merry way.

I wrote my note in secret. It was long and heartfelt, and though I remember every syllable, I will not now cheapen that which so thoroughly expressed my undying devotion. Suffice it to say that I wrote carefully. The form of token I would offer weighed heavily on my mind, and when I finally decided to put it all on the line, I realized that only one gift could prove my love.

In my note, I had included the story of my mother's key, the heart key she had given me on the night that I finally accepted my father's death, and the painful truths of survival in his absence. 'My heart is locked away, but just for you, I've made a key.' In my baggage, I had kept ten coins of white gold. Initially, I had thought to purchase armor, but the Trathnona had gifted me with armor of gilded bronze over plates of the finest iron. The only better armor I could imagine was rare in the extreme and long spoken-for by the oldest sons of Hjarrleth chieftains—and besides, I wasn't strong enough to wear it.

With Hertha's silversmith, an able man of advanced years, I discussed the design of a mould. We ran through many sketches, and when he brought up the specifics of the bitting, I was struck by a thunderbolt. As it happened, Hertha knew well the native language of Tahlrene. Three days remained when the design was complete, and the smith finished carving the mould the day before my departure.

The Matriarch's envoy arrived before noon, and Lior rode with them. I made my farewells, and thanked Hertha again for her insight. Before I took my leave, she showed me the fruit of our collaborative labors. It was a key of white gold, cast in a mould with the metal of four coins. Its luster was peerless. The bow was an empty oval, the blade a perfect cylinder, and both were completely covered in a network of the beautiful curls and whorls of Tahlrenic design.

The bitting was an idea of my own. After all it is the bitting, that combination of carefully measured teeth, that determines the success or failure of any key. Hertha and I worked together, she the scholar and I the designer, and in the end we were able to combine the names of 'Ralph' and 'Rowan' in the characters of Rowan's native tongue. In the design, the names intertwined, and though they were clearly distinguishable from one another, the pattern of the design was broken with the removal of either name. Separately, the names were incomplete, defined only when held together as one—I hoped that Rowan would understand, and prayed to the Lady of the Harvest that my gift would be well received.

To the Lady's father, that ageless Sky Warden, my prayers were more practical. 'Stay your hand, Sky Father; calm the air, that your eagles might carry my tokens in safety and with all speed, and I will pray to you daily, thereafter.'

I produced my own personal touch in the same style as my mother. From carefully selected locks of hair, taken from the shaggy area at the base of my skull, Maekara showed me how I might bind braided lengths together, and then braid those, overlapping the pattern so that the knots of joined ends could not be seen. The result was a thin, tightly braided rope of raven hair.

Hertha looked on the braid with a knowing smile, then jokingly searched my head for bald spots, and when she found none, we embraced again as friends. I gave her the key, and she gave me her oath that Rowan would have it soon. Hilde and Tyra held their arms around me a bit longer, and as I turned to Edam, I felt that I had made friends, in absence of lovers.

* * *

At the first turn out of the gate, the envoy from Harkona nodded deeply to me, and to Lior. Lior returned the expression, and the Matriarch's herald spurred his mount to the gallop. I was armored as on arrival, and Hertha and her people had aided me in adjusting the contents of my pack to better suit the forest. I wore the heavy boots that I had worn before receiving the gift of Ashad footwear, though I kept the light shoes with my other belongings; in the forest, mud and underbrush are even greater concerns than stealth.

Before we reached the edge of the walled villa, I saw Hertha's covered cart race on ahead from an adjoining road. She had warned me of this in advance, promising with an easy laugh that she would speed well ahead, to keep my armor clean and prevent me choking on her dust. I saw her wave from the passenger's bench, and I returned the gesture warmly, even as she disappeared from sight. Lior cleared his throat to gain my attention.

"Making friends, are we? Strange, since I'm sure Sigmund told you that the houses of Olinbrand and Hjarrgoth have fought each other with bitter enmity—these past four thousand years."

"Did he also tell you that they are in the midst of a truce? Hertha is a kind woman, and she is utterly alone. She must single-handedly lead a dying clan, and as you have seen, she has done rather well. Sigmund is my friend, and has been my ally since we met, but I will not condemn a worthy woman on the grounds of personal prejudice for the sole reason that I met Sigmund six months earlier."

"I see. I suppose you...met her daughters, then?"

His immediate implications struck me with the same forceful intent as a slap to the face. I breathed deeply with eyes tightly shut. Looking back, it was his timing that angered me so. I had spent five of those nine days in a state of harmony and friendship with Hertha and her daughters, and now Lior was speaking as if they had swayed me to the cause of evil with nothing less than a carnal bribe.

As I have written, the Hjarrleth are a forthright people, and they offer themselves only when they wish it. In Sangholm, sex is for enjoyment and childbirth, and it is never treated as leverage or payment. There is not a single prostitute within their lands, though to my mind that is just what Lior had implied of Tyra and Hilde, with Hertha their willing madam. It was a difficult task, controlling my breathing, but I did—I cannot say the same for my tongue.

"Hilde sleeps with any man she might choose—I cannot speak to the contrary, nor will I keep an inventory of men that I have never met. Tyra is a virgin, for, owing to her great beauty, she has not yet met her match among men. Helga is a mother of two, and a faithful wife. Even her mother, noble Hertha, has remained faithful to the memory of her husband. Her clan may even die because she is too loyal to lay with another man. Are these the women of whom you were speaking? I met them nine days ago, and in that time their words have been totally honest, their gestures grand, and their motives pure. They have asked nothing of me, and offered everything in return. Can you make such a boast, High Priest? As I recall, I am but an adjustment—a slight alteration to your initial plan of fraud. If I recall correctly, a man died as the result of your deceit, did he not? Edam's own son, if I am not mistaken.

"We are friends, Lior, do not mistake a rebuke for blind provocation, but where Hertha and her women are concerned, I would be extremely grateful if you would hold your exalted tongue! I love Rowan, and no host of beautiful women will ever change that. Those particular women, by the way, are gracious, kind, and generous—and they rank far higher in my personal accounting than Sigmund's stone-hearted mother!"

Lior was shocked, and I thought even a bit wounded by my angry rant. We traveled slowly for nearly an hour, at which time I saw his mouth curl into a wry smirk from the corner of my vision.

"Nice to hear, by the way. Thought you'd never say it. For a while, I worried that you didn't see it yourself."

I knew what he meant, but I was still stewing.

"See what?"

"Rowan. Love. We all saw it, you know. I'm just glad you can finally admit it."

He raised his arms in surrender.

"I've just spent the past nine days listening to tidings of doom from everyone in Sigmund's house. They were certain you'd been bewitched, or betrothed to one of Hertha's daughters as the result of some drunken indiscretion. I believe Tyra was supposed to be the most beautiful, Hilde was the seductress, and Hertha had the silver tongue and sharp mind of a queen. To hear Sigmund's people tell it, she fumes over being separated from a throne that she sees as her own. I thought he'd never stop flapping his arms. My ears are still ringing from the noise of it. Someone should tell him to oil those gauntlets of his."

I laughed, and we went on as before. He was no more involved in local politics than I, and we continued as friends, further united as strangers in a strange land. At length, I remembered my dream of L'mah, and asked of her disappearance.

"Not surprised you didn't miss her. Nice enough, but she never talks, so who would know the difference? She was insulted, Ralph, insulted by Halga's refusal to recognize her as Phulako—to recognize her, even as a person—and I can hardly blame her for it. Remember our first dinner? She wasn't there. Nor was she present the day you left to walk the Hlifgat. Halga did not invite her to dine with the rest of us because he is an old man—subject to the prejudices of old men.

"In his day, and for much of the history of his Banner, following the disappearance of the Kenalka, the Hjarrleth explorations took many forms. Some, like Sigmund's father, were out to bring back wisdom, and their dealings with the giant natives were friendly, though L'mah's people did not relish their rummaging through lands they still treat as sacred.

"Others were not so peaceful. There was a time—and remember that this is in the past—when it was a mark of honor to bring back a giant club, or the preserved head of a native. Every warlike house had a Ya'abkach slave—a giant, to haul firewood, or even pull a plow. Most families did not engage in such atrocities, nor did Halga's, but they did fight brutally any resistance to their wanderings in the south. Halga's prejudice will die with him, but it was only five generations ago that a law was passed prohibiting the enslavement of Tulakal natives, and the raids on their lands. Many kept their giant slaves hidden, and for a time they were even pitted against each other in savage war-games. Those prize fights continued in secret, at least until Rigga learned of them—she was furious, to say the least.

"As one of Rigga's first acts as Matriarch, she personally led surprise inspections of every estate, offered passage home to any slaves she found, and passed harsh sentences on every guilty party. Of course, there were only a half-dozen or so, and those in a land of millions, so don't condemn them all, for the actions of only a few.

"To summarize, L'mah did not wish to stay, and so I sent her back to Venibrek—to a land filled with people who treat her like the tremendous miracle that she is. She stays with a family in Ashad that tends to the orchards; the children love her, and the woman of the house swears L'mah eats half her weight in apples every day. I've seen her eat, so I know it isn't an exaggeration. Eats 'em whole, you know. Core and all!"

I had never known any of that dark history, and Rigga's response to the discovery, the work of a just ruler, had cast an even thicker fog on her later actions. If she had the compassion to see justice done personally, why was she trying so hard to have me killed?

I marveled again at the sheer scope of great Hroaht hall, and it was mid-afternoon when Lior and I made our way at last to the Matriarch's dais. If she had grown fonder of me in time, she gave no sign, but her first words, at least, were hopeful.

"We have consulted witnesses from the tower guard at both entrances to the forest, and Our oldest and most respected huntsmen have taken great pains to inspect your trophies. Sightings of the Kromjan have been rare, and so there can be but one such creature. These are the tusks of a mighty boar, and as there could be none larger, We will admit that you have slain him. You are most accommodating, Ralph Hughsson, and expedient, to have slain the fabled boar before ever We uttered the words."

The women laughed heartily, and the men cheered loudly. Hertha winked encouragingly from her seat at the base of the Matriarch's platform, and I nodded politely in recognition. It was then that my hopes for the Matriarch's justice crumbled. All fell immediately to silence as she spoke again.

"However, as your actions preceded Our expectations, the deed may not be counted against the balance of your trials. You owe Us three feats, Ralph Hughsson, and none may be accomplished by coincidence!"

She had shouted her final words, but I surprised myself by feeling no anger. Using a cold sort of logic, her ruling actually made sense. I offered only a slight shrug in response, and Rigga must have seen it as some sort of challenge.

"You wish to speak?"

I shrugged again, and narrowed my eyes. Though I had twisted my mouth into a challenging smirk, I kept my voice sweeter than kvejka honey.

"Your decision is just, Wise Mother. I apologize if my boar hunt has delayed these proceedings. Nonetheless, I will endeavor from this moment forward to travel the forest with far more discretion, killing only the invincible creatures or unstoppable madmen that the Matriarch wishes."

The men began to cheer, but Rigga cut them off with the slash of an angry hand.

"Very well, Hughsson. If greater fame is your wish, We will think on your second trial with more care. For the first, you may seek again the shelter of the Vithrauth. There, search diligently for signs of death within the forest. Where your next foe dwells, no living thing will grow. Lightning issues in his wake, and the skies weep at his approach. For your first real trial, you will seek out the conjurer known as Skiro. Slay him, and return with proof of your victory. We have spoken."

The crowd had gasped when she demanded the death of the boar, but the moment she uttered the conjurer's name, every face in that hall fell to pallor. No one spoke, even as I began to take my leave, and when I looked to Hertha, I saw there my death, for she was weeping—silently mourning, even as I stood before her. Lior and I left in silence. When we reached the foot of the dais, we heard nothing. No argument, no shouting.

Silence ruled in Rigga's place, for I had seen hate, writ large on the faces of the men. This time, they felt no pity, my slaying of the Kromjan had seen to that—but neither did they seem to envy the legendary nature of the task, or the storied death that would follow failure. In the words of the Matriarch's voice, they heard nothing less than the pronouncement of my execution.

This time I had no guide. There was no Hjarrleth chieftain to prepare me. The High Priest instructed his hawker, scribbled a lengthy note, and sent the man galloping.

We took to the road without a word.

Lior led me around the same bend Edam had taken at my arrival, where his tent had been raised beside my own. Though the sun hung low, the evening young, I accepted Lior's sleeping draught, and this time I did not dream, at all.

* * *

I bathed before sunrise—though I didn't really need it—ate heartily, dressed, then set about arranging my kit, and my gear was more carefully prepared the second time.

I had left the bread, and replaced it with march food. Nuts and grains, dried fruits and meats offered a variety and better economy of space. Bread was bulky, quickly stale, and it had crumbled at the bottom of my pack.

I had a new blanket, just as thin, but more than twice as long. It had been folded lengthwise and stitched on one side, forming a sort of pallet, and on the bottom Hertha's women had stitched a double layer of starched linen to offer additional support. My original plan of sleeping in the trees had impressed Hertha, and she quickly devised a means through which I might sleep in relative comfort, without adding too greatly to the weight of my load.

Some of her women had made for me a network of braided silk for use as a hammock, with the ends fastened to short ropes of strong hemp to protect against fraying on rough bark. I had not known that silk was so strong, but I tested the device in one of Hertha's oak trees, and even slept comfortably in it for a few hours on a lazy afternoon. It was light, but ensured great comfort, and I had memorized the operation of rolling and unrolling to prevent tangling. I still carried the same water skins, but also a sizable flask of vinegar, which Hertha swore would ensure safe drinking, even from questionable bodies of water.

When I searched the tent for my traveling clothes, I found nothing, and I had to consult Lior, who had been outside playing with his horse (he often treated the animal as one might a family dog). He mentioned a few improvements to my equipment, and showed me that Hertha had not been the only one to consider the use of linen.

My light linen traveling clothes had been replaced with trousers and shirt of the same make, but dyed a dark virgin olive color that better suited the pallet of the forest. My gauntlets and greaves of leather had been discarded, and now I wore gaiters and forearm gloves of multi-layered starched linen, also green, but painted with slashes of brown.

My Ashad cloak was no longer an option, and that by Lior's own decree. The dozen women that remained in his retinue took the blow in stride, and Lior broke the news with his usual good humor. Instead, he had ordered the crafting of a very different drape, worked in the same manner as gaiters and gloves, but far more complex. The background was green, but the color shifted from a very light shade to very dark, with slashes of dark brown throughout. It was a very clever garment, and lined with a much darker material for night travel.

My lockbow had vanished, and when I left my tent a second time to inquire of it Lior presented me with a new one. Apparently, Sigmund's smiths had taken the enemy design and improved on it. They had shaped the far end to fit perfectly into my shoulder, and the entire wooden body was of a much stronger wood, stained with a matte-black coating to improve stealth. The grip and release lever had changed as well, the former more shapely, offering a more comfortable aim, and the latter smaller, sticking out from the body of the weapon perpendicularly when loaded, ensuring a cleaner release motion. There was a target set fifty paces ahead, similar to my own for throwing. Lior explained.

"Of course, the draw is heavier now, but that little stirrup at the end is attached to a well-oiled iron hinge, wrapped in leather. You simply anchor the weapon by stepping into the stirrup, then draw back the string with both hands—much more effective than stepping on the arch, as is the custom of our enemies."

It was a heavier draw, but the stirrup, and a leather handhold attached to the string made the draw much easier. My reloads might even be faster, in spite of the gain in power. The arch, according to Lior, was well-tempered Hjarrleth iron, covered with layers of starched linen and dyed black. Stronger, faster, steadier, and stealthier; when I made to load a dart, Lior handed me one with barbs.

"You now have two varieties, based on two of the three arrows used by Ashad scouts. Flat and barbed to cause bleeding, and narrow and pointed for puncturing. And of course, we kept your 'lucky dart'."

He loaded two of the small quivers into my pack, and I girded on a third. Lior had given me five extras for practice, and I did so with great pleasure. Every dart was more steadily aimed, more gently released, and more powerfully shot. There was a narrow, blade-like notch behind the dart housing, and two more block-like notches at the arch, to either side of the dart. I had seen these on the ballistae in use in the towers of Venibrek, and I knew that they were for adjusting the aim, to ensure a perfectly straight flight. With the weapon pointed steadily, I adjusted my aim so that the rear blade met the height of the forward blocks and stood perfectly between them. Every shot struck true! Lior then showed me the score-mark that had been cut into the middle of the sighting blade.

"That's for elevation. Simply raise the business end up until the center mark is flush with the front sights, and you will be sighted in between eighty and one hundred twenty paces. You know, the lockbow truly was an excellent idea—pity they didn't endeavor to do more with it."

The weapon I held was magnificent. Even now, it hangs in my day room with many others.

With Sequiduris and my new lockbow, I had thought myself well-prepared, until Lior approached with his hand heavily weighted by a familiar object. It was the single-use version of the thunderer; a hollow iron ball filled with their destructive black powder, then plugged at a small hole in the top. Protruding from the plug, a short wick, little more than a bit of twine impregnated with the same black powder, served as the means of ignition, delaying the destructive force through the span of time needed to throw it. When the fire of the wick reaches the powder, the ball bursts, sending fragments of jagged iron flying in every direction, and I had seen that weapon's destructive power, first-hand.

Lior placed the iron ball in a hinged wooden box, which he then covered with a leather bag. He cinched up the end, placed the device in my pack, and hefted it onto my back. He spoke as I distributed the weight at my shoulders.

"I placed it on the side opposing your torch case. One can never be too careful."

"Good thinking. Thanks awfully for the extra weight."

He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth reproachfully.

"Don't think of it as dead weight, my boy, but as a clever means of matching that old magician, trick for trick. Never forget Ralph, in spite of all this superstitious nonsense about sorcery, that their conjurer is no more mystical than were the Wise Kenalka. So find him, kill him, and bring back one of his wands—or maybe a crystal ball."

He clapped me on the shoulders with both hands, but in spite of his easy grin, his eyes betrayed extreme worry. My killing of the boar had bolstered his confidence, but not enough that he did not fear for my return.

Before I could mount, he took a familiar wooden case from his saddle bags; he offered the guide rune with mock ceremony, bowing low with the case in both hands.

"Try not to lose that, would you Ralph? Sigmund's people treat that little piece of iron like Rorik's own toothpick."

I accepted it gratefully. I felt that much of my journey would be aimless wandering, but wherever my path led, I knew that a simple turn northward would bring me inevitably to the forest's stony border, which I could then follow back to the gates. I dropped it into one of my belt pouches, and felt as ready as possible.

Luckily, Lior had seen to my most delicate request covertly, and he assured me that the needful item had already been packed with care. In a place of padded safety at the very center of my equipment, Lior had packed one of the two doses of Sigmund's powerful tonic—I had been called to face a conjurer, a creature above the mass intellect, and I would need to rise to his level.

On Edam's armored back, I made my way with loaded lockbow. The sky was only just beginning to lighten, and the morning was gray, threatening rain, so that I was suddenly very glad of those boots. With the gates in sight, I began to prepare myself mentally for the task at hand, when a cadre of guards filed onto the road. The leader, a graybeard with a leather eyepatch, motioned for us to follow him.

He led us down a narrow defile on a cut path through a copse of pine, and I saw in the midst of a man-made clearing a sturdy-looking cabin cut from heavy timbers. He said nothing, but crossed the threshold through an open door, and waved us in to follow.

Lior and I air-tethered our horses five paces from the cabin, and we made our way inside. I sat my lockbow and pack beside the door, and as I took the seat the old man had indicated, the door closed gently behind us. The graybeard leaned forward in his chair.

"I am Arne; Thane of the Northern Guard; Chieftain of the Herrulf Clan. It is my honor to speak with the High Priest-Phulako of the Trathnona, and with the Onidai Claimant. I must offer first my apologies for the style of this meeting, but the Matriarch's eyes are everywhere, and strange are her whims, of late."

Lior remained silent. Clearly, this was my meeting.

"So I have noticed, great Thane-Chief. It is through one such whim that my second trial has been made my first. I can only hope that this one will be more to her liking."

"Master Onidai, it is not the trial itself, but the outcome that drives the Matriarch to such ruthless means. The end is sought through the means, and whatever means she employs, the end—will be yours. She seeks your death, and that is clear enough to all. She will have you wander the Vithrauth, in search of a creature that has long since been slain, or she will have that creature, villainous beyond measure, work your end through power even you cannot imagine. Skiro, if he yet lives, cannot be defeated by any living man. He commands the very air around him, and calls thunder down from the heavens. His gaze can stretch for miles, and his will shakes the earth.

"Even the former Matriarch, wise Njord, lived in fear of him. The move to enforce his banishment, a punishment for the myriad atrocities he had committed over the course of an already long life, might have ended in many deaths, for he would not go willingly, and many of our warriors would have fallen to lightning strike and sorcery in the attempt to bind or slay him. In the end, Njord was willing to compromise: 'seek the depths of the woods, and you may leave in peace, with all the gear that three wagons may contain.'

"I was there when he rode through the gates, his devices and talismans piled high within those mighty carts. I was loath to allow him to take the oxen, for I knew him to be a vile and cruel master—many of his thralls were deformed by his chiding. That was more than thirty years ago. I will pray that he has met his end. Ply your own gods as you may.

"I do not know much of his ways, other than that he needed to build upon great heights. Obstructions within the forest, even at a distance, would force him to seek the rises at the edge of the forest valley. Walk the eastern rim, and seek a land of death in which no trees will grow. Where the ground is bare, and the sky always gray, Skiro's lair will be near, and if he lives, he will not be alone, for in his pride he will have need of supplicants.

"I can offer nothing more. Vodn guide your eye."

He rose and led us to the door, but offered not a single word of farewell.

* * *

I took to the treeline, before heading eastward along the mountain rim. Arne had suggested that the elevation rose more swiftly to the east, and I knew that Skiro, who had traveled through the Vithrauth so many years before me, would not have known any more of the place than I. Further, he could not have made his way through the woods with two carts tethered to his own, nor would he find that place of high elevation if he took the Hlifgat deeper into the forest.

Though not more than twenty paces wide, the expanse between the northern foothills and double treeline was by far the easiest path I had seen in the Vithrauth. The grass was well manicured by the cropping of herd animals that would naturally flock to an open space, though it grew waist-high four or five miles from the gate. Such would have been Skiro's path, of that I was certain. With the ground dry and the underbrush non-existent I changed into my worn Ashad shoes, and was glad I had kept them in my pack. Without immediate fear of muddy ground, I could look to stealth, for, as Arne had warned, Skiro might not be alone, and I wished to pass unnoticed.

My journey was slower through the forest, though within a quarter-mile of the northern plain there was little underbrush, perhaps the further work of passing deer or elk, and my progress was much better than on my previous journey. Further, my new cloak and clothing had rendered me truly invisible within the shelter of the trees; if Skiro could see for miles, he would have been hard-pressed to distinguish my movement. In the darkness of that double treeline, the moving of green-brown and shadow is of little note, when every gust of wind produces the same.

That first night I slept in a wide beech tree, shielded from view by verdant greenery, and enjoyed the novelty of comfort and safety, warm and unreachable as I swayed in the perfume of spring breezes. The weather held, and I slept soundly.

For three days, I traveled with equal success, occasionally venturing to the treeline to look for signs of dead vegetation, and moving ever forward, parallel to the mountain rim.

On the fourth morning, I peeked from my lofty bed to see a familiar sight. I did not know them, but they were of Sturla's people, or of some neighboring tribe, and they were waiting at the base of my tree. Hakon of Hrafnrodd had been dressed and groomed in a manner not at all dissimilar to that of his more civilized brethren, and so I chose the path of caution. They were clearly waiting for me, or for someone else to arrive and decide my fate, so I crept from my hammock, girded on my Sword, and took up my new lockbow.

Into the center of an errant, early fallen leaf I loosed a cone-tipped armor dart—I spoke into their panic as I reloaded.

"Be you Friend, Foe, or Stranger, I will hear name and intent or my next mark will not be fallen greenery!"

They all looked up, and I knew the youngest of them immediately.

"Do you not know us, great Vaentan? You, who saved my own sister from the Hearth of the Mad?"

I would learn later that the 'Hearth of the Mad' was their name for the bed of coals that had been stoked to serve as Grid's living pyre. Thousands of years in isolation, and those primitive Hjarrleth still composed operas. In those days of primitive habitation, the songs weren't actually written, but composed mentally and memorized by those who enjoyed them, just as the many Hroald fanatics in Sangholm at that time.

"I do know you, Lars. My apologies, but in this land one can never be too careful."

They waited patiently as I found my way clumsily down, and Lars embraced me as an old friend the moment I landed. As I have written, he was on or about his twentieth year, handsome, and proud in the way of the Hjarrleth—proof that perhaps his people, to mention nothing of his more advanced cousins, had no need of iron or sinew to bolster their courage.

That particular tribesman suffered from a rare malady. Vanity, of the type known to more civilized people, is rarely seen in the wilderness, but Sturla's son was truly handsome, with strong jaw and cheekbones. He cleaned his teeth with a frayed hawthorn twig, just as the Hjarrleth and poorer Trathnona, and he washed his long hair frequently, untangling it with a wooden comb over a bowl of steaming water to leech out the oil and keep his mane straight and clean. On sunny days, he was known to retreat to the shade with soap made from the vigorous churning of pine sap, elm ash, and water, as well as a narrow black bowl, filled with the clear water of a mountain stream. There, he would stare intently into his reflection, and plane his face carefully with a wide piece of obsidian. Most of the other men laughed at his vanity, but none of the women seemed to mind, and I could not greatly blame him—if I'd had a face such as his, I would not have hidden it behind whiskers, either.

"I am glad to see you Lars, but what are you doing so far to the north? Should you not be preparing your people to journey here together?"

"My father has had difficulties in the gathering of the other tribes, and when he remembered the most far-flung of the friendly villages, he realized that his task would take far longer than he had anticipated. He sent me to wait for the arrival of your envoy, that I might appeal for more time. He is willing to leave as soon as he must, though he hopes that the Matriarch will remember the plight of the Forsaken, and favor us all with safe passage."

He could not have known of Rigga's cold reception, and I had no wish to discourage him.

"There is time yet, and no need to rush, especially in a land where haste can attract unwanted attention."

They seemed greatly relieved, and so I moved on to more pressing matters.

"It was courteous indeed, for you brave men to act as my rearguard, but why did you wait three days to show yourselves?"

"We might ask you the same thing, Vaentan. On the first day, we followed the easy signs—your tracks were deep. We followed far behind, and took great care to do so in stealth, remembering your words about the eyes within the watch towers. But on the second day, there were no tracks, and in truth, we saw little enough of you from the moment you passed beneath the trees."

His report pleased me greatly. The clothing worked, and the Ashad shoes had made me invisible, even to the keen eyes of the natives. If the weather held, so would my stealth. We talked for a while of my cloak and clothing, and of my new lockbow, and at length I felt comfortable telling them of my purpose.

"I am here to slay the conjurer called Skiro—that is the trial demanded by the Wise Mother. Do you know of the man I seek?"

They said nothing, though their silence was not so unnerving as that within Hroaht. In the Vithrauth, silence is survival. Lars screwed up his courage in time, while the others ranged between terror and outrage at the sound of his words.

"I might have guessed that you would return for Skiro Cloud-Breaker, for he is among our greatest fears, and his slaves are many."

"Tell me all that you know, Lars Sturlasson, and I will end him all the quicker."

It was then that his retinue became desperate. They stamped their feet, cleared their throats, and did all they could to catch his gaze. They were too loyal to openly rebuke the son of their hetman, but they cautioned him against a loose tongue with the flashing of their eyes. Lars was not so superstitious as his fellows: he feigned disinterest, and continued without fear.

"Many of those who walked the Hlifgat were as Hakon and his Hrafnkin—more demon than man, and they raided the villages of peaceful people for slaves, searching especially for fertile women. In time, their tribe became strong, and they welcomed new madmen into their society freely. Their leaders were chosen year-by-year through a contest of fair combat to the death—if any rose to the challenge. After one year of rule, that leader may be challenged at any time; regime changes have been frequent. Escaped slaves gave their tribe the name of Drejrugr, or 'Blood Stain' Clan.

"When Skiro found the Drejrugr, he slew their slaughter-king with lightning from the end of his flashing cane. New slaughter-kings now serve at his pleasure, and slaves are brought to his stone house to the east, high within the mountain border. You will have to slay their leader before you may even set foot within Skiro's hall, for they are many, and their weapons are far more terrible than those used by Hakon and his people—if you kill their leader, you may command the rest."

"And who commands the Drejrugr now?"

Lars simply shrugged, and I saw that his youthful self-absorption would not allow him to betray any interest in that which he could not know.

"Escaped prisoners gave the Drejrugr their name in the time of my grandfather's grandfather, and only one has escaped alive since Skiro set the slaves to building his stone house. It was my grandfather and six united clans that drove the Drejrugr from the southern forest, and they now raid in the northeast exclusively, taking only a few slaves each year, that none will unite to war against them. It is to many of those eastern villages that my father has traveled, seeking runners to find the villages northward—it is his great wish that every far-flung clan travel the Hlifgat as one, to leave the forest once and for all time."

I stood there, looking to each of that half-dozen. They were all of Sturla's village, and one had been enslaved within Hrafnrodd. Seven including Lars, but I needed only a few. I had it in my head that we might do much to aid the people of the northeastern villages, and that we might also free the slaves and peaceful families that suffered under the yoke of the Drejrugr. And I was not without self-interest, for in the process I might find the time to put an end to foul Skiro.

I spoke to Lars, but made my words loud enough that all could hear.

"Do you know the way to Skiro's land? It is a place, I am told, where nothing grows. There, the clouds are heavy and gray, and the sky is in constant mourning. Do you know of the place I seek?"

Lars gulped heavily, and leaned on his spear with closed eyes, as if he just then realized that he had walked headlong into a dangerous situation. I spoke to reassure him.

"I do not need you to travel with me. As you have seen—or not—I may travel in greater stealth alone. When I started on this trial, I traveled as I thought Skiro would, moving along the mountains by the easiest path to seek the heights to the east, and by your own accounting, my suspicions were correct. Now, there is only the matter of haste. I can move more quickly if I take a straight path through the forest, but I do not know the way. I may become lost, or miss some important sign.

"If one among you can offer guidance, directing me through words along the quickest path, I will be in your debt. Further, I would have you seek out your people, and even your father to the southeast. Tell them to prepare a gathering of men, such as might intimidate an enemy force. Have no fear of battle, for I intend to slay their slaughter-king, but when I free the slaves, there may be some resistance. At that time, the appearance of an imposing force would do much to ensure that the freed people may leave the clutches of their taskmasters in safety.

"When I am sure that the slaves have been freed, and the slaughter-king is dead—I will then have words with your conjurer."

* * *

Lars, and the freedman of Hrafnrodd, a huntsman known as Njal, would hear nothing of my traveling to Skiro's lands alone. They wished to lead me on the most direct path, and I could hardly argue—nor would I, for I had in mind a plan that would require both of them.

While we made our way east, the other five divided themselves into two smaller groups and took easier paths to the south and southeast, that word of my plans might reach the villages of Sturla and his allies. If they could muster even fifty strong men, I felt they might be able to discourage any from contesting my order of emancipation. Still, I had to kill the slaughter-king, their Skerra-Konungr, before any such plan could be put into effect, and to that end, I was glad of Lars and Njal.

We took to the deep forest as shadows, and if I moved without betraying myself to sight, Lars and Njal made up for their louder clothing of hide and crude fibres with the ability to pass without a sound. They found each step with care, while keeping an even pace, and where I was burdened with my pack, they stepped lightly with hardly any baggage, at all.

I made my bed on the ground, uncomfortably, in the way of the primitive Hjarrleth, and we slept in shifts to prevent unpleasant surprises. My silken hammock became a pillow, and laying there each night among my loyal companions, I could not help but long for gentle swaying and perfumed breezes.

For five days we traveled in like manner, and Njal seemed to know every game trail. Never once did we become tangled in underbrush, and he threaded an invisible path around every gully and dry river bed. Every day, he found water in the form of gentle brooks, their flow sped by the mountains that fathered them, and I was able to drink my fill. My rations shared evenly, we had no need to hunt for sustenance, and so we made excellent time, covering more than one hundred miles through untamed wilderness.

By gray predawn of the sixth morning, the greenery began to fade. Nothing could be done by day, for the expanse of empty land left us exposed to roving bands of raiders, and always I remembered Arne's warning of Skiro's all-seeing eye. I wrapped the hilt and pommel of Sequiduris separately from the Sheath, that it might still be easily drawn, while betraying nothing of its bright sheen. I would have need of Sequiduris, but in barren lands, as in wilderness, jewel-encrusted gold is a sight long known to attract unwanted attention.

More than a mile into the shadow of the double canopy, I hid my pack and encumbrances and kept only the single quiver of lockbow darts, for on this excursion I would not seek battle. I did, however, manage to improve the weapons of Lars and Njal.

After a brief explanation, my companions removed the stony tips from their spears, tucking them into their belts for use as knives, and with six barbed lockbow darts, taken from the quivers in my pack, we fitted their fire-hardened ash staves with three darts each, pressing them into the split the stone-tips had formerly occupied. With the barb at center protruding further than its fellows to either side, the weapons looked truly fierce. They fastened the exposed shafts together with strong sinew from their belts, and as the dart shafts were crafted from blackened ash, they proved no weaker than the haft of the spear below.

No longer weighed down by unnecessary burdens, I took note of the location of that tree, a sturdy oak, and stalked the path with lighter steps thereafter. We watched for eight days, and moved all about the remaining treeline, surveying the landscape and taking note of the many strange and appalling sights. In that time, I learned that Skiro was an innovator of sorts, for within the Vithrauth he sought to tame nature itself.

Agriculture had found a place in the forest. While nothing grew within the circular arc of Skiro's influence, he had set his slaves to cut into the treeline. We found three man-made clearings, all cut into a shape vaguely square, and there, in each of those fields, we watched, as mysticism followed cruelty. There were plows for tilling, plain enough, with crude iron shares, but they were pulled, not by the sad-looking oxen that teamed the carts of the taskmasters, but by downtrodden slaves, who stepped even more sluggishly than the poor beasts behind them.

I watched in horrified wonder, as eight men toiled in concert to pull their plow, though even one of those ill-treated kine might have done the work alone. The women, all of advancing years, trudged behind, casting seed with heads bowed low. We had inspected the seed, creeping into the fields after the slaves had gone, and I recognized it immediately—barley grain, of the type used in Meadrow for brewing. Not a man or woman among them had been under the age of fifty, and many appeared truly ancient.

At each of those three fields, we bore witness to a rite of astounding sorcery. When the work had ended, the taskmasters never failed to lock the men in long lines with strong iron fetters, and the women followed without ceremony. The cart always halted some twenty or thirty paces from the field, and a heavy-set overseer would then drop from the vehicle carrying a long, thin stave, forked at the end; the red-orange banner it held was mounted so that it remained always rigid.

The pale, fat little man planted his stave, chanted supplications to the heavens, flashed his banner in the direction of their holdings at the mountain rim, and fell to his face on the bare earth, leaving the stave to stand firmly in aerated soil. Within moments, it began to rain, though never did the deluge stretch beyond ten paces of the planted fields. My companions were astonished, dumb-struck by what they saw as nothing short of miraculous.

I will admit to an initial sense of awe, but by the third sighting I remembered what I had seen at the beginning of my adventures, and memory slew wonderment without compunction.

If this was sorcery, it was Kenalkan sorcery. I had seen their strange pillars at Eagle's Clearing, and I knew it was their glowing secretion, Ram's 'hot wine of the ancients' that kept that forest so verdant, even at the edge of the Eastern Nowhere. And in Rorik's Clearing, I had seen another forest, once as green as Eagle's, in a land of similar emptiness. When the Kenalka died as one, the forest surrounding Rorik's grave site fell into eternal slumber—never dying, but always with the appearance of barren winter, and firewood cut from those trees burned with a startling brightness.

Skiro may indeed have been brilliant, but it was a brilliance built on the work of far greater minds than his. And yet, for any of my plans to succeed, I would need more knowledge than three day's observance could offer.

* * *

Freeing a slave is no easy task, particularly when that slave is a stranger. They must understand that you mean them no harm, and that freedom will be the reward for swift compliance. I needed just such a slave, but I also needed one that would not be missed—preferably one that would know of Skiro's first arrival in the Vithrauth. The field women were the perfect candidates, as they were never counted or tethered with the men, and I knew that they would not be missed, for the overseer and taskmasters did not even mark their presence.

Of course, there was more to it. Overseers and taskmasters might not notice the absence of an ancient slave, but I felt certain that their families might. Something would have to be done to prevent the abductee's family from raising the alarum.

So, we would capture two field women—one to stay and inform on the goings-on of the Drejrugr, of the ways and strengths of Skiro's personally appointed slaughter-king, and of the Conjurer's own attendants and defenses. The other would return to her home in advance of my arrival. She would speak to the slave leaders—there are always leaders, even among slaves—and keep the family of my informant calm and quiet.

Rather than waiting at the end of the field, I decided to cull two from the herd while the others were focused on the overseer. They had seen the performance many times, though still they were in awe of what they saw as magical—a mystical control over the firmament itself. I used their superstition to my advantage, and did not find it difficult to carry the women away in silence, for they weighed practically nothing, and were weak in the extreme. Truly, I expected them to fall to pieces in my arms. They did make a bit of noise, but after all, the attending ears were not without distraction.

Though I knew it to be nigh on indestructible, I was loath to turn Sequiduris against a tree, for not a swordsman exists that will not wince at the very suggestion. And yet, I had little choice. With Skiro's people skulking about, my hatchet was unequal to the task, and multiple strikes would attract far too much attention. We found the field that their pattern suggested they would till the following day, and at the edge of the treeline just beyond I slashed nine trees—a few years beyond saplings—nearly to the bark at the other side, and twined a long length of rope between them.

We left Lars at the other end of the rope, knowing that only the slightest pull would be needed to topple all nine in the same direction. Having learned of the strange hold that number had on the Hjarrleth, I knew the primitives, generally more superstitious than those outside the forest, would find ample distraction at the sight. Lars had only to tug firmly, and the knotted loop on the farthest tree would fly free of the broken trunk, leaving no evidence of the deed.

The moment the rain began to fall, at the ending of the supplicant's ritual, all nine toppled on cue. The birds flew away in surprise, and the slave men turned in their fetters for a better view. We made our move on two of the women that were beyond curiosity; they were simply too weak from hunger to move unnecessarily. We were quick, but gentle, and Njal and I clapped our hands over their mouths to stifle their screams. Falling trees topple slowly at first, and the creaking and cracking of their descent is loud. When nine fall, nothing is louder, and starving women of advanced years are not foremost among screamers.

When the trees fell, the rain stopped, and suddenly it seemed that no forest could be thick enough to shield us from Skiro's gaze—we moved to rejoin Lars at the designated spot with all speed. There was more than a little hesitation on my part, for I had much curiosity about the method of communication between the overseer and Skiro's far-seeing eye.

Even if Skiro understood body-language, or a system of hand signals similar to that employed by Sigmund, the Conjurer would have no means of response. I was sure they would make their way home by way of report, but I must admit to some curiosity—and of course, there is not a trickster born that does not love to watch the execution of his own pranks.

We carried the women nearly two miles, and I followed behind Njal. Either our hostages had been close to death, or they knew by our gentleness that we meant them no harm, for they did not fight us far beyond the edge of the treeline.

At length, we felt ourselves safe, and we released them to walk with us. That did not last long, and we found it easier to carry them, since in their weakened state they could not come close to the pace we had taken, even while bearing them as burden. Four miles further, and the sun had begun to set.

* * *

We had chosen a cave as our base of operations, an outcropping six or seven miles southwest of the edge of Skiro's lands. There was a fair-sized gully just to the east, nearly a canyon at more than a quarter-mile long, and it fell amidst thick foliage, so that we felt secure against any surprise visits. Five saplings butted together with bark ropes served as the only crossing, and Lars had made our bridge while Njal and I spied on the enemy. He was an industrious and clever builder, and in spite of his high status, he took no offense in the demotion—I simply made my wishes clear, and he set his mind to the task.

As natural leaders are wont to do, Lars had made himself indispensable. With my hatchet, which I had given him as a gift, he gathered green branches to disguise the entry to our cave, and cut a flat walking surface from those five trunks, forming a crude bridge. Further, with my lesser rope and a length of braided bark he created a drawbridge, binding a pair of lines to the end of the butted saplings, and on the western crossing he looped them through the lowest boughs on either side. Thus, we could cross with ease, and with greenery fed through the rope bindings, the surface of the bridge could not be distinguished from that of the adjacent trees.

And while we spied, he hunted and foraged to prevent further depletion of my dry stores. Each night, Njal and I returned to find meals of rabbit, thrush, grouse, deer, and even fish from among the many brooks Njal had pointed out. What we didn't eat, he preserved in a tiny smokehouse of woven branches. He had built up quite a stockpile of dried meat, as well as fish pickled from my flask of vinegar. And he was also a gatherer, so that the meals were never monotonous, but paired with seeds, berries, and spring nuts.

When I saw the women eat, I became glad of Lars's industry, and we had to keep them from killing themselves, for as I had known as a half-starved child, a full stomach can be deadly to one so long deprived.

At first, I learned only that they were nameless. Skiro did not allow names among the slaves, and so they were identified by occupations and numbers only. In childhood, all were gatherers and timber-cutters, and occupations existed for them only in middle age, when a practiced hand and a quiet mind guaranteed full attention to skilled labor. When they grew too old for their given trades, the Hjarrleth monsters put them to work in the fields.

Our captives were named Tanner 2-11-23 and Miner 1-4-2, the numbers divided between generation at Skiro's arrival, family number, and their rank among the ages within their own occupations. Thus Tanner 2-11-23 had been second among slave generations at the time of Skiro's arrival—the age from marriage to middle age; her family was ranked eleventh among the tanners, and at the time of our meeting she had been twenty-third oldest among all those of her given occupation. She was nearly sixty, and aged to frailty from a lack of food and respectful care, but her counterpart, Miner 1-4-2, was truly ancient, the second oldest of all the miners, and she claimed that there were three hundred and eighteen laboring daily at that occupation.

In truth, there had been no miners at the time of Skiro's arrival, and the Drejrugr had been dominant within the Vithrauth through force of numbers and unchecked cruelty alone. At one time, Miner's people were tasked with personal servitude, a position neither relaxed nor easy, for the Drejrugr were known for killing out of hand, and also for indiscriminate and spontaneous rape of the women, as well as the children of both genders.

Seeing the need for iron, Skiro reallocated the Drejrugr servitors, placing them in the mines of the mountain rim, where hard and dangerous labor replaced a precarious daily life. Miner had lived through fifty-four years as a servitor of the Drejrugr, twelve as a miner, and nearly two decades as a half-starved sower of barley. I will never understand how she survived under such harsh conditions, but I admired greatly her capacity to do so.

After three days, I felt they had strengthened enough that I could question them. First, I wanted to know of Skiro himself, but I was doomed to frustration. As the oldest, Miner spoke for herself, and also for her counterpart.

"I saw much of him when he arrived, and my mother's own mother was born a slave to the Drejrugr. He led his carts right through our gates, surrounded by Drejrugr warriors, who swore that he was some sort of god. When the slaughter-king, a man named Garm tried to test him, the Conjurer killed him without leaving the seat of his cart. A bolt of lightning leapt from his staff, and Garm fell dead. Instantly, the slavers became slaves themselves, and Skiro organized slave and Drejrugr alike. Name became number—I can no longer remember the name of my birth—and all went to work immediately.

"Stone Cutter and Miner took the place of Hunter and Servant among the slaves almost overnight, and within five years we had finished building the first of his towers on a jutting hill at the rim of the mountains. Skiro gave the Drejrugr the gift of iron, and so-armed they grew to worship him all the more. A great wall rose around the cluster of our villages, even as the trees died all around us. Nine years into our work, his stone spire—the second of the three towers that are his dwelling—rose high above the tree line, and only the mountains behind them stand taller.

"Within months of his work in that high tower, the sky darkened. He can call lightning and thunder from the sky, and nothing is beyond his gaze. He watches us, even now, and I know that it will soon be in his mind to kill us for this treason. I no longer care. You have been kind to me, and I have lived too long to fear my end."

I had not told them my identity, and I took that moment to do just that.

"What do you know of the Vaentan?"

Tanner was as indifferent to the word as I had been the first time I had heard it, but Miner smiled a sad smile of recognition, and closed her ancient eyes.

"I have not heard that name since my youth. That tale was popular, even among the descendants of short-lived slaves—until Skiro made us fear our own voices. He sees far, and so we fear his ears as much as his eyes. But the body cannot blaspheme, and slaves are not kept for their tongues.

"The Vaentan was to be our savior—not yet born, but promised. He would walk the Hlifgat, challenge the evils of the forest, and pass into the lands beyond the mountains, leaving the path clear for us to follow. I had forgotten that, until now."

She appeared heavier of body and lighter of mind at her recital's end—proof that even the memory of hope can possess the power of rejuvenation. Lars must have taken my silence as acceptance of her apparent faithlessness.

"Do your people know of the Darratonn?"

She smiled again at the words of an eager boy. It was as if he had asked her to tell an ancient tale.

"You now speak of legends that are known to exist. The Darratonn has ranged even here, and it has killed many of the Drejrugr in passing. We jest among ourselves on such days, that pigs are like people—they eat whatever they may kill, and among the strongest they are known for bad taste, for the Darratonn has a weakness for human flesh. But why ask of that beast? Do you wish him to hear you? To pay a visit, perhaps? Speak of that which you wish to meet, and not of that beyond your foulest nightmares."

Her eyes had narrowed. Among superstitious people, it is bad luck to voice the names of frightening things. They fear to invoke them, to draw them from their far paths to visit terror upon the irreverent. Miner had assumed a chiding tone, but Lars continued, unabashed.

"This man, Ralph of far-off Meadrow, is the Vaentan! He has slain the Darratonn, and he carries the ancient golden brand of the Knowers. He killed the Harlta, and slew the Hrafnkin, two dozen in number! He is here now to kill Skiro; to slay the slaughter-king and free your people. Even now, my father will be on his way with hunters from many tribes. We will end the Drejrugr, and when the Matriarch, wise mother of our ancient cousins, is of a mind to recognize him as Vaentan, we will leave this place together."

Tanner was impressed by the tale, but Miner wagged her head in sympathy. The elderly are often right, but when they are wrong it takes much to sway them. And so, I took the same steps I had taken in Sturla's home. I unwrapped the Sheath, uncovered the hilt, and drew my Sword, almost in a single motion, and I felt the length of hide, pearl, and metal as it coiled about my waist.

The light of the fire played upon the metals of peerless Sequiduris, and I reversed the blade and drove it into the stony floor. Njal had never seen the Sword uncovered; he had seen the blade only twice, in my fight in Hrafnrodd, and again the morning I scored the trees. For Lars, this was also the third sighting, and he had seen the blade up close in Sturla's hut. Yet both sat with wide eyes and slack jaws, in shock that Rorik's Sword could bite with little resistance, even into stone.

"As Lars has said, I am here for Skiro, and I will not leave until he is dead. He was not good enough to live among the Hjarrleth, and thirty years later, the Wise Mother has decided that he is not fit to live, even here. He is a pretender to wisdom, toying with the ancient wonders of greater minds, and for his cruelty, I will see him dead."

There was much talk that night, and the nights that followed, but I had to prompt them, for they had no mind between them. Their heads had been filled with thoughts of freedom, and though they were far from confident that I would defeat Skiro, they allowed hope to dwell in their hearts. I learned much more of the Drejrugr, and as much as they could tell me of their ancient master, and together they gave me the lay of the land. With pebbles and twigs, they helped me to construct a crude map, with uprights for the towers, and descriptions of Skiro's strange devices—adapted no doubt from those employed by the Kenalka.

After a week in our care, Tanner left with a seed bag filled with food for her family, and for Miner's as well; evidence that she had not been alone, and that Skiro's days were numbered.

* * *

"With his bare hands, Miner? Truly?"

Njal had been mystified by Miner's tale. I had asked her of the current slaughter-king, and though she had known others in her long life, Kaerkjan, who ruled at Skiro's pleasure at the time of my arrival, had been by far the worst.

"Nidhag was a brute, to be sure, and well armed, for Skiro had made slaughter-king a title of honor. And yet, unarmed and unprotected by shield or hide he lifted Nidhag above his head and shook him until the weapons fell from his hands. He then broke the former king over bended knee, and in the mad songs of the Drejrugr he became known as Slittna-Hryggr (Back-Breaker). He arms himself as all kings, and he has been challenged eleven times, but never has he faced a challenger with burdened hands, or failed to break them across his knee."

I was scared, but dared not show it, for I saw that Lars and Njal had turned to me.

"If he tries that trick with me, he will see his hands fall before his head. Sequiduris bites deep, and knows not the difference between iron and bone. My blade will dine, in either case."

Anyway, I hoped it was true.

We had lived three days in that cave in Tanner's absence, and Miner had returned to life completely in that time. She was full of energy, which surprised me, for I had known few even close to her age, and they had lived with full bellies and lives free of danger. Miner had toiled all her life as a slave, and at her age, eighty-four by her own accounting, I would have expected a marked decline in vigor.

In fact, I would have expected death. Starvation is hard, even on a child, and my mother had not always been such an effective forager. Time takes its toll, but never on such hard memories. At first, hunger is painful, but when the body begins to feed on its natural stores, it is easier to move, and even to think clearly. That woman had lived virtually her entire life with little to eat at all, and elderly slaves were given almost nothing.

At Skiro's order, the feeding of slaves was a public matter. The middle-aged were fed first, for they had proved their ability to survive under harsh conditions, and the children followed. If the young could survive an early life of near starvation, they would then enjoy the brief respite that started at their thirtieth year. Beyond fifty, however, the Drejrugr began to dole out food by the spoonful. The old were to work at the plow, feeding all, and yet their bellies were perpetually empty. Skiro watched from his far tower, and if any of the women attempted to eat seed instead of sowing it, they were killed publicly, in a manner best left to the imagination.

Hearing of such cruelty, especially against the young and the elderly, I felt my blood run cold. Miner's words were true, and her frail, unfed form was proof enough of that. My heart hardened, and all fear of the slaughter-king and his ilk vanished. I felt real hate, and though I had known it in battle, at Eastwall and in the aftermath of Boers's death, I had never felt it beyond danger. And yet, I knew that the heat of my ardor would endure—I would kill Skiro when the time came, along with Kaerkjan, the Drejrugr, and all such monsters that walk upon two feet.

Miner told me of the Drejrugr, of their style in combat, and I was unimpressed. Skiro had done his dispassionate best to offer his supplicants the forgotten style of their ancestors, and he had failed miserably. They wore tanned leather for their armor, and bore iron weapons, as well as a crude attempt at the Hjarrleth shield of butted planks and leather, but they lacked further iron to harden their wards.

They were only practiced at fighting one another, and that usually took the form of single combat. In true battle, they lacked the savage, preternatural discipline that I had seen in Halga's lands. They knew nothing of the shield wall, or of protecting themselves from ranged attack, and so I spoke at length with Lars and Njal. If I could bring them to an understanding of loosing arrows in high-aimed volleys, I felt that they could instruct their kinsmen all the faster, and win against the Drejrugr, in spite of inferior numbers.

The bow of the primitive Hjarrleth is crude, and not at all accurate beyond a distance of thirty paces. It is used for its obvious advantages over the spear, but in hunting they always stalk their prey closely. As a weapon of individual combat, it is worse than useless, but never before had their people employed it in large numbers. With fifty men, they might slay one dozen at a time, bringing the odds close to even before the Drejrugr closed quarters.

The Half-Slaves, rape children born of the Drejrugr and slave women, were used as hunters, and they numbered nearly a third of those living in Skiro's lands, for the sons and daughters of rape gave birth to children of the same class. They had more fear than love of their ancestral fathers; they fed with meat the same monstrous tribe that slave labor fed with grain, and so I did not fear that I would have to fight them. They lived east of the towers, still within the wall, and all slaves were housed to the west.

South of the towers, the Drejrugr lived divided from all others, and I impressed upon my companions that we would concentrate our attacks there. They fell quiet rather suddenly, but I reassured them that we would attack by night, and that I would seek out Skiro first within his tower, and kill him before the fighting began—I had little choice, and had to revise my plan to meet the needs of my allies. I had not planned on such a promise, but I hoped that stealth and my lockbow would cover my approach. If I could kill their guards and defy notice, I could gain entry through the palisade with the aid of Rorik's keen edge. After that, I would have to improvise.

As days grew to weeks, we saw no sign of Sturla's arrival. I had been clear in my instructions, and Njal and the others had agreed on an unmistakable meeting place. Each evening he returned alone. Finally, I could wait no longer. I was forced to compromise, and I divided our group accordingly. Lars would seek the rendezvous, and Njal and I would scout Skiro's lands in advance of the attack.

I had no real reason for leaving the safety of that cave, but I was growing restless, and nervous—with time to weigh the odds against the reality of what I would be called to accomplish, I felt my resolve beginning to fade. I had to move, to work my purpose in some small way, so that I had more time to plan, and less time to think. And so we parted ways, leaving a much healthier Miner in the cave with ample supplies.

* * *

Halfway to the final termination of the treeline, we began to hear a deep, resonant pulse. Within a mile, I could feel it in the soles of my feet. It was some sort of horn. Every hour, three long, booming calls. At the treeline, near the field where we abducted Miner and Tanner, we found the source of that call. We had to move closer before we could believe our eyes, though we crouched low, in the cover of high grass and underbrush, that we might continue to elude their own.

Fifty paces away, in the middle of a recently planted field, a large depression had been filled with glowing coals. There were blackened forms on top, and after a moment I realized that they were the remains of charred corpses. Nearby, I saw a Kenalkan engine, not dissimilar from the serpent altar of the Orinsos. A long horn of brass curled around the shining sphere, and each call was blown by a pair of steadily rising bellows pumps. Behind the engine, raised high enough that I could see, a body had been bound to an upright pole, the arms lashed to a rough-hewn cross-piece. It was Tanner, long-dead.

Just behind the glowing pit, there were many children packed into the bed of a large cart. A cage of iron filled the bed entirely, and I could hear the young voices, high-pitched and screaming as a man reached inward, to drag out another. The horn blasted out another call, and both Njal and I had to cover our ears against the force of it.

There were six warriors and a single overseer, whose voice had nearly grown hoarse from shouting. I will never forget his words.

"How many more must die, brave Vaentan—Onidai, before your knees cease to tremble? Your informant is dead, but legend tells of your love for downtrodden people. These are but children, meek and innocent; must they all die, before you face our mere half-dozen in battle?"

As he spoke of the children, his words assumed a tone of mock pity, and he held his hand beneath the chin of the weeping child his subordinate had selected. I could scarce believe my own eyes. As he pursed his lips in false sympathy, I saw the face of the girl in his hand. It was Grid!

"Very well, Vaentan, if you wish to be shy, our sacrifices must continue. Witness her pain, and know that this—is your doi-"

He had intended to shout those final words, but my dart found his throat and silenced him completely. In his shock the warrior holding Grid released his grip, and she fell to the ground, unharmed. Moments later, he fell, as well—but he made no move to rise. As I have written, it was a magnificent lockbow. Grid ran for the treeline, and one of the other warriors gave chase. I killed him, slung my lockbow, and turned to Njal.

"Whatever happens, do not let them see you."

With that, I rose, drew Sequiduris, and ran for the other warriors. If I was quick, I could kill the remaining four, and usher the surviving children to safety. In truth, my head had been filled with nothing but rage, so that any thoughts of strategy were fleeting.

I shouted to Grid, told her to keep running, and pointed to the treeline when she drew near. She had just understood and moved past, when I slew the first of them. His head and broken sword struck the ground in tandem. The others trailed behind, but as I made to meet them, my entire body froze. For the briefest of moments, I could not move, at all. The air flashed white around me, and my nostrils were filled with the smell of baking bread. I can remember nothing more.

### Chapter Eight

### Within the Spire of Madness

As I opened my eyes, I saw that crystals had been encouraged to grow on the ceiling. Those shards fairly packed that stony surface, and each glowed steadily with its own pale, unlovely light. All about me, I could hear the humming I had known at the Reaping Festival, followed closely by an unfamiliar whooshing and hissing. It was humid in that place, and comfortably warm.

My whole body ached, from the insides of my long bones to the root of every hair. Those who have been poisoned by some turned fowl will understand what it is to be aware of their insides. There is an awareness of the intestines, as every ounce of digestible matter snakes through at incredible speed, something akin to the awareness one feels of their bladder when they are in urgent need of relief. That is similar to what I felt throughout my entire body. Every organ, pore, and bone ached, as though I had injured the whole of my being. For long moments I could not even think beyond the appreciation of that pain.

At length, the agony lessened, or perhaps I merely adapted to it, but when I finally had a mind to survey my surroundings, I could not. I could not even control my breathing, though I felt my chest rise and fall steadily in the slow, deep breaths one assumes in slumber. When I tried to interrupt my breathing I accomplished only the issue of a dull moan.

I heard the scuffing of shoes behind me, and then a short chuckle, non-committal, as if my audience had been preoccupied. I spied movement to my right from the edge of my vision, then felt a deep pain at my shoulder, followed by a sharp pressure, and I managed to catch a partial glimpse of the source of that sudden discomfort. I saw there a pale purple liquid, diminishing rapidly from within a clear phial. The glowing crystals vanished in a spinning blur, and I was left in darkness.

* * *

"You'll find it easier to stand, I think. Try it, young Ralph."

I opened my eyes immediately. I was in that same room, with the glowing crystals overhead and the steady humming all around. I felt the same surface beneath me—or behind me, as it had been elevated from beneath my head, that I was almost fully erect, and when I took a step forward, I found that I had full use of my faculties.

I was no longer in pain, and in fact, I felt good.

I was naked but for a loin wrap of clean linen, and when I looked down I saw the body of a much stronger youth than I. Cleanly defined ropes of healthy muscle covered my entire body. It wasn't bulky, but well articulated, and I had near-perfect range of motion in spite of the sudden growth. And the body was my own, with all of the telltale marks—the scar at my left shoulder from the dart that had graced me with introduction to fair Rowan, the glancing cuts on my forearms that had penetrated my brazen vambraces during over-extended slashes, and even the scar across my left breast from a broken bit of pottery that one of my mother's patrons had used to chastise me for my clumsiness. This was my body.

As I looked down to my feet, my hair dropped in front of my face, and when I raised my head, the raven locks hung down just below my collarbone. How long had I been asleep?

"Repetition, repetition—such a waste of time when other options are available. You will notice a marked increase in physical strength—my process is far preferable to the tedium of daily exercise. Keep in mind that you will be far from superhuman, though I doubt that any of your peers will so quickly mistake you for a boy, and the existing muscle is far more dense than that of normal accumulation. You will be stronger than you appear, but flexible, as well. Resilient, as all youths, but with the strength of more—experienced warriors. Youth is not an impediment—in my youth, I was surrounded by dullards. I have heard tell that you suffered the same affliction."

The voice was from a desk ahead. An old man, healthy and unwrinkled, but clearly advanced in years, was bent over my Sheath with a crystalline glass of some sort, and when I approached, he did not even flinch. Through the crystal, I could see beneath the leather, silver, and white hide of the Sheath, clear to the complex inner-workings, and it seemed there were many layers, for with each tap of his finger, a new surface appeared.

With his free hand, he labored over a schematic with a stylus of unusual make. It had three points of differing colors, each joined at the far end, and at each change in the level of the Sheath's inner-workings, he flipped the utensil mechanically, to draw the next level in a different color, while still occupying the same space on the paper. It appeared that he had equal use of both hands. I kept my tone non-committal, matching his own.

"That is an interesting piece. Some sort of magnifier, and yet it seems to penetrate only the surface you wish, improving your perception of the depth, rather than magnifying only the outer layer."

He smiled, though he did not pause.

"Indeed. That is exactly what it is. If you had asked, I could not have given a better answer myself. And I must compliment your own acquisition—this Dampener is generations beyond my capabilities. One of Rorik's, was it not?"

"It was. The product of my first Proving. I would not have thought to call it a 'dampener', but I suppose that is as good a name as any."

"Have you tested it?"

"I have. Practical testing, you might say. Risky, but I had little choice. Getting out of Meadrow had its price. If you are who I suspect, you will understand completely."

"I do. To what degree does it serve its purpose? You will still be dampened by the rain, dampener or not, or I have missed the mark entirely."

"With Sequiduris sheathed, it can turn the approach of any projectile, from thrown missiles to those launched—darts, arrows, sling-stones from thunderers—I was not told of any other capabilities. In truth, I have not had the faith to test it against melee attacks. Rorik's Sword makes a timely response far more satisfying."

"Thunderers? Ah, yes, the black powder weapons. Crude, but adaptable. In the future, they may be far more useful, but they're of little interest to me. And you say that the Sword must be sheathed for the Dampener to take effect? Interesting."

This was a creature of pure intellect, and I decided to feed him. Unarmed and naked, there was little else I could do in that unfamiliar place.

"Yes, very. I've long suspected that the Sword might serve as some form of inexhaustible fuel. All engines must be fueled, and whenever it is sheathed, it produces the same ringing sound, like the moving of miniature gears.

"That's strange—it isn't coiled. When I draw the Sword, the Sheath coils about my waist—although it was straight and rigid when first I claimed it from the Pool."

"Perhaps it must be at your hip, though I cannot understand the purpose of a coiling sheath-"

"In fact, it is very useful. Coiled about my waist, it does not slap against my leg or encumber my movement. I have seen men trip over long sheaths, or even grasp them in a free hand to prevent an untimely mishap."

"Hmm. Perhaps I should have given some thought to the martial lifestyle—it seems I have abandoned a relevant perspective. Still, one must make do with the opportunities that present themselves. You understand that, of course-"

"Certainly—pardon me, but you are Skiro, are you not? If so, is that how you wish to be addressed? I am afraid I was not given adequate information."

"Clearly. Skiro I am, and among those that are permitted to speak with me, that is what I am called. You are an interesting young man, Ralph of Meadrow."

"Truly? How do you mean?"

"Your past does not equate to your present. Your father was a man of action, and at the first sign of his failing, the people shunned him—and his surviving family—and yet you took up the warrior's mantle at the first opportunity. You risked your life to solve a difficult riddle—though apparently not so difficult for you—and rather than abandoning risk at the first sign of freedom, you decided to continue on the path first taken by a towering giant.

"You are stronger, you understand, but you have not been endowed with the strength of a giant. We have much in common, aside from our chosen paths. You use either hand equally well, and you have seen that I was born with the same ability. You are more clever than those around you—I too have been afflicted with that curse. Perhaps we differ only in the paths we have taken. I chose to move forward against the aims and social mores of my society, while your every action is an attempt to please all.

"Incidentally, it occurs to me that perhaps your father was not a coward, after all. It was a lesser skirmish, was it not?"

"It was. He died while fleeing for the safety of the wall."

"Ah, but was he really fleeing? An experienced captain must leave his post for all manner of reasons. A minor skirmish among an enemy that raids in larger numbers at the same time every year? It could be that he thought to warn his superiors of a surprise attack from another direction. Complex messages are rarely conveyed efficiently. If he could trust in no mind but his own, he might have thought to send word, himself.

"He knew the capabilities of his men, but perhaps he had too much faith in them. When they saw him leave, they might have lost confidence. There are many possibilities, but they all point to the same question—why did your people not conduct an investigation? Why did they refuse to offer one of their most celebrated officers the benefit of the doubt? ...I am in earnest, Ralph, answer if you can."

I did not have to rack my brain in Skiro's presence, even for a moment. I knew the answer, or an answer—it had been in my mind for many years.

"They made the decision at first sight of his corpse. When doubt entered his mind, Edam refused to voice it, for the people approved of his decision. The prevailing opinion possesses all power, and weak minds never fail to follow the opinions of their—superiors."

"Quite so. They decided that a man face-down with a javelin in his back could be naught but a coward. What actually happened is now academic. The fact of the matter is, they could not have known, either way. With his inferior officers dead, none survived to give word of his real motives. And yet, they would have lost nothing from a neutral response—it was Edam's pride, I think, that led to your disgrace."

My thoughts immediately turned to Edam's scolding tone and wagging finger. His eyes were not outraged. They were not narrowed in anger, but half-closed. He had savored his every word. I have always had the gift of memory—Skiro evidently knew that.

"You are picturing Edam now, are you not? You remember every expression, every tone. I am certain that, given time, you could recall every event of your life with minimal prompting. Is that not so?"

"You are right on both counts. My memory has always been flawless, and Edam took great pleasure in his pronouncement of my father's posthumous sentence. He could have spared my mother and I, but he saw the opportunity to exercise his will over the ranks of the Guardsmen; that is a rare occurrence in Meadrow."

If Edam had been there, I would have strangled him without hesitation. I hung my head, and fought to control my breathing, but when my hair fell again before my eyes, another thought occurred.

"How long have I been here, if I may ask?"

"I was beginning to wonder if trifling curiosity would ever get the better of you, but then we turned to a much more engaging discussion. You have been in my care nearly forty-four days. It was difficult to prevent nerve damage, but then you are lucky to be alive. It was your Dampener that saved you. Even lightning, it seems, can be channeled as its power source. Yes, forty-four days, since you came into my care. That does not include the time you have journeyed through the Vithrauth, seeking my destruction-"

To my credit, I did not panic, but in truth I'd been given no reason to fear. He had not only healed my body, he had strengthened it. Why then would he kill me? I tried to assume a diplomatic tone in response.

"Naturally, my goals have changed, somewhat. I was tasked with your death in absence of the facts of your existence. You do not seem such a monster to me—and you are no conjurer. A devotee of Kenalkan technology, and a peerless mind, but you are no magician. I reckoned without accounting for the minds that sent you here. My apologies, and my thanks. However, I'm afraid I must now ask a question that may decide the future of these wonderfully revealing conversations. Is the burning of innocent children a common practice, or was that a first for you?"

He stopped immediately, took a deep breath, then laid his utensil and magnifier on the table and stroked his bald head. It was shorn smooth, and at his age it seemed both practical and aesthetic. He suddenly looked very old as he responded.

"The men responsible have been dead now forty-four days. I was not a witness to their actions, nor was I the man that struck you with that lightning bolt. He was a technician of mine. He's dead as well. I'm glad you happened on that spot, or many more would have died. I was deep in study at the time, and I told my technicians and thick-headed warriors that they were to defend me against your impending attack. They were neither to lure you nor seek your death directly. The surviving children are with their families, and justice has already been done—publicly, though the deaths were humane. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a monster."

His words rang just, as the Hjarrleth would say, and seeing the acceptance in my expression, he turned to other matters.

"We have a problem, you and I, and, for once, I am not quite sure how to deal with it. You need me to die to advance in the favor of the Matriarch—I need to continue breathing. How are we to solve this problem, young Ralph?"

"I cannot say, Friend Skiro. I am at a loss, just as you are. There is a solution, for they would not know you from any other man of advancing years, at least when dead, though I am loath to kill an innocent man to accomplish my end."

"That has been my problem, also. No matter, we have time to think it over. I find that talking of other things aids me greatly in tackling a present issue."

I grinned at that. I had made the same observation, only recently. Here was yet another ally from among the most unlikely of candidates.

* * *

He was a prisoner of circumstance, no different than I. His father and mother were of the lower class, but their combined cunning in trade had elevated them until their wealth rivaled that of the oldest families in Sangholm. They had been slave-traders in their time, a practice that Skiro detested, more for its inefficiency than the moral ramifications, though in his fear of pushing the Drejrugr too far from their natural impulses he had tolerated the practices of that brutal culture.

When his parents died of fever, Skiro turned their former business to that of exploration rather than trade. He had wanted to advance his own studies through the tried principles of the long-dead Kenalka, and hoped thereby to greatly increase the impact of his life's work.

After two decades wandering vast Tulakal his men stumbled upon the site of the greatest find ever recorded. It was a repository of Kenalkan knowledge—more than a library or museum, for some of the earliest completed prototypes of their simpler designs had been collected there in great store. That revelation left me questioning the events of Sigred's discovery, and I wondered if it had been the same site, though I kept such thoughts to myself, content to learn what I could in the fullness of time, for Skiro's expeditions in Tulakal predated Sigred's by more than a half-century.

Over the course of another decade, every scrap, schematic, tome, and model found its way to Skiro's growing laboratory. In time, the Hjarrleth grew to fear him, and when he answered a raiding party of outlaws by lightning strike, they decided he had grown too great a threat to remain among them.

They warred, briefly, until finally he was able to bargain with the Matriarch. Truly, she feared him more than any army, for he slew even the Ironskins of the Mother's Guard that rode against him. With three carts, one containing simple tools and devices, and the other two laden with the wealth of his acquired knowledge, he made for the Vithrauth, fearing far less the unreasoning outlaws there, than the ignorance of his own people.

He did not deny profiting from slavery, but argued that, before his arrival, the life-expectancy of the slaves had been close to nil, and accidental inbreeding was common, for the men did not hesitate to rape multiple generations, knowing even that the offspring of the first might be their own. He knew he could never change them, and also that they could kill him if they had a mind to unite, and so he reasoned with them. He organized the slave society by occupation, began the ritualized practice of single-combat in response to minor grievances in an effort to keep the warrior population below five hundred, and while he was unable to outlaw rape, he managed to transform the practice into a reward of merit.

Two dozen warriors were rewarded yearly with their pick of the slaves for a month's dalliance, that only twenty-four women would suffer, and this ensured that the warriors hotly contested the decisions made by their superiors. So long as they remained at odds, they could not unite, nor return to their primitive ways.

For his part, he expressed a wish to do more to end the barbarism of the Drejrugr, but he knew beyond any doubt that the first strike of lightning against their number would end in a raid on his facility. If he died, he argued, far more than two dozen would suffer yearly in his absence.

When he requested a change of topics to something more pleasant, I asked him of my newfound strength, and he was more than willing to enlighten me.

"It was among the first advancements sought by the Kenalka, and led eventually to their pursuit of longevity. Before I continue, can you guess the first? Perhaps it is foolish, for it will not be as obvious to one so young, but I never tire of asking the question. Longevity. Kenalka. First experiment. Any ideas?"

I had not the slightest clue, but I made a show of racking my mind.

"May I give you a hint?"

"No, no, I'd like to give an honest showing. A moment, if I may."

"Of course, of course. Take all the time you need."

He returned to his work—an engine of sorts, with a chamber at center not entirely unlike that of an oven—and I knew that, if necessary, he would remain occupied for hours. What, other than human life, would the Kenalka be of a mind to preserve? Not food, for they had salt, and transported everything always at great speed. What did they value, that they would seek to preserve it first, even above their own lives?

"I have it!"

Skiro leapt from his chair in shock.

"My apologies, but I know the answer."

"Do you? Please, you have the floor. Until I land, of course. That was some start you gave me, my boy!"

"Knowledge. The Kenalka passed on their work from generation to generation, allowing one project to be completed over the course of many lifetimes. But how could they ensure that their knowledge would be passed on in the event of sudden death? Paper! Their first experiments were in the preservation of paper!"

Skiro clapped his hands together, and chafed his palms in delight.

"Quite so! Quite so! Well done! Beyond my wildest expectations, my boy! When I was your age, I carried a stylus, rather than a sword, so I was not sure your mind would travel there so easily.

"Paper, as you said. And it is a marvelous leaf. Made from a root, you know. Through their process the leaf never ages, and not an insect on Foundation has a taste for it. It will hold its shape and print even at temperatures that would reduce ordinary pulp leaf to ashes. And that is how we continue to profit from their knowledge.

"But as I was saying, their next foray into longevity took an indirect path. You know of the Ya'abkach, of course. L'mah is one of your friends, is she not?"

This was not the first time he had hinted at an intimate knowledge of my past, and of many goings-on in the world beyond the forest. He seemed to savor such revelations, and so I kept my peace, though I must admit the curiosity was killing me.

"She is. Largest woman I've ever met. But gentle, in the surprising way of a draft horse, though she does not lack at all in intelligence."

"And that similarity to draft horses is how their people were able to survive. They have always been a gentle people, totally vegetarian, and they do not subjugate animals, nor do they dine on eggs or any product of milk, after infancy. But when the Kenalka first encountered them, they were a small people, the men short by the standards of a barely nubile youth, and the women even shorter—less than half my own height, in fact."

Either he had aged to shrinking, or he had never been a tall man. I towered more than head and shoulders over him, though he never seemed to notice.

"They could not reach the higher fruits of the trees, and they were too weak, even for climbing. Wild animals made sport of them, and they owed a continued existence only to their impressive virility and fertility. And the women were hardy, rarely dying from the complications of childbirth. The Kenalka saw a grand experiment in the Ya'abkach, one that would eventually lead them on a quest that I have pursued throughout the balance of my many years.

"They started with the introduction of a low-lying, fruit-bearing plant, and they made certain that it would be unattractive to the surrounding wildlife. It contained an enzyme specifically engineered to enhance the muscle and bone growth of the Ya'abkach, but it also greatly improved their ability to digest plant matter, granting them the potential to profit from plantlife as efficiently as horses or oxen. Ruminants, though the Ya'abkach had no need to ruminate. Bad for the teeth, you know.

"Later, they took samples from the healthiest of the Ya'abkach: blood, skin, and hair. Their ultimate goal was not to augment, but to improve, that their gentle neighbors would grow to intimidating heights more or less naturally, even without that miracle fruit. And so—they engineered people. Real, walking, talking human beings—can you imagine? It was not difficult to introduce these newcomers, for the Ya'abkach have always been a kind and accepting people. And, after all, they looked exactly alike.

"But these were more than just newcomers. Though they looked like the Ya'abkach, they possessed the ability to pass on...improvements. With every generation, the Kenalka introduced a few dozen more, and by shaping their women carefully, and sculpting their men to perfection, those beautiful newcomers became the most successful at mating, that those needful traits were passed on all the faster.

"Within two thousand years—a mere hour, considering the sluggish rate of natural human development—those gentle people had grown into a race of long-lived giants, without ever turning to meat or milk. Increased bone density supports the increased mass, for like yourself, their new muscles were of an increased density. And they were made to be proportionate.

"Unlike very tall men, who, for the most part appear disproportionately lithe, with their muscle mass stretched over increased bone lengths, the Ya'abkach were inflated to scale. An extremely athletic man of average height would appear to be of precisely the same build as that of the Ya'abkach—provided the Ya'abkach was standing eight to ten paces behind him. As a result, your comparison of the gentle natives of Tulakal was closer to the mark than you might have realized, for their weight and muscle mass is far more comparable to those of a draft horse than any man upon Foundation.

"They have no fear of animals, and the men routinely grow to twice the height of the tallest Hjarrleth—perhaps even more when compared to the common height of Meadrow. Their bones are thicker and stronger, able to support more weight, so that they are more than merely tall, but proportionately strong, as well. Brilliant people, the Kenalka, but they refused to invite complacency, and chose not to profit from their work with the Ya'abkach. For them, it would be immortality or nothing.

"Of course, we all know the outcome. Pity."

Skiro's goal had been simple, and yet elusive; perhaps unattainable, though based solely on what he had already accomplished over the course of his long life—to mention nothing of his health, in spite of extreme old age—it might not have been completely beyond his grasp.

Immortality was his goal, and he had the work of more than fifty generations of Kenalkan minds to aid him. He had had limited successes, but for his part he looked far younger than a man of ninety-one, and suffered none of the aches or pains expected among the truly ancient.

Like the Kenalka, he would not profit from lesser experiments, though he did not hesitate to offer me the fruits of those labors. He had treated me with that enzyme throughout my weeks of unconsciousness, and force-fed me a concoction of whey, blended with broth and honey. I had become stones heavier, all muscle, as the result.

For two days we spoke often, and I slept but little, finding that I was rarely tired. I had headaches and eyestrain, and I slept sparingly to alleviate them, but I felt that without those complaints, I might not sleep at all. We never left that spacious room, though he told me we were in his spire, upon which his lightning engine and observatory had been mounted, and that he was only there to prevent any future foolishness from his bungling technicians.

The lightning should have killed me, of that he had been certain. It was my 'Dampener' that had saved me, and eventually that mystery became the subject of an experiment that he and I pursued together.

Under his tutelage, I learned much. For example, I learned, at his insistence, that I had no need to fear the edge of my own blade—at least, not any more than the common variety. It was the peculiar coiling that puzzled him, and he was convinced that the Kenalka had more than the convenience of the warrior in mind; to the Builders, a warrior was nothing more than an animal with hand-crafted fangs and claws.

The Conjurer believed that the coiling was intended to bind the body with a property similar to that achieved while housing the Sword. Even without Sequiduris as a power source, he felt that the Sheath would protect me, that the power of the edge would not fall upon my flesh with the same keenness it visited on all others. When he asked, I had to admit that I had been careful in the extreme to prevent my flesh from discovering the truth of his theory.

And so, we tested it together.

Weapon drawn, Sheath coiled, and dressed in clean clothing—though I had removed my shirt for the purpose of the experiment—Skiro offered both of his hands to stabilize my grip as I gently lowered the edge of Sequiduris to my right shoulder. When he finally released his grip, allowing the full weight to press upon my flesh, I prepared myself for the loss of an arm. Instead, only a hair-thin streak of blood appeared when I lifted the weapon free—scraped, to be sure, but it wasn't even bleeding.

I was relieved that I could relax my vigilance, and surprised when I found that I had grown strong enough to grip Sequiduris with a single hand. It would be fatiguing, certainly, but I knew that without a shield, I could change hands regularly, greatly increasing my ability to confound the enemy. It was the thought of the enemy that brought my mind from the Drejrugr to Sturla—and then to Grid.

Something had been missing in Skiro's explanation of my 'capture', and armed finally with my own weapon—through force of the Conjurer's own curiosity—I thought the moment right to ask.

"The survivors of that tragedy, those children. You said that all were led to their homes—what of the young girl who was nearly killed? Was she sent home with the others? She is from a village far to the south, you know."

"Ah yes, Grid. Captive, taken in an unfortunate raid, but worry not, my boy, your young admirer—or younger, I should say—was sent home, along with her parents."

"Her father and mother? Both? How is that possible, Skiro, with her father off to the east, visiting the neighboring tribes?"

He chuckled for a moment, betraying ignorance for the first time.

"I cannot say that it is possible—not for certain. I do not keep track of every captive, nor do the Drejrugr keep me apprised of every captive they have taken. Surely, you do not think I have time to interview every life those warriors see fit to uproot. Come, we must see to that scrape."

I recoiled, and brought up the point of my Sword.

"If you never spoke with her, how did you know her name, or that she was my admirer? I never mentioned that she and I had met before—and if you have never seen her, how could you know that she is any younger than I? You are correct of course, as usual, but your unaccountable knowledge in this matter is of grave concern."

"Truly, my boy, you cannot think-"

"I do not know what to think, but I do know that these primitive Hjarrleth are superstitious. After thirty years in your company they still marvel at your ability to bring rain—they act more like worshipers than grudging accomplices. And if you were not at your observatory, what need would your overseers have of bowing with their faces in the dirt? A technician, a man of their blood, would not inspire such blind devotion. It was a ritual, long-practiced, and carried out by rote. Why demand fealty on behalf of your servants?

"No, Skiro, you would not so easily share the secrets of your power. It was you in the observatory that day. You watched, hour by hour, as those children were fed to the coals."

He had tried to break through my wall of words many times, but now that I had said my peace, he appeared conflicted as to which of my accusations he would answer first. It seemed obvious then, that he sought only to mend the tear in his tightly woven web of lies. He saw the rigid, unbelieving manner of my countenance, and he shrugged, eyes closed, with a little smile.

"I am undone. It is a pity, you know. You are a bright sort. A rarity. Clever, wise, and brave. You might still amount to much, with only a little compromise. Will you not listen to reason?"

"You would dare to ask me that? What form of reason drove you to kill innocent children, Conjurer? You have worshipers here, men that would bend to your every whim, and yet you leave them to evil pursuits when they could easily see to the labor you have relegated to slaves. Did your far-ranging spies tell you that I would forget those atrocities?"

At my every syllable he took a half-step away, and I let him. I was between him and the corridor—I had him, and he knew it. But when he reached for a strange rod that had been leaning against the wall, I took it for a weapon and lunged, single-handed and in full extension. Sequiduris is not a short blade, and in full lunge he could only side-step to avoid my attack. No matter to me, for was I not in possession of the finest weapon ever made? A flick of the wrist, and a missed lunge could yet claim his ancient head.

But he did not side-step. Nor did he advance. The moment my feet left the floor, my body couched for a committed lunge, I felt a rush of cold, followed by a familiar pain. Paralyzed, I fell to the pavestones, powerless to prevent myself from falling on the edge of my storied blade. Without the Sheath, it would have been my end.

* * *

This time, I awoke in chains. It was not the same room, that was evident, for the crystals above glowed a deep purple, while others, far larger and mounted on a nearby table, issued a light of unwavering pale yellow. On a nearby tabletop I saw phials of many kinds, filled with many strange liquids, all labeled in Ald Kenalka—that complex and ancient tongue spoken by the Wise Ones themselves. There too had been collected wicked-looking implements, and all of the blades were forged from thinly hammered bronze—they would take a much sharper edge than iron.

One device stood out from the others; it was the tool Skiro had used to feed the Ya'abkach enzyme directly into my muscles. It was a rod and plunger, mounted on a tube of crystal with a hollow needle protruding from the end. He had punctured the root of every muscle with that device, feeding them with his concoction that I might gain in strength. But why? Why strengthen me, when I had lain helpless in his power for six weeks? He knew I had been tasked with his death—nothing would have been easier than the death of a helpless man, and I knew from his treatment of helpless children that he would not be squeamish about murder.

Chains had been fed around the slab that held me, pinioning my hands and feet that I could move no more than a handsbreadth to either side. My head had been left without restraint, and as my vision cleared I took the opportunity to scan the room for evidence of my whereabouts. To the right, there was another table, laden in like manner to the one on the left. I managed to arch my back and tilt my head on the slab, and I caught a glance of more slabs and tables behind me. Ahead, I saw only a narrow corridor, lit by the same crystals that lined the ceiling.

There were no shadows anywhere within my field of vision, and if I had not been so terrified, awaiting an uncertain fate, the mingling colors of those glowing crystals would have been beautiful. The floor and walls were of stone—no carpets, no drapery. Everything was meant for function—pleasing aesthetics were incidental, unnoticed before Skiro's cold and calculating eyes. No windows. But then, why should he let the weather in? He would have little need of the light! I chuckled quietly under my breath, and it would not be the last time I would do so in the midst of seemingly impossible odds. Hearing the noise of my stirring, Skiro himself emerged from behind the table to my right.

"Ah, you are awake! Splendid news! Sorry about our spat earlier, but I had little choice—you were trying to kill me, after all."

I swallowed hard against the resistance of a dry throat, and turned to the ceiling, as if my words were for the crystals above.

"Not at all. Perhaps I should apologize. You must understand though, that the horrific murder of innocent children tends to upset my temper. What was that toy you used on me, anyway?"

He grunted triumphantly, more interested in bragging of his own work than of his victory, then worked his arms into long gloves of thick leather. With a gentle heave he raised the same strange rod single-handed from a place behind those wicked implements.

It was taller than the Conjurer, one end a flat-bottomed cylinder of copper or bronze, and its apparent lightness was evidence that it was only a case—a cover for some hidden engine. A coil of the same metal rose above the cylinder, and disappeared into a long stave about a forearm's length higher. For a bit more than a leg length it was smooth and dark, covered with leather or some-such, until the coil emerged again, terminating in a small silver box at the tip. Two long, golden prongs rose from that silver surface, which was broken also by a wide, empty hole, and Skiro waved it about, oscillating its position that I might fully appreciate the craftsmanship.

I kept my expression blank, and when I turned again to the crystals above, he let the weapon rest vertically on its cylinder with a hollow metallic thunk.

"A fine tool for gaining the awe of primitives, though to you it is no more than an engine—a miniature lightning generator, as explainable in the fullness of time and education as the stuff of the sun and stars. You truly have no fear of it, do you?"

"It is a weapon, as dangerous as any, in the right hands—or the wrong hands, as the case may be. Your own hands appear suited to it. An equalizer, for dealing with dull-witted fools. No commitment to practice, and a very satisfying result. How long was I unconscious?"

"No more than an hour. I kept it at the lowest setting, in case I found myself in need of defense. I have no intention of killing you, after all."

"Oh? Plan on keeping me here until I die of old age? You may find that difficult—I have only just started my seventeenth year, after all."

"You might be surprised. Without any further treatments or advances in my cause, I will live at least a further forty years. My heart, liver, pancreas, and kidneys are all as healthy as your own. My bones have been strengthened by one of the very same enzymes I have given you, and my eyes and ears are as sharp as on the day of my birth. With further study, I may outlive you—but that is not my design."

"Well, seeing as I am in no position to ignore you, I suppose I have no choice—what is your design, Skiro?"

"I am going to release you—far from my borders, and with the understanding that you may not return until the war has ended. After that, feel free to visit anytime! You will be given your Sword and Sheath a few miles from the gate, with one of my personal devices as proof that you have slain me. And, of course, you will have these."

From a table at the far wall, he unveiled a platter, and I knew what covered it even before he brought it closer. A head, shorn bald, not dissimilar from his own, and a pair of hands, one of them bearing a ring of gold with an intricate insignia.

"We could have been separated at birth, could we not? He was Drejrugr, that should please you, in his late forties and fond of strong drink. Poor Uric—he thought he was swaggering into my presence to receive his life's greatest honor—in a way, he was right. The signet is of my house, the insignia of a title my parents bought for themselves many years ago. It is a perfect copy. I have no intention of parting with the original. It is an antique, after all.

"You'll have your evidence, my head and signet—with the hand still attached—and, after slaying the Kromjan, and me, I do not believe that your next trial will lead you in my direction...if it leads you into the Vithrauth, at all. If it does, we will simply make another arrangement—is that agreeable? I cannot imagine that I have missed anything, but if I have, I am not wholly averse to compromise."

"And what will you want in return? What can you possibly gain from this?"

"Nothing. I will say only that your existence has peaked my curiosity. We two are morally different, that is clear. I would never hesitate to meet the requirements of my goal—you would—and yet you live.

"After a childhood spent in abject poverty, you were given limitless wealth—at least by mundane standards—and though generosity can be nothing but weakness among men of power, you gave it all away without a moment's hesitation.

"You are a boy, one who lived with the stigma of 'coward's son', and yet you have shown naught but bravery on your travels, putting yourself to the hazard, even when others were ready to die in your name.

"You show compassion, also a weakness, and yet you acted on that compassion in favor of a young girl. You then strayed from your true goal to free her downtrodden mother, winning the day at odds of two dozen to one. And did you stop there? Your long journey, away from the Hlifgat, to see the emancipated primitives safely home was hardly a trifling act.

"You've survived mythic horrors, and brought joy to thousands in a time of celebration. You seduced a woman with no equals, and denied the advances of those that have never been refused. You killed one man—a mutilated prisoner, undone by the grisly work of a dualistic priesthood—to protect the lives of many, and then slew many to avenge the death of one.

"You, my young friend, are a paradox—if nothing more—and I wish to see your story play out. I want to see the six remaining Devices, to know if you will choose young love over the certainty of lasting pleasure, to understand why, when all hope is clearly lost, you have refused to retreat to safety and enjoy a life of wealth and comfort."

I smiled in spite of myself.

"Until now, I thought your knowledge the work of careful spies. My generosity, seduction, prudence...these things would have been known only to me—and to those who were there at the time. Perhaps you are a conjurer. Unless...no matter. Your offer is generous, cleverly considered, and it satisfies both ends of our shared dilemma.

"I respectfully decline, on the grounds that you are clearly insane."

He gasped for a moment, as if struck by some unseen force. Clearly, he had not considered the possibility of my refusal.

"I am not insane, Friend Ralph, and I will excuse your foul manners only because they follow the second occasion I have laid you painfully low. But the refusal itself—I must have an explanation. Why would you refuse such a perfect bargain? Everyone wins! You continue on your journey—I continue my work. Foundation has its Hero—Humanity has its Savior. A free Foundation, and in the future, none need ever fall to the effects of aging. Free...and immortal! Explain yourself."

"That is a simple enough matter, Friend Skiro. I cannot accept, because my journey into the Vithrauth is not now solely an attempt to appease the Matriarch. While you live, slaves starve to death at hard labor. Your every heartbeat is but an insult to those children, and perhaps to countless others who have fallen unspeakably in response to your slightest whim. I WILL NOT ACCEPT—because I cannot trust in your honesty, rely on your fidelity, or count on your sanity. You are a madman, cruel and irredeemable, and that—Friend Skiro, is the explanation for my refusal. It is all that I need. The mad are to be pitied, not exalted, and only a madman would compromise with the likes of you."

Throughout my speech, I saw his hand gripping tighter to the surface of his weapon. He pressed his lips together into two flat, white, quivering lines, and his cheeks twitched so violently that his eyes were oft hidden from view.

"Pitied? Pitied! I am Skiro the Conjurer—Maker of Marvels! Slayer of Death! KING—Within—the—Vithrauth! GOD of the Drejrugr! I have no equal upon Foundation! Your enemies praise me as the hero of their cause! Their machines, the engines that move their countless armies forward? They came from my mind! The engine alone was Kenalkan! The vehicles sprang from my mind, alone! Mad! You lay here at my mercy, and you were offered freedom—the chance to accomplish your impossible goal, and you refused! You knew nothing of these people before you came here! Nothing! They were nothing to you! All you had to do was take your leave, and you refused—and I am the mad one? I?!

"—you need time. Time, that is all. Time to contemplate the possibilities. To think on the consequences of refusal. —A reaction to the enzyme. Not enough sleep. Irritable from the lightning. Truly, it can be nothing else. Why else would he refuse?"

As he calmed, he spoke every syllable into his strange staff, as if petitioning it for support. When he had finished, he simply stared into the device, nodding his head slowly. It was as if he was receiving instructions. Finally, with a totally blank expression and lifeless eyes, he turned to me. I saw there the span of his many years; the toll that time had taken. He let out a deep breath, massaged his temples with thumb and forefinger, and all at once resumed his easy smile. Skiro's eyes danced in the crystalline glow, merry as ever, as he spoke.

"Where have I misplaced my manners? Little sleep in two days, the scant food that I feed my own weak frame, and two doses of lightning—to say nothing of the shock of finding your body replaced with a superior—but unsolicited model. No wonder you are so irritable! My apologies! If you will wait here, I will send instructions to one of my valets in another tower. He will find accommodations for you, and furnish them accordingly. Bars on the doors, you understand. Can't have you running around in your current state, now can we, my boy?"

He leaned on his staff with every step, as if the practice of pulling himself together had been far too taxing. I was left alone for many hours.

Skiro did not return.

* * *

The Drejrugr that came to fetch me were of a different sort than the warriors. They were well groomed, tolerably mannered, outfitted in livery with uniform armament, and completely silent. They guided me by suggestion, never once touching me or my chains. There were four, the leader walked in front, and at each turn he and his fellows stopped, indicating the change in direction. They did not make to move until I had already taken my first step.

The short corridor led into a central shaft, in which there were no stairs. Instead, I was led to an enclosed compartment, a screen of iron mesh the only movable means of entry. It was rather like a foyer with only one door, and we stood inside facing that door. Fully closed, the leader pulled gently on a bronze lever with a wide handhold, and suddenly we began to descend. Elevation and descent without stairs. Unnecessary, but impressive, and perhaps Skiro had suffered at one time from aching joints, or some similar malady.

At the chosen level, the leader righted the lever, and we halted. He opened the screen, indicated the direction, and we were off again, around the shaft to the left, and down another short corridor. The door opened wide, and a sudden draft pulled it out completely, so that it struck the outside wall. I filed out onto an uncovered walkway, a stone arch between towers, into the perpetual gray of Skiro's lands, without any idea of the hour.

When I halted the others stopped as well, and I turned to look on the building that had been my prison. It was tall, narrow, perfectly round and built of strangely hewn stones. They were roundish and perfectly planed, but cut at many angles so that they bulged evenly from the surface of the building. When I turned again and took my first step, my guards continued without so much as a grunt of complaint. The second tower was shorter, fatter, and built of rectangular stones—it was connected to another, and that to Skiro's own.

Inside, I saw that the crystals glowed in uniform red. There were walls of bars at either side—cages set into the stone nearly the entire length of the corridor. This was a prison. On entry, my escort closed the door, bolted it, and struck off my chains. Rubbing my wrists, I continued down the corridor, looking from cell to cell in passing. Most were empty, and a few contained barrels and sagging sacks of grain. Finally, I saw a cell containing many occupants, and looked on in shock to see that they were all children.

Most were sleeping, but one girl in a filthy dress, once crude, whitish linen, cried bitterly, in the kind of pained, shuddering sobs that I had known as a starving child. Her braided flaxen hair was matted and dirty, but even so, I could see the suggestion of red among those neglected locks. Even with her back to me, I knew that it was Grid. She did not speak, nor did she have to—she had not seen me, and I did not wish it.

Just beyond the wall of Grid's cell, I found my own. It had four solid walls and a door of butted oak, with only a small barred window. Within, several crystals of the yellow variety had been planted on a table near the entry, just behind a large bowl of steaming water and a thick towel.

My guards left me there, and I heard the key turn in the lock before they strode silently away. There was a bed with clean linens, narrow, but not uncomfortable, and food had been provided at a side table. It was simple fare, fresh bread and cheese, and a pitcher of their crude barley beer. I washed at the basin, but did not eat. Guilt compelled my hunger to continue.

I slept on the stone floor, losing consciousness only as the madness subsided.

I could hear Grid crying, and though I had food to spare, the wall was as unyielding as the floor.

* * *

For three days, the maddening worry continued. If Grid had been my younger sister before, she had since assumed the role of daughter. The guard returned regularly to replace my food, though no word of mine ever evoked response. I begged him to take my untouched meals to Grid's cell, and share it there among the children, but his footfalls always fell in the opposite direction.

Finally, I resolved that worry would not save her, and starvation would not aid her, and so I ate sparingly, peeling back the bottoms of the loaves at center, and then eating a bit from the insides. Unless they looked closely, they could not have known I had eaten. I drank from my wash water before using it, knowing that they could not tell splashed water from that which I had imbibed, and in that way I felt they would fear for my life, thinking that I had consumed no sustenance at all, and consult Skiro accordingly.

At the end of the third day, I began to concentrate. I convinced myself that if Grid had been there forty-four days, they were feeding her, sparingly at least. She would live, for the moment. The success of my escape depended entirely on my ability to outwit Skiro, out-fight his guards, and carry word to the Vithrauth of what I had seen.

Sturla would not wait to attack, not if I had learned anything of his love for Grid and Anka. A surprise attack, or at least a skirmish, might then enable me to steal inside and end the Conjurer, and perhaps even the Drejrugr slaughter-king, before the battle turned against the tribesmen. Without their leaders, the rest would fight amongst themselves, and perhaps that would last long enough for the Forsaken to find their way home.

Of course, I had little chance of survival, even if Skiro didn't possess the power of omniscience, and for a while, I must admit that I could not think of any other explanation for his repeated insights. I remember that I did not doubt it at all, at first. Again and again, I asked myself that same question—how could he have known, so intimately, all the details of my life?

Only one aspect of my life, beyond those things that were known to none but myself, had been shared with only one other, and Brenna would have kept our secret even better than I. For much of the rest, other than the recent news, I felt that spies could have aided Skiro in creating the illusion of omniscience—but what of the more recent events?

Hertha could no more send word to the Vithrauth than anyone else, and besides, she was not my enemy. In any case, there would have been no discernible reason for sending word to Skiro of my refusal to bed her daughters—and yet Skiro had hinted at that very knowledge. Where else could he learn such things? My memories do not limit themselves to the senses, and, as I write this, I remember feeling completely foolish, almost instantly.

He had learned those intimate details from the words of my own voice.

He had me for six weeks, with the excuse of repairing my injured body, even as he had augmented it with greater strength. That was the apparent reason, with obvious evidence—my newfound muscle—as proof of his words. What else might he have done in that time? Half-conscious, and at the mercy of any venom or potion he wished to pump into my body, I might have told him my entire life's story. It was a brilliant plan, and simple—easily passed over by one with no cause for closer inspection.

Footsteps approached from the far end of the corridor, and they stopped just outside my cell, though I knew it would not be mealtime again for several hours. My escort entered, and motioned for me to rise.

Down the corridor, I saw that Grid was sleeping, and when I stopped, my escort did the same. There I waited in horror, and was greatly relieved to see her chest rise and fall. We continued, and they chained me at the exit.

The sky was black, the scene on the walkway lit by strange torches. Throughout our walk, I continued to ponder the purpose of Skiro's play at omniscience. Releasing me had nothing to do with his knowledge of my adventures, not if his accumulated intelligence had come from my own stupefied voice.

What then, I asked, did I stand to give him through my release? Everything I had, he had. Or perhaps he had found a way to work his goal through my own. Could it be that he wanted his enemies to think he was dead? I would be gone, the only person to pass through the Vithrauth since Malmheith made it a prison, and no one would ever prove the lie of my words. He would never need to fear another attacker, for to all concerned, he would be dead.

But why should he fear another attacker? Whom did he have to fear on the outside?

The platform did not ascend to Skiro's level. Rather, it descended, and repeatedly, from level to level, until it passed beneath the very surface of the ground.

The Hjarrleth feared him even more than they feared the forest that contained him—they would never venture there, and if he had gained all his news from me he would have known that. And yet, I knew that I had not been his only source of outside news. Had he not admitted in his mad rant that the vehicles of the enemy had been the inventions of his own mind? I remembered as much, and in any case, I knew that the engines that drove the vehicles of the enemy could not have been the designs of the Kenalka. The Builders flew through the air, just as in Hroaldssaga—the earth and the sea are for beasts and fish. Eagles dive only to feed.

It was clear that the enemy had been in communication with Skiro, though whether they knew of his location, I could not tell. A medium, some sort of messenger, would have been more likely. But why would he gift the enemy with his own work in the first place? What did he have to gain? Releasing me suggested his wish for the Banners to win the war, but even that was not an assurance of self-preservation. With far greater power, and the full strength of all allied nations behind me, he must have known that I would return to end his mad cruelty. But then, he had been sure that I was no threat.

Little wonder then, that he felt he could deal with me after I had accomplished—what? 'I want to see the six remaining devices...' He had spoken almost beyond the limits of composure, and perhaps it had not been meant for my ears. He would allow me to protect him, regardless of the outcome of the war, by proclaiming his death with 'irrefutable proof'. Then, no matter how the war ended, he stood an excellent chance of survival. If the Banners won, however, he knew that I would return. He would then kill me and my escort from afar, claim the Devices, and without my leadership to aid them he would...win against the combined armies of Foundation? Nonsense. And yet, there was something there that made sense. He did want me to proclaim his death, of that much, at least, I was certain.

There were no crystals in that passage, far beneath the ground—only torches and hanging oil lamps lit the scene. Somehow, the change was comforting—a familiar glow in an alien place. At the walls were arches made from bent pillars of iron, with those strangely faceted blocks of limestone forming the walls and ceiling between. The floor was flint rubble mixed with sand and clay. Ahead, at the end of the corridor, a lift-gate of rusted iron rose to admit our entry.

My guards were hesitant, just a bit late in responding to my steps, and the youngest of them gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, with white knuckles and bulging veins. I could see the muscles of his jaw, and they were so tightly set that I feared his teeth would shatter.

He was afraid. They were all afraid.

Beyond the lift-gate, there was an open expanse with a vaulted ceiling, accomplished by a very clever design. Eight arches intersected, not only forming the ceiling of the chamber, but also the portals to various locations, with corridors cut between the narrow rises. The floor was of granite flagstones, and in the center of the chamber I saw many of those same stones rising from the floor to form the mouth of a well. Far below, I heard much splashing, and the noise was incredible.

Skiro sat with his legs dangling over the side, looking very much like a young boy on his first fishing trip, and he was miles away when we approached. His eyes had been fixed on whatever fell below, but all at once he snapped from his reverie, and waved the guards to the entrance with a serene expression. There were more of the same at the other seven portals, numbering nearly two dozen, not one of them at ease in those surroundings.

Skiro's strange staff stood vertically within his reach, beside a large and bulging sack.

"Do you like animals, young Ralph?"

"I can tell you that I am not overfond of boars-"

"Ha! No, no—I'm in earnest. Were there any creatures you preferred above all others? In the past, I mean—before the worries of manhood slew the joys of boyish enthusiasm."

He was placid. The polar opposite of the man he had been before. Almost gentle. I needed to know where this would lead.

"Horses. I have always liked them. Garrons, common ponies, chargers, draft horses—one of my ancestors was a Stabler, I think."

I tried to sound hoarse, as if I had not tasted water in days, and that seemed to confirm his suspicions, for he looked to my throat as I spoke.

"Hmm. They were never of much interest to me. I like my creatures either very intelligent, or wholly capable of defending themselves. Horses seemed to me too dull-witted. And no fangs. No claws. Nothing to fight with but hooves and bulk! No, no, birds of prey—those were my favorite. Clever, if not intelligent, with keen senses and a set of weapons that suits their hunting technique perfectly. There is no greater force than that with which an eagle can grip a fish or serpent. Could claw a man's brains out, if they so wished."

"I had not thought of that. They are impressive—and surprisingly human. Mate for life, so they say. Maybe they're better than human. When a storm moves in, they simply rise above it. Wait it out. One might even go so far as to say that they are above the troubles of man and lesser beast."

He smiled, still looking into the pool.

"Not much to work with here, I'm afraid. Some of my extracts can increase the strength of men, but you should see what they can do for the lower orders."

He motioned for me to join him, and when I did, I saw that the cavern below fell perhaps four body lengths beneath the floor, ending finally at the surface of a deep subterranean mere.

"How deep is that?"

"Deep enough. A man would be hard-pressed to find the bottom on the balance of a single breath. Now watch."

He took a bundle of bread scraps and discarded meat, wrapped in a mesh of linen cord, about the size of my head. He dropped it, and it splashed in the water, before rising to bob at the surface. Suddenly, I saw a greater splash, and felt the mist of it upon my face. A huge, serpentine back rose from the depths, and I watched as the upper jaw of an enormous mouth rose from the water to engulf the bundle. As it tumbled for the inky depths, I saw that from top to bottom the disappearing tail fin was taller than I, and when I jumped at first sight of the creature, Skiro clapped his hands together gaily.

"Impressive, no? His grandfather was a common pike! And he's only one of two dozen down there!"

"Yes, it is impressive. Perhaps we should cast a line down there, and make an impressive meal for those starving children."

He flipped his hands at me in mild annoyance.

"Pah! Those children are given all they need to live on. And besides, for all you know I'm only feeding the fish your leftovers. You haven't been eating. You'll have to dine soon, my boy, or your body will simply eat up those new muscles."

"I will eat, and I will even give your offer the consideration it deserves-"

He turned suddenly at the sound of my words. He was all ears.

"-if you feed those children properly. It's hard enough to concentrate, and harder to sleep with them constantly weeping. Besides, I know what it is to be a starving child, and I empathize with them, because of it. Not entirely different from the way you have empathized with me—on a great many matters."

I saw the shrewd smile, and it was replaced immediately by pursed lips and a deep nod of recognition. This was not at all the opportunist that I had expected. He could no more rob me of the Devices than kill me. Perhaps there was something else to his endgame that I did not fully appreciate.

"Very well. Eat they shall, and in plenty, but don't expect a banquet right away. If they're to survive, they'll have to be fed gradually, as you well know."

He looked to one of my escort.

"See to it. Feed them on vegetable broth first, and then porridge. In a few days we'll try them on cheese, and then meat. By then, our priority guest will have had the time to think his position over in peace and quiet, and when he takes his leave, the others will be healthy enough to travel, as well."

I was surprised, and took no pains to hide it, and he smiled widely in response, like a gift-giver receiving exactly the reaction he wanted.

"That's right! They're to be released! I've been rethinking my position with the slaves, as well. I cannot release them, of course. Too much work to do! I will, however, clear double the land for the next harvest, and start feeding them on the emergency stores. A practical decision, as much as humanitarian. Healthy slaves work. Sick slaves die. Dead slaves rot. Rotten slaves stink! Well, now we have one mess dealt with—what about you? Do you think you have enough energy to tour the rest of my menagerie?"

I nodded with a weak smile, and he answered with a fatherly pat on the shoulder.

"Of course you have! You are the Onidai, are you not? Follow me!"

We made for the opposite portal, and for over an hour he showed me the balance of his work at improving the strength, longevity, and even the intelligence of animals. He had ravens that understood over five thousand words in Vulgar Kenalkan, and could even respond with several hundred of their own. There were rats, grown to the proportions of wolves—terrifying, nasty beasts. When Skiro wounded one of them, the others fell upon their fellow immediately, and Skiro seemed neither pleased nor mortified—he simply accepted that pragmatic animals, such as rodents—and especially rats—would dine on anything they could.

His most impressive animal, to my mind, was a common squirrel. It had been his first experiment in the augmentation of intelligence, as well as longevity. The animal had no fear of us, and had much of the same intelligence one might expect of a dog—it understood a few dozen commands, and performed numerous tricks. All in all it was impressive, but not at all astonishing, until Skiro told me that the squirrel was forty-four years old.

Ratak had been his sole companion when he made that journey through the gates. He had been fourteen then, and at the time of my arrival, thirty years later, he appeared no older than any other squirrel I had seen. It was clear that Skiro was fond of the creature, for he spoke of him as one might speak of an old friend.

"He has his good days as well as bad. And most of his bad days are in mourning, for none of his mates have lived longer than five years. Lost his last one less than a year ago. I'll bring him another, when the time is right—always seems to cheer him up."

"Why not simply enhance a female, so that she can live as long as he?"

He stopped, and stared into the ground, slightly shaken. His brow furrowed for an instant, until finally he shook his head and resumed that same quavering grin.

"That—I had not thought of that. Yes—that would make him happy... Yes, I think I will! No more mopes for dear Ratak, I can tell you that much! And it will be an excellent study! How long will it take the female to reach Ratak's level of learning? With him as a tutor, perhaps far less time than it took me to teach him! My thanks, Ralph! And Ratak thanks you, as well."

We continued through his subterranean facility, crossing often that central chamber, until at last, we arrived at Skiro's 'brightest pearl'; his greatest living creation.

"With this specimen, I will finally solve that most awful of epidemics—death itself. Do you know that there is only one creature on Foundation that never fears the loss of a limb? My work has amplified that strength, that it can now live through the loss of limb, organ, vein, or tooth, and regenerate them all entirely.

"Of course, our own bodies are not so well equipped, but who's to say we cannot do as the Kenalka? Grow people, or even replacement organs, completely independent of a human body.

"In any case, I went a bit far with the last of these creatures, and gave it everything I had. Strong, intelligent, and enormous. An impressive creature, to be sure, and when it has nothing to eat, it hibernates, just like a bear. I thought it had lived beyond its purpose, but when I sent my men to destroy it, I found that it still had value, after all."

The heavy doors opened to a short passage ending in a viewing platform, about twice as far beneath the floor as the distance between the surface of the subterranean pool and the rim of Skiro's well. From the center of the ceiling, the largest of Skiro's light crystals I had yet seen illuminated the cavern a bright yellow, while also outlining clearly a shadowy hole carved into the opposing rock face, fifty or sixty paces from our platform.

From beneath, I heard the rattling of chains and the creaking of metal. A warrior strode into view, broad-shouldered and strongly-built. His armor of leather was scarred but sturdy, his shield was broad, lashed to his back, and he carried a pair of heavy javelins and a massive axe—his knees were shaking.

"That is Harka, Kaerkjan's older brother. He has grown too familiar, and the Drejrugr king has cleverly decided to challenge him preemptively. He had a choice: face Kaerkjan, or-"

I heard a padded rush of steps from the wide mouth of the cave. A tongue flicked at the air from around the portal's edge, and the moment it disappeared a creature of immense proportions flew from cover—it was incredibly fast. To Harka's credit, he managed to cast both javelins before it closed the distance, and when it recoiled from the impact of those impressive throws, I was able to examine it fully.

It was some sort of lizard, of a common enough shape, and I had seen many of the type in my time in the forest. But it was enormous, equally adept on two legs as on four, and when it stood fully erect in response to the sting of Harka's spears, I saw that it could stand at five times the height of that terrified warrior. Harka had made excellent throws, and both casts struck nearly the same spot at left shoulder, clearly an attempt to pierce the creature's heart. But it was to no avail—the monster, still on two legs, took both spears in its mouth, tore them free, and cast them aside—against its scaly hide, they were nothing more than hard-thrown toothpicks.

A scaly mane flew out from around its neck, and I felt the force of the wind as it rattled that hood and hissed in anger. The mane recoiled, and it dropped slowly to all fours, moving back and forth, pacing around Harka. Inspecting him from all angles.

"Initially, I fed him only leftover meat. After he killed the men I had tasked with destroying him, I began this tradition. He isn't fed as often as he'd like, but criminals and the occasional crestfallen challenger keep him healthy enough. When I dug up the corpse of the old slaughter-king, in an attempt to feed without killing, I granted him the name, as well. Nidhag is a vicious creature, but smart. He'll get the better of Harka, of that I'm certain. Don't feel too much compassion for the man, though—he's as mean a warrior as the Drejrugr have ever produced. He feels he can usurp Kaerkjan's place by succeeding where his brother dares not make the attempt."

He was right, of course. I felt no compassion for the man, knowing what he had likely done over the course of his life.

When Nidhag finally made his move, I saw that he was indeed clever. He rushed headlong, giving Harka just enough time to heft his axe, and halfway through the arc of his swing Nidhag stopped in his tracks. The creature spun on all fours, throwing Harka to the ground with a single sweep of his long, rigid tail, and when the warrior's axe went flying, Nidhag ran to take him—though he didn't kill his prey outright. Instead, he took one leg in his mouth and backed into his cave, his eyes darting behind on occasion to ensure an even entry.

But Harka had no mind for Nidhag's hospitality; he drew a long dagger from the back of his belt and began stabbing at the tip of the creature's snout. Nidhag released him immediately—then bit off his hand. He spat hand and dagger off to the side, then dragged the defenseless warrior into his den.

The screaming continued for some time.

I did not know what to make of the demonstration, for it did not match Skiro's demeanor. Nor had his mood turned—he continued speaking of the animal's habits, its smaller wild cousins, and the variation of its diet—finally, when he arrived at a natural pause, I sought to change the subject.

"How did you build this place in only thirty years?"

"Time my boy, is only an obstacle to a project when the design is vague—and when too few hands are there to see it done. Besides, most of these caverns were already here, just as the reservoir for my pike. Oh, I see. Changing the topic. Too graphic? I understand completely. If you knew the man, though, you might think differently. In any case, I've kept you from your board far too long already. You must be starving."

In fact, I had suddenly lost my appetite.

* * *

On the way to my cell, I was still in horror of Nidhag's display. Poor Harka had continued to scream, even as Skiro and I turned to leave. Was Kaerkjan so terrifying that Nidhag seemed a safer alternative? I shook off such thoughts, deciding that I had more urgent matters to consider.

In the prison corridor, I saw that two of Skiro's men had brought up a hand-cart, containing a large metal pot and several loaves of bread. There were bowls and flagons, and I felt far better about poor Grid's fate, until I heard one of Skiro's guards arguing with the children in a primitive dialect of the Hjarrleth tongue. My chains had been removed, and so I made for the cell immediately. Apparently, Grid had incited some sort of protest.

I sidled close, before she had time to see me.

"Why Grid, it is not wise to refuse a meal when offered—especially in a place like this."

"Vaentan! You are alive!"

"Of course. It was only a bolt of lightning. Now, what's the meaning of all this noise?"

"Skiro is trying to fatten us, in order to feed his serpent. Below his tower, he has-"

"Nidhag, yes. I've seen him. Terrifying creature. Don't worry, he's already eaten."

"You saw him? And lived?"

"Skiro and I are negotiating, even now. He has made a generous offer, and given me five days to consider it. You and all the captives are to be released."

"Negotiating? You mean bargaining? With Skiro? That is not the way of the Vaentan! Why do you not fight him? His slaves starve while he feeds living men to his serpent, and-"

I cut her off with an upraised hand.

"Things are far more complicated than that, and besides, he has considered his slaves, as well. He won't release them, but they are going to plant twice as much barley after the next harvest. His slaves will be fed, and they will live. Now, in absence of your father and brother, I am in charge, so I want you to listen, very carefully. In five days, we are to be set free—but only if you don't do anything to make Skiro regret his generosity in the meantime. Until then, eat. You have been hungry for a long time, so they are going to start you on gentle food. Later, you will be given stronger fare, and by the time we take our leave, you will be healthy enough to keep up. Do you understand?"

"But—he tried to kill you!"

"Grid, do I look near death? In fact, I am stronger now than I have ever been; you can see that, can't you? I saved you from Hakon, from the man in the glade, from all the priests in Hrafnrodd, and twice I saved you from the coals. There are plenty of pine trees in the Vithrauth, but none will be bent to endanger you again. I swear it. Now eat. I'm not leaving until you do, and I am hungry, as well, for I have not eaten since I learned of your condition."

She ate, and before they had finished, another team of guards arrived with wash water and clean clothes; I left them to it, and felt very pleased with myself. At least now I could concentrate. Back in my cell, I washed and ate heartily, though I only slept with difficulty. Nidhag haunted my dreams.

The next day, I was released twice, solely to witness the feeding of the child prisoners, the only other tenants housed within that corridor. Grid was finally clean, clothed in unstained fabric, and the other children were far lighter of mood. I asked the young girl if all had been well, and she offered some sarcastic retort in response—reassuring me that her outlook had greatly improved. I gave her a kiss on the head, through the bars, and returned to my own cell. That trend continued, and I was left to my deliberations.

I pondered Skiro's every word, searching for hidden meanings, and though he had said little that might betray his purpose, he had shown me much. Everything has a meaning, and, as a prisoner, I could see only what my captor wished. He had not revealed his wondrous and terrifying works idly, and it was clear that Harka's death had not occurred at the time of my arrival by chance alone.

Skiro wanted me to know of his great power, perhaps to inspire fear or awe, and yet he had been as gentle throughout the tour as a father leading his son on an afternoon hike through the forest. Indeed, he had been friendly even when revealing his madness. It was true that he had struck me down twice, but the first time I was nothing more than an enemy, and the second had only been in self-defense—the lowest setting of his weapon, just as he had said. What had changed in the interim? He had drugged me to learn all he could, that much was certain, perhaps delaying my death when he learned of my youth and inexperience. It was then that I remembered my own philosophy in Eagle's Clearing. '...a corpse yields only a stench.'

A dead man would be of little use to him, but alive, I could be used to serve a purpose. He wanted the Banners to think him dead, that much I already knew, and with enough enemy spies in the court of Sangholm, they would soon learn of his death, as well.

But there had to be something more. I had attacked him, tried to kill him, so I knew that he could have no illusions of bending me to his will. What then could he accomplish through my release that would further any cause of his? 'You will be given your Sword and Sheath...and one of my devices...' Was it to be some sort of hidden weapon, an engine designed to release some noxious haze or venomous serpent the moment I drew close to the Matriarch? No, that would only prove that he still lived.

What, then?

His designs revealed themselves on the second day, without any warning—nor was I prompted by reason or contemplation. Watching Grid and her companions receive their evening meal, I noticed that only Grid dealt directly with the guards—the others were in terror of them, and so she took the plates and drinking vessels directly from enemy hands, and doled them out, one by one. I smiled as I watched that tiny young girl exhibiting the courage that some of the older boys in that cell lacked without shame.

But as I watched her carry food to the other children, it struck me. I was to be his courier! The device was not for me, nor for the Matriarch, but for the enemy spy within her court. Some schematic, or a secret weapon to aid them in conquest. I felt foolish beyond words for failing to see it sooner, and while the knowledge presented me with a unique opportunity to rid Sangholm of prying eyes and ears, I felt my responsibility to the denizens of the Vithrauth as the sole priority.

I knew then, with some regret, that Skiro could not be allowed to live. His designs were not humanitarian, and his play at fatherhood had been an attempt to gain the confidence of a boy that had survived childhood without a father. He was not a kindly old man. The slaves would not be fed, and for all I knew, the children would be recaptured shortly after my departure.

He had to be dealt with, and yet, I could not do it alone. Only a single guard had been tasked as my escort within the corridor, and as he led me back to my cell, I put his loyalty to the test.

"You have been very kind to me, particularly as I am naught but a prisoner. My thanks."

He said nothing. I tried again.

"Did your father give you a name, or were you and your fellows born from one of Skiro's experiments?"

He smiled, then motioned to the door of my cell. I did not move.

"In my homeland, it is customary to exchange names, when asked. Will you not do me that simple courtesy?"

"Vadir."

He motioned again to the door as he spoke, and I thanked him and took my place. This was progress, and I still had three days to use it to my advantage.

* * *

Without the others nearby, Vadir guarded his tongue with far less vigilance, and so I lingered everyday at mealtime, speaking to the children, and especially to Grid, until the food-bearers had gone. Vadir was the sole guard on duty, and as he led me to my cell, he took shameless advantage of the privilege of unobserved speech.

"And you slew him with a single slash? The Darratonn? Truly?"

"Yes, truly. You speak as if you have not seen Rorik's Sword with your own eyes."

"In fact, my cousin saw it in action at the time of your...arrival."

I winced, and made no effort to cover my surprise.

"They were your kinsmen, then?"

"Only one of them, a tower guard, like myself. The ones you slew were mere Drejrugr, and we have little enough love for them."

"And you are not Drejrugr? How can that be? Are they not the dominant tribe in Skiro's lands? Is not the slaughter-king held in his highest esteem?"

"Kaerkjan is nothing more than a taskmaster. He keeps the Drejrugr in line, and they serve as the Conjurer's army, but the towers are the places of highest honor. We are stronger, more intelligent than the others, and so my master has seen fit to elevate us. He is kind and generous to all men of the guard, and though he is a terror to lesser men, he is the patron and protector of higher minds. We have no fear of him, because it is our sworn duty to ensure that he has nothing to fear."

"No fear of him, Vadir? Truly? What of his underground collection? What of Nidhag? You all seemed nervous enough in that place, and if I had known what to expect, I would have been no less apprehensive."

His face lost all color at the sound of the monster's name, and his eyes darted back and forth. It was as if he expected Nidhag to come barreling through the far door. His voice was hushed and ominous.

"You must not speak of that! Traitors and unruly Drejrugr are sent there! I cannot be here—I am not even supposed to speak with you! Please, you must not tell the Conjurer we have spoken. Please!"

"Of course. I am sorry to have worried you, Vadir. If I had known you lived in fear of that creature, I'd never have thought to mention him."

The color returned to his face at once, and the relief there was writ large. I entered my cell, and he stood at the door much longer than usual before I heard the sound of his retreating footsteps. If I wanted his loyalty, there, truly, was one avenue of success, with him as with all of his fellows.

To gain their appreciation, and test my suspicions of Skiro's true purpose, I would have to kill fearsome Nidhag.

Though he had voiced his original intention of slaying the beast, Skiro would never agree to risk my death, not when he expected to exploit my survival. It had to be done without his knowledge. I knew nothing of stealth or burglary, and though my power of memory granted me the knowledge of every twist and turn I had taken in Skiro's tower, I would need more than that—I would need access, and some idea of Skiro's schedule. In short, I needed Vadir's complicity.

### Chapter Nine

### Dragon Slayer

"No, it cannot be done. I should not even be speaking with you!"

The morning after our last conversation I convinced him to step into my cell, after Grid and the others had been given their breakfast. I made my plan known outright, knowing well the respect that even the primitive Hjarrleth have for a forthright champion.

"It was I who killed the Darratonn, remember? And the two dozen of Hrafnrodd? And the man-eaters of Eagle's Clearing? And I have only just begun my seventeenth year, Vadir. Those were but the first few of my deeds. Nidhag will pose little threat to me if I can retrieve my Sword. Do not worry about yourself and the other guards, for I will not betray your part or theirs in my attempt. And think of his happiness, Vadir. At our last meeting, he spoke of his attempts at killing the creature for the purpose of examination. Your own ranks will sleep better, as well, for the fear of Nidhag will no longer haunt your dreams. Even Skiro's hold over the Drejrugr need not change; unless he tells them of the creature's death, they will never know the difference.

"I have the means to convince Skiro that I escaped on my own, at no fault of yours or any other guard. However, I am no burglar, and not skilled at the picking of locks. Nor are any among the Hjarrleth, within or without the Vithrauth, for who among you would ever play the thief? And yet, Skiro does not know it. If I can fashion a pick, he will be none the wiser. I will retrieve Sequiduris and Sheath while he sleeps, then venture into Nidhag's enclosure alone. I will kill the creature, return my weapons, and wait for Skiro to discover my actions. He will ask of the accomplishment, and I will tell him that I acted alone—all the more glory for me, in any case."

Vadir was deep in thought. Finally, he nodded, and when he looked to me, I saw the remnants of stubborn doubt yet alive in his eyes.

"And what if you are slain?"

"Skiro will have no evidence that I did aught but escape. As he was planning to release me, you may simply bury the tokens I was to bear into Hroaht, and he will think only that I left without saying goodbye. He was planning to send me to the Matriarch with one of his own devices, as proof that I had killed him—does he keep it near to the head and hands?"

Vadir nodded excitedly.

"He does. It sits near to your Sword and strange bow, in the chamber just below his sleeping quarters."

"That is well. If I die, he will simply believe that I divined as much from the device's location. He will wonder why I chose to leave the children behind, and truly, I will not risk death without seeing to their welfare. If you will ensure that one of my meals contains something sweet, served on a bit of paper, I will write a brief note, explaining my unseemly departure, and asking him to follow through with his promises.

"Also, I will want a special dinner. Preferably something simple—large and meaty. Large enough to feed ten, if you can make it so."

It wasn't easy, but I convinced Vadir to comply, and he did even better; he told the other guards of my intentions, reassuring them with promises of my victory, and ensuring complicity with threats of false witness, should they betray me to Skiro.

The night before my departure, my meal was even larger than I had expected. A full loaf, a wheel of cheese bigger around than my thigh, a delicious confection of almond paste and honey, served in small mounds on a sheet of paper, all washed down with a large jug of honeyed beer. The main course was an entire smoked ham. The Drejrugr had domesticated the wild pigs of the forest, just as many of the fowl, and even without the aid of Skiro's medicinal treatments, the creatures had been bred large. If not for the assistance the Conjurer had given me, it would have been a difficult chore, even to carry it.

After enjoying dessert in advance of the meal, I penned my note on the paper that had been its tray. A complaint of the cold nights had provided me with the means to make both stylus and ink, and to ensure that the guards were not blamed for any part in my actions. I had asked Vadir to convey my desire for both that special meal—a celebratory banquet—and a small brazier with a bit of wood and charcoal. Again, the man did far better, bringing also a miniature hearth iron.

In fact, it was formed of wrought iron, beautifully bendable, and the shaft had a butted end—no hook, perhaps to prevent its use as a weapon. He let me examine his key briefly, and I bent the shaft of the iron between my foot and the stone floor. The locks of Skiro's tower were identical, a measure only against the ignorant natives, and the key, universal in all three towers, had but a single bitting. I tested it in the lock, then smiled as I informed the clever Vadir that he and his men need only pretend not to see me—thanks to him, I could tend to all of the doors myself. He simply bowed, generously sharing his cunning triumph, and went about his business.

My stylus was a long splinter of wood, taken from my kindling with a carving knife, the ink nothing more than a blend of charcoal dust and beer, though it served the purpose well enough, and when it had dried, I folded the top into a tab and inserted it between two loosely fitted stones at the far wall, that it would be in plain sight if I did not survive.

I ate my fill of bread and cheese, but cautioned myself against overindulgence, then drank three full tankards of beer; the time of my escape was yet four hours away, roughly the time that Skiro retired. He did not sleep very long, little more than three hours at a time, so Vadir took special care that I should be informed the moment he took to his bed.

With the beer's effects taking hold, I removed my clothing, and, as on the night of my adventure in Rorik's Clearing I sought rest in advance of grave danger. My last conscious thought as I considered that very similarity, was of Sequiduris's shining blade. It had never failed, even when my hands had fallen short. I felt the beginnings of a reckless smile as I drifted to blissful unconsciousness. No troubling dreams. The nightmare would wait until waking.

* * *

I awoke to the sound of drumming on my door. Two slow, even knocks, three fast, and two more slow. That was the signal Vadir had agreed upon. At night, there was but one guard to every three levels of that tower. I was to wait until his return, and the repeat of that signal was my final cue—the guard would make immediately for the lower floors, and I could then take my leave. I lit the brazier and placed my metal wash bowl over top of it, then made a quick meal of cold bread, cheese, and a single tankard of beer. By the time I had relieved myself in the bucket placed for that purpose, and made a makeshift pack of my blanket to house the ham, the steam was already rising from the surface of the water.

Nidhag's flicking tongue was evidence of his practice of hunting by smell, and as Harka had not been a clean man, he had made an easy target—I would not repeat his error. I soaked a small towel in the steaming water, and though it was a bit too hot I made a genuine effort of chafing my skin from head to toe—even dipping my head, scrubbing my scalp and repeating the process. After drying with a heavier towel, I turned to dress. Skiro had left several simple garments at my disposal, and I chose clothing that I had never worn. Both shirt and trousers were linen, dyed a dull dark gray—the perfect color for stealthy travel among halls of stone.

I waited with my makeshift pack slung across my shoulders, until I heard the knock in passing. The door at the end of the corridor slammed to, and I moved to retrieve my key. The lock was two-way, for my cell had not been such until my arrival; it had been a store room, reappointed that I might sleep in relative comfort and privacy. I did not even have to rattle the hearth iron, for I had bent it carefully to match the simple keys.

I was out of my cell ten heartbeats after the guard had left, and though I crept silently along the corridor, it was not against fear of discovery by the guards. To my relief, Grid and her companions were fast asleep, and the two ham bones, entirely stripped of meat, gave me ample evidence as to the cause of their sudden drowsiness. They had been allowed a banquet of their own.

In the open air I stayed low, crouching to the sides of the walkway. There were Drejrugr about somewhere, and I would not be undone because of a chanced glimpse in my direction. Inside, the guards were nowhere to be seen. When I took the stairs upward—I avoided the elevation platform—the guard above, the only one between me and my weapons, turned away as I approached—he was struck by a sudden need to blow his nose.

Nine levels up, my legs had not even begun to burn. Truly, I had been strengthened from head to toe. The entry was clear. My key turned true, and I made my way inside to find the scene of my first awakening in Skiro's domain.

Sword, Sheath, lockbow, and quiver were in plain view, and the head and hands had been packed in ice and hidden in a leather bag. Beside that grisly platter I saw Skiro's device, an octahedron of silvered bronze, the top surmounted by a trio of white illumination crystals. The shards were dim, and the device was surprisingly light. When I held it to my ear and shook it, I heard rustling within. A turn of the dial at front, and the crystals emitted a dim glow, but on careful inspection of the dial I found that its outer cover could be twisted off, revealing a rectangular hole in the wide turn-shaft.

The rustling within that hollow case betrayed that the contents were paper, schematics of some sort, and I knew at once that the rectangular hole was meant to house a key. That simple 'light box' would impress those unacquainted with the glow of Skiro's crystals, and the spy could then retrieve the hidden wealth at a later date, leaving the device behind. A clever plan, but the confirmation of my suspicions did not free me from the evening's task. If I wanted to gain the confidence of the guards, I would have to slay their worst fear—and drive Skiro to madness in the aftermath.

I girded on my Sword, tightened the belt that housed my quiver and Hjarrleth dagger, slung that magnificent lockbow, and prepared to leave, until I saw Skiro's storage alcove in passing.

I had thought only to attack from afar with lockbow, hoping that a hard-shot dart would find Nidhag's brain, but seeing that small room, and its wealth of medicinal power, my ill-formed plan gave way to a much grander scheme.

That pale purple liquid Skiro had forced into my shoulder was a mixture intended to induce a long and lasting sleep, or so he had said. In any case, I had lost consciousness when he applied it, so I felt I could trust at least in the truth of that claim. Initially, it was a thick syrupy mixture, a deeper purple than the robes of the wealthiest Nalban sheik. Skiro had told me of the preparation, with only one or two drops applied to a large quantity of thoroughly boiled and lightly salted water. I took a small ceramic jar from a nearby waste bin and siphoned a fair measure of the thick syrup from a large carboy, replacing what I had taken with boiled saltwater. Though I left the needle phials behind, I did take one of the brushes Skiro had used to apply healing unguents before binding wounds.

The elevation platform had been left far below, to ensure that Skiro would not hear my descent. As I fell deeper and deeper beneath the ground, I made my preparations. I could not be certain that the syrup would work its magic after it had been ingested, and this I had learned from Rowan.

Our ten-day journey had been a delight, and I endured her long lectures on the esoterica of Tahlrenic herblore stoically, enjoying the music of her voice far more than the content of her words. And yet, I had heard her words, and with my perfect memory, and those frequent, dreamy visits to that pleasant time in the country, I remembered everything she had attempted to teach me.

I knew not to chance simple ingestion, as I could be certain that the medicine would work through contact with the bloodstream, and so I jabbed three of my precious barbed lockbow darts entirely through the ham. I brushed a liberal quantity of the thick syrup onto the protruding points, then did the same with five of my remaining darts; I reorganized my quiver so that four of those were foremost among my ammunition, and loaded the fifth in haste as the elevation platform reached its destination.

The scene was quiet, and the ravens were at roost—not even ancient Ratak marked my passing. I will admit now that the boar was not nearly so terrifying, for I knew full well what terrors would await me in that deep place, felt the fear of it with each step. And yet I moved forward, keeping foremost in my mind those starving elders, tiny charred corpses, and the face of gentle Grid to bolster my courage. Over the course of my travels in the forest, she had become my sister—a helpless, innocent reminder that there were those worth protecting, even in savage lands.

At the viewing platform, I hurled the ham with surprising accuracy, using the blanket as a crude sling. The meaty projectile landed a full twenty paces away, then rolled a further nine. I crouched, balancing my lockbow against the stone balustrade, and I had not long to wait, for within moments I saw that familiar flicking, though this time he was not so hasty. First the tongue, then the snout, and finally the eye.

Remembering the creature's intelligence, I dropped from sight. If he thought that a threat waited above, far beyond his reach, he might retreat against the force of temptation. When Nidhag saw that the way was clear, he moved to the ham at a leisurely pace; he lowered that long, narrow head and flicked his tongue cautiously at the meaty bait.

I took aim and waited, not wishing to chance my first shot until he had swallowed it. The tainted barbs would do their work in his throat and stomach, but a premature shot might end my endeavor before it began.

His hesitation ended with the inspection, and he took it in his mouth, swallowing it whole—then shook his head violently as it worked its way down.

As a young child I once ate the wrong mushroom. It was a deadly cap, but very similar in appearance to the delicious white caps that very probably sustained me until my twelfth year. My mother had seen it, and as she tried to induce vomiting, we both learned a valuable lesson. It is impossible, or at least very difficult, to interrupt the process of swallowing once it has begun. One must wait, until the unwanted food matter has worked its way to the stomach. At that moment, Nidhag was learning the very same lesson. I imagined those barbs scraping clear to the stomach, smearing the viscous syrup deeply into the wounds. And if he vomited, the bait would have been doubly effective, but against the possibility of retreat, I thought to further his confusion.

His head was shaking too violently, so I sought the left shoulder, just as Harka had done. The dart was of the round, pointed variety, intended for piercing, and pierce it did, full to the narrow fletchings. The creature recoiled from the impact, but I fell back behind the railing to reload before he could seek out its source.

Though my second shot was better, striking his neck just below the jawline, Nidhag guessed at the source of the attack, and as his eyes met mine he threw out his scaly fringe and hissed angrily; had I not assumed the role of hunter, I might have fainted dead away. Perhaps knowing that he could never reach me, he shook his head listlessly, and retreated tail-first to the depths of his cave. As he did, he struck the flat of his skull clumsily against the cave mouth, his irritated response sluggish in the extreme, and his eyes were half-closed as he vanished from sight.

Those two shots were certain to work their magic, and the barbed ham besides, but I could not count on them to ensure his death—Skiro had spoken of Nidhag's fortitude and regenerative powers. I reloaded and slung my lockbow, then made for the staircase that led to the lift-gate below.

Two levers operated two separate gates, to ensure that Nidhag could not escape; the first opened the rear gate, and the second closed it before granting entry. As the forward gate rose before me I drew Sequiduris, my confidence bolstered by the weight of that golden weapon, even as I listened to its song.

I moved forward by short paces, crouching with a tight grip through clammy, nerveless fingers. One or two drops to apply one dozen doses—those darts would have killed more than fifty men, outright. And yet men are not lizards, and no creature had been born that could compare with monstrous Nidhag—my confidence faded with each step.

The cave mouth was cast in shadow, and I could see nothing at all; as I drew closer I saw that it slanted to the left on entry. I corrected my path, stepping diagonally five paces. There, I saw the head of my quarry lying upon the ground. Dead or in slumber, I could not tell, but no discernible breath issued from his nostrils. I breathed a sigh of relief, and made boldly for the mouth of the cavern.

And that was my mistake.

Nidhag's only error fell to the habits of his kind, and if he had been able to suppress them, he would have taken me totally by surprise. Two paces from that massive head, he flicked his tongue in search of my position. That alone reminded me of his cunning, and it was my only warning.

I leapt sidelong even as he lunged, throwing himself forward with the force of all four legs, his mouth wide to take me. My escape was narrow, but I had dropped the lockbow and switched to a left-handed grip in flight, and I swung away single-handed, slicing a deep gouge along the right side of his neck.

The blood poured in gouts, but still Nidhag stood. For a moment I thought he was about to retreat, but his turn continued, and he tried with me the trick that had made a meal of stout Harka. I saw that long, stiff tail coming well in advance, as had Harka, but I fought with more than a mere axe. With an under-handed swing I severed the tail at center, and Nidhag's hissing grew to a high-pitched shriek. He retreated, his back near to the wall, his half-stump wetting the cavern with dark blood.

His cunning had degenerated, leaving only desperation in its place.

Suddenly, he crouched and leapt through the air, his mouth half-opened and his foremost claws spread wide. I lunged forward, pressing the hilt of Sequiduris to left breast with the point angled high. I knelt, and felt the monster's weight as he spitted himself on my blade. He did not recoil as before, and the hissing and shrieking ended as he rolled away, wrenching the weapon from my grasp.

When I looked, I saw that it was done. My golden spike had been hammered home by Nidhag's own weight, gaining entry though the underside of his jaw, then rising through pallet and sinus until it had transfixed his brain entirely.

There was blood everywhere, and for the first time in the Vithrauth, Sequiduris had not sliced too cleanly—my trousers, shirt, hands, and face had been stained by Nidhag's dark blood.

I took the creature's head, that I might be sure of his end, and left it near the body. The darts were not easy to retrieve, but I did not wish to leave evidence that my victory had been aided by any form of trickery.

I wiped the flat of the blade on Nidhag's scaly hide, sheathed, then made for the creature's den. If the ham was still in his stomach I would not seek it out, but I had to be sure, and thereby leave nothing to chance.

There were small crystals embedded in the roof of the cave, and it was in the light of those glowing stalactites that I saw the true nature of Skiro's madness. The ham was there, but there also I saw a great many bones. Apparently, Nidhag consumed the bones with the meat, disgorging as a serpent when the meat had dissolved. Among those corroded remains, I saw many skulls.

Most were the skulls of children. Grid had been right all along.

I retrieved my darts, de-boned the ham, cleaned it of purplish syrup with the now-filthy blanket, and threw the meat to the rats. I kept the bone, evidence of nothing more than a legendary appetite, and wiped my darts as the elevation platform made its way upward, then rolled the blanket and tucked it beneath my arm.

It had been no more than an hour since I had left my cell. That guard was still on duty, and at sight of the blood on my clothing, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped in an expression of unmasked awe.

I returned my weapons, completely free of blood and dirt, and even returned the little ceramic jar to the rubbish bin where I'd found it, though I took care to scrub it clean with the hem of my blanket. I considered cleaning the brush, with the intention of returning it also, then thought better of it. If someone needed care, the residue on that brush might spell their doom. I kept it, and safely on the walkway outside the tower, I peeled off my bloodstained clothing.

The torches on the walkways burned oil in low pans, and after rolling clothes, brush, and blanket into a flat bundle on the low wall of that stone arch, I emptied the contents of one of them onto the final pile of evidence. It was very late, and no one was near enough to observe my vigil, but I watched, totally naked, as that cloth burned to cinders, and then smiled with satisfaction as the ashes floated away on the wind.

I lit the brazier a second time when I returned, for I had much more to wash. Without a mirror, I had to be careful, and so I scrubbed until my skin was reddened from the effort. Finally clean, I tossed the soiled towels into my privy bucket—a word to Vadir, and they would disappear with the waste.

Finally dressed in clean clothes, I drank the remainder of my beer, consumed the remaining bread and cheese, and with a dull laugh placed the ham bone on my empty platter.

Clean, sated, drunk on beer and victory, I slept dreamlessly, blissfully forgetful of those tiny skulls, piled high in Nidhag's lair.

And yet, I had cause for pride, for just as Darratonn, ravens, and mad musicians, Nidhag would feast no more.

* * *

Vadir found me in a state he did not expect. I suppose he expected a wounded, blood-soaked warrior at the very edge of death. Instead, he found me even cleaner than usual, well rested and dressed in unstained clothing. Every crumb from my platter was gone, the hefty beer pitcher completely empty, and all that remained of that enormous ham was the bone. To his eyes, he had walked in on the slumber of a man who had eaten for ten, drunk for three, and slept soundly without more than an occasional rise to the privy.

His consternation was immediately evident.

"But—who slew Nidhag?"

His shock was so animated, the expression so ludicrous, that I couldn't help but laugh, and any words that I might have offered in response were driven away instantly. Regaining composure, and suddenly remembering levity, I sought to confound him further.

"Nidhag has been slain? The poor beast! What ne'er-do-well would stoop so low as to kill Skiro's favorite pet? But it couldn't have been the Vaentan, for he is here, clean, well-rested, and completely overstuffed. Even his weapons are in place, as clean as ever, and all his darts are accounted for—who could it have been?"

Vadir was beginning to grow impatient, and just as he was about to vent his frustration, I made for the entry. After listening for a time with my ear to the door, I closed it gently, then turned to speak in hushed tones.

"How has Skiro taken the news?"

"Why, he is dumbfounded. I have never seen him beyond anger or mirth, but that is just how he appears. He is not depressed, but neither is he enraged or joyous."

"Perfect. He will not know how it was done. When he asks for me, remain calm—I expected an audience sooner or later, and in any case my five days are at an end."

"That is so—and the reason for my visit. He awaits even now. Come."

"Wait! Did you know of the children, Vadir?"

He said nothing, but I needed his support—a man unaffected by the slaughter of children would not so easily be swayed to my cause. I tried again.

"Yes, I slew Nidhag. Say nothing of it, and stick to the plan. He was a terrible foe, but I survived—that is more than I can say for many others, for when I ventured into the creature's den, I found the skulls and bones of many children. Did you know of this?"

His face assumed the pallor of death, and his shoulders slumped—he had been burdened suddenly by an unexpected weight.

"So that is what became of them. The missing ones."

"You have lost children, Vadir? And you never suspected Skiro in your search for justice?"

"We knew that prisoners, outlaws, and escaped slaves had been fed to the beast, and that such executions were overseen by Kaerkjan and the Drejrugr, as well as Skiro himself—the tower guard were exempt from the grisly practice. That place is the stuff of nightmares, and we do not go there lightly.

"Children have disappeared from among slave and guard for nearly two decades, but we had thought them safely into the forest, and hoped they might have found succor among the peaceful villages to the south.

"How many were there?"

"Many more than one hundred. Hundreds, perhaps. I picked through the pile, but did not have the heart to count them."

My voice seemed to reach him from very far away, and he gripped the hilt of his sword with a trembling fist. His eyes misted, and he bit his lip just as it began to tremble.

"Who?"

"Daughters. Both of them. They were twins, full of gaiety, with never a complaint, though I saw them only rarely. My duties held me here. I did not even hear of their disappearance until days after. My wife—could not bear the loss.

"The—villain! Monstrous serpent. The fiend! No lightning will stay my hand. I served him, swore to protect him for the whole of my lifetime—and he took everything from me!"

He turned, grasping the door, and I saw madness and hatred in his eyes. I had known that feeling, and so I leapt upon him. Never had my new sinew been so tested, for Vadir was strong, nearly as strong as I. We wrestled there, and I spoke calming words into his ear, promises of vengeance, until finally he collapsed. His sobs were mournful fury, half growl, and I waited there until they subsided.

"I know you are in pain. I also have lost, and I would that you might know vengeance. Skiro will die, and I will help if I can, but we need time now. And we must also deal with the Drejrugr. We have two dangers: Kaerkjan and his men—Skiro and his machines. How many guards are there?"

"Forty-one. Kaerkjan has five hundred, and then there is the man himself."

"Ah yes, but you will have me, remember? Sequiduris cuts deep, and my back will not break so easily. And then there is Grid's father, Sturla. He was already on his way when I accepted Skiro's hospitality. If not for the danger posed to Grid and the other children, we would have begun our assault long ere now. They will be waiting. Many villages. Hunters. Bows and spears of stone, but many more than two score. Perhaps twice as many. But first we must take down the master. Skiro's engine will have to be dismantled before we can begin the attack, and we must coordinate with Sturla, so that they may attack together from without while I deal with Kaerkjan. Can you rally the guards?"

He laughed bitterly, even as he wagged his head.

"No. They are afraid. Even if they see the bones, few of them lost children as I. Many went missing, but they were spread wide among all three castes. It will not be enough to turn them against Skiro, even if Kaerkjan and five hundred did not await them after."

"Then my plan will serve two purposes. Skiro's device is a ploy, and the proof of head and hands nothing more than an attempt to carry tidings and powerful weapons to the enemies of Foundation. I had planned to confront him today and drive him mad—perhaps the others should be there to watch."

* * *

We did not have much time to act against the force of Skiro's paranoia, so I had to speak quickly. After taking his leave, Vadir would seek out those who had suffered the loss of children, gather them together, and break the news. They were to maintain composure, no matter what they heard.

Skiro was in a fine mood. Not at all angry, and hospitable as ever.

"Better get going, Ralph. Noon in a few hours. I will be sorry to see you leave, but glad to see you go. You understand, of course. It isn't the attempted murder that has given me pause, though that has inspired some impressive nightmares. No, no, I want to learn of your new adventures. New loves, battles, Devices—there is much for you to do, and I have kept you here nearly two months. Spring is gone, and summer is at hand! The enemy will not lay idly while you are at play."

"Very well, Friend Skiro, let us see to the ceremony of my departure."

"Ceremony?"

"Why, yes. I would not think of leaving without offering public thanks for your hospitality, and a formal exchange of words as allies. I have found that Hjarrleth formality suits me, and after all, we are still in Sangholm."

"You wish to trade friendly words—in front of the Drejrugr? You may find the sentiment lost on them."

"No, no. Not a huge gathering. Simply a formal recognition of our friendly status. What of the guard? Are there enough of them to form a decent gathering?"

"I suppose so. Nearly three dozen, in fact."

The clever old liar smelled a trap, but had missed the mark. His handful would be at the defenses, but that did not concern me. He called back Vadir, and instructed him to assemble the necessary men. I had a sudden thought, concerning the guards that would remain on duty, and did my best to make Vadir understand, though my words were directed at Skiro.

"Should the morning guards not be at their posts? I would not weaken your defenses for my own selfish purposes."

"Worry not. Five or six may see to the watch. I can safely call in at least thirty."

Skiro heard 'morning', but I knew that Vadir had heard 'mourning'. While Skiro faced me, Vadir winked from behind his back. In this way most of the guards would be motivated to my aid; those who had lost children would be at watch, while most of the remainder would be there to witness my performance, and I knew that in time they would all find their way to Nidhag's former lair for further prodding.

At the Conjurer's behest, I girded on my weapons. My Sword remained sheathed, though my lockbow was already loaded. The men were gathering, so I had no time to look to pack or travel clothing. Instead, I steered the conversation in the needful direction, baiting him gently—at first.

"So, Skiro, you have said nothing of my services. Are you not pleased with my work?"

He leaned forward in his chair, as if I had finally touched on a topic of interest.

"Work? To what work do you refer, Friend Ralph?"

"Why, my defeat of dreadful Nidhag, of course. You voiced a wish to terminate the creature, did you not? Several of your men died in the first attempt, as I recall."

"Ah yes, I am glad you brought that up. How did you accomplish that impressive feat? Your weapons were in their usual place when I awoke. I only learned of the creature's death a few hours ago, and yet here you stand, clean and well-rested; not at all the figure I would expect to see after a battle with Nidhag."

I reached beneath my belted waistband and freed the twisted hearth iron.

"When I saw how kind you were in seeing to my needs, I thought to tend to yours. This fire poker is bendable, and I have seen your master keys in use many times. I dined only after my battle had ended—I would not think of enjoying your lavish gifts before bestowing one of my own. I ask only a small favor in return."

He was growing impatient—perhaps with my presumption, but certainly with the mysterious and matter-of-fact way that I had spoken—it seemed that the contradiction might be causing him physical pain. Unscathed, I had slaughtered a monster he had reputed as indestructible. No one likes to be proved wrong, and Skiro was no exception.

"Favor? By all means—ask."

"Rather than your device, I would claim Nidhag's head as evidence of my accomplishment. The Matriarch will see the monster as proof that you lived, and 'your head' will serve as ample proof that you have died. Such a warlike people are much more inclined to applaud a victorious warrior than the bearer of some strange object. Besides, I would not deprive you of a useful article, when your hospitality has been so—fortifying."

I flexed as I said it, but Skiro was in no mood for laughter.

"No, Ralph, I cannot. That device is the proof I have chosen, and besides, I may yet make useful discoveries from the examination of Nidhag's brain."

"Not likely, Friend Skiro, for little enough brain remains to examine. That is how I killed him, after all."

"Take both then, if you must. Two heads, -and an appliance-, for the price of one."

"Oh, but I couldn't! How will I carry two heads, the hands, my equipment—and some cumbersome device? The Hjarrleth will think me a baggage handler, rather than a warrior."

"I am afraid that I must—insist. That device is yours now. You must take it."

"But why? The head is nothing to you now, while the device may be of use. You must underst-"

"Because I have chosen to command it! If I say you will take the device, you will simply take the device! Do not question me again."

Unperturbed, I forged ahead.

"I am afraid that I must ask one more. This is about—other heads that I found. After the battle. In Nidhag's cave. Skulls. Many skulls."

He was growing defensive.

"Of course there were skulls! Many of the Drejrugr have been executed, or forced into the lair as an alternative to challenge. What is that to you?"

"Nothing, Friend Skiro. But there were many children in that pile. Tiny skulls among the large. The slaves sleep communally, do they not? It would be hard, I think, to abduct many of them. Who, I wonder, would be away from home often enough to leave their children at risk? The Drejrugr, perhaps? Or maybe your own guards.

"I recognized the uniform when I arrived. There was a tower guard present when those children were fed to the coals. And we have not revisited that, Skiro. Do your guards know of your habit of slaying children? Of watching from your tower as they die horribly? One knows, at least, though whether he is an accomplice or an unwilling participant, I do not know. But I can see from the faces of the men here, that they were not aware of either occurrence. You keep the weave of your lies well-patterned."

The thirty-two men present were of mixed feelings. Many were confused, and a few were outraged—at Skiro or myself I could not tell—but all looked to a single guard, still at attention, and the man had not the slightest inkling on his face of any feeling at all.

None spoke, but all wished to give voice to their thoughts. They were not on my side yet, but neither would they bend so easily to Skiro's whims. When he reached for his staff I kicked it away and leveled my lockbow. The time was not right for his death, for I had neither the full complicity of the guard, nor Sturla at the ready—if he was yet near.

"No Skiro. I am not yet ready to taste of the lightning again, but neither will I kill you. I asked only for answers, and for a reasonable explanation for your refusal to comply with a simple request. I am accomplishing much to aid you, for my report of your death will prevent any future searches for your head. Why then, is my simple request so detestable to you?"

I heard the rushing of footfalls behind me, but before I could turn to answer the charge, I felt the impact of a heavy weight upon my skull.

All that followed was darkness.

### Chapter Ten

### Rebellion

I awoke in chains, the sole occupant of my cell. And cell it was, with three walls of stone and a fourth of bars. The manacles were my own as well, the ones that had held me in transit, though they had been fitted to my ankles with toughened leather straps and bound to the floor on a staple. I was naked save a simple loin wrap—Skiro had made certain that I would not escape again.

My head was heavy, and I felt a knot at the base of my skull. For the space of many heartbeats I stared ahead, concentrating against growing nausea to join the blurred twins seated beyond the bars. At last they combined, and I recognized the emotionless guard from the assembly.

"Ah, you are alive. I was beginning to worry."

Sarcasm dripped from his every syllable. I hacked, swallowed heavily, and responded in hoarse tones.

"You have a limited skill-set, Pet-of-Skiro. Your chair-sitting skills are impressive. Your bravery, as well—so long as my back is turned."

He laughed. No anger. No look of shock or hurt.

"Aren't you a bold one? Do you not know, Master Vaentan, that I am to be your sole watcher until my master calls on you? Do not encourage me to dine and drink doubly until the appointed hour."

He rose, and sent word to another man. Not guard, but Drejrugr. Skiro had been clever, letting only his trusted pet watch me, with no virtuous eyes to witness my plight or pass the word.

Two slaves entered with trays, and my new friend unlocked the door to grant one of them entry. She was hooded in a threadbare shawl, and when she crouched to release my tray, she looked into my eyes. Miner! The moment her tray clacked to the stone floor, the other slave stumbled, spilling his burden onto the guard's tunic. Without a word of anger, he removed a leather strap from his belt, and set about chastising the clumsy servitor. Miner spoke in a whisper, and I felt that the wails of the other were disproportionate to his beating.

"Sturla is near. The guard have rallied. We await the signal. Command me."

"Look to my pack. Iron ball. Knife. Crystal phial."

She rose without another word, and ushered her fellow out, supporting his frail frame. In time, another tray was brought—by a different slave. Bread and porridge. The tall wooden cups always contained water, though never had it tasted so good. The guard never failed resume his vigil after finishing his meals. His unblinking stare drove away any thought of sleep, and though I had no idea what I would do with the useful articles that Miner was to retrieve, I needed only time to think. I could not concentrate in his presence—so I decided to toy with him.

"What shall I call you? You are loyal, but 'pet' was a bit severe. Not that I'm apologizing, you understand, but I would have a name to match such a singular character."

"Wiglaf you may call me. And you were right—I was at the coal-pit. You ruined a lovely diversion."

"My apologies, but the screaming of children disagrees with me, though you do not appear to find it so distasteful."

"I do not. In fact, that has been my master's reward for my loyalty. Sometimes he grants me...private diversion—before the show."

He was trying to bait me, to see how I, his complete opposite, would react to knowledge of his exploits. Vain rage is not my way, and besides, what of Grid? Knowing his predilections, he might torment her in order to affect me further. I remained calm.

"Diversion? Yes, I have enjoyed a great many diversions since first I entered the Vithrauth. The Darratonn and Nidhag were fine overtures. You will make an excellent finale. Perhaps Skiro will grant me that little favor—in exchange for carrying his device."

He paled in response. Clearly, that is what Skiro wished to know. My refusal had not been total, and if he could still accomplish his goal, he would. Wiglaf knew that his life would be forfeit if word went out that his death was my only price for complicity. He moved his chair after that, and no longer stared at me.

If he felt nothing else, he understood fear almost as well as depravity.

For three days, I laid in my cell, unobserved. Miner no longer delivered my meals.

I knew that awareness and speed would be needed if I was to win against my captors, and the Hilyrtrotha would give me more time than I needed. The knife would be for Wiglaf, if I could bring him near enough, but for the other guard, if there was only one other, I might have to fight. My muscles were not superhuman, as Skiro had pointed out, but I did not doubt that victory would depend entirely on iron and brawn.

I did not even consider the enemy weapon as a means of effecting my escape—I had other plans for that ball of thunder and ruin. It was to be my answer to the lightning of Skiro's tower. Such a blast could easily cripple any machine, and I knew that without its power, Skiro could rely only on the Drejrugr to protect him.

On the fourth day, Miner served me again. A large loaf of bread, and another for Wiglaf. When the old man sneezed in his face, I was granted another diversion.

"It must be soon, Vaentan. You cannot hide these things."

"Call on Vadir. Tell him to visit in an hour with two others. Sturla must make ready. It ends tonight."

She left, and I picked lightly at my bread, for I knew what I would find inside. I pressed down, until I found where the phial had been hidden, then tore away a flap and palmed it. I could not afford to be seen drinking from the vessel, so I poured it discreetly into my water cup. The concoction was far worse diluted, for I had to drink it all to ensure a full dose. I took a bit of bread to mask the taste, then thought of a way to bring Wiglaf near. The other guard was on the other side of an oak door. I had seen him enter many times.

When I felt the beginnings of the Hilyrtrotha's effects, I tucked my knife into the back of my loin wrap, then moved forward a step, leaving a fair amount of slack in the chains.

"Wiglaf! Come here!"

I heard the creaking of his chair, and heavy footsteps as he approached my cell. He was a stout man, a full head shorter than I, and as he approached, I smiled my most winning smile.

"Do you want to end this business of delaying my meeting with your master? I know you hesitate because you fear I will ask for your death. But I also know that Skiro awaits word that I will yield to his wishes, and bear his device into Hroaht. Would you care to buy your life?"

"At what cost?"

"Trade loaves with me. Mine is stale."

He chuckled humorlessly, but did not question the bargain. He was mine, and he knew it. Whatever I wanted, he would comply. When he returned, and began unlocking my cell door, I made a great show of kneading my lower back.

"I'll tell you, I will not be sad to leave this place. I have grown accustomed to beds of down and silken sheets. Stone wears on even the youngest backs."

His hands were full. Bread in the right, and he was returning the key-ring to his belt with the left. I let him finish, for I did not want the sound of metal on stone to arouse the Drejrugr.

"I ate half, but if you are willing to-"

He spoke no further. My knife found his temple, and I caught him as he fell. I then freed myself and dressed in his clothing. He was heavy-set, and so his height mattered little in the wearing of his tunic, but I was glad of the high boots worn by the tower guard—though my toes protruded from the slits I had cut to fit them—for his legs were not nearly as long as my own. His harness and leather cuirass were an approximate fit, though they bloused around the midriff. Thanks to the wound at his temple, a trick I had learned from Brenna, there was little blood, and none had stained his clothing. I left him naked, and wiped the blade of the knife on my discarded loin cloth, before hiding it in the calf of my right boot.

The tower guard were armed with a single-handed Hjarrleth sword and a long dagger, both double-edged with a keen point.

I did not know what to expect beyond that door—in such situations, an offensive posture and a clever trap are far preferable to unwitting defense. I closed my cell door quietly, leaving the naked Wiglaf inside. The Drejrugr I had seen was named Hemske, and I bellowed for him, then hid in one of the vacant cells—all had been left open but my own. Hemske marched in, leaving the door ajar.

The moment his left foot landed on the tenth pavestone from my position, I leapt out and threw my simple iron knife in a single motion. It was a fine throw, and I was glad that I had thought to ask for the Hilyrtrotha—it did much to steady my hand.

But Hemske had not been alone. There were three, and from their table they had seen my attack. None thought to call for help. They were not guards, after all, but savage warriors, and they ran to take me, the fastest of them easily outstripping the others. As they barreled forward, too hurried to shout or chant, I drew my sword and stood stock-still.

When the first of them had closed to three paces, I threw the sword hilt into my left hand, drew dagger with the right, stepped forward to block the wide arc of his attack, then slashed away at his throat with the tip of my shorter blade. He fell with wide eyes, though I saw them only in periphery, for I had already turned to meet the onrush of his fellows.

I hurled my dagger by the hilt at the second man, and it struck him below the breastbone. Finally, I strode forward, but the expected clash was not to be, for the third man was fleeter of mind than foot. As he turned to seek reinforcements, I was forced to improvise.

I had never hurled my sword, though I had seen it done, and the heavy, single-edged blades of the Drejrugr were balanced not unlike Hjarrleth hatchets; I dropped sword and dagger at the run, then scooped up the heavier weapon of my second foe. It was a poor throw, but not at all bad for a first cast, and I struck him from behind, just above the waistline. He gasped, fought for breath, but could not call for help. After retrieving his discarded sword, I offered a wound higher up to finish him, then waited, my heart beating heavily as I listened for the sound of rushing feet.

None came.

Wiglaf's sword was of better iron than those used by the Drejrugr, so I retrieved it, and reclaimed also dagger and knife, then passed the time by cleaning both on the tunics of my slain foes. Truly, that Olinbrand brew worked wonders, for I had felt no fear, and my reflexes had been flawless. I could see the needful actions well in advance, and my limbs reacted without apprehension or hesitation. My last fight without Sequiduris had been at Eagle's Clearing, and I had killed only two, where in Skiro's tower I had slain five, won my freedom, avenged the death and defilement of many children, and accomplished all without discovery.

It had been over half an hour, but Vadir and his men were not yet due. I clapped my chains on Wiglaf's corpse, closed the cell, moved the slain men back to their chairs, and placed their weapons back in their rightful sheaths. When they arrived, they found me in Wiglaf's seat, drinking from his water cup.

"Ah, you're right on time!"

They had passed the Drejrugr without looking, as superiors are wont to do, and I had risen to greet them before they could take notice of the blood upon the floor. When Vadir heard my voice, he leapt in shock. He turned to see the death behind him, then returned his eyes to me with not the slightest change in his expression.

"Vaentan! We were told to pay you a visit. We three thought to aid in your escape-"

"No need, Vadir. For you, I have only a few questions. Your fellows will spread the word. The battle begins the moment Skiro falls. When the alarum sounds, you may treat that as your signal. Will they hear the warning bell outside the towers?"

"No, the stone is too thick."

"I thought as much. The hour is at hand. Skiro will die, and Kaerkjan will follow. You two, go now, but do not arouse suspicion. When you hear the alarum, meet at the base of Skiro's tower, at the last level above his monstrous conservatory."

They clapped their right hands over left breasts, a common form of salute, and took their leave. I turned to Vadir.

"How many Drejrugr are here?"

"Between here and Skiro's tower? None. Within the tower? Many, but they are concentrated beneath his observatory. We will have to fight our way past."

* * *

Twelve. There were twelve Drejrugr in that chamber, three levels above the one in which I had first awakened, and it had been cleared to accommodate their cots. My personal effects and weapons were not in their usual place.

They were all seated at a long trestle table. I was grateful that the central shaft of his spire was left open, and that he had open entryways instead of doors—at least I could make an accurate count. I looked longingly at that hollow iron ball. I had hoped to use it to end Skiro and his machine at once. My tone was lifeless, as a child parting with his favorite toy.

"Vadir, bring me a firebrand. Quickly and quietly."

He did, and I lofted my throw, taking care not to hurl it, that it would roll from my palm gracefully. It spun gently in midair, and rolled almost to the center of their table. I moved back around the corner and clapped my hands over my ears. Vadir followed my lead. The blast filled that chamber with a sinuous, translucent curtain of smoke. Dead or stunned, they all lay upon the ground, and I did not stop to satisfy honor.

We left one alive, but disarmed him, gagged him, and tied his hands. I could see the door to Skiro's chamber at the end of a slightly curving rise of two dozen steps, and I knew that he would lie in wait behind it, staff at the ready. My lockbow was at the far corner of that large chamber, unscathed, and the sight of the loaded dart reminded me of the syrupy fluid that had once covered it. It had failed to lull one monster...

Down two levels, I added three drops to a measure of salted water, and filled the needle phial with the diluted concoction. I then removed the dart, and placed the phial so that the tip of the needle was level with the iron arch—it was shorter than any dart, and I wanted accuracy. I prodded the prisoner up the stairs ahead of me, then used his own key in the lock. Vadir waited below, that he would not hamper a possible retreat.

The door was unlocked. I took a step down, pushed the door ajar, then kicked the man ahead of me so that he stumbled into the room. There was a flash, and as he fell I crouched, taking careful aim. Skiro had only begun to understand his error when I let fly.

But the needle lost all speed. It rolled to his feet, and his shock was replaced with a wide, open smile, even as he filled the air with a high cackle; he did not control the tone, that his voice cracked harshly in falsetto. The silver leaf and white hide of my Sheath peeked above right shoulder and below left hip, and there could be no mistaking the sight of the hilt and pommel housed therein.

There was a heavy bronze engine, an enclosed tub covered in gearwork to my left, and I leapt for it just as Skiro tried another shot. His blast missed wildly, and still he laughed. As I hid, he ranted, uncaring that I had no mind to listen.

"Thought to kill me, did you? Why do you think I left your weapon in the lower chamber? I had hoped that your life might serve me in some small way, but perhaps the Centrists have no more need of my works. With you dead, the Banners will be easy prey! One at a time, Master Onidai!"

He rounded the corner and blasted again, but I was not there. I had skirted the edge of the engine. A feeble attempt, but luck found me in absence of options, and besides, the Conjurer had ample cause to turn away.

"SKIRO!"

He turned to the new threat from the stairwell and let loose yet another fruitless blast, then moved to the doorway to take better aim. I snatched up the needle in passing, and before he could turn, it found the back of his throat. I pushed the plunger as hard as I could, and Skiro fainted dead away. But he was not dead. After reclaiming my Sheathed Sword, I turned to seek out Vadir. He was not dead, either. His diversion had been nothing more or less—he never had any intention of facing the Conjurer.

"Do not kill him. I have decided the manner of his death, and it will wait until the balance of our work is done. From which engine does he darken the sky, and which device gives him the mastery of lightning and rain?"

"That, behind his seat. The silver and golden orbs control the sky."

"Good. Tie him."

But Vadir refused to touch his former master, so I was forced to work alone. With the belt and bindings of the dead Drejrugr, I bound Skiro's hands and feet tightly, and I then tore his long white robe into strips. He was frail, weak and inert—pathetic as he lay with only a loin wrap to cover him on the cold stone floor. I bound him from head to toe, using independent lengths for each binding, and I crossed each join so that he could not simply shrug them off.

Finally, I blindfolded Skiro, gagged him, and when I found his bed I made a sack of the blanket and hid him beneath his own mattress, draping the sheet over so that none would easily find him. But I knew that he would do nothing to escape—not for many hours, at least, for the dose had been half again what he had given me, and if such things mattered, I was younger and far larger than he.

I told Vadir to sound the alarum, and he moved to the wall and pulled repeatedly on a braid of silk. Bells rang out all around, and he assured me that the guard would be fully equipped and assembled within the quarter-hour.

The orbs were very large, and between them there was a dimly glowing coil, contained in a cylinder of glass. My arms could not have locked around the circumference of either sphere, though the golden orb was larger than the other. Both hummed loudly, and there was a panel beyond with many levers and knobs. Long cords wrapped in hide lined the floor, connecting steaming engines to panel, spheres, and the chair and device that Vadir swore was Skiro's observatory. I looked through the long tube, and the small convex plate of glass at center, but saw nothing for my trouble.

"The hour is late, Vaentan, and Skiro can see far only by the light of day."

I puzzled for many moments over how I might dismantle Skiro's devices. It was clear that they were given their power by the loud and steaming engines, but to sever the cords between them might only incapacitate; repairing the cords would be a simple matter for an ambitious man. My goal was not to incapacitate, but to destroy. Mastery of the weather, while wonderful in its capacity to gift the land with rain and perhaps the warmth to sow and harvest in winter, was also a constant temptation, for one might also control more devastating forces.

Hail could destroy the crops of rivals, lightning could kindle wildfires and assassinate enemies. It was too much power for any man to possess alone, and the temptation would be too great to use it to inflict harm. Such terrible and limitless strength had aided Skiro in his horrid campaign for immortality, and though he had yet to achieve that goal, he had accepted the worship of a savage people in advance of true divinity.

From the corner of my eye, I spied Skiro's staff.

It was no longer on the lowest setting. The dial, located on the fat cylinder at its base was centered, and there were Ald Kenalkan characters above each notch—numerals from zero to thirty-seven. Setting nineteen had left a blackened patch on the Drejrugr prisoner's tunic, and fused the fabric to his sunken chest. All about where Skiro had fired and missed I saw scorch marks in stone. A deep red tapestry, once bearing a spiral pattern of geometric shapes, was still burning from around the center of his last ill-aimed blast at me, leaving a rapidly dissipating smoke in the rafters high above.

I raised the setting of the weapon to thirty, not daring, for some reason, to go any higher.

Skiro had been wearing his long gloves, which I had removed so that he could not slip his bindings. When I retrieved them, I found that they did not fit. There was no time to retrieve my gauntlets, and though his first blast against my flesh had been bare-handed, I knew that Skiro wore his gloves as a precautionary measure. I offered them to Vadir, who, though older, had far more delicate hands. When he refused, I reminded him of the need for haste, and gave him the rough edge of my tongue when he shook his head like an ignorant child.

"If Skiro was a god, then what am I? I have defeated Nidhag, freed myself, obliterated one dozen Drejrugr with an iron ball, and taken the Conjurer alive. If I can so easily conquer a god, why is it that you have chosen to defy me?"

He had not expected that, and he recoiled at the sound. I saw a bit of the awe and horror return to his face.

"No, I am not a god. Neither is Skiro. Now put on the damn gloves and stop behaving like a frightened child."

When they didn't fit I almost wept in frustration. Finally, I compromised, cutting the leather at the seams and wrapping the long sections around as handholds, assuming the same balance as the two-handed grip on a spear—more or less how Skiro had held it. To ensure my safety I removed the back of the slain Drejrugr's cuirass, halved it, bent the tough leather and bound it to the staff with thongs cut from his tunic.

Vadir retreated to the doorway, but as I knelt, leveling the weapon perfectly at the large golden orb, I realized that I did not know how to activate it. I examined it, but aside from the dial I found no moving parts.

Then, when I shook it by the handholds, I noticed movement in the upper grip. He twisted it! Finally, an explanation for his poor aim. No wonder he could never hit a moving target!

Careful not to touch it with my bare skin, I took aim again about ten paces from the orb, adjusted for the deviation caused by twisting, and turned the foremost handle. The blast was blinding, and it brought to my nostrils the smell of scrap bronze being heated for salvage. The sound it emitted was only a mild ringing, followed by a harsh buzzing.

Sparks flew from the panel, and something broke within the mighty bronze engines. Steam issued forth and something shot upward, ringing loudly on the floor as it landed. Both orbs were silent, the golden one rent and scorched from my blast. The glowing coil went dark, and I saw then that it had only been a coil of glass, now thoroughly scorched, and it contained a broken wire of blackened gold.

I laughed malevolently, pure delight and mischief—an involuntary sound, not at all prompted by evil intentions, but the exercise of such power brought it out naturally in me.

In my hands I held the means to slay Kaerkjan easily, and to awe his men into submission. And yet, I could not trust in its aim. All men, and especially the brave and mad, fight for their lives in absence of the option of flight. One missed shot, and they would swarm me before I could draw my Sword. And besides, I had sworn to Lars's couriers that no lightning would interrupt the battle—the sight of those flashes might spook them into retreat.

I called for Vadir, and handed him the staff. He took it, knowing that I had used it without coming to harm, and after lowering the setting again to nineteen, I allowed him to test it on the silent orbs. When I was satisfied that he knew what he was about, I turned to leave, and when he tried to stop me, I waved away his protests.

"That weapon will not be welcome where I am going, but I can trust you, I think, to use it to work our purpose. You have lost two daughters and a wife to Skiro's cruelty. If the battle does not go our way, it will be your task to menace the Drejrugr and slay Skiro before they can discover him. Do not kill him unless that happens. Bar the door and barricade it."

He did not argue, nor hesitate to displace all movable furniture at the moment of my departure.

The two score of the tower guard were waiting at the base of the stairs. I had descended within Skiro's elevation platform, and the sight of their threatening weapons heartened me greatly—they had no intention of returning to Skiro's service, and if it had not been me, their former master would have tasted iron long before he could strike.

All of them carried short, stout, iron-tipped spears. The Drejrugr used crude, single-edged swords and heavy axes, and the leather of their harness was poorly treated, where the tower guard had thick, well-tanned leather, formed from multiple layers, and now I saw that they also possessed small concave shields of iron, backed with hide.

If the Drejrugr had savagery, overwhelming numbers, and a long history as the dominant tribe in the Vithrauth, the tower guard had skill, well-crafted iron, and a sense of unity born of confidence and discipline. They had been trained to answer the attack of many with a maximum response of two score, and they were exceptional soldiers.

Sheaves of spears had been piled behind them, at either side of the corridor leading to the main entrance.

When I saw a familiar face within their ranks, my self-possession vanished entirely, and I crushed Miner in a loving embrace, though I was far gentler than I might have been, for as well as she had fared since our first meeting, she was still bent and ancient.

"You escaped! I knew you would!"

"I have done much more, Miner. Skiro is no longer a threat. He is deep in slumber, heavily bound, and Vadir watches over him even now with his own terrible staff. The lightning engine is dead. We will fight without interruption. Those spears—they are for Sturla and his men?"

She smiled as I released her.

"Yes, I thought the guard might share with them. Also, if we are quick, we can speak to them of their strategy. Lars and Njal have explained the loosing of volleys, and Sturla has practiced for weeks to improve that skill. Many have armed themselves with bows. Five arrows each, but Sturla thinks it will fair best if they loose them carefully."

"That is well. How will we deliver the spears?"

"We? You wish to leave us?"

This from Ulfmund, captain of the guard. He had one eye, and Vadir had told me of him en route to Skiro's tower.

"No, Friend Ulfmund, not right away. I was hoping to assemble your men here, in two groups, that they might attack the rear of the advancing Drejrugr after our allies have loosed their final volley. They will be past the wall by then, and you can cut off their retreat, using the gate as a bottleneck. But first, I must tend to the wall guard. What is the timing of their rotation?"

He was a bit surprised by my knowledge of his name, but composed himself quickly.

"They have none. There is one tower to each gate, one man to each tower, and the duty is assigned to the weakest of their warriors. I would not be surprised to catch them in slumber."

* * *

When I returned to the upper levels to fetch my clothing, I was surprised to find that it no longer fit me. Though the gauntlets, gaiters, and cloak were still viable—the former two were a bit snug, and I had to cut the fingers from the gauntlets—my shirt, trousers and boots did not fit at all. Not only was my chest too large, but my arms had grown too long, to mention nothing of the increased girth. Admittedly, I was not a towering giant, though I was taller than all the men of the tower guard.

The cuffs of my trouser legs would have dangled at mid-calf, if I could have fitted them over my thighs, and a brief estimate placed my growth at a full handspan—a little taller than Lior, though still at least a full head shorter than the massive Sigmund. One of the tower guards retrieved the dark gray clothes I had worn as a prisoner, and these would be better, I decided, for no greenery grew in Skiro's lands, and darkness would be my ally far more than shrubbery.

Reversing my cloak, I was covered in charcoal-colored cloth, and when I felt I was ready, I left Sequiduris in the gentle care of Miner—I would retrieve it when the Drejrugr at watch had been slain. In my absence, I tasked the tower guard with the collection of many torches, and a goodly quantity of oil. I needed the Drejrugr to see us—to attack where they saw weakness, and I thought also to ensure that attack came only from a single gate.

My goal was nearly defeated, and perhaps I had been too hasty in destroying Skiro's device, for the perpetual cloud cover had vanished, leaving clear skies, bright stars, and the light of the full moon. The men at watch looked always skyward, leaning from their towers to view the moon, which had not been visible since shortly after Skiro's arrival.

None looked to me, and no Drejrugr emerged from hall or hut to look up at the sky—the hour was late, and they were heavy drinkers. None marked my passing, though I endeavored to prevent accidental observation, and so I crept slowly. Nine towers, spread wide, and not one guard within easy view of his fellows. And truly, who would dare attack the mighty Drejrugr? I had ample time to take aim, and all nine were dead before they knew they were in danger—every shot found the brain through temple or surprise-widened eye.

With sunrise in four hours, I made for the meeting place one mile from the gate with the three others, all tasked with bearing the weapons and torches. Sequiduris took the place of my lockbow, and fastening my harness I had longed for the protection of my armor.

At the edge of the treeline, Lars and Njal were waiting, and they led me to Sturla, who ran to embrace me, then held me in outstretched arms.

"Thank Vodn you live! I did not believe it, ere now. None did, though Miner has been completely trustworthy. At least you are alive—I will have vengeance on the Drejrugr for their raid. My wife and daughter will have blood this night!"

Grid had not made mention of Anka's death, and, in spite of the Hilyrtrotha's effects, my calm was shattered by the news. Anka had been a kind woman, and gentle. The hatred in my heart burned all the brighter, and fueled further by Sigmund's elixir, I felt I could slay the Drejrugr to a man. I felt for Sturla, but I was glad, at least, to offer him some small comfort.

"Grid is not dead. She was healthy when last I saw her, and that only a few days ago. She is being held in one of the lesser towers."

He rejoiced at the news, and believed me immediately, for there had been no corpse. Anka's body had been found in Sturla's hut, still grasping a blood-tipped spear, and though most of the village had been burned, none of the nearby villages had been raided.

Suddenly, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. Had Skiro somehow learned that Sturla had been my host? I kept such thoughts to myself, for the threat would be over soon, and painful truths would be better accepted if they followed freedom and vengeance.

"We are going to set fire to the wall. Do any of your men have horns?"

"They do. The eastern tribes take to the foothills of the mountain rim to hunt rams. Their horns are the loudest I have heard."

"Good. When we are in position, we will burn eight of the nine gates, leaving only the center clear for passage. When they attack, we will strike. Cut down a tree, and be quick. Dawn will come before we are ready for it, and I want the Drejrugr drunk and confused, roused from sleep by burning and the blasting of horns."

Had I been anywhere else, victory would have been a simpler matter. We had oil, torches, and more than enough men to hold the doors of the Drejrugr halls, even without the Sturla's people to aid us. Anywhere else I would have set fire to the halls and denied the Drejrugr the violent death they seemed to crave. But in Sangholm, such killings cannot be forgiven, and I knew that even Skiro's pragmatic guardsmen would never agree to such a plan. Further, I had no idea who else might be sleeping in those halls, and against the horrific death of even one innocent—particularly one that might so recently have weathered unspeakable atrocities—I was forced to offer battle to the savages.

I instructed my allies in the building of a simple tower, and it did not take long, for we had many hands to aid us. We were to range within bow shot, so that we would be able to strike in concentrated volleys before the central gate. Runners went to empty pots of oil on the outlying gates, then hurried to pile many saplings before each, to ensure a continued and discouraging burn; they waited with smoldering ropes of bark to light them. These were the youngest of the allies, the fastest runners, and when their task was done, they were instructed to return to the treeline in haste. Lars took to the tower as our scout, and would ensure also that we loosed precisely, timing each volley so that our charging foes would fall beneath a continuous rain, leaving no time for the Drejrugr to seek the refuge of their crude shields.

Njal tested our range, and I was shocked nearly to laughter when no challenging call followed the landing of the arrow, though I knew the enemy towers would offer no opposition. They sighted in, then sent the word to arrange the attack and gather the tribes.

They moved quietly into position, and I was shocked by their numbers. Fully one thousand approached from the trees in groups, and the glinting of iron in the gray predawn light was evidence that the tower spears had been divided equally. At the forefront of each group, I saw four spears tipped with lightly colored iron. The five-score weapons offered by the tower guard had fallen short of the mark.

I spoke to Sturla with my eyes to the approaching throng.

"How many villages did you call upon?"

"Thirty-one. Twenty-seven answered, and each attracted a following of his own along the way. Without word of the Vaentan, none would have made the journey."

There were eastern tribesmen of the mountain rim, with bracers of ram's horn, and tree dwellers of the central tribes with gaiters of braided tree bark. From the west, envoys had arrived for the summer trades, and though they were few in number, they would hear nothing of being left to await the outcome of battle—their spears were short, the shafts thick, surmounted by chipped stone in light blue, single-edged with wide spines, and the sharpened side was wickedly serrated, so that it appeared they could cut as well as thrust.

The southerners were delvers from the favored rooting ground of the Darratonn, and they had heard of my victory—many had come from their lands. Their scalps were shorn bald from either side, cropped close in the middle and dyed black, to resemble the bristles of a boar. Their stone axes were heavy, the hafts long and hardened by fire, and many were decorated with tusks and the bristles of lesser boars.

All looked on me as far more than a leader, and so I stood all the straighter, trying to assume a posture worthy of their apparent awe. Strangely, it was their admiration that bolstered my confidence, though I have been told that many feel pressure when others look to them with high expectations. In truth, I exulted in the sensation, ignoring the doubt, and convincing myself that, if so many believed me to be a great warrior, it must be true.

Each tribe had distinctive markings and colors, but all wore paint on their bare flesh in a hue only a shade lighter than congealed blood. Sturla himself had painted my body for battle, and I had described the designs I wanted in detail.

On my left pectoral, I had the seven-staved Kenalkan Arch, symbol of the Banners united, and to the right the head of Sangholm's red wolf howled skyward.

Upon my right cheek, with a thin stylus of bark, Sturla traced the four equal triangles of my own Banner, signifying the windmill.

My forearms were granted the designs of sun and crescent moon, that each kill might please the gods of the Trathnona.

Finally, with the thumb of his right hand, Sturla had painted the most important decoration upon my back: a skeletal oak tree, red, dormant in winter. As he had finished his work, an hour or so before the arrival of the tribesmen, the hetman explained that the tree would be drawn with no leaves—to the minds of those assembled, all fear of the forest's dangers had died with my arrival.

When I saw those men approach, their eyes bright and faces beaming with the savage expectation of battle, I could do naught but smile myself. Truly, from the waist up I appeared as savage as they, and only my shoes, trousers, and belted Sword served as evidence to the contrary.

I ordered my thoughts as they formed up, remembering the capture of Grid, the burning of innocent children, those tiny skulls in Nidhag's lair, and the evils perpetrated by Wiglaf. And then there was Anka. Even free, Grid would have to face the death of her mother, for I knew that she would have mentioned it before, had she known. All those ills—the starving slaves, the rape of the innocent, the raids on peaceful villages—all would be answered. I felt my blood rise, and for the second time that night, I felt that I could slay all, leaving the gathered thousand with full quivers and dry spears.

The spearmen formed a double line in eight formations, behind a prearranged motley assortment of hunters, giving us the look of an undisciplined rabble. We had to encourage an attack, and so the bowmen crouched behind. Aside from the spearmen and decoy hunters, all carried bows in addition to their spears, knives, and clubs, but from their crouched position none among the Drejrugr would see the source of danger until it was far too late.

Sturla had ranged far, for the host there had been collected from the strongest of a wide range of tribes. The mountain tribesmen were covered in skins, fur facing outward, and each wore a curling ram's horn, suspended across his left shoulder on a sling of braided sinew; their colors were light gray and pale blue, both dyes made from flowers of the eastern foothills.

As I have mentioned, those of the deep forest were tree-dwellers, and lived thus to avoid the Darratonn and other dangers. They were a bit shorter than the others, and their spears were not much longer than their arms, and flighted, to be launched with terrific force even at close range with the aid of a long forked branch. Their bark gaiters were dyed green, as were the braided cords tied across their brows, each decorated with many feathers, all hanging downward to cover their plaited locks—the hetmen were easily identified, a small green stone centered upon their head braids, that they resembled the diadems of a savage royalty.

The delvers, more numerous than any others, were far and away the most skilled at stonework, for they each wore knife and hammer, and forsaking the spears of their fellows they favored instead their heavy stone axes. All of their weapons were cut from a stone lighter in color than onyx, less reflective, but far stronger, and all were chipped in even facets, in the manner of precious gems.

Ulfmund and his two score were already waiting at the tower hill. With dawn coming, we had an ideal opportunity. The early risers would be up to rouse the slaves. With predawn passing into early morning we could see the wall easily, and though he could not see the goings-on within, Lars reported thin wisps of smoke rising from a few of the chimneys.

The Olinbrand brew was still hot in my veins, and I was neither tired nor afraid. Owing to the effects of that potion and my own hatred I had to close my eyes and take several deep breaths just to find the needful words. Fires erupted along the wall, and I watched the young runners make their flight for the forest. When I turned to the gathering I saw that the bowmen had risen so that they might hear my words. Apparently, the expectation of a formal boast is inborn, for in that way the Vithrauth tribes were no different than their iron-clad cousins.

"Skiro is my prisoner! His engine is in ruins! The sky is clear—no lightning will fall today. Remember your wives, your children, your starving and enslaved cousins, and all who have suffered and died at the hands of the Drejrugr. For thousands of years, this has been a place of outlaws. Today, justice has found the Vithrauth! If you doubt my words, look on my Sword, and take heart. May Vodn hear us, and witness true courage! With stone in your hands, you will silence the bearers of iron! Let the horns sound!"

I drew Sequiduris, and as the Sheath coiled, they cheered without restraint. Though the bowmen dropped again to one knee at the first call, the other tribesmen roared with such force that the deep and vibrant peals of those curled horns were drowned out entirely.

I had plenty of space, and had asked as much of Sturla, for when the ranks of friend and foe slammed together I would have no way of preventing the mighty sweeps of my Sword from cleaving one with the other. Sturla and the twenty-seven hetmen were ranked behind me with iron spears, and I had Sturla's word that they would give me a wide berth, parting left and right to aid the front line when the attack began.

We waited for nearly a quarter-hour, expecting with each breath that the next would see the single intact gate swing open, presenting our eager bowmen with the targets they so craved.

It grew very calm, but in the distance, I heard the sounds of battle—behind the wall!

"To the tower hill! On me!"

I ran, and the chieftains filed behind. I did not look back to observe the progress of the others. The center gate hung on nothing more than bark ropes, bound shut with more of the same, so I severed it at center and shouldered through in haste. There were no warriors within, and the large village before the tower hill was empty, all of the doors open, the houses and huts abandoned.

I ran for the tower, cresting the rise with easy, loping strides, and there, just as they became aware of me, I saw a gathering spread in two groups, leaving ample space at center. The dozen stairs of the entry were littered with twice as many bodies—a few were of the tower guard, and beyond, at the long walkway, a half-dozen men labored at the high door of a lesser tower, charging repeatedly with a ram fashioned from a heavy wooden beam.

Between the two disordered throngs, there stood a true Hjarrleth giant. Bigger even than Sigmund. He was leaning on a long sword of immense proportions, of crude iron and tremendous thickness. It was single-edged, and the flat pommel terminated its length at roughly my own height from the ground up.

He turned as I skirted the tower hill, and made for me immediately with that fearsome blade held high. His men did not know how to react, but when a full score of them fell, confusion ruled. Thirty paces from my foe, I saw the volleys, and knew that my allies had halted to reinforce my charge. When I had closed to less than twenty paces, their slaughter-king as eager for the exchange as I, both sides charged. I heard the howls and battle chants of the united tribes even over the onrush of the five hundred ahead, and their footfalls seemed to land as one, matching the cadence of my own heart.

I roared as Kaerkjan drew near, my savage grin even wider than his own.

Sequiduris gripped in both hands, I stopped short at half a pace to cleave the slaughter-king's sword—he was already in mid-swing, and I felt the blades collide—that had never happened before, but then, I had never attempted to strike such a mass of iron. The momentum of my cut slowed as the sides of the furrow carved by my sword clamped down upon its golden surface, and to my terror, it stuck in the spine of his blade. He wrenched my weapon away, observed the tangled mess, and with the briefest of shrugs threw our interlocked swords to the ground, then crouched and held out his arms, his maniacal expression betraying the desire to feel the breaking of my back upon bended knee.

He leapt, and I rolled to his left, recovering quickly as he turned, though I knew such maneuvers would not confound him for long—he would catch me eventually, and I would break upon his knee just as so many others. And then I heard an impact from behind, and Kaerkjan winced. As he turned to face the new threat, I saw the bulk of a large flint blade protruding from the back of his left thigh. Beyond the crouching giant, I saw that Sturla had leveled his spear. Kaerkjan struck his mailed breast and lumbered forward, not even thinking to remove the embedded knife.

His sword and mine were tightly bound, but with one foot on his blade, I freed Sequiduris quickly, and not a moment too soon, for Kaerkjan had taken Sturla's spear and knocked the hetman to the ground. He lifted him high over his head, knelt down, and I saw the muscles of his back flex, even beneath his crude mail as he prepared to claim another spine.

I knew that cutting off his arms would still end in Sturla's death, and so I rushed forward, pivoting my hips to add impetus as I cut away with a mighty, wide-arced swing, tearing deeply into Kaerkjan's waist. My new muscles proved themselves that day, for Kaerkjan did not fall immediately. Sequiduris slid through cleanly, its blade unstained on exit, and I finished the maneuver without feeling the slightest inkling of resistance. I leapt away as he toppled backward slowly, no different than a falling tree.

Screaming head and bleeding torso struck the ground, long before his legs fell to join them.

I retrieved Sturla's spear and helped him up. He thanked me with his eyes, and I returned the expression as we parted.

A dozen or so were left before the tower, and even with Sequiduris I was hard-pressed to win to the entryway, for nothing seemed to dishearten these Drejrugr from combat. Whenever one fell, another was already in mid-lunge behind him.

It was nightmarish, one terrifying countenance following behind another through a mist of blood, and I had to retreat by half-steps and assume spinning slashes to recover from each attack and gain the distance needed to prepare for another strike. Apparently, their new slaughter-king was to be chosen from their own ranks.

My foes all died in mid-attack, and with the true battle now being waged behind me, further progress was slowed only by the two dozen corpses on the stairs. I knocked loudly, and shouted my name, even as I turned to menace the few enemies that had followed. The door flew open, and I saw Ulfmund there with a shocked expression from the corner of my eye. When I turned, the last of my immediate foes bested, I saw that his sword was crusted with congealing blood.

"Kaerkjan is dead! A dozen to the left, another to the right, and I will hold the center! The rest remain inside and hold this door! On me!"

I heard their footfalls landing heavily behind, and from the sound, it seemed that they parted at the run—the first man turning to the left, the second to the right, and so on, that my charge would be evenly reinforced on both sides. Their discipline was total, and they did not shout as they charged.

Even as Skiro's former guards threw their heavy spears at ten paces, the Drejrugr did not turn. As the spears landed they drew their swords mechanically, only five paces dividing them from their foes, and then, as one, they shouted the name of their god Vodn. The sound was so perfectly harmonious that the voices blended together, and I heard it clearly, even over the cries of tribesman and Drejrugr alike—it was as if the god himself had shouted into the din.

Not one of their spears flew wide of the mark, and as twenty-four of the Drejrugr fell, the others at the rear heard the call, though they turned only belatedly to the sight of their falling brethren. The savages had no time to prepare for our charge, that twenty-five and more followed the spear-slain in melee, even before the combat began in earnest.

The Hilyrtrotha calmed my actions. I saw four necks in an even line, and I severed them with a single, unhurried stroke. Three Drejrugr stood in a near-perfect column, and I spitted them with a single lunge.

My memories of the battle are now little more than a fevered blur. The tide of burning hatred, and the resulting pleasure, as I slew the feral monsters, conspired with the contradictory capacity to fight in a series of calculated maneuvers, that I remember far more of emotion and thought than individual occurrence.

And yet, the battle did not pass without incident. I took a half-dozen scrapes from enemies that I had been too eager to kill, and though my forearms had the middling protection of starched linen, my right shoulder did not fare as well. But those scrapes were shallow, and not close to deadly.

When I grew tired, I switched to a left-handed grip and fared far better, for the superstitious Drejrugr believed left-handed people to be the agents of evil spirits—they had killed any children that they knew to possess the trait, and as a result, their warriors were even more inept at fighting against the left-handed than any others I had faced. Many seemed to balk more noticeably at the prospect of trying me as I fought with my left hand, even knowing that my Sword could kill them with a single stroke.

I lost count of the number I had killed, though my killings were obvious, for all others were from the thrust of stone and iron spear, the cut of common sword, the crushing of hammer, or the jagged cleaving of stone axes or stout western spears. Here and there, I saw fallen Drejrugr that fairly bristled with arrows, and at least a dozen had been pierced deeply by the short throwing spears of the central tribesmen.

Many were dead, on both sides, and though the fighting did not cease until every last Drejrugr had been slain, the sun had not yet risen fully at its end.

The Half-Slave class of the Drejrugr did not aid either side—and though I did not learn of their fate until much later, it was Sturla who told me that they had heard the sound of our battle. Fearing their fate at the hands of either side, they ended their own lives, most of the families dying together with the aid of an herbal poison prepared long in advance of that day.

Though they feared the fate of their wives and children, many of the men could not bring themselves to slay them, or even offer the poisoned cups that they had turned upon themselves. Nearly two hundred women had fled into the depths of the forest at the first sign of danger, with three times that number of children, and though their numbers were not easily hidden, they were never seen again.

Even after the battle had ended, the air fairly trembled, the thunderous calls of the victorious host reverberating upon the high towers, that the effect was truly deafening. How they had the strength to cheer after such a fight I will never know, though it was still very early morning—that entire battle the work of less than an hour.

I saw Lars, his handsome face protected by a mask of thick oak, and the sight gave me no cause to laugh—the blood and errant meat was smeared so thick upon the three barbed points of his spear that I knew he was no hanger-on, but a true warrior, and fully as brave as his father.

When he removed the mask, and saw there the deep gouge, apparently the glancing cut of a crude iron sword, his eyes went wide. Had I a face as beautiful as his, I might well have taken similar precautions. He held the mask before my eyes and offered a wry smile—the expression reminded me of his sister.

I shouted for the key to the holding cells, and one of Skiro's former guards obeyed mechanically. The battle was over. Grid could go home, and among so great a host I was certain that the other children would find relatives to usher them to their own villages. She had her father and brother, and at last, I could cease my worrying.

But the children were dead. All of them. Skiro had not been idle in the time of my final imprisonment.

My Sword had remained unsheathed, for I had yet to wipe it, and even its peerless edge had not passed cleanly through the tide of gore. Seeing Grid upon the floor, I forgot that I held the key, and clove the bars surrounding the lock, then pulled the door wide, throwing Sequiduris to the ground in my haste.

Most had deep punctures at left breast. The blood of the innocent formed a congealing pool that covered much of the cell floor. I lifted Grid's body, then wept bitterly as she slumped in my arms. This was not supposed to happen. She had been my sole concern. Not her. Not gentle Grid. She, of all people, was not supposed to die. I lifted her as a baby, placing her head beside my own as I held her in my arms. And then I felt—something. A faint thumping at her neck.

I laid her on the ground and opened her eyes. They moved, in the manner of deep sleep. She was poisoned, perhaps fatally, but she was not yet dead.

* * *

"What venom did you employ, or shall I try again?"

I had beaten the old man until my knuckles ached. The thin, clear liquid he had used to revive me so jarringly from the sleep of his purplish elixir had done the same for him. He was tied to a chair, and I held the interrogation in Kaerkjan's own hall, so that he could have no thought of turning to his devices; no hope of calling on his savages. And yet, for all my trouble, venom of the tongue was his only response.

The other children had been killed, and Skiro laughed when I told him.

"Leave it to the poisons prepared by foreign chemists! Not so lingering as they claimed. Weeks of fever, indeed!"

Grid was alive only because she had resisted. Wiglaf had stabbed them in turn, perhaps too deeply in his desire to cause them pain, for all had died from blood loss, rather than fever, though Skiro could not have known.

Where the others had cowered at the monster's approach, I was certain that Grid would not have gone quietly. Even so, she was only a young girl, and from the dark bruises on the side of her face, it was clear that Wiglaf had knocked her to the floor. He cut her last, hastily, leaving only a shallow laceration.

"Tell me Skiro, and I will end you quickly. You know you will not be allowed to live. Kaerkjan and his Drejrugr are dead, and your lightning engine is dismantled—you have no hope."

He cackled, spat upon the floor, and nodded with a warm, sympathetic grin.

"Very well. You give your word that I will die painlessly if I tell you?"

"Yes, I swear. Your death will be faster than any I have yet seen."

"Then why not? After all, the knowledge will not aid you. There is but one cure, and before you fill your heart with hope, you should know that I never inquired of its origin. Why would I? Your friend is dying of the Smoldering Rot, a favored venom of the horsemen of the Nalban steppe. Do not laugh—that is its name. Why do you smile? Defiant to the last?"

"No, hopeful. Did you leave out something in your interrogations? Was I not in your power for six weeks? The Smoldering Rot, or Kurume Yanik, as it is known among the Nalbans, is the very venom that struck me at Eastwall. Yet here I stand."

Another dose of the purple medicine quieted his ranting, and I threw him back into his sack. On my journey into Hroaht, he was little more than baggage.

### Chapter Eleven

### Triumph and Despair

We made far better time in ox carts, and I no longer cared about the Matriarch's forebodings. I led with an unconscious Skiro, the head of Nidhag, the sword and spine of Kaerkjan, and other spoils and proofs of my victory as cargo; Vadir followed with Grid, Miner, and our provisions in another cart.

It was not yet noon of that very same day when we left in haste, and for a time Sturla rode with me. We schemed together and he focused my mind, and though he hid it well, it was clear from his rapid, unreasoning shift from topic to topic that he feared greatly for his daughter's life.

After much debate, he agreed to call all the tribes into Skiro's former lands, where they would then await word of their freedom with only a short journey separating them from the northern gate. In the meantime, he would employ one hundred men in cutting the tall grass from our current path, that the Forsaken might speed their final exodus at the appointed time; a notion driven by our hampered travel west along the mountain rim.

I knew what medicine would be needed—Rowan had said as much.

The sun was setting, but I knew that we were nearly halfway, and so I dismounted, then took a torch and led my oxen on foot.

There was little that Miner could do, and she was the first to admit that she was no apothecary, but when I told her what Boers had done to see me through my own fever, she smiled, for she knew well of the plants that I had named. 'A paste of boiled aeviberries applied to the wound, twice a day. We washed the wound with the distilled liquor of kvejka mead before applying each poultice. For the fever, a tea of laufsvell, with meinbana added to treat the pain.' I had never been so glad of my memory, or of the nightmare that had frightened me to waking just as Rowan had arrived, all those months ago.

That had been only a month after the Reaping Festival, at the end of autumn. Though I had not walked the path of the Onidai more than three seasons, I felt years older, and the sight of Grid's frail, unconscious form had done much to age me further.

They had no vapor in the Vithrauth, but I cleaned the wound with Skiro's dressing balm, and Miner prepared the aeviberry paste in transit. The laufsvell and meinbana tea had to be placed in her mouth drop by drop, for she would not wake, and we had no time to resort to a tube of dried gut. I had known that pain, and I felt for her; even in slumber the persistent ache did not cease, and my dreams had been troubled always by unspeakable and unrelenting horrors.

The darkness and high grass hampered my way. Finally, I had to turn to the use of Sequiduris, that matchless and beautiful weapon of the wise and long-dead Kenalka—that night, it was little more than an overgrown sickle. But the blade was no less keen when treated as a common tool, and it sheared through the grass as cleanly as the very air around it. With the head of the lead ox bound to my waist by a thin rope, I moved forward with torch and blade, clearing the path and lighting it while the long-neglected animal—a descendant of the twelve original beasts that Skiro had selected—fought against the urge to crop at fresh-hewn grass.

Still, it was a shorter route than the circuitous Hlifgat, and faster than traveling through the forest with a wounded girl in my arms; with Vadir well armed in the cart behind my own I had little cause for worry, and little need for stealth—nor did I care who might observe our passing. The day had been clear, but the moon was shrouded by low clouds, and the wind was warm, smelling strongly of rain. Thunder confirmed my suspicions.

Those carts were crude, with neither awning nor bench. The conveyance of primitive brutes, used to carry the barley harvested by slaves, though never did those slaves travel upon aught but their own feet. When the drops began to fall, I fell into despair; in Grid's weakened state, rainfall was our worst enemy. I would have traveled all night, with or without rain, and truly, that was just what I had in mind.

Sigmund's potion had lasted far longer the second time. Perhaps that is the way of fitter men, or it could be that Skiro's ministrations had done more than enhance my physical strength. Nearly a day's time had passed, and still I was vigilant—fully aware and without complaint. Oh, I had aches, to be sure, and when my right arm grew tired, I rotated Sequiduris to the left. Though I could feel fatigue, it did not come to mind as urgently as one might experience the sharp complaint of a recent wound. Rather, pain was a reminder, a request for relief, made on behalf of a weary arm.

As I have written, I would have continued, but Vadir appeared at my side, and all at once my priorities changed.

"We passed a cave, Vaentan, only a moment ago. Miner asks that we stop."

His words found my ears as a muffled shout. I had donned my hood in anticipation of the rain, and now that I had cause to focus on something other than the relentless trudge forward, I noticed the degree of our predicament. It was the sort of summer deluge that I would come to know well. No such showers had ever found us in arid Meadrow—if not for the Meadrun, we would still be nomads, scraping an existence in the Eastern Nowhere. But I could not count on the rain ending by morning, and if we were to be rained on anyway, I saw nothing to be gained by further delay.

"She will have to think warm thoughts. If we keep moving forward, we will be at the gate by dawn."

"By dawn, the girl will have a chill to add to her current fever. If she is not kept warm and dry, all this mad stumbling will have been for naught."

That thought had not occurred to me. Either way, she seemed doomed, for I remembered the length of the spring showers. And yet, with even the slightest possibility that the rainfall might cease, I had to take the chance. And in the interim, I thought to myself, I might contrive some sort of shelter for Grid's cart. I turned to Vadir, handed him my guttering torch (I was very thankful that Lior had insisted on burdening me so), and removed the rope from about my waist, then took back the light and handed him the rope.

"Who's driving your cart?"

"You are, Vaentan. I tied mine to the back of yours an hour ago—we've been trying to keep Grid dry for some time now."

"Point me in the direction of the cave, and then wait here. Can these beasts be air-tethered?"

"No, but with a sharp stick and a bit of rope, a grounded stake is as good as any hitching post. They aren't particular."

"Gather wood from the treeline, and keep an eye on Grid and Miner. Lots of wood. We will need a bright fire."

* * *

I approached with blade in full extension, standing in profile. It had a high mouth, that cave, but narrow, its ceiling suggesting a severe arch, giving it the appearance of something man-made; it was that sight alone that put me ill-at-ease. I wanted no company, needed none, and wolf or bear I stood ready to end any inhabitants I fell upon, then claim the place for my own.

I launched my torch into the blackness and unslung my lockbow, holding it in my right hand. With Sequiduris in the left, any exchange against human opponents would be brief.

Within, that wondrous torch, freed from the ravages of moisture, glowed far more brightly on the cavern floor. It was a long passage, rising gently on natural, shallow steps of stone, overlapping unevenly, far into the distance. I returned the lockbow to my shoulder, retrieved my light, and moved forward cautiously. The pass was narrow, but the going was not at all slow, for the way was easy. I saw no droppings, and only a few broken bones, likely of deer. Clearly, it had once been the abode of wolves or bears, but with not even ancient droppings as evidence of ongoing habitation, I breathed more easily.

Twenty paces in, the passage opened into a wide cavern. The ceiling rose fully four times my height at center, and the stalactites sparkled in the light of my torch. It was thirty paces across at its longest point, half that in the middle of its width, and had the appearance of a great semicircle. A cursory inspection satisfied me that neither man nor beast had taken up residence for generations. I found a few more bones, and even some droppings in one corner, but they were very old and completely desiccated.

Back at the entrance, I saw that Vadir had pulled the rear wagon into the cave mouth, so that Grid would not have to wait in the rain. Clever man, defiant through action without disobeying principle, but I had planned to do far more than wait patiently at the cave mouth.

"Move it back out. We're taking the oxen all the way up."

With Drejrugr trophy shields as ramps we worked our way to the upper chamber, oxen, carts, and all, and when we arrived I worked with Vadir to build a large and lasting fire. He had taken far more than we needed, and the carts had aided him in the gathering, so that we had a veritable mountain of fuel.

For a time, we stripped the wet bark, and made a pile of naked branches. The dozen Drejrugr torches he had piled hastily into the foremost wagon finally found a use, and we emptied them of oil before splintering the staves for kindling. We soon had a roaring fire, and as Vadir tended to the oxen, I set about cutting the remainder of the fuel into manageable pieces.

Miner removed Grid's wet clothes, and in spite of her many years, she found an ample reserve of strength to offer the helpless child. She dried Grid's body and dressed her in replacements from a waxed leather pouch, then hurried to prepare more of the laufsvell and meinbana.

As she set about the task of cutting and crushing the leaves and berries, and piled them into Vadir's iron cap, now more kettle than helm, I considered Grid's unforgiving bedding, little more than a few blankets piled in the bed of the wagon. I cursed myself for a fool, and not for the first time, though the event stands out in my memory, perhaps through the guilt born of Grid's prolonged discomfort.

Thoughtful Njal had retrieved my pack, and he had thrown it to me with a casual air as I hurried to organize our departure. I freed Hertha's tree hammock from the loops at the bottom of my pack at once, and worked my purpose with great success.

Reversing the foremost cart with Vadir's help, so that the crude, fixed frisens opposed one another, we were able to create the ideal roost. The hammock hung near to the fire, with branches thrust through the spokes of the wagon wheels to keep them stationary. At long last Grid was left to sleep in what comfort she could find. It would have been the most comfortable bed she'd ever known, and I nearly wept at the thought. She was pale and very, very weak, and even in sleep her brow was creased with the agony of her wound. I found myself unable to look at her, so great was my pain in empathy.

We dined on the provisions Sturla's men had tossed into the carts, and Vadir had retrieved ample fodder from the swath I had cut through our sod-choked path. Our eight oxen were tethered in a long line behind the wagons, their troughs and mangers filled. I left my cloak and effects to steam near the fire, then dried Sequiduris and housed him in his Sheath.

Warm, with dry clothes and a full belly, I finally felt that I could stomach the sight of Skiro without killing him, and I had little choice, for neither Vadir nor Miner would venture near him. He was squirming when my feet landed in the bed of his cart. Another dose of the needle phial's venom, and his movements ceased. He had been given water before we left, and I had no thought of feeding him, but I threw his sack near the fire to dry, opposite the sodden clothing to prevent the smell of urine and excrement seeping onto cleaner cloth.

I left Skiro to dry near the fire, naked and bound. With sunrise in nine hours, I sought my bed on the stony ground, leaving the cleaner of the carts to Vadir and Miner. I kept my weapons near, and slept uneasily against the force of the lingering potion.

* * *

A light in total darkness—that is my only memory of that dream. The darkness, a total, inky blackness, fell before my eyes as an impenetrable veil, surrounding a sort of light that I had never seen. Its illumination ended where the darkness began, with no shadows cast or dim light penetrating the gloom. Darkness and light, and nothing more. I fancied that I saw an object, floating, glowing as if on fire, but I had no time for closer examination.

"Vaentan! You must wake! He has him! He has Sk-"

I heard a tremendous guttural roar, followed by a meaty thud as my eyes opened, and the report of heavy, uneven footsteps moving hastily away. Vadir was on the ground. Unconscious, but the bruise to the entire side of his head had not been inflicted in the fall. His spear was broken beside him—blood darkened the tip, a few paces away. Miner peered anxiously from the shelter of her cart, cradling frail Grid in her arms. The girl was still unconscious. Skiro was gone.

"What happened?"

"I do not know, Vaentan. Vadir threw Grid into my arms as I slept, then plucked his spear from within and leapt out. I only rose as you did."

I shook Vadir until his eyes opened fully. He was rattled, in no shape to talk, but I needed him awake.

"Can you stand?"

He rose, but he didn't speak. He winced with eyes tightly shut as I helped him to his feet.

"Draw your sword, and keep an eye on Grid and Miner."

"Where-"

"It has Skiro, whatever it is- I will return shortly. Do not follow me. If I do not return, assume I am dead, and hope that Skiro has met a similar end. At dawn, find the gate and explain yourself. Seek out the Olinbrand Chieftain, a man named Sigmund, and tell him of Grid's affliction. Ask him to send for a Tahlrenic healer—Rowan, if she can be spared. She will need Ramkath in her kit."

I did not ask him to repeat it, and even as I spoke I was searching for the path of this strange attacker. And yet, even in his rattled state, Vadir proved himself worthy of my confidence, surpassing all expectations.

"Sigmund. Olinbrand. Tahlrenic healer. Rowan. Ramkath."

Even as he said it, I found what I had been seeking—the blood drawn by Vadir's spear. It was not a thin stream, but periodic and heavy—fresh gouts upon the stony floor. It was a good sign. His thrust landed high on an arm or leg, a serious wound without immediate care. The trail led around a rising trio of stalagmites, all wide and taller than I, and behind them I found something that I did not expect. There were bits of rubble upon the ground, and many more within the mouth of a hidden defile, shallow steps as those carved into the entry through countless ages, and though I was without my torch I followed them into the darkness without hesitation—if it could make its way in darkness, so could I.

Through that narrow, rapidly declining passage I pressed onward with an outstretched hand, and felt glad that I had not brought the added encumbrance of my lockbow. After an age fumbling about as quietly as possible, I witnessed one of those moments I can only compare to the staging of a public spectacle.

I arrived at the mouth of a high, ovular opening, and saw before me caskets, barrels, tubs, cases, and crates, mostly bound or formed wholly of iron or some resilient cousin of bronze, and they filled nearly half of a small chamber. The ceiling was high, fully three times my own height, and so the smoke from the fire at center rose, pooling above to form thick, sinuous banks between hanging stalactites.

Upon the fire, a bronze cauldron had been heated until its contents were near to boiling, and piled nearby there were many ingredients, all very nearly ready for use. There were four rabbits, half a dozen squirrels, a full-grown buck with a crushed skull and broken antlers, as well as many piles of vegetables, greens, and other needful additives. Vadir's assailant was making a stew, and on the opposite side of the steaming kettle, I saw that Skiro had been selected as his guest of honor.

And then the host lumbered into view. He had one withered leg, and he leaned on a tremendous crutch for support—though it was only a crutch in function, for it was long and forged of iron; the thud it made with each step warned me that it was solid. His skin was very pale, and his hair was pure white, but thick, as that of a man who had not yet reached advanced years. High on his strong hip, the wound inflicted by Vadir's spear continued to bleed, though he had stripped Skiro of his loincloth, and wrapped it tightly, so that the ebbing slowed to a trickle.

When I finally took measure of the man, I saw that he stood fully two-thirds the height of that cavern. L'mah was the height of a child compared to him! He looked on Skiro's sleeping form, then pinched his ribs and grunted in disappointment. As he raised his crutch, I realized his design. Skiro was not to be the guest of honor—he was the main ingredient! I almost laughed, then remembered my purpose, and the barbaric nature of both men.

With a low and foolish roar, I ran for the giant with my blade held forward in preparation for a lunge. He had reach, but I had surprise, and in full extension I could slide my point into his massive heart before he could steady himself for the swing. Or so I thought. If I had charged him silently, I would have had him.

When he saw me, he neither panicked nor attacked in haste. I pointed my blade with the edges perpendicular to the ground; with a slow, single-handed swipe of his crutch, he jarred Sequiduris painfully from my grasp. With his left hand he laid me low, striking me full on the head as a nail—his fist the willing hammer.

* * *

I awoke to find that I had been trussed up in crude lengths of cord, with my head beside that of the sleeping Skiro, and my eyes opened just as the giant had raised his arms to crush both our heads with the same mighty swing. Again, the lingering potion saved me, for as I looked into the terrible redness of his eyes, I remembered the giant's name.

Karonadus was the son of a renowned ironsmith and a woman of the Ya'abkach of Tulakal—possibly a slave, though Halga had not seen fit to mention it. He had been born deformed, with pallid skin, white hair, red eyes and a game leg, and yet he was a giant—the Hjarrleth have always admired men of powerful sinew. He was accepted into society, and gained great acclaim as an athlete in games of strength, so that in spite of humble beginnings and the ill cast of his features, he grew famous and was much loved by the people.

But in secret, he had taken to evil vices.

Karonadus enjoyed watching beautiful women in the throes of agony, and many low-born maidens fell to his evil desires before the death of a chieftain's daughter threw the community into outrage. In his cellar, they found the meat of human bodies hanging from hooks, and pelts of fair white skin were stretched for hide—he even had a rope, thirty ells in length, plaited from many shades of golden hair.

The Hjarrleth never adopted the practice of execution, and though fourteen men—vengeful husbands, fathers, and brothers all—had challenged the murderer to single combat, none had survived. Such duels were highly ritualized, and so it was by ancient law that the challenged party was permitted to employ the weapon of his own choice—against Karonadus's massive crutch, no weapon or shield was safe.

Of his fourteen challengers, three had worn the Ironskins of their respective houses, and though the suits were only slightly dented by the exchanges, the skulls and necks of the challengers were crushed and broken, battered beyond recognition, even within their ancestral helms.

When retribution failed, Rigga's predecessor acted in favor of justice. Karonadus was banished to the Vithrauth, never to return on pain of death. That had been eleven years ago, according to Halga's own accounting, and apparently the monster had not fared too badly in the interim.

Those thoughts passed in an instant, and the giant was already bringing down his club, so that I saw the intricate, fist-shaped head of the weapon, even as I shouted in panic.

"Hardly sporting, Karonadus!"

It was all I had time for, and though he did stop, he strained mightily against the effort of keeping his crutch above my perspiring brow.

"You call yourself an athlete, and yet you would kill me out of hand, tied up without any struggle at all. You disappoint me. You are not the towering giant I had expected."

"And what did you expect, Meat? Am I to offer every meal the chance to escape? Have you ever given your dinner such consideration?"

His voice was deep, and his words struck me heavily, as did his rancid breath.

"I expected the man of Hjarrleth horror stories; an athlete, unmatched in feats of strength, unafraid of young boys and ancient men—though it seems that you fear both. And no, I have never offered my dinner the chance to live, though in my defense I am not much of a hunter...and of course, no animal has ever asked."

He stood straight and grounded his club, then leaned on it with a smile. I had reached my audience.

"And what contest would the young boy choose? Marbles? Hide-and-seek?"

"How about a feat of strength? If it helps, the loser will be dead, anyway."

He said nothing, so I continued.

"Untie me, and I'll take a single swing of your club—if I can strike you in the head, I'm free to go. If I miss, you may kill me—I'll even stand still, though you may evade my blow in any way you wish."

"And just how is that fair? You swinging my club, while I stand unarmed?"

"It is fair because you will be able to stand at your full height, though of course, I never really expected that you might choose to stand still. Wouldn't take much to avoid any swing I could manage, and besides, if you stand up straight, you can even use the stalactites to block my attack."

He seemed conflicted, as if he really wanted to accept, but didn't think it wise to do so. I gave him the needed push, my tone dull, that I sounded very much like a disappointed child.

"Oh, I understand. It's hollow, isn't it? Just sheet iron, made to look incredibly heavy. You're afraid that I can swing it, because it isn't heavy at all. Disappointing, but understandable—no one wants to hear his dinner sniggering in its final moments. Probably give you indigestion."

"It is not hollow! My father made this for me with his own hands. It is half the weight of an armored man, and made with a small hollow only at the grip, which he filled with silver to weight it for balance. It is-"

I had started wagging my head sadly, and that was more than he could stand.

"I'll show you! You'll see. Turn over!"

I did, and he cut my bonds with a beautiful gold-hilted knife. I stood up, rubbed my wrists and sore head, and he handed me the weapon reverently, a single open palm supporting the middle of the shaft to prove its balance. I lifted it with difficulty, finding that I could only do so with the aid of my legs. Finally, I balanced it with the handle grounded, and looked thoughtfully into the polished iron of the shaft, the grip of leather and silver wire, and the head, overlaid with bronze, studded with gilded bolts and shaped like a tremendous fist.

"Well?"

"It is solid. My apologies. Are you ready?"

"Do your worst, then prepare for a quick death. I've never tasted the flesh of a man, and though I did not relish the thought of dining on your filthy elder, you will make a fine meal—a boy of such courage will taste all the sweeter."

The club was balanced well enough for its shape, but it was far too heavy for me to manage with any grace. To make matters worse, my target had taken a position near a cluster of especially low-hanging stalactites, so that he might take shelter there. I took a wide stance, and held on tightly with hands far apart.

Balanced at my shoulder, I could lumber forward with difficulty, but I had little hope of striking his head at the run. And I didn't try, though I made it appear so. Just within striking distance, I swung the weapon parallel to the floor, and brought it around with all my might to strike soundly against the knee of his game leg. The sight and sound of that break was sickening, and I will not now describe it.

As he writhed in pain, he shouted angrily.

"One swing, you said, and only if it struck my head!"

As I raised the weapon for an over-head strike, I replied.

"I made those promises separately. I did strike you with that single swing. I also said that if I struck you in the head, I would be free to go."

I kept both promises.

* * *

Vadir was still shaken, but much recovered when I returned with Skiro.

"You have returned! How did you fare with Bankeina?"

"Who?"

"You know full well, Vaentan! The Maiden-Wolf; The Grinder of Bones; Pale Ogre of the Red Forest."

"Is that what you call him? To those who knew him his name was Karonadus, and you will need to improve your manners if you are to meet the Matriarch. It is one thing to sleep on duty, but to speak so flippantly about the dead—why, all of Hroaht will be scandalized."

"You—you killed him?"

"With his own club, no less. I had no choice, really, he knocked Sequiduris right out of my hands. But don't worry, my Sword's still in one piece. Now help me bind Skiro more tightly, and then return him to his sack. He's the only threat left in this place, what with the former resident's timely demise, and I'd like your help carrying out Bankeina's club. I think it will be safe to leave the ladies, at least for a moment. After all, who would come here on purpose?"

We bound him tightly, though he never budged, then checked him for any weapons he might have concealed in his time out of sight. I gave him yet another dose of his sleeping potion—less than a half-measure, for he still appeared to be sleeping. While Vadir put him back in the sack, I looked to Grid. She was still unconscious, but the Hjarrleth medicine had driven away much of her fever. I kissed her brow, and made for the giant's lair—we both carried torches, so that the going was much easier.

Inside the chamber Vadir looked on the crushed head and massive club with wide eyes, but I had more interest in the various crates and vessels. I did not open them immediately, as curiosity demanded, for our goal had not changed, and I would not slow our progress for a single moment with any unnecessary burden. First, I looked to Vadir.

"Can you drag that thing without me?"

He did, and I could hear the monstrous crutch scraping loudly upon the stony floor clear to the entry above as I returned to my inspection. It was more of an inventory, really—a matter for future reference, not to be confused with immediate greed.

In most of the crates—at least two score, and all sealed against the dampness of the cave by waxed cloth and leather—there were ingots of pure iron, or similar, as they were very light in color. In addition, a further dozen crates were filled with bars and wide plates of bronze, of both common and precious varieties.

I found also nine thick ceramic pots filled to the brim with jewelry. Not a single bracelet or pendant was set with amethyst or amber, the stones most prized by the Hjarrleth (though they have been regarded as semi-precious by most other tribes). Instead, as I rifled through the tops of two of the pots, I discovered that each and every piece was set with precious stones, the gems covered in a film of clear wax to protect them from scratches. All of the settings were of red, yellow, and blue gold, as well as the common variety of white gold, in which silver and other metals are added to lighten the color.

The trove must have been ancient indeed, for at the time of my discovery blue gold had long been discontinued in the making of jewelry. Four thousand years before my time, it had been discovered that the metal was toxic, and that even wearing it against the skin would result in fever and eventual madness.

There were many mead casks lining the far wall, but they could not truly have been made for the storing of mead, for the lids were hinged with galvanized bronze, not at all the best idea when air and moisture are to be avoided. When I broke one of the bronze locks with the point of my Sword, I found that the cask had been filled with coin—all gold.

Though I was certainly impressed, I was poor no longer, and my mother had wealth in plenty. By then, the gifts of the treasure wagon I had sent months earlier would be in use in the largest and finest house in Meadrow, and the hefty bag of gold and silver would have seen that, even if she hadn't married a Stabler of the Guard, she would never want for anything.

Having no wants or needs that such wealth might satisfy, I estimated the potential number and value of the coins, dug through the pile to ensure that all were of pure gold, noted the number of casks, and moved on, thinking all the while that perhaps such wealth might yet be of use, if only I could muster the interest to think of one.

There were several dozen upright boxes, all covered with stitched hides, and even the seams had been sealed with wax. These I knew to be armor trees and weapon cases, and did not inspect them further; such an operation might have taken hours.

Propped up against the far wall, I saw a long case of dark wood far removed from the other boxes. It had been treated with some sort of clear lacquer or enamel, for though the grain of the wood was clearly visible, the surface was as smooth and reflective as glass.

On the lid, I saw the royal seal of Sangholm worked in red gold, and inside, I found a hjarrviht. But such a sword! The blade was longer than any hjarrviht I had seen, and the blade of my Sword was slightly wider, a shape unheard of in the white blades of the Hjarrleth, for the weapons I had seen had been forged wide, all with two curved, opposing edges, a triple spine, and sloping points, that they would be extremely powerful in the cut, but also durable.

The weapon in that box had the three-spine angular cross section of its fellows, to be sure, but it seemed to emphasize the point as well as the edge, and had all the length it needed to ensure that both could be employed with greater reach.

The hilt was an iron hammerhead, worked in silver, with Hjarrleth scrollwork cast in dark gold on its every surface. The top of that head rose in an even, inward curve at either side, terminating in a point at center.

The weight of the hilt fittings was more than that needed for balance, and even as I hefted it, I felt its responsiveness and power. The grip was wire-wrapped, more intricately than Karonadus's club, and it was more than long enough for both hands. The pommel was a wide oval of gold, and on both sides, worked perfectly in bright silver, was the popular Hjarrleth design of the infinite tree, in which the branches and roots braid together, intertwining as one.

It was a magnificent weapon, and clearly, some ancient smith had improved upon the early hjarrviht design, shaping the sword to pierce armor just as well as its older cousins could cleave flesh and bone.

As I sheathed that ancient blade, I noticed another irregularity. Most hjarrviht are housed in sheaths that bear no metal, as a precaution against the scraping and dulling of their legendary blades, but this sheath had a red gold plate centered along its length at either side. On one side, I identified the name of the blade, as expected—that one was called Nikling. On the other side, I saw again the royal seal, as well as four lines of runes, only one of which was a name: Malmheith! That sword had belonged to the bloodmad king of Hjarrleth antiquity. It was then that I had an idea so fitting, so ironic, so hilarious that I accepted it immediately as the only possible course of action.

I gathered up the rabbits, skinned them, took a foreleg from the buck, bagged them in the same sack that Karonadus seemed to employ for the purpose, smothered the giant's fire carefully with a blanket-sized scrap taken from his own shirt, and made my way clumsily back to the upper chamber, with Malmheith's sword thrust through the sack as a carrying pole.

I spitted the meat on some kindling, positioned it over our fire, then casually tossed Nikling to Vadir. As the man's eyes widened in shock, I explained.

"Compensation for your broken spear and bruised head."

I laughed inwardly as the smell of roasting meat filled the cavern. Malmheith had begun the tradition of banishment, and now, thousands of years later, one of the descendants of his exiles would own his personal weapon. A fitting bequest, and a worthy gift for such an invaluable man.

For myself, I kept only the knife Karonadus had used to cut my bonds. It was an excellent tool, perfectly balanced, and though it was shaped just as all long daggers in Sangholm, its blade reflected the firelight as a mirror. From what I had been told, only swords had been crafted of white iron, and yet, the gold appointments and tiny, deep-set rubies on both hilt and pommel were clear evidence that Malmheith had not been bound by the same laws he had imposed on his people.

After I told Vadir and Miner of my adventure, and of the discovery of treasure, we ate in silence, all of us too tired to engage in the excited chatter that most people take for granted.

After a night of peaceful sleep, we rejoiced by the light of a clear dawn—the rain had finally ceased.

* * *

In the wide, curving field between mountain rim and double canopy, the soil is far too rocky for the growth of any tree. Only grass grows in that expanse, and though the roots were our ally against mud, the blades, rising near to the height of my waist, barred the way entirely against wheeled passage.

So, with Skiro's own weapon, I kept the ally and slew the foe. With his lightning staff held carefully by its crude grips, I stood upon my thin blanket on a patch of dry earth. Remembering the burning tapestry, I kept the weapon parallel to the ground, and, secure in the knowledge that the sodden earth would keep any fires localized, I loosed two shots along a straight path in the direction of the gate.

Only the grass in direct contact burned away, scorched immediately with little smoke and no flame, and the devastation continued in a straight line for as far as the eye could see. I endeavored to keep the scorch line of the second shot perfectly parallel with the first, spaced the same distance apart as that between our cart wheels. In less than a quarter-hour we had our track, and when the curve of the mountain rim led us into the rock face or the base of the foothills, I halted our wagons and created another. The wheels fared far better on the scorched track, so that it was not yet midday when we won to the northern gate.

This time I did not wait in silence. Instead, I stood in my cart, and shouted to the men in those high towers.

"I am Ralph of Meadrow, returning from the Matriarch's trial. I have succeeded, and would make my way into Hroaht at once!"

A lone voice, unidentifiable, answered in kind from one of the towers.

"For you, brave Onidai, we will make way gladly. For the others, we cannot. Such are the laws of Sangholm."

"Do the laws of Sangholm require the grisly deaths of innocent young girls and elderly women? There are five of us. Only five."

"Truly? I see only four. A young girl, an elder woman, a strange warrior, and yourself. Who is the fifth?"

"He is of interest to the Matriarch alone, and as he is my prisoner, you may consider him under heavy guard. He is deeply unconscious, and poses no threat. Or perhaps you would force the Slayer of the Kromjan...and Vanquisher of Skiro, to shout up at you like a wandering pedlar?"

That time, a bit of raw iron found its way into my desperate voice, and the gates opened immediately.

There were men in the road to inspect our party before they would grant passage, and I was relieved when I recognized the thane who led them.

"Arne! I am greatly pleased to look again upon the face of the Herrulf Chieftain!"

"And I as well, Lord Onidai. You have traveled far, it seems, and discovered much. Truly, we thought you dead. Yet here you stand, gone a boy in springtime, returned a man by summer. You entered the forest alone, and on foot, and you have returned with companions—upon a pair of laden carts!

"Forgive me, but I must ask, for the Matriarch will see that life goes ill with me if I do not: who are these that have traveled with you?"

I motioned to Vadir, beckoning him to rise.

"That is Vadir, Argasson, captive as guard to Skiro himself, though he is a stout warrior, and was my staunch defender. He bears the sword of Malmheith, and is here to aid in the proclamation and proof of the Conjurer's death. Beyond is Miner, formerly one of Skiro's slaves. She aided me in escaping Skiro's prison, and has taken responsibility for the fourth of my party—Grid, Sturlasdottir, a child of the forest, poisoned by foul Skiro as punishment for my refusal to aid him in a nefarious cause.

"She is very near death, Friend Arne, and I would ask that one or two of your men see her to the home of the Olinbrand Chieftain. Sigmund has had experience with that same toxin, for I myself was poisoned with it, and it was he and kind Boers who aided my survival until the Tahlrenic Phulako could arrive with the cure. If they have no Ramkath to offer, they must send to Tahlrene for a healer, and this I would ask before ever I would consent to travel into Hroaht. Will you aid me thus?"

He was conflicted, I could see that clearly, but at length he nodded and turned to one of his men.

"Send word for Einar, and see that he arrives with a pair of suitable carts. Horses, not oxen, for the women must travel in haste, as must the Onidai and his companion."

The man ran to his horse, and galloped away along the road.

"Einar is of the Olinbrand, and he can be trusted. You have arrived at a strange moment, for as we speak, civil war may be upon us, even as the leaders of the two factions sit in silence."

When I tried to inquire further, he cautioned me against it with a gentle motion of his hands.

"Forgive me, but I must now inspect your vehicles. If you wish, my men will retreat to a respectable distance, and turn away."

They did just that, and I showed him the head of Nidhag, the spine and sword of Kaerkjan, and told the story, or as much as I felt I could, to the aging captain. At sight of Nidhag's monstrous head, he gasped. Stories of such monsters had been dismissed by most—I did not contradict him, or even consider telling him of Skiro's work in the enhancement of the beasts of the forest—better he should draw his own conclusions.

At length, I removed the drawstring of Skiro's sack, and the ancient conjurer squinted painfully into the light. It is well that he was awake, for he would need to stand by the end of the day. The Herrulf Chieftain recognized him immediately, even across the span of thirty years.

"You brought him here—alive? You were to kill him, Onidai, and now you will kill us all! What were you thinking? Did you not listen to my tale?"

"Calm, Friend Arne, calm. He will be dead by the end of the day. The Matriarch said that she wished proof of the man's death, and I can think of none better than that of her own eyes, as she bears witness to his execution. He will not escape, and he has been in my power almost exclusively for the past three days."

"Almost?"

I told him the tale and showed him the crutch, and he gasped, for he knew the weapon on sight.

"Karonadus? He was alive? You slew him?"

"I did. I have had more than two adventures since first I entered the forest, and by my own accounting, I think my trials should be at an end by now, for I cannot imagine that many more such monstrous creatures could live so close together."

He laughed in spite of his wonder. My tale was finished, and when Einar and the messenger arrived with a pair of carts—drawn each by four Hjarrleth draft horses, Arne was still looking on Grid's unmoving form with a drawn and wistful countenance.

"I will see her to the Olinbrand Chieftain myself. None will challenge me along the way, and with Einar in tow our explanations to Sigmund's people will be brief."

He looked again to his young herald.

"Send the Trathnonan hawk to warn the High Priest of the Onidai's return, but wait a quarter-hour before you send the raven to Hroaht. I want men of my own retinue as escort."

Six of his men leapt at the opportunity, and so great was Miner's haste that neither of us said goodbye. I thanked Arne for his consideration and understanding, but he waved it away, saying that he'd fathered too many daughters to twiddle his thumbs at the sight of a girl in pain.

We made excellent time, and an hour on I saw Lior and a few of his own blocking the road. Lior dismounted eagerly—though I was less cordial, I accepted his embrace. For a moment, he held me out at arm's length, then measured himself against me with a flattened palm.

"Grown more than a handspan? Already? And look at those arms. You've grown bands of iron beneath your skin! You must have Ya'abkach blood! And you've made good time. I would have expected at least a year's absence, for none thought Skiro still lived, yet here you are!"

I introduced him to Vadir, and when he insisted that I bathe and dress, as on my first arrival, I bargained with him, asking Vadir to tell my story by way of his own introduction to the Brek Phulako. By the time I left my tent, clean and dressed, they seemed to exchange words like old friends, with none of the confused pauses and interruptions visited on new acquaintances. I later learned that he had been in awe of the Vaentan, but as Lior was only a great man, not legendary, he conversed with him easily—and at great length.

My armor no longer fit me. Even the cuirass was too small, though with a new liner I might have been able to wear my father's helmet. Still, I was clean—though only Skiro's gray clothing and rough hide shoes would fit me—and I threw on my linen gaiters, cloak and fingerless gauntlets, to mark the appearance of a man newly returned from the forest.

Every time Lior asked a question of me, I left it to Vadir to answer, and I nodded in confirmation at every amazing turn in the long tale. In time, Lior and I rode ahead, I on the back of armored Edam, he on his beautiful white stallion, and we left Vadir in the cart. For his part, Vadir took his new surroundings in stride, never asking for explanations—he seemed to accept the importance of our goal, and politely kept his peace—Lior was not so reserved.

"You will bring this man before the Matriarch? Do you realize what that will mean? Open defiance, and at the worst possible time!"

"I don't care anymore. I am not going back into that forest alone, and never again for another trial. Twice have I ventured into the treeline, and on both occasions I've encountered entire tribes of downtrodden and mistreated people. They are now free, from Drejrugr, Skiro, Hrafnkin, and Kromjan—or Darratonn, as the case may be. Still, that vast forest has not been emptied of its dangers. The exodus of those people will be the only cause of my next and final journey to that horrible place, for as I see it, my trials are concluded.

"I will not dance to that woman's tune any longer. If she is still of a mind to seek my death, she may order it and take her chances, otherwise, I will have her Approval, or we will move on without it. We cannot afford anymore wasted time."

Lior nodded, accepting my words, his eyes to the road.

"You may not have to wait much longer. Already, an ill wind blows in Hroaht Hall. There are whispers of a schism between the loyal and those who wish to move forward as needed to face the war head-on—most are on your side. They feel that you have done far more than they would have thought possible, and that you have proved yourself enough, already. The Kromjan is what drove them over the brink. Your killing of the beast, before she had even asked it of you—to be followed by her open refusal of the task as an acceptable first trial—most of the men were outraged, and many of the women have been plotting against her ever since. In the past two months they have bickered openly, where before they treated her with the respect normally owed to their ancient gods.

"Your friend Hertha could be the new Matriarch in a day if she so wished it, though I think you were right about her, for she will hear nothing of the sort; she's offered not a word of defiance to the queen, nor encouraged a single one of her supporters. When she speaks at all, her words are hopeful—she never doubted your return, and I, for one, cannot wait to gauge her response against those of the others. They won't believe their eyes!"

I nodded, but offered nothing in response. He pushed onward.

"You are sure about Vadir? He may complicate things, slightly."

"I am going to be honest, Lior, just as these people will expect. They will hear my story in full, and make whatever decision they prefer. I have spilled blood, defeated monsters—four legs, as well as two—been held as a prisoner, and acquainted myself with a worry normally known only to fathers and brothers. Grid may die, and that weighs far more heavily on my mind than any concerns of the Matriarch and her retainers. I am simply too tired to countenance any more of this courtly posturing. I am exhausted, Lior—mind and body."

"Ah, speaking of which-"

He took a familiar phial from his scrip, and handed it to me.

"You still have one other, I believe, unless you were able to do without in the forest. Sigmund has told me that you may not expect much of the same in the future—this is the last dose he can offer for some time."

I didn't want it, but I knew that I needed it. I rinsed the taste from my mouth with a local honeyed beer, and we ate in the saddle—or rather, I ate, for it seemed that Lior had more news than time to tell it.

The enemy had not pressed Trathnonan lands at all, and though Sangholm shared a mountainous northern border with the Centrists at the western edge of the salt sea, no army had appeared to menace them.

That news had set Lior ill-at-ease, and I could understand why, for the enemy had never been so passive.

They had prodded the center of the northern border, and though their small expeditionary force had been crushed, some word must have reached them. After all, they had not been wholly unsuccessful. If they wanted to take Venibrek, the time would have been ideal. They could take the Granite City alone, if need be, even if their only recourse was prolonged siege. Why would they wait? The report concerned me greatly, and Lior must have seen it.

"Worry not, Lord Onidai, all is not yet lost. Today, you will knock some sense into these ironmongers. We will then have two, where one would have fought alone. Already, Brenna has berated the Council into action, and they are churning out weapons and armor faster than we can train people to use them. And that's the miracle of it, Ralphie, my boy! The women all hunt in their youth, so the bow is well-known to them, and as a full year's stone-cutting is the male rite of passage, the arms of my newer Initiates are already conditioned for sword and shield. I wouldn't be surprised if we double our force within three years. In any case, I suppose I will know soon enough.

"I'm leaving, five days from now. Brenna will take my place. Now that the training has begun, I will be needed—our manly battle dance is much more complicated than the work of the women. They need only repetition, where my men require constant drill. The sparring and conditioning, and especially the memorization of our formations will be too much to leave to the juniors. It will be a hard quarry for me, my friend, but I will have plenty of veterans to aid in the task. And there will be time enough to help with your further claims, so don't think I'm out of the game just yet. I only need to get the training started, organize the regimen, and so forth. And you'll do fine—considering what you've accomplished so far.

"This is normally the point in conversations such as this, where the authority figure lets loose with platitudes, 'I know you'll make me proud', and the like. Just between the two of us, there isn't any need for such obvious statements: you have already made me proud, Ralph. You've done so for all of us. Sun's Crown, I can't wait to meet Brenna on the road. She won't believe it. Little Ralphie, grown to manly stature and a champion's strength—in two months!"

Brenna? I almost smiled, but kept my features calm. My mind had already been racing, thanks to Sigmund's phial, but now a whole new swirling morass of complex thoughts filled my weary head. With Brenna again by my side, she might expect a continuation of our past...pursuits. And then I remembered Hertha and her promise, the white gold key and the profession of my love for Rowan—if she felt as I did, I could not take up with Brenna, or any other woman. Nor would I.

For all the complexities of social understanding and past relationships that had been tangling in my conscious thoughts, it took scarcely a moment for me to cut through the knotted mess. It was then that I realized, it was not my fear of offending Brenna, but the force of my libido that had kept me from reaching that simple resolution. I loved Rowan. For her alone, I would wait, and feel no loss in the waiting.

* * *

The gathering was much the same in Hroaht, and though the hall was no less impressive, I did not pause to examine the wondrous height of its arches. From the corner of my eye, I saw that Vadir was not so reserved, and I did not begrudge him the wonder, for I remembered well my own reaction.

Arne's retainers acted as bearers, first removing the wheels of the cart, then thrusting long poles between axle and frame, so that they might carry trophies and prisoner together.

I strode on, unarmored and bearing only Sequiduris, with Lior on my left and Vadir on my right. Skiro's former guard had agreed to let me do the talking, and he composed himself well, with the bearing and self-possession of a prince.

The Wise Mother wasted no time.

"You are not dead, after all. We had not expected your return, nor will We pretend that We had expected your finding of Skiro to end in victory. You may speak."

I took three steps forward.

"I will not waste the Wise Mother's time with poetry. Rather, I will speak frankly. For nearly the length of a full season have I dwelt within the Vithrauth, and Skiro was not the only danger that I faced. A great beast, called Nidhag, lurked therein, and he was the devourer of child and warrior, alike. The Conjurer kept the creature as a pet, and the manner of its feeding was for Skiro's own amusement."

The sack that housed the first trophy filled nearly a third of the massy wagon bed. Gripping the cloth at bottom, I spun about and flung the contents forward, that they flew free and rolled nearly to the feet of the seated women. Nidhag's head was as long as a spear shaft, the low skull no smaller than a cask, and yet the whole gory mass fell in full view, at the end of an arm's length of the creature's neck. As the crowd gasped in horror, I spoke into the din.

"When I learned of the monster's existence, I made for it immediately, and slew it myself. It had already claimed many warriors—yet here I stand, my flesh untouched by tooth or claw."

As I continued, I backed away respectfully, making for the bed of the cart a second time.

"A great battle was fought within the Vithrauth, only yesterday. There, I led the descendants of the wrongfully banished against a tribe of madmen that had been gulled into Skiro's service. The Drejrugr had weapons of iron, and numbered five hundred, while the peaceful tribes were armed only with wood and stone. My companion, Vadir, served in the tower guard, his a band of little more than two score. They had been bound into the Conjurer's service, fettered by the many threats made against their wives and children.

"Together guard, tribesman, and I warred before the towers of Skiro, and the leader of their warriors was a giant—larger even than the Wise Mother's own noble son. The giant's name was Kaerkjan; Slaughter-King of the Blood Stain Clan, and he was known by his own savage warriors as 'Slittna-Hryggr'—Back-Breaker. It was an apt name, for when his rule was challenged, he forsook his own tremendous sword, preferring instead to break the spines of his foes upon bended knee."

I removed the spine and gigantic sword from the cart. The weapon I tossed, to land beside Nidhag's monstrous head, and I held up Kaerkjan's spine for all to see.

"He will break no more!"

With that, I snapped the spine over my knee, and threw the pieces atop the sword.

"As we made for home, we took shelter in a cave. There, my companion was faced by a giant of even greater stature, a terror known well in this hall. Though his spear was broken, Vadir pierced Karonadus's thigh, and he bears the bruises of that fight, even now. I then sought the giant in his lair."

With great difficulty, I hefted the crutch, laid it beside the other trophies, and waited for the hushed whispers to die out on their own before I continued.

"With his own club I slew him."

The murmurs grew to an uproar, and only the rise of Rigga's strange sceptre finally managed to restore the calm. If the Matriarch had been impressed by my matter-of-fact presentation, she gave no sign.

"And what of Skiro? You have done much on your journey, and none would doubt the worthiness of your deeds—but what of the venture We have asked of you?"

At that, I smiled broadly, and motioned to Vadir. As he took up Skiro's staff, I hefted the foul-smelling sack.

"Remembering your nine days of deliberation, I was forced to consider the validity of any evidence that I might offer. As all warriors know, decapitated heads are not much in the way of proof, for they bear little resemblance to those of the living. And a device, even an engine crafted by the Conjurer's own hand, might prove only my skill as a thief. What then, could I bring that might prove Skiro's death?"

I drew away the sack, and left Skiro wallowing on the floor. He was filthy and tightly bound. The hall returned to chaos, and I shouted over them, all the while trying to sweeten my tone.

"Is there one here who remembers the Conjurer's face? If so, please step forward."

An ancient graybeard, armored in the uniform Ironskin worn by the guards of Hroaht Hall, moved from his position behind and to the right of Rigga herself. He whispered to her, and with much hesitation she nodded her consent. He spoke as he descended.

"I am Arman, Hersir of the Mother's Guard. With the assembled chieftains, I saw the man Skiro to his exile on that bygone day."

He appeared to have no fear of the Conjurer—he even drew near enough to turn Skiro's face in his hand. After only a moment, he turned to the assembly.

"It is he, and barely aged—proof of his sorcery."

The continued chatter among the nobles only increased as he resumed his place. The Matriarch raised her sceptre again, and the quiet returned, though with far less immediacy.

"You were tasked with the sorcerer's death, Onidai. You have brought Us a prisoner—that was not your errand."

"My errand, Wise Mother, was to kill him. You said nothing of where his death should take place. Truly, I wanted to kill him, for I saw much evidence of his atrocities. Through the force of his cruelty alone, I saw gentle people living in fear, elderly slaves worked and starved to death beneath yoke and lash, and children—innocent children burned alive on beds of coals! And yet, I asked myself, how could I be certain that this task would be treated as a success? I must admit that you have been of a changeable mood, Wise Mother."

I let that sit, and signaled to Vadir, who threw me Skiro's staff. Rigga was white-lipped with outrage, but I continued as if I hadn't noticed.

"And so, here he is, to die by the very device that won him the awe of so many others. Observe and remember."

My aim placed him between his own weapon and a column about ten paces beyond. I did not hesitate, even for a moment, for I knew the act was just and necessary. Kneeling to steady my aim, I turned the dial to its maximum setting, braced myself, and twisted the foremost grip.

The flash was such that I had to close my eyes, and though I felt the heat of it, I kept my grip firm and steady. When I returned the handhold to its original position, all that remained of Skiro was a blackened pile of bone and ash—a scorch mark on the column beyond remained as the only permanent evidence of the act.

The long tines at the end of the staff had fused, that I would not have been confident in trying even one more shot. There was a scream from one of the women, but the men were silent. I turned the dial to zero, then balanced it on its base to stand vertically. I pointed to the weapon as I spoke, loudly and for all to hear.

"That is far too much power for any one man."

I drew Sequiduris, and with a vertical chop, I split the weapon in two. It was a difficult maneuver, and I must admit that without the Hilyrtrotha to steady my aim, I might not have succeeded in splitting the staff so perfectly. Vadir held the pieces together horizontally, and I hacked again and again, until all that remained was a pile of twisted scraps.

If I had given her time to compose herself, Rigga might have spoken. Instead, I took the initiative.

"Too long have I been absent from my task—not the Proving at your pleasure, Wise Mother, but the unification of the Banners. People are dying every day while you send me to perform the impossible. In truth, I have finished two trials, based on your changing expectations—though whether you will admit the truth of it, I cannot say.

"Five great deeds have I performed in the Vithrauth; five great foes have I vanquished. The people, so gravely wronged by your regal predecessor, are now free, and they may even leave the forest, if you will but consent.

"I will not wait for proclamation, for I cannot yield to even one more of your whims. Already, I have succeeded where none thought possible. I will await word of your Approval, and if you deny it, I will take my leave. I have spoken—I will speak no more."

Hertha now took a bold chance, for she could not have been held very high in Rigga's esteem.

"Wise Mother, I would again be honored to host the Onidai while you consider his requests. Many tempers have been tested here today, and I would that you will allow me to bring him into my home before boast or insult carries either side any further."

For many heartbeats, Rigga was completely silent. She might have been dead. Finally, she answered, though her tone was that of total defeat, and her voice betrayed a far greater age than I knew. She was very far away, and it seemed that she might soon fall to weeping.

"I—thank you, Hertha. If he will accept, We will deliberate. You may go."

I left, feeling the thrill of victory. The horrors of the Vithrauth finally behind me, and word of my true love still ahead, I strode away this time with a considerable spring in my step.

* * *

I sent Vadir back with Lior, and knew that he would not be insulted, for he had worried about Grid as much as I.

As I rode alone to Hertha's villa, the woman herself passed me in her racing cart with shouts of apology, that she would have to ready her house for my return. I smiled gaily, and took to the road in a much lighter mood than before, feeling confident that Grid would survive, for in spite of the greater distance, there were far more resources at Sigmund's disposal than had been in Meadrow, and dedicated healers to see to her welfare.

And then I remembered Hertha's secret trade network. I was loath to mention it, for I knew that it was a sensitive topic, but if handled diplomatically, I felt certain that she would not deny a second message. And perhaps, in the matter of Rowan, she had planned on an ongoing communication. Her eagles were capable of passing the word at speeds that could never be achieved by horse, or even by Sigmund's clever ravens.

Even better, a healer might be able to send Ramkath, and instructions for its use, upon the talons of the very bird that had completed the final circuit. Five weeks was better—almost a guarantee of survival, and a healer of note, someone of great skill, if not Rowan herself, could follow to see the girl back to health. I felt slightly guilty that Grid's near-death was my excuse to look upon Rowan's face, then smiled anyway, for everything was finally moving in my favor.

I found myself whistling, and Edam kept cocking his ears in my direction, turning many times to ensure that all was well. I patted his unarmored neck (it had been removed at my own behest, on protest of the summer heat) and kneed him to the gallop, exulting in the speed and coolness of the whipping breeze, even as the late afternoon sun beat down upon us.

No armor upon my back, no great and dangerous deed awaiting me, regardless of the Matriarch's decision, a warm reunion at Hertha's villa, and word of my beautiful Rowan, to mention nothing of the hope my efforts would grant Grid—truly, I cannot remember so happy an afternoon, and in spite of prodigious growth over the course of the past two months, I felt stones lighter.

Lambek and Maekara were waiting, and the reunion was brief. The servants took our things, we resumed our quarters, and after much deliberation, I decided to wear something garish. All white from shoulder to ankle. White silk shirt, dazzlingly white waistcoat of linen with ivory buttons, and white trousers of the type I had grown to love, cut from cloth patterned in vertical ribs of soft fabric. I was a sight to behold, sun-kissed, even fresh from the Vithrauth, with long black hair, and dressed entirely in white.

I had few choices, though, for most of my clothing had to remain behind. Somehow, word had flown well in advance to Sigmund's home, and knowing of my new dimensions, they had time only to make alterations to a few garments, though they sent word that many more would follow, and Lior promised to inquire of local smiths, that my Trathnonan plate could be altered to fit me.

Still, for a frantic effort, and with little notice, Sigmund's people had done well with what Trathnonan cloth they had time to modify, and I felt that my clothes matched my mood perfectly. For footwear, I was amused to find a selection of shoes that Lambek told me had been Sigmund's, only four or five years earlier. Most were well-worn, but I found a pair of black clogs, and didn't feel that my white garments were ill-suited to the pairing.

In Hertha's dining hall, she fawned over my growth and appearance, but said nothing of my display in Hroaht, or of the growing schism among the ruling class. That was her way—no woes were permitted in her home. Her daughters, ever the charmers, resumed their flirtation as if they had forgotten my love for Rowan, or perhaps they were confused, as if another man had returned from the mission undertaken by a scrawny stripling.

Dinner was excellent, and I ate my fill, even as I told them of my adventures. I left out the sadder aspects, as well as those that would affect the political climate—nor did I speak of Grid, for I felt that Hertha's mention of Rowan would lead more or less naturally to the topic.

But the topic of my wayward love never arose.

The daughters excused themselves when the after-dinner vapor arrived. It seemed that Tyra was acting strangely, slightly melancholy, and Hilde pulled me down and kissed my brow before leaving—not a gesture of physical desire, but a marked display of affection. Hertha dismissed her servants, and she did not so much as sniff at the vapor until she was sure we were alone. The vessels were much larger, fully five times larger than those she normally used, and she took a long pull immediately, emptying half of the measure before she would even look at me.

For my part, I was not without the presence of mind to realize that something was amiss. No mention of Rowan, and at the appointed time, the atmosphere had changed drastically from light-hearted gaiety to somber gravity—the Hilyrtrotha led me down roads I did not wish to travel. Finally, I drank the whole vessel in one draught, then looked to Hertha with much apprehension. We exchanged glances of recognition, and suddenly she could not meet my gaze.

"Did she marry?"

She wagged her head sheepishly, her eyes to the bottom of her glass.

"No."

Hertha agonized over the word, that to my ears the pronunciation fairly quaked. I shook my head vehemently as she said it, and I felt the heat in my eyes and face as my vision misted with tears. My voice cracked as I continued.

"There can be but one other cause of such a somber reception, and I do not believe it. Rowan is a healer, not a warrior. Tahlrene is far from the coming war. No. Your messenger is mistaken. She cannot-"

My lip began to quiver uncontrollably, and Hertha leapt from her seat to kneel at my side. Her embrace was warm and comforting. I wept for a time, and she held me there without a word. When the sobs died, I felt I could ask.

"How?"

"Her horse threw her when she was out riding. She broke her back upon an outcropping. Quick. No pain. Her horse was clever and loyal, and when it saw what had befallen its master it ran to the nearest village and led the villagers to her body. We received word only four days ago, but it followed an initial reply. She knew of your love, and shared it."

Hertha pressed a folded parchment into my hand, and led me through her cavernous house to my own chambers. I collapsed there, on that soft bed, under the force of the vapor, long travel, weariness, and grief, and it struck me much harder following such a merry afternoon. Sigmund's potion had met its match, and I dropped from consciousness, the folded note clutched tightly in my hand.

### Chapter Twelve

### Grief in Absence of Virtue

Never have my dreams spanned so many hours of awareness, and never have I suffered so great an ordeal without waking.

Across a vast wasteland of sun-baked clay, I pursued a host of Centrists, they upon their billowing steam carts, and I astride a horse fit for Rorik himself—huge, black, and inexhaustible; apparently as clever as a Trathnonan stallion, for I stood in the stirrups, crouching over the beast's neck with both hands upon the saddle bow, urging him forward with nothing more than shouted commands.

Gaining inexplicably with every hoof beat, I could see that they were afraid, and yet so great was my need to catch them that I had forgotten all anger; if they had surrendered at that moment, I might have forgiven them.

Rowan tried to fight against her bonds in the bed of the nearest steam cart, but to no avail, and I loosed a roar of outrage so fierce that one of the trembling coal shovelers lost his footing and tumbled upon the ground. His fellows did not aid him, and the officer marked the loss only by appointing another to the position of shoveler.

As the sun began to set, I slung Sequiduris and Sheath from a hook at my saddle bow, then began stripping off my armor and casting it aside, lightening my horse's burden and greatly increasing my speed. The billowing smoke of the steam carts rose darker and heavier, and the chase wore on.

Simultaneously, I was as an eagle, watching from above as Vahei and Lior galloped in pursuit of a dozen horse-bound foes—the man at center of the fleeing band wore the Kenalkan Key about his neck. Suddenly, all but three broke from flight, turning to ride down their pursuers, and Lior rode on at Vahei's behest. In that moment they seemed the closest of friends, where I had seen them together only once, and their enmity had been apparent.

Vahei tucked his long, iron-shod spear and reined in his mount, a stallion of impressive size, that the Nalban sat astride his lofted saddle nearly a full body length above the High Priest. He spurred his iron-clad horse to a full charge, with wide eyes and a clenched jaw, and I watched from above as he speared the first, then hurled the heavy weapon into the second. He loosed his right foot from the stirrup as he drew his wide curved blade, then swept his leg around the rear of his saddle and kicked one with his armored foot, embedding the pronged spurs in the enemy's throat and unhorsing him, even as his blade swept across the neck of a foe on the other side. Righting himself on his high seat, he sheathed and retrieved his spear, and having slain four he charged the remaining five; the High Priest continued his pursuit.

Again, I found myself in my own body, riding after Rowan's abductors. They had gained by a half-mile, and I saw them loading their prisoner onto a ship with no sails. As I closed the distance, they paddled steadily from the shore. For a moment, my emotions were confused, a combination of roaring anguish and bitter tears. My mount breathed in great, labored gasps beneath me, but even with the ship steadily gaining distance, I refused to accept the inevitable. I stood briefly in the saddle, then leapt into the water, though I knew I could never catch them.

And then from high above I heard a shout, and I grabbed at the rope that fell into view. Suddenly I was in the air, and when I climbed to the end of that rope, I was aboard Hroald's flying vessel, with the man himself at the helm. We raced to the enemy steam ship with astounding speed, slowing to hover above at stern; as I fell to their deck, thirty men leapt upon me instantly.

I laughed into the open air as I drew my peerless blade. In the pure, metallic song of mighty Sequiduris, accompanied by the savage joy of my own laughter, I knew that every foe before me had heard the sound of his approaching doom. As I fought, I stole a glance at the bow, where Rowan had been left supine upon the deck, bound tightly and gagged with a length of cloth cut from her own gown. Her cheek had been bruised, and I saw in the darkening flesh the outline of a square-toothed gear.

Again as an eagle, I saw Lior leave his horse, unburdened by saddle and bridle and exhausted in the middle of an open plain of cracked clay. The High Priest ran against the weight of sword and shield, lumbering in the direction of a tall deciduous forest. I followed him, and watched as he cut off the escape of the three remaining thieves, who had been hard-pressed to pass through the high underbrush, hampered as they were by the clumsiness of their own weary mounts. Lior leapt through the tangle without constraint, and intersected their path, finally drawing his sword. He was beyond mere exhaustion, but concealed it well, and the remaining three treated him with the respect he deserved.

As the High Priest approached, crouching wide and low behind the cover of his shield, one of the thieves hefted an enormous thunderer, and was at the point of aiming a shot, when a curved sword came spinning through the air, to embed itself in the man's unarmored back. The other two horses surged forward, and Lior ran to meet them.

Back in my own body I saw that Sequiduris had claimed many lives, and with only the sneering officer remaining I grounded my blade in the wooden boards and retrieved one of the long, single-handed swords favored by their leaders. With Sequiduris I could have slain him easily, but the sight of something familiar left me with an overwhelming desire to prolong the combat. A golden signet on the sword-hand of my remaining foe bore a crest known well to my eyes—that ignoble coward had marked Rowan's cheek with that very symbol—Rorik's Edge was far too keen, and I wished to savor the agony of his death.

We fought for hours, ranging from feather-touch parries in full extension to a close, fevered style of grappling, and he even struck with the heavy wire hilt and stabbed with the wide cross guard. Eventually, my just outrage won out against his clear advantage in experience, and he fell to the ground beside his men, though I did not kill him.

Unwilling to kill the man needlessly—at least, before the eyes of my true love—I cut off the offending hand, then cast it into the brine and left him to his fate.

Rowan free, my Sword retrieved, we flew into the sunset on Hroald's ship, and as the sun set before us, I kissed her passionately. The very air was filled with her springtime fragrance of lavender and heather, and the warmth of that moment drew on for hours. For a blissful eternity we stood there in silence, locked in a gentle embrace, our eyes to the sunset, and the dance of the glittering brine as Hroald's vessel hurtled south to home and safety.

The following morning we landed in Brek, where Lior stood with Vahei, and they hailed us and laughed together as friends. I leapt from the lowering ship, and Lior waved to me with the Key in his hand, a long, blood-darkened loop anchoring it to his wrist. In answer, I caught Rowan as she dropped after me, and held her up in a boast of my own. Lior released his grip, raising his empty hands in surrender, and together we shared the disproportionate laughter known only in moments of pure joy.

But when I turned to kiss Rowan, my Tahlrenic love had vanished, and I saw that it was Tyra in my arms. The hair and eyes were Rowan's, but the face and body belonged to Hertha's daughter, and when I looked down, I noticed that for the first time in any of my dreams, my body had swollen to the proportions granted in Skiro's tower. Redhead Tyra lifted my jaw with her finger, so that I stared deeply into the emerald eyes of my lost love.

"Love as a boy. Live as a man. Heroes must abide by the laws of time."

I looked down, unable to meet her gaze. She had spoken in Rowan's voice.

"Forgetting time we sleep and wait to play in the night!"

When I looked up, Tyra was gone, and the smiling face was filled with fangs. Ram's jaw unhinged as he reared back to bite me, and I shot up from my bed, fully clothed and covered in sweat. I wept again for a time, then lay in bed without a thought of rising. After hours of agonized hesitation, I felt I could not wait any longer, and so I turned to Rowan's note.

-To Ralph of Meadrow

Long have I waited to hear from you, and now at long last your words have found their way, through the unexpected medium of a Hjarrleth merchant. I thank you for the key, and for its meaning; I too wish to give my love only to you, and I will keep it locked away until my raven-haired farm boy returns to claim it.

Your heart is now my own, so do not be too brave. Death is for those with no life ahead, and for those foolish enough to think themselves alone. War is unending, the foolish continuation of a struggle between the mad and the well-meaning, and the fight will continue long after we have lived our lives in peace—the Onidai is a symbol, and symbols can only work the ends of those they serve if they are alive to be seen. Find me soon.

You once compared my eyes to flawless emeralds—I am but a shepherd's daughter, though I have known beauty in green hills that few kings have seen in vault or trove. Your eyes are mine, they belong to me as surely as your heart, and I know them well. Wear my token, and remember that love and life will wait, until war and death have ended.

Yours In Heart Today- Yours Forever Soon,

-Rowan

I knew the flower instantly, from the many love tales of Tahlrene. Alinblath was once the ultimate token of love, and the truest symbol of devotion between man and woman. Pale blue and wonderfully fragrant, it is a rarity, even now, and young Tahlrenic men have lost themselves in search of the few glades that boast it. But Rowan knew her country as she knew my heart. She had ranged far and wide, finding a token of true value and depth of meaning to express her love—more than a match for that tawdry handful of green stones. For the briefest of moments, I felt truly happy. And then I remembered the events of the previous night, and joy became only the greater height from which I plummeted to the depths of ruinous despair.

* * *

For three days, I did not eat or drink, until finally Lambek had to fall upon me in slumber, binding my arms and legs while Maekara force-fed a sleeping draught. I fought, and should have had the better of Lambek, for though my muscles were not so bulky as his own, they were far greater in density. But I was too weak from hunger and thirst to give a good accounting of myself, and while much of their potion missed the mark entirely, Maekara pinched my nose, that I could do naught but gag or swallow. The fight continued, even after I had consumed their bitter potion, but I weakened further by degrees, and finally dropped to the bed, sobbing bitterly on soaked and wrinkled sheets.

I gagged at my first full conscious breath. Their sheep tube had been left in my throat, and I had to draw it out myself, fighting against the urge to vomit with every tug. Maekara must have heard me, for she appeared in my open doorway.

"Will you eat, or will I have to wake Lambek?"

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Two days. Hertha said you would have need of a long rest after your travels—and she told us the news. I am sorry. I came to know her well on the journey from Algrae. She was wonderful and kind. Strong, as well—a rarity among the peaceful."

"We were going to marry. Hertha sent my note. The reply arrived—before the news of her death. She said yes.

"Maekara?"

"I am here."

"I'll eat, but only a little for now. I want to bathe."

"Dress first, and I'll heat up some broth. Hertha was very specific—'the broth before anything else'."

When she told me to dress, I almost remarked that there was no need, but the chill as I rose was evidence enough that someone had stripped off my clothing. I fumbled about in the dark for a time, until I found the clothes that had been left for me. My eyes had been crusted nearly shut from three nights of sleep and weeping, and I accepted a patch of wet cloth from Maekara and cleaned them. My vision clear, she held out a steaming beaker of broth with tiny bits of vegetables and ground meat. It was slightly bitter, but not hot enough that I had to sip it, and though Maekara tried to protest, I bolted it all down in a single draught.

The bitterness was overpowered by heavy spice and lingering floral notes, and I kept it down without difficulty. The floral scent reminded me of Rowan's token, and with a streak of broth still running from lip to chin I threw Maekara the beaker and ran to my room with a lit candle. It was not on the bed. And then I remembered my wrestling match with Lambek. It could easily have been trampled or crumpled beneath his knee—Suddenly I was a madman, throwing pillows and bedclothes on the floor in a mad search. I heard Maekara enter behind me.

"Where is it?"

"What?"

"The Alinblath! Rowan sent it to me as her token. Where is it? It must've fallen—if that fool Lambek crushed it I'll have his head on a pike!"

I saw her hand appear beside me, and in her open palm I saw the flower, unscathed in a small crystalline case with a hinged lid.

"You held it so gently on that scrap of paper, I thought it might be valuable, and when I told Lady Hertha, she provided the case. Rowan's letter is folded inside."

I snatched it from her hand with all the gentleness of a starving man accepting a crust of bread, and even as I saw it, I knew that I had been driven mad by grief.

"I'm sorry, Maekara. I didn't mean it."

"Lambek's head on a pike? Don't think some of our women haven't had the same thought. Forty-four and still carousing like a teen."

I laughed meekly, even as I stared through the crystal, then opened the lid and breathed deeply. The fragrance was wonderful. Maekara sniffed gently, and I heard sadness in her tone.

"I'm married, you know. First Beacon. Lived through Algrae."

"Corman?"

I heard her gasp from her place beside me.

"How did you know that?"

"He was a First Beacon when he was wounded, was he not? Rather young for such a high rank. Brought back valuable information, and that after leading the evacuation and diversionary skirmish. Quick thinking. He's your husband?"

"Y-yes! We married two years ago. For a while there, I thought he'd make a widow of me."

"Pulled through, though. Arm healed just fine, as I recall."

She was ecstatic at my mention of his name. My father knew all the names of the three thousand Guardsmen of his own time, and I fancy that I got my memory from him. In truth, I had only heard Corman's name twice: once in the report following the razing of Algrae, and again in a report of his survival. It was a lucky guess, really, but the prognosis had been optimistic, so I took a chance on guessing that he had made a full recovery.

"Why aren't you at home, Maekara? A wife belongs with her husband. Worse, he was wounded. You belong at his side. You've already suffered through the fear of having to live on as a childless widow; that is more than service enough, and Corman has seen his share of action. Go home, have children—at least five—and then pass them off to your mother if you want to come back and fight. Four or five years—would that really be asking too much?"

"It doesn't work that way for us. We mus-"

"You must live your lives, Maekara! Time is all that you need, and you deserve it. He was wounded. You were taken from his side. You have served the people, the Temple, and Their Eminences every day of your adult lives. You deserve time. Never enough-"

I was at the point of weeping, and I stopped myself. This was no way to live. I remembered my father, and his advice about blood and tears, that they must never be shown to those you will be expected to lead. This was neither the time nor the place for tears.

She missed her love; I missed mine. But she was not a leader. If I could shake the sound of my father's voice from my head on the grounds of his disqualifying cowardice, I could do nothing to silence Skiro's more recent thoughts. The benefit of the doubt gave my father the spotless reputation needed for the easy acceptance of his wise counsel. I snorted, swallowed heavily, stood with a straight back, and offered Maekara the flower case.

"Will you keep this for me? It might wilt in the baths."

"Of course. Actually, I was to ask if you will permit Hertha to see to it. Some sort of Hjarrleth glue—preserves the flower, while allowing it to retain the scent. May I take it to her when she rises?"

I smiled.

"Thank you. Please do that. And ask the cook to prepare something—if she's still awake. That broth was wonderful, but I've been rather empty, of late."

* * *

I could not understand it, but as I made my way to the baths, I felt—better. I was lighter of mood, and even my body felt good, with none of the aches or pains that normally followed long travel. It was as if Rowan's token contained all my grief, and, shut away in that crystalline case, I could see it, even be reminded of it, but I could not feel it.

For nearly an hour I sat in the steam, and then Irma fell upon me, pummeling, kneading, pressing, and pounding every knotted mass of new and overworked muscle. I could tell by her solemn countenance that she had been informed of recent events, though somehow I was able to accept her sympathy without allowing it to drag me down, and after thanking her, I moved back into the bathhouse proper with an easy, gliding gait.

I took the opportunity to shave away the weeks of negligence while my face was still warm and soft from the steam, and after the stinging of scented vapor and soothing coolness of Lior's Ashad unguent, I made for the baths in earnest. As I was in a frivolous frame of mind, I tried costly Viharthian soaps for the first time. The dense foam fell upon my skin with a tingling chill, invigorating every hair's breadth upon my body as I scrubbed away the days of bed-ridden sorrow. The hair cleanser was equally invigorating, but felt warm upon my scalp, and though the sensation was mild, its strength was apparent, for I felt the dead skin and lingering forest dust rise upon the growing suds.

After leaping into the hot pool, I swam about beneath the water, and after ridding my body of the gentle soaps, with nothing but the sensation of smooth softness and the scent of exotic perfumes lingering on my skin, I returned to the surface to retrieve the untangling unguent, a touch borrowed from the Trathnona. Though both varieties were wondrously effective, the Viharthians improved upon the substance, applying new ingredients and costly scents as only those clever silk-weavers could.

The concoction burned at first, though only briefly, then cooled, and almost immediately the tangles fell away. I floated there far longer than needed, enjoying the scent and massaging it through my locks, and when I dived to wash it away, it rinsed clean in moments, leaving a gentle scent and the sensation of clean softness as the only evidence that I had bathed, at all.

A servitor brought me my breakfast in the baths, and at the insistence of the Lady of the House I was asked to drink another cup of broth, which I bolted down without hesitation—I had been in one of those moods that does not brook resistance or argument of any kind. Fully sated, I thanked the maid, then returned to the steam room to while away the time at digestion, before moving again to the shelves at the rear of the baths. There, I saw to those little touches that most men ignore—though women never fail to attend them, even in Meadrow.

I clipped the nails of hand and foot with a cleverly wrought edged clamp, and saw to my eyebrows with a guide comb and a set of brazen shears, aided by a tall silver mirror and a pictographic chart on the wall. With a brush made from a tiny sea sponge I scrubbed my teeth with a lathering Viharthian ointment, preferable by miles to Trathnonan cave salts, for it was already semi-liquid, and far from being bitter it tasted of cinnamon and cool spices. When I finished, my teeth were whiter than I had ever seen them, and I followed by scrubbing my tongue of the remainder of breakfast.

When curiosity got the better of me, I sampled a creamy substance akin to the oil applied to minor burns, or the cream used to alleviate the torments of shaving, though it seemed that its intention was not to heal, but to accentuate the softness of healthy skin. I set about rubbing the stuff into my skin the moment the suggestion entered my mind, with not the slightest fear that it might be intended exclusively for ladies.

For another hour, I swam laps in the warm pool, where only thin wisps of gentle steam rose from the surface of the water—scant evidence of the furnace burning far below. Beneath the water all was peaceful, and I swam gentle, easy laps for almost an hour, never once feeling fatigued by the effort. I had grown strong, indeed.

When I heard a splash from above I rose from beneath the water to see that Hilde had joined me, but far from the ravening red she-wolf I had known, she was cordial and polite—not at all what I had expected, and strangely I was disappointed, though in that mood there was little that might have surprised me.

We took turns swimming, and while one lapped gently back and forth, the other shouldered the weight of the conversation. We spoke of the pleasant summer, our favorite Hjarrleth operettas, and of the growing tensions in Hroaht, though strangely, the topic was treated casually.

In time she complained of the cold, and I must admit that I had noticed a chill, as well—not in my extremities, but through the thin cloth of Hilde's upper wrap. We moved on to the hot pool, though neither of us made any attempt to swim. She appeared far more beautiful than before, with gentle yet womanly features, and though her skin had taken on the appealing blush encouraged by the heat of the water, I knew that it would resume the flawless pale of fresh cream when cooled by the outside air.

In spite of her age, more than five years my senior, her well-proportioned breasts were firm, ripe, and stood prominently in the proud way of early youth. Just as with Brenna, they were not over-large, but I knew that they would fill my hands to perfection. Suddenly, I wanted them to fill my hands. I wanted to pull her to me, to feel the softness of her skin, stare into those warm hazel eyes and watch, as her face contorted in pleasure. I needed to know that she felt pleasure in my touch.

It is impossible that she could have missed my longing stares, but she had not ceased the conversation. Suddenly—the thought was only half-formed—I pressed my feet to the edge of the pool, and pushing off with the full power of my thews I glided to her in force. The amplified strength of my legs was more than I had expected, that I fairly flew across the water, and I spanned her waspish waist, pulling her body firmly against my own.

After only a moment's hesitation, I freed my right hand, then grasped the back of her head and pressed her lips to mine. She was very soft, and I felt her warmth even against that of the steaming pool. Her hand found a familiar hold, and she pulled away from my lips, so I could see clearly that her eyes had widened in genuine surprise.

"You should have thanked the Conjurer before you slew him. You have grown in far more than height and strength!"

Unrestrained by shame or secrecy, I loosed a pleasured groan—as I have written, hers was a skilled and practiced hand. I kissed her jaw, her neck, and finally spoke as I nibbled at her lobe.

"Have you known bigger men among the Hjarrleth?"

As I said it, I moved to match the work of her hand with my own. She gasped with a wide mouth, and bit down on my shoulder. Finally, her answer came in shuddering gasps.

"Few enough, for the largest are married off young. Few have been much older than you, and none have been larger."

With my other hand still grasping the back of her neck, I pulled her away from my shoulder, that I might stare into her eyes.

"A comparison, then?"

She nodded meekly, but her eyes and curled grin made lie of any pretense. I lifted her by the waist, a maneuver that neither my arms nor paddling legs could have accomplished previously, then slowly, steadily, I lowered her to me. Even as she fell, she reached between her legs from behind and guided me to her, and in that first moment of scalding contact I released my grip, allowing her to fall with the full force of her weight, an impact lightened only by the influence of the steaming water.

Floating there near the middle of the pool, we could do little but slap against each other, but she began grinding her heat upon me with such intensity that I stopped paddling. We sank together, though her legs were still wrapped tightly about my waist, so that I was not dislodged. She laughed only briefly, for the force of my sudden movement pressed her tightly against me—the sounds of mirth were replaced at once by shocked gasps and pleasured groans.

Using only my legs, I carried her to the edge, pressed her there, and with her legs still wrapped tightly about my waist, I lifted myself against her with the strength of my arms, my hands pressed flat upon the floor at the pool's edge.

The pleasured contortions of that beautiful face and the repeated gripping of her body, taut and spastic, proved the truth of her limited conquests. She had only coupled with inexperienced youths, but not without learning something for her trouble.

Brenna would have been at least seven years her senior, and yet she had only lain with one other; she had taken oaths as the next High Priestess after experiencing only the first exploratory fumblings of youth. What Brenna possessed in desire and boldness, Hilde matched with the practiced freedom of a beautiful young woman in a land of unbridled sexuality. She had control, an expressive tongue, and a talent for seduction, and she used them without shame or restraint.

I finished her many times in the hot pool. When she suggested the steam room as an ideal venue for a renewed dalliance, I had my misgivings, though it was only a token protest. She laughed, dismounted, and bathed me in kisses, then whispered in my ear, her body still pressed tightly against my own.

"They are all abed. Dawn is not for another hour, and I have not known Mother to rise until midmorning. Tyra is always up and about much earlier, but she never bathes before noon. We have plenty of time."

I kissed her shoulders, trying to sound bashful in response.

"What of her servants? I am a private person, sweet Hilde, from a modest land. I would be seen only by participants, and I do not welcome spectators."

"Make the offer politely, and show them your offering, and you may find the entire household eager to participate. Sangholm is not Meadrow. Women have needs—men are chief among them, but alas, this house is filled with women, with only yourself and prudish Lambek for company—and relief."

"I have not known Lambek to be a prude."

"He has denied the advances of every maid of interest. Perhaps he is not overfond of the young. Few here are much older than I."

"That cannot be too old, not if this is any indication."

I resumed the work of my hand, and with one arm thus employed, and the other guiding her to the stairs, we made our way to the edge of the pool. As we left, she pulled on a lever and the water began to recede. A bell rang, and it startled me nearly to full awareness. Her laughter was low and husky. She was not yet finished, and she knew that I had only just started, as well.

"Do not fear. That is only a reminder for the servants to scrub out the pool before refilling it. The walls of the steam chamber are thick—nearly an arm's length. None will hear us. Surely, you do not want my mother and sister bathing in that pool, after we-"

She forgot what she was saying the moment she closed the door. I had grown impatient, and did not even wait for her to turn around.

* * *

Three days in that warm wonderland of painless bliss passed with the delightful anticipation of Hilde's eager warmth. No guilt, no sadness—I had forgotten that I should still be in mourning. By day, I enjoyed circuitous rides around the perimeter of the estate, and never even considered taking up my hurling practice in the old barn.

Afternoons were active, and I found myself in Hilde's bed chamber more than once in the pursuit of a quick tumble. Each time, she tried to pull me back down upon her, but I did not wish to be discovered. Though I kept my visits brief, she never failed to take full advantage of my attentions, and I had to smother her surprised squeals and breathless groans with a pillow on more than one occasion.

The evenings were equally pleasurable. Hertha's cooks outdid themselves with each passing night, and though I detected a slight bitterness in many of the dishes, it was far from unpleasant. Performances followed, from different troupes each night, and I bathed without modesty or pretense each evening in the presence of all three women of the household—and occasionally four, for Helga was never shy about joining us. There, I admired all of Hertha's daughters, and even the woman herself.

Hertha had been sixteen at the time of Helga's birth, and this I had heard from Hilde. She would have been forty-four years old, then, and still a flawless beauty. She had the curves of her age, but her skin was still taut, and in spite of those ample, matronly curves, her belly was flat, every hair's breadth of her body firm—successfully defiant of age and all evidence even of the rigors of childbirth, for I saw not a single mark upon her body to indicate that her fellow bathers were aught but nieces or baby sisters—even with the family resemblance as proof, the similarities served only to accentuate the beauty of the mother.

Tyra had inherited her mother's astounding mouth and firm round bosom, while Hilde had been gifted with Hertha's curled smile and expressive features. With dark, flawless skin and wide round eyes that matched the long, glowing, dark brown smoothness of her hair, I had trouble deciding which slick-skinned perspiring form should fill my eyes from evening to evening—though I thoroughly enjoyed the indecision.

Hilde had been right about the—completeness of Skiro's treatments, and in my strangely euphoric, pliable, and uninhibited state, I followed Hilde's lead, and took full advantage of every opportunity to test my newfound endowment.

Hilde begged my indulgence, and my patience on the fourth afternoon. Twice each week the women of that house made a custom of surrendering themselves to the ministrations of the skilled servants that had made it their sole pursuit to lavish Hertha and her daughters with the obsessive care and costly substances that would ensure their continued youth and beauty, long after their compatriots had aged into wrinkled androgyny.

I did not balk at her sudden craving for the company of servants—indeed, I laughed heartily. Whatever they had been doing, I said, it had been working wonderfully. Any man who says he cannot tell the difference between the youthful appearance of sixteen, and that of a girl of eighteen or twenty, is lying through his teeth. That is not to say that young, beautiful women are not young and beautiful, but experience takes its toll, and beauty fades in the same manner as youth—with each passing day, only rarely blooming into the long-lasting, mature loveliness that rewards the faithful, and occasionally punishes short-sightedness with the cold torment of feminine vengeance.

And yet, the women of Hertha's house were not so aged—even the servants possessed the vigor normally lost by the eighteenth year, though the lady and her daughters were by far the most beautiful of the lot, and Hilde was a prime example.

Twenty-five, as everyone knows, is the age that ends growing and begins aging. Women of twenty-five vary in their youthfulness, but few women are as beautiful at twenty-five as they were at sixteen. Hilde was approaching her mid-twenties only in maturity; she had grown to the full proportions of womanhood, while her face, hair, body, smile, and indeed all the dimensions of her body were as taut, youthful and full of vigor as those of a woman ten years her junior. Even her voice rang out in the higher pitch of a younger woman.

Tyra also benefited from the practice of rejuvenation, but apparently she did not receive her treatments on the same day as her older sister.

I had been walking in Hertha's most prized garden-spot, enjoying the scents of the multitude of flowers and perfectly pruned shrubs and trees. In that place, one could experience the best of nature, while being safely and pleasantly sheltered from the heat of a clear summer's day. It was a high-roofed structure, the stone of the walls rising to nearly twice my height, and above, the upper walls and slanted ceiling were nothing more than lead-sealed panes of transparent glass. For nearly an hour, I had ambled aimlessly, taking the time to admire every bright bloom and breathing deeply, my mind burdened only by thoughts of total nothingness.

I had dined lightly that afternoon, following the example of the women, though in truth I had even less to fear of unwanted weight gain than they did. On the contrary, I had lost the meager accumulations of fat from my body steadily since I had left Skiro's tower, and if not for that ample gift of slim muscle from head to toe, I suspect that I would have looked very much like one of Skiro's former slaves. Still, Hilde's cryptic description of the immediate effects of the bathhouse treatments had intrigued me—I wished to be energetic, and so I ate sparingly, though I drank, as always, Hertha's medicinal broth, and did not grumble at the insistence of her servants.

Though it was fully summer outside, the garden was comfortable and cool, a miracle that Hertha attributed to a combination of the babbling, stone-lined brook, and the waterfall ending in a drain that recycled the water. Outside the building, a turbine, powered by strong mules, walking an endless circuit in frequently rotated shifts, operated a crank shaft, similar to that found in Trathnonan hammer mills and Meadrow windmills. That crank shaft turned a large fan, and the resulting wind was forced into a series of chambers. The pressurized air, forced up and down against many thin walls of copper, would finish its journey much colder than it began, emerging from behind the waterfall as a gentle breeze, cooled further by the water; every hour, the force of that pleasant wind was increased for a time, that it might water the plantlife with the resulting mist.

Though the description is no doubt impressive, it is still difficult to express the experience of standing beneath the full light of the summer sun—feeling its warmth, even as a damp, chilly breeze cools the room, simulating the clime of an early northern spring.

That is how Tyra found me, arms elevated, sleeves rolled back, with loosened shirt laces. My eyes had been closed, but she must have possessed the talent at stealth shown me previously by the Women of Ashad and Vithrauth tribesmen, for I had heard not the slightest sound of her entry.

"The sun feels good, does it not? This room has always been my favorite. No bothersome insects, oppressive heat, prying eyes-"

Tyra's eyes bored straight through me, her expression the very image of Brenna's own predatory stare. The younger version was more subtle, and it was possible Hilde's interruption of my regular afternoon activities might have distorted my perception. I looked to the door behind her, closed, and I had already seen that the other had been barred against entry.

As I have mentioned, the stone of the walls rose to nearly twice my height, with no real windows, and while the glass ceiling and upper walls permitted the entry of sunlight, only Karonadus himself could have peered down upon us.

She approached with that very same slow, form-accentuating glide, rolling her hips almost imperceptibly with every step, and she stopped barely a pace from where I stood. She was draped in a thin gown of soft white silk, barely a wrap, and her sandals had been discarded at the door.

That long pause notwithstanding, she continued as if she had not seen me appraise every hair's breadth of her perfect golden form.

"In winter, Mother diverts the fan into those tubes- Do you see?"

They lined every wall—three rows of wide pipes, cast from some form of galvanized bronze.

"Rather than cooling over copper blades, the fan forces the air through tiny furnaces, heating the wind even as it flows through the pipes. In here, the weather never changes—only the sun diminishes. Here, it is always warm."

"That would explain your complexion. Most Hjarrleth are pale."

She grinned and giggled girlishly, amused perhaps at my attempt to steer the conversation back to its original topic. She was not bashful, but I detected a hint of humor that suggested this—whatever this was—could not be familiar territory.

"That is why I am here. I sunbathe—not every day—Mother is a frightful miser when it comes to sharing her luxuries. Once or twice a week I sneak in, and sometimes she finds me here and chases me out. But not today. Running an estate can be such a bothersome chore."

She stuck out her lower lip, encouraging me to stare at that astounding mouth. Though she spoke with a childlike quality, she was in fact more than a year older than I, and before Skiro's treatments, we stood almost eye to eye, myself only half a handsbreadth taller. Now that I towered a full head above her, to mention nothing of my growth in bulk, her interests did not seem so fleeting—not born of sibling rivalry, but of a genuine attraction.

The moist breeze struck upon the thin silk of her gown, outlining her body, and scooping up the lower fabric to bare her smooth, lean, muscular legs. As I have written, it was not apparent muscle, but hidden beneath womanly curves in such a way that made her form all the more appealing, but no less feminine. Her breasts were perfectly outlined by the billowing fabric, large, full, and round, standing as perfectly erect as those of her mother, but with a firmness that Hertha did not possess—youth has its advantages, I suppose, even among those that defy old age.

The length of those lean, shapely, feminine legs that had been exposed by the breeze appeared no lighter in coloring than her face or arms. Truly, she intended to bathe in sunlight, in the truest sense of the word. It seemed that she had followed along with my every thought, and now that I understood her intentions, her smile widened. I made to retreat instantly.

"Perhaps I should take my leave. I have no wish to interrupt what your mother's complexion suggests is a rare pleasure."

I made to pass her, but she took hold of my arm.

"I told you, she will be gone all day. I am not greedy. Besides, the door is locked from the outside, and Namei will not be back to unlock it for another two hours."

Namei was her Nalbanic nursemaid, and the woman had spoiled her as a young child, that by the time Tyra had reached her twelfth year she had become the girl's eager slave. And so, a half-dozen years later I had little doubt that, if Namei had been told to bar the door against prying eyes, the door would not open until Tyra wished it so.

I was not nervous, for I had bathed with the women of the house three nights in a row, and so I removed my shirt and moved to one of the padded divans that had been placed directly beneath the flawless center pane. As I reclined, I felt the comfortable kiss of the sun almost immediately, and I was just beginning to relax when Tyra's delightful giggle broke the silence.

"You will look awfully silly in the baths this evening—tanned above the waist, but pale as Hilde below."

I looked over just in time to witness the ascent of her gown. She lifted it over her head with a single sweep, exposing the golden nakedness of her entire body, then tossed the costly white cloth upon the neighboring divan with a casual air. I must admit, that even in my pleasant state—totally ignorant and blissfully uncaring of Grid's fate, and wholly incapable of mourning Rowan's passing—the sight of that unimaginably beautiful body caused the breath to catch in my throat.

If she saw the way she had affected me, she gave no sign, though she had not yet taken her place on the divan beside me. I laid back, pretending to revel in the glorious light of that beautiful summer's day, but every focus of my senses had been diverted to the place she had been standing—my ears had not heard her move, and my nose, far more aware of her perfume than usual, had not noted any change in the source of that heady, intoxicating scent. Remembering her jest, I attempted to drive it away with a dull tone, feigning boredom in response.

"Just a bit of sun will do. I don't think I'll be here long enough for a real tan."

"Perhaps, but I am not going to lay around unclothed while you hide beneath your trousers like a stubborn old man. So-"

I heard her move, and suddenly the sandals flew from my feet. When I opened my eyes, I saw her, bent over my left leg and pulling at the fabric. I lost my balance on the reclined back of my seat, and slid to a totally supine position. Undaunted, she simply grasped both trouser legs and whisked them off in one clean motion. She folded them neatly, threw them over the back of my seat, and smiled in satisfaction.

"There. Now the loin wrap. You may remove it yourself—or we can try again."

She giggled when I hurried to remove it, and it seemed to me that her attempt to hide the glance she stole at my full nakedness was not wholehearted. She wanted me to see that she had seen, and her eyes widened, though whether she had been impressed by the sight, or was simply playing another of her girlish games, I could not tell. For nearly a quarter of an hour, I basked in contentment beneath the full light of day, before turning to warm my back. Eventually, I was able to forget that Tyra, completely naked, was bathing in that same golden light only a pace away.

Sleep almost took me, until I felt a smooth, sliding pressure, halting and squeezing at either side of my waist, followed by two points of heavy firmness at my back. A soft cascade fell upon my neck—quickly brushed away and followed by the tantalizing heat of bated breath and the gentle caress of those astounding lips. The heat fell in deep, heavy waves, finally stopping at my ear.

For a time, she said nothing, and she made no move to kiss or embrace me further. Yet there she lay, fully upon my back, as if she, too, might suddenly doze off. I counted every heartbeat, and with her body between the sun and much of my own, I was warmed in the coolness of that fragrant chamber by Tyra's heat, alone.

Finally, her words found my ear as a sort of urgent gasp.

"You should not sleep here. I did once, as a little girl, and I was burned horribly. It took Namei nearly three days to soothe my skin back to health."

She pressed her fingers into my naked back, then drew them away, gently and bloodlessly raking her nails across my flesh. Hearing my pleasured groans, she giggled yet again.

The girlish act was growing tiresome. A woman I could tumble, and though her game was endearing, and strangely fitting from such a youthful personage, she had given no indication of her real intentions. To my mind, teasing is not a prelude to sex, and some women tease by default, as their primary means of communication. Her next words gave me hope, her pouty, girlish tone notwithstanding.

"Did you really think I would lay beside you, ready and willing, if I did not expect something—warmer than sunshine?

"Namei is near. She is watching for signs of outside interruption, even now, and I have other servants prepared to act as a distraction until we leave—though only loyal Namei knows of my real purpose. We have as long as we need—of course, we will need to make an appearance at table tonight."

She dismounted and knelt beside the divan, planting her head at the edge of the cushion upon crossed arms. She had tilted her face to match the angle of my own, and when I turned, I saw the steely light blue of her eyes. My own eyes are light blue, as were my mother's before me, ours a shade darker than the sky on a clear day. Tyra's eyes were matchless—not gray, really, but extremely light in color, and so perfectly blue that even the tiny lines within were obscured, giving them the appearance of smooth gemstones.

Again, I was reminded of two other gems, not pale sapphires, but emeralds. And then I remembered my dream. 'Love as a boy. Live as a man. Heroes must abide by the laws of time.' It had not been redheaded Hilde who appeared suddenly in my arms, but Tyra, with the eyes and hair of Rowan. I had loved Rowan, and would still, if she had lived. But I had been a boy when I had met her, and I had faced few dangers—and never alone. Since that time, I had seen real battle twice, and led the charge myself on both occasions. The men and women charging in my wake had been brave, but many had not seen the battle's end. I had slain brigands and cruel villains with little aid, and the Kromjan, Karonadus, and Nidhag had fallen to my hand, alone.

If any could be called a man, such was I. Youth is nothing before experience, and life must continue, even in sorrow.

And yet I felt little sorrow, even at that moment, with Tyra's eyes reminding me so much of Rowan's. It was strange, for I had loved Boers as well, but differently and not so dearly. And yet privately I had wept many times for him, where Rowan had not inspired tears beyond those three short days. I pondered such things only lightly at the time, and not nearly so deeply as in later years. Still, from what Hertha had told me of Tyra, there were unique considerations. I spoke in a gentle tone as I stared into her eyes, barely a handspan from my own.

"Warmth I can give, and gladly, but your mother has spoken of you frequently. Is it true that you have lived without that warmth, ere now?"

She closed her eyes with a flat smirk.

"Ah, Mother, so candid in speaking of the business of others. It's true, if it matters."

"It does! I had thought you a hopeless romantic, waiting until some handsome young Hjarrleth nobleman should take you for his bride. What I mean is only—I have not known you long enough—for love."

She laughed with genuine mirth, wrinkling her nose, with smiling eyes and a wide mouth, displaying the bright pearls of her perfect teeth.

"Love is for lovers. I have not known any man to strike me in the way of Hroald and Trinhe. But neither will I dally with serving boys and the unbetrothed sons of chieftains, as dear Hilde. She is skilled, is she not?"

She laughed again, this time at my wide eyes and slack jaw.

"Even if you were not so obvious in your affections, my eyes have beheld proof beyond suspicion. I have seen you in the baths. You are a creature of habit—and she is a creature of appetite. Three mornings in a row, and every afternoon—until today. She is a pretty thing, but she is not still unmarried because of a sudden fear of childbirth."

She rose and turned, lifting the pale-golden veil of her long, shimmering hair and sweeping it over her shoulder. With two short, accentuated strides she made her way to her own divan, letting me take in her long, slim back and the wondrous shapeliness below. Tyra was a creature of pure gold, with shimmering hair hanging nearly to her waist, her body perfectly and gently tanned from toe to brow.

When she stopped, she turned and sat, before lifting her hair and descending to the padded incline—she released her golden tresses to hang from the very edge. Slightly inclined, her breasts rose achingly skyward, and with her legs together I took the full measure of their length. Before Skiro, the length of her legs had been equal to my own, but far more slender; clean, lithe, and wonderfully long.

I had seen their serving women at work in the baths with flat bronze blades, and when I asked the purpose of that daily exercise, in which their servants planed those flat edges along every inch of their exposed flesh, Hertha told me that the waxy soap that began their ablutions was difficult to rinse, but wondrous in the conditioning of the skin. As a side-effect of that regimen, their bodies were left hairless, though it was only a much closer and more thorough examination that proved the practice had been in use upon every hair's breadth of their bodies, leaving not a single follicle below the brow.

Brenna had tended to her legs and underarms, and the trimming of—other patches was a common practice, even among the men; this I learned from the High Priest, who had once explained the foreign practice of bathing to an unproved boy. I had adopted the Trathnonan custom to please Brenna, and later because I felt more comfortable, and cooler within the confines of my armor.

But trimming is not the same as daily shaving, and to my mind there can be no comparison. I stared at Tyra without moving, listening to the spear points hammering within my chest as I understood her implied comparison. Hilde was provocative, wonderfully inviting, and beautiful—but she was not her sister.

In Sangholm, betrothals can be even more costly than open war. When bridal prices are matched, and tempers grow short, it has often been the custom of suitors to battle to the death for the right to wed their heart's desire, though victory is by no means a guarantee of marriage.

Though Hilde would be married off quickly the moment Tyra chose a husband, Hertha's youngest daughter was likely to inspire much bloodshed.

I stared at her perfect face, the only rival of any of her other features, drinking in the perfect pale blue of the large, unfaceted gemstones of her eyes, the dainty, delicate features that spoke of womanly beauty and girlishness in the same breath, and those wide, pink, perfect cushions of her lips—suddenly I was on my feet, and with one bold stride—proof that she had been moving for my benefit—I seated myself beside her.

She caressed my chest with her delicate hand, and I took it and pressed it to my face. She withdrew her scalding touch only for a moment, to replace her hand at the nape of my neck. Then, without the slightest hesitation, she pulled me down to her lips. If that was her first kiss, she was truly a natural. I was on the verge of mounting her then and there, forsaking all the romantic pretense and quiet gentleness deserved by such carefully preserved virginity—and then I remembered that I would be her first, and I pulled away.

"Are you certain this is what you wish?"

She caressed my jaw, and again I saw bright pearls gathered beneath flawless sapphires.

"At my age, it is only right that I lay with someone. I am too old for clumsy fumbling with inexperienced boys, and too young to surrender myself to some elder brute. But I have come to know you, Onidai. You will be gentle, will you not? Gentle and discrete—that is what I wish: we may explore pleasure when the path has been prepared."

Kneeling beside her, I kissed those perfect lips, and so great was my passion that I had to fight against the urge to bear her down on the cool floor—though complete disbelief did wonders to stay my hand. We lingered for a time, exploring one another in the way expected of a first coupling, and I found that every last smooth extremity was flawless—as most will be aware, the hand is a far keener judge than even the sharpest eye.

Finally, with great gentleness we coupled in earnest, and though she winced from the pain of it, she urged me to continue. I wiped myself clean of her virgin blood, as was expected, upon the cloth that she had smuggled in secret—proof of womanhood among Hjarrleth women, the equal of battle scars among the ranks of their men.

Though I would not sully so gentle and perfect an afternoon with further description, I must admit that I felt myself in the most perfect dream of my life. The warmth and brightness of the sun, the cool of the chamber and periodic mist of the waterfall, the fragrance of the many sprigs, flowers, and blooming trees, and the incomparable, celestial being herself conspired to make that day one of the most memorable of my life.

We were not in love, and yet we were fond of one another, and she had honored me by choosing me as her first. We spoke often after passion had been sated, but always she pulled my mouth back to her own, saying more of desire with wide and expressive eyes than many women are gifted to accomplish with hand and voice combined.

Only the waning light reminded us of the passage of time, and when the room had faded to dull shadow, I looked up to see that the sun's circuit had carried it past the edge of the westernmost pane. She rose, and kissed me again, then drew my ear to her lips—they were so close that I could feel them pouting with her every syllable.

"Hilde may have to suffer—unless your heroic strength extends to pleasure as well as warfare—I want more of this. I love my sister dearly, and would not interfere with her sport, but today, I feel I am stealing her favorite toy. Can you tend to both of us?"

I was on my back, and I moved her face away from my ear, so that I could see her clearly.

"Tyra, you may trust me when I say that I will never see Hilde again if you do not wish it. If I am her toy, you may steal me without guilt, for this toy has an opinion of its own."

"No! Do not- I mean, that is not necessary. I can share, if you can. Besides, I would not want Mother to learn of this—not yet, at any rate. I would learn of her reaction before I will risk her knowledge. There might be a scandal—you bedding two of her daughters. Not that either of us would have cause to complain.

"If you cease your meetings with Hilde, she will know that something is amiss, and it will not take much inquiry to learn that you have taken up with me.

"Spend your afternoons with me—offer Hilde some pouting excuse about offended pride—but see her still by early morning in the baths. In truth, I fear Hilde's jealousy almost as much as Mother's relentless propriety; she may even forbid both of her daughters from this diversion, if she learns of it before I am of a mind to tell her."

"Whatever you wish. Of course, it is an awful lot to ask...but I'll try."

"You are not afraid of discovery?"

"I'll be brave if you will."

The second quip got through her armor, and she laughed girlishly, slapping me playfully on the chest. She left first, and I followed a quarter of an hour later. I did not know what had possessed me, but truly, this was not the Ralph that had fallen in love with Rowan, or that had taken up with Brenna in the passionate confusion of a lonely youth. I was not myself, but whenever the thought occurred to me, I buried it, excusing myself on the grounds that I had never known real happiness.

There, within the bounds of Hertha's estate, I had no need to fear the dangers that had seemed to follow me from the moment I fled my mother's tavern. Nor did I fear the hunger and cold I had known for more than a decade in my early youth. No aches or pains from long travel or hard-fought battle, and no guilt following the deaths of men and women that had trusted me with their lives. It seemed that I had always been troubled by worry, fear, or pain, and now that I was free of them, it would stand to reason that I might fight against the urge to stop and examine my good fortune.

A week passed with no word from the Matriarch, though I felt no grief in the delay. I stayed clean and well-rested, for not a day passed when I would not spend at least three hours in the baths—no more than one at bathing—and equal time in a chamber hidden far beyond my own.

Tyra surprised me after dinner, the day after our first meeting. She was still wet from the evening swim, and she warned me to silence against sudden discovery. Beneath the high mattress of my bed there was a small hatch, obscured by a thick rug. Tyra had only to roll the carpet away and slide the hatch inward to reveal a narrow staircase; a wooden spiral leading far beneath my chambers.

At the foot of that staircase she led me down a short corridor, lit by sconces set with tiny oil lamps. There was a door at the end, and one other, directly behind the staircase.

When she opened the far door, I saw that it had been decorated with tapestries and carpets, and goblets and ewers had been laid out with food on a silver platter at a side table. The bed had an ancient frame, but the mattress was new and clean, and covered with pristine bedclothes of silk and soft fleece. She kissed me gently and collapsed to the bed.

"One of my cousins showed me this place when I was barely old enough to walk. My father knew of it, and my uncles, but they all died in far Tulakal. My cousin was slain on a bear hunt eight years ago—no one knows of this place but me."

Such was the case for many brave noblemen on Foundation. Bear hunts have slain more heirs than fever and war combined.

"No one, Tyra? Well then, I must admit that I have never known a faster or more efficient housekeeper."

She giggled gaily, and rose to wrap her arms around my neck, then kissed me softly at the ending of every breath.

"Of course Namei knows. She has been preparing this place since the day I chose you—the day that you returned. I liked you before, but-"

I understood, but again I felt no pain in the reminder, and no longer did I ponder that strange numbness.

"But—I was not free—before."

Her expression sobered.

"And then I saw you with Hilde, and knew that you had chosen to live on. Many men kill that aspect of themselves after the deaths of their women. It is well that you did not—a shame to waste such a man."

We resumed our kisses, and the gentle fondling that went with them, when curiosity got the better of me.

"What is this place, anyway?"

"It used to be a retreat, of sorts. Your room was not always a guest chamber, and at the time this place was built, the Nalbans favored assassination over honest warfare. With this room, and the single corridor that connects it and the other five to the central staircase, my ancestors could sleep in peace, leaving only an empty bed to confound assassins.

"When assassination fell out of favor with the Nalbans, so did the secret chambers. Yours is the only hatch that has not been covered by flagstones, though Namei is attempting to free the one beneath my chamber, even as we stand here. That will be much more convenient than sneaking about in the shadows, don't you agree?"

"If mine is the only uncovered hatch, how is it that you have gained entry?"

"The outer passages are not gained through hatches, silly. The storeroom behind the kitchens is the central entry, and then there is the other, beyond my own covered hatch, which leads outside to the eastern gardens. I had always wondered why the fountain between those hedgerows had been filled with holes. Must have been my forefather's way of concealing the purpose of the place, so that he didn't leave his servants wondering why the fountain was always draining itself. So much wasted energy, just to sleep the night away. Perhaps I should be glad, since we may now spend our afternoons at more lively pursuits."

And thus I filled my days—with exciting and feverish exertions in the warmth and comfort of the baths by early morning, and with tender, passionate exploration on a bed covered with soft silks by afternoon. I was glad of the evening swim, for I had a great need to restore the tissues—Brenna had taught me the healing powers of hot water and steam at my house in Brek, and never had the need of restoration been greater.

On the eighth day, Tyra warned me that she had not been invited to dine in the main hall that evening—nor had her sister, and no entertainment had been scheduled to follow the meal, though my presence at table was still expected. The word must have passed between dawn and noon, for Hilde had told me nothing of the sort, and Tyra seemed truly alarmed.

"What if she knows?"

"I wouldn't worry too much on that account, sweet Tyra. Do you think such a sensitive topic would be broached at table, in the presence of servants, and between host and guest? No, if she knew, she would confront the two of you."

"Unless she plans to make you choose between us."

"In that case, you should have cause to smile. If I have to choose, you will find me much more...energetic, than usual. In fact, you would have little to worry about if she did choose to forbid further dalliance. Does your mother know of this place?"

"No, I am sure she does not. Even the chamber beneath her own bed has grown dusty, and I have never seen footprints."

"So, if she tells you not to see me, you will simply do the same as any daughter-"

She grinned, and was about to kiss me again, but I had not finished.

"And I forgot about Hilde. Forbidden, I have cause to refuse her, and if your mother wishes me to choose, I can simply tell Hilde that your mother forbade all future meetings. She will not be offended, and will never suspect that you—her virgin sister—might have stolen her favorite toy."

That time, I made no attempt to halt the approach of her lips.

* * *

Lambek had grown accustomed to the quiet in my chambers by day—I had told him that I was napping, and barred the door against any disturbance. When I emerged that day, late in the afternoon, he had one of Sigmund's raven-bound messages pinned to a thin board. He spoke as he offered me the glass.

"This just arrived a few moments ago. He's never hazarded a delivery by day. First one since your arrival, and it took two of his birds just to carry it. Must be important."

I sat at the window, magnifying each word in the waning light.

-Ralph

I met Lior on the road three days ago. Chance placed our meeting at late evening, and, as always, he had much to say, though never have his words sounded more outlandish. I can scarce believe what you have become, nor can I understand why Rigga has failed to see it. I am certain you will receive this before sunset, though it has journeyed far—first upon the talons of a hawk, and then again by raven. I will arrive in two days, and you may rest assured that my own efforts will not be so cordial as those of my genteel cousin. For my part, I am with you. If Rigga will not see reason, we will make our way south immediately.

Lior wishes me to inform you that Grid still lives, and that her state has not been so dire as was your own. Messengers, traveling wing and hoof are already en route to Tahlrene, and Sigmund's healers are optimistic that she will survive until the cure is at hand. I was skeptical, as you must be, that so small a child might live through the same fever that brought you so close to death, but you must remember that they know already what ails her, where Sigmund and Boers had no idea. She will live—if Lior has confidence, so must I.

The Tahlrenic healer is certain to be young Rowan, and so I will have to hope that you and I have cause to meet again before her arrival. Lior's tale of your sudden growth in height and strength is hard to credit, so I will simply have to see it for myself. If time permits, I hope to reacquaint myself with you—and thus gauge the reaction of your wayward love when first she lays eyes upon you. I look forward to seeing you, and I will take great pleasure in our next meeting.

-Brenna

There was nothing there to arouse Lambek's suspicions, and yet I had to fight against the force of my own nerves, for the content of her message had been plain enough to me, and clearly, she had not learned of Rowan's fate. Would she despair, or feel relief that my attentions were no longer divided—divided at least, between love and lust, for she could not have known, either, that my attentions at lust had since been divided, as well.

I burned the note, as had been my custom, and sent Lambek to prepare some wash water. More clothing had found Hertha's gates since my arrival, and, given the intimate nature of our dinner, and the lack of entertainment to follow, I decided that Hjarrleth garb would suit me ideally. The usual manner of dress for the Hjarrleth is a knee-length tunic over a linen shirt, form-fitting trousers and ankle-high shoes, with bindings crossed back and forth to the top of the calves.

My tunic was silk, black with golden trim, and I chose a shirt of dark yellow, deciding against the more somber match of black, though my suede trousers were dyed even darker than charcoal, as were my shoes. I tucked my hair behind my ears, and did not wait for the customary servitor to guide me—I had lived in that place long enough, that, if necessary, I could have made my way blindfolded.

Dinner was strangely quiet, though Hertha betrayed no impatience or anger in my presence. Most of the meat dishes were fowl of one sort or another, and the vegetarian dishes were primarily greens. We consumed only one variety of wine with each course, and though my time in Venibrek had passed with the sampling of many vintages, I could not place the grapes.

The beverage was rose-colored, but not made from the blending of red and white, as my favorite variety of Trathnonan wine. It was very sweet, and not at all strong even for a blend. It was not unpleasant, but the flavor was strange, the sweetness almost sickly.

I had not been given my customary broth since just before noon, and by the third course my lightness of mood had faded remarkably, the aches and pains creeping back slowly. By the seventh, a savory goose broth stew, the aches had vanished, but not the dark turn in my mood. I did not feel at all like talking, and was glad of Hertha's silence.

After dessert, which I did not touch, our vapor arrived, and she dismissed her servants. I heard the latches of every closed door snap to, and suddenly I feared that Tyra had been right. Earlier that day I had felt it a simple enough matter to yield to Hertha's tempered dissatisfaction with a reply of shame and apology—and then continue meeting her youngest daughter in secret. Now, faced with the woman herself, and at the worst possible time, my confidence began to wane. And yet, she did not seem angry.

"You must excuse the strangeness of my hospitality this evening, Friend Ralph, but delicate matters must prevail over custom."

She downed her drink, and I followed—she continued, without moving to refill either glass.

"You are not at fault, and that I must stress before all else. Is it true that you have been—at play with Hilde?"

I nodded, but said nothing. I refused to appear ashamed, and so I met her gaze. I knew full well that there was no crime in laying with a freeborn Hjarrleth woman, so long as she consents and has no husband. And then she gave me cause for shame.

"And is it also true that you and Tyra have been meeting under similar circumstances?"

Again, I nodded, but said nothing. I must admit, I suddenly felt very small.

"Though it is not, in the strictest sense, forbidden to lay with two members of the same family, it is a most unusual occurrence. In fact, I have never heard of such a thing—outside of bawdy tale and limerick. Most men do not have the stamina, let alone the physical prowess, to keep regular company with two women, particularly when both are clandestine affairs. Youth is often a disadvantage in maintaining discretion, as well."

I blushed, almost squirming in my seat—what else could I do? But she had not finished.

"Of course, if I were to hazard a guess, I would say that such behavior is far from your custom. Customarily, you are chaste, almost to a fault. In fact, your behavior was just so during your last visit. As you may recall, we spoke on that very topic. At the time, you were in love."

"I was—and I am not so quick to change. Truly, I cannot understand what has happened. You are correct, of course, Friend Hertha. This is not my way. I am sorry. I have nothing to say in my defense. I have sham-"

"Hold, Ralph! Do not mistake curiosity for something more. You have done nothing wrong. It is the way of the Hjarrleth to express themselves in youth however they may choose, and you knew full well that both of my daughters were unattached. This is not an inquisition, and I am not passing judgment. Rather, I wish only to understand this sudden change, for my own brother suffered a similar transformation.

"Forset was deeply in love, and his woman—I cannot even speak her name without weeping—died of fever in his arms. They were not betrothed, for they were both too young, but he fell into despair, and did not even think of marriage thereafter. Instead, he took to gambling, drank himself nearly to death on several occasions, and took comfort in every woman that showed the slightest interest."

She stopped to refill our glasses, and when she returned to her seat, she sniffed at her vapor, apparently forgetting her tale.

"And what happened to Forset?"

She shook her head, as if reminded of some troublesome chore.

"He journeyed with my husband to the lost cities of the Kenalka. In his journal, Forset was named as one of the first to fall. They were en route, and fell into a corsair's trap. The others steered their ships away, and they had little to fear, for our vessels are swifter than all but those of Viharth—though ours are far more maneuverable. It was not so with Forset. There were thirty hired swords in his boat crew, and he steered his ship directly for the lead craft.

"The sky was gray, the clouds high, and the air below was clear, a condition lending perfect visibility upon the water. My husband saw each and every member of Forset's crew fall to arrow or blade, and though they slew fully three times their number, they died needlessly. Forset wanted to die, and he seized the first opportunity that presented itself. He waited more than a decade, and yet his pain had not diminished—he sacrificed the lives of thirty men—all of whom he had known from childhood—to end his own suffering."

Again, I had nothing to say. I had felt no despair in my passions, though I was not about to tell Hertha that my ravishing of her daughters had been for naught but enjoyment. I had thought her tale at its end, but she had only paused to collect herself.

"When I think of him, I remember only the gaiety that he showed everyone around him. He danced, drank, gambled, and swived his way through life, though never was he gloomy or unkind, and by day he was as well-mannered as the highest-born Trathnonan. He said nothing of his nightly activities, and we learned of his reputation only after his death. Such pain is hard to bear.

"You loved her—I could hear the music in your voice and the beating of your heart at every mention of her name. And now, after only three days of mourning, it seems that you have started on Forset's troubled path."

With every word that passed from her mouth to my ears, my mood fell lower. At every mention of Rowan, I felt the stone of my heart crack, along with a pressure at the back of my throat, as behind my nose and cheekbones. When Hertha spoke that name, I felt a familiar heat behind my eyes—though only for a moment. Her face bore the grief of a mourner, a sort of grief no one had ever shown for my father, and even my mother had kept her sadness well-hidden. Hertha was near to weeping, but she held it back as well as I. I wanted to weep with her, but I did not. She took a deep, ragged breath, and continued.

"You must live on, Ralph, not because you are needed by all who dwell upon Foundation, but because you have succeeded time and again for the greatest purpose imaginable. You may argue, if you like, that your fight with the madmen of Eagle's Clearing, victory against the assassins, and success in your first real battle were worked for other purposes, and I will not contest the opinion. But your journeys in the Vithrauth—the Kromjan, Skiro, Nidhag, and even your triumph at crushing Karonadus himself—all of those deeds you worked for Rowan.

"Whether you were making your way south to Tahlrene by advancing to Sangholm's Approving, or meting out justice in the hope of gaining the approval of your love, you acted on her behalf, alone. The toppling of the Pine Benders was no part of your first journey, at least not after slaying those first few in your own defense, and yet you continued on, for you knew that Rowan would not wish you to continue without ending the suffering of those in need.

"And what of Grid? After the Harlta was slain, you went in search of his sacrifice, and though you claim to be helpless before the sight of a weeping girl, you could not have known the nature of the Harlta's offering.

"You worked those miracles because you heard the sound of her voice in your heart—you did those things for her!

"You have shown a love that has not existed even in works of fiction. On the road to Algrae, she was simply the object of your affection. When you parted, you knew that you loved her, then cursed yourself for failing to tell her so. From that moment on, she has been your cause, and everything you have done, you have treated as nothing more than a single step taken in the direction of her father's house. Men have fought for conquest, wealth, excitement, and vengeance—you have been fighting for love.

"—And now she is gone. Your heart could not bear the pain, and so you turned to pleasure. If you wish to continue with my daughters, I will not object, and you may continue with the pretense of secrecy. However, before you leave this hall tonight, I will hear the truth from your own voice. Speak her name, and tell me that you loved her—or tell me that you did not—but I must hear it."

I fell lower and lower throughout her worried rant, and by the time she had finished, I was not so sure that I could speak without weeping. By late afternoon, I had still felt wonderful—and now, just as Hertha had said, I could not bear the pain. Even the vapor tasted strange, sharp sour following sickly sweet, though my hostess had not noticed it, and she had poured for both of us from the same bottle. I took several slow, deep breaths, and Hertha waited, her eyes fixed upon me.

"Rowan. I loved-"

I got no further, and broke into sobs instantly. Hertha was on her feet, even before the first tear fell, and she pressed my face to her chest, stroking my hair lovingly. She said not a word, and I was glad, for I could not bear another push. The tears rolled, and I did nothing to halt the flow. She handed me a handkerchief, before resuming her position. My sobs lessened in time, and I wiped away my tears, but did not quit her embrace.

Finally, I turned my head upward to speak, but as I inhaled, the scent of her perfume filled my nostrils. It burned at first, with great intensity, then, as the pain lessened I felt a stirring I did not expect. I became conscious of the softness of her bosom, even larger than Tyra's. Soft yet firm. What was happening? Suddenly, nothing mattered but the body of the woman above. I shook my head to clear it, and Hertha must have felt it, because she stood away, allowing me to rise.

At first, her face bore nothing but the kind reassurance that I had craved, but it fell away at once, transformed into worry.

"Your eyes—are you alright, Ralph?"

She was standing very close, and again, I could smell that fiery scent. And then, without warning, I lost control. With one hand at the small of her back, and the other gripping firmly at the nape of her neck, I pulled her to me and kissed her deeply. She fought, at first, moving her mouth to voice a word of protest, but with the proof of my arousal pressed against her, her protests melted. She pushed me away, long after any real resistance had vanished.

"We should not do this. This is proof of my words. This is wrong."

I gripped her nape tighter, and forced her face upward until her eyes met mine.

"When has it ever been wrong for a freeborn, unattached Hjarrleth woman to lay with whomever she wishes?"

I punctuated my words with the sudden movement of my hand, and she gasped and shuddered with such intensity that her knees nearly buckled. She had not been with a man since before Tyra's birth, and the anticipation was such that token protest would not suffice to steel her against my advances. She wanted me. Any man would have served, I suppose, but the widow of a chieftain must lay with a chieftain, or a man of similar status. Just as with Brenna, I was the exception to the rule.

With every breath the heat of that perfume stoked a fire in my blood.

She had not said anything, and so again I raised her eyes to mine. I would not take her against her will, even in the heat of a passion I did not understand. I mouthed a silent query, and with a look of meek acceptance she nodded. I grasped her bosom in my hands, then released and held them against me as I pressed her body to mine. Breath by breath my passion increased in intensity, until at last I could hold out no longer.

I led her back to the table, gripping her mercilessly by the neck, and with a firm push bent her down upon it. Gasping, incapable of controlling my lust, I lifted the hem of her gown, exposing her from behind. With one hand at work in such a way that she was not without diversion, I unbuckled my trousers, then released them to fall upon the floor.

As I raised my tunic, I remember only fleeting thoughts—Were the servants listening at the door? What would Tyra or Hilde do if they learned of this? Such misgivings were nothing against the fire I felt at that moment. I fitted myself to her, and without the casual pleasure-seeking or careful gentleness I had practiced with her daughters, I thrust myself roughly inside her, feeling her warmth, and the perfect looseness of her body.

Long had she been without a man, and long without childbirth, but the permanent effects had also left her without the fragile tautness I had experienced with her daughters. Brenna had been no child, though I had been little more, and even she and I had fitted together in a snug and dangerously pleasurable manner. Such dalliances begged caution—something held back against an untimely finish, but it was not so with Hertha. It was a comfortable fit, flexing against the pressure of entry, and I had no need of gentleness.

And even if gentleness had been required, I was not myself. My thrusts were powerful, fast and steady, owing to the strength endowed by Skiro. Her responses were appreciable, and she bit against the table cloth, trying unsuccessfully to muffle the sounds of her appreciation. I placed my hands roughly on her shoulders, gripping tightly, and worked myself deep within, thrusting against her with a force that might have given me cause to worry, had I not been so far from any concern but my own immediate need for pleasure. For her part, Hertha did not seem to mind. Close to finishing, I tore at the laces of her bodice, and with her bare back exposed I fell on top of her, kissing and biting, raking my teeth across the soft brown flesh of her back and shoulders, even as I lunged against her.

Finally, I collapsed, panting heavily, and in that brief interval—not more than a quarter-hour—I had felt her finish three times, the third with such an intensity that the scalding grip of her body rivaled that of either of her daughters. Nor did I fear to couple without caution, for Tyra had favored me with the root of graythorn bramble, which I had chewed several times daily since the first of our passionate meetings.

For a moment I felt ashamed, even disgusted by my actions, but as she began to turn, to speak or rise I could not tell, I caught the scent of her perfume once again. The return of my arousal was immediate, and my organ rose fully within three breaths. This time, I did not wait for her approval. She gasped, a delighted little squeal, and once again I was a man possessed, not in control of my actions, for I acted entirely without thought. Again and again, my youthful stamina drove me to continue, shocking her with the power of unending repetition, and the size and strength she could not have expected of one so young as I.

### Chapter Thirteen

### My Savior of Ashad
Hertha left without a word, unable to meet my gaze, and in the two weeks that followed she mentioned nothing more of that encounter. I continued seeing both of her eager daughters, and could find no fault in my actions, for by the laws of their own culture I had done nothing wrong. They were willing and beautiful, no different than any of their kind, and subject to the same needs as all women. They saw in me nothing more than enjoyment, and knew as well as I that when the time came we would part ways, for they would yet make fine wives.

And with the graythorn bramble root provided by Tyra, I had no fear of fathering children.

In the days that passed, I learned that passion could exist truly separate from affection. Though I had developed a great fondness for Tyra, I did not feel at all strongly about Hilde, and even my feelings for the younger sister were little more than friendly; their feelings for me were no different.

Both continued to treat me as a plaything, something they might enjoy for a time, but without any illusions of a prolonged diversion—Brenna had not been so detached. She and I had grown very close, in what had become one of the most complicated relationships of my life, though whether friend or lover, I could never guess.

By contrast, Hertha behaved as if nothing had happened at all, and in fact our association had grown far more comfortable.

When a herald arrived with the announcement that I would be expected in Hroaht the following afternoon, my hostess grew apprehensive, and the next morning, after I had enjoyed a splendid breakfast and bade a public farewell to her daughters, she dismissed them and offered me a unique gift. Without ceremony, she tossed me a silk bag, bulky yet light, and I opened it to find that it had been filled with a more solid version of the confections Skiro's cook had prepared, from the paste of ground almonds and honey.

"By now, Friend Ralph, you may have realized that my broth is more than a ward against hunger. In fact, it was laced with additives more—deliberate in the nourishment of body and mind. After delivering that horrid news, I feared that you would go the way of my brother, or perhaps harm yourself in the depths of your despair. You may have noticed a marked lightness of mood-"

"Now that you mention it, Friend Hertha, I have not felt sad at all, nor have I felt overmuch suspicion or curiosity regarding the source of my relief, though I am glad to know that I have not lost my mind. My thanks for your concern, and for your efforts on my behalf."

"I need no thanks, and will accept none."

She stepped forward, gently pressing her hands to my cheeks, then kissed me softly.

"You have given me what I had thought lost, and for that, I have cause to thank you."

I did not know what to say to that, and after she had all but denied the occurrence, I had thought the matter closed. She must have seen the confusion in my eyes.

"Do not be troubled. I do not fear losing what I never truly possessed. It was a fine, passionate evening, and I will cherish the memory always. And now, I feel I must apologize. The additive to your broth is a medicine that does not lend itself to abrupt deprivation. If you stop now, you will feel after-effects greater than any night of unchecked drinking, paired with the ills of a rampant flux, and a violently changeable mood—but I have prepared an alternative. Each of these morsels contains the near equal of the medicine contained in an entire beaker of treated broth. Eat one at dawn, another at noon, and a last one before bed. Within the week, begin tearing them, consuming half the dose with equal frequency."

She explained how I would need to stagger the medicinal effects, weaning myself off gradually, and far from feeling burdened by its continued use, and the fear of what might befall me should I fail to consume it in a timely manner, I felt grateful that the effects would continue, at least for a time. Remembering the despair I had felt before, fasting those three days in total misery, I had no wish to return to sorrow, and no desire to think those dark thoughts until my business in Sangholm had ended.

Outside, I saw that Edam had been fitted with his armor. Lambek and Maekara were already seated in their wagon, and I mounted and led them away. At the gate, I beheld a welcome sight, paired with one alien and totally unexpected. Brenna sat astride her mount, robed but unarmored, and bearing her great silver-clad bow of ribbed iron. Two dozen of her women were ranked behind, with twelve Men of Brek, all harnessed as for war.

To the left of the High Priestess, two strangely dressed men stood in a chariot of unusual construction. The vehicle, as I later learned, was formed from dried lengths of a very strong mountain reed, woven together in the manner of a basket, then covered inside and out with ox hide. The wheels were flattened ribbons of iron, half a thumb's length in width. There were no reins, and though the horses were yoked, they wore no bridles of any kind. All I could see at the upper frame as evidence of instrumentation was a row of four tall iron bells. The mounts were small and sturdy, but with longer legs than would normally be expected of mountain ponies.

And the men were no less strange in appearance; they seemed wholly out of place in the company of so warlike a party. They wore no armor, and clothed themselves in long-sleeved tunics and trousers of black silk. Only the contents of their harness served as evidence that they could fight at all. The blades were familiar, and I would have known the hilt of a Centrist long sword anywhere, but the weapons they wore were smaller, more compact in construction, and undeniably finer in make. At the other side of their belts, the ends of strange bent clubs protruded from thick sheaths.

The man behind the row of iron bells was ruddy in complexion, or perhaps he was not suited to the light of the western sun. His eyes were dark and slanted, his hair black, with tips and streaks of red. His companion was nearly identical in frame, height, and facial features, but his hair was yellow blond, his eyes blue, and his skin had been slightly bronzed by the summer light. I laughed when I thought of them as an all-male version of Lior and Brenna, for so they appeared, their identical clothing and equipment notwithstanding. They were not overtall, but taller still than the Nalban freighters I had seen in my mother's tavern. And these could not have been Nalbans. Their clothing and appearance betrayed them as Viharthians, but what they were doing so far west, I could not guess.

Brenna whistled to her mount, and the mare leapt to meet me. She did not hide her smile, but maintained full composure, though her eyes did not fail to register total surprise at the changes I had undergone during our months of separation. I smiled in kind, then stood in my saddle and shouted a greeting to her Trathnonan escort. They cheered in response, and I fell again to my seat, just as our mounts drew to a halt. I could hear the uncharacteristic sunshine in her voice, and knew that she only spoke with such exuberance with her own people out of earshot—Lambek and Maekara were well on their way to Sigmund's villa.

"You have grown in name and stature in my absence. A boy left me, where here I see a man. Though I suppose it would take a man to slay towering giants, foul sorcerers, and dragons-"

"You left out the Pine Benders and giant boar, though I suppose my legend would have been inflated sufficiently without them. And it wasn't a dragon—only a lizard, grown large on feasts of human flesh."

She laughed softly, and I saw her blush and stare into her saddle. She seemed almost shy. And then she looked up, and when I saw that familiar glint in her eyes, I knew it was only a game.

"Impressive. Not only have you improved your skill as a warrior, but you have learned the art of political maneuvering, as well—bespeaking humility and hubris in a single breath. Well done."

"And on the subject of politics, Your Eminence, I find I have ample cause to commend you. It seems that your time in goading politicians has been most successful. Not only have you convinced the Council to double the size of your army, but you have persuaded the Viharthians to send their army, as well. Generous of them, to send both of their warriors."

She grew serious at once, responding in a hushed and sober tone.

"Do not offend them. They did not have to travel here, and I would know their purpose before they take their leave."

"Do you not know their purpose?"

"They were waiting at Sigmund's villa when I arrived, and told me that their errand was to seek you out, though they did not mention the goal of such a meeting."

"They are Viharthians, are they not? Perhaps they are here to complain that the Centrists have burned their stockpile of vapor, or loosed a flock of sparrows among their prized silkworms. What could their luxurious Banner want with me? Viharth does not breed warriors."

"No more does Meadrow, Ralph, at least to the minds of those who have heard of it. Your people are known only for farming and brewing, and yet here you sit. Do not discount them so easily."

That sobered me, and I felt mildly ashamed. My thoughts had not been so prejudicial in dealing with Vahei, and his Banner had enslaved many others throughout its early history. They had been responsible for the Kurume Yanik that nearly killed me, and yet I had not failed to give those horsemen the benefit of the doubt. But the Nalbans were not wealthy, at least in coin, whereas the Banner of Viharth had been exceedingly wealthy for thousands of years. None starve there, and they live in comfort, far in the Hirav mountains to the east, on the shores of cold Urvileth.

They could not be attacked from land or sea, and the Kenalka had gifted them with bridges to span the divides between their mountaintop villages. They exported their costly wine vapor, silks, tapestries, and carpets, but also profited from the sale of heady spices and fragrant oils from unreachable continents far to the east beyond the ocean. Many other luxuries were available there in plenty, so that even the lowest among them lived a far grander life than the bravest Guardsman in Meadrow.

And there it was—simple jealousy. I had lived without, eking out a meager existence throughout my childhood, where none of them had ever known hunger. And yet, I could no more blame them for my misfortunes than I could blame my father for dying. I shook off my prejudice like a shroud, and motioned to Brenna that we should move to meet them.

They bowed cordially when Brenna indicated that I was the man they sought. The dark-headed one spoke for both of them.

"I am Jakhan, and this is Linaj, my brother. We are come from Viharth on an errand for our Phulakoi. When time permits, we would speak with you on a matter of some import."

"Is not a Phulako an ambassador? Why do you speak for those who are meant to speak for themselves?"

They shared a knowing smile, and Jakhan answered in cordial tones.

"Forgive me, but perhaps you are unaware—our Phulakoi have only just reached their ninth year. The road is too dangerous for them, and our means of travel is new and not yet trusted by most."

"New to Viharth, perhaps, but the chariot is known well to most Banners."

At that, they seemed to take a fair amount of amusement.

"Pardon me, but we will explain all in time. For now, we would ask only to travel with you until you have the time to meet with us; it seems that we have arrived at an inconvenient moment."

"Yes, I am afraid that you have. The Matriarch will expect me to arrive promptly, and though we will make exceedingly good time if we leave now, I cannot think that the hour I could spare would suit your needs. You have traveled far, and that, at least, has earned you the right to speak your peace."

"My thanks. We will wait, and ride behind Her Eminence's escort. We will meet when you are ready."

With that, Linaj began tapping on one of the four iron bells with a tiny mallet of iron. The horses responded to the signals as promptly as if he had raked them with long spurs, though they responded without pain or shock. Upon my word, they were the most tractable animals I had ever seen, and in response to his tapping of the bells, they turned away down the road, then again, to form up behind our position.

Brenna's escort displayed their storied discipline, riding in two formations of twelve women in four columns of three each, before and behind Brenna and myself; at vanguard and rearguard six Men of Brek rode with equal precision. We did not speak, and took a more direct route than Lior had chosen previously. At a grove of trees in the bosom of a little valley we stopped, and there two Ashad scouts and a pair of Brek warriors awaited our arrival, Ulsa and Loswol among them. Brenna and I rode to meet them, leaving our escort at the road. She was terse, and her words were for Ulsa.

"Is all prepared?"

"Yes, Your Eminence. Fifty paces into the treeline."

"Very well. One hour's rest, then all should be back in formation. See that we are not disturbed, and keep our new guests well away. What I have to say is for the Onidai's ears, alone."

We rode into that manicured patch of forest, and suddenly my mood sank. What could she have to tell me that her own women could not be trusted to hear?

Moments later, our horses stopped in front of my tent, erected under the high, close-set canopy of healthily pruned oaks. There was little enough space to ride between the trees, and though the stand had been burned free of underbrush, and the lowest branches were yet three body lengths above my head, I felt that we had won to a thoroughly private venue—apparently, Brenna did not. We dismounted together, and without a word she signaled to a well-filled manger and matching trough. Both horses made for their meal eagerly, and Brenna opened the flap of my tent and stalked inside.

Within, the room had been lit with candle and oil lamp, though the shade of the trees above had been sufficient to cool the ground below, that it was not at all stuffy. Brenna slapped her bow on a table to the left of the entryway, then unslung her quiver. She spoke as she removed her harness, tossing broad knife and curved sword casually aside.

"I needed a place far removed from prying ears; I have urgent matters that must be brought to your attention."

She threw off her robe, and I saw that though she had worn trousers throughout the day, she wore neither shirt nor tunic. Her stride across the floor was hurried, not in the least seductive, but urgent, just as she had said. She pulled me to her, and we renewed our friendship. I had grown the stronger, and I bore her down upon the thick burgundy carpet, pinioning her arms above her head. Our coupling was brief but thorough, and many times she had to bite down upon my shoulder to muffle her pleasured groans—she did so with no more gentleness than Hilde, for I had grown larger—and more practiced in her absence.

* * *

The half-hour passed in fevered heartbeats, and at length Brenna washed herself hurriedly, taking care to keep her hair dry, then pushed me beneath the torrent spout. I did not need it, but she insisted that I wash while she threw on her armor. I dried with a thick towel, and allowed Brenna to dress me in a new arming jack, on which the fabric was lighter, and the patches of mail scant and far smaller. And then I learned why.

Lior had kept my father's helmet, knowing that I could not bear to part with it, as well as my Meadrow shield, though on the former he had replaced the leather lining to accommodate my head's very slight growth. The rest of my armor had been modified, though it was essentially of the same construction.

The studded straps that protected my thighs had vanished, as had those that hung from my pauldrons. Now my thighs and upper arms would be protected by plates of iron, covered in gilded bronze, and shaped to fit perfectly over my limbs. So too were my knees and elbows protected, that the whole array bore the appearance of a bronze-covered version of Sigmund's own Ironskin.

Every space on that gleaming brazen plating had been etched in the decorative patterns of either Sangholm or Tahlrene, suggesting Rorik's shared lineage, that the resulting suit looked far too beautiful to risk its ruin in combat.

After girding on Sheathed Sequiduris and donning my father's helmet, Brenna clasped on my white cape and adjusted it to hang evenly. She handed me my shield, and hefting it, I realized that it was no longer unmanageable.

The fitting completed, I looked around the room, searching in vain for a mirror.

"How do I look?"

She smiled as she slung her quiver and retrieved her bow.

"Like Rorik's very image. When Rigga sees you, she will regret forcing you to wait."

We exited the tent, and suddenly I remembered the summer heat.

"How far to Hroaht?"

"Harkona is less than a mile from here, Hroaht less than half a mile within, and by now you should know full well. We will be there in much less than half an hour—faster if we gallop through Harkona like the impatient envoy we have become-"

I laughed wholeheartedly as she helped me mount, and spoke as I watched her leap deftly into her own saddle against the lighter weight of her mail.

"Let's do that. We'll keep a steady pace until we reach the city, and then charge through. They'll never expect it, and when they see us bow and curtsy sweetly, we'll catch them even more off-balance."

"Curtsy? I intend to goad, insult, probe, and bark, until she accepts the inevitability of your Approving—or orders our deaths, outright."

I was glad to have her with me.

We rode out of the clearing in full armor, and I learned the truth of Brenna's assessment, for the men, without prompting, began cheering at the top of their lungs with wide eyes and red faces. The women joined them, and this time I took my rightful place at the head of their formation, with Brenna by my side. I couldn't help but smile openly, for finally, I felt I looked the part. My confidence rose with each heartbeat.

We galloped through the streets, just as Brenna had suggested, and the shock of the locals was well worth it, with not a speck of dust on the stone road to punish our audacity. At the long rise of switchbacks, Brenna's escort did not hesitate to follow, lending credence to her suggestion that our visit might end in bloodshed.

We marched into that great hall with an honor guard of three men and three women, and I did so with a straight back, taking great satisfaction in the realization that I had grown taller than all the men of Rigga's personal guard. I nodded to Hertha, who had resumed her usual seat, and her eyes went wide at the sight of my new armor.

The Matriarch was paler than I had ever seen her. Her face betrayed the weight of worry that belonged to a woman many years her senior.

But her words were not so strained as her appearance.

"You make a proud entrance, Master Onidai. You appear at once taller and bolder than before—perhaps it is the influence of Venibrek's more masculine Phulako."

None laughed. A hush fell over all assembled, and I took half a step forward, with a tinge of red at the edges of my vision. She had insulted Lior and Brenna in a single breath, and if not for Her Eminence's timely response, that meeting might have ended in ruin.

"You are looking ill, Rigga, but then, skulking beneath damp bridges and chasing frightened children—such things are for the young, no?"

She grew inexplicably paler, but Brenna did not give her time to recover.

"I can understand your reference to my manly appearance—the product of a cultural misunderstanding, I'm afraid. You see, beneath my Banner, we do not hesitate to go to war, when it is needed. The men and women fight together, and though we do not have your numbers, we are endeavoring at this very moment to double our complement within the year. Even the Onidai's Banner, gentle Meadrow, has gone to work at forge and drilling field alike, while proud Sangholm, the land of Rorik's own father, pretends skepticism, as a mask for their inability to join the rest in battle.

"And what other reason could there be? Your songs are of war, your entire culture once worshiped war—your men strut about in priceless armor as if war has traveled to your very doorstep, and still you will not fight.

"The Onidai has accomplished the impossible five times—slaying mythic creatures, giants, evil mystics, and madmen by the dozen—he has redeemed the evils visited on your own forsaken people by joining the descendants of the wrongfully banished together against the tyranny of a man your predecessor failed to kill—AND STILL, you refuse to join in the fight. The man beside me has done more for your Banner than any ten Matriarchs! You dare to waste his time, to lay about in indecision while our enemies grow in strength and boldness? When will you see that there is no time? We cannot waste one more day, Wise Mother! Not one!"

She stopped, and returned to my side, for she had taken half a step at every angered turn in her tirade. The gathering remained silent—none jumped to Rigga's defense. Nor did they support Brenna, for such an act might have been considered treason; Rigga must have noticed the lack of support. For a time, she said nothing. At length, she continued, and tried to assume a tone of bored disinterest.

"We will accede that the Claimant has done well by his first trial, and has, in his time in the Vithrauth, accomplished more than might have been expected of the heroes of Hjarrleth legend—aside from Rorik himself. However, Sangholm is a Banner governed by law, not sentiment—where sentiment is free to invade the hearts of the weak-willed and absent-minded, laws are more difficult to maintain—for Ours to survive as a just society, Our laws must be upheld. The Claimant, Ralph Hughsson, owes three trials to the Hjarrleth, and until they are completed, he will not be permitted to lead us in battle. He may accept Our ruling, or leave without further consideration—that is Our decision."

I looked to Brenna, and she wagged her head in a resolute negative. Hertha was more proactive. She had leapt to her feet while my eyes had been fixed on the High Priestess, and I turned sharply at the sound of her voice.

"Wise Mother, can we not reach some middle ground? Perhaps he might return after more expedient Provings, at some later date, or he might even be convinced to wait a while and consider his position before leaving. Is there no other way? Must the Claimant be so roughly handled?"

Rigga was not of a mind to hear from her rival at that moment, though I know not why—from all accounts Hertha had been discouraging the praise and urgings of half of the court, refusing outright the proposal that she should assume the ruling seat. Nonetheless, Rigga seemed to despise the very sound of Hertha's voice. Her eyes widened, and she leapt from her chair in outrage, stripping the golden helm from her head and tossing it to the ground at Hertha's feet.

"If you wish to take my helm, you may have it. It is no more than gold, though poured from the molten collars and crowns of the kings defeated by our brave ancestors."

She then hefted her strange sceptre, and threw that, as well.

"From the spine of the mighty Fen-wolf himself did Vodn, greatest of our kingly forefathers, cut the segments of that wand, using the broken shaft of his spear to mount them—but Ulfgandr is only a bit of wood and ancient bone. Take it, if it pleases you."

Finally, she removed the scaly belt, exceedingly thick and wide from about her waist, and hurled it to the ground.

"Tor the Smith slew the Jurmand with his own hammer, tied to a length of rope. It had ravaged our ships on the First Crossing for nine days and nights, and with one mighty throw the Ironweaver killed the creature, saving our people from certain destruction. That belt was all the hide he could cut before the creature sank into the depths forever, but it is nothing more than a bit of scaly flesh."

She took three deep breaths, then pointed to her throne.

"But that is mine by right of law! It fell from the sky as celestial Vodn's sign that this was to be our land! It was nothing more than a rock, but the heat and force of its landing burned off the peat of a great bog, exposing bog iron to our eyes for the first time. It was Tor's own grandson who learned the making of white iron from the filth of the swamps, and when Vodn's will became known, that rock became my throne—the throne of all who rule this land!

"Carved by Angvith himself, greatest of our kings upon Foundation, and from King to Matriarch none have ruled without sitting upon the surface of that stone. This hall was built upon the place of its landing, and from the time of Drotning, none have claimed that holy seat without the vote of the people—all people, Hertha! All! From lowest serf to highest noble! Whether or not you want my seat, I know that many in this hall wish for you to have it. There are fewer than two hundred here, where hundreds of thousands dwell within view of Hroaht alone—and ten times as many in the fields, mountains, and valleys beyond. This is a wide land, and two in three of those who dwell herein must vote on your behalf—and only when I am dead, for never has a Matriarch abandoned her seat while the blood still flows in her veins.

"Take the symbols of my office, if you wish, Hjarrgoth Matron, but do not think you may do so without a weapon in your hand. This seat is mine by right, and none but I shall sit upon it while I live!"

There was a shout of approval from most in attendance, and Hertha had set about gathering the symbols of office before Rigga had come close to finishing. She laid them at the Wise Mother's feet, and though I did not hear her words, which had not been said for public benefit, I learned them later, from one who sat nearer.

"Never have I wished your seat, and never would I endeavor to take it. My house is dead, even while I live on to watch it crumble. I do not wish the responsibility of ruling so many, when I cannot even keep the men of my own clan from falling into death. Never have I been the enemy of your house, and never will I be the enemy of your rule. Those who think they speak on my behalf do not, and those who would raise arms against you have never been friends of mine. I will bend to your judgment, as always, and hope that the Claimant will be willing to abide by your wise rule."

She returned to her seat without another word. The Matriarch seemed to grow taller over the course of that exchange, and I watched as she returned the belt to her waist, the winged helmet to her head, and took up the sceptre in her right hand. She pointed to me with that grisly wand, and spoke as she resumed her seat.

"You have Our judgment, but also Our thanks, for this meeting has taught Us that friends still linger in Hroaht—cooler heads that may offer wise counsel, even when least expected. Hertha is correct in her assessment. While Our judgment will not change, neither will We abandon hope that you will return to complete the balance of your trials before the war begins in earnest. We would much prefer to face the coming days among allies, and to that end We will not hinder your return. Rather, We will encourage it, for We will be granted the time needed to think on the nature of your remaining trials, so that We might extend both challenges at once—though We fear that little remains in the Vithrauth for you to kill!"

The men laughed at this, and their cheers voiced a renewed enthusiasm, one that I had seen before only in argument at the time of my first visit. I looked to Brenna, but she had clearly been outwitted by Rigga's emotional display. With the people on her side, we could not press her without hazarding death for our trouble. I made a leg, and Brenna curtsied respectfully as I gave my answer.

"Truly, I must admit that the matter of your Proving has left me with much to think on, though I feel I must do so in transit, for Her Eminence was not mistaken in her belief that haste must rule in favor of patience. If time is needed, I will simply move on. When the less time-consuming matters of Approval in Tahlrene, Meadrow, Viharth, Nalbanilek, and Tulakal have been settled, I will return—or perhaps sooner, as I find your army may be of slightly greater assistance than that of my own Banner."

They chuckled heartily, and I was not insulted in the least, nor was I greatly frustrated by my failure to bring Sangholm into the fold. It was early yet, though in spite of my gain in strength and stature, I had wasted much time. And then I remembered Sturla and the others, who still awaited freedom in the Vithrauth.

"Wise Mother, have you given thought to the plight of the Innocents still languishing in the forest? They were planning to travel to the northern gate together, and whether refusal or acceptance had been chosen as their lot, I told them to expect some manner of envoy by summer's end."

She nodded slowly, appearing to consider my words with care.

"How many await Our answer?"

"I cannot be certain, Wise Mother, but they were able to scrape together a thousand stone spears in their fight against the Drejrugr. Their numbers must be at least seven or eight times that, and probably more."

She let that sit for a time, and managed to answer without answering.

"Very well, We will speak to Our chieftains, and search for a suitable plot of land. If such can be found in the short time allotted, We will send Our own herald, under heavy escort, to deliver Our answer."

She had not said yes, but neither had she denied the request—this, I would learn, is the way of many who occupy positions of power. I bowed again.

"In that case, I will be on my way, secure in the knowledge that innocent people will not be forgotten by so just and wise a ruler. My thanks for your time, and I will pray fervently—to my own meager, nameless gods—that time enough still remains to return before the war finds us all. Farewell."

I nodded to Hertha, and by then she had recovered sufficiently to offer an answering smile. I took three steps back, turned, threw on my helmet, and marched out alongside Brenna, listening to the rattling of mail behind me as our escort of six followed closely in lockstep.

As I neared the end of the hall, I noticed that though my title had been rejected, the Matriarch had not failed to accept my tokens.

Centered above the high doors, among many lesser trophies, I saw the cudgel-crutch of Karonadus, the tusks of the Kromjan, the bleached skull of Nidhag, the broken spine and deeply notched blade of Kaerkjan, and a mesh sack of bronze chain-links, containing the twisted, broken pieces of Skiro's evil staff. Beside the brazen sack hung a curled horn of copper, sealed tightly with a hinged lid—an urn to house the Conjurer's ashes.

I smiled in spite of myself, content that my deeds had met with Sangholm's approval—if not their Matriarch's Approval.

* * *

We did not wait for the Matriarch to change her mind, but made our way to Sigmund's estate in haste. It was not so close as the Hjarrgoth villa, and night had already fallen when we arrived. It was a fortress, but far more, and built to even greater proportions than Hertha's villa. The entire perimeter of Sigmund's estate was encircled with a wall stone and concrete; it was twice the height of a man, half that in thickness, and fronted by a deep, stone-lined trench.

Much like Hertha's estate, the Olinbrand villa was filled with activity, and though he had more mouths to feed, his forefathers had laid out his home to produce a surplus, even within the wall.

Where the Hjarrgoths had spread their tiny villages to the far corners of their estate, the Olinbrands had built the dwellings of their laborers in a single space, the buildings rising even higher than the treetops. Nine limestone stories loomed high at the southeastern quadrant, where all laborers and artisans lived together with their families in great comfort, with every need thoroughly attended.

The workshops, mills, and storehouses were located across the way in the southwestern quadrant, and three straight thoroughfares of cobbled concrete intersected the main road, so that tradesmen might travel together in wagons by morning, the road and conveyances ensuring a quick return by evening.

North of Olinbrand Hall, all land was for farming, and even I, a native of Meadrow, could not help but whistle in appreciation as we rounded the northern perimeter of the main building. Here was a family given to cunning thought in the service of honest pursuits, for they had planned the laying of their cropland with care. Livestock filled the eastern third of that space, with a sturdy gate set into the wall within the bounds of their pens, that they might be released into the fields for grazing by day.

Between the pens and the arable soil, and at the other side to the west abutting the wall, there were evenly spaced trees, placed so that they could absorb a maximum of sunlight without hampering the tilling of the fields. By the light of the waning moon I saw the reflection of water between the long thin rows, and even between the high stalks of wheat so nearly ready for reaping. Irrigation aided them, just as in Meadrow and beyond Venibrek, and I could just make out the long narrow hedge of vineyards beyond, proof that the people there were given ample reason to love their Olinbrand masters beyond the provision of safety and shelter, alone.

Sigmund was there, in a simple linen shirt and trousers, without armor or sword, waiting with only a few men and women, and I recognized Vadir among them, though he had not relinquished his sword. When I halted, I followed Brenna on the dismount, and without waiting for my leave Edam raced around the eastern bend, following Her Eminence's shadowy mare.

I had only just turned to watch my horse abandon me, but before I could look back, my feet left the ground, and I did not have to guess, for Sigmund had never failed to greet me in that very manner. There I floated, armor and all, and yet he held me without seeming to notice the weight, let alone strain against it. When he released me, he took a step back, and with Hod at his side he offered me the first display of his language of gestures that had not been accompanied by the rattling of mail or plate.

"I bid you welcome, with the hope that you bear good tidings from Hroaht, and would know what strange fruit in the Vithrauth you have consumed to grow to such a height in the space of only a few months—I have cattle that might greatly benefit from such a meal."

I laughed in the joy of the moment, for truly, I had missed the man. His strength and quiet intelligence were a rarity among men, and his gentle nature rivaled that of even stout L'mah—outside of battle, of course.

"Perhaps, brave chieftain, you should feed them from your own table, for even my sudden growth has not ended the need to look up at you in conversation."

His silent laugh was honest, the smile in his eyes genuine, and he threw his arm around my shoulder, turning me so that I might walk with him. He exchanged a few words of greeting with Brenna, invited the Initiates to stable their mounts, and then signed for my benefit, indicating Vadir as he did so. The others had made their way inside at Sigmund's behest, with his promise that introductions would soon follow. That did not seem to be consistent with the conventions of Hjarrleth hospitality, but I took it in stride, knowing that Sigmund could not possibly have meant me any offense. Hod spoke again, following the gestures of his cousin.

"Long had I thought myself acquainted with your habit of performing miracles, but then, only hours after I have word of your survival, and of your victory over foul Skiro, you send this man, bold Vadir, in the company of poor Grid and ancient Miner. You have seen that he wears his sword in my peaceful house, and to all others, save yourself, I would have denied that honor. I almost refused him entry when first we met—that is, until I saw the markings on his sheath.

"Two months in the Vithrauth, and not only do you return victorious, defeating Skiro, as well as a champion larger than I, and Karonadus, a true giant, to say nothing of that hooded dragon, but you also managed to uncover the lost hoard of ancient Malmheith! For what else could it be? And who else could have sent Vadir to my door, if not bold Ralph? When has another hero ever existed that would casually gift a man he has only known for a month with the favorite blade of Sangholm's final king? Truly, you are the Onidai!

"We have much to discuss, for I wish to hear of all your recent adventures, and I wish to speak equally of the rune boards Lior brought at your behest, just as I would hear everything that transpired in Hroaht. But first, I think, you will wish to visit Grid. She will be happy to see you again-"

"She is awake?"

"Awake and mending. My mother's whims are well-timed, for she awoke only yesterday morning. Forgive me, but I wished for you to be surprised. I swore Brenna to secrecy—I hoped, at least, to offer you one single surprise to match the multitude you have visited upon me, of late."

* * *

I did not even remove my armor, and offered Vadir only a polite clap on the shoulder in passing. Sigmund led me through the many winding halls and passages, then up three stories on a flight of stone stairs, and I had to unbuckle Sequiduris just to negotiate the tight corners. This seemed a strangely difficult location to reach, given that it served as Sigmund's infirmary, but Hod explained that the wounded were raised on a platform through force of pulleys anchored by a complex system of weights, and carried inward over the balcony. When we arrived, I understood the reasoning of Sigmund's forefathers.

The infirmary had been built on a corner of the foundation, and the perimeter walls and much of the ceiling were fitted with panes of thick glass. This was not intended to aid in sunbathing, nor was it an aesthetic touch, for most of the panes were translucent, with only those at the ceiling and at either side of the balcony portal formed from perfectly transparent glass.

Evidently, the patients received exceptional treatment, internal procedures tended in more-than-adequate light. And to shut out the light as needed, every window had a thick curtain and draw string. Even the roof had a strange manner of curtain, with rods fed through top and bottom, to keep the cloth taut and stationary, and most of these had been drawn, save one, through which I could see the twinkling of stars on a cloudless night.

Grid was awake, complaining against Miner's attempt to feed her from a shallow bowl. Her skin was pale and drawn, as had been my own, and the dark circles lingering beneath her eyes spoke of the pain she had suffered, though I knew they would fade in time.

She was far cleaner than she had been in the Vithrauth, that she looked like a different person. Three days short of a month, and already she and Miner looked as if they had lived in clean, dyed fabrics, bathing and eating regularly their entire lives.

I would have been content simply to watch her, but I had forgotten that all but my hands and feet had been covered in plate. I crossed my arms, and the metallic report of my forearms upon my chest betrayed me. She turned in surprise, but did not know me—that is, until her eyes met mine.

"Vaentan!"

I tossed my Sword to Sigmund, who caught it with a smile, and strode, cape flying, to meet her. I bent down to embrace her, then remembered my armor, and shied against the fear of crushing her. But she had no such fear, and she leapt from her bed without rising to her feet, throwing her arms around me. My mood had been light, thanks in part to Hertha's medicine, but the sight of that little girl, alive and approaching wellness, inspired a river of tears. I held her there, stooping in a ludicrous pose, hugging her gently to my breast, and all without lifting her from the safety of her bed. She held on longer than I, and when she finally let go, I wiped my face dry of tears with the hem of my cape, a spectacle that earned the sound of her laughter.

I sat in a chair brought by Vadir, and told her all that I could of what had transpired from the time of my escape. Vadir had told her much, but he had not known all, for we had made for the gate the moment I knew the name of Skiro's venom. She then told me how she had come to be poisoned—of Wiglaf's visit to her cell the very evening of my escape.

She had used her water cup in the way I had employed a ceramic tankard against the drunkard in my mother's tavern, but for her trouble she succeeded only in earning a clout on the head. She was knocked unconscious, then slashed after Wiglaf had finished with the other children, and it was that which saved her, for evil coward that Skiro's henchman was he took great delight in the agony of small children, and unconscious, he could not enjoy the sound of Grid's screams.

When I told her that I had killed Wiglaf only hours later, she smiled.

"I did not know that, but I am not surprised. After all that Miner and Vadir have told me, I do not think any word of yours will ever surprise me again."

"But what of the miracle at hand? How have you recovered so quickly without the aid of Ramkath?"

"Ramkath?"

"The cure to the fever of the Kurume Yanik! There is no other cure, and it is only found in Tahlrene. How has it arrived so quickly?"

"Oh Ralph, how little faith you have! And after I rode so far and fast to your own aid."

My breath caught in my throat as I turned to face the familiar voice of the speaker. There, in a plain dress of white linen, and the white apron favored by healers, stood Rowan. She wore my gift of emeralds around her neck, no more than lusterless pebbles by contrast to the wearer's eyes. With summer nearly gone, it had been more than half a year since I had last seen her, but the changes in form and feature had only accentuated her loveliness.

I felt a great pressure behind my brow, followed by the sound of rushing water. Spots appeared before my eyes, and as my vision rolled back into blackness, I heard the sound of bronze crashing upon carpeted stone.

### Chapter Fourteen

### The Lies of Great Ladies
Bright sunlight found my eyes through closed lids; no matter how I turned my head that same illumination lit them to the bright pink known well to late-dozing drunkards. I was to have no relief, and yet I had no wish to move, for with every stirring of my body I was accosted by a wave of nausea that compelled me to remain perfectly still.

My head felt no better, the sharp pain at the base of my skull thumping in time with the beating of my heart; but I could not turn to relieve that pressure without upsetting my stomach. My throat was sore, and I realized belatedly that I had been taking the air in ragged breaths.

I heard footsteps in the short corridor, and then a muffled continuation on the carpeted floor. There was a brief clinking of ceramic on glass, and then the creak of someone sitting beside me. A sharp, cool odor entered my nostrils, and something warm was smeared upon my upper lip, the consistency similar to that of fresh mud. All at once, the thumping in my head subsided, as did the nausea, and the relief inspired by that cool odor permeated throughout my head, and indeed my entire body.

A pressure at my left leg indicated that I had been uncovered. The feeling was wonderful! It was the same motion as that of Hertha's masseuse, only faster and gentler, and it worked its way up to my thigh, before moving to the other leg. The massage continued at my arms, and then my chest and belly, and after the muscles of every portion of my body had been worked completely, I felt my limbs rise as they were each washed with scented water, scrubbed dry with a rough cloth, then massaged again with some creamy unguent, pleasantly hot upon my skin and thoroughly invigorating to the root of every muscle.

Throughout the procedure, I wanted to say something, to announce that I had awakened, but I did not know how I might do that in the middle of my mystery benefactor's ministrations. And so, I remained limp, offering no support, even as I was propped up on a mountain of pillows to have my face washed and shaved and my hair combed with mild vapor and then again with perfumed oil.

Finally clean and again dressed, I saw the light beyond my lids disappear in time with a distant flapping noise, and the room mellowed to an almost instant coolness. When a faint flickering light appeared to my right, the noises of turning pages and boiling cauldrons reminded me where I had been. I smelled the bitter tang of an unknown herb, and heard again the sound of colliding vessels. And then my visitor began to hum a very pleasant and familiar tune.

Heavy footfalls in the corridor, and the rattling of mail, until at last the steps halted near the other visitor. The voices were known to me.

"Any change?"

"No, he simply will not wake. He has been weakened by the prolonged use of some sort of narcotic, but until I know which, I cannot be certain of the remedy that will serve him best. The wrong application could weaken him further, or kill him outright, if my assessments are greatly mistaken."

"If he does not wake, I will fall on my sword—the one he gave me. My hand should not have been the one to strike him so harshly. He has been naught but generous and heroic, brave and just. How could I have been so foolish?"

The voice, stern at first, had begun to crack against the force of unchecked emotion. The other was gentler in tone, but grew louder, a firm reassurance to the other.

"You sought to protect me, as you knew he would have wanted. He was not in control of himself. What you did was necessary—he has simply grown too large for gentle restraint. If he had risen to strike me, and you had not been here, he might have fallen on his own sword. Her Eminence would never admit it, chaste and restrained as she must be, but I know his heart. You did what he would have wanted, Vadir, make no mistake."

"Is there aught I can do for you, Lady?"

"No more than when you were here—two hours ago. For a man who has never worn mail, you do not lack for energy. Watching you climb those stairs time and again exhausts me on principle alone. Go about your business man, and leave me to my work."

The increased volume of her voice left me beyond any doubt. Forgetting pretense I opened my eyes, though I remembered enough of their conversation to lie as convincingly as possible.

"Rowan?"

The tableau created by that hoarse whisper was so perfectly still and lifelike that it might have been funny, but when Rowan raced to my bedside, her packet of herbs and boiling bowl cast thoughtlessly behind, I lost my sense of humor.

She kissed me full on the mouth, and the warmth of her lips did more for me than any medicinal herb could ever have accomplished. I felt new life in every limb—until I remembered some of my earlier actions. She saw my frown, but I spoke first.

"How long-"

She rose to attend the sound of my voice immediately, apparently ignoring the question, but after a few moments she returned from her table and spoke with a gentle-yet-commanding air.

"You have been unconscious for eleven days. Don't speak. Just drink."

The bladder she held contained the same honeyed herbal potion that had restored my throat on the day of our first meeting. She let me gargle and swallow, and in my semi-supine position the drink rolled down the back of my throat, cleansing and soothing it until at last I could speak fully.

"I thought you were dead."

She nodded slowly, with a worried expression.

"I remember. You said as much the day after you arrived."

"I don't remember anything after I fainted."

"Not surprising. You sustained a stout blow to the base of your skull. Vadir struck you with the pommel of his sword."

"And why would he do something like that? What have I ever done to him?"

The smile vanished, and her voice was all honey, as if she was trying to convince me of something that I would never believe. I looked over her shoulder, and saw that Vadir had already taken flight.

"It isn't anything you did—he was trying to prevent something you were about to do-"

I waited, but she would not speak again without prompting.

"Well?"

"You tried to kill me- It wasn't your fault! Easy, breathe slowly!"

I had gasped in surprise, and that sudden movement began a spastic, heaving cough that continued for nearly a quarter-hour. The moment I started hacking up the weeks of accumulated phlegm, Rowan proved her devotion—to me, and to her chosen profession, for it was not a sight that even I would wish to recall. She brought a small bucket lined with sawdust, and though there was nothing she could do to prevent that painful and necessary process, she caressed my back and spoke in reassuring tones until the coughing had subsided.

When all was finally quiet I breathed deeply, and unable to meet her gaze, I spoke with my eyes to the floor.

"Why would I ever try to hurt you?"

"You wouldn't, but as long as we are broaching the subject—have you eaten anything strange lately? A strange taste to your food, perhaps, or something in your ale—or even your bathing water?"

"Yes."

"And who gave it to you? Can you guess?"

"Yes. Yes, I can."

I dropped to my pillow, and began slapping my forehead repeatedly. Finally, Rowan stayed my hand with her own.

"Tell me."

I looked at her, saw those emeralds, those seven paltry stones beneath the perfection of her eyes, and knew that it was really her. I almost wept.

"The same person who told me you were dead. She said it would alleviate grief. I refused food and water for three days, and nearly died from dehydration. Lambek had to restrain me, so that Maekara could sedate me. After that, Hertha's treatments began."

"Do you know the name of the herb Hertha used? I know it is unlikely, but any information would be very helpful."

"Could you identify the substance if you had a sample?"

"Easily."

"In my baggage you will find a little bag filled with honeyed almond sweets. She laced them—told me to 'taper off gradually'."

Just then, a crowd filed into the room. Brenna, Sigmund, Hod, Grid, Miner, Vadir, and Hertha herself—Rowan heard Hod address the Hjarrgoth Matron by name. Her mind was far quicker than mine, and before they had closed half the distance, she bent down to whisper in my ear.

"My name is Pirys. I am a traveling apothecary. I'll alert the others. Play along."

She marched right up to Lady Hertha and curtsied. Her manner of speech was slightly dim-witted; she was completely out of order, approaching a noblewoman so boldly, but thoroughly endearing in the way of young girls—in short, she transformed herself into the sort of girl that can get away with anything, and it worked perfectly. She introduced herself, completely out of turn, and then retreated to free my visitors of strange company. Grid had rushed to my side and thrown her arms around me, but at the sound of the false introduction, she turned from her embrace to correct Rowan's oversight. I hugged her even closer, and whispered softly.

"We are playing a little trick on Lady Hertha. Rowan is now called Pirys. Play along, but do not behave strangely. Go to see her, and she will explain."

She understood, and took her leave with Miner in tow.

Hod answered the motions of Sigmund's hands.

"We were speaking just now of your fever, how you fell sick the day of your arrival—the Lady Hertha has been here less than a quarter-hour, and here you are, fully awake. None may say, Lord Onidai, that you are anything if not accommodating."

Hertha took a few steps, then removed a flask from her scrip.

"I must admit to the Olinbrand Chieftain that word of his illustrious guest's state reached me nearly a week ago. The court at Hroaht has been placed in quite an uproar—there has even been talk of poison! I brought this healing tonic to speed your recovery. It isn't much—barely medicinal at all. Will you take it, and ease my troubled mind?"

For a moment I hesitated, but then, remembering Rowan's subterfuge, and that of Sigmund and the others, all apparently working independently of one another, I saw the importance of keeping the comely deceiver at ease.

"Of course I will, Friend Hertha."

I took the small flask and drank it dry in one draught. She smiled, caressed my cheek, then retrieved her flask and rose.

"Well then, good news all around. He's alive, well, and will soon be on his feet. I will take my leave, though I promise to return as soon as I may. Farewell, my dear hero."

I waited until I could no longer hear her steps upon the stone, and with Sigmund, Vadir, and Hod escorting her to the door, Brenna and I were left alone. She spoke as I retrieved the cough bucket.

"Before the news of your awakening, there was talk of her staying over for supper. She's in an awful hurry now—what are you doing?"

My finger was already down my throat. I retched sharply, and vomited Hertha's concoction. When I looked up, I saw that Brenna held as many pieces of the puzzle as I.

"It seems that the Hjarrgoth Matron has made deceivers of all of us. Rowan was clever to conceal her name—I had not thought of that. Was it Hertha then, who filled your head with that fiction?"

I rinsed my mouth with some more of Rowan's herbal tea, then spat into the bucket and replaced it on the floor before responding.

"Yes, and she drugged me as well—but for what purpose I cannot guess."

Now there was more than appreciation in her smile. She approached, lowered herself into Rowan's chair, and though we were alone she spoke in a whisper.

"If our—meeting—in your tent occurred under the influence of that drug, her aims were obvious. You did—"

I could never lie convincingly in that state, and knowing Brenna's talent for keeping secrets, I did not try.

"Yes. And two of her daughters—I was a man possessed, completely out of control. No will of my own throughout that lengthy stay, no concern but desire. And still, I cannot understand why—what could she possibly hope to gain from this?"

She started laughing, and I had a fleeting urge to strike her for it. This was no time for levity, and, far from being jealous, she was amused by my revelation! When she saw the gravity, writ large on my frowning face, the laughter subsided, though I cannot say as much for the jibes.

"You have explained much of your recent gain in skill. Practice makes perfect—though girth adds worth, in any case."

She raised the hem of my blanket, as if to peek beneath, and I threw off her hand immediately. Angry words nearly leapt from my tongue, but rather than spew what I knew was born of my own folly, I clenched my jaw and held my peace. A moment passed in silence as I collected myself. Finally, I closed my eyes, and, keeping my voice carefully inaudible to any to the keen ears of the High Priestess, I told her everything. When I finished and looked to her, she offered only silence in answer.

"So much deceit—for what? What did she want from me?"

Brenna's answering expression suggested that I knew full well, and I didn't argue. I fell to my pillow, and again, I almost wept—if the High Priestess hadn't been watching, nothing would have prevented it. I didn't realize it until later, but I felt then just as women must feel when they too, have been violated. I had wanted to remain faithful to Rowan, and before I'd received the news of her 'death', I had decided to quit my association with Brenna, as well. Hertha had robbed me of the purity of an innocent love, and such a horrid violation of something so perfectly wholesome and wondrous is to my mind a crime that cannot be forgiven. I heard Brenna's voice, but did not turn to look. Her words carried easily, but the balance must have been difficult to convey.

"I am sorry. I, too, knew how you felt about Rowan, and that alone should have stopped me. I also loved, once, before I was chosen. Whatever happens, know that I will do all that I can to mend this. Whatever it takes, we will make this right."

Her eyes had glazed, and at the sound of returning footfalls in the stairwell, she dried them on her sleeve, walked to the portico, and stepped outside to look over Sigmund's estate. Rowan made for her heavily laden desk with one of Hertha's dainties, and spoke from her seat without looking.

"Miner is escorting the remainder to one of Sigmund's forges. Live coals will ensure that none are tempted to repeat your performance. And now-"

She dropped it into the bottom of a wide glass vessel, explaining as she worked.

"Almonds and honey should separate in strong solvents, and as both are heavier than most liquids, the remaining substances should rise to the surface. We are in luck—a liquid could be the only additive to a mixture of this type. Had the laced matter been something totally liquid, the drug might have been in the form of a soluble powder. As she was trying to lace each sweet evenly, however, it is safe to assume that the liquid was mixed with the honey, and then added to the ground almonds."

I marveled at her brilliance, for she was no older than I. Such beauty, and a peerless mind to match—my guilt was growing with each passing heartbeat. I was about to speak, when she cut me off.

"Aha! Here we are. The offending liquid..."

She lowered a narrow glass tube into the vessel, then pressed her thumb to the top, and after lifting out the separated fluid, she released the contents of the tube into a small glass phial.

"The solvent boils at an even lower temperature than the distillation point of intoxicating vapor. So-"

With a pair of tongs, she held the phial over a candle, and white steam rolled out of the glass immediately. When it ceased, she held the glass up to the light, and took her seat by my bed.

"Do you recognize this?"

It was a thin blue liquid, perfectly transparent. I wagged my head, but when she held the phial beneath my nose, my nostrils succeeded where my eyes had failed—the smell was offensively bitter.

"Do you recognize the aroma?"

"Yes, though it was faint before, and easily lost among heavily spiced foods."

"And what were the symptoms? How did it make you feel?"

"Well. I felt well."

"I see. Hardly the task for such an exotic drug. Rather weak, in fact, given the withdrawal symptoms."

"No, you don't understand. I felt well. Not sad. It calmed me, kept me from growing hysterical."

I told her what I had told Brenna, with obvious omissions, and Rowan was about to respond, but I stopped her with an upraised hand and rose from my bed. She tried to stop me, but I would have none of it. I had been vague in reference to my token and the content of the message I had tried to send, and so my words may have reached my audience with an unexpected impact.

"When Hertha pretended to aid me, I believe she was attempting to gain the inroad through which the knowledge of your death would be credible, but it had another effect, as well: she made me see the error of my ways.

"I was too concerned with flirtation and self-possession when we parted ways at Algrae—where boyish discomfort would not permit me to speak honestly, I offered a trinket and shallow flattery to cover my cowardice.

"I love you, Rowan. I loved you before ever I knew your name. When I first saw you in my mother's tavern, staring into my wound and reducing two fearsome Hjarrleth warriors to the resemblance of sheepish children, I knew that I loved you, and I know it now. Onidai or not, if I had any real courage, I would have chased you down the road on the back of new-bought horses the moment I knew that Eagle's gold was mine. We could have ridden together to your father's, or taken refuge anywhere on Foundation, and lived together in wealth and happiness, uncaring of the outcome of the war. Or we might have turned back, before ever we reached Algrae. I wish I'd had the courage to say it then, but I did not, and in spite of all her villainy, I cannot but credit Hertha for the discovery. I love you, and I want you to be my wife. I have the gold, and the silver, to make my case to your father, but I'll do nothing without knowing that you feel the same way."

She withdrew, turned her back, and returned to her desk without a word. My heart sank instantly. She flicked through a few pages of an open tome, then scanned the needful leaf with her finger. She finally spoke as she returned the phial to its wire case.

"The drug is called Haryam Ossik. It is an import, brought to Foundation by the Viharthians, and used to lessen the pain of severe wounds and injuries. It is also extremely expensive. Is Hertha a wealthy woman?"

I nodded blankly, and she returned her eyes to the tome.

"By the way—I love you, too. Whether my father will approve, I cannot guess, but we will have to wait and see. Breaking his dear old heart will be a last resort, but then again, I still have this."

Her finger indicated the Haryam Ossik, but I didn't laugh. I was too relieved for humor, and in two easy strides, not at all weak after eleven days in bed, I swept her from her chair and pressed her lips to mine. I professed my love again, and spent the rest of the afternoon in Rowan's pleasant company, chaste, but in a far more pleasant haze than any drug or strong vapor could ever induce. My love had been returned in kind, and I felt at that moment I could conquer any foe—if my future wife would allow it.

* * *

Rowan explained everything to me that afternoon. Vadir's blow, combined with the strength of withdrawal from the Haryam Ossik, had induced a strong coma, and every day Rowan had massaged my muscles, rubbing them with invigorating tonics and filling my belly with beef broth, marrow, and honey through a tube of sheep intestine to keep my strength from diminishing.

It was the story of her arrival that had truly mystified me. Linaj and Jakhan had abducted her, though they left an emissary to explain and reassure them of her safe return; the man would remain in Tahlrene as hostage until she was safely home. The Viharthian Phulakoi had been ambushed, their personal guard slain, and for the better part of a day, they passed into the hands of Centrist brigands. Apparently, Linaj and Jakhan themselves caught up with the abductors, overtaking them easily and rescuing their Phulakoi. Though their party had been only eight in number, fighting against a force of thirty, the exchange was brief, with not a man lost on their side.

Interrogation of the prisoners revealed that similar plots were under way, against every Banner save Meadrow and Tulakal. When asked of themselves, of their aims and origin, not one of those prisoners had been more forthcoming than had been my own. Such resolve, as a trait shared universally among one's enemies, is most disconcerting.

Yet those taken had not remained wholly silent; some had leaked their knowledge of present orders. And so, having uncovered that new and pressing threat, a cadre of Viharthian agents was sent at the behest of their young Phulakoi, to prevent further abductions and warn all allies against current threats.

Venibrek, surrounded by its high walls, and serviced by warrior Phulakoi, was considered safe from such attempts, and Nalbanilek was avoided entirely, for those horsemen do not respond gently to interlopers of any kind. That left Sangholm and Tahlrene, with wayward Rowan the most vulnerable of all, for she frequently rode about her Banner alone. It was at just such a moment that the Viharthians found her, and when Rowan had finished her tale, I insisted on speaking with Linaj and Jakhan myself.

They were only too happy to oblige.

"It seemed that they did not wish to kill her with more than the needful force. One of them held a cudgel of a most unusual shape, and the others forced her back into an unnatural arch, that her spine might take the full force of the club at its weakest."

"To what purpose? Can you guess?"

Linaj smiled, the blue of his eyes accentuated by bronzed skin.

"We do not have to guess. The Onidai is not the only one who knows the wisdom of taking prisoners."

I had to smile at that, myself.

"And what did they reveal?"

"Much, and without bloodshed. They were to break the Tahlrenic Phulako's back, to make it appear as if she had fallen from her horse. And we had cause to believe them, for it appeared much that way as we approached. Are you alright, Master Onidai?"

I heard those words from very far away, and even then, it was difficult to understand him over the force of the ringing in my ears. All at once, it fell together—everything about the Hjarrgoth Matron had been false. Hertha's account of Rowan's death not only fit the manner of assassination, but the teary revelation suited her attempt to dope me into submission. And the drugs had not been for me, to mend my broken heart. She would have need of my favor, that much was clear—but to what purpose?

Rowan's analysis of Hertha's 'healing tonic'—taken from the depths of my cough bucket—revealed that it contained an even stronger dose of Haryam Ossik, and it was plain enough to me that the tonic had been nothing more than an attempt to make up for the eleven days I had spent in absence of the drug's effects.

Of course, I mentioned nothing to Rowan of the aphrodisiacs Hertha had placed in the wine, as well as in her own perfume at the time of my final indiscretion, but the realization of her immediate aims did much to aid in my understanding of the underlying purpose.

Sigmund had written of the Hjarrgoth lust for power, and his deep-seated mistrust for the woman had been apparent. Her most obvious goal, then, would be the Matriarch's seat at Hroaht, but she had spoken loudly against any claim. It was then that I remembered Rigga's speech. '...from the time of Drotning, none have claimed that holy seat without the vote of the people...'

She had been seeking public approval! Rigga had said as much, and there was the truth of it. Popularity among the men and women of high nobility would not be enough to oust her rival; she would need two-thirds of the Hjarrleth population in her favor. If the following in Hroaht was any indication, she would have it soon, bold rally or not, for Rigga's denial of my claim had not been popular beyond those brief moments of enthusiasm.

And what of her denouncement of the support of the nobility? Hertha seemed to lie with every breath. But what did she want with me? My support would be guaranteed the moment she sat in the Matriarch's seat. It would be a rise to power unheard of in Hroaht, with the people carrying her to the dais against her modest protests. Truly, she knew how to encourage popularity, and even feign humility. And then, I remembered her speech, that which she had given privately. Sigmund had apprised me of that display the very day of my awakening, the word carried to his eager ears from the voice of an elderly woman of high nobility. 'My house is dead, even while I live on to watch it crumble.' I understood Hertha's seduction, at last.

She did not seek pleasure, but the offspring that would continue the Hjarrgoth line. The son of the Onidai. But that could never be, and Tyra's gift of graythorn bramble root had seen to that, beyond any doubt. But did Hertha know?

That Hertha was in league with the Centrists seemed apparent, or at least likely; an attack on the Phulakoi of two Banners, and the presumed events of the second all but described by her. But what of the others? Vahei would be in no danger, nor would Lior or L'mah, both protected by the high walls of Venibrek, to mention nothing of their own able hands. Brenna and Rowan were near, and safe enough in Olinbrand Hall.

I cared not at all for Edam, but knew that he would not be targeted any more than would L'mah, had she remained at home, for our Banners counted but little against the force of the coming war. Jakhan had spoken for his own Phulakoi, but what of Reya, Sigmund's sister, who had taken up the mantle of Phulako, even as Sigmund had donned the armor of his ancient house? Vadir was standing at attention in the corner—he had been my willing and sheepish slave ever since my awakening.

"Vadir, send word for the master of the house. I wish to speak with him."

He was gone before I had finished. All those thoughts had passed in an instant, and I was aware that I had not answered Linaj. The man's face betrayed genuine worry.

"I am well, Linaj. I was simply wondering who had inspired the Matriarch to press so strongly against my claim. Until I stood before her, I had thought my case all but accepted, pending the three trials. The Kromjan and Skiro would at least have been two, and a lenient judge might have counted Nidhag, Kaerkjan, or Karonadus against the third.

"I must admit, my expectations had been built mainly on assumption—still, I have done much, I think, to encourage a timely Approval, and yet Rigga has done all in her power to slow my progress, or end my life outright. None of her trials were meant to be survived."

"Then it all really happened? You slew the—what did Grid call it? Darratonn? And a wizard? A dragon and two giants?"

That from Rowan, with more than a little disbelief, and an ample supply of playfulness in her girlish voice.

"Little girls have a tendency to blow things out of proportion. Nidhag was a huge lizard, not a dragon—no fire, no flight. Skiro was only an old man, evil though he may have been. One of the giants was twice my height, but lame in one leg, and the other was not much larger than Sigmund—and not nearly as great a warrior. The Darratonn—Kromjan, they call it here...actually, I rather impressed myself with that victory. Surprised I made it out alive. Nearly soiled myself, in fact. Not a bad meal, though. Best ham I ever tasted."

She laughed gaily, and my heart skipped a beat. Linaj and his brother laughed as well, but when I saw Sigmund and Hod ascend the stairs behind Vadir, I remembered my original deliberations.

"The Olinbrand Chieftain is swift indeed without his armor, though I fear he may have cause to wear it soon."

Sigmund's hand flapped a response before an eager and youthful countenance, and Hod grinned devilishly as he voiced his cousin's words.

"I have prayed to Vodn nightly for just such an occasion. Whither do we ride, and against whom do we strike?"

"That remains to be seen, and your counsel will aid in my deliberations. Do you have the time?"

"When I do not, Friend Ralph, you will know it, for it will be your torch that sees me off to Vodn's Hall. Besides, I am not much of a farmer, and the harvest does not excite me."

"Then I will be frank, and hope not to offend—was your mother so difficult before you set out in search of the Onidai?"

"She was not hopeful that we would find you, but just as most, she thought that the best of all possible futures. We in Sangholm know better than most the horrors that will soon fall upon us. Reya was more optimistic, and would have made a staunch ally, even against the stone of my mother's heart."

"Where is she? Reya was not there when first I ventured out of the Vithrauth, and that of all things seemed out of place, even to a foreigner."

"His Eminence said as much, and I have sent emissaries to my mother, only to have them return with ringing ears, and, on occasion, bloody backs for their trouble. The nobles and common folk of Harkona were no help either, for none have seen Reya or her son, and even her husband will say nothing of her whereabouts. Gustav will not leave his home, fearing even to reach across the threshold to take in food brought to him by his servants, and none can make sense of his refusal to speak—his voice has been as my own for nearly a year. Hroaht is without a Phulako, my goodbrother is without wife and child, and none have seen fit to speak on either tragedy. It is as if they have been bewitched."

* * *

An hour later, we knew full well how we might learn of Reya's fate, though I feared that avenue even more than Nidhag's gaping maw. Rowan still knew nothing of my time with Hertha and her daughters, and I wished to avoid all contact with those who might reveal knowledge of my unwitting betrayal. And yet, there was no alternative: I had to seek the hospitality of the Hjarrgoth Matron yet again.

We had to be certain that our story would be accepted, and so Sigmund and Brenna were to play the villains, abandoning me in the wake of my refusal to risk death at the unjust whims of the Matriarch. Without even a single Phulako to support me I could go no further, and without Sigmund's hospitality I would have to beg shelter beneath any roof I could—a second chance for Hertha to gain a male heir, and a further opportunity to bring me into her service.

Lambek and Maekara rode ahead in their wagon, and I unarmored on the back of a bare-shouldered Edam. Brenna assured me that reinforcements would lie in wait nearby, completely undetected with the aid of our Viharthian allies, who would see a handful of Brenna's women and an equal number of their own easily within the walls of the estate.

When I questioned them further they would say nothing, but Rowan seemed convinced of their abilities. When I tried to question her, my answer was nothing more than a gentle kiss. I threw up my arms in surrender, and all seemed satisfied—they were all convinced that I would not believe them until I saw the means of their stealth and haste with my own eyes.

I left Rowan at the door of Sigmund's hall, entrusted to the man himself until my return. She was not to venture home without me, and I would see from that moment forward that she was never far from the protection of many able hands—even if my own were at war. Though the lie I would live in her arms would weigh heavily upon me, the thought of the pain I might inflict through the confessions of a troubled conscience worried me far more than the weight of secrecy and deceit, and I can write such truths now in confidence, for none will know of this account until long after my death; never have I cared for the opinions of any beyond their response to simple truth.

And if Hertha's unwitting daughters could be convinced to take my part, I had reason to hope that the truth might never find her. The woman herself was even less of a worry, for without a son to continue her line, the news of our dalliance would be seen as a scandal—high-born widows could remarry, and what we had done was no crime, but the bedding of a matron, even a beautiful matron, was nothing short of laughable when the bedmate was one so young as I—nor would I have been so bold, had I even the slightest control over my actions.

We rode to her gates, and Lambek spoke at length with the man at watch. They used a rider rather than a runner, so that less than a quarter of an hour had passed before the gates swung open and we rode through without incident. The sun was setting, and the new moon and autumn cloud cover would see that Brenna's women were not observed on entry, if I needed them at all. Information was my objective, and I could gain that without fear of even one night's drugging. Lambek and Maekara knew all but my indiscretions with Hertha and her daughters, and they would aid me. We were prepared against every eventuality.

Hertha was the very portrait of delight, as were her daughters, and none of them betrayed any sign of surprise at the unexpected manner of my visit. I smiled weakly, but tried to appear troubled and fatigued. She rushed to meet me, and held me in a tight embrace the moment I dismounted. I could feel her warmth and the pressure of her bosom, and I caught the heady, intoxicating scent of her hair—the momentary arousal filled me with a self-loathing that defies any manner of description. She held me at arm's length and filled the sound of her voice with honey.

"You arrive in a most timely fashion, Friend Ralph, for dinner has yet to begin, and our conversations have been filled with melancholy at the loss of your company. To what do I owe this good fortune?"

"The betrayal of so-called 'companions', Friend Hertha. They have left me, all of them, and even Sigmund, my staunchest ally, has banished me from his home. His mother, it seems, has poisoned his ear against me, and the Trathnonan Phulako was not truly of a mind to leave so quickly. She cannot see a future to our enterprise without Rigga's Approval, and will not travel another mile without it. I am here because I am without recourse, and in dire need of counsel."

"That is dark news, indeed. Come inside and we will talk it over. Perhaps there is a way to settle this without further delay in the Vithrauth. I will have the table set for four; we will speak only of pleasant things, and worry over Rigga tomorrow. I think best when I have slept on a problem, and you must sleep, as well."

"My thanks, but your words are even truer than you have guessed. I must sleep, and soon. Argument has ruled in absence of rest for nearly three days. May I beg your indulgence, and sleep as soon as I may?"

"Of course you may! I would not see another incident like that among the Olinbrand. You will mend here, and rest as needed, and I will take that time to consider this puzzle of yours."

We embraced again, and I received the same from Hilde and Tyra. The smile of my response was genuine, for, guilty or not, all three were beautiful, the warmth of those embraces pleasant and familiar, and after all, the smile suited my purpose.

In my quarters, Maekara, Lambek, and I made no move to unpack, for our baggage had been light, a single bag for each of us. Instead, I questioned them in the matter of the source of information.

"You're sure that she would know? She's only fifteen, Lambek."

"Aye, and you were only sixteen when you fought at Eastwall. Some kids develop faster than others, and I'm telling you, Una's the one we want. Besides, you remember the impression you made. If anyone can be trusted to hear you out, it'll be her."

"Fine. Call her in, and stay close when I start in on her. We have to act fast. If she knows what we want, we'll take her with us. If she knows who knows what we want, we'll take them both."

Una, our customary servant, arrived immediately at Lambek's behest, and I ushered her to a seat. She appeared ill-at-ease from the start, but I had little time.

"Una, are you aware that Sangholm has been without a Phulako for nearly a year?"

"I am, Lord Onidai."

"No Una, tonight I am only Ralph. The Onidai must be represented by the Phulakoi of all the Banners, and yours is missing. And yet, Lady Reya's own mother will say nothing of her daughter's absence. Her husband, father of her recent child, is similarly silent, in spite of the fact that his own son has also gone missing. The newborn went missing the same time as his mother, and his only response has been a demented refusal to leave his home in search of them. To most, that would seem a form of madness—to me, it is clear that he is protecting them, and the compliance to some unknown directive is probably the only thing he can do to ensure their survival. Gustav may be a bard—the finest voice in Sangholm from what I've heard—but if he thought for even a moment that his wife and child would survive long enough for him to hurry to their aid, I have no doubt that he would tear down the walls of their prison with his bare hands to free them.

"I must confess, Una, that I am not here to recover from the loss of my friends. Far from it, in fact. They are nearby, waiting to liberate me, in the event that my aims here are not met with success. Would you like to know my true purpose, dear Una?"

"Oh, Lord Onidai, please! Please do not involve me in this, I beg you! You are not-"

"I am sorry to do this Una, but your place in this household is the least of your worries. The abduction of the Matriarch's daughter is a matter for banishment, and in her rattled state, the Vithrauth, though far safer of late, could end up as home to this entire household."

She began to weep softly, and I tried to reassure her, in the hope that I might ask if any, short of Hertha, might know of Reya's whereabouts, but she spoke through pitiful sobs before I could voice my first syllable. That is well, for as I have written many times ere now, I cannot abide the sight of a weeping girl.

"We did not know! We were... we tried... ...they brought them here while we slept! And we are never permitted to leave! How could we be sure that anyone would believe us? And what if the Lady learned of it? She would kill us for certain! I have seen the dungeon! Please!"

I quieted her before she could wail and betray us all, and I held her close and reassured her that nothing of the sort would happen.

"You say they are held here? Mother and child, together?"

She nodded, and I gave her my handkerchief. She wiped away the tears, and sniffed weakly.

"Reya, the boy, and perhaps others. We are not permitted to see them, but a few of the downstairs maids saw them being dragged into the cellar, just beyond the garden walk. Please, do not let the Wise Mother banish us; we did not know what to do!"

"If that is the case, I am certain that you will not be held responsible. In fact, I know that Sigmund has more than ample room at his own estate, and he has never harmed any of his people—no dungeon, and a household with many male servants. Perhaps you can find a husband there, if a worthy man exists. But Una, I need your help now—the Matriarch herself, the Olinbrand Chieftain, and the Hjarrleth Phulako need your help. Will you aid us?"

She nodded in sober acceptance, and I handed her the paper packets Rowan had prepared at my behest. I had intended them to aid in Hertha's abduction, or whomever might shed light on Reya's whereabouts. Moreover, I needed Tyra to sleep deeply, against the urge to visit me secretly.

"The contents of these will ensure a very gradual drowsiness, followed by a lasting sleep. We will need the ladies of the house to sleep deeply throughout the night. Are they still at table?"

"They are, but it will be better if we wait until after. A big performance tonight. The Lady has waited nearly a month for her favorite troupe to arrive for the staging of the final act of Hroaldssaga. They will expect refreshment, and customarily I am the one who serves them."

"The same drink I was given on my first evening?"

"The very same."

"That is well. Those drinks are well-spiced, though I have been assured that the powder will dissolve totally, with very little flavor. Against the invigorating herbs in that tea, the effects will appear even more subtle. Well done. Is there anyone you can trust to inform us when they are abed?"

"Yes, but I will only do these things if you will promise to protect me."

"My dear Una, the moment you return to inform me that you have laced the drinks, you may remain here with Maekara until we take our leave—and you with us."

"What of the others? If she wakes to find her prisoners gone, she will flay every member of the household until she finds the truth of their disappearance. Can nothing be done for them?"

"How many people live here?"

"Four hundred sixteen, including the workmen and outer servitors."

"Let me think on it. We will do something, that I can promise. No one will die by her hand, but the effects of that potion will be long-lasting, and that many refugees will require a mighty store of grain. Give me some time, Una, and before you take your leave with Reya and the others, I swear I'll have something in mind to help them all."

* * *

She returned less than an hour later, assuring us that all three drinks were in hand, and that all had taken the first sips without any sign of distaste. We ate together from the food we had brought, and I told Una of the half-formed plan that might see her fellows to safety. She hugged me about the waist, her girlish excitement favoring her with the appearance of a slightly older version of Grid. After seventeen years as an only child, I found myself burdened with all the worries of an older brother, twice over.

With the food cleared, I outlined my plan. The four of us would travel together along Tyra's underground passage to the entry below the east garden. Maekara and Una would wait to safeguard our return, and Lambek and I would proceed to the dungeons beyond the garden walk to find Reya and her son, then return to the passage entry, where we would wait in concealment for Brenna and the others to answer a signal that Maekara assured me our rescuers could not fail to see.

Regardless of what followed, Reya and son would make immediately for the safety of Olinbrand Hall, as would Una, and I would stay, with ample reinforcements, to make good on my promise of succor for the four hundred sixteen souls that might suffer in absence of Hertha's prisoners.

The appointed hour arrived sooner than I had expected, but we had already prepared ourselves in advance. None of us wore armor of any kind, and we dressed in dark clothing, Maekara in her Ashad cloak, and me in my forest shroud, reversed, to make the most of the dark lining.

Lambek refused my old Ashad cloak, which Maekara had brought for his use, and finally, at my wit's end, I had to command him to wear it. He seemed more embarrassed than ashamed, though I did not see the need, for his own Brek cloak was identical in all but coloring, his a brilliant white, lined with pale gold, and always reversed on the warpath, so that the yellow fabric gave the male Initiates the appearance of celebrants journeying to festival, rather than resolute warriors bent on the destruction of their foes. Still, this seemed to be a matter of great discomfort to him, so I decided to draw his thoughts away from embarrassment, by inquiring of his sword.

I had seen its like in Eagle's Clearing, and Loswol had been carrying a similar weapon, as had Taemon in his mad dash to my home Banner. It was lighter, but similar in shape, the blade only a handsbreadth shorter, and also a bit thinner and not quite so wide as the heavier counterpart. It retained that same long leaf-blade, and it was not at all flimsy, heavier still than the common blades wielded by the Hjarrleth, and fully capable of all three of the reinforced attacks, possessing the belly curve for a powerful slash, the broad width near the point for a devastating thrust, and its heft granted it the power to match all but the cuts of the largest Hjarrleth axes. It had the same rounded, bulbous pommel and short, rounded cross hilt of bronze, but the weapon was undeniably lighter than the other Brek swords I had seen. Lambek answered with the weapon slung at his back, holding a torch aloft behind me so that I could lead with leveled lockbow.

"Lior's idea. He sends men into the field all the time, and we have to travel light. That means no helm or mail, and certainly no shield. The Brek sword is what we're trained to use, and he wanted that to continue, so he had the new swords made. We use it only when unarmored and unshielded, and we're trained in its use with dagger and buckler. High Priest calls it the 'strike first' method of Brek combat. We defend with the shield hand, parrying with dagger or deflecting with buckler as we must, but always strive to attack first with these new blades. Didn't like it at first, no shield and all, but it's growing on me. Takes some getting used to, but the sword is a better weapon for defense than a dagger, and more often than not I've had to parry with my sword arm. I'm sure His Eminence wouldn't like that, but—you won't tell him, will you?"

I smiled, though I suppose he could not have seen that from behind.

"Your secret is safe with me. No dance of sword and shield? Must be like learning a new language, then stuttering in your own when the neighbors come to visit. Do you ever get confused when you have to return to the old method?"

"Nah, the weight o' that shield is too great a comfort. Besides, our swords—the real ones—are too heavy for parrying. Didn't Lior mention that?"

"Yes, I believe he did. He even bruised my shoulder a few times to punctuate the lesson."

"Yeah, he is a kind one."

"Kind?"

"Well sure, a wooden sword doesn't bite so deep—a bruise now saves you from death later. Kind and generous, that one. A better High Priest we've never had."

I let that lie, as we had reached the end of the corridor, and to my surprise the staircase was wide, carved from stone. Maekara and Una retreated around a bend in the passage with Lambek's torch, against the off-chance that the light might betray us. We made our way forward with the illumination of a single candle, and at the top of the stairs a ladder ending in a hatch made a lie of Tyra's description.

Not wishing to announce ourselves to any prying eyes, I strained beneath the hatch, easing the weight on the pin as Lambek greased the hinge with a bit of the oil he used to polish his sword. Maekara and Una moved back from the exit with the only remaining light, and I waited with my Brek companion, listening in total silence for the sounds of footsteps along the garden walk above.

* * *

Though the hatch was extremely heavy, it gave way with surprisingly little resistance, and as we made our way out, I saw that the bronze fountain was intended for more than concealment of the hatch; it covered the surrounding masonry entirely, leaving no evidence of the hidden passage below.

Together, we righted the fountain, protecting Maekara and Una from accidental discovery, and we won to the garden walk with ease, not a single guard challenging our progress. And why would Hertha have need of sentries? None knew of the prisoner's whereabouts, and guards would only prove that she had something worth guarding.

I had thought our enterprise blessed by all the gods of the Trathnona and Hjarrleth combined, for we had made our way forward entirely without incident. Unfortunately, I had forgotten the gods of far-off Meadrow, and the oversight did not pass without incident. We had taken no more than five steps from the fountain-hatch when I heard thunder above, and the rain fell in sheets almost immediately thereafter.

The cellar door was unlocked, and upon entry we saw that the chamber was unlit. Knowing that no sentry would ever consent to stand watch in total darkness, I had little fear of discovery, and so I took a torch from Lambek's pack and struck Malmheith's bright knife upon the flint nodule at its base. Lambek took the light-stave in his left hand, and knowing my designs he did not hesitate to draw his sword.

As before, I led, my lockbow leveled against any threat, and we descended a long flight of stone stairs in total silence. At the lowest step, I halted my companion with a single upraised hand, then motioned for him to cast his light into the blackness. We leapt into the room together, sword and lockbow ready to meet all-comers, to find that Hertha's 'dungeon' was nothing more than a long-abandoned storeroom, choked with ancient dust. Lambek laughed quietly, and finished with a phlegmy cough as he retrieved his torch from the floor.

"No excitement here. We're in the wrong place, unless Una sent us to fetch some vinegar, or an old broom. An awfully large room for such a wide array of useless rubbish. There's nothing useful here at all. No wonder it's so dusty."

He was already on his way out, when I noticed his footprints in the dust.

"Wait! Do you notice anything peculiar about this place?"

"Yeah, it's a big stone building, and it serves absolutely no useful purpose, just as I said. Let's go."

"No, not that. The floor. Look at the floor, Lambek! See your footprints? If this place is so useless, why are there so many tracks in the dust at the opposite wall?"

Most of the floor was undisturbed, but from the stairwell a narrow track of multi-layered footprints wound to a corner at the far wall. Lambek followed the path with his torch, then walked it, and I crossed the floor to meet him at the other side. It took only moments, looking downward in the torchlight, with droplets of rainwater falling upon the dust, to determine that there was something unusual about the flooring beneath our feet. Though it was identical in appearance, it was not truly stone. In fact, it was wood, carved and painted to match the flagstones perfectly, and stamping my feet, I noted the echo.

Lambek set to work immediately, but in spite of his best efforts to crack, bend, and even pry at the seams of the false flagstones with the point of his sword, he made little progress, until finally he was forced to retrieve his torch and admit defeat.

"That is not meant to be forced. I think we should wait here until someone else arrives to show us the way. Eventually they'll have to feed the prisoners."

"There isn't time for that. From the look of this place no one moves in or out, except by the light of day. Just look up. Those slats are lined with glass, and I haven't seen a single mounted torch- wait, where did you put yours?"

Lambek motioned to an empty cresset at the wall opposing the false flagstones, and on closer inspection, I saw that the ring-shaped holder had been welded to a shaft that had been driven deep into the stone of the wall, a rather unnecessary touch to such a simple utility. It rattled with gentle pressure, and though it would not turn, the shaft slid out smoothly in response to the pressure of an even pull.

Poor Lambek leapt in shock as the floor gave way beneath his feet.

The false flooring was mounted on a shaft near to the strange cresset, so that only the end at the rear wall fell downward, creating a smooth ramp. Beyond, I saw an iron-bound door built of solid oak, a heavy lock beneath the iron knob. Lambek grimaced, and I knew his thoughts, even as he voiced them.

"Sure you don't want to wait?"

I motioned for him to replace his torch at the cresset, then handed him my lockbow.

"Why, when I have the key right here?"

After motioning for him to move away, I drew Sequiduris, then waited for the thunder to roll. With the pressure of a steady, forward thrust I mated the point of my blade to the gap between door and jamb, and the soft wrought iron of the latchbolt gave way with little resistance. For all of that, I heard not a sound from within.

Sequiduris sheathed, I reclaimed my lockbow, and Lambek took up the torch once again. I mouthed a count of three, then pulled upon the knob and leapt inside, my dart leveled for a kill. Yet again, we were met with an empty silence, though the tidy antechamber had been lit evenly by candle and oil lamp.

There was a desk, a narrow bed, and a rough-hewn round table with four chairs. Lambek mounted his torch on an empty cresset, the only one of its kind in that chamber, and clearly intended for use by any visiting courier. I was ill-at-ease almost immediately, for clearly this meant that food would be brought by night, at least occasionally, and I could not afford to worry about a crowded reception at the moment of our return.

"Well, you wanted to wait."

"What?"

"You're staying here. Or in the storeroom. Your choice, really, but I'll need someone on guard. Someone has to watch my back."

"I know, and I can best do that if I'm in view of it. Can't always be fighting by yourself, boy, it's bad manners."

"You see that cresset? That, and the other outside, are clear signs that someone comes here at night. There are no empty trays on that table, so it's obvious that the guards and prisoners have not yet been fed. There is only one bed here, which leads me to believe the others sleep further in, and also that there may be more than four of them. If the food-bearer sees that the ramp is already down, they'll run to tell whomever is at watch, and by the time we have the prisoners, it will be awfully crowded down here. I need you to stay."

He knew we were pressed for time, and so he didn't put up much of a fight. I stopped him before he could turn to leave.

"Hold a moment. I've seen you run—probably the reason Lior is so generous with Trathnonan horseflesh. Can you throw your dagger?"

"Not well—I prefer not to gift my enemies with useful weapons. Javelins are useful only to those who know how to use them."

"Then take this. It's easy enough up close, just place your eye-line along the dart, keep the weapon level, and try not to twitch when you squeeze the lever."

He took my lockbow without argument, and was turning to leave when I stopped him again. As he spun about for a second time, he blew an equine fricative and shook his head wryly.

"I don't care how pretty you've become, boy, I'm not kissing you goodbye."

"Just a reminder, then—food-bearers are not often villains of the worst order. That lockbow is for slaying warriors, not serving girls. Subdue if you meet the latter, but do not harm her—it is likely that she will be unaware of what goes on in this place. Good luck."

He left without a word, and I drew my Sword as he closed the door behind him. I smiled in thinking that a lockbow would not have been of much use in close quarters, and the grin broadened when I thought of the fumbling of two swordsmen fighting side-by-side in narrow passageways—Sequiduris does not lend itself to fighting with allies so near. I had a friend at my back, and nothing to fear from behind, and that was good enough.

My sodden cloak fell to the ground with a moist slap, and I crossed the small chamber to find that the far passage was in fact the landing for a flight of narrow stairs. I descended with all the silence afforded by Ashad shoes, re-cut and fitted to the sudden growth of my feet.

There were oil lamps staggered within sconces at every pace, and the shadows staggered as well, so that crouching low I was betrayed only by the brightness of my blade. There was a right turn into an alcove or side chamber three paces ahead, and the passage ended in more stairs five paces beyond that.

I heard a muffled conversation, suddenly louder after the creaking of iron hinges, and I raced for the side passage, finding that it led into an open and unlit storeroom, this one filled with sacks, pots, casks, and baskets. The man further in laughed loudly and appreciably, and my approaching visitor shouted as the door behind him creaked closed.

"If Jorda's bringin' the porridge tonight, I'll jab 'er once for you!"

I waited for him to clear the side passage, then followed a pace behind. He saw my cloak on the floor; when he turned, my point was raised to meet him. He was in his mid-forties, clean shaven and shorn bald with a pale complexion. I saw the glint of intelligence in his dark eyes, and seeing that he kept his hands away from his sword belt, I was optimistic about his survival.

"Keep your hands where they are—Jorda is going to be late. Do exactly as I say, and you and your men may yet live to tell your children of this night. Do you know who I am?"

"Ye- yeah. You're 'ertha's guest. Ralph, innit? Meadrow, right?"

"Yes, but you are from parts unknown to me."

"Well, you ain't heard of it, sure, but that don't mean I wouldn't like to go back. On my feet, that is."

"Do as I say, and you may go home whenever you like. You and your men may take Reya's place, and I'll leave the key with the Lady of the House."

"She'd leave us to rot. Heartless, that one."

"I think not. Without her prisoners, and with all of Sangholm aware of her treachery, she'll need safe passage out of here. Four outriders will be better than nothing, and her racing cart may offer the fighting chance she'll need. Traitor or not, she's a rich woman, and the wealthy have the habit of keeping their treasures divided among many places. She can pay well for an escort to safety, and I'm sure she can manage lavish payment for four men."

That was all rubbish. I fully intended to take the woman prisoner, but of course, he didn't know that. He nodded throughout my offer, and especially when I mentioned my knowledge of his three associates—only a guess, really, based on the number of chairs at the entry—and as I felt I'd reached my audience, my tone grew lighter immediately.

"Here's what's going to happen: you are going to move back to the door, and convince the man beyond to open it—without raising his suspicions. Make any excuse you like, and when he opens the door, warn him against trying to fight. This Sword of mine bites through iron as easily as cloth and flesh, so any man who raises arms against me is not long for this life. Do you understand?"

He nodded his head.

"Good. Remove your sword belt."

He did, and his curved short sword and matching dagger clattered to the ground. He held his hands over his head, and with my point almost upon his back we returned to the passage. At the door he knocked loudly, shouting in a clear voice.

"Open up Morrie, I forgot my lucky handkerchief. Harvest sniffles and all that. Gets to my nose even down here. I'll tell ya, no matter how far north I go I spend half the year breathin' through my mouth, and the other half squattin' over some-"

He had been talking throughout the fumbling of keys and the rattling and scraping of the lock, but as the door opened I pushed my new friend into the room and leapt in after him, my point to Morrie's throat. The other fellow, the one who had aided me in gaining entry, did not try to rush me. He remained quiet, and did not attempt to run. Clearly, he was a survivor, perfectly willing to fight if he had to, but unwilling to foolishly risk his life. A mercenary, and a level-headed one, at that. My words were for his fellow.

"You're Morrie, then? Good. You get the same offer as your friend. Do not fight me, and I will not kill you. You take Reya's place in the cell, I leave the key with Hertha, and she pays you to help her flee the law. You keep your job, and nobody has to die. What will it be?"

He said nothing, and answered instead by unbuckling his sword belt and holding it out to me.

"Remove the sheaths, and place them gently on the floor."

He did as I asked, and Morrie's bald friend bound him with his own harness at my behest.

"Thank you. What is your name?"

"Burra."

"Thank you, Burra, you are being most cooperative. If you are willing to continue in that spirit, I will make it worth your while. I have a coin of white gold in my pocket, and if you tell me where Reya is being held, you may share it with your friend. None of the others will have to know. White gold, Burra, the good stuff, not the mundane alloy of silver and the yellow cousin. Real white gold. That's a fortune, even split between the two of you. You can go home and retire, or squander it in a year on wine and women. Live long or live fast—either way you'll be alive. What do you say?"

I held the coin up for Burra to see. That did it.

"Reya's two levels down. She'll be guarded—and not by the likes of Morrie and me. And you should know, there are more than four of us."

"How many?"

"Seventeen, including me and my—associates."

"I see. Well, that is a problem."

"Yeah, ain't it? Should be no problem for the Onidai, though."

"Are they all in one place, or can I take them in groups?"

"Should be two more on this level, and they are the likes of Morrie and me. We can all be bought, but don't expect us to help—not at odds of thirteen to five."

"Fair enough. Why are you helping me at all?"

"That coin of yours- it really is white gold, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Hertha pays in silver. Big coins, but only one per week, food and lodgings thrown in. That coin in your purse is worth more than any one of us could make in twenty years. For five year's pay, you can have all the cooperation you want—at least from the four of us. We'd even lend a hand in the fighting, if the odds were closer to even, but for one quarter of that coin, I'll at least stay out of the way."

"Burra, I have a confession to make—I have three more. Used to have eight, but I wasted some of them making a- nevermind. For a whole coin, will you help me even the odds- if you don't have to risk your own necks, I mean?"

In truth, I had ten before the making of the heart key, and even after paying Burra and the others, two would yet remain. Nonetheless, I didn't want them to think I was holding out on them, though if Burra thought my scrip was heavier than I'd let on, he gave no sign.

"For a whole coin, I'll fight an equal number of anyone you'd like. That's my retirement in your purse there."

"And how do I know I can trust you?"

He touched his breast, with the appearance of a man deeply offended.

"Even mercenaries have a code of honor. When the competitor outbids your employer, you have a new employer."

"Fair enough."

"What do you want us to do?"

"Less than you might think. First, untie Morrie, then go and retrieve your weapons—you may need them, eventually."

He did as I asked, and though I kept my distance, I felt in the madness of the moment that I could trust them. They were clearly foreign, corsairs of some sort, judging by their clothing and weapons, and certainly not of the Banners, and that was all I needed as proof that they were mercenaries. And he was right, my bid of one white gold coin for simple cooperation was more than Hertha could ever offer them, even with all her wealth. Twenty year's pay for a single night's complicity, and they could retire—or cut my throat while I had my back to them.

In any case, I trusted them to see to their own self-interest, and since I had no intention of paying them until the job was done, I could trust that they would not send me to my death without at least the courtesy of informing me on what I would be facing. If the others had time to rummage my purse before them, they might not get paid at all, and they would have serious trouble explaining how I'd slipped past them in the first place.

Burra returned with his weapons, and Morrie had already left to bring in his fellows. Burra smiled warmly.

"Right then, Boss, what's the first order of business?"

"That depends on what awaits below."

He winced, then shrugged deeply and rubbed his bald dome with eyes to the floor.

"Eight armed men. There's more: they have these things that shoot arrows—like bows, right? But the bendy part stays bent 'til they're ready to use 'em. Real fast to respond, I've seen 'em in training, and I happen to know that they never sleep at the same time as the five on guard below them. They'll be wide awake, and the other five are likely to wake up in all the commotion."

The other two approached silently, hands up, just as Burra had done. They understood my designs, and I took out all four coins to show them, though I left the two remaining, as there was really no need to bribe them beyond one coin apiece. And bribe it would have been, if kidnapping had not been possible, for that had been my intent, and my reason for carrying such wealth, though I knew that convincing a provincial servitor that it was more valuable than yellow gold might have been difficult. Luckily, mercenaries are not so innocent in matters of greed.

"Here's your payment, gentlemen, to be doled out the moment Reya is safely on the road home. I won't ask you to fight at odds of more than two-to-one, but about the five below—are they the same as their fellows? They are all Centrists, are they not?"

"Centrists?"

"From the land beyond the Central Sea. Thundering weapons, lockbows, steam carts—surely you've heard of them."

He had the beginnings of a curled grin on his face.

"Sure, sure, you could say that, but we've never heard anyone call them 'Centrists' before. They call their country Ebria, and until late spring we'd never heard of that filthy wasteland of theirs. We've had to spend the whole summer with these humorless, steam-breathing sons of whores."

"Wait, if they've only been here for a few months-"

"-Four months."

"If they've only been here four months, why are they about Hertha's business now? I take it they were not Reya's abductors-"

Their abashed looks and evasive eyes were all too eloquent—they had abducted both mother and child. Burra was fast to explain.

"Not our usual line, that I'll admit, but 'ertha said they weren't to be harmed. We were gentle, and the Lady made sure that Reya was given plenty of food, and everything she needed for the baby. Sigred, he's called, after his grandfather. Used to let me hold 'im, back when I was in charge. Cute kid. I had one just like 'im, once.

"Anyway, the Ebrians got 'ere four months ago with a high-born prisoner, some Ebrian nobleman, or the like, a 'danger to stability', they said, so we had company. 'ertha decided the new one was too important to be watched by a handful of old cutthroats, so she detained thirteen of the thirty-man escort, and here we are. Not a very cordial bunch, but the eight with the fancy bows, they're just amateurs, peasants of a sort with a few month's training and years of Ebrian 'schooling'. We're all animals, as far as they're concerned. There'll be no treaty my friend, and that I can tell you for free.

"Amateurs, like I said, but below, where Reya and the kid are bein' held? Warriors. Four with broadswords and shields, and another with one of the long thin ones. All point, like a spear for one hand. Clever idea, really, but it looks heavy."

"And with the lockbowmen awake, the others would be asleep? Very well, then. I suppose that will be enough to go on. In any case, I have a plan."

"Do you now? Plan on leapin' in with that pretty blade? Scare 'em to death?"

"No, I am going to let them shoot at me, and if you don't want to help, at least lend me a few of your knives. They are balanced for throwing, I trust."

* * *

Only Morrie and Tarka—one of the other two mercenaries—wore the straight-bladed daggers that I was capable of throwing, and as the dagger I had claimed from my attempted assassin was too long for hurling, I had only Malmheith's gold-hilted knife to add to the other two. I convinced myself that three good throws might be all that time would allow, for if the five warriors rose to join their comrades before the eight lockbowmen had been slain, I would have to draw Sequiduris, and would then be vulnerable to their darts. Proper timing would be essential.

They were all awake, and as I descended to the third sub-level of Hertha's dungeon, Malmheith's knife already palmed for the throw, I smiled at my luck, seeing that all their weapons were placed upon a single rack. The unwitting soldiers were standing and sitting around a low table, their attention fixed on the rolling of the dice rather than the loaded weapons on the rack four paces behind them. Clearly, they trusted the four men at the upper levels to caution them against the approach of any enemy—and that was their great error.

The man in custody of the dice was the center of attention. He shook the cubes, his eyes to the ceiling as he chanted a supplication to one of his lesser gods—as good a final moment as any.

I had ample time to gauge the distance, and an almost perfectly stationary target as I leapt from hiding and stepped into the throw. I had thrown it by the grip, with the point facing me on the release, and the reflective blur of white iron flew in a straight line, flickering in the empty air—glowing in the dim light the moment it arrived on target. After one half-spin it struck the man just beneath his upraised chin, and even after the dice fell from his hand, it took a moment for the others to fully comprehend what had happened.

His seven fellows watched, their eyes wide as my first victim choked and frothed his final breaths, then collapsed into insignificance. Their eyes followed the path of destruction, and the room grew very still as they took in my alien form. With a single step, I passed beyond the shadows of the corridor that they might see me clearly, then crouched low and drew both of my remaining knives. As I scanned each of their faces I grinned an evil grin, all the while hissing some forgettable threat under my breath.

They did not wait for me to give chase, and in their panic they did not stop to shout the alarum to the men sleeping below. Instead, they ran for the relative safety of their weapons, but not before I dropped a second, my knife striking him full in the back. Now they did speak, and their words were not for me. Their leader shouted orders, single words of command to prepare his men for attack, and each word was appreciably loud, that I suspected he was shouting equally to the five warriors beneath his feet. They lined up and aimed as one, and I gave them sufficient motivation, stepping forward with my remaining knife to encourage the coming shot. He gave the command, and they loosed.

No matter how many times I experience the power of the Coiling Sheath, I will never grow accustomed to the experience of simply allowing such certain death to fly swiftly against me—but that is just what I did, though my hands grew chill and I broke into a clammy sweat as those darts were launched upon me. I saw the arc of their flight, and so great was the power behind them that they did not drop from view, as Brenna's arrow in the Council Chamber, but rather flew around me, missing my body narrowly but surely, that I felt the air displaced by their passing.

As the Ebrian officer shouted the command to reload (or so I must assume, as that is exactly what they did in response), I gripped the hilt of the remaining dagger in my left hand, then released it as I pinched the point between right thumb and forefinger. Even as I stepped to the throw, my left hand was seeking the throat of the coiling sheath, tilting it so that the blade would lay parallel to the floor, greatly speeding my draw at the crouch. As the left hand rose, the right arm fell, and the dagger flew from my hand. The peasant-officer fell stone dead, Morrie's dagger stuck nearly to the hilt in his brow, and the remaining five were sorely vexed by his passing.

They fumbled, trembled and cursed, and I felt a momentary pang of compassion for them, knowing that they were conscripts of a sort, unwitting peasants unable to control the course of their lives—but I could not permit them to live. I cleared the remaining expanse of that room at a crouching sprint, drawing even as I did, and the first three fell with a single sweeping slash, their heads landing well in advance of their bodies.

I slew the seventh, cannier than his fellows, as he made for one of the two untouched lockbows upon the rack, and the last as he forsook his unloaded weapon and leapt upon me with his dagger. He might have had me, had he simply lunged underhanded, but he tried for the overhand stab. I sidestepped, then swept my blade swiftly through his arm at the shoulder, and when he fell, screaming to the ground, I stabbed through center spine to cleave his heart, and left my blade within him, pinning him to the ground. Hearing feet upon the stairs below, I took the two loaded lockbows from the rack, placing one upon the ground beside me and kneeling with the other, its Ebrian dart leveled upon the landing.

The officer, bold man that he was, rose first into view, wielding the most beautiful Ebrian longsword I had ever seen. The blade was a handspan shorter than its commoner cousins, about half a Meadrow spear shaft in length, and the twisted bars and wires of the hilt appeared to be crafted from solid gold. The blade blazed in the flickering light of the many oil lamps like a hjarrviht, and it undulated in the manner of a Brek javelin, but gentler and with a centered cross-section; though the spine was perfectly at center of the blade, it wavered evenly and unerringly with its edges.

My observations were short-lived, and when the officer's gaze fell upon me, I loosed a dart to strike him full upon his unarmored brow. By the time the four others had marked the passing of their leader, I had already retrieved the second lockbow. As the fourth man rose to my eye-line, I felled the second, my dart aimed at his neck, for that was the only vital point I could find that had not been covered by a thin layer of iron.

They wore cuirasses made from two plates, the one at front bulbous, apparently fitted only vaguely to the form of the men who wore them, and their vambraces, greaves and skull caps were all simply and impressively crafted in uniform pieces, leaving their upper arms, necks, thighs, groins, and lower faces as my only available targets—they must have been sleeping in their armor, for the fitting of that array of iron was the work of at least a quarter-hour, and longer without the aid of servants. As the second warrior fell to the ground, the others leapt in alarum, hesitating just long enough for me to rise and retrieve my Sword.

It is said that the bodies of dead men clamp down upon the weapons of their victorious foes, hampering them against removal in a final act of vengeance—Sequiduris knows no such constraint. I had only to work the edge, and the weapon flew free. Holding my Sword flat against the opposing eye-lines, as Sigmund had instructed so many months ago, I obscured the ability of my opponents to gauge the reach of my blade.

The first of them ran for me, far bolder and braver than the others, his face animated by a grim smile, and it was clear that he was unaware of the dimensions, or power, of Sequiduris. He had expected an exchange of parry and thrust, but I severed his weapon cleanly, exulting in the sound of the whining ring as the broken end tumbled from view, and I followed through with the motion to carry the point across his eyes. Deeply did I gouge, and that man lost far more than his vision, for he fell without a sound.

His fellows hesitated, but I did not, and so the fourth fell, just as the third: had I wielded a weapon of common iron against them, or even a hjarrviht, they might have used some clever stratagem against me, or simply overwhelmed me with the force of their numbers. But with Sequiduris and Sheath I had no such fears, and those tools served me well, that a boy of seventeen was able to outwit and outfight a dozen men in far less time than it has taken to recount.

My remaining foe was not so enthusiastic as his fellows.

To his credit, the lone survivor did not attempt to run, but tried instead to win in any way that he could, avoiding blade contact, kicking furniture into my path, and trying to maneuver around my weapon so that he might strike at my unarmored back or flank. Of course, it was all to no avail, for my blade was longer than his, and in full extension I was far beyond his reach.

Finally, he made the mistake of trusting in his shield, and as I saw him crouch low, the ward aligned with his shoulder, his intention to bull-rush and knock me to my back, I simply held out my point and braced for impact—though I felt little. As the point of my Sword slid through the thin iron of his round shield, the force of his charge spitted his body upon it. It was not a clean wound, and it missed his heart entirely, so that I had to free my weapon to finish him. At last, counting thirteen corpses upon the floor, I cleaned my blade upon the bedclothes of one of the low cots, then called for Burra and the others. They were no less astonished than I, but I gave them no time to recover.

"Cover these bodies with bedsheets, and do what you can about the blood. Reya will be at her wit's end, and we must make this transition as easy as possible. You may take what you like, provided you share it equally, but be gentle with their corpses, for they fought well. Leave the chief officer as I have left him. Burra, come with me."

I took the keys from the belt of the dead captain, and almost stopped to admire his sword, when I saw the bauble hanging from his neck. On a loop of braided raven hair, the captain had been wearing an intricate key of white gold—a gift from the Lady of the House, or perhaps the captain had taken it from the treasures he was meant to guard. My dart had hit him high on the head, and the wound had stopped his heart before much blood could flow. The braid was yet untouched, and I took it, uncertain if I should offer it to my love after such a grisly reclamation.

At the lowest level of the dungeons the door had been left ajar, and against a dwindling fear of throat-cutting I let Burra enter ahead of me. The walls of the antechamber were lined with shelves, and there were four beds, all of finer construction and with thicker mattresses than those above. I scanned the shelves and made to pass, but stopped when I saw a familiar object. It was a bronze octahedron with a dial, surmounted by three crystals. How could it be the same? Skiro's tower was a world away, the man himself dead, and by then all entrances to his tower would have been barricaded with mud and rubble. How then could this be the same? When I turned the knob, the crystals lit up. It was the same! But who could have brought it? I ignored the intake of breath behind me; clearly Burra had never seen Skiro's crystals at work.

"When we leave, see that you retrieve this. It may be important, though it is of little value to any but myself."

"Right boss. Will do."

On another shelf, I recognized a folded pile of silken cloth. It was red and white, and I knew immediately that it would be the same style of robe worn by Sigmund, albeit a much smaller version. That I took myself, after handing the keys to Burra, and with Sword and robe I followed him into a second chamber, smaller than the others, but with much finer furnishings. The bed was clothed in silk, and there was a tapestry of the same material on the wall to the left of entry. I saw a sheathed longsword of the common design hanging from the headboard, and took it for myself, slinging its harness across my back so that the hilt rose above my right shoulder.

Atop a short wardrobe, I found a small chest among stacks of unintelligible papers, and a few were long and tightly rolled. The chest was half again a handsbreadth in width, and about a third as deep, and within I found a stunning array of jewelry. A wristlet, two rings, and an amulet, all bearing intricate insignias, and one of the rings was clearly fashioned of white gold. All of those trappings were set with diamonds and dark sapphires, save the white gold ring, which was some sort of signet, and though they were worth a fortune, I saw much in them of symbolic value, as well. Making a sack of one of the silken pillowcases, I dropped the jewelry case within, then tied it to my belt. I had it in my head that these were trappings of the Ebrian hostage, and felt it wise to keep them.

Retrieving the second pillowcase, I piled the papers therein, then handed it to Burra. He was a clever one, and against the foolishness of burdened hands he knotted the pillowcase top and bottom, then retrieved a length of cord from his scrip and transformed a silken extravagance into an able pack.

Burra led me into the third chamber, and, after much hesitation on his part, we stepped together into a dimly lit world. How Una could have been there before, and lived to tell about it, I cannot guess, and I never thought to ask, though I knew that Hertha would not have been so keen to let a girlish tongue move about in the free air after bearing witness to such sights.

Not a soul in that place was alive to speak of the horrors they had witnessed, or to complain of the torments visited upon them. I will not dwell on the sights my eyes beheld, other than to say that I saw no clear sign of death, and no expression of final agony upon the faces of most of the dead, though a few of the women had been stretched upon a rack or left to bleed, their lower legs severed cleanly. The rest had no apparent cause of death, though perhaps I had been blinded by my time in the presence of Skiro's slaves. Burra ended my wondering.

"Those bastards! It was only a bit of bread and a cup of water. A bowl of porridge and a smidge of cheese! So far beneath them, they would not even feed the starving! And we are animals to them? What sort of man could do this? This wasn't an order from the Lady; she was at least willing to feed them, to imprison them without shackles. Look how they chained them! Look how they killed the women! What was their crime? What have they done? What have I done?"

Through the bundled robe, I pressed my hand to Burra's shoulder to calm him, though I felt no less outraged, and quite pleased that I had slain the tormentors. It was only later that I fully understood his last remark, and, realizing that he felt some responsibility for the fate of those slain, I was glad that I had chosen reason over violence.

As his breathing slowed, I whispered in reverent tones, as if those victims had already been interred with honors.

"I've paid them, Burra. No- not quite, for their deaths were too quick. But I will pay them. Their leaders, generals, and all those who train men to behave like monsters. You have my word."

He grew very quiet, and made a concerted effort not to look at me, though at the time I did not understand the meaning of his silence. And then I remembered Reya and Sigred.

"Is—she in here?"

"What? No. Next chamber. Separate cells."

I felt relieved and apprehensive at the same time. What sights awaited me in the next chamber? Would I find a desiccated corpse, clutching the still form of an infant child? I steeled myself, and followed Burra past indescribable horrors. As he turned the key, I sheathed my Sword, trusting in the man's apparent liking of young Sigred, and in his apparent lack of caution, for I knew that he would not walk into danger with burdened hands and a sheathed sword.

The room was plainly furnished, but well lit, with a cell to either side—an iron framework built into the stone walls. The floor within the cells was covered in threadbare cloth, and in the leftmost cell I saw a young girl calming a fussy infant in her arms. The child was around a year old, and appeared healthy; the mother appeared healthy, a girl of about eighteen. Even without the golden braids, proud bearing, steely eyes, and strong cheekbones, I would have known her as Sigmund's sister, just as easily as I would have known her as Rigga's daughter, for her first words were filled with the blend of irony and wisdom I had received through translation from her brother, and in a more youthful version of her mother's august tone.

"Greetings Burra, come in. And don't worry yourself with formalities—our guest needs no introduction. From the rush of my jailers, and the commotion above, I am certain that he is a friend. My jailers are dead, I suppose. If it is all the same to you, I will mourn their passing later, in private. Are you here to release me, Burra, or is this simply a changing of the guard?"

And then, I saw something I could not have expected—Burra, transformed into something resembling a father. Nurturing, quiet, gentle, with light steps and bowed, unchallenging shoulders. He unlocked Reya's cell, took the baby carefully from her arms, and held him in such a way that the boy's fussing ceased instantly. He spoke in low, calming tones.

"With respect, Lady Reya, some introduction is needed, for this is no mere jailer. To me he is many things, for though he might have slain me, easily, from the look of the thirteen corpses above, he chose to outbid Lady Hertha, and retain the services of me and my fellows, instead."

She apparently trusted Burra, for she walked from the cell as easily as a woman who had known full liberty, and thought nothing of leaving him with her infant son. She inspected me briefly from head to toe, then asked the needful question, or implied it.

"Very well, you may make yourself known."

I smiled, then held out her robe.

"I am many things to many people. Employer of the Fatherly Cutthroat; Friend to the Chieftain of the Singing Hands; Wielder of the Builder's Brand; Wearer of the White Serpent. To you, Lady, I am but a man requesting that you wear the robe of your station, for until your mother sees you at court in safety, I will never be allowed to leave this place. Can you guess at my name?"

She returned my smile and took the robe from my hand, answering as she threw it on.

"You are Burra's savior, and a friend of my gentle brother. At your hip you wear the Kenalkan sword, known to some by the name Sequiduris. The rest of your riddle is lost on me, but still I think I know enough to answer. You are Ralph, the boy chosen through the Orinsos, and apparently you have accomplished much, since last I had word of you."

I was about to inform her of the recent goings-on, when the warmth of my introduction was cut short by the gentle clearing of a throat from the other cell. The man in question, still lying upon a thin mattress, was of noble birth. That much I knew, in spite of the simple clothing and relaxed posture.

He had dark hair, clean and well kept, that fell nearly to his shoulders, and his skin was near to the color of unripe olives. The structure of his face was magnificent, for his jaw, while masculine, was yet delicate, not at all brutish, and though his nose was long, it was perfectly straight and narrow. He had long, slender cheekbones and dark, soulful eyes, and his perfectly groomed chin and upper lip and smooth cheeks and jawline were evidence that even jailers of the worst inhumanity would not deny this nobleman the right to maintain his appearance.

He rose slowly, and I saw that he was of medium height, somewhere between that of Lior and Brenna, with clean limbs, broad shoulders, and narrow hips. His posture was perfect, and when he gripped the bars of his cell I saw strong, slender hands with nimble fingers, unmarred by labor, save the callouses on the outside of his right index finger—a suggestion of more than a passing familiarity with swordplay. He was direct and slightly condescending, and considering the circumstances, he impressed me with his self-possession.

"If you will look carefully, jailer, I think you will find that you have missed a cell."

"Have I? No, I think not. I came for the Hjarrleth Phulako and her young son, and I have them. I see no reason why Hertha cannot at least keep you."

"I do not know who this Hertha fellow is, but it is plain enough to me that he is no longer in command here. Release me at once."

"...No. Anything else?"

"Do you know who I am?"

"No, nor do I care. Goodbye."

He shouted as I turned.

"I am The Ardos, Gabrian Frankos, Factor of the First Foundry; third son of Ebria's second heir—and I am of far greater value to you and your- people than a Hjarrleth slave and her flatulent brat."

That got my attention.

"She is no slave, and for that comment alone I see no reason why you should not be left here, where you will grow to miss the aroma of infantile flatulence. Here, you will forsake the smell of fresh air long before you sink into the madness of solitude."

I said nothing more, and turned again to leave, cautioning Reya to look straight ahead, rather than risk the sights beyond. That got him.

"-Please."

"I'm sorry, did you say something?"

"Please, do not leave me here. I am not without worth, and I give my word that I will not fight or attempt to flee."

"Is that all? Nothing else to say—to your fellow prisoners, perhaps?"

"-I am sorry. I should not have called her a slave, and I should not have insulted her child."

I looked to Reya and Burra, and they both nodded. I answered with a nod of my own, and retrieved the keys from Reya's cell door.

"Very well. You are now my prisoner, and since you are obviously of noble blood, I will accept your word that you will not attempt escape or bloodshed."

I opened his cell, and fought against the urge to grasp at the hilt of my Sword. He stretched, and stepped gracefully into the free air.

"May I speak?"

"You may."

"I would like the opportunity to retrieve my clothes and effects."

"No. I'm afraid I cannot take the chance on your position as a spy or courier, but I will instruct one of the men to collect your things. Judging by the ornaments in the guard captain's room, I will venture a guess that the clothing in that short wardrobe is yours. Am I correct?"

"You are."

"Very well."

I turned to Burra.

"When we reach the next level, instruct Morrie to collect the clothes and effects of Ardos Gabrian- Frankas? Frankos? Right, collect his things and meet us topside. Should be safe enough outside, by the time he's got everything ready."

We passed the horrors of the main dungeon again, and Reya did me the favor of taking up Skiro's light box in the anteroom. As we ascended the stairs to the site of my former battlefield, I saw that Burra's men had done as they were told, though they had each taken a lockbow for themselves, and wore them slung at their backs. Mercenaries are foremost among battlefield innovators, and they rarely let a good thing pass without taking full advantage of it.

Reya set the light box down on a table, took back her baby, and Burra transformed himself at once into the mercenary I had known previously. He followed the example of his fellows, and while he slung one of the weapons and took the two remaining dart quivers, he gave Morrie the order to gather the prisoner's effects. Morrie leapt to his task, Burra retrieved Skiro's light box, and we continued for the stairs—that is until my foreign prisoner caught sight of the gold-hilted sword.

"I request that you retrieve Flamma."

"No- Wait, what is Flamma?"

"Flamma is my sword, the blade of my forefathers, reforged from the weapon of a straw-haired savage—a trophy of one of their first expeditions to the Lower Continent, and I will not leave without it."

I whistled under my breath.

"Well, when you put it like that, how can we refuse? Tarka, take the weapon, and don't forget the belt and sheath. Perhaps we can sell it, since it's so valuable."

That silenced Ardos Gabrian Frankos, though whether he was satisfied that his blade was safe, or shocked to silence by my suggestion that I might pawn his birthright, I could not tell. All concerns dealt with, I led the procession, light-hearted and victorious—completely ignorant of the blood that stained my clothes.

### Chapter Fifteen

### Stone Melts
When I rose to the level of the storeroom I saw that Lambek was in lively conversation with a pretty Hjarrleth maiden. It was apparent that Burra had been jesting; that fatherly old cutthroat would no more couple with Jorda than he would with Lambek, for the girl was at least two years my junior. Lambek turned, then looked back at Jorda, before snapping his head back to me in open shock. Though I had left him alone, I had returned with seven followers.

"You have a strange habit of over-complicating the simple, Master Onidai."

He shrugged.

"So, what now?"

"That depends on what your prisoner will do if you release her."

He turned to Jorda.

"N-nothing, milord."

"Nonsense. I've just slain thirteen of the Lady's guards and freed her prisoners. You'll want to wake the whole household! I'll ask only that you wait a moment before throwing the entire estate into an uproar. Lambek, go and bring back the others—our following has grown far too numerous to hide in the garden."

He returned my lockbow and ran to do my bidding, and I spoke at length with Jorda to tell her of my designs. In spite of the level of trust placed upon her, it seemed the young girl had little love for her comely mistress, and when I told her of the deep sleep she and her daughters were enjoying, her confidence grew visibly.

Morrie returned even before Lambek, and I watched as Maekara removed her pack and prepared the signal that Linaj and Jakhan swore would bring them upon us instantly. It was a tall clear bottle of thin glass, filled with a viscous liquid, light amber in color, and the vessel was surmounted by a frayed length of cord.

Lambek went in search of his torch, while I followed Maekara outside. During my adventures in the dungeon the rain had ceased, though it was in evidence all around in the wet, reflective surface of the pavement. I was struck then by the same incredulous humor as all are wont to know when foul weather relents the moment they no longer stand beneath it. My woolgathering ceased as the faint roaring of Lambek's torch brought me back to concerns of the moment.

Fire kissed cloth, and Maekara threw the bottle and burning tassel towards the center of a wide courtyard. The glass shattered, the contents touching upon the blazing cord, and the entire center of the courtyard erupted in bright, pale blue flames. The burn continued for fifty steady heartbeats, then guttered and died. I almost laughed at the stupidity of the device, for who could have seen such a signal, nearly half a mile from the gates? Maekara appeared at my side.

"They will not kill the guards at the gatehouse, out of respect for the truce between Hjarrgoth and Olinbrand—Brenna wanted you to know. Look. They come."

My eyes had been on the distant light of the torches at the gatehouse, but a soft, steady thumping, and the flapping of heavy cloth lifted my gaze to the heavens. Something was moving in the blackness, and it was not the passing of a bird, but the slow approach of something far larger.

I saw it descend, even as it drew near to the courtyard of Maekara's signal. And then, all at once, a loud, brazen call, deep in resonance issued from above. Even as it drew nearer I heard the whinnying of horses in the distance, and saw, from nearly half a mile, that the gate was opening, and a host of horsemen flying through and galloping in our direction.

The floating shape picked up speed, dropping almost as swiftly as it had approached. It was truly massive—long and lenticular, and ending in a trio of spinning turbines. Large, rectangular bodies detached from its side and fell to the ground, suspended by thick cables. A dozen men and women leapt from the descending vessels, and fanned out at the behest of three, who seemed to be issuing all of the orders.

I knew Brenna by her silhouette alone. The horsemen closed in and ranged all about, and I instructed Maekara and the others to wait inside. Even as I approached Brenna with upraised hands I heard the clatter of heavy plate upon the ground, and knew that Sigmund had dismounted. The landing of the chieftain's feet was met with the shattering of pottery, and all at once the scene was illuminated by the flickering of many bright torches.

Sigmund made for me instantly, his face contorted into a look of grief and worry at the sight of blood upon my clothing. I was touched deeply by his show of concern, and it was for my well-being alone, for he could not have known the extent of my success. I stayed him with an upraised hand, and whistled for Maekara, and as she emerged from the doorway, I pointed to Sigmund. She understood, and I felt Brenna at my side as Reya came flying from the cellar door with outstretched arms. Sigmund lifted her high into the air, gently, in fear of crushing her against his unyielding skin of white iron. That display of love, immediate and unconditional, reminded me of my mother, though in truth such displays had been rare between the two of us, and, in fact, I can remember few in the time after my father's death.

My thoughts snapped back to concerns of the moment as Burra brought out baby Sigred, who had been disquieted by all the noise. For long moments, the uncle stared into the face of his nephew, and when he finally looked to me, he did so with weeping eyes.

I called Brenna, Linaj, and Jakhan to follow, and approached that happy reunion, trying hard to appear casual as I motioned to the hovering behemoth above.

"Will that- ship? Will it carry Reya to Hroaht in safety, or should we risk carrying baby Sigred on horseback? Either way, they'll need to go now, for I have a matter of some delicacy to discuss with Lady Hertha's household. Sigmund, my old friend, how would you like four hundred new houseguests?"

I explained briefly, and he nodded in agreement, even laughing his silent laugh as I outlined the probable reaction of traitorous Hertha on awakening, only to find that her estate had been abandoned. Reya fought the idea, using Sigmund's own hand signals in the first exchange of the like I had ever seen. Sigmund won out in the end, perhaps at the mention of Rigga's refusal to host her own son in Hroaht.

Eventually, the sister relented. She retrieved her baby from Burra, kissed his bald head in thanks, and made for the rectangular basket, completely unafraid, even at the prospect of traveling among the clouds. The others chose to stay, citing an ample surplus of spare mounts among Sigmund's retinue, as well as my need for additional muscle. In the end, I managed to convince the Viharthians to escort the new prisoner with Sigmund's sister, the former to be deposited at Olinbrand Manor with his effects and Skiro's light box the moment the latter was safe in her mother's arms.

And so, they rose back to the body of their flying ship, and took off at nearly twice the speed of a galloping horse, leaving Sigmund, Brenna, their retainers, and my mercenaries to stem the tide of those unwilling to accept the new order. Jorda had already been sent in haste to the main house, and among her first acts was the awakening of runners to make for the outbuildings.

In a little over an hour, the entire servile population was in attendance. I shouted them to silence, and apprised them of the situation.

"You have been duped, my friends, duped into the service of your Banner's greatest traitor. Hertha, in league with our enemy, abducted your Phulako and her infant son. We have freed them this night, but I have been informed by one of your own that the Lady will not respond well to this evening's labors. It is for that reason that you are all invited to dwell in Olinbrand Hall, until such time as you may find homes of your own."

I went on a while longer, but in the end the people saw reason. They took all they needed for a prolonged stay, and even filled wagon upon wagon with grain and fodder. By the gray light of predawn, their procession had made its way past the gates, with only scowling Namei stalking off to the bedside of her slumbering mistress.

Burra and the others had liberated five massive Nalban horses, the fifth packed heavily with lesser spoils and provisions—the monstrous brutes were fully twice the size of the largest horses I had seen—they rode up to meet the remainder of my party as casually as a family on an evening outing. They were decidedly bolder with Sigmund riding homeward to warn of his new guests in advance, and I could well understand their relief, for it was they who had kidnapped the Olinbrand Chieftain's sister in the first place.

All four mercenaries dismounted and bowed low. The others left the talking to Burra.

"Well Boss, if that will be all, there is only the matter of our pay."

I placed a coin in each of their hands, and I could see by their answering expressions that they could scarcely believe it. Burra composed himself better than the others.

"If you knew we were willing to work for only one of these, why did you pay us with four?"

"You are more than mercenaries, Friend Burra, but emissaries. Unofficial Phulakoi, each and every one of you. Foundation is a vast land, and this you and yours would know even better than I. When you go home, tell your people what you have seen. Tell them that more than a few favored nations may yet trade in peace when the war is finally over. Good luck in your travels."

I offered Burra my hand, and we clasped forearms as equals. As he hoisted himself onto the back of his giant mount, I threw him the common Ebrian longsword, the belt and baldric spiraling down the length of the sheath.

"I already have a few of those, so I don't think I'll have need of it. You may find a use for it though, especially astride that frightful new beast of yours. Long blades such as that one might do well from horseback. Someone even mentioned, very recently, that it was balanced to function like a spear for a single hand, though in truth I made the same observation months ago, during a spirited exchange with a gifted flautist. Journey safely, and try not to fight unless you have to—after all, you're retired!"

"Farewell Ralph—Onidai. You know, you aren't too bad a fellow by half. We'll drink to your health when we make it home. Meadrow Barley Brew, of course. Good luck at war. Kill a few for me. Hyah!"

With that, they thundered away on stolen horses, ending the strangest chapter yet written in the story of my long journey.

With Brenna and the others, we rode ahead of Maekara and Lambek, who had already retrieved our baggage from my former chambers. I had much to think on, mainly Namei, and the gray world that my actions had brought to her sweet, innocent mistress. Tyra was spoiled, but not ill-natured, and I was deeply saddened that she might suffer for her mother's treachery.

We took a roundabout route, avoiding the procession of ousted servitors, and galloped through Sigmund's gates only a few hours after dawn. Rowan was awake, and I kissed her chastely, making for the simplicity of Sigmund's baths, where I scrubbed away past worries along with the crusted layers of gore.

When I emerged in clean clothes it was only just midmorning. I kissed Rowan again, made for my quarters, collapsed, and slept until dusk. For the first time since my adventure in Hrafnrodd, I felt I had actually earned it.

* * *

A glow in darkness, faint and fleeting, served as my only guide. Horrible whispers, many in unintelligible tongues reached my ears as I felt my way forward. The words I understood were threats and portents of doom, and the balance contained knowledge from my own mind, never spoken to another living being. I heard the scraping of long claws on stone, and felt hot breath upon my legs and midriff, in time with a growling and hissing that burned upon my ears as live coals. Most memorable was a mocking tone in my mother's voice, echoed in the sickly-sweet timbre of long-dead Skiro.

"You will die, Onidai. Die before Second Light burns in your hand. Your heart is impure, your mind burdened with shame, your arms weak but for the poison of a madman. You owe her embrace to your own deceit; she loves only the man she knows, and long before your timely death, she will shroud her loving eyes with disgust and shame. You are nothing. No one. No more of a name than your father, and his shame will be yours."

I drew my Sword long before the first of that creature's taunts had reached my ears. Every swing, every thrust, struck empty air, or perhaps it slew all but that creature, for it did not cease to taunt me. In time my free hand struck a wall, and when I turned to seek a new path I found that I had been walled in. Every turn brought the stone closer to my body, until at last both arms were pinioned above my head. I could not climb, or even squirm, and as I voiced my final outrage, I heard that same mocking creature laughing in the distance.

The sun was setting as I awoke, and Rowan, my clever love, had heard me stirring, and knew that I would be near to waking. She goaded me into the direction of Sigmund's baths, located in the basement, then swatted me playfully on the backside with word that food would await my return.

Sigmund's baths were simpler, smaller, but no less functional than Hertha's, and to his credit he had indoor plumbing of a similar make to that found in Venibrek. In fact, it was the used bath water that fed his irrigation ditches, and for that reason a variety of soaps were off-limits, their additives a hazard to healthy crop growth—luckily, Trathnonan soaps did not fall into the prohibited category.

His bathing facility was floored with glazed earthen tile, with waterproofed plaster over the stone walls and ceiling. The varnished wooden tubs, of which there were sixteen, were divided by partitions of glazed ceramic block, the entries covered by movable curtains. There was no heating tub nonsense in Olinbrand Manor, but rather a large central tank, located above ground, filled and refilled daily and heated by a furnace from beneath. The pipes descended into the basement, gaining pressure and thus feeding into any tub with the turn of a stopcock, and the heat of the water could be manipulated by the turning of another, which fed clean rainwater from yet another tank located elsewhere on the villa grounds. Rinsing after bathing was accomplished with a ceramic jug, filled from the same spout as that which issued into the tub. Repeated dousing accomplished the same result as the torrent spouts of Venibrek, and without any costly impedimenta.

I bathed, shaved, doused, applied the scented vapor and face cream, combed and dried my hair, cleaned my teeth with cave salts, and then remembered the white gold heart key. That morning, I had wiped the surface of the key with an oil-damp cloth, though it had needed no such attention, and even applied a few drops of perfumed oil to the braided loop. I had decided to give the gift casually, offering in a simple gesture what Hertha's devious nature had denied me in true sentiment.

When I returned to my chamber I retrieved the key, then dressed in gay, decidedly unmartial clothing. I chose light sandals formed of a single-layered leather sole and intricate braids of soft hide, as well as light brown trousers of suede, and a tunic of light blue silk trimmed in a flame pattern in golden thread over a startlingly white linen shirt. The tunic had short sleeves, ending at my elbows, while the arms of the shirt stretched to my wrists, as was the Hjarrleth custom on warmer days. I tied my hair back behind my ears, then stepped into the corridor with the key hidden in a clever interior pouch at the top of my left trouser leg.

Sigmund and all the others were already dining outside among his new guests as a gesture of goodwill, and so Rowan and I dined together on a glass-enclosed portico, high on the third story of Olinbrand Manor's north wing. The dishes were made mainly from oats—a trait of traditional Tahlrenic cuisine, and a good omen by any measure. We dined with the stars in full view, undimmed by the newborn sliver of a waxing moon.

The main dish was a sort of oat porridge, made with beef broth, a bit of cream, and my favorite salty, crumbly sheep cheese that Rowan revealed was actually of Tahlrenic origin. The mixture of cheese, broth, and cream is heated, blended until the cheese has dissolved entirely, and then the mixture is poured over finely ground oats and spices and stirred until it has reached the desired consistency. I ate three full bowls, each scraped clean with a surprisingly light oat bread, the texture achieved in Tahlrenic mills that employ grindstones of perfectly smooth iron, resulting in a light, powdery flour.

Finally, when I could eat no more, I pushed my platter and bowl away, drained the last of my ale, and wiped the corners of my mouth delicately with a large napkin.

"Well, if that is any indication of your skill at cooking, we may have to revisit your love of travel so I can eat like this every day. I knew you could cook well on the road, but with a full kitchen at your disposal you truly have no rivals."

She blushed and grinned merrily, in spite of the words that followed.

"Now, now—flattery will get you nowhere. I know I'm only a passing cook, but given time, I'll improve. Most girls have had far more practice-"

"These girls—are there many of them in Tahlrene?"

She threw her napkin at me, and I laughed like the lout I was aping, then rose and reached for the key, even as I motioned for her to remain seated.

"We had a talk, you and I, before things got busy around here. I fully intend to have a discussion with your father, when the moment allows, but until then-"

I took the loop from my pocket, then swept her dark auburn tresses aside.

"One cannot wear emeralds every day, so I made this for you—a silversmith helped. I hope you like it."

She held the key to her eyes, ran her thumb along the Tahlrenic scrollwork of the shaft and bow, then looked closely at the bitting to decipher the intertwining glyphs. I saw her mouth our names, and even from behind, and from a standing position, I saw her lips protrude. She resumed that same delightful blush, that her hair and lips were only a shade darker; at that moment, I longed to see her face, that I could again look upon the stark contrast, and see there the green fire of her emerald eyes.

For a time, she looked closely at the raven loop, offering neither word nor gesture to hint at her true reaction. Then suddenly, and before I could react, she rose, spun about, pushed the chair aside, and threw her arms around my neck—no easy feat, for by then I towered head and shoulders above her. As I lifted her into the air—so that we could embrace fully—she whispered softly in my ear.

"The key is grand, and I remember your mother's story, though you could not have known. When you were bedridden, she kept me company in the late hours, and we talked of many things. I was a foreigner, so it was not a crime for her to speak to me of Hugh, so long as none heard her speak his name.

"The key to your heart is mine, and I will wear it forever. Know that even if my father found the means or the will to forbid our union, I would shame the whole of my Banner and forsake my name before ever I would deny you my heart."

She kissed me, and I lowered her to the ground, all smiles and dimples, her skin still flushed in that alluring shade of red. Together, we walked the circumference of Sigmund's house, along the glassed portico that encompassed the entire third story. The sun had set fully, and we enjoyed the sight of the many newly raised tents, all glowing from the fires within.

We talked of many things, joking, sharing news, making tentative plans for the future, until at last my true love yawned uncontrollably, and I led her to her chamber. I had no thought of following her inside, and she didn't offer, for the women of Tahlrene are chaste until marriage, and I had no desire to lure her from hallowed tradition.

I was not at all tired, and when I remembered my prisoner, I found a servitor.

"Pardon me, but may I ask if the envoy from Viharth has returned?"

"Why, yes sir, they brought the stranger three hours after midnight, and with the master away we detained him in one the barns and kept him under guard: the chieftain has ordered that the man remain there until you have indicated otherwise."

"I see, and what of his personal effects—clothing and the like—are they being kept on the grounds?"

"They are in one of the workshops on the second level, behind—may I lead you there, sir—you may find it easier that way."

I motioned for him to lead, and followed him down to an intricate block of workshops, with benches and desks covered with schematics and half-repaired or unfinished devices of Kenalkan make, as well as a good many alchemical stations—doubtless the birthplace of his bitter Hilyrtrotha.

At the center of that block my guide opened a door to a vacant room filled with candles. The servitor lit the bulk of them, which had remained unlit to prevent waste, and from sconces and banks of wicks on desks, lecterns, and low stands the room assumed a brightness which rivaled that of the sunniest day.

There was a single table at the far wall, laden with the prisoner's effects, and aside from the furniture containing candles and a few chairs there was nothing else upon the floor. I strode across the room, thanked the man for his help, then stopped him as he prepared to take his leave.

"If he isn't too tired from the many long hours of unexpected labor with which I've burdened him, perhaps the Olinbrand Chieftain would join me here—if he is still awake."

The man bowed and took his leave at last, and I took up the stranger's sword immediately. It was a masterpiece, the hilt of bar and thick wire intricately cast and worked in tiny, nearly indistinguishable patterns throughout its golden surface. The pommel was an oblong lozenge of the same beautifully etched gold, and it was set at either side with a large, many-faceted ruby. The grip was some sort of smooth bone, flawlessly white, and five rings of gold and two opposing spirals of silver added texture and purchase from within channels cut into the white surface to house them.

The blade was half again the length of my arm from shoulder to middle finger, and every finger's breadth had been hammered into a smooth, perfectly undulating tongue of white iron, the pattern broken only by a strongly reinforced, triangular point. The weight of the golden hilt brought the balance directly to the hand that held it, so that the point could be manipulated as easily as the fingers far behind.

Truly, it was a sword worthy of a name. I stood with the weapon for nearly a quarter-hour, feinting and parrying in mimicry of the style their officers had employed, before finally slipping the weapon into its sheath of white hide, wrapped in a belt of the same material—not unlike my own, save the gold throat and chape of the sheath, a match for the heavy buckle. I then examined the clothes closely, and found no note or secret device, no tablet of poison or hidden weapon within. The jewelry box was there, along with a journal or notebook, written in an unintelligible language, and also a very unique and clever tome, the like of which I had never seen.

It was the length and breadth of the average hand, but nearly as thick as the length of my thumb. There was a clasp, and when I released it, I saw that within, each 'page' was nothing less than a very detailed portrait of a living man or woman. Fourteen in all, with characters beneath each, likely marking their names.

Many were very young, and as the portraiture of a man's forebears would likely have been made at old age, or at least full adulthood, I determined that these must be portraits of our prisoner's living relations. It was strange to think that so fierce and hateful an enemy could yet love as tenderly as I, though, in truth, it had not yet been established that he was my enemy. Rather, I knew only that he was the enemy of my enemies.

The piled papers were meaningless to me, but the three rolled maps were plain enough. One was clearly of Ebria, for I saw the Central Sea to the south, and there were many points on the map that I took to be cities. Nearly one hundred were marked in a bold hand, indicating importance or high population, and the thought was extremely disheartening.

The largest map was of the continent of Foundation as a whole, and the third a detailed map of far Tulakal. Though much of that southern peninsula remained blank, save the details of topography, much of the southernmost, bulbous portion had been marked many times, the points given names in the Ebrian tongue. Also, the southern island, jutting out from the main continent, was likewise inhabited, and nearly a third of the map was comprised of a magnified rendering, with forty and more locations clearly marked, as well as rivers and ancient roads, while many symbols marked points of interest, or the locations of raw materials.

In the midst of my fruitless pondering, Sigmund knocked as he entered, and I could see that he was exhausted, so I got to the root of the matter immediately.

"I am sorry to tax you, especially when you've been so understanding, but I was wondering if the prisoner might be housed here, for the time being—he is a man of some nobility, and has yet to be established as our enemy. In fact he may be of some value to our cause—his people fear him enough to imprison him, but it seems also that they revere him too greatly to kill him."

Sigmund smiled, and yawned hugely as he signed to faithful Hod.

"I will see to it at once. The ground floor has quarters of sufficient quality, and guards will be posted at his door and window—is he truly so important?"

"I believe he is. In fact, he may have the bearing of royalty, though I'm certainly no authority on the subject."

"In that case, we should see that he is bathed in perfumed oils—that stable has not been mucked out in almost a week."

I laughed until my sides ached, then thanked Sigmund and wished him pleasant dreams.

* * *

Two hours later, Ardos Gabrian Frankos was seated in one of Sigmund's finest common rooms before a roaring hearth, drinking a cup of the finest Trathnonan red. I had passed neither sword nor jewelry into his keeping, thinking it best to keep his mind as that of a prisoner, but I released what clothing I thought might keep him in a more peaceable state of mind.

He had leathers of black boar-hide, apparently for fighting and decorated with gold and silver, as well as a fine pair of black boots with double-layered shin guards, clearly intended to protect him in a fight against those armed with the weapon of his own preference—I kept those in safe-keeping, but allowed him his everyday clothing, of which he wore a long white shirt of silk, a black felt vest, pantaloons of dark leather, and matching shoes, buckled with silver. Even without sword and jewelry, he cut a fine figure.

Aside from the two of us, only a night servant stood by, filling the goblet of my guest as needed. I took the burden of conversation, leaving him to consider his position as he savored his wine in silence.

"Clearly, you are out of favor with your people. I mean no insult, but it seems to me that a new order may be in place in Ebria, which leads me to worry, or at least sympathize, for the fear you must feel on behalf of your family. These are depictions of your family, are they not?"

I held up the book of portraiture, then called the helpful servant to relay it from my hand to that of its owner. Ardos Gabrian Frankos smiled, glad to reclaim the keepsake, though he said nothing in response.

"What am I to call you? I know your proper name, but Ardos Gabrian Frankos is a bit wordy, even for me. Do you have a title that I might use to address you? Surely you'd prefer a proper mode of address to being called simply 'prisoner'."

Again he smiled, motioning for his goblet to be refilled as he spoke.

"My name is Gabrian Frankos—that is the name permitted to my equals. My full name is Gabrian Nikkolos Armados Marozzo Viggiani Alfieri Frankos, but that is simply a genealogical title, chronicling the names of my forefathers these past five generations, as well as the name 'Frankos', used by my entire line as an homage to our forbear, who built the First Foundry on Ebria, and constructed the first of our warships. My title is Ardos, an honorific identifying me as the ruler of one-eighth of Ebria's population, as well as much of its arable farmland, salt-works, and the First Foundry, itself."

"So—Ardos, then, or some respectful mode of address making reference to that title?"

"His Excellency is the prevailing honorific, though I will not expect an enemy to speak so well of one of the rulers of a nation that will shortly eradicate his own. Ardos will do—for now."

"Very well, Ardos. But is victory so assured, when thirteen of your soldiers—eight wielding some of your best weaponry, and five armed as true warriors—were defeated by a lone boy of seventeen? My mercenaries did not even descend into the lower levels until the work was done."

He did not even flinch, and I found myself in deep admiration of his flawless self-possession.

"I see no reason to judge the outcome of an entire war, based solely on the fact that the so-called 'Champion of the Kenalkan Banners' managed to act in the capacity of a champion, particularly when wielding a blade of legend. That was Sequiduris, was it not?"

"It was. It seems that you know more about me than I about you, Ardos. My compliments."

"Oh, there can be no doubt about that. You are famous in my country, you know. In Ebria, breeding is everything, and so the son of a disgraced coward is of particular note, when he seems to confound the careful planning of my nation's most cunning thinkers.

"You kept them guessing for quite some time, when your recovery of Rorik's Sword was reported by their spies in Venibrek, even with their company still on guard in Rorik's Clearing. It took further time for them to realize that their swordsman's death had not been an accident born of a chilly night and too much vapor. Further, you stood up for yourself quite admirably during the diversionary attack on your home Banner. You retrieved the stolen Key, killed their assassins, thwarted their ambush of the Trathnona, and, if your attentiveness in retrieving Skiro's lamp is any sign, you've already made the acquaintance of their chief engineer. Pity, for the newest developments in transportation and manufacture were to his credit, alone."

He let that sit and returned to his wine. Skiro had called them Centrists, the same as many others who knew nothing of Ebria. This was a mystery, but I left that for later.

"You are awfully forthcoming for a blood enemy. May I make an observation?"

He invited me to do just that with the flat of his open palm.

"You seem to attribute the actions of the enemy as those of a will other than your own. By 'they' I will assume that you mean not only wills other than your own, but divergent from your family, as well. If you are of the ruling class, who is it that now rules Ebria?"

"My uncle Varian has that honor—for the moment. It was his idea to invade the Lower Continent—food shortages and overpopulation are strong motivators, even to the cowardly lower orders. In fact, it was my opinion, or rather that of my father, that trade with the Banners would have been in our best interest—trade and high taxation to discourage procreation beyond the birth of a single child. White gold, salt, and mass manufacture might easily have granted in trade what my uncle would take for his own at the expense of many lives, though of course, he sees the deaths of many soldiers as a compromise—a more practical method of population control, to be paired with the farmland gained through full-scale invasion.

"To his mind, the war-tithe serves a higher purpose, culling the weak and incompetent, that the standing army at campaign's end might hold what they have taken. And the cost? Why, nothing more than a few hundred thousand breathless mouths, none of which need ever be fed again. A bit rash, but one cannot argue with the results."

"What results, Ardos? He has conquered none of the Banners."

"Indeed, but then Ebria is not the only nation north of the Salsuk—or rather, it wasn't, until now."

"So that's it, then. Exterminate the lesser beings, rather than trade with them in a civilized manner. A campaign of annihilation, is that it?"

"Quite. You didn't think this conversation would end in some sort of treaty, did you, Onidai? I have no more power to prevent this war than I do to prevent my own execution."

"Execution?"

"Come now! The stable, the sudden comfort I am being permitted, the gathering of locals. They are pitching tents, are they not? What else would they await so eagerly, if not the spectacle of my death?"

I could not help but laugh, and for the first time, I saw him lose his power of self-possession. His face lost all color, and that sudden pallor filled me with an indescribable confidence of my own. He was off-balance at last, and though he seemed to be dealing with the prospect of his death with more courage than I would have expected—or displayed, had I been in his position—I felt finally that I had gained the upper hand.

"For one thing, they are awaiting the departure of the lady to whom you owe the comfort of your former lodgings. They are her servitors, serfs, and workmen, and in the absence of Reya, her primary prisoner, they feared her wrath, and sought shelter here, until such time as they may find work elsewhere.

"Why would we kill you? What, of all things, would your death accomplish? Until now, I was not even aware of your position, Ardos. We don't kill vagabonds here, though we do on occasion employ them, when their labors might yield something other than grief."

The color returned to his face throughout my speech, so I knew that he believed me. His self-possession faded at once, as if he no longer feared the effects of posterity.

"May I ask then...what am I doing here? You have hundreds of new mouths to feed, a foolish burden, in light of the coming shortages—killing me was the only logical course of action, and yet here I sit, drinking your wine. Why?"

"First, it is not my wine, but that of Sigmund, Chieftain of the Olinbrand, and it is not even his, really. He traded for it, likely with wool, honey, beeswax candles, or any of two dozen other northern commodities. That wine is of the Trathnona, who are among the finest vintners upon Foundation, though the Viharthians might be of a different opinion. To answer your question, I cannot explain my motives for keeping you alive, other than to say that I saw little choice in the matter. You were not an immediate threat, and leaving you in that cell was not much of an option, either."

"But—why not? It makes no sense!"

"I do not understand the question. You seem to think that killing is the default choice, when no obvious alternative exists. Is that truly the way of your people? If so, you may want to ask yourself if you were fighting on the right side."

When I saw that he understood my meaning I moved to a side table. There I removed the large napkin that had been hiding the Ardos's jewelry box, and spoke again as I placed it in his hands myself.

"Inside Olinbrand Manor, even the chieftain remains unarmed, so for the time being, your sword will remain with me. For now, rest. Think on our conversation, and how you wish to spend the balance of your days. Please inform this man of the hour you prefer to bathe, so that an appropriate escort may be arranged in advance—he will guide you back to your chambers. Good evening."

I left Ardos Gabrian Frankos with an expression of unmasked confusion.

The hour was late, and so I thought to sleep off the remaining hours before sunrise, and thus resume normal waking hours. At the third floor, I walked around the northern perimeter of the enclosed portico to find that Grid had stolen away from Miner. She was standing outside, on one of the uncovered observation decks, and appeared to be talking to herself. That is what I thought at first, until I drew closer, and heard a voice in answer.

It was a simple enough mode of speech, primitive and delivered in croaking tones, and at first I was soul-chilled by the sound, recalling briefly the memory of the day's disquieting dream. I was too far away to understand the balance of the conversation, but when the exchange ended, I saw the movement of a shadowy form on the railing, and heard a flapping and squawking that left me without the slightest doubt that Grid had been conversing with a raven. A strange acquaintance, indeed, for a girl who had nearly been fed to the creatures.

She turned to leave, and I hid behind a thick curtain, holding my breath as she passed in the direction of her own chambers. That it had been one of Skiro's ravens I was in no doubt, for the creatures spoke passing well, and one does not forget the singular experience of being interrogated by a bird. But why the secrecy? It mattered little to me, I decided, if the young girl wished to communicate with her distant father or brother in some small way, and so I dismissed it as yet another peculiar occurrence on another unusual day.

My bed was softer than I remembered, and for the remainder of that night I slept dreamlessly.

* * *

Three days passed in a similar manner, and on the morning of the fourth I arose just after dawn, bathing immediately, in light of the fact that I would be standing in the presence of my true love. I had just finished dressing, when I was summoned immediately to the main hall. Sigmund was there, in full armor, though weaponless, and all of the members of his house were likewise covered in a wide array of martial attire.

Rowan and Brenna were there, likewise Vadir and the Viharthian brothers, and the latter wore an intricate armor of flattened reeds, butted together and covered in bronze. The surfaces were flat, the joining of four or five reeds forming individual planes, so that both brothers bore the resemblance of opaque gemstones from shoulder to ankle. Sigmund was fast to inform me of recent happenings, and he could hardly contain himself.

"You are summoned to Hroaht, with all the Phulakoi in your retinue—as am I. Your armor and Sword have been cleaned, and I have two retainers already awaiting your arrival. Linaj and Jakhan have consented to escort us into Harkona with all speed. With your consent, we will leave as soon as we may."

I could well understand his enthusiasm, and could not help but smile at his news myself.

His retainers fitted my armor in less than a quarter-hour, and, fully equipped in that gilded bronze finery, with my cape perfectly draped, my sword-belt girded on, shield upon my left arm with my helmet tucked beneath the right, I was led up staircase after staircase, until finally I reached the flat roof of the manor's central edifice, to find Rowan awaiting my arrival alone—at first sight of my true love, the floating behemoth behind her shrank into insignificance.

She was dressed in the robes of her station, pale blue with the device of a silver-white ram's head ringed in a field of gold across her chest, and in her right hand she held an ancient shepherd's crook, so old that, like L'mah's massive club, it appeared to be crafted from polished stone. She wore my heart key around her neck, outside her clothing for all to see, but when I moved forward to kiss her, she recoiled.

"It is not for a man to take liberties with those who wear these robes of honor."

My shoulders slumped, and I felt my face flush in embarrassment. I was at the point of apology, when I felt something pull upon my neck, and when I looked up I saw that Rowan had found a use for her crook. She pulled me to her, and pulled harder, so that I had to stoop to her eye-line.

"There is nothing in Tahlrenic law that prohibits the taking of my own liberties. Kiss me quickly—they are probably watching."

I did, and ten heartbeats and several centuries later, she released me. We walked together, equally in awe of the Viharthian vessel, and only then did I have occasion to notice it. A great lenticular body, all silk in appearance, loomed high above us, fully a third the size of Olinbrand Manor, and that in itself impressed me greatly, for I could not even conceive of the volume of silk needed to build such a sail, as I assumed that body must be.

The hull of the vessel-proper had been painted a light blue-gray to match the tremendous sail, and even as I looked up to admire its make I saw the same rectangular body descend from above. As the hanging conveyance landed, the door fell forward, forming a wide ramp. I followed Rowan inside, and saw then that it was actually a basket, the wickerwork achieved by strong reeds, flattened and lacquered smooth; I was shortly to learn that the entire vessel had been similarly constructed.

The ropes that lifted us skyward were of plaited silk, and again I found reason to marvel, for a single bolt of the same cloth had cost me fifty-three coins in standard silver in Algrae—more than a year's wages for a common laborer. It was a jarring experience, to be hoisted so high into the air, and there was more than a bit of swaying, so that I was forced to don my helmet, freeing my right hand to hold tightly to the sturdy rail. Rowan was not at all unaffected by the experience, but this was not her first ascent, and as I knew that she would be watching from the corner of her eye I was forced to steel myself against any unmanly reaction.

When we finally reached the height of the vessel above, the basket locked into place, and the wall at our back fell away to reveal the interior, entirely enclosed, save the small panels of thick glass used for lighting and navigation, and the one large pane in place before the helm.

Sigmund and the others were already seated in the reception chamber, having toured the ship already, but Jakhan immediately ushered Rowan and I to the navigation deck, along a narrow corridor twenty paces in length. When we arrived, his brother was already at the helm, turning the wheel to change course. He spoke to the man behind him.

"Sail ahead, full speed. Course north-northwest."

The man behind pulled upon a bronze lever and we rose instantly into the heavens. Beneath, the manor disappeared in an instant, and though we did not restrict ourselves to the roadway, the lengthy track we paralleled for a time, and those travelers moving upon it aided in gauging our speed. Our overtaking of even the swiftest mounts matched my previous estimate that we were flying at twice the speed of a galloping horse.

Linaj remained at the helm, apparently oblivious to our presence, but Jakhan was cordial and welcoming with his every word and gesture.

"You will have questions, I suppose. The others did as well, but we could not accommodate all in this small chamber at once. Please, feel free to ask anything you wish, though I must ask on behalf of our Phulakoi that you refrain from speaking of this vessel to any but those who have flown upon it."

Self-possession vanished in the excitement of the moment, and I forgot almost instantly that I was flying through the air, hundreds of spear lengths from the ground. I had many questions, and not all of them were so carefully or cleverly constructed as the vessel, itself.

"How did Viharth build such a wonder? Is it Kenalkan?"

"In a sense, as it was their design, traded one hundred twenty-seven generations ago for a supply of silk and wine vapor, to be supplied season-by-season for three hundred years. It has taken us more than three thousand years to build up the silk for the lifting sails, for no other fabric was found to be light or strong enough to carry an entire ship skyward. In fact, it has been a joke among our silk-weavers that we have learned more in that time of the preservation of the fabric than of its manufacture; as you can imagine, such a long-held stockpile would not be so easily protected from the ravages of time."

"Sails? I have seen only one; how many of these ships have been built?"

That from Rowan, who had a far keener ear for such details than I.

"This is the Dallupar, the first and swiftest of the five vessels currently in service in the Viharthian navy, though it is not close to the largest. Two are used solely for freight, another, smaller observation vessel is currently in service tracking the movements of the Ebrian navy, and the last is being fitted for use in warfare—though we are not ourselves entirely without protection."

I did not hide my enthusiasm.

"One hundred twenty-seven generations, and this is the first use you have made of the technology? And I thought the Trathnona a patient people-"

"In truth, we have made use of the lifting sail, at least in a sense. As you know, our villages and fields range upon the tops of mountains and plateaus—harvest and transport are a difficult prospect. Eventually, we devised a simple lifting sail made from sealed canvas, and ran cables between mountaintops. A pull from one end—the work of only two men—can reel in a basket loaded with several hundred stone in freight and passengers, greatly increasing the speed of transport."

"But there are no cables here, Jakhan. How might this ship move so swiftly in any chosen direction, without the exertion of some needful force upon it? You did mention that these were lifting sails, and I must accept the truth of your words, for here we stand, the ground dangerously beneath our feet—but what means of propulsion now moves us so swiftly?"

For answer, Jakhan led us to the rear of the ship along a side corridor. Within, I saw three engines, two humming at full power, and a third cold and unmoving. Jakhan explained.

"These engines turn the three turbines that propel the ship, and the wind sails themselves are based on the cloth and river reed design employed in Meadrow's windmills. The third engine is auxiliary—it can burn any fuel to build heat, whereupon the water in the tank above is boiled to turn a turbine, just as the steam engines of our enemies. However—we are in a vessel of reeds—heat is not our ally. Were we to burn coal or wood for propulsion, it would be sparingly, and we would then move forward only at a crawl.

"The other two engines burn vapor, made from any strong drink we can find. It is an expensive fuel, and so we do not expect to fill the skies with these vessels, even in the distant future. In fact, our excursions into foreign taverns and trading posts have inspired some interesting tales. Imagine, a pair of Viharthian tradesmen riding into town in a single cart, then purchasing all the cheapest wine, mead, and even ale, only to ride away, leaving the drunks to bankrupt themselves, or inspire sobriety through an inability to pay.

"When the drink is acquired, we lower our vapor furnaces into some far-off location, then transform the cheapest, vilest beverages on Foundation into the most valuable form of fuel imaginable. With a full store, we can travel nearly half the length of the continent and win halfway home, before stopping to refuel."

"How fast can you travel?"

"We can hold an average of fifty Kenalkan miles per hour throughout the day, though we anchor at night to prevent drift. The wind causes deviations in the night, and without being able to see landmarks, we cannot find our bearings. Moreover, the lifting sail above makes it rather difficult to navigate by the stars. Darkness has been our greatest obstacle. Still, as you can see, we have had some successes. Any other questions?"

There were more questions, but for the sake of brevity, I will outline the rest, for all know well of Viharthian flying ships by now. At maximum speed, the Viharthians were capable of covering an average of seven hundred miles by day, the distance bound only by the length of the daylight hours. Clearly, Sigmund's guide rune would have provided a great boon to their efforts, and I made a note to speak thus to the Olinbrand Chieftain, as soon as possible.

The ship's complement was twenty-two men, of which ten were permanently attached to the Dallupar, while the other twelve served as agents of the Viharthian Phulakoi, a service formed from the ranks of the many corsairs that sought adventure in the Viharthian navy, only to return with tales of strange lands, to mention nothing of their acquired skills in combat.

In less than half an hour the flying vessel covered a distance of more than thirty miles, and I had new respect for Brenna, Lior, and their Trathnonan escort, for such had been the length of their journey on each visit to Hroaht Hall. We descended together, two Phulakoi, the Olinbrand Chieftain and myself, and I even convinced Jakhan to join us, though his brother refused to leave the helm of his wondrous ship, even for a moment.

Together, Sigmund and I strode to the doors of that hall side-by-side, white iron beside gilded bronze, ignoring the slack jaws of the guards, who did not even think to challenge us. Rowan, Brenna, and Jakhan followed behind, and this time we had no need of a military escort—the high doors simply swung open, and we made our way inside without a moment's pause.

The hall was not so empty as it had been previously, and as I removed my helm, I learned that the tidal hissing in my ears had not been from the natural blood-flow within, but from the throng that had gathered to meet us. All of Harkona seemed to be in attendance, and only the crimson carpet at center remained unobstructed by the press of bodies.

At first sight of Sigmund and myself the hall erupted, and the echoing blast of upraised voices was so contained in that high chamber that my ears rang from the force of it. Further, the gathering of nobles upon the dais had grown, and no longer was there room for seated ladies. To one side the high ladies of Hroaht stood in attendance; on the other the men stood fully armored, the high-born alone numbering near to one thousand, though the space at center remained unoccupied, leaving an unobstructed view of the Matriarch's seat, nine steps above the gathering.

Rigga held baby Sigred in her arms, and at first sight of her son upon the rise, handed her grandson to an attendant, who carried the fussing infant through a rear exit, far from the ear-shattering chaos of his grandmother's hall.

Reya stood by her side, so that I could mark the resemblance between mother and daughter, and it seemed to me that one appeared suddenly closer to the age of the other. Rigga was lighter of mood than I had ever seen her—that is, until the moment she raised Ulfgandr. The quietude was sudden and profound.

Following the example of her people the Matriarch's face was again shrouded in grave sobriety.

The Phulakoi and Jakhan ranged at either side, forming a semicircle, and Sigmund stood boldly beside me, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of Starkdrepa, even as my own held down the golden counterweight of Rorik's ancient blade. Rigga spoke on her feet, and her words reverberated upon the twenty-seven arches of the ceiling, carrying the sound to all ears, in spite of her casual tone.

"So, you have returned. Our daughter has spoken of your deeds, at length. Even at rest, the Claimant has accomplished what an entire Banner could not. We will assume your own custom, and address you as 'friend', for who is friend to Rigga, and indeed, to all of Sangholm, if not the man who rescued the daughter of the Matriarch—who is herself Phulako of the Hjarrleth?

"Friend Ralph you are, and you will address Us hereafter as 'Friend Rigga', for though I am bound by tradition, as is my noble Banner—Banner and Matriarch are bound by gratitude, as is the mother and grandmother of the lives you have saved through the might of your own worthy hands."

She paused then, and the warmth of her words had banished any apprehension I might have felt in response.

"I am relieved, Friend Rigga, to hear you speak thus, but I did not act alone. Tahlrene's Phulako was saved by an envoy of the Viharthian Phulakoi, who then informed me that your daughter might also be at risk. It was only through their counsel and aid, as well as that of the Trathnonan-Ashad Phulako and the Wise Mother's own noble son, that your daughter was rescued. If gratitude is owed, it is owed to them, not me."

She smiled instantly.

"Ha! Words of wisdom beyond your few years, Friend Ralph—spoken by a true leader of seven cooperative lands. Or perhaps I am speaking ahead of myself, for you are yet Onidai of the Trathnona, alone."

She paused for a moment, and moved to her throne. There, she placed her left hand upon the seat's high back, then held up the wolf-sceptre for all to see.

"I, Rigga, Matriarch of the Hjarrleth, do accept your proofs. Your trials—are ended. Three were you asked to perform, and with six did you answer. Word of the Pine Benders, the Hrafnkin of the Vithrauth, reached Hroaht Hall weeks ago, though you did not consider the deed of slaying two dozen madmen worthy of boasting. Nor, it seems, do you wish to boast the rescue of my daughter, the killing of thirteen of her jailers, or the beguiling of the other four. Perhaps you will not boast the ousting of a spy, a threat to the stability of the state, and a traitor to her own nation. Even now, her servants await word of her departure, and they are alive to do so because you made provision for their safety.

"In addition to Our Approval, you are hereby burdened—with the balance of the Hjarrgoth estate, to be taken as your sole possession, and disposed of as you see fit. Hertha's home is now your own, that you may feel the welcome that was known to Rorik himself. This is not a privilege, nor is it a gift. You are burdened now with a responsibility, for you are left at least with a prisoner, and at most a daughter, under our ancient laws. Hertha did not leave her home empty.

"When she made to flee, her daughter Hilde took her part, but her youngest, Tyra, knew not of the woman's treachery, and recoiled from her traitorous mother on hearing of it. Hertha flew into a rage, and made to kill her daughter, and it was only through the sacrifice of a servant that Tyra still lives. Namei was found with a dagger in her breast, the weeping child cradling her servant. Tyra is now your responsibility, and you may renounce, or claim her as daughter—that decision is your own."

I was in shock. I had thought all evidence of my drug-addled infidelity safely in flight across Foundation. Now, I had fortune, for Hertha had been the wealthiest woman in Sangholm. Her estate was massive, stretching west for miles, though the land had been left fallow for years. It was too much, too much concern for one man, particularly one so burdened with other responsibilities. I could not accept.

"I will not renounce an innocent girl, and I will see that provisions are made for her future. I am grateful for this responsibility, Friend Rigga, and I give my thanks, but there is another pressing matter that I would address, even before I claim the Second of Rorik's Tools. Now that many of the dangers within the Vithrauth have been destroyed, I would ask that the forest be reclaimed, for it still holds a wealth of the finest timber. Moreover, I have slept in the Munbeorg, and by Sigmund's own accounting I happened thus upon the ruins of Stjarsla's Anvil, a site shrouded in myth, long lost to time and fable. That, in itself, is a revelation worthy of feasting, for who can guess what fortunes might be hidden therein?"

Sigmund's hands told a story of their own, and Reya, his most capable translator, answered for him.

"The Olinbrand Chieftain stands in agreement, that the Onidai did indeed sleep beneath Stjarsla's own anvil."

Rigga looked from daughter to son, and then again to me. She had not expected such a wealth of information at a time of her own gratitude. The crowd had begun to whisper amongst themselves, the noise like fading thunder, and she quieted them with a motion of her sceptre.

"Very well. I will send a party to aid in excavation, if any can be found to brave such a place—but that is not all, I think. The timber of the Vithrauth and treasures of the Munbeorg cannot be without cost, though I am not loath to pay it. Speak your price."

"Thousands of innocents still languish in savage Vithrauth, and have gathered together from every village in the hope that freedom awaits. To you, Friend Rigga, I may soon be Onidai, but those people have their own title for me. Vaentan, I am called there, 'The Expected', and tales have passed for thousands of years that I would travel the Hlifgat, and free the people in passing. I cannot travel so far, Friend Rigga—Wise Mother—and leave those people in want.

"I ask, therefore, that all lands and property of the Hjarrgoth Clan pass to the Forsaken of the Vithrauth, with Sturla, able hetman, to be named as chieftain. I ask that the fields beyond Hjarrgoth Manor be tilled anew, to feed those people, as payment for generations of neglect. I cannot govern an estate and lead the armies of the Banners at once, and I cannot eat my fill, nor sleep soundly while people who speak of me as their savior sleep in the cold, eating only what they may catch and kill. That is my wish, and my request, Wise Mother."

I had expected silence, and the Wise Mother's look of appreciation was proof that my words had solved a problem that had long troubled her mind. She had not forgotten the Forsaken, but had been at a loss to aid them. But even as she sat in shocked stillness, the crowd, thousands strong, erupted in approval. The nobles had been more reserved, but the encouragement of common men reached their hearts, goading them to the reaction that their dignified restraint had contained only with difficulty. Even the high-born cheered my words. Again, the Wise Mother raised her sceptre, but this time the chaos diminished only gradually.

"You are as audacious as you are generous—naming a nobleman, when that is my right alone. This Sturla is unknown to me, unknown to all in this court, with you, a foreigner, as his only supporter. And for that reason, alone—I will grant your request, with the gratitude of a relieved mother. A weight has passed from the shoulders of mother and Matriarch today. I have my daughter, and We have our Phulako; I have my grandson, and We have a firstborn heir to the Silfrost Clan. I have the security of knowing that Courage, Generosity and Wisdom dwell in the heart of Sangholm's War-Chief; and We are relieved of a guilt thousands of years in the making. So be it. How may we proceed?"

"That will depend, Wise Mother, on how soon I might accomplish my Proving. I told Sturla that I would return, with or without word of liberation, after my second Claiming. How far is the Gifting Pool?"

"No more than a dozen miles southwest of this very hall. But are you certain you wish to hurry to such a trial? It is not simply the turning of a Key, for in that place you will face such a trial as even I cannot guess. Our forbears were brave beyond reason, and devised a test of courage, to challenge the claimant's worthiness. We have only the method of preparation, and a simple recitation to aid in your success. Do you still wish to proceed?"

"I see no reason why I should not, Wise Mother, for as luck would have it, I am already wearing my best armor."

I earned a hearty laugh for my trouble.

"Very well, if we set out now, we will be there by mid-afternoon. In two day's time, Vodn willing, you may win to the Northern Gate, and in four days, we will gather there to welcome our cousins home."

"Wise Mother, if I may—we can accomplish this all with even greater dispatch, if I may impose upon the envoy from Viharth."

I turned to Jakhan, and even surrounded by thousands of strangers, he laughed in light-hearted mirth. It was just barely midmorning.

### Chapter Sixteen

### Proved in Darkness

Rigga, and all in attendance, some twenty thousand commoners and one thousand nobles, would follow as they might. The Wise Mother, for all her wisdom, would not risk journeying in that wondrous flying ship, but before one and all she had recited the formal challenge:

The path of breathless gray,

Shall stalk bold Rorik's height,

Renounce the light of day,

And seek the Builder's rite.

Forsake the hammer's pride,

And loathe the song of edge,

The walk of glowing tide,

Must wake the Warden's Pledge.

Vodn to your mind,

Rorik to your hand,

Builders bless your eye,

Tor to stay your brand.

Glory to the bold,

Rebirth of Rorik's fame,

Or death in bitter cold,

And sleep without a name.

In a quarter of an hour, through the speed of the Viharthian conveyance, we found the Isle of the Pool, unnamed in song and tale at the behest of every Matriarch in the history of Sangholm. Only I, as Onidai, have been granted the right to tell of my journey within those depths.

The vessel did not make an attempt to land, and it was a strange parting, for none of the Hjarrleth were in attendance—even Sigmund had insisted that we make a slight detour, in order to place him with his people, still in transit to Hroaht, that they might ride together, joining with the throng from Harkona to greet me as the Proved Onidai.

I parted with each of my people in turn, with Brenna, Rowan, and my new Viharthian friends, and stood upon the landing platform with strange gifts given to me by the Matriarch herself. All had been preserved in a casket of thick iron overlaid with galvanized bronze, with gaskets of Tulakal sap-leather lining the lid to seal the contents from the open air.

The first gift, a helm and attached mantle of thick bronze, had been fitted over my head before my parting from Hroaht. Though the gasket of tight-fitting sap-leather within the mantle squeezed awfully at my shoulders and upper chest, I could at least lift up the visor of thick glass, that I might kiss Rowan before departing.

The second gift, two belts of lead weights, had been tied about my legs, that every step threatened to rip my hips from their sockets. A long cord of leathern material, forming a hollow tube, was fastened beneath the chin of my strange helm, and at the other end of the cord, a great hollow leather orb was attached.

Sigmund added the final touch, and after a brief conversation with the chieftain of another clan I was permitted to borrow an item I had seen many times before. Boers's horn, the most sacred object of his house, had not been left to burn upon his funeral ship, and I had been granted its use, that I might sound a call from within the depths of that far cavern, granting the waiting multitude news of my success the moment the Pool's Gift was in hand.

I was lowered alone to the beach, and stomped slowly to the edge of the waterline, belatedly remembering to lock my visor. Breath came slowly, and I felt that it issued only through the thick tube of leather, for I could almost feel it contract, as if it had been an extension of my throat since the day of my birth. I had thought the Matriarch's instructions ludicrous, for it would have meant certain death, but breathing through that tube, I understood. I was to walk to the underwater entrance, held down by the weight of lead and that of my own armor, before proceeding along the path within to the place of my Claiming.

I had been instructed to carry my shield, wear all armor, and even hang my own crested Meadrow helmet from my swordbelt, though whether those articles were intended to increase my weight, and thereby permit me to sink more easily, or required as a means of defense, I could not tell.

I took those first steps in fear for my life, and continued forward through force of pride alone, for how could I fail now, with all of Harkona en route to greet me at the other end?

In the distance, I could see what little of that mound rose from the cold ocean—a dome of metal, still untouched by time, shining in the midmorning light. And then it was gone, my world made gray in an instant as I strode into the depths, alone. This was the first time I had ever seen the ocean, at least beyond the vivid images of disturbing dreams, and now I would be required to travel beneath it.

I took great care to unspool the tube at my arm, for I had been warned against knotting, and now I understood the importance of such care—a single knot would restrict the airflow, and even if I could free myself of the lead weights in time, the weight of my armor was such that I would be dead long before the moment of my final breath. In time, I adjusted to the gray world, and it was truly lifeless, for I saw not even a fish in those chill waters—had I ventured into the sea even a month later, I would not have lasted beyond one hundred heartbeats.

Ahead, I could see columns, inexplicably untouched by the tidal wear of thousands of years. I trudged between those pylons, knowing that they had been placed to guide me, and far in the distance I saw black within the gray—the entrance to the hollow mountain where waited the second Gifting Pool. I breathed slowly and deeply, noting that though each inhalation came steadily through the tube that stretched above, fed through the leathern orb bobbing far above my head, the release of breath issued through tiny holes in my helmet, filling the water all around with bubbles.

My arms and legs ached from exertion and the chill of the water, but I won forward, determined that I could not turn back, for even if cowardice had ruled in absence of determination, I had passed more than halfway to my goal—there could be no turning back.

Repeatedly, I looked up to the air bladder above, and paranoia convinced me with every panicked glance that my air supply had been shrinking even faster than it might through the drawing of breath alone. After a time, I learned that I had only been descending—the Hjarrleth (and probably also the Kenalka, for this was far too advanced for those who traveled only upon the waves) would not build so cunning a device, only to bring about my death through a shortage of air.

At the final column, I stepped upon a ring of flat stones, which descended into the sand beneath, and all at once the scene in the mouth of the cave was lit by a dim and violently flickering light. I was in far too much discomfort to hesitate, and so I plodded forward willingly, hoping only for warmth and open air. There were stairs inside that sub-aquatic opening, and I climbed them. That world was no longer gray—within the cave, the flickering light reigned, coloring the chamber with the natural hue of light brown stone.

As I reached the surface of the water I felt an enormous pressure at every hair's breadth of my rising body, and finally, when the last length of my foot passed above, I heard a loud popping, as of the opening of a keg of ale. When I looked down, I saw that the surface of the water had somehow severed the line of my air feed, leaving me without recourse for a return trip.

My body was entirely dry, of that I was certain, for I removed some of my armor after shrugging off the strange helmet and lead weights, and even the plates that guarded the backs of my palms, before pulling off my gloves to inspect the padding beneath. And yet, for all that effort I felt not a hint of moisture, though I was very cold, and before I strapped on the missing pieces of my body ward, I stood in the light of the many metallic torches that burned brightly in that place, at either side of a black portal; the only passage to the chambers above.

I collapsed to the chamber floor, and totally exhausted, I dozed, uncaring of the chill or the dangers ahead. Some terrifying image flashed before my eyes in a half-waking dream, and I jerked awake at once—though so great had been the weight of my armor that I could not leap to my feet.

Remembering my cause, and fearing that I had slept far too long, I gathered and cinched up the pieces of armor that I had removed, and looked to the blackness of the corridor. The light of the torches did not emanate within, so that the darkness was almost a living thing; a conscious, unyielding veil that would not permit light within the bounds of its influence.

At first, the torches would not move, and I was on the verge of negotiation, Sequiduris my able intermediary, when a clockwise twist proved effective. I wrenched one of the torches free of its cresset, and was answered not only by the immediate death of its bright flame, but with a hissing, and the release of a noxious, colorless haze that issued steadily from its housing. I coughed and sputtered, then held my breath and pressed the torch back into the cresset, twisting in the opposite direction; the very moment the torch resumed its rightful place, its flame erupted anew. Apparently the Trathnona were not the only race that had mastered the crafting of haze lights.

At that point it was clear that I was expected to continue in darkness, and though my actions could not have been observed, I made much show of deliberating over the proper course of action. In truth, I was afraid, for even in the Vithrauth there had been some light.

Eventually, I remembered those that would await my success, and as I could not turn back without the long-lost breathing tube, I retrieved my shield, donned my helmet, and prepared to face a challenge that the mighty Hjarrleth had contrived to slay the unworthy.

Recalling past dangers, I feared greatly those that would stand between me and my goal—particularly those that might live so long without means of sustenance, and I remembered Rigga's warning, that fist and blade not be employed in that place. Perhaps it was some sort of temple, in which a martial presence was not permitted, but whatever the case I knew from the pains taken to see me through to the sub-aquatic entrance, that such a warning would not be posed without purpose. With a deep breath, and with my right hand gripping tightly upon the hilt of my Sword I stepped into perfect and unyielding blackness, crouching low behind the high tower of my ancient Meadrow shield.

It was an astounding and terrifying experience, for I could turn, seeing clearly the mouth of the passageway, and the bright lights beyond, but no matter where else I cast my gaze, I beheld nothing but unaffected nothingness. Eventually, I had to release the grip on my hilt, and even sling my shield, for I could not navigate at all by sight, and I needed both hands to find the walls, as well as the empty air that signified a safe and lasting path. I traveled up, and up, the switchbacks smooth, apparently untouched by human hands, until at last I stubbed my armored foot upon the square surface of an evenly cut step.

Each step on that staircase was low and long, that my path was much more circuitous than necessary, and to keep my mind from the terrors of sightless movement, I placed my thoughts on an estimate of the distance traveled. Each step was just under a handspan in height, with almost a full pace between each slight rise, so that I felt I had gained less than my own height in elevation every forty paces. After climbing the first ninety steps my path turned, just as the switchbacks far below, and when I sighed, inexplicably exasperated in the clammy, chilly, terrifying blackness, I laughed in spite of myself.

As my weight shifted upon the first of that second flight of steps, the similarities to my recent dream continued. At first, I felt nothing more than a slight headache, perhaps born of fatigue, but in short order I was beset by a number of sensory torments that have haunted me, even to this day. At the tenth step of that second flight, I was met with a sound that I could not mistake. It was the grinding of a blade upon a whetstone, and even if Sequiduris had not been beyond the need of sharpening, I would have known that grating racket anywhere. It seemed to assail my ears always from a distance, and it was most disquieting, for it suggested the existence of men in that place, their martial preparations a clear sign that they were not my allies.

Still, I could not reach for my Sword—I needed both hands to guide me forward. Shortly, the grating vanished, but I was menaced at once by a sound far more meaningful. The metallic slither of a blade leaving its sheath met my ears from many places at once, and I froze, crouching in fear of approaching death, my hand at once upon the hilt of my Sword, though I did not draw it. If I could not see my foes, it struck me that perhaps they could not see me, and the drawing of my Sword would only aid them in discovering my location.

I waited, fighting for control of my breath, and I must have crouched there nearly an hour, for my legs ached from thigh to ankle. At length, my breathing slowed, and I listened through the narrow slits behind the cheek flaps of my father's helmet. I had heard no movement of any kind from my assailants, neither the sheathing of swords nor the passing of footsteps. Slowly, I rose, taking that first tentative step with extreme caution. Eventually, I continued, bracing myself for the blade that must inevitably arc through shadow and into my unwitting heart, but nothing of the sort occurred. At the ninetieth step, I turned again, onto a third flight.

This time, the menace resumed at once, and it was from the depths of my own nightmares that those unseen apparitions found me. I heard growling, not of bear or wolf, but something in between, and always it seemed very near. The scraping of claws upon the ground at either side followed, passing from before and behind, sniffing the air, and continuing on. Occasionally, the creatures stopped, and I felt their hot breath, moist and reeking, even through my armor, and knew that I was soon to die. I did not even think of drawing my weapon, for I knew the nature of animals, that they would attack either to feed or to answer some threat to their own welfare—apparently my presence did not offer the former any more than it posed the latter, and I was left in peace, to continue on my path.

So it was that those visitations continued, as did my headache, soon a ringing migraine. Sounds of battle, the hissing and rattling of serpents, the blazing and sweltering of flames, the weeping of forsaken children, and, as I climbed higher, the sound of the ocean, far beneath my feet, and the whipping of wind, as if I was teetering at the edge of a narrow path, on a cliffside far above the roiling tide.

Finally, I climbed the first step of the ninth staircase; there, I felt the chill of winter, and it was surprisingly pleasant. My migraine subsided, and I raised my arms above my head to find that the ceiling had risen to a far greater height. Ahead, beyond a sinking depression in the ceiling, I saw the diffusion of light—direct, as of the full light of day. It nearly blinded me, and I had to halt, taking in the light behind closed eyelids, before I could again adjust to the unexpected glow. At last, the light seemed to permeate, touching the walls to bring to my attention the strange construction of that high place.

The ceiling was built in a strange honeycomb structure, one block supported by another, and it was held in place by spindle-thin pillars of a crystalline matter, spaced a forearm's length apart on both sides of the passage. Strong, but apparently brittle, for one had given way, shattering like so much glass under the strain of some bygone mishap, and much of the roof supported by that thin pillar had collapsed. The impact of the blocks upon the stairs had caused many of the steps beneath to crumble, while the area directly beneath the hole was choked with much rubble, though the hole itself was not much bigger around than a Brek shield.

Looking up in passing, I saw that the structure of the roof was impressively thick, three or four times my own height, so that even with an oculus of shield-width, the light that diffused from above was scant. I puzzled for a time over that strange design, and it was then that I understood Rigga's warning, and the purpose of that unusual test.

Sangholm had warriors in plenty, all ready to die the moment their deaths would serve some useful purpose. But in darker times, their people were rash and without restraint, loving brute strength far more than wisdom and cunning. For the Hjarrleth, the Onidai must possess the prowess of a warrior, but also the restraint and wisdom to use it only when needed. To that end, they had devised their test, placing the claimant far from aid in that alien place, where he would be beset by apparent threats, and tempted against warning to draw his weapon—the immediate urge to fight would have been nothing more than an attempt to steady his own trembling hands.

The single wild swing of a blade would have ended an unthinking warrior, for the ceiling would collapse upon him the moment his edge fell upon the brittle stuff of those narrow columns, and the breaking of even one would bring down such a weight that no man, towering giant or frightened stripling, could have survived. I smiled, feeling more reassured with each passing heartbeat—the headache was an effect of the inhaled haze, and I had not been going mad, after all.

* * *

The ninetieth step of the ninth flight sank into the stony floor, and a narrow channel at the right wall dropped downward an arm's length, along with a portion of the ceiling—as the sunlight pierced the gloom, it fell upon an angled mirror, lapped in a metal no less reflective than silver, and glazed with a crystalline substance that offered an even brighter sheen.

Those bright, concentrated rays flew to another mirror far beyond the top of the staircase, into a chamber beyond an open, arched portal of stone, carved deeply with many runes. From one mirror to another the rays of the sun lit that round chamber in a dim light, exposing the metallic dome of the ceiling through the rolling haze beneath it. The air where I stood was fresh, as was that within the reach of my arm, for the lower banks of the haze began at no less than three times my height, so that the smoky, translucent fog was contained within the bounds of the dome itself.

The metal of the ceiling dome seemed strange to me—weaker somehow than all the metals I had seen before, but I convinced myself that I was wool-gathering, for it had lasted thousands of years. My goal was yet before me, and identical to that of the temple bowl of Venibrek.

It was silvery, round, about a handsbreadth in depth, and I found the keyhole at once. For a moment, I fumbled in my scrip as I sought the Key in panic, fearing that I might have forgotten it in my haste to proceed, or lost it in the water or along the long and winding path to that high chamber. But it was there, just as I had left it, and I sighed in genuine relief, then inserted it immediately, turning from left to right. It answered without the complaint of rust or ancient tampering, and I heard the metallic clicking far beneath.

Heat struck my face, and this time I did not blink, for I wished to see the coming of the light. The silvery base of the pool glowed red, as iron in a forge, and then at once the liquid light poured forth from the entire circumference of the rim, filling the expanse in an instant with an unwavering and beautiful light.

I took then from my scrip Rigga's final token, a simple metal nugget; in appearance like the pattern of Sequiduris, and I knew its damask would have been the product of a weld. It appeared just as the surface of Rorik's own blade, the three metals clearly distinguishable—copper, gold, and the unbelievable brightness of silver, beyond even that of white iron or the sheen of white gold. It was a little larger than my thumb, rough in appearance, as if newly mined, but clean, as if it had been prepared with just that appearance in mind.

I threw the offering into the liquid light, and, rather than swirling, it rippled deeply and continuously. There were no words expected of me, as had been expected of Lior and Brenna, and so I stepped into the pool in total silence, and walked to the center; I was halted there by an unseen and irresistible force.

Nothing remained but the Claiming, and so I bent forward, reaching deeply into the light. I held my hand there, enjoying the contradictory cooling warmth that I had known only once before. Within the pool, I felt lighter than in the open air, and I hung there for perhaps fifty heartbeats, before the weight increased within the bounds of my cupped palm.

Slowly, I closed my hand, feeling with every twitch of my fingers the resistance growing by degrees, until at last, something solidified in my grip. I raised my arm high above my head, then rose in the liquid light, and walked to the edge. With the solid ground beneath my feet, I heard the Key clicking back to its original position, and saw the light ripple ever more violently. Suddenly, I heard the faint and distant call of a deep and brazen horn.

Voices, many and yet one, man, woman, and child—deep and booming, light and airy, youthful and cheerful, all called out, one following just behind the other, so that I heard one and many at the same time.

"Light to aid him. Warmth to comfort him. A fiery blaze, to drive away the night and beasts that lurk therein. Glohrsax, I am called, the branding knife entrusted to the Sword Arm Tribe. Light and warmth, strength and sharpness, feel no fear upon the darkened path. Wear me well, and light the way to peace."

The light of the pool began to recede, and as it did, I looked upon the tool in my hand. It had a handgrip of black wood, as stony in appearance as the stuff of Rowan's crook, and carved with loops and knots in a clever design, both decorating the surface and improving the purchase of the wielder's grip.

The pommel was a lozenge of damasked silver or white iron, flat at the join of the grip, half an oblong dome in appearance. The hilt was a half-spherical cup, made from the same metal as the pommel, but facing away from the handgrip, so that it covered the throat of the sheath—the housing was of similar construction to the grip, with throat and chape of the same metal, but set with seven tiny rubies at the belly on either side.

The sheath was a bit longer than my forearm, which hinted at more of a short sword than a dagger. The Key clicked to its original position as I began to pull Glohrsax from its housing, and even as I did I noticed that the receding of the pool's light had drawn the haze downward, so that it fell nearly to the level of my head.

The blade was long and triangular, with a perfectly even taper from hilt to wicked point, though it had but a single edge, for the other side was thick, forming a flattened spine. The metal was darker than gold, but with a sterner appearance than I would have expected of a precious metal.

The tip of the blade began to glow, pink at first, then smoke began to rise from the point. Suddenly, the entire blade erupted in a blaze, the flames powerful, white and unwavering, though I felt none of the heat upon my hand, and it seemed that the cup hilt absorbed much of it. Though it burned brightly, the golden blade did not melt, nor did it glow beyond the moment preceding ignition.

An eternal torch! Not a weapon at all, but an assurance of light, warmth, and the fast kindling of a fire, regardless of wind or rainfall. Even as I stood there, I could think of a half-dozen applications for the wondrous tool, and I held it aloft, admiring the brightness of its flames.

But I had forgotten the haze above. Immediately, the ceiling was alight, and when I turned to the entrance, I saw that it had vanished, leaving only the runic arch, and a solid wall of stone within.

I dropped to the ground, looking up as the flames spread within the bounds of the ceiling, and my eyes widened as I saw the metallic dome wither and curl. It vanished, even as it twisted upon itself, admitting the full light of day, and the fire rose in a great cloud of burning haze, leaving me with eyes tightly shut against the sudden exposure. I then heard a loud rumbling—a quaking throughout the whole of the mountain, and I released Glohrsax to fall upon the floor, cowering, with my hands clamped tightly upon my helmet.

Finally, the trembling ceased, and in its place my ears caught upon a familiar tune—trumpets, metallic clashing, and the rumbling of distant thunder.

Opening my eyes, I retrieved my still-burning knife from the ground, then tucked the sheath into my belt and turned to see that the oblong blocks of the eastern wall had fallen away, leaving a wide walkway. I strode out, the force of curiosity still greater than fear, and saw there, one hundred paces and more from the edge of my mountain, that a great battle had commenced upon the beach.

There were ships, perhaps two dozen, impressively large with billowing chimneys at center. At stern, I saw that the vessels had been fitted with great wheels, similar to those of a water-mill, but much wider, and they lapped at the waves, even as the hulking barks moved forward at the crawl. Much of the fleet had already reached the beach, and I watched, as one of the larger ships emptied its complement of warriors upon the sand. Hundreds charged from the deck of that bulky craft, to take part in a battle that had already been joined in earnest.

They were Ebrian, but all of the warrior class, armed with sword and pike, and even as I wondered at the absence of the thunderers, I heard the report of those very weapons in the distance. They were ranked in orderly lines upon a jutting peninsula, and with the ocean to the west and south, and the Vithrauth mountain rim to the east, they could only be approached from the north. The common lockbowmen stood at the forefront, with thunderers and heavy iron lockbows behind, and the siege thunderers brought up the rear, sending heavy iron balls to arc through the air and land with great impact upon the rear of the opposing force.

I later learned that the Ebrian vessels were loaded by class, with all commoners upon only a few vessels. Segregation of this type seemed to work to their advantage, permitting the concentration of all missile weapons, that they might form up quickly in an advantageous position and wreak havoc upon a single front, even as the warriors were released directly into the conflict.

Further, there were horsemen, perhaps two thousand upon heavy mounts, though lightly armored and fighting with bow and spear. The horses might have been Nalbanic, though they did not appear so frightfully huge as I had been led to believe—from what I had been told, Burra's pilfered mount was not half the size of most Nalban war-horses—but they had taken the part of the aggressors, and were pushing upon the two bodies of fighting Hjarrleth, that they would remain divided.

The Hjarrleth fighting at the edge of the beach wore Ironskins, and they numbered near to a thousand; I saw there many warriors of the Mother's Guard, as well as the Athleith of many clans. Further back, and divided from their betters by the whirling horsemen, a few thousand Hjarrleth stood behind the shelter of their shield walls, with the strongest of their ranks rotating to fight before them. They were common warriors, all in mail, many fighting with heavy weapons, but ill-equipped to stop the volleys of the mounted archers; they were further menaced by lockbow, and by thunderers from the southern foothills—though at that distance, few fell to dart or iron ball. Only the heavy siege thunderers could truly strike from such a distance, and many fell to the impact of each whistling volley.

I took in all those sights in an instant, and as I looked to the sun, I saw that it was mid-afternoon. By then, the battle might have matured to its fourth hour, and with the onrush of Ebrian reinforcements, and the continued blasts of the thunderers upon the foothills, I feared greatly that the day had already been lost.

But even as I stood there, I heard a deep rumbling from beneath my feet, and learned then that I did not need to travel beneath the waves to aid my harried allies. The ocean began to boil against the forces exerted beneath, and the level of the water receded, even as a walkway of stone rose to the open air, inexplicably dry, though it had been drawn from the slimy depths.

The quaking and rumbling brought many eyes to me, and without warning a cheer erupted from the din. Without a moment's hesitation, I transferred the brightly burning brand to my left hand, then drew Boers's horn with my right. I blew into that gold-clad instrument with all my strength, and the call I gave was much louder than I had expected. The peal was deafening, and it seemed that all eyes fell upon me, halting the conflict momentarily to take in the spectacle of a tall warrior and the sound of his golden horn. As the blast wore on, I lifted bright Glohrsax high above my head, that all assembled might know of my triumph.

Finally, the balance of my breath spent, the call died out, but even through the sharp ringing in my ears I heard the booming of many voices. A cheer of savage joy exploded from the ranks of the fighting Hjarrleth, and as the battle resumed in earnest, the Sword Arm Tribe granted the gift of battle with devastating generosity.

It was then that I knew the enemy had not been idle, for a barrage of heavy iron landed near to me, loosing splinters of stone and dust in every direction. As I looked down, I saw the source of that sudden attack, even as the vessel responsible leveled its weapons for another volley. I needed my right hand to balance on the defile, so I slung Boers's horn as I leapt forward to evade, landing upon the walkway—the shots seemed to follow my path, as if they had guessed at my movements, even before my mind had settled on them.

Glohrsax still burdened my left hand as I sprinted forward, and I had no time to toy with the prospect of sheathing a weapon of fire. I was uncertain of the Sheath's capacity to protect me from such heavy stones, but I made no move to unsling my shield, for I felt that balance was needed far more than its protection. The fear of death amplified both strength and fleetness of foot, that I made a mockery of my armor.

The shots continued, until a great splintering and cracking of wood brought their attacks to an end. As I turned my head briefly at the run, I saw that three great poles mounted with flights had lodged in the side of the Ebrian ship, piercing it well below the waterline, the strikes sufficiently close to one another that they tore a gaping seam into its mighty hull. The vessel was sinking even as I watched, and when I turned to look on the source of my salvation, I saw that it hovered far above the fray—the Viharthians had answered the call to war.

I won to the edge of the walkway without further incident, and as I reached the crush of battle I drew Sequiduris in haste. There at the outer fringe of the conflict I saw nothing but Ebrian backs, so with a single slash I clove the helmed skulls of a half-dozen aggressors. The Hjarrleth cheered and pushed on from the other side, that in moments I was at work alongside them, picking my targets from among the myriad knots of fighting men. Most of the Hjarrleth were Athleith, wielding large axes and heavy swords, and few had fallen.

When I saw a gleaming hjarrviht ahead, I knew at once who wielded it, for he towered high above his host of foes. My arrival was timely, and with only a single free hand I had to lunge, taking the backs of the Ebrians again and again in full extension, until finally the hulking form of mighty Sigmund rose fully into view. I cheered at the sight of him, and he answered with a smile, even as he lifted one of his foes high above his head and threw him into a mass of unwitting pikemen.

I had a moment, so I sheathed Glohrsax, and noticed that the flames died as the point drew near to the sheath. I then led Sigmund on a mission of relief, freeing outnumbered Ironskins two or three at a time from the panicked division of single-combat, until fifty of us were grouped together to overwhelm any lesser force. Within a quarter-hour we had five hundred, and moments later the remaining Ebrian warriors were driven from the beach to the southern foothills, seeking the protection of the lockbows and thunderers above.

Even as we won a moment to catch our breaths, I saw that the siege thunderers had begun hammering at the forefront of the few thousand common warriors and chieftains, taking advantage of the relative distance they had gained from the opposing horsemen. The clanking and clattering of Ironskins made a mighty racket, and so I shouted at the top of my lungs, that all around might hear me.

"We must press forward! Take the thunderers, and the horsemen will fall soon after! The Onidai is here! On me! BOERS!"

They roared as one, taking up the name of Sigmund's fallen Voice, and I felt my blood rise instantly. That old thrill, the one I had loathed less than a year earlier, returned without the slightest feeling of revulsion. I was already at the Hjarrleth front, and I ran for the southern position of the remaining Ebrian warriors; though they yet numbered nigh on two thousand, the great cacophony of rattling plate behind left me in little fear of them.

The lockbows were leveled upon us, as were the thunderers, and on that stretch of the northern approach they were well beyond our reach, for there the foothills dropped off, leaving only a sheer cliff face to oppose our charge. At that moment, I began to fear for the Ironskins, and especially for myself, for the Sheath was already coiled—I had no time to halt and house my blade.

As many times before, those thoughts passed in an instant, and I did not slow the charge. I was fully prepared to face death in the company of the mightiest men of Sangholm. I braced myself, even at the run, knowing that from such heights bronze over iron would never protect me. But before they could strike, I saw the first of them topple over the edge, and then another, until all that had aimed for our position fell screaming onto the ranks of the warriors below. Even as they tumbled to the earth, I saw that many were bleeding from grievous wounds.

And then, a strangely armored man rose into view, holding aloft a brightly shining spear—the weapon blazed as a hjarrviht. Many others ranged to either side, and behind the man at center a large banner fluttered into view. It was formed from a tall ash sapling and a great white cloth; I recognized the crimson symbol painted there at once, for the same dead tree had been smeared upon my back more than a month earlier; that same paint marked the armor of every man who had risen boldly into view. The booming voice of the spearman filled my heart with hope.

"VAEN-TAN!"

I knew Sturla's voice, and knew beyond doubt that he and his fellows had found Malmheith's hoard. I later learned that Grid had indeed been conversing with her father through the medium of one of Skiro's ravens. On one of its return trips, that clever bird, flying high to pass over the rim of the mountains, saw the passing of many horsemen, though he could not have seen the northern approach of the Ebrian ships.

Sturla had been warned by the raven of the enemy approach days before they found Sigmund and the others—one had been as surprised as the other—the battle commencing only as the Ebrians began to attack. And yet, days in advance, Sturla and many warriors made for the mountain rim, climbing that easy western approach for the first time in the history of the Forsaken, their efforts aided greatly by the Hlifgat and Skiro's ox carts.

That western portion of the forest had been the hunting ground of Karonadus, and Grid had sent news of the giant's death weeks before. It seemed that they no longer had cause to fear the forest, nor did they fear the outside world, and so they armed themselves with shining weapons from the hoard, then fitted themselves with what armor they could—no man wore a complete set, but all were armored, and they had found me just in time. Their flag had been made months earlier, to lead their final exodus, their symbol of the red tree smeared upon the white silk of Skiro's own bedsheets.

The thunderers were silent, and our charge continued, unharrassed. As a boy, I had dreamed of the day I could witness a charge of Ironskins, for all knew of the legends of Hjarrleth iron—but never had I thought of leading one. The weight of our onrush battered many only in passing, and I held Sequiduris like a scythe, both hands on the hilt, so that the blade stretched parallel to the ground. I clove many, and battered down many more before my charge ended, so that I was deep within the Ebrian ranks before the final halt.

We cut a swath through those foreigners so quickly that it defies imagining, their blood pouring faster than the earth could drink it, so that rather than the bloody mud I had come to expect, I found myself standing in a bog of gore.

When all had fallen, I stopped to catch my breath, then heard the thunderers above, and saw the first of the Ebrian ships rise, stern foremost, even as the balance sank beneath the waves. Sturla had done what more civilized people shrank from on force of superstition alone—he was aided by hostages, so that the Ebrian weapons fell upon Ebrian ships—as introductions go, Sturla had done much to ingratiate himself to his new neighbors, already.

I had caught my breath, and though I felt the beginnings of fatigue, I wanted more.

I shouted to the men, and bolted for the ranked horsemen. They had seen the annihilation of their allies, and at that moment, I was placed in doubt that they were Nalbans at all. Before our thousand gained full speed, I saw the first of their bows rebound upon the ground. And then a spear. By the time we were within twenty paces of their initial position, they had forced a path northeast upon the road. They were unarmed, their tails to us, and all my allies were armored and afoot. I watched, even as their long procession turned due east on the switchbacks of the high road; they were for home, and though their path would cause them to skirt Hjarrleth holdings, I felt certain they would not return.

Knowing that we could never catch them, I flashed my Sword, halting our charge. We had our victory, and now, to those who would oppose us, we had hundreds of heralds to tell of Ebria's defeat.

The day was ours. Sangholm was mine. Few were lost, and two of the Banners would now fight as one.

### Chapter Seventeen

### Joyous Confusion

### and

### Untimely Tragedy

We did not have to return to the Vithrauth, for the flight of Skiro's messenger brought word of our victory with the news of Rigga's invitation, and within two days, fourteen thousand men, women, and children filed through the northwestern gate bearing chest, casket, crate, and jar—every vessel in Malmheith's hoard found its way to the Hjarrgoth villa. The gates were left open thereafter, though they remained guarded against the passage of the wicked.

It took time to install Sturla and his household, but an army of grateful commoners made light of the work, and demolished the villa walls, using the resulting stone and rubble to speed the construction of many homes.

Within a month, the miles of arable farmland west of Hertha's former home were already under the plow. The farmers, who had taken it upon themselves to instruct their new neighbors, were confident that by winter's end they would be ready to tend to the sowing and reaping unaided.

The Olinbrands took to Sturla and his people instantly, and, at the man's own request, they made a point of educating him in the ways of Hjarrleth nobility—there would be little to teach, for those forsaken people had shown more of nobility since I had met them than even Ardos Gabrian Frankos had shown in his time.

Malmheith's hoard was truly massive—Eagle's casket was a pittance by comparison—and, under Hjarrleth law, my defeat of Karonadus and discovery of the cavern granted me full ownership. I did not accept, but gave it instead to the newcomers, knowing that even Hertha's remaining wealth might not see to the welfare of fourteen thousand. The people were confused by my gesture nearly to the point of anxiety, that for a time they refused it outright. Sturla himself was adamant that the treasure was mine.

The former hetman pressed his point by leading me into a crowded storeroom, where the valuables had been divided, coins here, ingots there, jewelry piled on tabletops. They had been so reverent with the armor and weapons that they fairly glowed, and I could well understand it, for they had lived long with naught but stone and hide. The new Hjarrgoth chieftain had little enough room to move, so that we stood uncomfortably close, and the debate had begun to amuse me—it seemed ludicrous that a people so newly acquainted with the outside world might wish to abandon the means to live comfortably. And yet, the argument continued.

"You slew the giant, you found the hoard, and if not for you, we would still dwell in the forest. Who has earned this wealth, if not the Vaentan?"

Finally, he had gotten to the point.

"Very well, Sturla—who is the Vaentan? No, no—I'm in earnest: who is the Vaentan?"

"He is the Expected. He—you, were in our tales for ninety generations. The Vaentan was myth, or so I thought until the time of our meeting, for who else could have felled the two dozen of Hrafnrodd, or the Darratonn, or Skiro—or Bankeina? Who could have cut the Slittna-Hryggr in half, or slain the Conjurer's serpent, if not the Expected One?"

"And were those deeds credited to me in fable, even before the time of my birth? Did your ancestors know of Skiro, who only walked the Shroud Path thirty years ago, or Karonadus, who had only been in the Vithrauth for a decade? Even the Darratonn had only lived through three generations! In fact, the ancient tales mentioned nothing of the villains and monsters I would slay—nothing specific, in any case. I am asking of the storied Vaentan—the man of ancient tale, not he who stands before you. What did the tales say that I would do?"

"You were to walk the Hlifgat and lead us through the gates to freedom. You are the protector of the Forsaken."

"Ah, and there you have it. I protect the Forsaken, is that not so?"

"You know that it is!"

"But how can I be the protector of the Forsaken, if I take all of Malmheith's ancient wealth and leave fourteen thousand people to survive on the estate of a single noble family, with naught but residual wealth and the meager crop of newly tilled fields to sustain themselves?

"This is not the forest, Sturla. In the Vithrauth, you could hunt for food, but in these parts, kine are possessions, not to be hunted by anyone. You must raise what you eat here, and with the harvest all but over that will be difficult. There is plenty of surplus in this land, but charity is never asked,; even were it offered, I know that you and your people would never accept it. With this treasure you can see to the building of proper houses, the purchase of cattle and better farming implements—clothing, medicine, tutors to educate your children-"

"But we cannot-"

"Of course you can! Have your people been so long in the forest that there is not a poet's heart among you? Malmheith banished your ancestors, and now it is his own personal fortune that brings health and happiness—to you, your children, and even your children's children! He was of the house of Hjarrgoth—did you know that? It's poetry, Sturla! Fate! His house and his wealth will repair the damage done by his own madness. Think on it! And remember, your refusal of this treasure is not only a disservice to you, your kin, and your people—but it is an insult to me. I did not know the name 'Vaentan' when first I entered the forest—it was your own daughter who first told me of the title, and I have since adopted it. It is my charge—my responsibility to see that the Forsaken remain happy and healthy. You say the treasure is mine? So be it."

"So you will accept it?"

"Certainly—and now I give it to you—a gift, for you to dispose of as you see fit. You cannot refuse the gift of any man beyond the fear of insult, and as I am the Vaentan, I do not think you should be so hasty in your refusal."

I had him and he knew it, but a week later he answered in kind. Returning from Sigmund's bathhouse that morning, I opened the door of my chamber to find two chests and a fair sized crate surrounding my bed, one chest larger than the barrel of a Nalbanic warhorse, and the other a little larger than my torso. The larger chest contained gold coins, while the smaller was filled with assorted jewelry and loose gemstones, all still protected by a coating of wax.

There was a note pinned to the crate:

-To the Vaentan

Lambek the Trathnonan has aided me greatly, for it is his hand that writes this. I find that I enjoy ale, and over the course of a pleasant evening spent with Lior's finest Initiate, we talked of many things. You gifted him once with the spoils of another victory, after his High Priest forbade any but you from profiting from Eagle's hoard. Your excuse was that gift-giving is sacrosanct, and cannot be overridden by even the orders of a superior. Well, Vaentan, your trickery has come full circle.

My people are in need, I can see that now, so I am giving you all that I think you would accept, and with the rest I will follow your advice, for I know that is what you would wish. Half of the ingots and bars of iron and bronze are now en route to Meadrow—not the act of a friend, but of an ally who wishes to see to the survival of his new home. May the spears of your people shine beside my own.

Sturla—Hetman; Hjarrgoth Chieftain; Formerly Forsaken; Currently Free

-Postscript

We have fitted all the armor we could, and now have seventy-one fully armored men, with additional pieces scattered here and there. I truly wish Skiro was still alive, brave Vaentan, for though the Hjarrgoth hjarrviht fits my hand passing well, neither my son nor I can fit into their Ironskin.

Enclosed, you will find some pieces that were selected especially for you, as well as another that you may recognize. I hope we have not defaced an heirloom, but Lambek thought you would appreciate the gesture.

I couldn't help but laugh as I read the missive. Sturla was less than half a day's ride from Olinbrand Manor, and yet he had expressed more through Lambek's stylus than he had ever offered with his own voice.

Lambek had done wonders for the man, welcoming him openly with that form of camaraderie known only between warriors, and Vadir, my own faithful shadow, had attached himself to the new chieftain as a means of redress for his years of service to foul Skiro. Ulfmund had been slain, and after his funeral, the surviving officers of Skiro's guard appointed Vadir as their new captain. Thirty of those incredibly skilled warriors had survived battle, and now, free of Vithrauth and Conjurer alike, their sole charge became the safety of the new Hjarrgoth chieftain and his progeny.

Lambek and Vadir had introduced Sturla to ale and song, that he would not have to admit his ignorance to a people that prized both—those three had been thick as thieves ever since.

The crate contained a pair of greaves and vambraces, and though most of their surfaces had been overlaid with gold and covered with designs in bright silver, the trim, glossed deep like stone-walled, watery depths, clearly marked them as the pieces of an ancient Ironskin. They were a perfect fit. Those regal pieces covered forearm and lower leg front and back, an amazing accomplishment achieved through articulated plates and a single row of locking hooks, fed into small holes at the insides, and the vambraces had attached demi-gauntlets, to protect the wrists and backs of the hands.

I might have worried that the rest of my armor would look plain, but gilded bronze is never lackluster, and with lower legs and forearms a perfect match, I had little cause for complaint.

The final item, wrapped in a simple homespun cloth, was my father's Meadrow helmet—apparently, Lambek had lifted it from my armor tree.

One of the men of the southern tribes had found the carcass of the Darratonn, and aside from carrying back the skull, spine, and remaining ribs as trophies, he found that the mane of stiff, spiny bristles had been left more or less intact.

The crest of my helmet had been singed by the ignition of the haze at the time of my Second Claiming, and in battle the bronze dome and cheek-flaps had taken more than a few stout slashes. A skilled Hjarrleth armorer had repaired the bronze, but also overlaid the helmet with pure gold.

Working with the same Hjarrgoth silversmith who had carved the mould for Rowan's heart key, and with a few learned linguists, they inscribed every finger's breadth of the surface with nine lines of writing, the same verse in each of the allied tongues, as well as Vulgar Kenalkan and the simplified language of the Builders themselves.

The words followed the boundaries of the gilded surface, covering the cheek-flaps, the circumference of the helm's dome, and the rim at the nape of the neck. The verse read: 'Rorik; Ralph; Onidai; Vaentan—by many names am I known, but known am I as hero by seven great tribes, and all who follow in my path'. The inscription was in white gold, and where they might have found the substance, I never learned, though I guessed that they might have uncovered one of Hertha's stashes of hidden wealth.

The new crest, formed of stiff, perfectly erect bristles from the mane of the mighty Darratonn, had been dyed blue before being fitted, and the shade, deep and regal, was such that it could only have been the work of Tahlrenic woad. Lambek had grown wise, for he knew that I could not be angered by anything to which my love had been an accomplice. In truth, I was not angered in the slightest, for I had worried over the state of that helmet, and grieved at the thought of losing the only thing left behind by my father. Now, the artifact remained intact, and it matched the balance of my regalia perfectly.

I thought of the reaction of Rowan's father, the shepherd, when he saw that his daughter's suitor had been decked out as a king; in greaves and bracers of ancient Hjarrleth armor, with cuirass, pauldrons, and arming jack modified from Trathnonan design, and a glowing helmet of the Meadrow Guard, crested in Tahlrenic woad. At least he'd know me for a neighbor! I laughed like a drunkard, then donned the helmet with a goofy grin—still unarmored and dressed in casual attire—and went in search of Rowan.

* * *

"I cannot imagine what happened to it, sir. It was among the prisoner's effects last night, and now it is gone."

"Was anything else taken?"

"No sir, only the light box."

"You've probably just misplaced it. You tasked one of the other servants with gathering and cleaning the prisoner's clothing, did you not? They probably thought your instructions applied to all of the prisoner's effects. Besides, a thief would have taken everything of value. Don't worry yourself, Brander, I'm sure it's nothing.

"Now as long as I have you—where's Rowan? Have you seen her?"

"Yes sir, I saw her an hour ago, reading at the eastern portico. Third story."

"My thanks, I wanted to show her my new helmet. The crest is woad, you know. Most men can't pull off a helmet without wearing armor. What do you think?"

"Very dashing, sir. Perhaps it will catch on."

* * *

"You wish to be of service to the Banners?"

"And why not? Who knows more of service than I?"

Ardos Gabrian Frankos had said it in jest, though I did not see the humor in his words.

"What exactly do you expect to do for us? How can a man of high nobility—the noble class of our enemies, no less—serve the very people his kinsman seeks to annihilate?"

"He may not succeed—I saw the Viharthian flyer, flew upon it, and that is not foremost among the surprises you have shown me. You have these little advantages, Onidai—flying machines, impenetrable armor, heavy cavalry, highly skilled archers and disciplined swordsmen—not in great quantity, you understand, and Uncle Varian will wear you down in time with the volume of the armies he can field, if you let him, but with intelligent planning, and the proper application of your forces, you might still have a chance—slight though it may be. I am offering my expertise, nothing more or less, and it matters not whether you take my words seriously, so long as you hear them.

"Moreover, there are some secrets of the Ebrians that might be applied to your own forces. I know, at least, that you enjoy the—what did you call it? Lockbow? Yes, that was it. A clever name for it. Your idea?"

"No, an Ashad Initiate named Ulsa. Are you saying that you wish to side with the Banners—against your own people?"

"I have no intention of fighting my own countrymen."

But you wish to—consult?"

"Precisely. A sort of Ebrian Phulako, if that is an acceptable title."

"And why would you do that?"

"Loyalty. Not to Ebria, but to my family. You have guessed correctly, that they are of great value to me—the same as any man's family, I suppose. Most of them are still imprisoned, but as I was the fifth in line for a ruling seat that my uncle built for himself, and the only of my surviving kinsmen that thought to contest my uncle's insurrection, they decided to send me far away. It is in my mind that, should Ebria win this war, there will be little enough reason to keep my family alive, and in truth, Varian keeps the remainder alive only as a check against rebellion. We were rather popular among the noble class.

"Further, you are a kinder sort of fellow than I expected. Am I correct in the assumption that, if victorious, you will not do unto Ebria—as we have attempted to do unto you?"

"What? Will we annihilate your population? Of course not! Until very recently, I was not even aware that your people existed. I have no interest in your lands, and I do not kill women and children."

"Is that the position of the others?"

"I don't know, but that matters little. I am Onidai—at war, they will do as I command, and the war is not over until the armies have returned to their home Banners. After that, they would have to attack individually, and the only seafarers among us, the Hjarrleth and Viharthians, would not be of a mind to take vengeance. The Nalbans might, if they could, but the Central Sea—your Salsuk, is an awfully long swim, especially for armored horses."

"I see your point—I have your word then, in exchange for my services?"

"You would have that, even without service. Trust me, when this war is over, I am going home."

"Home—to Meadrow, or to Tahlrene with the pretty redhead?"

"Mind your own business."

His first real joke. He held out his open palms in surrender.

"My apologies. Will you at least consider my words?"

"I will think on the offer Ardos, but don't expect anything. You'll be treated well here, but for the time being, you're still a prisoner. If you wish to communicate with your family, I'll try to organize a courier of some sort. Need some new clothing? Not a problem. You can eat and drink your fill here, and even walk the grounds, or go riding—under heavy escort, of course.

"If the Banners are victorious, I'll give serious consideration to your release, on the understanding that, if you inherit the rule of your nation, you will visit the 'Lower Continent' in trade caravans, rather than troop transports, thereafter."

We parted amicably, though in truth I still did not trust him. I was not eager to make the same mistake twice, and Hertha had been rather charming, as well.

* * *

"I won't! He's a savage!"

"You don't even know him! You've never even seen him! He's handsome, Tyra. Beautiful, in fact, if that is a word one can use to describe another man. And Lars is a good man, of noble bearing and kind nature. He may even have the makings of a great leader—with the right woman to guide him."

"He isn't you! Why can we not continue as before?"

"For one thing, I am now legally your father, and for another, Rowan is not dead. Did you know that, Tyra? Tyra—look at me."

She did not look up, and I lifted her chin with my outstretched hand, offering my most reassuring smile.

"I know you are innocent, or you would have fled with your mother. And I know this is hard, and that all of these sudden changes will be difficult to weather, but you have to know the truth. Remember the first day you approached me? I turned you down, did I not? What on Foundation could compel any man to refuse the attentions of one such as you? I was in love, Tyra. And it was not the news of Rowan's death that compelled me to yield to your advances, but a drug, administered by your mother. She employed yet another, hidden in her perfume, so that I was beyond control in her presence. She wanted an heir, and cared not that I might dally with her daughters in the process. The son of the Onidai, to continue the Hjarrgoth line. If not for the graythorn bramble, offered by you, she might be quick with child, even now."

She was on the verge of tears.

"You—you felt nothing for me? Nothing at all?"

"That isn't true! In the barn, when I was completely in control of my actions, I nearly yielded to the strength of your beauty, alone. Rowan was alive, and I knew it, and it was not an herbal potion that brought me so near to betraying the woman I love above all else—it was your beauty that did that!

"In the eyes of the law I am now your father, but I cannot stay and watch over you—I have a war to win. Since you are of marriageable age, the surest way to see to your well-being is to ensure that you remain in your house, surrounded by your servants, in the arms of an incredibly handsome, valiant man—one who never dreamed of such a wife as you. And he is not a savage, though he will need time, time to adapt to a new home and a new society—he is going to love the baths, if he hasn't found them already.

"You were first attracted to me when you learned that I had passed through the Vithrauth, is that not so? Such bravery was easy to admire, was it not? But I was only passing through—Lars was born in that forest, and he braved the dangers therein his entire life. The first day he escaped the forest, it was to fly to my rescue in battle, alongside his noble father.

"You will have Sturla for your goodfather, Grid for your goodsister, and beautiful Lars for your loving husband, and he would slay all the creatures I have faced, weather all the dangers I have yet to survive, just to make you smile. Is that so bad? To have a real, loving family, and the attentions of the most beautiful man on Foundation?"

At last, she smiled, and I took that moment to show her the gift I'd found. It was a heavy crate, and there were many more, hidden among the rearmost wine racks in the cellar. One of the servants had identified its contents.

"Your mother forgot this in her hurry to flee the law. Do you recognize these things?"

Her eyes lit up instantly. Clearly, she had thought those costly potions lost to her.

"You will have love, a happy home—and all of your rivals will fade and wither, year by year, while you remain young and beautiful to your dying day—and, if you are of a mind to share, you will have a perpetually young and handsome husband, too. And you are not entirely without family, for Helga still lives near, and with you as my lawful daughter, none will blame you for your mother's acts. If I have anything to say about it, they will love you all the more."

She threw her arms around my neck, and I tried not to enjoy it. Finally, I pulled her away, and got down to selfish business.

"And now I must ask a favor of you. You know that my infidelities were beyond my control. If not for that drug, I would have remained as prudish as ever. I would keep these things from Rowan, if I can—not for my sake, but for her own. I was drugged, and I thought her dead at the time, so I do not fear her anger. But I love her, and the thought of hurting her is unthinkable. Do any of the servants know of my actions? I remember that Hilde was discreet, at least as far as I could tell, and Hertha dismissed the servants before anything passed between us—but did you tell anyone about us?"

"Namei. She knew, and helped when I cornered you in the sun room."

"I am sorry, Tyra, I know you are hurting now. She was with you her entire life, was she not? Well, that is over now, and nothing of the sort will ever happen again. No more dungeons, no more treasonous dealings or angry words. The Forsaken are now the Hjarrgoth, and thanks to their great numbers, your clan is now by far the largest in Sangholm. They have already marveled at the quality of Hjarrgoth Manor, and you will teach them to live as high-born families should. Every day, you will find a cause for laughter and happiness, and one day, the largest clan in Sangholm will be yours to command, alongside your loving husband. I would not be surprised if I had to address my own daughter as 'Wise Mother', one of these days."

She giggled, finally returning to that spirit of carefree entitlement she had known previously, and I was relieved, for a single wagging tongue would have been more destructive to my future with Rowan than any weapon the Ebrians could ever devise. Her face was still fit to burst as I left her, and I knew that her happiness would continue long after I was gone.

Sturla was eager to master every aspect of the role of chieftain, and I could picture the joy and pure silliness of their dinners, as she taught those savage Hjarrleth the proper way of dining, and of washing in their luxurious baths. She had not yet made the acquaintance of Lars, but at first sight I knew they would have eyes only for each other. They were a perfect match, and after a few months of betrothal, they would be wed. I was only sorry that I could not be there to witness the union, myself.

Up the many flights of stairs, I made my way to the rooftop of Hjarrgoth Manor, to board a flying ship far grander than that of Hroaldssaga, where I would sail through the air, hand-in-hand with a woman more beautiful than any ever known in song or epic tale.

With Brenna, Reya, Rowan, and the Viharthians, we were to travel to Viharth, where I was assured that my Proving would be a relatively simple matter. Simple, by comparison to my ordeal in Sangholm, at least, and Jakhan guaranteed that I would be greeted with a spirit of general acceptance. He was a difficult man to refuse, particularly as our journey would require only two days. While we made our case in Viharth, the others of my retinue, now increased by one dozen Ironskins of the Matriarch's personal guard, in addition to the Trathnona, would journey to Tahlrene, where Jakhan and his crew would fly us the moment our business in Viharth had concluded.

I hoped, that aside from their navy, the Viharthians might lend me one of their flyers, for I felt that travel at such blinding speeds might ensure that the remainder of my Provings—particularly within far Tulakal—might be dealt with in a matter of months, rather than the years promised by slow travel on the back of an over-burdened mount. Time was on our side at last, and I had cause to celebrate, for I would stand before Rowan's father in only a few week's time, and with Malmheith's gold and jewels, carried among my baggage in the caravan of my horse-bound escort, I would not even have to await the transport of Eagle's silver. The Lady of the Harvest and her ageless father had answered my prayers, at last.

* * *

The ascension basket was not waiting for me when I arrived at the roof of Hjarrgoth Manor. Instead, I was greeted by the sight of a massacre. I counted twenty bodies, all dressed in livery. The Viharthian crewmen and agents all had slit throats, but their peaceful sprawl was evidence enough that they had been killed in their sleep and thrown overboard.

I saw the ship in the distance, flying low with black smoke billowing as it made its way northeast at a crawl. A portal opened forward on the ship's hull, near to the helm, and a bronze-covered body fell from the edge and plummeted past my eye-line, his catastrophic landing among distant trees obscured only by the edge of the roof. He had been thrown far afield, and I did not have to look closer to know that it had been Linaj or Jakhan.

I screamed, fumed, and ran for the edge, so maddened by grief that I confused my dreams with reality, and thought to kick off from the roof and pursue them in flight. It was Lambek that saved me, and knowing my designs he leapt upon me before I reached the roof's edge.

With my face pressed to the ground, I saw that upon the chest of one of the slain crew members, something had been left behind. It was a flower, brilliant blue, preserved forever in a crystalline compound. Alinblath. Many might have screamed, roared in outrage or torn their clothing in a fit of despair.

I whispered, and the sound was nearly a whimper.

"Hertha."

